#mention of witches burning/witch trails

[spidernerd625]

I actually love learning history, but we barely learn any of it in school. I want to learn EVERYTHING! ESPECIALLY the crazy stuff! Teach me the things that don't make sense! Teach me the details about how people loved, what they did! What shinanigins did they get up to? Make me reenact something ridiculous and crazy!

Gods, I love history!

Got these pictures from my for you page on Tik Tok

These pictures are NOT mine.

[sacredsorceress]

Spell on You / Logan Howlett

pairing: bestfriend!logan x f!witch!reader summary: when logan finds out another man bought you a drink at a halloween party, your relationship changes word count: 2.2k a/n: scott is an ass because i just know movie!cyclops would love to mess with logan's love life ('97 scott stays too busy for this). this is a bit rushed but i hope you enjoy!! warnings: reader wears a dress and thigh highs (slay), alcohol consumption, mention of smoke, jealousy, fluff, classic bff to lovers trope

logan masterlist | inbox | full masterlist

The bum. bum. bum. of the music echoed throughout the establishment, vibrating against its walls and floorboards. The sea of bar-crawlers intent on having the worst of hangovers in the morning were shoulder to shoulder, bumping against Logan as he made his way through the crowd to you.

The room reeked of smoke of various kinds and if it hadn't been for the overworking of the fans above, Logan was sure he would've gotten high secondhand. But it was Halloween night- certain factors were out of his control.

Though, like a lighthouse in the night, Logan heard your voice beckoning him over to the bar.

"Boooooooo!" You shouted, glass in your hand. "You were supposed to dress up!"

Logan smirked at your complaint, leaning against the bar.

"Yeah?" He asked. "'Cause you're so original?"

Logan's eyes trailed from your thigh high boots to your dress to finally, a witch's hat. Being a witch yourself, the irony was unavoidable.

"Very creative, sweetheart."

You felt a heart skip a beat at your best friend's pet name.

In shock of many, you and Logan had become fast friends. The man who had always managed to have a perpetually grumpy demeanor about him had paired perfectly with you. You were able to brush off Logan's jokes, matching them with your own in a way that had escalated so far as to make your fellow X-Men wonder if the two of you had begun to speak your own language.

"At least it's a costume, Logan." You argued. "What are you meant to be?"

"-Oh I've got this one."

Scott.

Any inclination of joy written on Logan's face was quickly erased.

"A dick?" Scott said, slinging his arm around your shoulder. "I've gotta say Logan, you've nailed it."

Logan rolled his eyes, inching closer to the two of you as a couple nudged against him to order at the bar. Noting the drink in your hand, Logan shifted the conversation.

"I thought I told you I was buying tonight?"

Your eyes lowered from Logan's to the drink in your hand. You traced the rim of the glass as you shrugged.

"Oh this-“

Scott interrupted:

"Guy over there bought it for her." Scott said, a shit-eating grin on his face as he pointed to the opposite end of the establishment. "Told her he'd be back later 'to get to know her better'."

You felt yourself grow warm under Logan's gaze, refusing to meet his eyes.

Lately yours and Logan's relationship had become more complicated, blurring the lines between friendship and something more. Pet names like sweetheart and princess flowed out of his mouth without a second thought. You had stopped going on dates with new men- something about it feeling wrong when you and Logan had... whatever you had. He was your best friend, that you were sure of. But, with Logan's eyes burning a hole through you, you wondered if he still felt that way.

You had been hoping to keep the drink a secret and avoid speaking to the man later in the night, but you should've known that Scott and Logan's rivalry would make any chance of that impossible.

Logan's eyes trailed from you to the man Scott was pointing to across the room. He looked about your age, dressed with a cloak around his shoulders and a pair of cheap plastic teeth slipping from his mouth as he laughed with his friends.

Logan scowled, raising his eyebrow at you.

"You into... that?"

You shrugged, hiding your eyes beneath the rim of your hat.

"It's just a drink, Logan." You said. "He probably forgot about me anyway."

Holding his gaze, Logan slowly nodded, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

"You want your usual?"

You furrowed your eyebrows.

"What are you talking about, Lo?" You asked. "I have a drink."

Logan shook his head, tapping his fingers against the bar to get the bartender's attention.

"I'm not gonna sit here and watch you have some other guy's drink." Logan said firmly. "Now, what are you having? 'Cause you either tell me, or I'm ordering for you."

You felt a burning sensation in your chest as your pulse quickened.

You were used to Logan's stubbornness and protective regard for those he cared about, but you had never seen him so firm with you before. You were someone who could handle yourself and as much as he worried about you, he had never claimed you in such a way as he did now.

If you hadn't known better, you would have thought he was jealous.

"My usual."

You watched as he leaned over the bar, ordering the both of your drinks from the bartender.

The lighting in the bar was dim. Most of the things that you could make out were highlighted by an array of multicolored LED lights that had been flickering throughout the room.

The light above Logan's head flicked from green to purple, showcasing the sheen of sweat that had begun running down his temple from the capacity of the party. His sleeves were rolled to his elbow, the veins in his arms protruding as he leaned against the counter top.

Sometimes you wondered what it felt like- to be one of the women who had the opportunity to touch Logan. You had had passing touches here and there but you wondered if you could feel the weight of his adamantium bones in your hand- whether his skin remained rough despite his regenerative abilities.

The thoughts were cruel. He was your friend.

But then again, were you really his?

Logan handed you your drink, leaning the small of his back against the counter. Gingerly taking the glass from his hands, your fingertips graced his skin.

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, feeling the vibrations of the DJ's music against your feet. You listened to indistinguishable chatter rattle throughout the building.

"He said he liked the 'juxtaposition of my face to the costume'." You said, referring to the man who bought you a drink. "I'm not even sure that he used the word right."

A smirk rose onto Logan's face.

"What a dick." Logan scoffed, nursing his whiskey.

You laughed along with him, nudging your elbow into his side.

"He is, isn't he?" You joked. "I bet he's super pretentious."

Logan glanced down at you, noticing the small smile that graced your lips as you met his eyes.

God, he felt silly. He was over two hundred years old and yet, he found himself with a crush on a woman and unable to tell her. With anyone else, he would have made a move the second he saw them. But you were his friend- his closest friend.

You had a relationship that meant more to him than anything in his life. Did he want you? Yes, but he wasn't going to be the one to admit it and scare you off. It had to be you.

So Logan put out his feelers and afforded himself plausible deniability- calling you sweetheart, buying you drinks... sitting by your side after a mission went sideways. However, there was something about the two of you sharing a life in the mansion that made him forget that other men could see you the way that he did.

Seeing the multicolored lights illuminate your skin and the way your eyelashes batted as you smiled up at him, Logan was reminded that he didn't have forever.

"Not your thing?" He asked.

Logan asked it casually. He was still leaned over the bar, but his body had turned to encase yours- one arm snaking itself around your back while the other held the whiskey glass.

The space between you grew hot and you could feel his warm breath against your face. The scent of the cologne that you had gotten him for his birthday drifted up your nose as he hovered closer.

Sometimes you felt that Logan was off living a dozen lifetimes in his head despite standing directly in front of you, but here... now... his focus was entirely on you and you knew he was waiting on your answer with bated breath.

You don't know whether it was the liquor or the realisation that the wolverine had placed you at the center of his universe, but you gained a confidence you had lacked in the weeks since your relationship shifted.

Glancing at his empty glass, you flicked your hand, filling it up.

"No," You sighed as your eyes trailed up his body. "I like them a bit... rougher around the edges."

This, Logan decided, was your sign. You were pushing the boundaries just as he had done, seeing if he'd take the bait.

Logan's eyes narrowed as he leaned in further. The music in the bar was getting increasingly louder as the night went on and Logan's lips were now inches from your ear, sending goosebumps down your neck.

"That right?" Logan asked.

"Mhm."

Logan could hear your heart pounding in your chest and felt peace in knowing that his was doing the same. This wasn't the same as his other ventures- he wouldn't wake up in the morning to find an empty space in his mattress where you had been the night before. What you two had would be permanent, he told himself; a fixture in an otherwise chaotic life like his.

In the life of a man with regeneration, he rarely worried about what happened next. But with his lips grazing the skin of the woman he loved most, Logan could feel a drop of whiskey hit his skin- fallen from the glass that sat in his shaking hand.

Then, he felt your hands push gently against his chest. And his world came crashing down.

Your eyes meeting his, you shook your head.

"I love you, Logan."

For anyone else, this would've been confirmation. But Logan had heard these words from you a hundred times. You loved him... platonically. He felt the wind knocked out of him at what he thought was resignation.

Pulling away, Logan nodded.

"I love you too, sweetheart."

Hearing him say it in the same voice he always did- the dismissive tone meant to mask any indication of care- you gripped his shirt, forcing him to look at you.

"No." You said firmly. "I love you. I'm saying this can't be a one night thing, Logan. I love you."

Logan saw the desperation in your eyes and couldn't hold back. He slammed his drink against the bar and held your face in his hands.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

His thumbs brushed against your cheeks, thinking that as silly as it was, what he had been waiting for was finally happening. No matter the amount of times he had touched you, this time was different. As strong as you were, he was afraid to ruin the precious object he was holding in his hands- you and your future.

Logan swore your cheeks were softer and the scent of your perfume had wrapped himself around your finger.

"Say it back, Lo."

The sound of his name rolling off your tongue was enough confirmation he needed. Pulling your face to his, Logan's lips crashed against yours.

Your fingers never left his shirt, pulling him closer to you as you hummed into the kiss. Logan's hands moved to lay against your waist. The noise of the bar fell away as Logan focused on your breathing and the skip of your heartbeat as he squeezed you tighter.

When he heard the familiar, hypnotic hum of your magic, he pulled away only slightly.

In the heat of your kiss, a forcefield had formed around the two of you. When you noticed the golden shimmer of your magic, you pulled your hands way from Logan, bringing the forcefield down with it.

"Sorry."

Logan smirked.

"Don't gotta be worried," He said, running his thumb against your cheek. "You're safe with me."

Logan wasn't sure if he'd be able to always keep you safe in the hectic life that you two shared, but he would be damned if he wouldn't die trying. You two fit together like pieces of a puzzle and although he wasn't sure how it would work, if one thing was for sure- you weren't losing him.

"I love you too."

Holding you in his hands, the knowledge finally settling in that you were his, this dingey bar was the last place he wanted to be.

And it was as if you read his mind.

"Can we get out of here?"

Glancing around the room, Logan noticed two things: one being that half the eyes in the room were on you since your accidental forcefield, and the other, Scott barreling over through a crowd of college girls towards you. These two things paired with the fact that the woman of his dreams was standing beside him, Logan was more than ready to, kindly, get the fuck out of there.

Logan wrapped his arm around your shoulder and guided you out of the bar.

"That's my girl."

author's note: thank you for reading! just a short lil oneshot for spooky season

[deanangel]

𓇼 SPELLS SEX BY THE SEA | 18+

﹏﹏ ࣪ ˖ pairing: dean winchester x mermaid .ᐟ reader | minors do NOT interact

synopsis: dean finds you in your element, on the beach making little potions by the water. he never did like witches, but you, his little doll, were an exception.

warnings: alcohol mentions | i mean she is a mermaid | , making out , witchcraft , unprotected p!v | WRAP IT UP!! | , creampie , cock-warming if you squint!! , !reader rides him like a cowgirl ...

word count: 1k

the sun was high in the sky, its rays beating down on your form. the heat was rather calming. you wore just a bikini, one that dean had bought for you. the beach was empty, only you, your spellbook, and a bottle of rum accompanying the waters.

dean wasn't with you – even though you nearly went everywhere with him – because he didn't know you had wandered out of the bunker. you needed a break, for the boys wouldn't let you practice potions or spells.

it annoyed you, it's not like you were going to burn the place down, you couldn't. it was a bunker for christ sake!

the sand stuck to your form, not that you minded. your fingers gingerly stirred the mixtures together, mind focused on the task at hand. so much so that you hadn't heard the sound of sand being pushed out of the way by someone.

dean sat next to you, his eyes trailing over your figure. his heart warmed at the sight of you so focused, it was cute. his hand came to rest at the small of your back, bringing you closer to him slightly.

“what'cha doin’ doll?” his breath tickled your neck as he spoke, which broke you out of your trance.

“dean?” you questioned quickly, turning to face him with furrowed brows. you didn't know how he found you – like you didn't leave a note just in case he wanted to look for you.

his fingers traced patterns on your skin, the smell of his cologne surrounding your senses.

“i'm doing my 'witchcraft’ over here since i can't at the bunker–” you pouted, about to start complaining again.

he brought his other hand to your chin, gently tugging until your lips met his, silencing you effectively. the taste of rum lingered on your tongue, in which he hummed at the taste of.

your body moved subconsciously, pushing yourself onto him. straddling his lap as your hands found his hair, tugging at his soft locks to deepen the kiss. tongues dancing with each other. his hands roamed your body, groping every inch until they rested on the curve on your ass, gripping the flesh roughly.

your hips grind against his, soft moans leave your lips. “c'mon doll, let's take this to the car, yea?” he murmured–lips still pressed against each other as he swallowed your moans.

you shook your head, pulling away. a string of salvia following the action. you stare at him with hooded eyes, forcing him to crane his neck to the side. swollen and wet lips trailing kisses down his neck, nipping and sucking at the skin. dean let out groans, which only fueled you to keep going.

he began grabbing your ass harder. grinding your body down onto his with force, hips bucking up to meet yours. the thin bathing suit doing nothing to hide the damp spot forming at the friction.

“dean..” you whined against his neck, hands now clawing at his jacket, pulling it off his body until he left in his shirt.

his hands left your bottom, pulling on the string of your top to let your chest free. dean bit his lip at the sight of your breasts. his hands covering both with care, gently tugging on the pointed nub with calloused fingers.

your head flew back, abandoning his neck. the feeling was too much, him playing with your nipples and the feeling on his jeans on your barely covered clit – it was all too much.

with your mind fuzzy and full of the oldest winchester, you didn't feel nor hear the sound of him unzipping his pants, and your bathing suit bottoms being pulled to the side. his cock teased your entrance–hard and leaking pre-cum, coaxing you out of whatever state you were in.

your hips had been raised by dean, his fingers rubbing smooth soothing circles along your hips.

“c'mon babydoll, you can take this alright.” you nodded at his words not trusting yourself enough to speak, sinking down into his length with a strained moan.

he flung his head back at the feeling on your cunt around him–tight and warm. your legs dug into the sand as you bottomed out on top of him, scales hidden beneath the grains and your work long forgotten beside you. you were nice and full, his cock stretching you out to the max.

dean began to move your hips, his dick hitting your g-stop with every little movement. you grasp on his shirt tightly, fingers digging into the fabric. you dug your head into his shoulder for a brief moment, muffling your moans somewhat.

once you began to move up and down, dean was done for. he lost all control–watching with lust filled eyes as you pushed his upper body down. placing a hand on his chest for balance. you reached over with your free hand to grab the bottle of rum, bringing it to your plump lips and taking a swig. all while riding him like a cowgirl.

dean swore he almost came right there at the sight of you–boobs bouncing, his cock slipping in and out of your dripping cunt, and the golden liquid dripping down your body mixing with the sweat that made you glisten. your body jerked against his, hips bucking and shuddering as your orgasm came crashing down over you like a tidal wave.

his followed short, cock stuffed inside you, filling you up and coating your walls with a warm white substance. your body fell on top of his, skin-to-skin. his hands moved up from the bruising grip on your hips to wrap around your form.

the bottle of rum still clutched between your fingers. sand clinging to both of you. panting softly as your eyes fluttered shut. dean watched, kissing the top of your head. he gently rubbed your back, whispering sweet words into your ear. he cooed softly, telling you to rest. his cock still buried deep inside you, keeping you full.

you wouldn't have it any other way, falling asleep as the sound of his heart beat replaced any lullaby you could think of.

dean on the other hand, was thinking of all the places to fuck you next, the beach crossed off his bucket list.

authors note: I AM NOT GOOD AT WRITING SMUT!! please do not come for me if this is rlly bad 😿 i figured why not write something and then BOOM it let to this. this is not proof read so if there's bad grammar or spelling, no there's not!! I LOVE YOU ALLL 💋💋

[xxsabitoxx]

Pretty Witch | Kinktober

Kitsune Hybrid Giyu x AFAB Witch Reader

Warnings: fucking a stranger, human/kitsune hybrid, brief talk of witchcraft, raw sex, pussy eating, creampies, dom/sub themes, mentions of mating, biting

A/N: ohohoho kinktober is here and I'm stressed, not that that matters lol, enjoy!

WORD COUNT: 5.8k | Dividers are from @benkeibear

You swallowed, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape as you stared at the creature you had summoned. You had every intention of getting a cat familiar, a furry little friend to keep you company since it was just you out in these woods. It wasn’t often that clients came by to get medicines from you, so the presence of another living creature would be greatly appreciated. “W-who the hell are you?” you nearly shrieked, watching as the man standing across from you, just beyond your caldron straightened. “Who the hell am I?” he quipped, dark brows creasing as he observed you. “You’re the one that summoned me, you should know who I am.” 

You swallowed, eyes trailing over his features. He was undeniably handsome, whoever the hell he was, but that didn’t answer your question. “I-I didn’t summon you.” you stated lamely, hands clasping the wooden stirring spoon. “Oh really?” he eyed you, navy eyes roaming over your body before focusing on your face again. “The cauldron says otherwise, little witch.” You stiffened at his tone, a gentle purring was the only way you could describe it. “W-well I did try to summon a familiar but I wanted a cat not… you.” You choked out, face warming as you realized it was rather insulting when you put it like that. “So you’re a newbie witch that managed to summon an ancient guardian for yourself instead of a cat?” Your face grew even hotter. 

“A-an ancient guardian?” You watched his arms fold, the smoke finally clearing enough for you to see the fluffy black ears perched at the top of his soft looking hair. “The name is Tomioka Giyu, no witch or warlock has been able to summon me successfully over the last millennium… yet you managed to do it by mistake. What a curious creature you are.” you were still clutching the spoon to your chest as Tomioka began walking around the cauldron. You knew he wouldn’t harm you, but it didn’t stop your heart from racing in your chest as he closed the distance to stand right before you. “I am at your service, pretty witch.” He bowed to you, blue eyes locking with yours as he straightened again. “O-oh well thank you I-uhh-I suppose.” 

He flashed you a soft smile, one that just barely curled the corners of his lips as he stuck his hand out for you to take. Reluctantly, you placed your hand in his, face burning hot as he brought your hand to his lips and kissed your worn knuckles. “Let’s sit and talk, I’d like to get to know my summoner a little better.” You nodded, half in a daze as Tomioka brushed your knuckles softly. You couldn’t lie, the guardian was rather beautiful with his fair skin and sharp jawline, pretty blue eyes as such long fluffy hair. You found the heat that had been bubbling in your cheeks was  now spreading its way to the rest of your body. “I take it you live alone.” he commented as he motioned you to sit beside him on your couch, books and papers spread over your coffee table. 

You nodded, suddenly self conscious of how cluttered your little cabin was. “I do live alone, I have no lover, if that is what you are trying to ask, Tomioka.” You weren’t sure where your bluntness came from, nor were you sure of why it made your body throb. Suddenly the room felt way too small and way too hot, but that was likely all in your head, all because of the mythical being sitting beside you. He huffed out a laugh, thumb still gingerly brushing your knuckles. “You’re turned on.” His voice was quiet but it seemed to shamelessly echo between the four walls of your living room. “Wh-what?!” you squeaked, hand nearly flying out of his grasp. 

“I can sense it, pretty witch. You’re very turned on right now… how odd.” there was a teasing tone to his voice, and for the first time you noticed three tails shamelessly swaying side to side just behind him. “You’re… you’re a kitsune?” you commented offhandedly, trying to desperately ignore the fact that he had just called you out for your own horniness. “I am, but that is beside the point. What has occurred over the last five minutes – give or take – that has caused you to become so bothered?” He hummed, all of his focus was on you and your raging hormones. But you wouldn’t dare admit that you haven’t been intimate with another in quite some time. 

“I-I…” you stammered, unable to formulate a lie under his intense blue gaze. “There is nothing wrong with it. I don’t mind if you find me attractive, pretty witch.” the kitsune nearly purred, hand still holding yours. “... I am at your service” he repeated, but this time his tone was implying much more. “Whatever you desire from me, I will do, without question or hesitation.” You blinked, tensing a bit as you shook your head. “Tomioka I… that’s not the reason I summoned a familiar… or at least tried too. I just… wanted company… I don’t desire to use you for my own… pleasure.” You choked out, quite positive your face was neon red at this point, but the ancient guardian didn’t seem to care. 

“You’re stuck with me until the end of your days, pretty witch. You’ll have no time to go out and find yourself a lover… you already have me.” You felt your heart rate quicken, somewhere in the back of your mind you had to wonder just what he had been summoned for in the past. “But—I…” you stammer, losing the battle quickly as the kitsune licks his lips. “Pretty witch, I can promise you endless days of bliss. So long as you keep me by your side, you’ll never desire another, you’ll never feel the loneliness you’ve got festering inside of you… nor will you ever have to satisfy yourself using your hands…” you swallowed, squirming a bit in your seat as he drew a little closer. “I can be your everything.” 

“Tomioka, we’ve just met.” You regain a little of your composure, thighs squeezing to try and alleviate the throb between your legs. His words had done a number on you, reminding you of how much you missed being intimate with someone… but still. “And we will have plenty of time to get to know each other over the course of your mortal life… why waste time on such trivial things when I can clear your mind for you here and now.” He urged you, still drawing closer as you inched away. “Tomioka…” you tried again, knowing if he got any closer, you would immediately give in. Though, somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew giving in to his desires was inevitable.

That was the thing you failed to remember about Kitsune… they were clever creatures who enjoyed mischief. The ancient guardian before you had over a millennium to perfect his craft, that much was clear. “Pretty witch, I am devoted to you and you alone. What more could you ask for?” In truth, nothing. He was presenting you with everything you could ever desire and yet your stupid morals were still holding you back. “Tomioka… I don’t want to rush you into anything… we just met…” the fact that you had quite literally just met was the only thing holding you. You would likely continue to sound like a broken record even after you gave in. 

“We’re not rushing anything, pretty witch. I’ve spent years alone with nobody to hold, not a single soul has been successful in summoning me and yet you did it by mistake. It would be my honor to serve and satisfy your every need… so please… pretty witch… let me taste you.” he had you completely entranced now, noses nearly bumping as he had managed to move closer without you realizing. “Please, pretty—” you stopped him easily with one word “yes…” you breathed out, watching his lips part in surprise before a real smile curled his lips. “Wonderful.” 

You made a noise of surprise as his lips roughly crashed into your own. His hand was still holding yours, fingers intertwining now as you used your free hand to cup his jaw. Tomioka’s free hand came up to hold the back of your head, as if afraid you would change your mind and pull away. He already couldn’t get enough of your taste, tongue sliding past your parted lips to sweep into your mouth and collect every drop of your sweetness. You must have had something with honey, a sickly sweet taste he hadn’t gotten the chance to experience in centuries. You whined as he groaned, lapping feverishly at your mouth and your docile tongue. 

It wasn't long before he was pushing more of his weight onto you, causing you to fall back into the armrest of your couch. Tomioka reluctantly untangled his hand from your own, mumbling something into your mouth as you whined from the lack of contact. That changed the moment you felt his now free hand sliding to push your dress up, the skirt had already bunched a bit around your knees and now he was pulling it up the rest of the way. You tore yourself away from his lips, ignoring his disgruntled growl as you gasped for air. “It’s been far too long since I've had my fill of a pretty mortal, but truly none of them could ever compare to you… pretty witch.” he sighed, lips slightly swollen from the force of your kisses as he watched your legs part for him. 

“You’re so turned on…” he smirked now, watching your hips squirm a bit at the comment. Your hands were twitching at your side, unsure of what to do with them as the kitsune observed the wet mark on your panties. “Gods I’ll give you everything your heart desires…” he breathed out, stealing the air from your lungs with the intensity of his words. “T-tomioka…” you choked out, watching his slender fingers dip between your thighs to press on the wet mark. You gasped, one hand reaching up to grip his bicep as the other dug into the material of the couch. “Sensitive…” another offhand comment that had your face glowing with heat, eyes struggling to stay open as he dragged his fingers along your covered slit. With each movement, the wet mark only grew. At this point you were convinced he just wanted to see how badly he could ruin the garment. 

“You smell so good…” he breathed out again, voice raspy as he brought the two fingers to his nose and inhaled deeply. You audibly gasped, legs instinctively trying to close out of embarrassment as he inhaled the scent of your arousal. “Ah-ah pretty witch, there is no hiding from me now… or ever.” he parted his lips and stuck the two digits between them, swirling his tongue around them before pulling them out again. Slick with his saliva, he brought them down to your cunt again, slipping them under the material to run through your slit. Your head fell back at the feeling of his bare fingers on your cunt, a desperate plea for him to take your underwear off slipped past your lips before you could stop it. The kitsune only huffed out a laugh, a single clawed nail ripping the material from your body. The sensation was oddly fascinating, especially as you pulled your head up to watch the claw return to a human nail. 

Tomioka felt a sense of satisfaction at the wonder mixing with arousal in your eyes, you were already wrapped around his finger. “Pretty witch, tell me what you want me to do. Whatever your heart desires… I’ll do it.” he did nothing to hide the way his cock was throbbing between his legs, watching you lazily look down at it before meeting his gaze. “Finger me… please.” Something about his aura caused you to lose your filter, you had never said such things with such a desperate tone before. “As you wish.” You moaned loudly as he shoved the two fingers he had been using to swipe along your slit inside of your dripping entrance. Tomioka made a noise with you, the warmth of your cunt enveloping his fingers was sending the kitsune into a spiral. “I forgot how warm you mortals can be…” he gritted out, three tails swaying wildly as he tried to ease the racing in his chest. “T-tomioka…” you whined, walls fluttering around his slender digits. 

“Tell me what you want me to do.” his chest was rising and falling in rapid succession as he panted, he had never felt like this before, and he was quickly becoming addicted to it. “M-move them please… pump them in and out… like this…” you reached down and wrapped your fingers around his wrist, moving it back and forth the best you could until he started doing it on his own. Tomioka knew how to do it of course, but he loved the sound of your voice, how needy it was when you instructed him so sweetly on what to do. It made his cock throb, the aching desire building in his gut was dizzying as your sticky arousal coated his fingers. It wasn’t long before your head fell back again, every moan was accompanied by a slick squelch as the kitsune fucked you on his fingers. “T-tomioka… please…” he knew what you were asking without even saying it, but the kitsune had other things in mind. 

