Hails reblogs

Supernatural!

Dean Winchester

Just Friends? - Dean x reader - 💛

Calm Down - Dean x reader - ❤️ (I apologize I was a young writer, may be rewriten)

Holy Fool - Dean x reader 💛- super excited about this

Chapter 1 - Dean x reader setup for above series!!

mafia au - just thoughts on the winchester brothers running a mob 💙

Sam Winchester

Wake Me Up When September Ends - Sam x Reader - 💛

Fuckin_Nerd- College!Sam X Reader ❤️

mafia au - just thoughts on the winchester brothers running a mob 💙

Gone Too Long - 💜 Check Trigger Warnings!!

Castiel

Castiel Acts of Service  - ❤️

Gabriel

Heaven and Earth - Gabriel x reader - ❤️

Marvel

Natasha Romanov

Sleepy Reader headcanons - Natasha x reader - 💙

Call of Duty

You stared at the letter that plopped onto your breakfast, the roll of parchment sealed in royal red wax. Even when you whipped your head around to take a good look at the courier who left the message with you, they had long gone from view. The request, otherwise, was simple and brief: take back a fallen city, using whatever means necessary, against a beast.

That much was nothing new.

It sounded like just any other job.

But, by the time you had arrived, the skies had already darkened, and the city, indeed, did not look like it was in good shape at all. Shops, homes and other buildings were just barely standing, with their doors and windows pried open. A sickly sweet metallic odour filled the air, which you later realised was blood trampled into the cobblestone. All around you, ash and dust settled around what remained, hinting at a fire that must have been once raging, even if it was now out.

It did not take you long to find the beast.

It was a werewolf, of which you were prepared for—

Just not any other part of it.

For it did not crouch behind the ruins, nor did it make any effort to hide at all; in fact, it seemed proud to bask in the devastation it had caused. It stood upright as it sensed you approaching, its figure easily dwarfing you from a far distance away already.

At that, dread surfaced from deep within you, and all you could do was tighten your hand around your weapon even if your throat went dry, feeling something terribly wrong about this whole setup. Beasts, after all, were not responsible for such devastation when acting alone. Usually, they would act out if they’re a still a person battling with their humanity, so an entire city to have succumbed meant that they had surrendered their very soul.

Besides, there was just… something else about him. Typically, the sorts of werewolves you came across did not look this way. This was different. Four arms that unfolded slowly at his sides, each one adorned with muscle and traced in strange symbols that glowed whenever they crossed direct moonlight. Two faces that shared the same skull; one bestial and the other almost human in its sharpness. Both watched you approach, and both faces smiled.

True surrender of one’s humanity was rare.

Most werewolves fought to keep it.

You ended up stepping a sizeable distance away.

“Did you do this?” you asked, testing to see if he was at least still responsive.

The beast laughed heartily.

“Oh, this?” he asked, his voice low and beaming with pride. “Perhaps. How kind of you to notice.”

A scoff left your lips. “It was far from a compliment.”

“Maybe not,” the beast replied. “But I do like being noticed.”

Your lips curled further at the audacity. “Right,” you muttered. “So, do tell. What are you truly after?”

There was a pause before he answered you, tilting his head as he took in the sight of you. It seemed that the question had amused him.

“Power,” he said easily. “I want the masses to fear what I can become, not who I once was.”

You snorted despite yourself: monsters were usually easy to deal with because they were still beasts beneath the front they put on. This time around, felt as though you were talking to more of a man.

“And if I were to stop you from such a pursuit?” you challenged.

He glanced around the scarlet-stained stone with such a maddening slowness that it encouraged you to follow after his gaze.

“Then you can join the rest of the so-called ‘monster hunters’ who dared to try and stop me,” he goaded.

You ended up gulping at the threat. The country in itself did have official monster hunters to employ who worked under the crown. You could get away with avoiding any laws that were restricted to any other line of work, because the freelancer hunters were in a grey zone. If you were to accept your death right here and then, it would be swift. If you were to deny the job, then you risked being hanged instead. However, you did not fancy either fate.

“Reconsidering, are you?” the beast caught on. “It would be a wise choice.”

You snorted. “How’d you figure?”

The human side smiled wider. “I can respect what my pets desire,” he revealed. “Heel nicely, hunter, and I might consider listening to your demand.”

You resisted an eyeroll but could not stop the sass.

“It seems you have got it backwards,” you deflected. “You’re the dog here, not me.”

His other side bared its teeth even if the human side remained amused.

“Perhaps,” he agreed, offering you a lazy shrug. “But I am not the one being led by a flock of sheep to its slaughter,” he pointed out. “You all bleed and die the same, so why would you be special? When you shall inevitably fall, another will step in and take your place with the same hopeful look in their eyes. I did enjoy seeing the spark dwindle as they all slowly bled out, though.”

He stepped forward, and the very ground beneath you rumbled.

“Sooner or later, they’ll run out,” he warned. “Just what do you think will happen then?”

Your breath caught.

“Will you keep your word if I were to kneel?” you asked, ready to surrender your dignity. You did not care for it regardless. You were already used to taking on the dirty work in exchange for a living. Grovelling would not be so different.

“I am capable of keeping promises,” he assured. “If you wish to live and save this sorry excuse of a city, then you must show me that you understand what such a luxury costs.”

You gulped, but you found yourself stepping forward, and again, until you were right in front of him.

“Just like that,” he encouraged, almost softly.

But then, as you stood directly before him, his smile quickly faltered.

“Kneel,” he commanded.

You did as he said, lowering your body to press your knees to the cold, wet and spoiled ground. You felt as blood seeped into your clothes and clung like a sickly film to your flesh. Something beneath where your palms landed cracked effortlessly, but you did not dare think about what that could have been.

“Good,” he praised, fitting a clawed finger to lift your chin. “You will obey, won’t you?”

You nodded. “I will.”

You tensed as he took away his hand, coming to step right behind you. His hands pinned you further closer to the ground with a casual, albeit crushing strength, allowing you to demonstrate his overwhelming weight. Both his skin and hot fur pressed hotly against your back, his touch nearly searing, and the sharpness of his claws dimpling your flesh.

“Yield to me,” he demanded.

His frame loomed over you, his jaws opening in what could be considered a smile, or a snarl, or both. Saliva dripped above you, warm and slick, trickling down the slope of your neck.

“You will obey me, won’t you, hunter?” he asked.

“Yes—” you just about to gasp out, realising quickly that the concept of a fight was never going to be there at all. It was not surrender he sought from you, but something else entirely. Submission, more likely. “I will,” you quickly added, sounding so sure.

His eyes narrowed in satisfaction, leaning down until his hot breath washed over your body in rippling waves.

“Then you understand that you will have to perform,” he said. “You must show me the devotion you have promised me.”

You bowed even lower, your lips almost kissing whatever lined the ground. You tasted something thick and metallic, but you tried not to think about it.

Seeming pleased, the werewolf—known by local legend as Ryomen Sukuna, the two-faced man wolf—shifted his weight back only slightly, if only to allow you to gasp for air. The pressure otherwise remained, his speared fingers leaving behind scratched signatures on your skin. Before you could brace yourself for him, something hard and insistent pressed up right against you, demanding entry at the heat of your clothed sex, and, even if you knew it was happening, a jolt of pure panic surged through you at the prospect of taking that monster in.

By some effort, you managed to part your legs, feeling as he tore away the cloth that once hid your bare skin. The head of his cock hovered by your entrance, ready to plunge as deep as he could go.

You braced yourself again.

If not for the prospective pain, then for the anticipation of not knowing when it would finally happen.

Without warning, indeed, he surged forward, pushing into your cunt with a thrust that bordered on violent. The sensation was overwhelming; a burning stretch that split you open, resulting in a scream to rise from your throat. Tears emerged from the corners of your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his enormous size.