You gasped as the kitsune maneuvered himself lower, mouth moving to hover over your pulsating clit as his fingers continued to pump into you endlessly. “Please!” your whine turning into a wail as his lips suctioned to the sensitive bud. You couldn’t recall the last time someone had made you feel this good, especially with just their mouth and fingers. Tomioka sucked harshly, tongue flicking across as his fingers curled within your heat. You felt it now, your orgasm building at a much steadier and much more reachable rate. He could feel your thighs begin to tremble as he worked, the hand that had been holding his bicep was now hazardously scratching at your own thigh. Your mind was far too dazed to even process what you were doing until the kitsune brushed over that one particular spot.

Your hips left the couch, a loud gasp of “there!” leaving your lips as your hand now found its home in the kitsune’s hair. He groaned as your fingers scratched at his scalp, three tails swaying excitedly as it sent a chill straight down his spine. The kitsune continued to rub against that one spot on the front of your walls, not stopping even after a considerable amount of your arousal started leaking steadily down to the couch below you. Judging by the way your noises only grew louder, the way your cunt only grew wetter, and the way your nails were digging into his scalp, you were close to coming all over his face and fingers. That edged the kitsune on, groaning against your sloppy cunt as you cried out his name over and over. It hit you like a ton of bricks, an orgasm ripping through your body in a way that had you seeing stars. 

The kitsune worked you through it, pulling his mouth away after a moment but continuing to rub circles within your walls until your body relaxed again. You blinked up at him, tears pricking your eyes as you tried to calm your racing heart. “T-tomioka…” You whispered, not able to make a noise any louder at that moment. He merely hummed, pulling his fingers out of your drenched core to shamelessly suck on them. “I’m not done with you, pretty witch.” he spoke after licking his fingers clean, wasting no time to bend down and slot his lips sloppily against yours. Your noises of surprise were swallowed by him, tongue licking into your mouth again but this time you were the one tasting something you hadn’t in a long time. Your own arousal was coating your tongue, making you whine as the kitsune moved to press his hips against yours.

It was an odd sensation, his covered hard-on pressed right against your slick heat, surely you’d make a mess of him. Though, the kitsune didn’t seem to mind, hips stuttering against yours as he rolled them tentatively, eliciting a soft groan from his lips as he pulled away from you. Salvia connected you still, his fair complexion flushed a shade of crimson as he tried to regain what little composure he had left. “Tomioka… please… my bed.” You watched him nearly sag, nodding wordlessly as he quickly climbed off of you just to bend down and scoop you up again. You grabbed ahold of him, not expecting such strength considering he seemed to have a slim build. You yelped as he dropped you onto your plush mattress, quickly climbing over you once again. 

Your legs spread wordlessly for the kitsune, moaning against his lips as he got more handsy. You couldn’t quite pay attention to his movements, but it wasn’t long before you were fully bare. Part of you figured you should feel some sort of shyness, but the way his eyes devoured you whole made you feel like you were the only woman on earth. At this point, you may as well have been. Nothing could pull the kitsune’s gaze from you, his lips parted as he admired your chest. “Pretty witch…” he murmured, one hand coming down to caress your breast while the other began hastily undoing his pants. You whined, back arching into his touch as he gingerly kneaded the pliant flesh. Your nipples had long since hardened, scraping against his rough palm in a way that had more arousal leaking from your center. “Please… fuck me.” 

Your moral compass had completely gone out the window, all you could think about now was what it would feel like to get speared on the kitsune’s cock. “As you wish, my pretty witch.” he breathed out, letting go of your breast to roughly shove his pants down to his mid-thigh. The ancient kitsune had no patience to fully undress himself, too focused on entering your body and claiming you as his own. That was all it would take, to claim you as his and his alone, his mouth was filling with saliva at the very thought. “Can you take it?” he murmured, hand gingerly wrapping around the pale length of his cock, the tip an angry pink and leaking with precum. “Yes, fuck just… please Tomioka…” the kitsune squeezed himself, whining as he listened to you beg for him. “Please… fuck I want to feel you…” you pushed yourself up on your elbows. 

“Again. Say it again.” you felt your own face grow warm before uttering “fuck me, Tomioka.” but the kitsune shook his head, tugging roughly at his own cock. “Giyu.” was all he said, watching your face morph into confusion. “My name… call me Giyu.” The realization dawning on your face only made his fist move faster, something about the innocence of it had him melting. “G-giyu… oh fuck… Giyu please.” The kitsune’s name felt right coming from your mouth, and by the look on his face, it felt right for him too. “Promise me, pretty witch, promise me you can take it.” You nodded, fingers digging into the sheets below you as you remained partially upright. “I can take it, Giyu.” The kitsune gave in, angling the head at your entrance, one knee digging into the mattress while his other leg was planted firmly on the floor. You had a feeling that position wouldn't last. 

Your teeth sunk into your lower lip, eyes trained on where he was pressing the dull head against your entrance. One push was all it took for your cunt to envelop him, your body quivering as he didn’t give you much time to adjust. He wasn’t going to go easy, you had told him so sweetly you could take it, so he would deal you everything he could offer. You whined his name loudly, the sound echoing off of your bedroom walls as the kitsune bottomed out. “So good…” he uttered softly, panting as his nails dug into the flesh of your hips. He was completely entranced by the way your walls fluttered around him, hugging every inch he had stretched you open with. Your arms had quickly gone limp, forcing you to lay flat again as you panted and waited for the mild ache to disburse. He had gone in all at once, but you were thankful he was holding himself still. 

“Tell me… pretty witch… what do you want now…” his heart was in his throat, beating at the same erratic rate his cock was twitching inside of you. Truthfully he hadn’t moved yet because he had nearly blown his load while entering you. “Kiss me, Giyu. Please kiss me.” Your chest was rising and falling at a rapid pace, his eyes drawn to the way it moved before he shifted your positions. As the kitsune bent down to kiss you, he pushed you further into the mattress, using the new space to crawl on top with you. You whined, a pretty and high pitch noise that made Giyu’s head swim as his lips met yours again. The kitsune moaned with you now, happy to feel your tongue fight back against his. The kiss turned sloppy, melting into shallow thrusts of his hips against yours as he lost himself in you. 

Your arms wrapped around his neck, keeping his lips pressed to yours. You needed something to keep yourself grounded, the shallow drag of his cock was not nearly enough to satisfy the ache in your gut. The kitsune knew this, of course. His slender fingers were dragging down your skin before sinking into your thighs. You took the hint, legs wrapping around his waist as if to encourage him. Yet, the ever teasing kitsune kept his thrusts shallow, just barely pulling out of you before sliding back in. It felt more like a slow rock, just barely moving enough to feel it. You knew what he was doing, purposely holding out just so he could hear you beg again. Any other partner and you may have been more defiant, but you couldn’t explain in words how badly your body craved the mythical kitsune above you. “Giyu…” 

You struggled to speak, his lips still slotted over yours. He heard you, ears perking as he pulled away from you. “Yes? What do you require?” he was grinning a sly smirk, the devious glint in his eyes made you feel hot all over, walls clenching around him tightly. That simple movement wiped the grin clean off his face, a whine slipping past his lips as you clung to him. It was nearly painful, the force of your walls suctioning down on him felt like pressing into a fresh bruise. It sent a chill up his spine, pale flesh erupting in goosebumps. “Fuck me like you want me.” you choked out, the full feeling starting to make you antsy as he had yet to properly move. A look of pure desire passed over the kitsune’s face, any ounce of restraint he had was truly gone now. “Careful of what you wish for, pretty witch.” though, you had never been one to be careful anyways. 

The kitsune’s hips drew back until nothing but the tip was left inside of you. Just as quickly as he had pulled away, he was thrusting his hips back into you. Your head fell back, exposing your neck to him as he repeated the motion again and again. It took him a minute to find his rhythm, rough and fast but not nearly as forceful as the first few goes. Your nails were digging into his clothing, wishing desperately that he had taken the time to undress. Especially considering he had wasted so much time teasing you like he had. “G-giyu please… your voice bounced with each slap of his hips against your own, eyes watering as molten pleasure ebbed through your core. He was managing to drag along all the right places, the slight curve of his dick pressing into your sweet spot with every thrust. You felt your orgasm building already, dangling just out of your reach. 

“Hmm? Wh-ah-at is it?” he tried to keep his voice even but your cunt was far too sinful to not elicit pretty whines from the kitsune’s lips. “Take your clothes off…” you pleaded with him, eyes shining with tears as you yanked weakly at the haori he had been wearing. You had been so utterly engulfed in him that you failed to even notice the clothing he was dressed in. Not that you cared at this moment, you just wanted them off of him. “I don’t think so, pretty witch.” He grounded out, head dipping lower to drag his nose along the column of your neck. “W-why not.” you would have pouted if his nose dragging along your skin didn’t make goosebumps follow in its wake. “Because you haven’t earned that yet, my pretty pretty witch.” he cooed, voice cracking just a bit as he buried himself deep again. 

“E-earned it? I haven’t earned it?” you nearly cried, hands coming up to hold your own breasts as you tried to push away and alleviate the pressure of his cock head pressing harshly into your cervix. “You have to cum on my cock in order to earn such a sight… I may be desperate for you, pretty little witch, but I have my standards.” You fought back the urge to call the sly kitsune a whore, but if he was a whore so were you. “O-oh whatever! Just keep going, please. I’ve been so good for you… you swore to do everything I wanted.” You whined, letting go of your breasts to reach up and hold his cheeks. The kitsune smiled, a little softer than his other ones. “Don’t you worry, my pretty little witch…” he leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “... for I am only teasing you. My heart and body belong to you and you alone.”

“Giyu…” his name left your lips in a quiet, wonderstruck plea. Your heart was thumping erratically in your chest again, warmth blossoming behind your ribcage and spreading all over. The kitsune’s teasing demeanor changed, lips lowering to yours in a soft kiss as he shouldered off his haori and tossed it to the side. His hips found a new rhythm, slow and deep, dragging along your velvety walls until he was panting into your mouth. You parted again as he whined, forehead pressing to yours as his eyes closed, inhaling deeply to calm himself before it was over too fast. “G-giyu this doesn’t get you out of not stripping for me…” you teased as he tried to concentrate, his cheeks flushing red as he tried to pretend he didn’t hear you. 

“Have I really not earned it, my pretty kitsune?” you pressed him further, batting your lashes as his eyes snapped open at the use of the nickname. “...” he blinked, lips parted and hips shallowly thrusting again. “Answer me please… am I not worthy enough?” you urged him on, feeling a little bad about guilting him into an answer but you were desperate. The kitsune sighted, head dropping a little lower so he was speaking more to your neck than your face. “I’m…” he mumbled the rest, between the racing of your heart and the ache between your legs, you couldn’t decipher what he had uttered. “Giyu, my sweet kitsune, you need to speak up.” Your fingers threaded in his hair, ankles still locked behind the small of his back to keep him from pulling out and leaving you all together. “I said…” he swallowed, moving to whisper in your ear instead of your neck. 

“I’m shy.” your hands tightened in his hair a bit, eyes wide as he slowly lifted his head to reveal a pout on his pretty lips. “Oh… oh…” you smiled a bit, legs pulling him a little closer. “My pretty, pretty kitsune. You have nothing to be shy about, it’s me.” You encouraged him, lost in the haze of your lust, brain working on autopilot because he was still buried balls deep inside of you. You wanted to sound sincere, not lust driven, so you cupped his cheeks again and brought his lips to yours. You kissed him once, twice, three times, quick and soft, watching his eyes flutter shut as he relaxed into you again. “You do not have to shed your clothing if you are not ready, but know I will never judge you for your body, my pretty kitsune.” He swallowed,  eyes shifting away from you as he inhaled deeply. “Stop calling me that.” He wasn't angry, rather he was embarrassed of the way it made his stomach swirl with butterflies. 

You only smiled, watching him regain a little bit of composure as he pushed himself up on his hands to hover over you again rather than lay on you. Giyu sighed, hips drawing back finally before pressing into you again. “You have to learn some respect.” He drawled, jaw clenching as he focused solely on moving his hips in and out of your tight cunt. He straightened further, until he was sitting on his knees and his hands no longer needed to support him. This allowed the kitsune to bury his fingers in your pliant flesh, holding you still as he rutted his hips into you at a brutal pace. Every ounce of sanity you had left fled your body as the Kitsune began punishing you for flustering him so thoroughly. “Maybe I’ll mate you, would you like that, my pretty witch?” You choked out an incoherent, strangled noise, eyes nearly rolling back as each thrust hit your cervix. The kitsune would take that as an attempt at “yes”. Though, it wouldn’t happen just yet, considering kitsunes only had one mating season per year, one rut that wouldn’t arrive till winter. 

Though, he didn’t mind practicing until then. 

Giyu’s head fell back, hands now moving to force your hips to meet each of his thrusts. You were only growing wetter, now that he had found a steady rhythm with no interruptions, a slick squelch could be heard each time you connected. “Giyu please…!” you gasped, your orgasm was within reach now, you just needed that extra push. The kitsune only panted in response, one hand leaving your hips to rub rough circles on your clit. “Oh fuck…” you croaked, head tossing back against the mattress a the kitsune brought you to your second peak. He never slowed, working you straight through until you were overstimulated and clawing at the sheets begging him to ease up. The kitsune was too focused now, his end in sight as he fell forward to bury his face in your neck again. His hands left your lower half, instead moving to cradle you against him as he placed open mouth kisses on your neck. “G-giyu please oh fuck please…” you pleaded again, pain returning to pleasure as he fucked you through the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

The kitsune mumbled something against your neck, not that it mattered. You couldn’t think, not when he was still rutting into you so intently, canines dragging along your neck. He was close, so close he felt his body may give out before he could reach it. It had been far, far too long since he had been able to do this. The fact that he had managed to last as long as he had made his pride swell in his chest, especially when you were a wreck beneath him. “Come for me, please!” you gasped, it felt like the wind had been knocked out of you as the kitsune sunk his teeth into your flesh. Your back arched into him, his hips meeting yours three more times before he was burying himself deep and spilling his load into your awaiting womb. The kitsune collapsed on you, really knocking the wind out of you this time. Nothing but panting filled the room, your ears ringing mildly from the new silence that seemed louder than anything you had just done. 

“Are you… alright?” His head lifted after what felt like an eternity, stormy eyes focusing on his teeth marks on the junction where your shoulder met your neck. “N-never been better.” you wheezed, tapping his shoulder a bit until he realized he was nearly crushing you. “Oh… well…” he cleared his throat, moving to draw his hips away from yours. The feeling of him slipping out of you caused a shiver to go up your spine, the ache between your legs spreading to your hips and thighs. He had done a number on you. “Are you really okay?” The kitsune looked nervous, cheeks flushed red as he watched his cum slip out of your cunt. “I’m just a little sore… and sticky.” you chuckled, watching him turn a deeper shade of crimson before flopping beside you on the mattress. “I’ll clean you up, my pretty witch. Just… give me a second to regain feeling in my legs.” he confessed, hand coming up to rub his face as you laughed a little harder. 

“Best mistake I've made in a while.” You commented with a grin, head turning to meet his eyes as he blinked at you. “I better be the best mistake you’ve made, period.” Giyu shot back, a smirk dragging the corners of his lips up. “I guess you’re right.” you faked your exasperation, surprised when a small laugh left the kitsune beside you. “We can discuss that later… for now…” he pushed up again, rolling onto his side and resting his hand on your abdomen. “I apologize for not asking your permission.” this time you were the one to feel your face grow warm, hand raising to wave him off. “Don’t worry about it, it’s fine really!” You squeaked, watching him sigh before moving to grab your hand and bring it to his lips. “I’ll do better next time, pretty witch.” 

You nodded, finding it useless to try and ease his worries, he was set in his ways. “Thank you.” you sighed as he let go, moving to get off of your bed to find something to clean you with. 

“Why don’t we just take a bath? Easier than you rummaging around my bathroom.” you pushed yourself up, grimacing as the ache was starting to spread to your muscles. 

“If a bath is what you want, a bath is what you’ll get.” 

You had to admit, he was certainly better than the black cat you had initially tried to summon. 

@monster-october-kny-2023

[muzansfangs]

You always wanted me.

Starring: Rengoku Kyojuro x f!reader; mention to past relationship with Sanemi;

Format: one-shot;

Warnings: nsfw, modern au, vaginal sex, creampie, unprotected sex, language, use of alcohol, drunkness, drunk sex but consensual, breeding kink, semi-public sex, mention to past relationship with Sanemi, cheating thought in past relationship;

Plot: A night in a pub and a failed date led you to drink away your sorrow. Unfortunately, the main reason behind your problems shows up and your tipsy state does not help you to keep your tongue tied. Too many shots of tequila, the man you have always wanted so ardently and a restroom were the ingredients required to make your heart burn that very night.

Author note: it is rare for me to put the author note on top of a one-shot, but in order to prevent possible drama to happen, I needed to clarify a thing: this fic is an old work of mine posted on my old Ao3 account and my old Wattpad profile. While I cannot log anymore into Ao3 for some reason, I can still log into my old Wattpad profile and I will try to gradually delete my old works as I fix and rewrite them! Do not worry and enjoy this little scrap!

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“Another one!” you slurred, slamming the empty glass on the counter before you. It was your fourth shot. You were not used to drink that much, especially in a public place. The thing was you definitely had a good reason to drink down almost a whole bottle of tequila alone. You had just been stood up by a guy you had asked out to forget about your crush.

Your real crush. Or in other terms, the reason behind the loop of failed dates you had fallen into because he was so unapproachable. You wished you could forget about him, but nothing and no one could ever take his place in your heart. Why did he have to he that kind of guy that literally ruin your rationality and the chance to enjoy the company and the small attentions other men could provide you?

Disheartened, you sighed and propped your elbows on the counter in annoyace, waiting for the barman to fill your glass once again. No matter how hard to tried to ignore him, you always found yourself back at daydreaming about his piercing orange and red eyes.

Why could you not forget about him and his dazzling smile?

Whenever someone else had a chance to pick your interest and finally make you move on, something methodically went wrong. Maybe you had been jinxed.

A small smile curved your lips, when the guy in front of you carefully slided the drink in your direction. As soon as the smile appeared, it dropped, though. Someone hastily grabbed your glass and elegantly brought it to his lips, preventing you from enjoying your feast. How dare him steal your drink in such a dreadful night?

You were about to throw a punch at that rude man, but when your head snapped towards him you gaped in shock. Blinking skeptically, you gawked and your mind went blank for several seconds. That must have been a joke.

“What the Hell?” you babbled out, rolling your eyes in despair. If bad luck had a name, it would have definitely been yours. Those combined phenomena were indeed persuading you to believe some witch had cursed you for real.

“Fancy meeting you here, Y/N! Mind if I join you? You seem pretty upset. What's happened?” Kyojuro casually asked, sitting right next to you.

“You happened! - you asserted, darting your eyes on the barman - Another one, please” you asked, or better pleaded him, folding your arms over your chest.

Now you truly were irritated. Not only he pestered your mind day and night, but he also had the audacity of stealing your drinks and clubbing in your favorite place.

The blonde man chuckled and shook his head at you “Come on, don't hold a grudge. I have actually done it on purpose. I have to confess that I have been watching you for a while now. I don't think you should drink that much, you know?” he said softly, his eyes trailing up to your face. For a second, he seemed genuinely concerned.

Kyojuro Rengoku had always had a crush on you. He would have asked you out, if Sanemi had not messed up his plans by fooling around with you. After your break-up, he had noticed some changes in your behavior. You seemed not to care about anyone anymore. It was like you were running away from feelings and Kyojuro could not stand the rumors of you sleeping around with tons of strangers to possibly fill a void in your heart. It hurt him.

He was meant for loving you, not those bottom-dwellers you occasionally spent your nights with.

“So you're a watcher now! How cute! I don't need a babysitter, I can take care of myself” you blurted out, squinting your eyes and trying your best to act cool.

Unfortunately, your body had had enough. Your vision was getting blurry. You hated to admit it, but you were actually glad he was there to watch over you, even if you wanted to rip his face to shreds.

But just like your body, your mind began to wander in the very places you were trying to keep it awat from.

You glanced at him, your heart sinking into your chest at the sight your eyes had been blessed with. Kyojuro, drink in hand, was moistening his lower lip with his tongue. He seemed to be mulling something over. Maybe, he was just offended by your arrogance, or maybe he had a date and he was regretting having approached you.

Actually, you did not care. Happy, sad, angry or thoughtful it was Kyojuro. It was him, the only one your heart desired.

Oh, the things you wanted him to do with his tongue.

It was not a good time for fantasizing, though. You clenched your jaw, reaching your hand out to grab your glass, but you lost your grip on it and the shot slipped from your hand. The liquor inevitably spilled on Kyojuro's white shirt, making him stand up in shock. You wanted to apologize, your mouth was already opened, but you gawked when you spotted the outline of his toned, chiseled chest underneath the material of his shirt.

“Uhm... I— Kyo, I'm sorry! Let me help you” you stuttered, searching for a tissue in your purse. How stupid of you.

He was soaked, how could a tissue solve his problem or make it better?

You groaned in frustration, frenetically rummaging through your bag when Kyojuro's voice stopped you.

“Wait, it's okay, really! Let's go to the restroom. The dryer might help me” he reasoned, suddenly encircling your waist and pulling you towards him. Was it real? You blushed and tried to distance yourself from him, but the only reaction you got in return, was being held even tighter.

You frowned and shot him an interrogative glance, which was returned by a bright smile “Hey, you know, I can walk without you leading me around like a toddler” you pinpointed, rolling your eyes in feigned contempt. How could you deny you loved the feeling of being in such a close proximity with him?

Kyojuro, on the other hand, sighed and pushed the door of the restroom opened to let you in first “If you were fine, we would have not had a problem now. Why do you always have to be a bitch, anyway?” he asked you, undoing the first buttons of his shirt right away.

Not even firing something back, you froze solid and turned your face to the opposite side of the room, trying to ignore the urge to contemplate the celestial vision dazzling you in the restroom of a pub. You were not capable of saying a word. Your brain was fuming.

'What the fuck, Kyojuro?! Can't you just leave?' you thought, rubbing your temples to ease the pressure a tad bit.

“I’m talking to you. Look at me” he said then. You felt his gaze boring holes on the back of your head, but you knew that facing him meant losing your self-control.

“You know, I am fine staring at the wall. Don't you—…”you tried to talk back, but Kyojuro forcefully spun you around. He was done with you and the childish attitude of your drunk self.

Your hair whipped your cheeks, as you found yourself lost into a pair of orange and red orbs scrutinizing your face. Well, that was your end.

Your lips parted and you gulped nervously at the sight before your eyes. A shirtless Kyojuro was holding both your wrists in his huge hands, your eyes travelling down his toned chest and abs. Could it be even worse? Yes, it actually could.

“I'm still waiting for an answer” he stated, arching a thick eyebrow up.

You cleared your throat and shook your head “I'm not going to give you one” you murmured. Was it really that hard to understand that your behavior was your only defense against your love for him?

After all, you had screwed up your long-lasting relationship for him.

Kyojuro stared at you for a few seconds, then he swiftly pushed your back against the wall. Your hands were easily pinned up above your head, as he towered over you in a iron grip. The message was crystal clear. He did not want you to move.

You were stunned in silence, your breath hitched, as his face was now dangerously close to your mouth.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you breathed out, your voice betraying you. You liked this physical contact way too much to keep on fronting.

The blonde man in front of you cracked a smile “I'm trying to solve the problem once and for all. I know why you and Sanemi broke up. — he started — He told me you screamed my name, as you climaxed around him”.

He knew.

You blushed and gawked at his words. He had just thrown facts at your face. You had been exposed. Was it really necessary denying the truth any longer? No, it was not. What about your sense of shame? It was long gone, after the amount of alcohol you had gulped down. You were not even mad at Sanemi for having blabbed out your little secret. This was just above you.

You glared at Kyojuro, tilting your head to the side to contemplate his face properly. He was handsome as Hell. You wanted him and you wanted him now. You had always wanted him.

“Well then, I guess the comedy is over. I should be thankful to Sanemi for having exposed me like that. I finally can get what I wanted from the very beginning” you said, before hungrily smashing your lips against his ones.

It took a moment for him to realize what you were doing, and maybe you were pretty shocked too by your boldness, but once your taste indulged on his tongue he gained courage and kissed you back.

Your tongues danced together, soft moans left your mouth, when Kyojuro inevitably began to lead the way.

You felt like you were on a burning ship, without any lifeboat you could jump in to escape your fate. Still, you did not fight for your life. You were happily embracing your destiny. You had chosen it yourself. You had broken the curse affecting you for years.

When his lips left yours, your breath was uneven but your eyes sparkled with a savage lust he could not ignore and it was enough for him to unbuckle his belt and slip his calloused hand underneath your dress.

Words were superfluous, you both needed your release. Your hunger was fuel to his burning desire. Kyojuro was usually the calm and collected guy everybody got along with. Getting to see what laid underneath that cheerful and respectful façade was sending you straight to cloud nine.

The moment his fingers made their way beneath your panties and reached your slit, he sighed and began to stroke your bundle of nerves in circluar motions “We won't need much foreplay. You are so damn wet” he whispered, drawing invisible circles on your clitoris.

You were breathless. Whimpers and whines erupted from your throat as you bucked your hips against his hand. You were such a mess he envied Sanemi for having got you before he did.

“Please, please, Kyojuro, I need you... Don't waste time” you breathed out, grinding your hips against his hand.

Hearing those words falling from your lips, the blonde man shoved two fingers into your core and slowly pumped them in and out of your entrance. You loved how dominant he was, you loved the way he seemed to ignore you and your needs. Everything he did was magic.

“Gosh, you're such an impatient brat” he joked, watching your mouth resembling the shape of an o. Sinful moans erupted from your throat and you digged your nails onto his shoulders not to collapse onto the floor. You were close and he knew it. He could feel it by the way your walls squeezed his fingers, almost sucking them in. Therefore, he hastily pulled them out of you, much to your dismay.

You whined for the sudden emptiness you were experiencing and your eyes locked with his one in a pleading glance. Kyojuro unzipped his pants and pulled them down enough to allow his member to spring out of his boxers.

You blushed, as his hand found its way to your dripping core again. He easily pushed your panties aside and hooked your right leg up on his hip for a better access.

You could feel his hot breath fanning your lips and his bulge pressing against your entrance, collecting your juices as a lube.

“Are you okay? Can I go ahead?” he asked, kissing you gently then.

You nodded and cupped his cheek in your hand, pressing your forehead against his one “Drunk or not, I love you” you whispered, confessing your feelings after years of fears and tears.

Kyojuro held you close to him and finally entered you, earning a loud moan of pleasure from you. He waited for you to adjust to his size, a strained moan rumbling from deep in his chest as he pushed himself into you slowly, inch after inch. Gasping and moaning softly, you felt your walls adapting to him and once he was buried deep into you, Kyojuro gently pulled out a bit. He started pounding into you slowly but passionately, filling you in places no one had ever reached before.