“Enjoying yourself, pet?” he asked.

You forced a nod, even if you would be betraying nothing if you agreed vocally. Reluctantly, somehow, you weren’t having an awful time, despite the pain. Perhaps there was chemistry—or if only slightly—from the initial back-and-forth exchange.

“I-I… I enjoy it,” you choked out.

“Good,” he praised, his fingers reaching out, brushing against your cheek; a stark contrast to the brutal invasion that throbbed from deep inside.

A shuddering breath rolled out of your lips from the momentary respite of offered comfort, but then oh god—god—oh—he began to move—every buck into you a fresh wave of pleasure and pain combined, and past it, a dark and shameless bliss. You whined out keening moans of pleading need from the way he was impaling you, filling out like nothing else—let alone anyone else—could ever hope to accomplish. It was as though he were addictive in the most agonising way.

His claws kept on sinking further into the give of your hips, rutting into you with increasing demand; his movements bordering on erratic and wild. His breathing was no longer just such, but heavy and ragged and feral. His hips snapped at a raging force, and somehow, you could anticipate the end already, from the way he swelled inside of you, from the almost desperate way he rammed himself against your cunt.

“Please,” you found yourself crying out, not too sure over what you were begging for anymore. The sensation was far too much, too intense, building to a peak that made your entire body tremble with almost humiliating need.

“Almost—” he dribbled out, his drool streaming strongly now, hotly, searing into your flesh. “Almost done with you, my hunter, almost—”

Brief hope flooded within you at the promise of relief and release alike, but then, god—again—you felt it: the way his cock began to pulse and throb from within you, realising to your horror, the extent of what exactly what was approaching. A strangled scream escaped—both torturous and soothing—as his cum erupted in you, filling you far beyond and past the brim of what you could handle.

All the while, he grunted above you, sounding profoundly sated as he pumped you so utterly full of him. His claws dug into your back, almost affectionate in their intensity, pulling you flush against his body to empty himself fully. Then, when it finally ended, you were left gasping and twitching and writhing and—barely processing the end of it all—before he started to pull away from your overfilled body.

You weren’t even sure if you had cum as well.

Whatever you felt was numbness from the inside out.

He hovered over you for a long moment before you heard a rumble that initially planted sheer dread within you, but then settled into a soft, if not grounding, purr. He reached down to pet your hair; however, remaining silent, even if the possessive intent was clear.

“Very well,” he said, his voice somehow low and soft, even if you knew better to feel comfort from him. “Just this once—” he promised, “I’ll leave behind this city among the rest I must destroy.”

Your heart sank at his words.

“W-wait,” you stammered out. “Just this city? Not the rest?”

He flipped you over to your back, meeting you with a dangerous smile. “I only promised this city, not the rest. Those were my words,” he reminded you. “But… if you wish to save everywhere, then perhaps, you could convince me each time? Besides, this place was far too empty for my liking, and I would like to perform something difficult to forget.”

You blinked, dread filling your soul.

“I do like being noticed, after all,” he concluded, leaving you to understand exactly what the price of protecting the world entailed.

You grew up.

Given how your childhood had to unfold, you learned early on that silence was safer than defying him and everyone else in the castle head-on. You could learn a whole lot more just by listening rather than challenging those set in their stubborn ways, and so, while others your age demanded to know why, why, why something was the way it seemed, you digested any procured knowledge in silence. You became good at reading faces, body language and intentions.

Courtiers grew fond of calling you shy, and servants spoke of you as a gentle and withdrawn, if not shy, girl. You were easily favoured by the castle as kind-mannered and obedient, even if, deeper down, you did not feel that way. Just about everyone mistook your demeanour as weakness, someone to marry off eventually, because goodness, you were favourable.

Even if all the while, those very same people who watched you grow up and claimed to “know” you, never quite realised that this was intentional from the moment you could not shake off the curiosity of what was down there.

You picked up easily over time, how the guards would shift posts and when and where, and who would replace them on the next assigned shift. You paid extra attention to which corridors were avoided after sunset and which rooms the castle did not care for. Or how, sometimes specifically, the stairwell behind the tapestry was always watched by someone at least, making it the less than favourable route to take.

It was later, more recently, from one of your knights that you heard in passing, who finally shed some further light on the truth of what was right below.

“Just don’t see the point anymore,” your most trusted sword yawned out.

His partner shifted in his armour. “Of what?”

“Of guarding that place,” he followed up. “She’s probably forgotten all about it by now, anyway, so the old man’s just being needlessly paranoid, isn’t he? Besides, prisoners don’t go there anymore, since it’s straight to the yard with ‘em and it’s just empty space.”

You took in the news quietly, trying to make sense of it. If it were empty, then why was there such a big deal being made out of its secrecy? You could not fathom the logic behind the reason, and then, just a couple of weeks later, an opportunity to investigate the space opened up:

A banquet was to be hosted at the castle, which meant that a distraction could be formed. You hated those things even if you pretended you didn’t. Mostly, you just disliked exercising the idea that being confined to this place was anything less than thrilling. You hated talking to others your age who visited, also bearing the crown to where they had travelled from. You ended up not liking a single suitor who was picked out for you, which led you to the reputation that not only were you meek and reserved, but that you were difficult, too.

You’d show enough interest to stop the court from pestering you, sparing yourself the lectures from your father, only for anything beyond to fall flat from the exact moment they might attempt to woo you.

For others, however, it made you highly desirable, leaving you in a complex position.

You were expected to attend this party, too, and your father had even brought up—hope strong in his voice—that you’d perhaps, finally, at your grown age, find someone you liked. This was not on the agenda, though. Early on, you claimed that the noise made you nauseous, and you feigned feeling faint, which allowed you the reason to break away early on.

It was easy enough to avoid your knights, and especially all of the guards scattered around the castle. For the most part, they were all distracted. Your most trusted sword was stationed at the foot of the stairs leading to the banquet hall, ensuring that nobody could follow you, while the second in command was busy stuffing his face.

You, all the while, managed to finally slip past and into the dungeon tower, gulping thickly as you were granted the descent down the winding stairs. You ended up hating the way it spiralled, and so, even if you didn’t truly feel sick just before, you certainly did now.

When you finally managed to reach the bottom of what felt like a passage that spiralled on forever, you finally came to a stop. Cells bearing iron bars filled out the perimeter, but the cuffs and chains that sprouted from the cobbled walls were long rusted with disuse. Each cell was empty, and every gate was open. There was, just as the king had spoken, nothing there.

You turned on your heel to leave, feeling almost… disappointed?

Only then, to have heard the undeniable shifting of fabric—of a breath shuddering out—of a foot scuffing on the stone floor.

You turned around right away, expecting it to be your mind to have been playing tricks on you, only to be met with a life-size puppet now occupying one of the cells, staring right at you. Strange, you thought, you did not hear the door close, let alone the lock settle, but sure enough, it was there. Rich, yet dull fabric clung to their frame, displaying once vibrant colours that were now worn out from time. A ruffled collar sat around their neck, and small bells hung from their hat, ankles and wrists.

This was just… a puppet, right?

You stepped a little closer, taking in the painted smile that was drawn across its face and the dark crescents that marked its eyes, giving it an almost mocking exterior.

Then, their head tilted, causing you to gasp and take a step back.

“Finally,” it spoke, its tone kind and almost loving. “Finally, you have come back to me.”

You didn’t reply as it talked, backing away until you hit the cold stone wall.

“I have been waiting so long for you,” it added anyway. “So patiently. So faithfully.”

You blinked.

“Had the curiosity become too hard to ignore?” it asked, sounding almost amused.