You screamed his name, not worrying about being in a public place and Kyojuro muffled your moans with his tongue anyway.

“Tell me how badly you wished it was me and not him back in time. Tell me. Tell me how many times you wanted to fuck me on your shared bed” he stated, slamming into you a little faster now.

You moaned his name, your legs shaking as you lolled your head back in ecstasy “Countless times” you said, as he gripped your face by your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“I'm not pulling out, you know that?” he rasped, hitting the perfect spot inside you as your eyes locked.

It was the perfect ending, something long overdue. You kissed him enjoying every minute of it until the very end. You came with a loud moan, he following right after you. You felt his seed filling you up to you cervix, as he peppered your face in small, affectionate kisses. He was perfect, this was perfect.

“You're coming home with me tonight” he breathed out, caressing your cheekbones before pulling out of you.

You were finally his.

AUHTHOR NOTE.

Hello there! Welcome to ‘AUTHOR NOTE PART TWO’, lmao. I intended to post this yesterday but I really fell asleep after dinner on the couch. I only woke up when my boyfriend came back home and his dog began to run and bark to tell me he was opening the door. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this one! I love Kyo with a passion and I wanted to show him some love too!

As per usual, likes, comments and reposts are greatly appreacited!

TAGS: @doumadono @electronicwitchcollection @mrskokushibo

[dee-writes-anime]

Chapter 3: The Witch’s Craft

FEATURING Ryomen Sukuna x Witch!Reader

SUMMARY As you carve out a fragile sense of routine within Sukuna’s estate, your quiet defiance begins to catch the King of Curses’ attention. The concubines, quick to notice the shift, sow seeds of jealousy.

CONTENT WARNINGS includes tension-filled power dynamics and manipulative behavior, mentions of past brutality and the consequences of Sukuna’s cruel rule, subtle elements of psychological tension and control, rivalry and implied threats among the concubines, depictions of the reader navigating an environment steeped in domination and power plays. 

PLAYLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

The first thing I noticed upon waking was the stillness. 

It wasn’t the soft quiet of dawn breaking over the village, where the hum of life stirred even in the earliest hours. This silence was heavy, oppressive, pressing down like a second skin. It felt alive, thrumming faintly in the air like a heartbeat just out of sync with my own. 

I sat up slowly, the unfamiliar weight of the blankets pooling around my waist. The bed was sturdy, its frame carved from blackened wood that gleamed faintly in the pale light filtering through the narrow window above. The blankets smelled faintly metallic, like old blood left to dry, and the chill of the room crept through the thin fabric of my robe. 

My feet met the stone floor with a sharp jolt of cold, grounding me. The sensations here were sharper, more vivid than I was used to, as though the air itself carried a charge. I rose, letting my gaze sweep over the room. It wasn’t large, but its details were precise, deliberate, meant to unsettle as much as they were meant to house. 

The walls were smooth, dark stone, their surface faintly marked with spiraling etchings that reminded me of sigils. Not the clean, deliberate symbols I used in my work, but something raw and chaotic. They twisted and coiled like vines, their patterns almost alive, shifting if I looked too long. A memory stirred—of runes I had etched in haste during a storm, power born not of careful intent but raw need. 

The room bore no decorations, save for its subtle, purposeful details. A basin of water stood on a pedestal in the corner, its surface undisturbed and gleaming like black glass. Beside it, a candle burned low, its wax pooling in uneven trails down the side of its holder. The scent of the smoke was faint but familiar—something sharp, like resin, mingled with the tang of blood. I had used similar incense in rituals meant to sever or bind, its smoke clinging to the air like a warning. 

This space wasn’t just a room. It was a place built to hold, to observe. 

I approached the basin, dipping my fingers into the icy water. The chill ran through me like a current, sharp but invigorating. As I splashed it over my face, the night before came rushing back—not as a blur, but in sharp, vivid fragments. 

The villagers’ screams, choked and broken, their blood pooling across the stone floor. The sound of bones snapping, flesh tearing. Sukuna’s laughter, low and hollow, reverberating through the throne room. 

I studied my reflection in the water, watching the ripples distort my features. The faces of the villagers didn’t haunt me. Their deaths weren’t a weight I carried; they were a consequence, a result of their own choices. What lingered instead was curiosity. Power like Sukuna’s wasn’t something I had ever witnessed firsthand. His control over death, the way it bent to his will without question—it wasn’t just brute force. It was precision, like a spell woven perfectly in the moment it was cast. 

I straightened, shaking off the water and pulling the robe Uraume had left for me tighter around my shoulders. Its fabric was thick and heavy, the weave intricate and complex, reminding me of protective cloaks I’d crafted in the past. The patterns stitched into it felt deliberate, like wards meant to conceal or shield. A faint hum seemed to emanate from the threads, subtle but present, as though the robe itself carried a fragment of the estate’s restless energy. 

Turning to the small table beneath the window, I ran my fingers over its polished surface. A faint layer of dust clung to the edges, untouched by time but holding the faintest whisper of age. The scratches along its edges told a story I couldn’t quite piece together—scars of use, perhaps, or marks left by someone who had stayed here before me. 

The candle flickered as I passed, its flame shifting unnaturally, though there was no breeze. I paused, watching it dance for a moment before continuing to the chest at the foot of the bed. Its iron latch gave way easily, revealing a set of folded garments and a small bundle of herbs tied with black twine. My fingers lingered over the herbs, their scent faint but familiar—wormwood, perhaps, or something like it. A plant meant for visions, for clarity. The estate was thoughtful in its preparation, though whether it was a kindness or a test remained to be seen. 

I took a slow breath, letting my gaze settle on the window. The light was faint, the world beyond it a blur of grays and blacks. This place was different, not just in its structure but in its nature. The air carried whispers—not voices, but something deeper, older. It felt as though the estate itself were alive, watching, testing. 

I met its silence with my own, my mind steady as I began to tidy the room, arranging the objects within it to my liking. The tools of my craft would find their place soon enough, but for now, I let the space breathe. 

This was not my home. It would never be. But it was a place of power, and that was something I understood. Something I could work with. 

A soft knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts. It was deliberate, neither rushed nor hesitant, carrying a weight that made ignoring it impossible. Before I could answer, the door creaked open, and Uraume stepped inside. Their pale, frosted eyes met mine with their usual calm intensity. 

“It is time,” they said, their tone clipped but composed. “Follow me.” 

They didn’t offer any further explanation, and I didn’t ask. Adjusting the robe around my shoulders, I stepped toward the door. Uraume turned smoothly, their movements precise as they led me out into the corridor. 

The halls of the estate were no less daunting in the morning light—or what passed for morning here. Pale torches still burned along the walls, their cold flames casting jagged shadows that danced and shifted as we walked. The patterns etched into the stone seemed sharper now, their twisting lines coiling like vines just out of reach. 

Uraume’s steps were soundless, their hands folded neatly behind their back as they moved with a practiced grace. I followed close behind, my gaze flicking over the familiar halls as recognition began to settle in. 

The corridor leading to Sukuna’s throne room came into view, its massive, intricately carved doors standing as a silent reminder of the night before. The faint hum of energy lingered here, a residual pulse that pressed faintly against my skin. 

We passed another hall, one lined with alcoves holding grotesque statues. Their contorted faces, frozen in expressions of agony and fury, seemed to watch us as we moved. This was the Hall of Conquest—I remembered Uraume’s words as they had led me through it last night. A monument to Sukuna’s victories, they’d said, and a warning to anyone who thought to challenge him. 

“You’ve grown quiet,” Uraume remarked, their voice cutting through the silence. 

“This place speaks loudly enough,” I replied evenly, my gaze lingering on the statues for a moment longer before turning forward again. 

Their lips quirked slightly, a movement so faint it might have been imagined. “You’ll learn to hear it differently,” they said, cryptic as ever. 

The corridors began to widen, the walls smoothing into something less oppressive, though no less imposing. The air carried a faint warmth now, mingled with the scent of spices and something sweeter. As we turned one final corner, the faint hum of voices reached my ears—a low murmur that grew louder with each step. 

We entered a wide archway framed by crimson curtains embroidered with gold thread. Beyond it lay a grand dining hall, its long table stretching across the room beneath arched windows that spilled muted light across the polished black stone floor. The table was laden with food—platters of fruit arranged with precision, spiced meats glistening in the light, and bread so fresh the scent alone was almost enough to distract from the tension that hung in the air. 

But it wasn’t the food that caught my attention. 

They were seated at the table, their voices mingling in soft conversation that faltered the moment Uraume and I entered. 

The first woman sat at the head of the table, her posture regal and commanding. Her sharp features were striking—high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes that gleamed like polished obsidian, and full lips painted a deep crimson. Her hair was an intricate cascade of braids, pinned with gold and ruby combs that glinted faintly in the light. She wore a robe of deep red and black, the fabric shimmering like liquid fire as she turned to look at me. 

Her gaze was piercing, cutting through the distance between us with a sharpness that felt deliberate. This was a woman who thrived on control, on being the center of attention, and my presence was clearly an unwelcome disruption. 

Beside her sat another woman, younger in appearance but no less striking. Her skin was pale, almost luminous, her long silver hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Her robe was a lighter shade of crimson, embroidered with delicate patterns that mimicked the twisting etchings on the estate’s walls. She had a soft, almost ethereal beauty, but her violet eyes carried a sharpness that belied her delicate features. She studied me with open curiosity, her lips curling into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

Further down the table, a third woman leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed as she watched me with barely concealed amusement. Her features were sharper than the others, her dark hair cut short and slicked back, exposing a sharp jawline and eyes that glinted with something predatory. She wore a robe of deep black, accented with streaks of gold that caught the light with every subtle movement. Her grin was sharp, almost wolfish, and it lingered as her gaze roamed over me. 

“Another one?” she drawled, her voice low and smooth. “How quaint.” 

Uraume stepped forward, their presence cutting through the simmering tension like a blade. “She is not ‘another one,’” they said, their tone firm but even. “She is here by Sukuna’s will. That alone sets her apart.” 

The sharp-jawed woman raised an eyebrow, her grin widening slightly. “Well, aren’t we special?” 

The first woman—the one with the braided hair and crimson lips—lifted a hand, silencing the others without a word. Her gaze swept over me once more before she turned back to Uraume. “And where would she sit, then? Among us?” 

“She will sit where she pleases,” Uraume replied, their frosted gaze settling on her. 

That did little to soften the looks I received. 

The woman at the head of the table leaned forward slightly, her gaze fixed on me like a hawk sizing up its prey. “And what, exactly, does that mean?” she asked, her voice smooth and deliberate. 

“It means,” I said, stepping forward and letting my words carry across the room, “that your opinions are irrelevant.” 

The sharp-jawed woman laughed, the sound low and mocking. “Feisty, aren’t you?” she said, her grin widening. “Do you think that will get you far here?” 

I met her gaze without flinching. “I think it’s gotten me this far. Or are you suggesting Sukuna made a mistake?” 

Her grin faltered for a fraction of a second, and the tension in the room thickened. The silver-haired one’s smirk faded as her eyes darted to the woman at the head of the table, who was watching me with a mix of curiosity and something sharper. 

“You have quite the tongue,” the woman at the head said finally, leaning back in her chair. Her tone was calm, but there was a challenge hidden beneath it. “But this place isn’t kind to those who can’t back up their words.” 

“Then it’s a good thing I can,” I replied, my voice steady. 

A ripple of silence followed, broken only by the faint clink of a cup being set down. The silver-haired woman tilted her head again, her curiosity renewed. 

“You’ll fit right in,” she said, her tone light but her smile thin. “Or not. We’ll see.” 

I turned my attention to Uraume, who gestured toward an empty seat near the middle of the table. “Sit,” they said, their voice as calm as ever. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.” 

I took my place at the table, aware of the eyes still lingering on me. The tension didn’t dissipate, but I didn’t care. Let them stare. Let them whisper. I was no stranger to scrutiny, no stranger to being the outsider. 

The food before me was rich and unfamiliar, but I ate sparingly, my focus on the dynamics at play around the table. These women weren’t just beautiful—they were calculating, dangerous. Each one was a piece on Sukuna’s board, and I had just been dropped into the middle of their game. 

But I wasn’t here to play by their rules. 

The days that followed settled into a rhythm, though “settled” might have been too generous a word. Life within the estate was a careful balance—one I was learning to walk as deliberately as I would navigate a crumbling bridge. 

Each morning began with the same soft knock at my door. Uraume would step inside without waiting for an invitation, their frost-colored eyes scanning the room as if taking stock of my every move. Their expression never wavered from its calm neutrality, but I could feel their quiet scrutiny. 

“It is time for breakfast,” they would say, their tone leaving no room for refusal. 

By the third day, I had stopped waiting for them to say it and simply rose when I heard the knock. The heavy robe they’d provided me was a strange comfort as I followed them through the halls. The chill of the estate’s stone floors still seeped into my feet, but I no longer flinched at the cold. It had become part of the air, part of the rhythm. 

Each day, after breakfast and a brief return to my quarters to gather what I needed, I made my way to the gardens. If the estate was a fortress of dark, oppressive stone, then the gardens were its single act of rebellion, as though the land itself had defied Sukuna’s will to give life a place to thrive. 

The path leading there was an unmarked one, winding through the less imposing halls of the estate and spilling out into an open archway that overlooked the first signs of green. The transition was abrupt, almost startling—a sudden burst of life where cold stone gave way to wild abundance. The air shifted as soon as I stepped outside, shedding the metallic tang that permeated the rest of the estate. Here, it was thick with the scent of earth and growing things—rich soil, the sweetness of blossoms, and the faint musk of damp bark. 

The path itself was a tangle of uneven stones, softened by moss that spilled over their edges. Arches of creeping ivy framed the way, their leaves so dense they formed a living tunnel. Wildflowers burst from the ground in sprays of violet, gold, and crimson, their petals dancing in the faint breeze. They weren’t planted in orderly rows or cultivated with care; they bloomed with abandon, their defiance etched into the landscape. 

Further in, the gardens expanded into a sprawling maze of overgrowth. Vines climbed the stone walls that enclosed the space, their tendrils twisting into intricate patterns that seemed deliberate, as though the plants themselves were weaving sigils into the estate. Bushes of fragrant herbs jutted out from the underbrush, their scents mingling with the sweetness of flowering jasmine that clung to the base of the walls. The air buzzed faintly with the presence of bees, their droning a reminder that life thrived here, unrestrained and unbothered by the estate’s shadow. 

The paths meandered without purpose, leading to clearings where the grass grew soft and thick, untouched by the weight of footfalls. Patches of wild mint and lavender sprouted at random, their leaves brushing against my ankles as I walked. Water trickled faintly in the distance, a sound that beckoned but never revealed its source, as if the gardens guarded their secrets even from me. 

At the heart of it all stood the tree. 

It was a colossus of ancient life, its roots sprawling wide like the fingers of a titan clawing into the earth. The bark was rough and weathered, its surface etched with deep grooves and knots that looked almost like the lines of an ancient map. Each scar told a story, though I could only guess at their origins—lightning strikes, weathered seasons, or simply the weight of centuries bearing down on it. The roots curled and twisted, some emerging from the earth like coiled serpents before burrowing back into the soil. Moss clung to them in thick patches, soft and verdant against the tree’s gnarled surface. 

Its trunk was impossibly wide, wider than any tree I had ever seen. I doubted a dozen men could circle it with their arms linked. The branches stretched high into the heavens, forming a dense canopy that filtered the sunlight into shifting patches of gold and green. When the wind stirred, the leaves whispered—a low, soothing rustle that seemed to speak a language older than words. 

The tree exuded power, but it wasn’t the kind that pressed down like the oppressive hum of Sukuna’s estate. This was quieter, more natural, a presence that steadied rather than overwhelmed. I had known trees to hold magic before, but this one was unlike any I had encountered. It didn’t just live—it remembered. 

Each day, I knelt at its base, arranging my offerings with care. A bundle of herbs, carefully selected from the gardens, tied with black twine. A thin slice of bread saved from breakfast; its edges slightly torn from the hurried bite I’d taken earlier. A single drop of water poured from my hands onto the earth, the gesture deliberate and reverent. 

Simple offerings, perhaps, but intention mattered more than grandeur. 

I lit a sprig of sage, its sharp, pungent smoke curling upward in twisting tendrils. The scent clung to the air, mingling with the earthiness of the garden as I whispered the incantation under my breath. The words were old, familiar, their rhythm a steadying cadence that anchored me even in this strange and chaotic place. 

“For balance,” I murmured, pressing my palm against the rough bark. The texture of it bit into my skin, grounding me. “For strength. For clarity.” 

The tree responded faintly—not with words or movement, but with a pulse of energy that thrummed beneath my hand. It was subtle, a rhythm so ancient and steady it was almost imperceptible. But I felt it, deep in my chest, a quiet assurance that I was not alone in this place. 

I closed my eyes, letting the sounds of the garden envelop me. The rustling of leaves in the wind, the faint hum of bees, the distant trickle of water. For a few moments each day, I allowed myself to sink into this space, to let the weight of the estate fade into the background. This was mine—a sanctuary untouched by Sukuna’s shadow, a place where I could remember who I was. 

When the ritual was done, I lingered for a moment longer, my fingers trailing over the bark as if to draw strength from its ancient presence. Then I gathered my things and rose, retracing my steps through the winding paths of the garden, the scent of sage and wildflowers still clinging to me as I returned to the estate. 

The gardens, like the tree, were not simply a place. They were a presence, alive and watching, persistent and defiant. In a fortress built to crush and control, they were a reminder that life endured. And so, did I. 

By the second week, I had begun to run low on supplies. My work in the mornings was efficient but demanding, and the remnants of herbs and tools I had brought from the village weren’t enough. My quarters, though far more furnished than the cramped hut I’d called home before, still felt empty without the familiar shelves lined with jars and bundles of plants, the tools of my craft neatly arranged within reach. The thought of halting my work left a bitter taste in my mouth. 

On the fifth day, as Uraume arrived to escort me to breakfast, I decided to address the matter. 

“I need wormwood,” I said, tying the sash of my robe as they stood silently near the door. “And sage. Rosemary oil too, if it’s available.” 

Uraume didn’t immediately respond, but their pale eyes flicked toward the small table where my mortar and pestle rested, surrounded by the remnants of half-used bundles of herbs. Their expression remained unreadable, though a faint glimmer of something—curiosity, perhaps—passed over their face. 

“You seem resourceful,” they said at last, their voice calm and even. “Why not make do?” 

I turned to face them fully, meeting their steady gaze without hesitation. “Because resourceful doesn’t mean limitless,” I replied, my tone firm but not sharp. “I need more, or the work stops.” 

Their lips quirked faintly, a motion so subtle it might have gone unnoticed, though there was no warmth in the gesture. “Work,” they repeated, their tone carrying a faint edge of amusement. “Is that what you call it?” 

“It’s what keeps me standing,” I said, crossing the room to where my tools sat in a neatly arranged cluster. I picked up a dried sprig of thyme, turning it over in my fingers before setting it back down. “And it’s what I need to continue standing here.” 

Uraume regarded me for a long moment, their expression impossible to read. There was no malice in their gaze, only a quiet, calculating observation, as though they were weighing my words carefully. 

“You speak as though this place has already made demands of you,” they said finally, their voice softer now, almost thoughtful. 

“It hasn’t yet,” I admitted, “but I’ve seen enough to know it will.” 

For the first time since we’d met, Uraume’s expression shifted, their lips pressing into a thin line as they considered my words. Finally, they inclined their head, a motion so slight it felt almost reluctant. “Very well,” they said. “I’ll see to it.” 

True to their word, bundles of fresh herbs appeared outside my door the next morning, tied neatly with black twine. Wormwood, sage, and a small vial of rosemary oil nestled among them. The faint, familiar scents filled the air as I worked, grounding me in a way the estate’s oppressive energy could never manage. For the first time since arriving, I felt a flicker of control return to me. 

Later that afternoon, as I sat grinding dried petals into powder, the steady rasp of pestle against mortar filling the room, I heard the faintest sound of footsteps behind me. Uraume stood in the doorway, their gaze sweeping over the table where my work lay spread out in precise, orderly clusters. 

“You’re persistent,” they remarked, their voice breaking the quiet with its usual calm. 

“And you’re curious,” I replied, not looking up from the task at hand. My fingers worked methodically, crushing the petals into a fine, fragrant dust. 

Their lips twitched again, this time with a faint hint of something approaching amusement. “Perhaps,” they said, stepping further into the room. 

They moved with deliberate grace, their steps soundless against the stone floor. For a moment, they simply observed, their eyes lingering on the sigils I had drawn on scraps of parchment and the small vials of tinctures arranged in careful rows. 

“You work as though this is a craft,” they said after a pause, their tone almost curious. “Not a weapon.” 

“It’s both,” I replied, glancing at them briefly before returning to my work. “Anything can be.” 

They tilted their head slightly, as though considering my words. “Most here wouldn’t bother with the distinction. They’d see power as a means to an end.” 

“That’s because most here don’t understand power,” I said evenly, setting the pestle down and meeting their gaze fully. “Power isn’t just brute force. It’s precision. Intention. Balance.” 

Their eyes narrowed slightly, though it wasn’t in anger or disdain. It was a thoughtful look, one that lingered a moment longer than expected. “Interesting,” they murmured. “You speak as though you’ve wielded it before.” 

I didn’t answer immediately, letting the silence stretch between us. Finally, I said, “I’ve seen what happens when people don’t know how to wield it. That’s enough.” 

Uraume regarded me for a moment longer before stepping closer to the table. They picked up one of the parchment scraps, their fingers tracing the edges of the sigil etched onto its surface. “This one,” they said, holding it up slightly. “What does it mean?” 

“It’s a ward,” I said, watching their reaction closely. “A barrier against harm—physical, spiritual, otherwise.” 

They raised an eyebrow, their lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile. “And you think a scrap of parchment and a few drops of ink will protect you here?” 

“It’s not about what’s on the parchment,” I said, leaning back slightly. “It’s about what’s behind it. The will to make it work.” 

The faint smile didn’t fade, though their gaze grew sharper, more assessing. “You’re bold,” they said, setting the parchment back down with care. “That will serve you well. If you survive.” 

“I intend to,” I replied, my tone steady. 

They inclined their head again, this time with a subtle nod of respect. “We’ll see,” they said, their voice carrying a faint edge of challenge. 

For the first time, I felt a shift in the air between us—a crack in the wall of formality that had defined our interactions until now. It wasn’t friendship, not yet, but it was something. 

As Uraume turned to leave, they paused at the door, their hand resting lightly on the frame. “The supplies,” they said without looking back. “If you need more, tell me.” 

I nodded, watching as they disappeared into the corridor, their footsteps fading into the quiet hum of the estate. The room felt heavier in their absence, though not unpleasantly so. 

For the first time since arriving, I felt like I wasn’t entirely alone. 

For all Sukuna’s power, he seemed to have little interest in me during those early days. His presence lingered like a distant hum at the edges of my awareness—a heavy, oppressive weight that I felt but never saw. He neither summoned me nor interrupted my routines, and the estate seemed to adjust around his absence, the tension in the air softening ever so slightly. Whether his disinterest was genuine or merely calculated patience, I didn’t know—and I didn’t care to dwell on it. 

The concubines, however, were another matter entirely. Their presence was a constant reminder that this place wasn’t mine and never would be. Though they said little to me directly, their sharp gazes followed me through the dining hall each morning, their whispers curling through the air like smoke. They weren’t quiet enough to be subtle, but just restrained enough to let their words bite without drawing Uraume’s disapproval. 

“She doesn’t belong here,” I overheard one of them mutter as I passed one morning, her voice low but dripping with disdain. 

“Perhaps not,” another replied, her tone as sweet and artificial as spun sugar. “But let’s see how long she lasts.” 

Their laughter was soft but sharp, cutting through the stillness of the dining hall as I took my seat at the far end of the table. 

I ignored them, letting their words roll off me like water off stone. Their hostility, though palpable, felt hollow—born of jealousy and fear rather than genuine malice. They were creatures of Sukuna’s world, shaped by its demands and boundaries, and I was an intruder who refused to bow to either. 

My days were my own, and I wouldn’t let their barbed remarks unsettle me. 

I spent my afternoons in my quarters, a space I had slowly begun to mold into something familiar. Though it lacked the warmth of my old home, I had claimed it piece by piece. The heavy black table near the hearth had become my workspace, its surface covered with neat bundles of herbs, small vials of tinctures, and scraps of parchment etched with sigils. The faint scent of rosemary and dried sage clung to the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the herbs Uraume brought me each week. 

The worn pages of my grimoire were a lifeline, their inked symbols and faded notes a connection to the life I’d left behind. I would run my fingers over the text, tracing familiar lines as I committed them to memory again, though I already knew them by heart. 

Evenings were for crafting. The rhythm of grinding herbs in the mortar, the scrape of the pestle against stone, was soothing in its simplicity. I worked methodically, pouring tinctures into vials and carving sigils into parchment with the bone-handled knife Uraume had provided. The sharp scent of freshly crushed mint or lavender often filled the room, a small comfort in a place where comforts were scarce. 

The concubines’ presence wasn’t confined to the dining hall. I would occasionally cross paths with them in the endless halls of the estate, their silks trailing behind them like shadows as they whispered amongst themselves. Their beauty was undeniable, their every movement deliberate and calculated. But beneath their refinement was something sharper—a simmering resentment that hung in the air like a storm cloud. 

When they spoke to me, it was always with a pointed sweetness, their words laced with veiled insults and half-hidden threats. 

“So curious,” one of them said one afternoon, her violet eyes gleaming as she stepped into my path. “I wonder, how does a creature like you fit into Sukuna’s grand design? Surely not as a queen.” 

I didn’t stop walking, my gaze steady as I brushed past her. “Ask him yourself,” I said, my tone calm but unyielding. 

Her laughter followed me, light and brittle, like glass ready to shatter. 

The dining hall was unusually quiet that evening. The usual chatter of Sukuna’s concubines, their practiced laughter and melodic voices filling the cavernous room, had dwindled into hushed tones and sidelong glances. It wasn’t the comfortable quiet of familiarity but the uneasy silence of something unspoken simmering beneath the surface. 

Sukuna lounged at the head of the table, a figure of unshakable dominance. His four arms rested on the jagged edges of his throne, each movement—no matter how idle—radiating power. Two of his eyes were half-lidded, as if bored, while the other pair gleamed with sharp, calculating focus. He sipped from a dark goblet, the liquid inside so deep a crimson it could have been mistaken for blood, the sharp edge of his grin as much a weapon as the cursed energy that hummed faintly around him. 