Finally, you managed to say something.

“W-what…” you started, but then cleared your throat. “Who are you?”

The puppet shrugged casually.

“Someone you know, silly,” they replied as if it were obvious. “Don’t you remember me?”

You shook your head in response.

Their smile faltered, somehow, as if it had been erased.

“Then, my, oh my, it has been a long, long, long time,” it said wistfully.

Your head tilted. “What has?”

“Oh! Everything,” they replied, their smile creeping back onto their face. “For you see, once upon a time, long, long ago, I was the court’s jester, lonely and true, and goodness, I was in love with a girl that as fate had it, I could never pursue.”

It folded its hands behind its back, beginning to pace the cell, although its footsteps were quiet and made no sound.

“A crown above and bells below, such stories never end of how one dreams of them doing so,” it went on before abruptly stopping, stepping towards the cell and curling its wooden fingers around the bars. “A princess so royal and a jester so loyal, and yet never allowed to be.”

It pulled at the bars, its voice rising with volume and pitch—

“And so off went my head, rolling clean and spilling red…”

It quietened down just as quickly.

Its voice was now no more than a mere whisper.

A painted tear rolling down its masked face.

“Away went my darling, finding solace in poison instead, as lovers do, when…!all hope is… dead.”

You tried to walk away all the while as they spoke of their tale, the action executed almost by instinct, but no matter how far you would go, all that you felt was cold stone pressing against your back. The realisation grounded you, reminding you that this was all somehow real and not a dream.

The jester’s—the puppet’s—whatever they were—eyes softened as they looked at you, opening the door to the cell effortlessly, as if it had never been locked at all.

“But no fear,” they assured gently, walking up to you, “for souls are such… stubborn things; they wander, and they die, and then, they… come back.”

“What are you—” you started, only for it to keep going—

“Except for mine; I came back all sorts of wrong— a demon, it seems—for loving too deeply, for kneeling too… proud.”

Then, after a pause.

“Unlike my princess, who has found her way back to my heart,” it added, extending its fingers to brush along the trembling skin on your cheek, “back to me.”

You blinked.

“Me?” you asked.

It laughed at your surprise.

“Oh yes,” it confirmed, pressing itself further against you, close enough that you could smell something and distinctly metallic in the air that seemed to cling to it. “You have her eyes,” it observed. “The very same quiet fire within, the same careful light,” then, it lifted a finger, tracing the air without touching you further. “Her wit, her patience, her way of listening more than speaking.”

Its hand rose, and two fingers slipped right beneath your chin, tilting your head upward, and while you gasped, somehow, you did not resist.

“Even her taste for all things vanilla and spice, on skin that never quite sees the sun,” it added. “Tell me, my princess,” they added a moment later, their tone ripe with amusement, as if anticipating hearing your answer. “Have you loved anyone in this life?”

You reluctantly shook your head.

The puppet smiled.

“Right, because your suitors were obligations,” it suggested. “I should imagine that your heart longs for something much more substantial than being married off as mere political fodder.”

You hesitated, not quite too sure. “Well, I suppose?”

The thing in front of you stepped back just once, the courtesy of their actions almost intimate.

“Curious,” it remarked. “But do tell me, princess. Are you afraid of me?”

The abrupt change of topic once again disoriented you and left you feeling even more unsteady on your feet. You could not form a good response no matter how you tried, and yet, still, somehow, you could tell by the way this puppet was acting that it did not mean any real harm. At least not to you.

You ended up shaking your head.

Then, slowly, as if in response to that, its finger elongated, and its bones shifted from wood to something organic, presenting a soft, wet crackling sound. Instead of fingers painted into chiselled spears, it bore now pointed claws. Its eyes darkened, too; the once-painted smears almost glinted as though it had a soul. Finally, its lips parted, tying it all together that beyond its flat mask, there was something more insidious beneath, and it had very real, glistening teeth.

“Even now?” it challenged you.