The concubines were arrayed in their usual finery, silks of crimson, gold, and black clinging to their forms like second skins. Yet tonight, their vibrant attire seemed to clash with their subdued demeanor. Their voices, usually filled with confidence and carefully veiled competition, were cautious now, every word chosen with care. 

The one closest to Sukuna, Mina, was the first to break the silence. Her sharp features were framed by intricate braids adorned with gold combs, each one catching the flickering light of the torches. She leaned toward him, her crimson lips curving into a smile meant to disarm. 

“My lord,” she began softly, her voice lilting with practiced sweetness. “You’ve seemed... preoccupied these past days.” 

Sukuna’s response was deliberate, a slow sip of his drink that stretched the silence to a breaking point. He set the goblet down with a faint clang, the sound ringing through the hall like a warning. His lower left hand drummed idly against the arm of his throne, the rhythm a subtle reminder of his control. 

“Preoccupied?” he echoed finally, his tone low and edged with mockery. His upper left hand reached out, his fingers brushing against Mina’s jaw. The touch was light, almost tender, but the glint in his eyes turned it into something sharper. 

“You mistake silence for distraction, Mina,” he continued, his grin widening enough to expose the sharp glint of his teeth. “Or is it that you’ve grown insecure in your place?” 

Her composure faltered for the briefest of moments, a flicker of unease crossing her face before she forced her smile wider. “Never, my lord,” she replied quickly. “But we are here to serve you. If there is anything we’ve failed to—” 

“Enough,” Sukuna said, cutting her off with a dismissive wave of his lower right hand. His eyes drifted lazily to the others at the table. “Perhaps it isn’t you who should be worried.” 

Kaede, the silver-haired one seated further down, tilted her head slightly. Her violet eyes gleamed with a sharp curiosity that she tried to mask beneath a soft smile. “Surely you don’t mean her,” she said, her voice light but her intent unmistakable. 

Sukuna’s grin widened further, his lower arms flexing slightly as he leaned forward. “And if I do?” he asked, his voice soft but heavy with challenge. 

The room tensed, the air thickening under the weight of his words. The concubines exchanged uneasy glances, their carefully crafted masks slipping just enough to reveal the jealousy simmering beneath. 

“She’s odd,” Kaede said finally, her smirk faltering. “Not the kind of woman who would... thrive here.” 

Sukuna chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that reverberated through the hall. “Odd, yes,” he agreed. “But there’s something to be said for those who don’t break so easily.” 

The tension in the room was palpable now, the concubines visibly stiffening at his words. It wasn’t the praise itself that unnerved them—it was the interest behind it. Sukuna’s attention was never benign, and they knew all too well what it meant for someone to catch his eye. 

The garden was my sanctuary, a place where the oppressive weight of the estate lifted, even if only slightly. The winding paths of overgrown stone, the wildflowers bursting with color, and the ancient tree at its heart had become a tether to something grounding, something real. 

That night, as the moon hung low in the sky, I knelt at the base of the tree, arranging my offerings with care. The air was cool and carried the faint scent of jasmine, mingling with the earthiness of the garden. A bundle of sage, tied with black twine. A slice of bread from breakfast, slightly stale but sufficient. A single drop of water poured onto the soil, its presence fleeting but meaningful. 

Lighting the sage, I murmured the incantation under my breath, the words slipping from my lips with practiced ease. The smoke curled upward, sharp and cleansing, as I pressed my palm against the rough bark of the tree. 

“For balance,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “For strength. For clarity.” 

The tree’s energy pulsed faintly beneath my hand, a rhythm steady and ancient. For a moment, I allowed myself to sink into the ritual, to let the weight of the day fall away. 

But the air shifted. 

It wasn’t the breeze or the rustle of leaves—it was the unmistakable hum of cursed energy, sharp and suffocating. My breath caught as I straightened, my hand instinctively brushing the knife at my side. 

“You have interesting habits,” Sukuna’s voice drawled, cutting through the stillness. 

I turned slowly, my gaze landing on him as he stood at the edge of the clearing. The moonlight cast sharp shadows across his features, highlighting the cruel curve of his grin and the gleam of his crimson eyes. His four arms were relaxed at his sides, but there was nothing casual about the weight of his presence. 

“You watch from the shadows like a coward,” I replied evenly, my tone as sharp as the blade I resisted drawing. 

His laughter was low and dangerous, a sound that sent a chill down my spine. “And you speak to me like you’ve forgotten where you stand,” he said, taking a step forward. 

The ground seemed to shudder beneath his weight, and the oppressive hum of his cursed energy pressed against my chest. I refused to flinch. 

“I haven’t forgotten,” I said, holding his gaze. “But I’m not afraid of you.” 

His grin widened, sharp and humorless. “Brave words,” he murmured, his tone softening into something almost curious. “But bravery without power is nothing more than foolishness.” 

“Then it’s a good thing I have both,” I shot back. 

Sukuna tilted his head slightly, his gaze narrowing as if assessing me anew. For a moment, the air between us crackled with unspoken tension. Then, with a flick of his lower right hand, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, his laughter lingering in the stillness like a ghost. 

The next morning, the atmosphere in the dining hall was unmistakably colder. The concubines’ glances were sharper, their smiles thinner, their whispers no longer hidden. 

“She’s gotten his attention,” Mina murmured, her voice low but not low enough. 

“That won’t last,” Kaede replied, though her tone was less confident than before. 

I ignored them, as I always did, but their hostility was no longer veiled. It hung in the air like smoke, clinging to the edges of their words and their stares. 

Sukuna’s interest, no matter how fleeting, had sown the first seeds of conflict. 

And I knew it was only the beginning. 

dividers by @strangergraphics

AUTHORS NOTE This chapter is coming out a little later today than normal due to some editing issues, sorry for the delay! I sincerely hope you enjoy it more than I did. <3

TAGLIST @slutlight2ndver @surielstea @duhhitzstarr @arcanefeelings @numbuh666 @tejan-sunny @lavenderandoranges @after-laughter-comes-tears @maomimii @theplacetoputfics

[fieldofdaisiies]

Whispers of the Forgotten | pt. 7

pairing: azriel x reader | type: angst | words: 2k words | warnings: mentions of trauma | masterlist

Your neck is aching when you throw it back and release a loud groan. Your eyes are already burning from staring into books the whole day. Outside Velaris has already entered the night – many hours ago–, but you are still sitting here, your back sore from being bent over the books for hours. 

The orange candle on the table, the only light source in the living room of the house of wind at this point, has almost burnt down to nothing, but you need it just a few more minutes. 

You are so close, you know it. The solution is right there, you just need to grasp it.

Reaching forward, you place your hand on the onyx box, sharp nails piercing into it. With the index finger of your other hand you trail over some ancient spells written in lettering that is now longer used. The spells are most likely witches runes, you are not familiar with them, but with the help of Nesta and maybe also Amren, you will be able to open the box.

You can feel it. You can feel how the small casket reacts to your touch, to the idea of being opened. It is burning with emotion, so hot your palm heats. 

You are so close – so close to opening this damn box. And so close to freedom. You will be allowed to roam freely when this is over, no one will ever lock you away again. Once the box is open you will demand your amulet back. With it your powers will return and then you are gone. To the continent or wherever the wind takes you. 

Gone…involuntarily your thoughts wander to the shadowsinger. He is also gone. Has been gone for a few days now. Gone just like back then. When he left you behind, broken and bloody. He did not even check to see if you are alright. If your wounds are too deep. If you will survive. 

Rhysand’s words hollow in your mind, loud, strong, and you force your eyes closed, fighting against the tears. 

“My father…he threatened the other female in Azriel’s life. The only other female he would have given his life for. This was the only way to protect you both.”

All those years, you have wondered what Azriel’s reasons were. Why he betrayed you like this. Why he never came to see you. You don’t know if you will ever be able to forgive him, but what you know is that you want to give him another chance to talk. You want to hear it from him. Everything. Every little thing he has to say. You want him to talk about his mother, about how he locked you in the Prison, the moments after it, the moment when he found out what the Harp was capable of. He owes you all the explanations and you owe him your time to listen.

You shake your head, directing every thought that threatens to stray into Azriel’s direction at matter at hand again – Koschei’s onyx box. You need to open it and you are so close. You flip over to the next page, finding more cryptic lettering. Your eyes are closed when your fingers trail over the words, the runes, the pictures and you feel it. This is it. 

Jumping up, the chair scratches over the ground with a loud noise. You need to find Nesta, and you need to find her now. You really hope she is not currently otherwise occupied with a certain general of the Illyrian armies because you really need to talk to her.

Blowing out the candle, you turn swiftly and head for the corridor, running as fast as your feet can take you, your thin, silken gown swishing around your legs. You head up the stairs, towards Nesta and Cassian’s main bedroom, but stop dead in your tracks when your eyes land on him. When his moan of agony pierces through your mind. 

The door to his bathroom is open, his bloody chest exposed, large wings draped on the ground, his hands braced on the edges of the sink. 

You can’t tear your eyes away and fully on your own accord your feet start to walk, no longer moving you towards Nesta’s room, but to him. You can’t stop yourself, it is like something is pulling you to him. And you know what it is – the tug on your chest. Before his betrayal you had loved the idea of it. Then everything came crashing down, and you hated it. You have been clamping down on the feeling of it for centuries, pushing it away, but now seeing him bloody and wounded –seeing your mate bloody and wounded– fire ignites deep within your soul, the bond once more coming alive inside of you.

“Azriel.” Your voice trembles, heart squeezing at the gaping wounds marring his entire torso, dripping with blood and puss. It looks awful and painful. Your fingers curl towards your palms.

He whips his head into your direction, and with a crooked smile, he says, “It isn’t as bad as it looks.”

“Bullshit,” you answer and step into the bathroom. “You look like you have been attacked by a beast, those wounds are deep. You need a healer to look over them.” When your eyes lifts, they clash with his. 

“Don’t act like you care,” he mumbles, holding your gaze.

“You have no right to snap at me, Azriel,” you answer in a stern voice, “not after everything that has happened between us, not after everything you did to me.”

“I am sorry.”

“I know.” You close the door behind you and fully move into the room, reaching for the cloth on the sink that is no longer white, but has no a pinkish colour, stained from all the blood. You clasp it tightly in your hand, and without saying a word, attach the cloth to Azriel’s wounded skin. He sucks in a sharp intake of air, then holds his breath and lets you do your work. “I am ready to talk, Azriel.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his fingers curl around the edge of the sink, scarred knuckles turning white. “I needed time, I needed time to adapt, to understand, to progress, but I am ready to talk now.” You tip your head back and meet his hazel eyes, a flicker of hope within them now that you revealed that you are ready to talk to him. 

“Rhysand told me about your mother.”

“His father threatened to execute her. I needed to protect her, but I need you to know that I didn’t choose her over you. I was…torn. I only had a few people in my life that I loved, and risking one’s life for that of another…I only tried to–”

“Keep us both safe. I know this now.” Your hand moves lower, brushing over a wound on his lower belly that disappears behind the pants of his Illyrian leathers. 

“I was trying to get you out. I was looking for ways once all threats were gone, but…only when we found the Harp I had a solution on how to do it. I knew how I was going to get you.”

You nod slowly, and put the cloth aside. “Let’s patch you up and then we talk properly, yes?”

It is a big step you are taking, but you know you have to do it. You finally have to talk to him. Your heart is racing both with panic about being so close to the person that has hurt you most in your life, but also with relief that you can finally be near him without feeling like the air to breathe has been stolen from you. He still unnerves you, but now that you have learned more about why he acted like this, talking to him seems easier. 

You have to talk to him. For yourself. You need to know everything. Find out what really were his reasons.

“In my room?” Azriel asks in a calm voice. 

You nod again and set out to do exactly what you said – patching him up. 

───── ⋆⋅ ☽☾ ⋅⋆ ─────

“He showed me what he would do to her. All the cruel things. And all the cruel things he would do to you. He invaded my mind and showed it to me.” 

You find yourself nodding again, tears lining your eyes. You sit next to him on the bed, Azriel’s head resting on the pillow, close to your hips, his chest now bandaged, his body covered by the thin bed sheet. “I had no choice.”

You want to tell him that everyone always has a choice, but in this case, this was truly the only way to do it. You have been listening to him for the past hour or even longer, soft moonlight filtering in through the curtain-framed windows. It is the only lightsource, but you don’t need more. You close your eyes, your soul for the first time calm and at ease in his presence. Azriel has been talking the whole time, a rarity you think, because centuries ago when you were together he was always rather calm. 

“Did it really hurt you to put me in the Prison?”

You feel the bed shift next to you, and a moment later his scarred digits brush your hand. “What a question…” You can hear how he draws in a deep inhale and his hand closes tightly around yours. “It tore me apart. It felt like someone ripped out my heart, and tore it into pieces. Like my soul lost its life, like it was diminished and I could never ever feel happiness again. All the years, the centuries that passed, where I couldn’t free you, destroyed more parts of my soul.”

You slide down on the pillow, not letting go of his hand, until you are on eye-level with him. His head is turned to you, and he is already looking at you when you open your lids. 

“I knew the first moment I could find a way to free you, to get you out, I would do it. You were bound to the Prison by the High Lord’s magic, you couldn’t get out alone, not even if I had tried to. It was only possible through the Harp – the Dead Trove’s magic is stronger than any High Lord’s.”

You deep your chin, nodding slowly, the back of your mouth aching. “I thought you hated me, you loathed and feared me just like everyone else. That our whole relationship was a false-pretence.”

His throat bobs. “I didn’t fake a single thing – every I love you, every kiss, every hug, whenever we made love, I meant it all. And I meant when I said that I would protect you…I never meant to hurt you. To destroy you.”

You shift closer on the bed. “Do you know why your soul hurt after you put me into the Prison?”

“Because I lost the love of my life.” He pushes up on his elbows, groaning due to the wounds on his chest that have not yet healed. He shifts onto his side, now looking directly at you, but you shake your head. 

“No, Azriel,” you say, “your soul hurt because we were mates and the bond broke the moment you closed the gates to my cell.”

tags (crossed-out I couldn't tag) : @juulle987 @marimorena06 @danikasthings @younxii @nightcourtwritings @mrofontaine @lunalilyf @whor-3-crux @tired-all-the-time @anni-was-here @ummmmmwat @azbracadabra @j-pendragonx @hollyismentallyillhelp @famousbasementpainter @bsenpai @lena-davina @red-highlady @thesugatoyourtae @azrielsbabyg @aroseinvelaris @moony-thoughts @wrensical003 @cherryjain17 @moonfawnx @crushedcloudsx @devilsfoodcake22  @valeridarkness @azrielscertifiedslut @mulansaucey @cynicalpotato95 @hanasakr @high-bi-andreadytocry @eerievixen @feyretopia @moonlightazriel @randomness-it-is @brekkershadowsinger @eliieee23 @girasoli-e-sorrisi @illyrianvalkyriecarynthian  @kennedy-brooke @highladyofillyria @theworthlessqueen @marina468 @topaz125 @illyrian-dreamer @azriels-mate123 @eos-princess @courtofjurdan @a-frog-with-a-laptop @insufferablebookaddict @azrielsmate2 @callmeblaire @lilah-asteria

[shotmrmiller]

tw: mentions of simon's torture and SA so heed my warning plz

this is unfinished idk which way to take it, either a weird redemption or just keep him mean so here you go

I like to think that instead of Simon taking off his mask as a show of trust, it's his gloves.

He hates physical contact.

Back during his torture, Simon would have both eyes swollen shut more often than not, completely robbing him of his sight.

He'd bitten through his tongue through the worst of it, leaving him with a constant metallic taste of blood in his dry mouth.

There was never a moment of silence for him either. An insistent ringing in his ears, loud like a stirred-up hornet's nest. Buzzing in the canal, stinging in his ear drums.

Yet the one sense that only nothing could ever stop, unless unconscious, was touch. Simon couldn't stop feeling. Chapped, thin lips over his own. A grubby hand fisting his hair, pulling so hard he'd feel the pop of strands coming off of his scalp. The piercing pain of his broken nose, burning on his split lip; the crippling, blinding agony of the cold, metal hook in between his lower ribs. Delicate fingers leaving a searing trail across his bruised flesh, down to his—

Simon Riley does not like touch nor be touched. He covers himself from head to toe to avoid skin-to-skin contact— the gloves never come off. He grits his teeth when Johnny hits his shoulder, clenches his jaw painfully when Price taps his arm.

The only sensation he doesn't mind is the blood that soaks the fabric of his gloves when he digs his blade into an unsuspecting neck.

But that didn't mean his needs had faded from existence. Much to his disappointment, Simon was still of flesh and blood. He still felt a stirring in his loins whenever he laid eyes on a piece of fuckable meat. It's all he saw them as; just a hole for him to use.

He didn't get much of a chance to satiate the thirst, however, because of the one restriction Simon had.

Hands to yourself.

From the ones he'd chosen to take to a no-tell motel, only a handful had stayed. Not that it bothered him any, they had always thought themselves special enough for him to change his mind.

"Rules are rules, sweets. Take it or fuckin' leave."

And then he meets you at some dingy bar. You'd flitted your way over to him, like a moth to a flame.

If only you knew that he was an all-consuming fire; he'd burn you to ashes.

You'd been quick in agreeing to let him fuck you, too. His gloved hand grabbed your elbow in a tight grip, harshly dragging you into the men's bathroom. "Only one rule. Don't touch me. You keep your hands on anythin' else other than me. I take what ya give me, and in turn, you'll take what I give ya."

With your hands tightly gripping the edge of the porcelain sink, he'd taken you from behind viciously. Hungrily. Deliciously. He'd then left you in the bathroom with your number and his cum dried on the cleft of your arse.

It was like this for months. Always dropping by your house for a visit when the night was darkest.

"Hands on the headboard." His covered hands would rest right next to yours on it as he filled you up with his heavy cock.

"Hold your legs open f'me." The rough material of his gloves on the underside of your thighs never failed to bleed a little pain into your heady pleasure.

And then he'd started pulling the balaclava he wore up to rest right above his lips and settle his head between your quivering thighs. Ghost would drag his smart tongue through your folds and flick your slippery clit.

You'd ripped a hole into the bedsheets to keep from digging your nails into the thick muscle of his shoulders when you climaxed.

You also never brought it up after. He ate pussy like a man starved- all lips and tongue, occasionally a nip or two. This proverbial horse's teeth would never see the light of day.

Over a period of time, Ghost started staying a little longer after the hookups, and began to show up a tad earlier than the usual witching hour.

now this is where we choose the ending

is it a, he grabs your hands and chooses where you can touch? he stays in control the entire time because that's what he needs. control. a choice.

he'll blindfold you so you don't see him, only feel. feel the stubble on his strong jaw, the contours of his waist, his hips; feel how rough his bare hands are on your own smooth skin.

or

do you eventually question why he doesn't let you touch him? he'll snap his teeth at you like a rabid dog? you're not privy to his back story. he'll aggressive shrug his shirt back on and jerkily pull his pants up. doesn't even tie his bootlaces, just walks out your front door. you don't hear from him again.

it hurts, honestly. you'd only asked a simple question and he didn't even give you a chance to apologize.

[hyperfix-wip]

Octobie Halloween: The Demon in the Dark pt. 1

Pairing: Demon! Hobie Brown x fem!Witch! Reader

Summary: Forced to summon a demon by your master's bidding, you stare face to face with a powerful entity as it takes an interest in you.

Word count: 4.8k

Author's Note: HAPPY HALLOWEEN WEEKEND! This particular piece leaned a lot more into the horror aspect of Halloween than I expected, and it does depict some triggering moments, so please read at your own risk. Part 2 will be uploaded within the next few days. Event is by @the-kr8tor and banners by @mushroom-graphics-allotment.

Tags: Demon!Hobie, Witch!Reader, fem!Reader, Demons, Witches, Halloween, Depictions of Monster Appearance, Horror, TW Depictions of Violence, TW Depictions of Abuse, TW Mentions of Abuse, TW Blood, Suggestive Content

Your mother once told you that angels and demons were two beings of the same coin, as blasphemous as it may seem to others. Angels, who people assume would be the most ethereal of beings, can have the most devilish and monstrous forms, while demons can hide their wickedness with the most angelic of faces.

As witches, your mother had warned you of the risks of summoning such creatures– especially demons. When you make a deal with a demon, you can achieve your greatest of desires in exchange for something of equal value. However, you must be wary of what you wish for when dealing with a demon. Fickle and selfish by nature, they could twist your words and wishes into the worst nightmares that would change your fate and ruin your life.

Your mother’s warnings could not have rung in your mind in a more opportune time than at this moment, when one such demon stood in front of you in the bloody summoning circle you drew in your dark, barren room. 

Pools of molten gold shined through the dark smoke before the smoke dissipated, revealing a tall, lean man enrobed in black. Black tendrils trailed down from his head down his back, the ends of them slowly slithering along the bloodied lines of the summoning circle under his feet. Marks of webbing and spiders scattered across his skin, and ornate pieces of gold line along the skin on his face– gold balls lined along his eyebrows, numerous earrings pierced along his pointed ears, and a gold ring hung from his septum. Sharp, blackened claws peeked through the black sleeves of his robe, which shifted between silken fabric and dark shadows, while a golden aura wrapped around his body.

He was the most beautiful and terrifying sight you had ever seen.

His presence overwhelmed you, fear chaining your kneeling body down to the stone floor in front of the towering demon. Tears ran down your dirty, haggard face while your breath grew shallow and shaky. Images of your potential death flickered in your mind– his claws tearing through your tattered rags and flesh, his moving tendrils wrapping around your throat until your neck broke, blood draining from you while he devoured your corpse…

Dear god, you thought to yourself, you are going to die.

Your bloodied, gnarled hands tremble against the summoning circle, the one you were forced to make, no matter how much you frantically begged your master not to, while a sudden urge to retch creeped up to the back of your throat.

The demon himself tilted his head to the side as he peered down at the terrified mortal in front of him, a flicker of curiosity and compassion softening his golden eyes, before he finally opened his mouth.

“Why have you summoned me, mortal?”

A shiver ran down your spine, the smooth, deep timbre of his voice rumbling around the small stone cell of a room. Despite his overpowering presence over you, his voice is calm, dare you say comforting, and you struggled not to hiccup a sob in front of him. Swallowing down the burning bile and growing lump in the back of your throat, you shakily take a breath before forcing your own voice out.

“O-o powerful fallen angel, fol-follower of all-all things dark and taboo…please have mercy on me–”

SLAM!

You flinched and crumpled onto the stone floor with a fearful cry while someone pounds against the wooden door behind you.

“You damn wretch!” an angry male voice boomed through the wooden door and echoed against the stone walls. “Have you summoned the demon yet?!”

You curled up into a ball and trembled in front of the aforementioned demon, hyperventilating from the waves of stress and anxiety washing over your body, while a sudden chill weighed down on your body and a deep growl rumbled in front of you. Underneath you, small tendrils slowly reached up to your face from the shadows, ghosting along your cheeks while you trembled and froze in fear.

Another slam echoed through the room, this time the wooden door hitting against the stone wall, and a scream ripped through your throat before you cowered and crawled away to a dark, faraway corner. You trembled and curled yourself into the cold, hard crevice as an old, portly man in a gold-trimmed coat and breeches sauntered into the room. The man, your master, set his beady eyes on the demon, and his mustachioed lips curl up into an arrogant smile as he takes his tophat off.

“O great demon,” your master greeted the demon as he stepped closer before giving him a slight bow. “I have sought out far and wide for your presence…”

The demon’s face curled up into a disgusted scowl while his tendrils slowly writhe behind him, his nose flaring up in response to the old man approaching him, the man’s odor assaulting the demon’s senses.

“And for what reason did you seek me out, worm?”

The demon’s calm voice turned cold and sharp, cutting through the air like a knife while the room grew more frigid and tense. The demon crossed his arms over his broad chest and stared down at your master with utter disdain.

Your master’s eye twitched from the blatant disrespect from the demon, and you trembled from the thought of the growing wrath hidden behind that cursed smile of your master’s, but he managed to maintain his composure in front of the demon.

“I seek your assistance, Great One,” your master answered through gritted teeth, “assistance to obtain power.”

The demon’s face gradually drops to a stoic deadpan, as if unimpressed by the man’s proposition. His golden eyes then drift over to you trembling in the corner, too terrified to speak while you watch the conversation, and they briefly softened at the sight of you before they hardened back at your master.

“Is that all?” the demon asked with an uninterested tone, slowly tilting his head to the side until a loud crack echoed in the room. “Then in exchange for this power, what do you offer me?”

A wicked grin curled up on your master’s lips before his beady eyes finally turned to you in the corner, and your stomach dropped as he began to stomp over to you.

“Oh god, no, please–” you whimpered out before you let out a pained yelp as your master grabbed a handful of your chopped up hair and dragged you back in front of the demon. Your master forced your head down onto the stone floor, a throbbing pain surging into your head, and you bit back another cry as you kneel in front of the monster in front of you.

“Behold– a young witch for you,” your master sneered at you as he yanked your choppy, tangled hair again and forced you to look up at the demon. “This little slave can give you more power once you consume her.”

Blood trickled down from your forehead as terror screamed in your wavering eyes, tears welling up and threatening to run down your face again.

The demon’s face hardened even more in front of the two mortals while shadowy tendrils slowly rose up from the floor. Golden eyes burned against the darkness, like the sun glaring down and beating down your skin until it festered, before he spoke again.

“That is what you offer me in exchange for my services? A slave?”

The demon’s voice was low and dangerous, and the tension in the room continued to weigh down and crush you as some of his tendrils tensed up and writhed. His clawed hands balled up into fists, his knuckles practically white from how tightly clenched they were.

Your master, ignorant of the looming danger and tension in the room, merely stared up at the glowering demon with a salesman-like grin as he threw you back down onto the ground. “She may be a dirty, pathetic little bitch, but she has her…use.”

You choked out a shaky breath as you curled up on the ground again, the overbearing presence of the powerful demon and the reality of the situation hitting you in full force, while your master continued his offer.

“As she is my property, if we are to enter a contract, I will transfer my ownership over her to you…”

The demon’s eyes narrowed into slits, and a low growl rumbled deep in his chest as his dark power emitted from his body. You trembled and struggled to breathe as your skin crawled from the menacing aura, your fingers itching to claw your skin to be free from the festering sensation.

“You would give her to me? To do as I wish with her?”

Your blood ran cold from the demon’s voice, low with a dangerous edge, as the demon slowly bent down to your master’s eye level, looming over the pig-like man with a cold glare. Much to your dread, your master still stood in front of the demon, ignorant of the latter’s brewing ire.

“Of course!” You master proclaimed with a clap of his hands. “She is no use to me now, not when she has done her job of summoning you to me.”

Your eyes nervously looked up from the ground, and blood drained from your face as the demon’s mouth slowly curled up into a sinister smirk. His eyes glowed brighter in the dark, and the air in the room crackled with a dark aura.

“Hm…that is a tempting deal,” the demon mused with a low chuckle, and you shudder at what could be running in the monster’s mind. “I suppose that can be arranged.”

The demon leans closer to the mortal man with a sneer. “But be warned, worm. This little witch is mine now, and I will do as I please with her. I will not return her to you. Intact or otherwise.”

He continued to loom over your master with a feral look in his eyes, as if daring the insignificant, pathetic excuse of a mortal to object.

Your master, none the wiser of the demon’s extent of his contempt, grinned wickedly. “Marvelous! We have a deal then!”

As soon as those words left your now-former master’s mouth, dark energy exploded in the room and overtook the whole space. The air grew stifling for you as you struggled to push yourself up, and dread crashed into your body once your eyes landed on the demon’s mouth transforming into a grin with spider-like fangs.

“Good. Now leave us,” the demon growled. “Your presence is no longer needed.”

The mortal man’s smile instantly dropped at the demon’s words.

“But what about the details of our contract–”

The demon roared at the man, who fell and crumpled onto the ground before quickly running out of the stone room with his tail between his legs and slamming the wooden door behind him. Dread clawed up from your chest from the final slam of the door, and you struggled to keep your trembling down under the demon’s shadow before you nervously turned around to face him alone.

The fangs slowly retracted into the demon’s mouth, and his glowing eyes dimmed down as his gaze drifted to you cowering on the floor. He took a slow, deep breath, and the dark energy slowly dissipated from the room before he slowly crouched down in front of you. You tried to crawl back and away from the demon, but small tendrils shapeshifted from his shadow and wrapped around your limbs.

“Do not move.”

His voice grew soft and careful, the complete opposite from his earlier interaction with your master– well, former master. His eyes shifted from a cold, metallic gold into a warmed honey-amber while he gazed down at you, as if memorizing your very presence in front of him, before his clawed hand reached to your chin to tilt your head up and had you meet his almost predatory eyes.

“You are mine now, little witch,” he whispered to you as his long, nimble finger caressed along your jaw and his thumb carefully brushed against the seam of your bottom lip. “You summoned a demon, little one, and now you are mine to do with as I please.” 

A cold chill ran down your spine as the demon leaned closer to your face, his nose brushing against your cheek and gently inhaling your scent. Bile burned in the back of your throat again while your face curled up to prevent any welling tears from rolling down your cheeks again. A quiet tut echoed from the demon’s mouth while his hand left your chin and reached up to your cheek, his clawed finger tenderly brushing a tear away from one of your eyes.

“There, there now, little one. No need to cry,” the demon quietly reassured you as his hand cupped your cheek before he brushed his lips against the other.

Your body seized at the unexpected kiss, tears instantly spilling down your cheeks again, but the demon just shushed you as he slowly kissed the tears away from your face. Terror and confusion plagued your mind, caught off guard by the sweet, loving action from the horrifying demon.

“Relax, little one,” the demon whispered against your skin, “I will not hurt you…”

He continued to press more kisses along your face– your cheeks, your forehead, your brow bones, your eyelids. His other arm wrapped around you and pulled you against his chest, easily holding you still against him while he pressed more kisses against your face and drank in your presence. The demon could practically feel the magical power thrumming in your veins, the sweet, untapped potential that he now owned, before he reluctantly pulled away slightly from you and gazed down with a tender smile.

“What is your name, little witch?” his voice rumbled against you with curiosity.

Despite the softer, calming approach from the demon, you still trembled in trepidation as you muttered your name to him. His smile grew as he repeated it to you, your name like honey on his lips, before he gently brushed a strand of your hair from your face.

“Your name suits you, little one…”

Your heart skipped a beat from his words, and for a moment you found yourself enthralled by his beauty before the fear in your mind forced your eyes away from him.

A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest before he caressed your face again and turned your gaze back at him. “Do I terrify you, young witch?”

His pools of amber-gold entranced you, but your fear of him still lingered in your head as you anxiously nod. “Y-yes…”

A low hum vibrated from the back of his throat before he leaned his head down to look at you closer. “And why is that?” he asked, his tone gentler than you would expect from the demon.

A lump clung to the back of your throat, but you struggled to swallow it down before forcing yourself to answer.

“Y-you are a powerful demon,” you croaked out, “and– and demons are not-notorious for killing and ea-eating humans, regardless if-if the person summoned or-or made a contract with them…”

A small hiccup snuck up on you as more tears welled up in your eyes under his gaze.

“You…you hold my life in your hands.”

The demon slowly wrapped his arms around you as you stumbled with your words, his face furrowing into a pensive frown from the fear lingering in you. For reasons unknown, the idea of you fearing him made his chest clench.

“And would you believe me if I said I will not harm you?”

A brief urge to lie to the demon surged up to your tongue. A lie of you not fearing for your life, of not thinking a demon would harm you.

However, you heard of that promise of safety before– that hideous lie that cost you your mother’s life and your freedom.

You swallow the bittersweet lie down the walls of your throat before uttering your answer.

“...no.”

The demon clenched his jaw at your response, and for a brief moment his eyes flickered with dejection before he pulled away from you slightly again.

“Why not?” he simply asked, and you questioned yourself if you heard a hint of disappointment and concern in his voice.

The fear in your body slowly faded away the more you spoke to the demon, but it still resided in your chest as you answered. “There are…there are those with less power than you who have said that to me before.”

You looked down from his gaze to the black robes draped across his broad chest, your eyes drifting to the thin, golden web-like stitching along the fabric to tamp the vulnerability welling up in your chest. “They lied, of course.”

Your body tensed up a bit when his arms wrapped around you tighter, but somehow that brought you a small sense of comfort. Your heart slowly crawled up to the back of your throat while the back of your eyes started to burn, but you swallowed the bitter lump down your throat again and blinked away the sting in your eyes. “If they were capable of doing that, I cannot even imagine what you could do to me…”

A low growl rumbled in the demon’s chest as the tendrils on his head started to writhe with agitation, his mind painting a picture of whatever horrors he could think of that could be inflicted on the young witch in his arms. He immediately thought of the pig-like man who gladly threw you away to him, and outrage surged in his heart, something he never thought he would feel throbbing in his chest again.

“I am not like that disgusting little worm,” he snarled, his golden eyes burning into your eyes with disdain for the mortal man. “I am nothing like that pathetic recreant.”

The demon slowly rose to his feet and picked you up to your own, his tendrils slowly wrapping around your waist to keep you up while his clawed hands gently cupped your cheeks to keep your eyes on him.

“I can be cruel. I can be violent. I can be merciless if I want to. But I have no desire to hurt you, little one.”

A shiver ran down your spine as your hands rested on his chest and clutched onto his robes, but hesitation still lingered in your mind.

“...what do you plan on doing to me then?”

A small smirk curled up on the demon’s lips while his black-stained thumb caressed your cheek. “Now that would be telling.”

Another rumble in his chest vibrated against you before one of his hands reached down to grab yours. “Suffice it to say I require your time. Your energy…”

He lifted your hand, revealing your gnarled, bleeding fingertips and broken nails, before pulling it close to his lips. “Your blood…”

His golden eyes glowed as his lips gently wrapped around your thumb and sucked the red ichor off it, his tongue slowly swirling around the digit and savoring the sweet taste of your blood before he pulled his mouth away with a flick of his tongue.

Your breath hitched in the back of your throat when your eyes landed on the now-healed thumb, and you quickly darted your eyes back to his pools of warm amber. Your legs gave out, but his tendrils kept you up while he gazed down at you with a brazen smirk.

The blood on his tongue was stronger than the demon anticipated, the dying magical power from the exposed wound sending an addictive rush through his veins, briefly dilating his pupils before they returned to normal. A small huff of laughter slipped through his lips before he pulled your hands to his lips and pressed some kisses along your fingertips.

“I promise you, little one, I will treat you with far more care than any lowly human could once we enter into our contract. Would you not agree, my sweet little witch?”

You stared up at the bewitching demon with a dazed nod, but you soon snapped out of it once you processed his words. “Wait– our contract? I thought you were going to make one with–”

“That vile tick was not the one who summoned me,” the demon interrupted with repugnance as he pulled you closer. “And even if it did, its wish is far too mundane and vague for it to come into fruition the way the little pest would wish.”

The demon’s face curled up into a scowl before he leaned his face to the crook of your neck. “Even the mere thought of that lout reminds me of that disgusting odor he was emitting.”

A slight shudder wracked the demon’s body before he breathed in your scent and traced his nose along your throat. A soft groan reverberated in his throat before his lips grazed against your skin, relishing the way you gradually melted in his arms with a shiver. “My dear, you taste so sweet…”

He brushed another kiss against your neck, lingering on the sensation of your pulse thrumming against his lips. “Your blood, your skin…better than any ambrosia I ever had. Better than any feast…”

His lips trailed down lower on your neck, savoring the breathless gasps catching in your throat, until he reached your shoulder. “I am almost tempted to have a bite, but the mere thought of defacing your body with my teeth…it would just be a waste.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as you rolled your head back with a whimper while he planted more kisses along your skin and wrapped his arms back around your body. A wave of warmth gently washed over you as you clutched onto his robes, lulling you in a dazed state as your fear ebbed out of your body.

A smirk slowly curled up on the demon’s lips as he pulled away a bit from your neck before a clawed finger tentatively hooked under the collar of your ratty, patched-up dress and slowly pulled it to the side. “No, I would prefer to take my time to…taste…you…”

He slowly trailed off once his eyes landed on your skin that was underneath your rags. It was marred with purple and yellow bruises, thin red whip lines, overlapping skin and burns, and–the most damning of all to the demon– a small circular brand on your left bosom.

You gradually came to once you felt the gentle dragging of the ratty fabric against your shoulder, and your blood ran cold the moment your eyes landed on the hardened glare of his eyes on your skin. The air in the room suddenly grew cold and full of dark energy again, crackling and swirling around the both of you as shadowy tendrils shot up from the shadows around the visibly irate demon.

“What the hell is that?” the demon asked, his voice barely above a hoarse mutter. “That small circle on your skin…”

Your tongue weighed heavy in your mouth like lead as you trembled in his arms again, but you swallowed the bile burning down your throat before you reluctantly responded.

“...My brand. M-my mast–”

You almost heaved at the memory of when your former master pulled the blaring hot branding iron from his fireplace, but you blinked away the tears and attempted to breathe evenly in front of the demon. “My- my former master…he did- did not want a l-large branding on me…he wanted some-something subtle.”

The demon’s eyes sharpen, and the golden hue of his irises gradually bled out into the whites of his eyes while his pupils started to split up until they transformed into spider-like eyes.

“That little vermin…branded you?”

A wave of dark energy exploded from the demon as more tendrils shot up from the darkness, some of them straightening and stabbing down into the stone walls like powerful spider legs. Rage coursed through the demon’s veins as his voice ripped through his throat.

“How dare–when I see that disgusting fucking creature, I will tear it apart limb from limb while hexing it to stay alive–”

You quickly clutched your hands on his shoulders before you coughed up blood on his chest, the sudden rush of dark energy slamming against you like a train that you overheard your former master talking about. Ichor and iron clung inside your mouth, but you gripped onto him while staring up at him with tears in your eyes, wheezing and struggling to breathe in the thick miasma the demon exuded.

The demon’s eyes landed on you and your bloody mouth before they instantly reverted back to normal, and all the shadowy tendrils and dark energy evaporated in thin air. Panic flooded the demon’s eyes as he frantically pulled you into a tight embrace.

“Little one– little one– I am so sorry, I did not– I did not mean to– Fuck– please, please forgive me–”

You gasped out some breaths while coughing up some coagulated blood, sputtering it out of your mouth while your hands shakily squeezed his shoulders in an attempt to massage them. You blinked away more involuntary tears while your bloodied lips pressed against his shoulder, and you could feel the tension in his body slowly melt away while he clung to you like a lifeline. His hand hesitantly slid up to caress the back of your head, his black clawed fingers carefully running through your hair, before he pressed his lips against your temple.

“Fuck, I-I did not mean to– did not mean to hurt you, never meant to harm you,” the demon muttered into your hair. “Damn it, please forgive me, little one…”

You only nodded with a whimper in response before you pressed another kiss on his shoulder. The demon shuddered from the tender touch of your lips before he gently pulled you away to peer down at you with remorse in his eyes.

“What do you desire, little one?” he whispered as his other hand trailed up from your waist to your lips to wipe your blood off. “What would you like me to do? I will give you anything– anything– to make this up to you.”

His face pinched up into a pained expression the more he gazed down at you while a golden aura slowly emitted from his figure. “Would you like revenge on that filth that harmed you? Would you like to unlock your potential power? What would you like me to do for you, my dear?...”

Labored breaths puffed out from your blood-stained lips before you shakily reached up to cup his face, and you looked up at him with forgiveness in your wavering eyes.

“Just…just want to be safe,” you rasped out, your emotions welling up in your chest and rising up to the back of your throat. “Just- just keep me safe from now on…”

A flash of pain and affection pooled in his golden-amber eyes as the golden aura around his body glowed brighter from your request, and he slowly nodded before pulling you into a gentle, lingering kiss. You fluttered your eyes as you accepted his wordless apology, and you melted and grew languid in his arms.

This kiss did not revile you, did not make you vomit until your throat burned, did not make you want to cut your tongue out to bleed and be rid of your life.

This kiss made you feel warm, a gentle comfort blanketing over you, lingering over your heart before he reluctantly pulled away. His eyes softened as he carefully pulled at your tattered collar again, watching the hideous brand be overtaken by a golden light on your chest before fading away into a large black mark of a spider.

Your chest slowly eased up until you could breathe evenly again, and your eyes widened at the sight of golden light enveloping the tips of your fingers and radiating under your rags before fading away into black web-like marks. While you were distracted by your healed wounds and new markings, more black tendrils slowly rose from the demon’s shadow again and gently wrapped around your body. The demon tenderly gazed down at you as he pulled his arms away before you slowly started to skin into the warm darkness with the tendrils. The familiar chill of fear was nowhere in you in that moment, only a dazed, reverent acceptance as a small smile barely curled up on your lips.

“I will not harm you again, little witch,” the demon reassured you as his shadow gradually swallowed you up. “No one will harm you. Ever again. You are now under my protection. Do you understand?”

You only nod in response as his tendrils snaked up and wrapped up around your body more and carefully pulled you into the shadow. One of them reached up around your neck and caressed your cheek, as if comforting you while darkness creeped up in your vision of the merciful demon and engulfed you.

[purplestanleypinkblanket]

A Witch Hunt, Moonlit Solace (1):

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader

Rating: M (16+)

Summary: While on a witch hunt, you and the boys unknowingly walk yourselves into a trap. A trap that opens up old feelings you have long tried to forget.

Warnings: Minor mentions of violence and blood, supernatural elements (aka witches and hex bags), mild language, heavy angst, mild unwanted physical contact (witch taunting the reader), Implied childhood trauma (is only in the final sentence but will be marked a different color and font, as well as will have a warning leading up to it. Implied childhood trauma is spoken about 'being that little girl again' and 'feeling alone'.) Reader experiences illness. Cliff hanger!

Genre: Supernatural, action, slow burn, hurt/comfort (in a sense), angst.

Word Count: 2,923

Master list: Coming Soon!

"Find anything?" Your voice echoed in the bunker's library as you leaned over Dean's shoulder, eyes on the laptop screen. One of your hands rested on the back of his chair while the other was on the table, both supporting your weight.

Dean glanced up at you, unable to keep his eyes on you for long after your last encounter in the garage. It wasn't an awkward moment, so why did he feel so...vulnerable...looking at you now?

"Yea. Some people went missing in Salem, Massachusetts. Looks like it could be worth taking a look at." His voice was slightly rough, well, rougher than usual. Dean lifted his hand off the laptop, bringing it to run over his lower face, thumb trailing his jaw.

"Sounds like you found us a job, Dean." You smiled brightly, relieved for a reason to leave the bunker. It had been a few weeks since the vampire hunt and your itch to see something other than the same damn walls was coming back.

"I don't know if you should come this time." Dean spoke up, sighing as he leaned into the chair, his back pressing against your hand.

"Wait, what?" Your eyebrows rose in surprise, had you heard him, right? He didn't want you to come? You had been with them for almost three years! Sure, it wasn't until recently that you had taken up the stabbing side of hunting, but you worked hard to be helpful!

Dean looked up at you, a frown falling on his lips. As if he could sense every single thought in your head, he spoke, "You just haven't been in-the-field hunting for very long, sweetheart." He lied, hoping his excuse was enough to mask the concern he felt. Dean couldn't just tell you that he suspected witches to be the perpetrators in Salem. Or that everyone disappearing were women who had similar features to you. He didn't need you to stress, to worry, or worse- to insist on coming even more so. You had always been so protective of others in your gender group. Dean could remember the day a man was hitting on a woman who wasn't the least bit interested in a bar you lot were at. He had never seen you rise into action faster than that moment; your fist met the man's face before Dean could even blink.

"Dean." Your serious voice broke him from his trance, "I don't give a flying fuck whether or not I've been in the field long. If people need help, I want to be there." A mutual, unspoken need to look out for the other passed between you. God, your stubbornness frustrated him. Despite how much it aggravated him, it was also endearing. You stuck up for what you believed in. That was something he admired about you.

"We don't even know for sure what we're hunting." Dean countered.

"Do you have any ideas?" You argued back, arms crossing over your torso as you stood strong.

Dean scowled softly at you, a look you returned instantly. A beat passed between you, a silent battle raging. Non verbalized words floated between the two of you.

'You're not coming,' he adamantly straightened his shoulders.

‘Yes I am. You can't stop me.' Rising to his challenge, you also straightened your shoulders, eye’s narrowing.

'Wanna test that theory?' You watched as his eyebrow lifted in the corner just slightly, a small cue to the deep rooted determination he felt. 

Finally, Dean let out an exasperated huff. "Damn it, fine. Just don't do anything stupid, got it? Don't be a hero." A beaming smile crept onto your face at his surrender, it wasn't every day you won an argument against Dean. With a victorious stance, you eagerly leaned down and pressed a thoughtless peck to his face. You knew he didn't want you to come but, boy, were you glad you could. Perhaps you did it because you wanted to cheer him up, to show him appreciation. Or, maybe, it was because of the bad feeling burrowing itself deep into your gut. All too suddenly, you were fully aware of your lips pressed to his cheek. You were aware of how delicate the action was, how your eyes had fluttered for a split second at the contact. Your eyes widened as you froze, you wanted to pull away, you were desperate to. Your face paled just before the storm, humiliation filling you. 

Pulling away far too quickly than you should've, you brought your hand to your lips. Desperate to say anything, to relieve the suddenly uncomfortable awkwardness you felt, you started to speak.

"I...."

Your face burned red hot- a dead giveaway to the deadly embarrassment flooding you. Why on earth would you kiss him?! Why make it awkward! Why wasn't he responding? You watched his jaw clench slightly, the bones of it flexing and unflexing. Dean wasn't moving, his gaze focused ahead. Oh god, what if he tried to talk to you about it? You could only dread the possibilities. With a stutter, you ushered a quick apology, racing towards the stairs in an attempt to escape the situation. Despite having reached the top of the stairs, you paused, looking back at him for a split second, waiting- no, welcoming him to say something. When he didn't speak, or even move, you left.

Dean hadn't untensed from your touch until after you were gone, his face pale as his mind wracked any form of connotation behind the kiss. He wished you had stayed longer and had given him a chance to speak. He wanted to explain why he tensed under you. He wanted to tell you that he was terrified to move only to find out you weren't there. He wanted the kiss to mean more but he found himself scared of that. Dean was petrified of caring for you, and you getting hurt because of it…of him. He looked towards the stairs you had raced up, a frown on his lips. If he had moved, had leaned into the kiss, had grabbed you before you could leave; would you have stayed? Deep down, Dean wanted you to come back, to tell him what it meant.

The only sound in the quiet drive to Salem was Sam. You and Dean had avoided each other for the last few hours, trying to hide from the awkwardness from earlier. 

"All women victims, none have been found..." His voice drowned on, just becoming another distant sound as you stared out the window.

Pain.

Searing, red-hot pain filled your limbs.

You looked down at your shaking hand. Before your eyes, claws sprouted from your nails. Jagged, desperate pleading fell from your lips but all that all that came out was an angry, pained roar.

"Hey, sweetheart." Dean's hands shaking your shoulders brought you back to reality, "You alright?"

"I..." Your gaze was frantic as you looked around, eyes finally landing on Sam and Dean. They had opened the door you sat next to; Dean was leaning inside while Sam peaked in. Concern was evident on both of their faces. "Yea, yea, I'm fine. Sorry." You murmured, shaking your head to get the delusions off your mind. The lingering stretching pain in your limbs continued to haunt you. "Just...spaced out there for a second." You shrugged, grasping Dean's hand as he helped you out of the car. Looking around, you immediately noticed all the small mom and pop shops filled with gothic or Victorian style elements. The town really seemed to embrace they're witch-rich history.

"I'll go get us a room." Sam spoke up after a beat, his eyes moving between you and Dean who still held onto your hand. You glanced at Sam, nodding. You remained silent; your mind still focused on what you had felt in the car.

Pain.

Soul-breaking pain. Your limbs cracked and snapped every which way, followed by a howl of pain each time.

"Hey," Dean called out to you, voice soft and low. His thumb trailed over the back of your hand, grazing along your knuckles. The action was simple enough, but it was exactly what you needed to return to the moment. The warmth of his skin was the perfect reassurance, the comfort of having him so close seemed to soothe the tremble of your fingers. "What's going on?" He asked, concern evident.

"I don't know." You confided, free hand finding your head. "But my head aches like hell." Dean frowned softly, pressing the back of his hand and knuckles to your forehead.

"You're super pale, and sweaty." He observed, brows knitted together as he wiped your sweat off onto your hoodie. Dean kept your hands together, savoring the feeling of your skin against him. He hated the circumstances that surrounded it though, he hated knowing you only let him do so because you needed the comfort.

"Yea, I feel like my body's stretching past its limits." You admitted, voice shaky.

"Why don't you stay in tonight?" Dean offered in a demanding tone. It wasn't a choice he was giving you, even if it was phrased as one.

Instantly, you shook your head, "No. I'll be fine, I just need to eat something, I think." You argued, eyes watching his jaw clench in reluctance. "Really, Dean. I'll be fine." You pleaded with him, hand tightening around his. You watched the internal struggle behind his green eyes. On one hand, he wanted to be able to keep an eye on you. Dean wanted to make sure you were fine, and he couldn't do that if you were in the hotel room. However, he was also worried about you. You were acting odd, spaced out. Like your mind was in a hundred different places but nowhere all at once. He wanted you to rest, to get better.

"We both know if you don't let me come with you and Sam, I'll just wander about by myself." You informed him, as if you could read every thought in his mind.

With a sigh, he finally relented, "Fine but you're staying in the car." He watched your grateful smile form, his hand squeezing yours slightly. He was happy you were smiling, proud even. Although, as the evening went on, Dean couldn't help but wonder if the price was really worth it.

You had been getting worse by the hour. You grew paler, face sickly, your limbs ached and burned more by the minute. Your hair had begun to stick to your face from sweat despite the freezing temperature of your body. Every time Sam and Dean returned to the car, Dean instantly noticed the slight differences in you. You no longer asked about how their questioning went. You never even noticed they were back in the car until the doors slammed.

"Sweetheart." Dean called out to you, snapping you from your trance. The look of concern on his face spoke volumes. Guilt swarmed you, you didn't want to be another burden- another issue. Not when all these women were going missing.

"They tell you anything?" You flashed a sweet smile that failed to reach your sunken eyes.

"Yea, they told us a lot. It's bigger than we thought." Sam added, "Maybe we should check in for the night. It's pretty late anyway." It was late? Your eyebrows shot up in surprise as you looked out the window, it was practically night.

"When...?" You started, startled by the sudden time shift. It felt like it was daytime not even five minutes ago. The cobblestone streets and iron decorative light posts added an eerie feeling to the neighborhood. Dean began the drive back to the motel, casting occasional looks at you through the rearview mirror. He hoped that if he stared long enough then the answer of what is plaguing you would be revealed.

Sam's voice filled the silence as he told you about what they discovered, "Supposedly, these women had started acting weird before they disappeared. They would start to look super sick. Stopped showing up to work, constantly talked about their limbs hurting." Sam shared a look with Dean, both of them clearly disliking how similar the experiences sounded to yours.

"Aint I flattered." You grumbled; voice hoarse. "So, who did it? Some kind of siren? Maybe a dragon?" You listed off the first creatures that came to your mind.

"It's a witch. We found hex bags in the victim's purses." Dean sighed.

The car fell silent as Dean parked at the motel.

"Hex bags...?" You frowned.

"Hex bags." Dean echoed, and, with sudden determination, hopped out of the impala as he strode towards the room.

"Dean?" Sam called out; voice filled with confusion. You shared a glance with Sam, brows furrowed, before you both clambered out of the car and raced to follow him. The door to the motel room was wide open and Dean was inside, your bag in his hands as he tossed your clothing and essentials out.

"Dean!" You gasped, racing forward to stop him. "What the hell are you doing?!" You demanded.

After a few minutes of trying to wrestle your bag from Dean's ripping grip, he pulled out a small hex bag.

"That's it. We're leaving." He adamantly decided. "Sammy, back our shit up in the car. I'll go pay the receptionist." Before either of you could interject, Dean was already out the door. You and Sam shared a look, confusion and concern evident. You cast your gaze down, staring at the hex bag that Dean had thrown aside angrily.

"Sam-..." You started, voice pleading. Women were going missing here, and maybe using this situation to your advantage could help you save those who had yet to fall target.

"Dean's right." Sam voiced; lips pursed with concern. On one hand, he wanted to help prevent other women from becoming victims. But on the other hand, he refused to let you sacrifice yourself. He and Dean had lost so much to the hunting life, and he refused to let you be another name on the list. He wouldn't do that to Dean, he couldn't. Gathering his and Dean's bags, Sam turned to you. "Look, I'm going to put these in the car, then we'll wait for Dean to get back. We'll find a way to fix whatever is going on." His tone was filled with a promise to you. You nodded, guilt and relief wracked your system as he walked out of the room, leaving you alone. You wanted to help these people, wanted to stop whatever was happening to them. Yet, you couldn't deny the relief you felt at the idea of leaving the town haunting you.

It had been almost fifteen minutes since Sam and Dean had left the room. You expected at least Sam to be back by now. With protective hesitance, you stepped outside the room. Cold night nipped your skin as you looked around the parking lot, no sign of Sam near the impala.

"Sam?" You called out, voice holding a strength you currently didn't have.

No response.

Looking around, you stepped towards the impala. "Sam...?"

Still nothing.