You gulped thickly and shook your head again.

“And yet,” it whispered, pain flooding its voice, “you still don’t remember me?”

Hurt sparked in its eyes. “A shame, truly, because I waited centuries for you,” it revealed, tilting its head at an unnatural posture. “We were more to each other than mere strangers, just so that you know.”

Before you could stop it, it closed the distance suddenly, pressing its lips against yours. In the brief moment that it connected with you, something exploded within your mind like a memory, giving way to a life that felt as though it belonged to you, although not the one you were currently experiencing.

“Hold onto it,” it pleaded, its tone laced with something longing and aching. “Don’t you dare let go.”

It moved in even closer, daring you to remember more as its fingernails dug into the soft flesh of your skin, its body radiating a heat so unnatural that its puppeted body almost felt real, and despite the fear you felt, somehow, you leaned into the touch—finding that it felt familiar—that it felt right—

“Those suitors that they’ll keep on sending your way will never understand you as I do,” it spoke to you, its touch growing needy. “I know what makes you laugh,” it promised, its hand moving to tangle around your scalp, “of what makes you ache with what you won’t admit to anyone else,” it added. “I know what kind of dreams you have at night and the thoughts you have that make your whole face flush and your body—” it gasped, “ache for things you don’t even understand.”

Its hand was on your breast now, cupping the soft and pliant flesh with such reverence but also possession, the wooden thumb tracing circles around your nipple. You gasped under the pressure, not understanding why your body was leaning into its touch so well.

Then it kissed you once more, and something else surged past—

Revealing you standing in a bright stone courtyard, with sunlight spilling across the decorated floors. You wore a heavier skirt then, and your hair was much longer. There was laughter nearby, and when you turned, someone was bowing dramatically in front of you, their hand taking yours and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

You remembered a painted smile against real skin, matching clever eyes and bells that chimed softly as he moved, looking profoundly ridiculous. But god, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world felt truly magical back then.

Visions flooded you of him juggling fruit just to make you laugh and to purposefully trip over his own two feet whenever he knew you were looking his way. You could feel his fingers brush against yours whenever he handed you ribbons and flowers and trinkets and—

Goodness, you even remembered sneaking into the courtyard at dusk, with him waiting right in the middle with a bundle of wildflowers tucked behind his back.

The kiss deepened, and the memories came in faster; of him dancing barefoot in empty halls as he whispered jokes—crude ones, mind you—behind muffled sleeves; his voice low and quiet—

“I remember,” you finally confessed, and at that, his fingers dipped lower, finding the wetness between your legs as the anticipated recognition had finally surfaced at long, long last.

His words came out breathless after, his eyes locked on yours as he guided himself in between your legs—no longer protesting, and dare he even acknowledge—feel you welcoming him inside. Was this trickery? Or was this something else? It felt right to accept him, whatever it was, to let in the memories—to let him in—to feel him—

“I know you so well,” he promised, “because a stranger would not know what makes you writhe the very same way, nor could they—” he added, pushing himself further in, stretching you completely, “—know how to make your cunt clench like this; no, no, your soul remembers, your soul knows.”

Indeed, you had: you remembered not just of the fleeting glimpses but so much more. From the feeling of him, yes, but also to the devastation that he left behind. You remembered being loved so thoroughly in ways that something arranged could never fulfil. You remembered your wedding night and the look in his eyes as he strummed a wistful tune on his gittern, watching you walk down the aisle. You remembered being taken by someone you did not love, sharing a bed far too large, and on the same night, hating that it was not he who made love to you, dreaming of him the whole time.

You remembered it all; yes, god, yes, from sneaking out of your newly shared bedroom as a queen, finding Patch, your loyal jester, and how he fucked you properly and made you cum, finishing up what the other sorry excuse of a man could not do.

You remembered as he pounded into you—

—As you screamed out his name—

—Not your husband’s, down the hall.