Sucking in an ice-cold breath, you frantically looked around, "Dean?" Any strength in your voice was gone when Dean hadn't responded. You could feel your heart pick up its pace as you moved towards the main area that the front desk resided in. Stepping inside, you noticed just how trashed the room was, as if a fight had occurred. Papers and utensils were scattered, chairs flipped and torn. Blood coated the walls and wood lined floor in inconsistent splotches. You knew Dean wasn't here, but that didn't stop the frantic call of your voice. "Dean, please." You stepped into the room more, hand reaching for the small silver pocket knife in your jeans. "I swear to fucking god, Winchester..."

"I don't think God would take too kindly to that." Someone interrupted you. The voice was cold, icy. Whipping around, your eyes landed and a brunette witch with pale eyes, a grin on her lips. Her presence was overwhelming. Just her stare made you want to run away and cry for your mommy. Standing straight, you pulled out your silver pocket knife, arming yourself.

"What in hell did you do to him?" You growled out, prepared to fight. "Tell me or I'll-"

"Or you'll what? Pretty me to death?" The witch taunted. You stepped towards her, suddenly aware of how sluggish your body was. How exhaustion wracked you. With determination, you continued to move towards her despite your failing body. Your jaw clenched when you found yourself stumbling to your knees in front of her, blade falling from your hand. The ache in your limbs was overpowering, and your eyes felt as if they hadn't found solace in sleep for almost a year. "You fought pretty damn well." The witch pointed out, patting your head as if you were a new trophy, "Lasted far longer than the others. And you're still going!" She laughed. "Yes, you'll do nicely."

Darkness closed in around you as you fell to the floor, no longer able to fight back whatever charm she had put on you. You felt alone, scared. Dean wasn't there, he wasn't there to take your hand, to call you sweetheart. Sam wasn't there to tell you lighthearted stories that humiliated his brother.

(Warning: Implied childhood trauma)

It all came crashing to you how alone you truly were right now. How you hadn't felt this alone since... A sob wracked your body.

Just like that, you were the little girl you tried so hard to leave behind. 

[vodika-vibes]

What Now

Summary: Desperate to end the war and save the clones and the Jedi, Captain Rex reaches out to a witch and her apprentice. He offers everything that he is for a chance to fix everything. The witch accepts his offer.

Pairing: Captain Rex x F!Reader

Word Count: 1421

Warnings: Reader is a witch, Palpatine dies, time-travel

Tagging: @bad4amficideas @justiceandwar98 @Mira-Loves-Star-Wars @tiredbi-peach

@dukeoftheblackstar @trixie2023 @kimiheartblade @padawancat97 @falconfeather23435

@etod @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly

A/N: So I had an idea, and I decided to write it. I hope you like it!

Click here to be added to my taglist

“Your mother couldn’t have sent us further into the past?” Rex asks as he shoots a sullen glare towards the woman beside him. She, cheerfully, ignores his glare in favor of fighting with her hood.

Eventually, she focuses her gaze in his direction, “Cheer up, Rexy!”

“Don’t call me that,” He says with a sigh.

As ever, she ignores him, “Mother sent us far enough back to be useful.”

“How? Palpatine is already Chancellor.” Rex sighs and bats her hands away from her hood so he can fix it himself, “Not to mention, my brothers have already been commissioned and the war is only 6 months out from starting.”

“Breathe, Rex,”

“Even you have to agree that 6 months isn’t much time.”

“It’s time enough,” She counters, “Palpatine is just Chancellor now, he doesn’t have the political powers required to become Emperor yet.”

Rex clenches his jaw, “My brothers—” He trails off when he feels her hand against his forearm.

“We’ll save them, Rex. All of them.” She grins at him, “You just need to have a little faith.”

“Faith in your mother?”

“Faith in me.” She counters.

He huffs out an amused breath and then reaches out to brush a strand of her hair off her face, “Alright then, Witch’ika. What do we do?”

She hums thoughtfully and closes her eyes, “Where are we?”

“Coruscant.” Rex replies immediately, “The lower levels, it looks like.”

She opens her eyes again and focuses her gaze towards him, “We could burn Palpatine’s home to the ground.”

He tugs on a strand of her hair, “Good ideas, cyare. We need good ideas.”

She makes a face and closes her eyes in thought again while Rex watches her.

Eight months ago the Clone Rebellion was attacked by the Empire. Attacked and wiped out almost to a man. Rex survived, one of the few survivors. He existed in a haze for a while, unable to handle the weight of his survival.

Two months later, Rex heard rumors of a witch who lives in the middle of nowhere in the outer rim. A witch who can make anything come true, if you’re willing to offer something equal in value to that which you want.

Desperate, and with nothing to live for, Rex decided to look for the witch. Worst case scenario, she’s just a rumor and he wasted his time. Best case, she helps him save his family from eradication.

Amazingly, he found the Witch in less than two weeks.

The Witch looked somehow ageless, a human woman in her forties, though she carried herself like a woman older than General Yoda. Her home was filled with herbs and jars of all sorts, and Rex felt too big in her home. Or maybe it just felt like the Witch’s home was closing in on him.

The more important thing was that she felt dangerous. For all of her beauty and grace, Rex felt as though he had entered the den of a slumbering Rancor and he needed to tread lightly ere he was ripped to shreds.

It was then that he met the Apprentice.

Unlike her mother, she was warm and bubbly. Though, even he was able to tell that she wasn’t a natural-born human. Her bubbly admittance that she was born of magic, her mother’s desire for a child, and spring water had not been as startling as he thought it might have been.

The negotiations with the Witch took ages, while her apprentice carefully cleaned and repainted his armor. But, in the end, she agreed to help him in exchange for everything that he was.

The Witch bound his life to her Apprentice, swirling tattoos around his arms and across his torso binding them together. He was made her Familiar, and while he wasn’t sure what that meant, he agreed anyway.

He spent the last six months working with her Apprentice, traveling across the galaxy looking for all of the ingredients the witch needed to send them to the past. 

And now, here they are.

Almost 5 years in the past, before the Clone Wars started.

“I have it!” Rex focuses his attention back towards her as she smacks her fist into the palm of her hand.

“Do you?” Rex asks, “Let’s hear it.”

She turns her gaze towards him, “Naboo.”

“I need more than that, cyare.”

“Hm…oh right!” She turns to face him fully, her arms wrapping around one of his, “Naboo has its Queen’s Day celebration. As a Nubian, especially a Nubian of considerable political power, he’s expected to attend.”

Rex frowns thoughtfully, “That might work.”

“Might?!”

“He’s still a sith, cyar’ika.”

“Sith, shmith.” She waves her hand dismissively, “I can lock that down easy enough.”

“Can you?” Rex sounds amused, he can’t help it.

“Any witch worth her salt could.”

“Mother Talzin didn’t.”

“The Nightsisters aren’t witches.” She counters, “Not in the way that matters.”

“Do they know that?”

She shrugs, “Honestly, you and your brothers have more in common with witches than the Nightsisters do.” Rex raises a single brow and she giggles, “Do you really think Mother was born of the union of a man and a woman?”

“Uh…yes?”

“Nope. Mother was born of ice from Hoth.”

“...wow, that explains so much.”

She laughs and releases his arm to stand on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck, “Grandmother was born of Mustafaran Lava.” Rex slides his arms securely around her, “Anyway, there’s plenty of water on Naboo, so are you ready to go?”

“Lead the way,”

She grins at him, and Rex closes his eyes as he feels water swirl around him.

Six weeks later, Rex is standing over the body of Sheev Palpatine, his blaster in his hand. “That was a lot easier than I expected.”

“Without his Sith nonsense, he’s just a guy with a laser sword.” You reply from the other side of the room. You’re sitting on a table, swinging your legs. The same place you’ve been since you and Rex broke in less than half an hour ago. “Aren’t you glad that I supplied you with a slug thrower?”

“I still have so many questions about that.”

You shrug, “Don’t worry about it.”

Rex glances at you, and you grin at him. “Alright.” He shrugs and carefully stows the blaster back in their holsters, “So, now what do we do? Burn the place down? Pretend he never existed?”

“I think we should trash the place. Make it look like a robbery gone wrong!” You say eagerly as you hop off the table.

“You just want to trash the place.”

“Please, Rexy?”

He sighs and walks over to you, “You’re trouble. I think we should just leave and go to Kamino.”

“The Jedi will probably be tagged to investigate this.” You warn him.

“Let them.”

You squint at him, and then you sigh. “Oh, alright.” You step around him and allow your magic to fill the room, washing away all evidence of you and Rex. And, with one last push of magic, you open the secret door that leads to Palpatine’s hidden sanctum.

The place where all of his Sith nonsense is hidden.

Rex chuckles, “Really?”

“Just gotta make sure they don’t miss anything,” You say innocently, and then you skip back to his side and reach up for him.

“Sure, sure.” He pulls you into his arms, “Do you know where we’re going?”

“Yup! Do you have a plan for dealing with things?”

“Of course I do.”

You tilt your head and gaze up at him, “Oh?”

“My plan is you, of course.”

“Ooh. You’re going to let me play?”

His grin widens, “What kind of familiar would I be if I didn’t let you play every now and then?”

You giggle in delight and jump up to kiss his nose, “You’re the best, Rex!”

“Yes, yes. I know. Quick question, what happens to the Rex currently on Kamino?”

“Nothing. You made the deal so you pay the price.”

“Huh. I kind of feel bad for him.”

You laugh and bump your forehead against his, “Don’t. It’ll all work out. You’ll see.” You let your magic wash through the pair of you, feeling Rex strong and dependable in your magic, “Ready to go free your brothers?”

“I’ve been ready for years.”

You laugh one more time, and allow your magic to wash the pair of you away.

You know this won’t fix everything, you and Rex are going to have a lot of work to do. But this is a good start.

[ascianmoon]

Unmasked

AO3: Here

Pairing: Lucanis x Crow!Rook

Genres: coffee sipping n flirting hehe, let spite join in

Rating: SFW

Summary: "He could practically feel Spite purr at this new view of Rook, behind the mask she clutched to her chest among him and the others back at the Lighthouse. What more could Lucanis do to peel it away?"

authors note: this is the first of many drabbles and chapters i'd like to write for my crow!rook & lucanis. pls lemme ♡/share and lemme know what you think!!

“I’ll clean house if that’ll make you happy, I have this under control.” A snide glare was thrown across the table, “Maybe you could try doing the same, De Riva.” Illario didn’t deign them with a farewell, shooting up from his seat to storm out of the cafe.

Burning. Crackling ocean and tang. Crisp and burnt and ROOK-

He could practically feel Spite purr at this new view of Rook, behind the mask she clutched to her chest among him and the others back at the Lighthouse. What more could Lucanis do to peel it away? Petty jabs and snide comments like Illario’s were crossed from his list. He’d never forgive himself.

Sap.

The air felt heavy with a static charge, his own shoulders hunching from an unfavorable habit in tense moments before he forced himself to shake them loose. Swirling his coffee once more he inhaled deeply, the aroma settling whatever else stormed inside him as Spite preened and cooed around Rook. “He’s gone. Drink your coffee,” Lucanis encouraged softly.

Rook slipped a hand around her own cup, fingers curling around it almost delicate and elegant if not for the tension making her move rigidly. A few tentative sips later and she was back to herself again, cradling the cup as if it comforted her and the corners of her lips no longer downturned. “He’s just so…” Her lavender gaze flickered over the vined awning above them, probably searching for an appropriate word to describe his cousin.

“Stubborn?”

“Yes,” heaving a sigh, Rook twisted in her seat to face him. “To put it politely, he’s very stubborn and would do well listening to us. It just makes no sense that Zara would be back in Tevinter so quickly. As far as I’m aware the Venatori don’t have eluvians like we do.”

Lucanis shrugged and sipped on his coffee, Spite badgering beside him at the mention of the Venatori witch. “He will come around, Illario’s always been clouded by emotions when it comes to family. He will see what we see soon enough.”

“Right.” Kohl lined eyes narrowed at him from across the table, clearly unconvinced but relenting in favour of keeping the newly acquired peace of their coffee date.

Date? With Rook? Let’s take-

“No.” 

“I’m sorry?

“Spite is acting up as usual, ignore it.”

She seemed amused at that, staring into her coffee with a tiny smile, finger tracing the rim of the cup slow and methodical. A blanket of quiet settled over them, the soft hum of the cafe surrounding them filling the space between them. Spite thankfully sulked back into wherever he hid inside Lucanis’ head.

Lucanis fought (and lost) to keep his gaze from following the movement of her finger, trailing up her slender arm to her face. The way her mouth tilted at one side as her expression turned wistful, something cheeky and mischievous glinting in her eyes as she caught him staring. He flushed at being caught and escaped behind the rim of his cup to savour his remaining coffee.

“What was it you said the blend was again… bitter and sweet, like a kiss goodbye?” Had Rook leaned closer? Her head was tilted coyly, her hair falling over her shoulder as she inched forward. “I’m curious. What would you say a first kiss is then?” Another slip of her mask, whether it was genuine or teasing Lucanis couldn’t say and found in that moment he didn’t care.

“Honey and lavender cream,” he rasped in an effort to play it off coolly, head suddenly a thousand miles away from the quaint cafe and somewhere dangerously enticing. A lavender gaze twinkling at him in the dark. Spite poked his head from his refuge, the scent of a game luring him out. “It’s sweet and… intriguing.” His eyes dipped to her lips and back to hers again, cursing inwardly as Rook’s smile only seemed to widen, yet again caught.

Rook plays! You. Want!

“And you, how would you describe it?”

Sighing almost longingly Rook leaned back in her chair, lithe fingers toying with a strand of dark hair as her eyes roamed over him. Lucanis had noted she wasn’t shy when it came to staring and throwing looks when people weren’t watching, he was her main target as of late much to Spite’s enjoyment, preening from her attention. “First kisses,” she mused and let her hair twist around her finger slow, enchanting. “I’ve had a couple but it’s been a while. I can barely recall the last, perhaps I need a reminder.”

“Is that so? I see.” The insinuation wasn’t lost on him, he stared bashfully into his cup. After a moment he cleared his throat, gesturing to her forgotten cup, “How is your coffee?”

Rook flicked her hair back over her shoulder. She reached once more for her coffee, taking a final sip as she watched him from over the rim. “Bitter, dark… invigorating.”

His pulse jumped at the clear double meaning and teasing lilt of her voice.

Spite answered with a howl of elated and delirious laughter.

[lesbicosmos]

day 5 of @painlandweek !!

day 5 prompt: canon divergence

summary:

what if, while esther was torturing edwin with her machine in episode 8, he screamed out specifically for charles? well, charles simply wouldn't be able to handle that without doing something about it.

notes:

title from i will follow you into the dark by death cab for cutie (one of the most payneland songs ever idc)

also on ao3!!

fear is the heart of love

Charles gasped awake, only to find himself in a vaguely familiar kitchen, with the face of Esther Finch staring back at him, a smirk on her face.

What had even happened? They’d said goodbye to Crystal, and then the next thing he knew, the butcher shop blew up and he and Edwin were trapped in a tiny cage in their most basic forms – tiny spheres of densely packed spectral energy. He didn’t remember anything else after that until right now, with the witch’s face only inches from his.

“Oh…there he is…” Esther said condescendingly. “Pow! Bam! Fire, burning! Remember that?” she teased, laughing. “I’m feeling bad that I trapped you in that little glass box, but…you teens, you’re just so hard to pin down.”

Charles was so angry. He wanted to say something, to scream, but couldn’t bring himself to. He had no idea where Edwin was, and that terrified him. For fuck’s sake, they’d only just escaped Hell! Could they not have had a little more time to recover from what happened before they were kidnapped by an immortal vengeful witch?

“And, if I’m being honest, I didn’t want you to ruin my plan and try to rescue your pal.”

At the mere mention of Edwin, Charles went to move, to grab her, to do anything to attack, but barely moved before finding himself in intense pain. Shit. Chares groaned, breathing heavily as he tried to move into a position where the collar that held him wasn’t touching his neck.

“Oh! Nasty sting. The choker’s iron,” Esther said, proudly.

“Where is Edwin?” Charles demanded. “Don’t you dare-”

“Where is Edwin? Where is he, mate? Oh!” Esther mocked, with a terrible impression of Charles’s accent. She laughed. “Honey, don’t be jealous. Once I get him up and screaming, I’ll come back and play with you, yeah?” The playful tone to her voice made Charles wish he had his cricket bat. “Just you wait,” she added, more severely.

Charles’s face contorted into an angry snarl.

“Boop!” she said, high pitched playfulness back in her voice as she tapped Charles’s nose, stood up and walked right past him, out of the kitchen.

Charles struggled, desperate to do something, anything, trying to move without hitting the iron circle around his neck. Monty cawed in his cage behind him.

From the other room, he could vaguely hear what Esther was saying over the music she was blasting throughout the house.

“Charles says hi,” she said.

Right, okay. At least Edwin was only in the next room. He wasn’t too far.

“Charles!” he heard Edwin yell. He sounded panicked, but not in pain. Not yet, at least.

Charles looked around desperately, trying to think of anything he could possibly use to escape. He really didn’t want to have to break out with his bare hands, but he hadn’t entirely dismissed the idea.

Esther’s voice had trailed off and he wasn’t able to make out what she was saying, but then he heard a mechanical whirring echoing through the house. What was she doing to him?

“This is amazing,” he finally heard her say after a few minutes. “I know it hurts, but you’re taking it like such a champ,” she said, presumably to Edwin. “Such a good boy. Don’t worry, it’s gonna get a lot worse.”

She was cackling. Charles wanted to strangle her.

Not too long later, the screaming started. Charles’s unbeating heart sank in his chest at the sound. Edwin was in there, suffering, and he was stuck in the fucking kitchen, chained to the counter with nothing but the repetitive cawing of a traitorous crow in his ear.

Edwin’s screams were horrifying, visceral. It made Charles’s blood boil at the thought. What was she doing to him for this to make him scream like that, after everything he had been through in Hell? And why couldn’t he do anything about it? Bloody hell, he was supposed to be Edwin’s protector! He was always meant to be there to step in between Edwin and whatever it was trying to hurt him. He’d already failed him once, already just watched in shock as the doll-head-spider-demon snatched him from right beside him, forcing him to re-live the worst things imaginable over and over again. But Charles had saved him then, marched right down there and got him back, so why couldn’t he save him now?

Charles weighed up his options, trying to think clearly despite the heart-wrenching echoes and the fact he was trying his hardest not to start crying. There were things around the room that he could probably use, if only he could reach them.

Monty cawed again, and Charles groaned in frustration.

“If you’re not gonna be helpful, could you please just shut up!” he yelled, turning to face the bird. His cage was open, almost tauntingly. The crow was free while he was imprisoned, chained in an iron collar.

Without making another sound, Monty flew out of the cage and out of the open window on the other side of the room.

“Fucking crow,” Charles muttered.

The screaming stopped, along with the whirring. He heard Esther’s voice, saying something indistinguishable. Maybe she’d given up? Stopped torturing Edwin and decided it was Charles’s turn now? Charles didn’t care. He hoped that was the case. He wished it was him in whatever machine she had created rather than Edwin.

Of course, this was Esther Finch he was talking about. She wasn’t that reasonable. She was just taunting him. The whirring kicked back in, louder this time, drowning out her wicked laugh. And the screams started again, only this time they were different. This time, Edwin was screaming out for Charles.

Hearing his own name in Edwin’s hoarse and wounded voice, paired with his strangled sobs of pain, broke something within Charles that wasn’t just his heart. Something in his mind snapped, like a call to action. He had to do something. No matter the consequence. He had to get him out of there. The mere thought of losing Edwin now, after everything; the mere thought of losing him at all just wasn’t a thought that made any semblance of sense in Charles’s mind. He could not accept it.

Which was why, holding his breath in anticipation of the pain, Charles moved onto his knees and spun around, facing the counter. He only hissed slightly at the pain as the choker grazed his neck. He reached into the pockets of his trousers, praying his gloves were in there to form any protection they could – they weren’t, of course. They were in the pockets of his jacket, which he assumed Esther had flung somewhere in the kitchen out of his reach just to taunt him.

“Right. Okay,” he whispered to himself, preparing for what he knew he had to do.

He reached out, wrapping both hands around the very end of the chain, right where it joined the edge of the counter. He grunted in pain, but pushed it away, the sounds of Edwin still screaming and crying out for him drowning out any feelings he might have had about his own situation. Ignoring the smoke beginning to rise from where the iron met his hands, ignoring the burning sensation eating away at him, Charles pulled on the chain. He pulled as hard as he could, hoping Esther hadn’t put some sort of enchantment on it.

Charles bit down on the inside of his cheek so hard that it would have bled if he were alive in an attempt to stay quiet. He couldn’t have Esther hearing his escape attempt. Sure, it might draw her away from Edwin temporarily, but she would only put Charles in an even worse situation, one he might not physically be able to escape, leaving Edwin abandoned in his torture.

Charles thought about Edwin as he desperately tried to break off the chain. He thought about his dry sarcastic humour and his lack of understanding of some of the modern world. He thought about how at peace he looked while reading a book about some new magic he was practising and how relaxed he seemed when it was just the two of them at the office. He thought about how immensely kind he was at heart, beneath the stern studious guise; about how that first night the two of them met, despite having just escaped Hell itself, he had sat and talked to a cold dying stranger, read to him as he slipped away. He thought about everything he had been through, being sucked back into Hell for a second time and torn apart over and over again; thought about how broken and vulnerable and impossibly brave he had been on that staircase, pouring his heart out to the boy he loved, the boy who loved him so much in return. He thought about how he couldn’t conceivably lose him, about how there was no Charles Rowland without Edwin Payne, not anymore.

All of that, along with the sound of Charles’s name being cried throughout the house, gave Charles enough willpower, enough anger- and love-fuelled strength, to break the chain from the side of the counter, launching himself backwards against the opposite wall. He winced as the collar hit the front of his neck on the rebound, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Iron burns were temporary and would fade in a few hours. What really mattered was that he was free, he could save Edwin.

He scrambled to his feet, holding his head up in a way that attempted to avoid touching the scorching iron. He left the kitchen and could see through into the other room. He couldn’t see Esther herself, could only hear her laughter, but he could see Edwin. He was strapped to a table, several metal rods all pointed down and prodding at him, either forcing some sort of energy into him or, the more likely option, drawing it out. He was glowing somehow, his body barely even corporeal, and his eyes were screwed tightly shut.

It was even worse than Charles anticipated. There was no way he could possibly fight Esther on his own, not when she was this powerful and had full control over whatever this device was that she was using to torture Edwin. He had to weaken her somehow, make her more vulnerable. He had to kill the snake that was keeping her young.

As though sensing Charles’s presence close by, Edwin looked over, and exhausted green eyes met determined brown ones.

“I’m going to save you,” Charles mouthed, hoping Edwin could read his lips. If he couldn’t, he at least hoped Edwin knew him well enough to assume. “I promise.”

As difficult as it was to turn his back, to look away from Edwin when he was in such a situation, Charles knew he would only be there suffering for longer if he didn’t get a move on.

He raced back into the kitchen, crouching down next to the cupboard that hid the entrance to the snake’s underground lair. In his haste, he’d forgotten about the band of iron still locked around his neck, and cursed as it touched his skin. He spotted his jacket thrown across the stove as predicted, and rummaged through the pockets. He put his gloves on and took out the lockpicking kit he kept in there for emergencies. Despite his hands shaking in the hurry, he expertly unpicked the lock on the collar, catching it in his hands before it could clatter to the ground and alert Esther to his freedom. He gently placed it down on the counter, before rushing back to the cupboard and unlocking the door. He pulled the cord inside, revealing the gaping hole that led straight downwards into the snake’s basement.

Ah. He realised he didn’t have his rope. Or anything to attack the snake with once he was down there. Everything was in his stupid infinite backpack, which was still at the fucking butcher’s shop. Trying to best a serpent that big with his bare hands was going to be a ghostly suicide mission, and would do nothing to help save Edwin.

Just as he was about to scream out in frustration, the sound of flapping wings caught his attention. He turned around to see Monty flying back in through the window. Clasped tightly in his beak was the handle of Charles’s backpack. He swooped down, dropping the backpack on the ground before the ghost, standing beside it proudly.

“Where’d you find this?” Charles asked in disbelief.

Monty cawed.

“Redemption arc, eh?”

Charles reached into the bag, taking out the rope Edwin had previously used to climb down into the depths of the house. He tied one end of the rope to the metal stovetop, hoping it would be strong enough to withstand his weight. Then, he grabbed the backpack, took hold of the rope, and jumped down.

It seemed like pure darkness down there, as though the place was just a void with hundreds upon thousands of bones and half-disintegrated clothes and toys forming a sort of nightmarish carpet. Charles knew the snake was down there though, hiding in the shadows.

He reached into the bag once again. He knew his trusted cricket bat just wouldn’t cut it this time, not against something as huge and powerful as that snake. And there wasn’t time to try. This called for a different weapon.

“I know I left one in here somewhere,” he muttered, rummaging around until he found what he was looking for. “Aha.” He pulled out a long, slightly curved sword, immediately brandishing it and standing his ground.

He could hear the beast close by, lurking, preparing to attack. What the snake didn’t know was Charles was prepared too.

At least, he thought he was. The thing came out of the shadows from behind, knocking him down and sending the sword flying across the floor. Charles groaned, standing up immediately and retrieving his weapon. It was only then he had realised he had actually felt the attack, and stumbled forwards slightly. Magic snake, magic wounds. This might be harder than he thought.

And with Edwin up there suffering as long as this thing was still alive, that just wouldn’t do. Charles stood up straight, holding the sword ready to attack. He knew where it was now, could hear it edging towards him, hissing. It was right behind him, closing in. When it was close enough, Charles leapt upwards, utilising his ghostly ability of not fully adhering to the laws of gravity, flipping backwards in mid-air and bringing the sword down on the snake’s neck as it moved to attack the spot he had been standing in moments prior.

With a wave of magical flames, the snake was gone. Not just dead, but properly gone, leaving no trace.

Right, Charles thought. Now he just had to get back up there and deal with whatever was left of that witch. He had no idea how old she was, but he was hoping to find a fragile shell of a being where the powerful, deranged Esther Finch once stood. He climbed back up the rope, thankful that it seemed sturdy enough under his weight, and collapsed on the kitchen floor.

As he was catching his breath, he heard the front door open. He sat up to find Crystal and Niko sneaking through the house towards him.

“Crystal!” Charles hissed.

“Charles? Oh my god, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, it’s Edwin we need to worry about. I’ve killed the snake, she should have aged by now.”

“How? Your bag- we were gonna bring it but then that fucking crow came-”

“He brought the bag to me, it’s fine, now let’s go.”

Charles got up to move, but Crystal stopped him.

“Hey, wait. We came up with a plan.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. Well, you’ve done half of it, but I’ve got Esther covered. You two go in there and get Edwin out of that machine.”

Charles and Niko nodded, crawling through the hallway to the other room while Crystal walked around to where Esther was. As it turned out, they hadn’t needed to sneak. Esther was in a heap on the ground, looking so wrinkled and fragile it was barely even a fight anymore. Crystal stepped over to her, crouching down by her side. She tried to hiss something at her, but Crystal just grabbed her wrist, her head tipping back and her eyes going white as she slipped into Esther’s memories. While she did that, Charles and Niko darted over to Edwin.

The machine had turned itself off, seemingly connected to Esther’s life force, and Edwin was panting, stilly lying flat on the table.

“Hey,” Charles said, standing beside the table and placing his hands either side of Edwin’s face. “We’ve got you. You’re alright.”

“Charles…” Edwin said weakly.

Gently, the two of them pulled Edwin up into a sitting position, and he peered down at where Crystal was kneeling beside Esther.

“Come on, mate, let’s get you out of here.”

Charles wrapped one of Edwin’s arms around his shoulders and lifted him off the table, as gently as he could. He had no idea what kind of pain he was in, and the last thing he wanted was to make any of it worse.

“Charles…your hands,” Edwin said, weakly lifting a hand to point at the burns on Charles’s palms.

“They’ll heal, Edwin, it’s you I’m worried about.”

Carefully, they carried Edwin out into the hall and towards the front door, but before they could open it, it opened on its own. There was a woman stood there, tall and dripping water from a source none of them could identify.

“No!” they heard the body that was barely Esther cry out. “No! Please!”

The strange woman in the door silently stepped in, grabbing Esther by the ankles as she screamed out. She dragged her out of the door, slamming it behind her.

Crystal, out of breath, must have seen the confused shock on all three of their faces and simply explained, “Lilith.”

When they got back to the Tongue and Tail – or what was left of it at least – Charles immediately took Edwin back to the office through the closest mirror, moving him to sit on the sofa. He was still shaken up by everything, so let Charles guide him. Charles knelt on the ground in front of him, seemingly checking him over for any injuries.

“Charles. What happened to your hands?” Edwin asked, worriedly.

“Mate, don’t worry about me, honestly,” Charles insisted.

“Charles.”

Charles sighed, knowing Edwin wasn’t going to give this up.

“Look,” he said, offering his hands out to him. “They’re fine. We’re ghosts, iron burns heal quick.”

Charles was right. Where the burns had originally been intense, reddened, like any burn on a living person, now they had already become less inflamed, and had even begun to scar over.

Edwin’s hand reached for Charles’s jaw, cupping his face and his fingers gently brushed over the similar marks on his neck.

“What did she do to you?”

“I really think you’re focusing on the wrong person here.”

Edwin moved his hands, instead taking Charles’s in his own. He hesitated for a moment before bringing Charles’s hands up to his face and gently pressing a kiss to his palm.

Charles froze up. He didn’t know how to respond to that, to a touch so gentle from his best friend, from the boy who had suffered so much. He’d just been tortured, had the energy of his own trauma sucked out of him by a witch for nearly two hours, all only a couple of days after escaping Hell for a second time, and here he was holding Charles’s hands so gently, kissing the scars that had formed. Charles thought his iron burns were nothing compared to what Edwin was going through, yet Edwin only seemed worried about him.

Edwin must have felt Charles freeze up because he let go of his hands, moving away from him slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Hey, don’t apologise.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You wouldn’t, okay?”

“But now you know how I feel-”

Charles took Edwin’s face in his hands, gently stroking his cheek with his thumb.

“I know. And…” he took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about that, actually. When you were in Hell, then when Esther had you, it made me realise… I really couldn’t go on without you. You’re…alright, I might not be sure if I’m in love with you, but I think I could be. The only reason I don’t know is because I’ve got nothing to compare it to, I don’t really know what it feels like. But yeah, I could be. I want to be. You’re the only person I could ever imagine loving this much.”

There had been tears welling up in Edwin’s eyes ever since Charles had seen him strapped to that table, but they only appeared to be threatening to spill now.

“Charles, please do not say these things to make me happy.”

“I’m not,” Charles shook his head. “I mean it. God, Edwin, you’re everything to me.”

“And you are everything to me,” Edwin said austerely. “Which means you cannot go throwing yourself into danger or pain for me as often as you do.”

“I couldn’t let that witch keep using you as a battery! Hearing you screaming, I…” Charles trailed off, now holding back tears of his own at the memory of that sound, of Edwin suffering and Charles feeling so powerless to stop it. “I can’t lose you, okay?”

“Charles…the feeling is mutual.”

Charles acted on an impulse. It was what he always did, and it had a tendency to end poorly for them, but this time it felt right. It was simply an instinct to lean forwards slightly, closing the gap between his lips and Edwin’s. He kissed him softly, gently, and Edwin gasped before kissing back. When they parted, Charles’s hands still on Edwin’s cheeks, he leaned back in only to rest their foreheads together. If any breath actually escaped their lungs when they breathed, they would have been able to feel the warmth on each other’s faces.

“I will always protect you,” Charles whispered. “You can’t stop me.”

Edwin sighed, his eyes falling closed.

“Well, I suppose we just have to try and avoid any existence-threatening situations as much as we can.”

“I highly doubt there’s gonna be another Esther Finch around,” Charles shuddered slightly at the thought.

No, they needed a well-earned break from creatures as intense as her.

“We can only hope.”

Charles finally removed his hands from Edwin’s face, this time snaking his arms around Edwin’s waist to pull him in for a hug. It was awkward, with Edwin being on the sofa and Charles being knelt on the ground in front of him, but they made it work. They held each other tightly.

They were safe.

They were home.

They were together.

And that was all that mattered.

[sergeantsporks]

Hi!

Until this day, I'm still confused: At what age did the Wittebane brothers go to the boiling isles? Teenagers/Child as seen in the portraits or Adults since Gravesfield has statues of them as adults? What do you think?

Great question! [leaves]

I think every single interpretation of what happened with the Wittebane Brothers/the WB timeline has SOME kind of hole poked in it by SOME aspect of canon.

I believe the most solid answer we have is when Phillip got to the Isles. He's a liar with a penchant for revisionist history, so his journal can't be trusted for... most things... but I think one thing he had no reason to lie about is the fact that when he started the journal, he'd only recently arrived in the Isles. So, we can somewhat safely assume that Phillip got to the Isles (or, at least, got stuck there) in his early adulthood. From there, we know he ate a palisman at some point, found Caleb and Evelyn, killed Caleb, ran off. Done and done.

When Caleb jetted for the Isles is a bit more up for debate. The pictures in Hollow Mind seem to imply that he hadn't seen Phillip for some time, so if they DID go to the Isles at the same time, they were quickly separated. The more popular interpretation is that Caleb left Phillip when he was younger, Phillip spent some time in the human realm alone, he finally worked up the courage to follow/a portal finally opened up, he entered as a young adult, timeline proceeds from there. However, like you said, the statues are of them as ADULTS, and the two of them TOGETHER, which makes this theory a little shakey. But hey, maybe the statues were made way later by people who didn't really know them. At the very least, by the time the story gets to modern day, it's been distorted into a cautionary ghost tale, so who knows what the tale was when the statue was carved?

The question of "when did Caleb leave" is also deeply tied to the question of "WHY did he leave." Was it simply that he finally got fed up with witch-hunter society? Did Phillip hit some arbitrary age that he considered as no longer needing him, so he felt safe leaving? Was there a catalyst that FORCED him out? Did Evelyn get pregnant at that point, and Caleb left to be a father to his kid? We know he and Evelyn passed notes and titan's blood back and forth to each other, so SOMETHING must have happened to escalate the situation and get Caleb to leave instead of continuing that way.

A personal favorite theory of mine is that Caleb was going back and forth, a dumb teen, as one does with one's illicit girlfriend, Phillip caught him going into the portal (the image from hollow mind of Caleb going in while Phillip trails behind), and Phillip, thinking his brother was bewitched, rounded up the witch-hunters. However, instead of them catching Evelyn, they caught Caleb, and put him on trial. They planned to hang him, but Evelyn came to his rescue, burning down the town hall in the process (since Jacob mentioned the fire, I imagine it’s a LITTLE significant). With it no longer being safe to stay in Gravesfield, Caleb went with her to the demon realm, happily unaware that Phillip was the one who (accidentally) got him arrested. However, the statue pokes holes in this theory AGAIN. Again, it's them as adults, and why would the town have such a positive view of CALEB if they viewed him as a probable witch or witch accomplice?

I do like the thought that the fire was a catalyst for Caleb to leave though, so another theory is that Caleb was going back and forth, as previously stated. He is incredibly successful in pretending that he is still a gung-ho witch hunter. Phillip is kinda sorta aware of what Caleb's up to, but he's also a kid, and as he gets older, he dismisses memories as fantasy as Caleb gets better at hiding it, OR he actually, contrary to popular fanon belief, really really really doesn't want his brother to get hung for witchcraft, so he's willing to keep the secret until he can figure out how to "break Evelyn's hold on Caleb" (because he absolutely believes Caleb is bewitched; especially if he successfully acts like a normal witch hunter most of the time. Obviously, when Evelyn's there, he's bewitched, and the witch hunting facade is what he'd be without that. Surely the witch-hunting isn't an act).

The town hall burns down. Maybe it was an accident, maybe not, but either way, Gravesfield goes on the hunt for the Witch, and they are 100% gunning for Evelyn. Caleb finally comes to the conclusion that it is no longer safe for their relationship to continue the way it is, so he has to make a snap decision to either break off his relationship with Evelyn and stay in the human realm with Phillip, or he has to leave Phillip and go with Evelyn to the demon realm. He picks the latter, and Phillip sees. Still intending to "save" his brother from Evelyn and get everything to go back to the way it was, Phillip spins a story about how Caleb heroically chased after the witch that burned down their town hall, but the door to her home closed behind them.

Timeline then goes to what we know: Phillip enters the Isles, finds Caleb, finally admits to himself that Caleb is a "lost cause," and the witch-hunting was an act, not Caleb's true self, the stabbening, etc, etc. This would account for the fire, for the overall positive feelings the townsfolk must have for Caleb and Phillip in order to build a statue, Phillip's memories of Evelyn and the portal in his early childhood coinciding with the statue of them as adults (that one definitely still is a little wonky, but we'll put it up to artistic license. After Phillip disappeared as a young adult, someone carved a representation of Phillip finding his lost brother [who would also be an adult at that time.] Yeah, we'll say that).

Masha implies that the rebuses are a more recent find, so I think it's safe to say that from those rebuses, they extrapolated a more true version of the legend, like the secret codes, and the undertone of Caleb being "dazzled" rather than a heroic guy chasing down a witch, although the idea that Phillip went to "save" Caleb remained. Since Masha seems to be a practicing witch themself, it makes sense that they'd spin the tale with the information they have from the original legend and the new information from the rebuses to make it a little more witch-friendly while still sort of "respecting" the original tale of witchcraft spiriting away two boys. They have a more modern take, even going so far as the "sounds like big bro got a hot witch girlfriend" statement at the end. The statue is reminiscent of an older take possibly based on lies Phillip told to protect Caleb. Neither are a complete story, but if you take the common ground between them, account for the agendas of both parties, and fill in the gaps from Phillip's memories, we can sort of see a full picture.

[loverslantern]

The Hunter and The Witch: Dean Winchester x fem! reader

Description: Sam, Dean, and Y/N investigate a series of mysterious drownings. They discover the town inhabitants a dark secret buried long ago.

Warnings: cannon violence, mentions of drownings, gun usage (sort of), maybe cursing, bad flirting, death, mentions of death

tag list: @athenalive, @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld

Word count: 7,066

Dead In the Water

(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Next Chapter)

We sit at the diner part of the Inn that we’re staying at.

Dean sits in front of me circling obituaries in a newspaper to find our next hunt, Sam having left for the bathroom. My laptop is out as I type away on the new article I had to write for my work deadline, our plates of food are mostly empty, now pushed to the side as we continue our tasks

A pretty waitress, whose name tag reads ‘Wendy’ approaches our table. “Can I get you anything else?” she asks with a charming smile.

And despite how attractive she is, my eyes aren’t on her but the man in front of me. Deans looking up at her grinning around the pen he’s chewing on and god I don’t know if i’ve ever been this distracted.

My mouth falls a little bit agape as I look at him, perfect smile, messy hair, a sort of 5 o'clock shadow going on, and a pen pulling at his bottom lip. My cheeks burn and I know I must look like an idiot.

“Just the check, please.” Sam answers sitting back down in the seat next to me. This pulls me out of my love sick stare, I take a sip of what’s left of my water trying to cool myself down.

“Okay.” Wendy says, walking away.

Dean drops his head, then looks at Sam “You know, Sam, we are allowed to have fun once in a while.”

He points to Wendy, who’s back is to us, “That’s fun.”

He looks at Sam and then at me, like he’s expecting some kind of reaction from me. But I remain quiet.

“Here, take a look at this, I think I got one. Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin. Last week Sophie Carlton, eighteen, walks into the lake, doesn't walk out. Authorities dragged the water; nothing. Sophie Carlton is the third Lake Manitoc drowning this year. None of the other bodies were found either. They had a funeral two days ago.” Dean gives up, handing Sam the newspaper who tilts it so that I could also see it.

“A funeral?” Sam asks

“Yeah, it's weird, they buried an empty coffin. For, uh, closure or whatever” Dean acknowledges.

“Closure? What closure? People don't just disappear, Dean. Other people just stop looking for them.” Sam replies, clearly angry.

“Something you want to say to me?” Dean challenges.

“The trail for Dad. It's getting colder every day.” Sam answers.

“Exactly. So what are we supposed to do?” Dean pushes back.

“I don't know. Something. Anything.” Sam answers.

“You know what? I'm sick of this attitude. You don't think I wanna find Dad as much as you do?” Dean snaps and suddenly I feel like I'm a little kid watching their parents argue while I'm stuck in the middle just sitting there.

“Yeah, I know you do, it's just—“ Dean cuts him off, “I'm the one that's been with him every single day for the past two years, while you've been off to college going to pep rallies. We will find Dad, but until then, we're gonna kill everything bad between here and there. Okay?” Sam rolls his eyes at this.

Wendy walks by again, catching Dean's attention, full on distracting him.

I clear my throat wanting to change the subject, “Lake Manitoc. Hey! Well doesn't that just sound so interesting.”

This gets Dean’s attention back, away from Wendy.

“Huh?” he asks.

“How far?” Sam asks, catching on to my idea.

If there was an award for how quickly someone could make others uncomfortable I’d have to give it to these boys. From arguing over hunting and their Dad in front of their friend to getting distracted by a hot waitress. But if they did get an award they’d probably argue over that too.

The Impala pulls up in front of the Carlton house.

Dean knocks on the door, a young guy with short brown hair answers it.

“Will Carlton?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, that's right.” Will confirms.

“I'm Agent Ford, this is Agent Hamil, and that’s Agent Hayden.” Dean informs, referring to himself, then Sam, and then me.

“We’re with the US Wildlife Service” He goes on, holding up an ID to match his lie.

Will takes us around the house to the dock, where his father sits.

“She was about a hundred yards out. That's where she got dragged down.” Will explains.

“And you’re sure she didn’t just drown?” I ask, even though it felt inconsiderate.

“Yeah. She was a varsity swimmer. She practically grew up in that lake. She was as safe out there as in her own bathtub.”

Ok yeah, definitely didn’t just drown then.

“So no splashing? No signs of distress?” Sam questions further.

“No, that's what I'm telling you.” Will responds, clearly getting annoyed.

“Did you see any shadows in the water? Maybe some dark shape breach the surface?” Sam asks.

“No. Again, she was really far out there.” He said, frustrated.

“You ever see any strange tracks by the shoreline?” Dean asks further, trying to cross some things off the long list of creatures who could be responsible.

“No, never. Why? Why, what do you think's out there?” Will asked, pushing for answers.

“We'll let you know.” I respond simply, feeling bad for attacking him with questions when his sister just died.

Dean gives me a nod to start heading back to the car.

But Sam doesn't move with us, instead he pushes on with the questions, “What about your father? Can we talk to him?”

We stop walking, turning back to hear the response.

Will looks towards his father, Bill, and looks back at Sam. “Look, if you don't mind, I mean...he didn't see anything and he's kind of been through a lot.”

“We understand.”

And we do, we’ve seen these sorts of things break people apart, families even. We’ve seen these things break apart our own families, and we struggle each day to not allow it to break us. Even if we never bring it up, not even to each other.

“Now, I'm sorry, but why does the Wildlife Service care about an accidental drowning?” Sheriff Jake Devins asks us, having decided talking to him would be the next best course of action.

“You sure it's accidental? Will Carlton saw something grab his sister.” Sam informs

“Like what?” Devins asks, leading us into his office motioning for us to sit. “Here, sit, please. There are no indigenous carnivores in that lake.”

Sam and Dean sit, the sheriff pulling up a third chair so I could sit too as he keeps talking. “There's nothing even big enough to pull down a person, unless it was the Loch Ness Monster.”

“Yeah. Right” Dean laughs.

“Will Carlton was traumatized, and sometimes the mind plays tricks. Still…we dragged that entire lake. We even ran a sonar sweep, just to be sure, and there was nothing down there.” Devins explains, taking a seat.

“You do have to admit it’s weird, I mean that's three missing people all in relation to the lake” I press.

“I know. These are people from my town. These are people I care about.” Devins answers, eyebrows scrunched together with worry.

“Anyway...All this...it won't be a problem much longer.” Devins sighs.

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, leaning forward slightly.

“Well, the dam, of course.” Devon clarifies.

“Of course, the dam. It's, uh, it sprung a leak.” Dean guesses.

“It's falling apart, and the feds won't give us the grant to repair it, so they've opened the spillway. In another six months, there won't be much of a lake. There won't be much of a town, either. But as Federal Wildlife, you already knew that.” Devon explains.

There’s a light tap on the door followed by a brunette woman peeking her head in, “Sorry, am I interrupting?”

We all stand up at the same time, weird, since we were done with our questions anyways.

“I can come back later.” The woman adds.

“No no it’s okay, we were just leaving” I reply with a friendly smile.

“Gentlemen, ma’am, this is my daughter” The sheriff explains, motioning his hand towards the woman.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Dean.” He shakes her hand.

Maybe he makes it painfully obvious or maybe I've just known him for so long that I can now easily tell when he wants to hook up with a woman. I know Sam has this ability too as we give each other a knowing look from behind Dean's back, standing on either side of him.

“Andrea Barr. Hi.” She introduces

“Hi.” Dean answers.

“They're from the Wildlife Service. About the lake.” Devon informs her.

“Oh.”

That’s when a small boy with long brownish-red hair walked around Andrea.

“Oh, hi!” I greet the kid, having spotted him first, giving him a little wave.

But he gives no answer or greeting of any kind, walking away without saying a word. Andrea followed closely behind him.

“His name is Lucas” Devon states.

“Is he okay?” Sam asks.

“My grandson's been through a lot. We all have.” Sheriff Devon stands going to his office door, “Well, if there's anything else I can do for you, please let me know.”

We all leave the office, including the Sheriff himself. Dean asked one final question, “Thanks. You know, now that you mentioned it, could you point us in the direction of a reasonably priced motel?”

“Lakefront Motel. Go around the corner. It's about two blocks south.” Andrea answers

“Two—would you mind showing us?” Dean asks

She laughs, “You want me to walk you two blocks?”

“Not if it's any trouble.”

“I'm headed that way anyway.”

I look at Sam again and without words we have a conversation on how ridiculous and slightly annoying this is.

Andrea turns to her father, “I'll be back to pick up Lucas at three.” Then to Lucus, “We'll go to the park, okay, sweetie?” She kisses his head and then turns our way to lead us.

“Thanks again.”

Andrea leads us along the street, Dean making conversation. “So, cute kid” He says.

“Thanks” she responds simply.

“Kids are the best, huh?” He tries again as we cross the street, but she ignores him. We keep walking, shortly coming to a stop in front of the Lakefront Motel.

“There it is. Like I said, two blocks” She states with an awkward smile.

“Thanks so much” I say sincerely, feeling bad for Dean having dragged her here just for a chance with her.

“Thanks.” Sam says too.

She nods her head at us before addressing Dean, “Must be hard, with your sense of direction, never being able to find your way to a decent pickup line.”

A laugh slips past my lips before I could stop it (for Deans sake). “Ohhh I like you” I can't happen but say through laughs. I get a sharp glare from Dean but a contrasting soft smile from Andrea.

She leaves, calling back over her shoulder, “Enjoy your stay!”

“'Kids are the best'? You don't even like kids.” Sam points out, turning towards Dean with a questioning look on his face.

“I love kids.” He responds

“Mhm” I hum sarcastically

“Name three children that you even know.” Sam challenges. But as predicted Dean can’t even come up with one. Sam gives him a pointed look before walking towards the hotel and I follow after.

“I'm thinking!” Dean yells after us.

We walk into the motel's office, Sam’s talking to the clerk and I can’t help but unfocus my eyes staring at the unpleasantly patterned wallpaper. I’ve been traveling with Dean for hardly a month and he’s managed to flirt with practically every woman he’s seen, and yes I know this is an exaggeration.

Each woman, each time he flirts or even winks at another girl a pain rings true in my heart, one I hate to say I'm becoming familiar with.

It was that moment, that one small moment of waiting for keys to our motel rooms that I decided it.

From now on I won’t feel jealous or even that stupid pain in my heart when he’s with another woman, even though I know that isn’t how it works.

I’ll try to forget that I love him, I'll pretend those feelings aren’t there just so it doesn’t become painful to be around him. Even though I know it’s impossible to forget you're in love with Dean Winchester.

I dropped my bag off in my room, now entering Sam and Dean’s.

Sam’s working on his laptop while Dean’s going through his clothing for I have no idea what.

I take the seat across from Sam as he reads what he finds.

“So there’s the three drowning victims this year.”

“Is there anything before that?” I ask

“Yeah. Six more spread out over the past thirty-five years. Those bodies were never recovered either. If there is something out there, it's picking up its pace.”

“So, what, we got a lake monster on a binge?” Dean asks.

“Unlikely, considering there hasn’t been any spotting or legends around the town. Like for the Loch Ness there’s been more than a hundred eye witnesses, but for this, none.” I pipe up.

“I was thinking the same thing. Whatever is out there, no one’s living to talk about it.” Sam adds, getting Dean to stalk over and look at the laptop.

“Wait, Barr, Christopher Barr. Where have I heard that name before?” Dean points to the screen.

“Isn’t that Andreas last name?” I ask.

“Christopher Barr, the victim in May… Yeah Y/N’s right. Christopher Barr was Andrea's husband, Lucas's father. Apparently he took Lucas out swimming. Lucas was on a floating wooden platform when Chris drowned. Two hours before the kid got rescued…Maybe we have an eyewitness after all.” Sam informs.

“Jesus Christ” I sigh.

“Yeah, no wonder that kid was so freaked out. Watching one of your parents die isn't something you just get over.” Dean adds.

There’s a sound of kids laughing and playing as we approach the park, reminding me of similar times. We approach Andrea who’s sitting on a bench, “Can we join you?” Sam asks her gently.

She looks up at us, “I’m here with my son.”

Dean looks over at Lucas who’s sitting down with toy soldiers and some drawing materials.

“Oh. Mind if I say hi?” Dean asks her, she nods her head and he heads over.

“Tell your friend this whole Jerry Maguire thing is not gonna work on me.” She tells us, Sam sits next to her as he answers, “I don't think that's what this is about.”

I opt to stand, leaning on the arm of the bench. I take in the soft chill breeze and the kids running around. A feeling of peace creeps into my bones and warmth within my heart as I watch Dean interact with Lucas, a mix of admiration and longing in my veins.

Barley five minutes go by before he’s walking back to us, the warmth within me still hasn’t flickered out.

“Lucas hasn't said a word, not even to me. Not since his dad's accident.” Andrea speaks up.

“Yeah, we heard. Sorry.” Dean answers, she nods.

“What are the doctors saying?” Sam asks and I can’t help but think if maybe this is too invasive.

But whether it is or not doesn't seem to matter as she answers, “That it's a kind of post-traumatic stress.”

“That can't be easy. For either of you.” Sam comforts.

“We moved in with my dad. He helps out a lot. It's just...when I think about what Lucas went through, what he saw…” She breaks off.

“Kids are strong. You'd be surprised what they can deal with.” Dean offers, I know he’s speaking from experience.

“You know, he used to have such life. He was hard to keep up with, to tell you the truth. Now he just sits there. Drawing those pictures, playing with those army men. I just wish—“

Lucas walking up to us cuts her off.

“Hey sweetie.”

Lucas doesn't acknowledge her, he just hands Dean a picture. One he drew himself, telling from the use of crayon.

“Thanks. Thanks, Lucas.”

We’re back at the motel. Deans sitting on his bed flipping through channels while I'm sitting next to him reading a book, a sort of habit we picked up when we were younger.

Sam enters the room, “So, I think it's safe to say we can rule out Nessie.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, putting the remote down, I place my book down.

Sam sits on the bed next to the one we’re on, facing us, “I just drove past the Carlton house. There was an ambulance there. Will Carlton is dead.”

“He drowned?” Dean asks.

“Yep. In the sink.” Sam confirms.

“Pardon?” I question, I mean how do you drown in a sink, of all places.

“What the hell? So you're right, this isn't a creature. We're dealing with something else.” Dean spoke.

“Yeah, but what?” Sam voiced.

“I don't know. Water wraith, maybe? Some kind of demon? I mean, something that controls water...water that comes from the same source.” Dean listed

“The lake.” Sam suggested.

“Yeah.”

“Which would explain why it's upping the body count. The lake is draining. It'll be dry in a few months. Whatever this thing is, whatever it wants, it's running out of time.” Sam responded.

“And if it can get through the pipes, it can get to anyone, almost anywhere. This is gonna happen again soon.” Dean says, moving to sit on the edge of the bed towards Sam.

“And whatever it is, it for sure has to do with Bill Carlton.” I add on.

“Yeah, it took both his kids.” Dean confirms.

“And I've been asking around. Lucas's dad, Chris, he’s Bill Carlton's godson.” Sam reveals.

“Then let's go pay Mr. Carlton a visit.”

Bill Carlton’s sitting on a bench on the lake's dock.

From here you wouldn’t expect anything sinister from the relaxed big lake.

“Mr. Carlton?” Sam voices as we approach his sitting figure.

“We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind.” He continues, gaining Mr.Carlton’s attention.

“We're from the Department—“ Dean attempts to say, getting cut off by Bill. “I don't care who you're with. I've answered enough questions today.” A weak mix of tiredness and sadness etched on his voice.

“Your son said he saw something in that lake. What about you? You ever see anything out there? Mr. Carlton, Sophie's drowning and Will's death—we think there might be a connection to you or your family.” Sam explains, despite Carlton’s previous response.

“My children are gone. It's...it's worse than dying. Go away. Please.” Mr. Carlton pleads, looking down at his lap.

We all give each other a look, scrunched eyebrows and sympathetic faces. It’s within that look that we decide to head back to the Impala knowing we won’t get anything more from Bill Carlton.

“What do you guys think?” Sam questions as we approach the car.

“The poor man has been through so much…” I trail off, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

“He’s also not telling us something” Dean adds, and I can’t help but agree despite how bad I feel for the guy.

“So now what?” Sam asks, leaning on the car.

Dean goes still, stiffening.

“What is it?” I ask tilting my head

“Huh…Maybe Bill's not the only one who knows something.” Dean suggests. He pulls out a piece of paper looking at the Carlton house, he tilts it for us to see revealing the drawing Lucas made.

“I'm sorry, but I don't think it's a good idea.” Andrea speaks, closing the door behind us as we enter her house.

“I just need to talk to him. Just for a few minutes.” Dean reasons.

“He won't say anything. What good's it gonna do?” She responds.

“Andrea, we think more people might get hurt. We think something's happening out there.” Sam explains, and I can’t imagine how ridiculous that sounds to her.

“My husband, the others, they just drowned. That's all.” Andrea states clearly, voice laced with grief and anger.

“If that's what you really believe, then we'll go. But if you think there's even a possibility that something else could be going on here, please let me talk to your son.” Dean pleads.

Andrea nods in defeat.

She leads us to Lucas’s room, he’s coloring while toy soldiers stand guard around him. Dean enters crouching down by Lucas while we wait in the doorway, “Hey, Lucas. You remember me? You know, I, uh, I wanted to thank you for that last drawing. But the thing is, I need your help again.”

Lucas continues to color, refusing to acknowledge Dean who pulls out the original drawing, “How did you know to draw this? Did you know something bad was gonna happen? Maybe you could nod yes or no for me.”

But again Lucas keeps coloring. Dean tries again, “You're scared. It's okay. I understand. See, when I was your age, I saw something real bad happen to my mom, and I was scared, too. I didn't feel like talking, just like you. But see, my mom—I know she wanted me to be brave. I think about that every day. And I do my best to be brave. And maybe, your dad wants you to be brave too.”

I remember the day he told me that story, it was the same day my mom had died and he was trying to comfort me having understood the feeling of losing a mother. I was thirteen, him being two years older, and his mom had already been gone for eleven years. But the grief that was apparent when he told me all those years ago, like it had happened the day before…I sometimes still see it now.

That got Lucas’s attention, he drops his crayon and looks up at Dean handing him a picture.

“Thanks, Lucas.”

We’re back in the Impala, Sam’s holding the drawing Lucas made of a yellow house near a church with red bikes outside.

“Andrea said the kid never drew like that till his dad died.” Dean says.

“Well it’s said that going through a traumatic experience could make someone more sensitive to psychic tendencies.” I offer, recalling some information I read somewhere.

“Whatever's out there, what if Lucas is tapping into it somehow? I mean, it's only a matter of time before somebody else drowns, so if you got a better lead, please.” Dean questions, it’s clear he cares about the kid that he’s even worried about Lucas.

“All right, we got another house to find.” Sam responds, referring to the drawing of the yellow house.

“The only problem is there's about a thousand yellow two-stories in this county alone.” Dean grumbled, complaining.

“See this church? I bet there's less than a thousand of those around here.” Sam states, looking at the drawing.

“Oh, College Boy thinks he's so smart.” Dean mocks, even though we both know it was pretty helpful information.

“You know, um...What you said about Mom...You never told me that before.” Sam admits, the mood changing quickly.

“It's no big deal” He responds before continuing, “Oh God, we're not gonna have to hug or anything, are we?”

“Aww, you know you’d love a hug” I tease, patting his shoulder from the back seat.

He rolls his eyes, starting the car.

After driving around for a while we finally approach a white church that looks similar to the one Lucas had drawn. Dean holds up the drawing, comparing the two. There’s the yellow house next to the church and a wooden fence near the house. We look between each other knowing that this must be it.

We cross the street, Dean knocking on the door to the yellow house.

“We're sorry to bother you, ma'am—but does a little boy live here, by chance? He might wear a blue ball cap, has a red bicycle.” He asks the small old woman that answers the door.

She lets us in as she answers, “No sir. Not for a very long time. Peter's been gone for thirty-five years now.

“The police never—I never had any idea what happened. He just disappeared.” She sighs continuing, “Losing him—you know, it's...it's worse than dying.”

I nudge both boys motioning towards the many toy soldiers lying on a table.

“Did he disappear from here? I mean, from this house?” Dean questions.

“He was supposed to ride his bike straight home after school, and he never showed up.” The woman explains.

Dean picks up a picture from the mirror of two boys, one who I assume is Peter with a bike.

He reads the back, “Peter Sweeney and Billy Carlton, nineteen seventy.”

We’re back in the car, Dean driving.

“Okay, this little boy Peter Sweeney vanishes, and this is all connected to Bill Carlton somehow.” Sam remarked.

“Yeah, Bill sure as hell seems to be hiding something, huh?” Dean questions.

“And Bill, the people he loves, they're all getting punished.” Sam adds.

“D-Do you think Bill did something to Peter?” I stammer.

“What if he killed Peter?” Sam asks.

“Peter's spirit would be furious. It'd want revenge. It's possible.” Dean remarked, making a sharp turn presumably towards Carlton’s house.

The Impala pulls up in front of the house, we get out and Sam knocks on the door. “Mr. Carlton?” he calls out, the loud roar of an engine cutting off a second knock.

We go around the house seeing Bill out on the lake in his boat. We ran to the end of the dock, yelling.

“Mr. Carlton! You need to come back! Come out of the water! Turn the boat around!”

“Mr. Carlton!”

“Sir! You need to turn back”

Whether he’s choosing to ignore us or really doesn't hear us will remain a mystery as the water rises, flipping him and his boat over. Vanishing.

“Sam. Dean. Y/N” Andrea calls out as we walk into the main room of the police station with Sheriff Devins.

The Sheriff goes up to his daughter, having some sort of conversation that we can’t hear from where we stand.

Lucas looked up from where he was sitting, looking terrified. He jumps from his seat and barrels into Dean grabbing his arm.

“Lucas, hey, what is it? Lucas.” Dean speaks, looking down at the kid.

Lucas whines, looking up at Dean. Sam and I look at each other and then back to the scene unfolding in front of us.

“Lucas.” Andrea orders from where she stands.

“Lucas, it's okay. It's okay. Hey, Lucas, it's okay. It's okay.” Dean tries to sooth him before Andrea pulls him away and leads him outside, but Lucas’s eyes remain on Dean.

Sheriff Devins struts over throwing his jacket down as he leads us into his office.

“Okay, just so I'm clear, you see...something attack Bill's boat, sending Bill—who is a very good swimmer, by the way—into the drink, and you never see him again?” Devins begins.

Dean glances at Sam and then me, “Yeah, that about sums it up.” He nods.

“And I'm supposed to believe this, even though I've already sonar-swept that entire lake? And what you're describing is impossible? And you're not really Wildlife Service?” Devins lists out, the last one making my eyes widen.

He continued, “That's right, I checked. Department's never heard of you two.”

“See, now, we can explain that.” Dean says, trying to cover up our initial lie.

“Enough. Please. The only reason you're breathing free air is one of Bill's neighbors saw him steering out that boat just before you did. So, we have a couple of options here. I can arrest you for impersonating government officials and hold you as material witnesses to Bill Carlton's disappearance. Or, we can chalk this all up to a bad day, you get into your car, you put this town in your rearview mirror, and you don't ever darken my doorstep again.” Devins suggested.

“Door number two sounds good.” Sam answers simply, but I'm not so sure if I agree.

“That's the one I'd pick.”

We left swiftly, only stopping at the motel for our belongings before we were back in the car heading for the interstate.

“Green.” Sam announces, breaking the silence in the car.

“What?”

“Light's green.” Sam answers, clarifying.

Dean turns right. “Uh, the interstate's the other way.” Sam states, getting a simple, “I know.”

“But Dean, this job, I think it's over.” Sam replies.

“I'm not so sure.” Dean responded simply, really not letting anything up.

“If Bill murdered Peter Sweeney and Peter's spirit got its revenge, case closed. The spirit should be at rest.” Sam reasons.

“All right, so what if we take off and this thing isn't done? You know, what if we've missed something? What if more people get hurt?” Dean challenges.

“But why would you think that?” Sam asks him

“Because Lucas was really scared.” He answers.

“Dean’s right, somethings not right with this ending” I chime in

“I just don't want to leave this town until I know the kid's okay.” Dean clarifies.

“I expect this from Y/N. But you? Dean. Who are you? And what have you done with my brother?” Sam questions, looking from me to Dean.

Dean glances at him, “Shut up.”

————————————————

We pulled up in front of Andreas' house. Sam chiming in one more comment, “Are you sure about this? It's pretty late, man.”

“Better to be wrong, then to not have checked” I answered, hugging my jacket closer to me.

Dean rings the doorbell. At that moment, Lucass opens the door, breathing heavy and clearly terrified.

“Lucas? Lucas!” Dean yells as Lucas turns around and takes off, without a second thought we follow after him.

Water pours down the stairs as he leads us up them and to the door with more water coming from it.

Lucas pounds on the door before Dean pushes him over to me, kicking in the door. As Deans about to enter Lucas grabs hold of him, so instead me and Sam enter.

Sam half kneels aimlessly sticking his hands into the water. When she surfaces for just a moment, I manage to grab underneath her arm closest to me trying to pull her out. She goes under again but we keep pulling until finally she’s let free and we’re able to pull her out.

She coughs up water as Sam leaves her to me going to grab something behind us. I hold her to me in an attempt to block her from the boys behind me along with the cold. Sam taps on my shoulder handing me a large fluffy towel while his head is facing away. I grab it, quickly covering Andrea with it.

She sits up fully, breathing harshly wrapping the towel tighter around herself. I sit next to her rubbing her arm soothingly, the bright moonlight shining on her back.

It was a while before Andrea felt comfortable to stand, Lucas immediately running up to her in a hug. After their reunion she went to get dressed asking if i’d stay in the room with her, I knew unless her bedroom had a water source she’d be okay but I wasn’t going to argue with a woman who’s already been terrified so I obliged.

I stood in the room facing the door as she got dressed, she was slow but I didn’t care.

And when she broke down crying I held her until she calmed down a bit.

Dawn was breaking when I’d finally got her to sit down stairs in the living room. Sam sat across from her while Dean was looking through the bookshelves that lined the wall.

“Can you tell me?” Sam asked.

“No. It doesn't make any sense. I'm going crazy.” She started crying again, putting her face in her hands.

“Your not crazy” I tell her.

“Tell us what happened. Everything.” Sam adds.

“I heard...I thought I heard...there was this voice.” Andrea recalled.

“What did it say?”

“It said...it said 'come play with me'. What's happening?” She sobs into her hands.

Dean approaches us with a book of some sort in his hand, he puts it down in front of Andrea opening to a picture of a bunch of boys in a uniform that looks like boy scouts. “Do you recognize the kids in these pictures?” He asks.

“What? Um, um, no. I mean, except that's my dad right there. He must have been about twelve in these pictures.” She moves her finger over to another picture, kid Jake standing next to Peter.

Dean looks up at us, “Chris Barr's drowning. The connection wasn't to Bill Carlton. It must have been to the sheriff.”

“Bill and the sheriff—they were both involved with Peter.” Sam adds.

“What about Chris? My dad—what are you talking about?” Andrea asks, looking between the three of us.

Dean looks to the side, “Lucas? Lucas, what is it?”

He asks the boy staring out the window. Lucas opens the door and walks outside and we follow.

“Lucas, honey?” Andrea calls out.

Lucas then stops and looks at the ground then at Dean.

“You and Lucas get back to the house and stay there, okay?” Dean commands.

Andrea pulls Lucas back into the house, Dean heads to the Impala and back, returning with shovels. We start digging, and it doesn't take long before Sam’s shovel clanked against something.

Almost in sync we drop to our knees, digging with our hands, pulling out a red bicycle.

“Peter's bike.” I murmur.

“Who are you?” A commanding voice rings from behind us. We turn around only to be met with the Sheriff pointing a gun at us.

“Put the gun down, Jake.” Sam reasons as we drop the shovels.

“How did you know that was there?” Jake questions, gun still raised.

But he does not get the answer he’s looking for, Dean instead questioning him, “What happened? You and Bill killed Peter, drowned him in the lake and then buried the bike? You can't bury the truth, Jake. Nothing stays buried.”

“I don't know what the hell you're talking about.” Jake replies with venom.

“You and Bill killed Peter Sweeney thirty-five years ago. That's what the hell I'm talking about.” Dean continues.

Andrea suddenly runs off yelling, “Dad!”

“And now you got one seriously pissed-off spirit.” Dean finishes.

“It's gonna take Andrea, Lucas, everyone you love. It's gonna drown them. And it's gonna drag their bodies God knows where, so you can feel the same pain Peter's mom felt. And then, after that, it's gonna take you, and it's not gonna stop until it does.” Sam adds.

“Yeah, and how do you know that?” Jake challenges.

“Because that’s exactly what happened to Bill Carlton” I huff.

“Listen to yourselves, all of you. You're insane.” Jake seethes, tightening his grip on the gun.

“I don't really give a rat's ass what you think of us. But if we're gonna bring down this spirit, we need to find the remains, salt them, and burn them into dust. Now tell me you buried Peter somewhere. Tell me you didn't just let him go in the lake.” Dean spits a reply.

“Dad, is any of this true?” Andrea asks weakly.

“No. Don't listen to them. They're liars and they're dangerous.” He accuses.

“Something tried to drown me. Chris died on that lake. Dad, look at me.” Andrea commands and he does, “Tell me you—you didn't kill anyone.”

He doesn't reply, instead looking away. “Oh my God.” She gasps.

“Billy and I were at the lake. Peter was the smallest one. We always bullied him, but this time, it got rough. We were holding his head under the water. We didn't mean to. But we held him under too long and he drowned. We let the body go, and it sank.

Oh, Andrea, we were kids. We were so scared. It was a mistake. But, Andrea, to say that I have anything to do with these drownings, with Chris, because of some ghost? It's not rational.” Jake explains, lowering his gun.

“All right, listen to me, all of you. We need to get you away from this lake, as far as we can, right now.” Dean orders.

Andrea turns her head, but instead of moving she gasps. We all look in her direction seeing Lucas going down to the lake.

“Lucas” Jake yells out to his grandson.

We run the dock, Lucas leaning over the side reaching into the water.

“Lucas!”

“Lucas! Baby, stay where you are!” Andrea yells, but Lucas had a head start on us and was still too far for us to reach before a hand pulled him into the water.

We keep running to the end of the dock, the boys dive in and despite my fear of deep waters I dive in right after them.

The water is cold and murky, it’s hard to truly see in front of me but I keep going further. In the corner of my eye I see two figures that I know to be the boys breach the surface, but I force myself to keep going despite the lack of air I had left. But, my chest burns and I have to swim back up. I break the surface, greedily sucking in needed oxygen, my chest burning for the opposite reason now.

I suck one last breath in before diving down again. I light one of my hands up to use as a flashlight, the bright purple light guiding me in the murky water. And with the light, I can see Luca's small body get further and further away. Frick.

I'm forced to break the surface again. He's too far to reach. But there's also no choice. So, I push my wet hair off my face and dive back in. I reach my hand out, bringing out that light again. This time I extend the light as if it was a rope or a lasso. It stretches far in front of me. It barely brushes his wrist when all of a sudden the ghost boy lets go.

I don't leave time to contemplate it or for the spirit to change its mind. I push forward the rope of light, my lungs and eyes burning. It wraps around his wrist and I pull him towards me as I try to meet him. His eyes are closed. I don't know how long he's been unconscious.

I let go of my light as he gets close enough to hold with my hands. As quick as I can I push myself up. The sunlight is the guide to the surface. It's hard to swim with the added weight of clothes and shoes and a whole other person. But, it doesn't matter. It can't.

Finally, I break the surface with a harsh breath, the rush of oxygen to my lungs only making my chest hurt more. I pant as I hold him up, taking in sharp breaths as I hand the unconscious boy to Sam, who is closest to me. I watch as Sam brings him to the edge of the lake, his mother helping drag him out before immediately starting CPR.

I stay treading in the water breathing heavily, my chest rising up and down exceptionally fast. Pieces of my wet hair stick to my face, and my clothes stick to my skin in the worst way possible.

Dean lifts himself out of the lake landing on his knees, facing the body of water. Dean offers his hand to me, I swim to the edge of the lake where he sits, gladly taking his hand. He lifts me out of the water with ease, turning himself in the process so that I was next to him and not on top.

I look over at Lucas, who’s okay and hugging his mother before I let my head drop down my wet hair creating a curtain around me as I hold my hands to the firm ground, trying to not only catch my breath but also calm my anxiety.

Gentle, familiar, hands hold the sides of my face. Dean. He brings my head up to look at him. He moves the hair that sticks to my face away, his big hands pushing and smoothing back my hair, tucking it behind my ears. Then, his hands immediately go back to cupping my face. His touch and his eyes are so gentle that it should be unfair. “You okay, sweetheart?” He asks me, breathing a little heavy too, his voice gravelly and low.

I nod my head in response, feeling as if I couldn’t form the words to answer verbally. He shakes his head. “No. I need to hear you say it, baby," he breathes.

“I’m okay,” I answer, my voice coming out crackly.

He seems to accept that answer as he looks over me slowly, eventually making his way back to my eyes. His eyes dip down again before shooting away from me to look into the distance where sirens sound.

————————————————————————

We walk out of the motel, Sam throwing his duffel bag into the car. “Look, we're not gonna save everybody," he tells Dean. They caught me up on what happened on the drive back to the motel, Jake sacrificing himself. Which had made sense as to why Peter had suddenly let Lucas go.

“I know.” Dean responds simply.

“Sam, Dean, Y/N” Andrea calls out walking up to us with Lucas.

“Hey.” Dean greets.

“We're glad we caught you. We just, um, we made you lunch for the road. Lucas insisted on making the sandwiches himself." Andrea explains, motioning down to Lucas who looks very pleased with the platter of sandwiches he holds. He looked up to his mom, “Can I give it to them now?”

“Of course,” Andrea told him, smiling wildly, giving him a kiss on the head.

“Come on, Lucas, let's load this into the car.” Dean takes the plate from him.

“Lucas, this is so sweet of you, thank you,” I tell him sincerely while Dean places the plate on the passenger seat of the car.

“All right, if you're gonna be talking now, this is a very important phrase, so I want you to repeat it,” Dean instructs the kid as he sits in the passenger seat facing outward, with the door open.

“Zeppelin rules!” Lucas yells out.

“That's right. Up high.” Dean holds his hand up for a high-five. Lucas obliges, grinning. I laugh almost uncontrollably, the moment just a little too sweet.

“You take care of your mom, okay?” He tells him.

“Alright,” Lucas answers, determination on his face.

Andrea and Sam come up to the car. She leans over the open door giving Dean a quick kiss on the lips before pulling away with a “Thank you”

My eyebrows raise and I take a half-step back, not really expecting her to do that.

Dean stiffens and you can see the cogs turning in his head, he scratches his head and turns his head towards me, looking at me. I don’t say anything. I mean what would I say? I’m not even sure why he’s looking at me. He goes around the car passing me, eyes still on me as he calls out to Sam. “Sam, move your ass. We're gonna run out of daylight before we hit the road.”

We all get in the car, smiling and waving goodbye to Andrea and Lucas as we drive away.

[bearw-me]

Could you do a Loona x Monster Hunter Reader? (Think like Supernatural type Hunter of demons and such) that's enemies to lovers?

No problem if you can't! Hope something good happens to you today :)

ty for blessing me anon 🫶 i hope something good happens to you too!

𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐞 — 𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐚

𐐒 includes : loona x monsterhunter!reader 𐐒 cw : fluff, mentions of killing/blood/guns, angst, enemies to lovers, slow burn 𐐒 summary : stories of werewolves and vampires were just legends to most folk these days, but you knew better than to think myths were just scary stories told to children. And one night, you finally encounter an infamous Hell Hound and her grimoire. 𐐒 word count : 1.2 k 𐐒 note : whew, longest post i made and i tried to shorten it! (lowkey feels like a part two is needed. . .)

You bit at your nails in thought, the old parchment papers scattered across the desk in front of you. Images of ancient evils and eldritch horrors documented by generations of hunters, accumulated throughout the centuries . . . and now it all came down to you.

You sighed, leaning back in your seat, the creak of the antique wood shuddering under your weight.

With calculated precision, your eyes scanned the torn pages for information. Darting across the scribbled madness of ink and water damage.

Wolves standing on their hind legs, ripping the flesh from livestock, horned creatures of the night jumping through candlelight, their red skin unnatural for this world.

Sounds. . . familiar.

Old wives tales from a time where witches burned at the stake, now resurfacing into the modern era.

But why was this all happening now?

"Who cares," you mumbled, arguing with your own thoughts. You righted yourself on your chair, the wood screaming in agony once more.

All that mattered is that it stopped, whatever this- epidemic of hell spawn involved. It had to be dealt with.

You had to deal with it.

Weren't much people nowadays who dealt with supernatural enemies. . . creatures of legend. . . and lets face it- the boogeyman.

You had tracked down the demon activity to a region along the west coast. Under the darkness of night, you kept on the trail. Showing up on peoples doorsteps, cloaked in shadows with a revolver tucked behind your back, asking the innocent people of the town what they knew. . . and what exactly they had seen.

Most people had the same story no matter how many times they fumbled over their words "trying not to sound crazy," begging you to hear them out.

They all described the same thing to you:

A wolf, white and grey and larger than any man, appearing down alleyways and skulking in the night. Sometimes they described a tiny horned man with red skin and a spiked tail. Referring them as omen's of bad things to come.

You thanked them all; the ones who would talk to you anyway, and picked up your work the following day.

This is what you knew:

Every attack was on someone who had done something particularly questionable in their life, sometimes affecting the family or their loved ones in the process.

The process was scouted first, which is why the Lycan or Demon were spotted before the 'accidents' happened.

Then, they would leave and do it all over again.

You ran your fingers through your hair, glancing out the window of your room, watching for a few moments as the daylight began to lose its luster.

Night would come again, and you'd hunt them down before things got worse and someone innocent got hurt.

It was that very night that you first encountered her.

You had heard whispers of white flashes of fur peeking through windows, the sounds of dogs barking and being silenced in fear of something stalking through the night.

The unease in the neighborhood was palpable, but like the first demon you had killed, you promised to those who came before you that you'd protect people from things like this.

That's when you had heard a clattering in the back alley, a muttered hiss accompanying the sound.

You stuck to the shadows, watching to see what would emerge from the other side of the cobbled back lane.

At first, the patch of fur shuffled, hissing again as it dug threw the spilt trashcan. Then, like a slideshow of revelation, the monster stood, rising up inch by inch until it reached its full height, its bones crunching from the movement.

You gasped, realizing in horror as its ears perked up, picking you right out of your hiding spot.

"Who's there!?" She called out, a voice so clear you remained speechless.

In no texts. No tomes or documented encounters. . . had they ever mentioned they were capable of speaking.

You stepped out into the light, your eyes adjusting to the new sensation and watching as the shadowy figure seemed to cower at the sight of you.

"Fuck," it whispered.

Before you could get a word out, she bounded from the alley towards you, the flashes of silver fangs forever engrained into your minds eye.

You had seen her three times in the last month, sometimes accompanied by the Imp (as you suspected the creature was).

She would take the stand against you, her body slithering protectively to fend you off.

A white wolf, marred with dark grey, almost black markings within her fur. Eyes as red as the devils and long silvery hair. More interesting yet, she wore clothes. Curious, you thought to yourself as you fired three bullets of silver at her in warning.

"Lycan!" You called out, the automatic gun in your hand pointed towards the wall she had ducked under her "You're a beautiful creature," you called out honestly, almost pained to have to stand between the beasts path of destruction. . . but it could be no more. No more killing.

"Lycan?" you heard her respond.

She was quiet for a long moment before her voice came back to you with venom. "I've never seen a fucking demon hunter on Earth. What are you? Some kind of modern-day-van-fucking-helsing? Aren't you all supposed to be dead?!"

She jumped out from behind the wall, taking aim with her own gun, firing a round at you this time.

You took cover all too late, laughing at her words and wincing at the sharp pain that suddenly bloomed across the skin of your shoulder.

"What kind of fucking demon hunter uses an automatic rifle!?" She growled out.

"Modern times call for modern weapons, sweetheart!"

"Fuck YOU!"

You ducked your head, laughing as another full magazine shot off just above your head.

"You've got a bad mouth hell hound," you figured, standing up and taking aim at her.

Down the sight of the guns barrel, your eyes widened, watching as she waved her hand, summoning a portal right in front of your eyes. A dark book laid between her fingers.

You sucked a cold breath in, finger hovering over the trigger.

The hell hound glanced back at you.

Her face was full of worry, scrunched up and barring her teeth like an animal cornered in the woods. Her soft white fur shining against the red light spilling from the portal behind her.

Without another second passing, she stepped through the portal, disappearing into thin air.

"God dammit," you sighed with defeat.

And this time, something was off. . .

It was easy enough for you to follow them now.

Follow her.

But something about this night made your stomach churn with unease.

You heard cries into the night, a shadow, something darker than the shadows slithered and lingered like fog along the floor. Kicking it up like smoke, you walked toward the sound of gentle sobs, unable to pinpoint the exact sound in a forest so dense.

"Lycan!" You whispered wearily, eyes darting back and forth between the black bodies of the woods surrounding you.

Then you heard it:

"Dad," she cried, a tiny bark echoing through the trees "someone help me," she begged, a choked sound.

The shadow on the floor shifted, humming almost angrily before a scream rang out. The shriek shattered your ear drums.

And in a blink, the shadow disappeared, receding like the tide and unveiling the limp body of the white wolf.

Your body reacted immediately, pointing your weapon down at her and stopping the moment you caught the glint of tears in her closed eyes.

Who knows what it was. . . maybe a spell the Hell Hound had placed on you, or your genuine sadness as you laid witness to the innocent creature you really saw her for.

A young wolf, unconscious and calling for help not a moment earlier. Attacked by whatever created that thick smog.

Whatever battle you had in your head, you tucked your gun into its holster, crouching down and scooping her into your arms, ignoring all the wounds she had undertaken and bringing her to safety.

That night, against everything you believed in, you carried her home, lifting her weak body with a tenderness you didn't know you possessed.