You blinked, your eyes glimmering with reverence and hurt and love and awe as it all came flooding back, your hold on him tightening, returning to kiss him the exact way as before, as he kissed you back—his tongue slipping and catching against yours—his hips sawing back and forth, surrendering to the reunion that he had long been denied for centuries by now.

In turn, your own body rolled in arching circles as he held you up against the wall, even as your form leaned into his—his form feeling gradually more and more human—more and more real—the tighter you held on. You could feel as he stretched you and made love to you in the exact way you liked it, even if in this life, this was something new.

But he was right.

Your soul remembered.

Your soul knew.

“I have waited so long for you to remember,” he shuddered as his thrusts grew rapidly erratic, as his pleasure rose to blinding bliss. “For you to finally have the sense to come here, and fuck,” he gasped, “free me of this curse.”

He then redoubled his efforts, holding onto you with nearly a crushing force, gasping and rasping and yet still desperate for more. He pulled back ever so slightly, his hands coming to reach and cup around your face so that you could see the worship in his eyes.

“Do you love me?” he asked.

“Yes, Patch,” yes—”

Then, after a gasp.

“I always have.”

At the sound of his name, he just about melted away into you, his body succumbing to the recognition alone. He grinded harder into you, catching onto the spot that always made you whine with something primal, that made you come undone, spilling into your core with something that—given his form—should have been impossible, and yet, it wasn’t.

It all tightened from the depths of your core until it felt right to let go.

As he, too, came down from his high, and as you did, too, from yours.

He then asked, perhaps as a promise—

“Will you stay with me, princess?” he asked. “Will you choose me for eternity? Even if it’s dangerous to do so— Even if they’ll find us out yet again, and kill me—kill you—even if it’s wrong, even if—”

“Yes,” you said, seeing genuine and utter hope flood his face.

He pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, his voice suddenly light.

“Good,” he murmured, “because I will never be letting you go again.”

You then blinked, being plunged into the darkness, as the sense of something uneasy overwhelmed you. Not too far away, you could hear footsteps rapidly close in from around you, spiralling down the tower. The dungeon was no longer so dimly lit, either, but burning bright with closing in fire, and despite your dress and your body initially being in tatters and bruises and marks—everything else was back to normal—as though it had never happened at all.

Was all of that a dream?

Your knights found you in a hurry, swooping you up and carrying you back up to the surface of the castle.

Your eyes drooped shut, and you fell asleep—

Only to awake in your bed, with your father standing at the foot, his voice sharp with anger and accusation.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded, barely giving you time to wake up.

A lie crept out of your lips, the night catching up to you.

“Guess I wanted to rebel just a little,” you meekly admitted. “Stole a bit of the wine and I think I just… wandered away.”

At that, however, his anger softened, coming to look at you like you were just a normal girl, sighing heavily, leaving you be for the time being.

You always did get away with lying too easily.

And as he left, your two knights remained, bursting out laughing from the second that he was out of earshot.

“Next time you want to do something like that, invite us,” one of them suggested.

“Right,” the other said. “Spare us the heart attack, and our heads.”

You smiled faintly, but then, just a moment later, your father had returned, and everyone—including you, of course—straightened up.

“Also,” he spoke. “Another addition to the roster,” he said, stepping aside to reveal another knight. “To keep you in line.”

“But I already have—” you started, blinking between your two swords.

“For your own safety,” he interrupted.

Just as you were about to pout, however, the newest knight stepped in, and you heard his voice, your attention successfully caught, finding that he sounded familiar, like someone you knew far too well.

“Princess,” he greeted you with a nod.

You glanced up then, your words falling flat, catching a glimpse beyond what lay in the helmet: dark hair and dark eyes, glinting with timeless adoration, settled right on you.

“Do you… object to this arrangement?” the knight asked.

Your heartbeat faltered, remembering the promise you made in the dungeon, of the curse that you broke, or worse yet, manifested.

“No, you admitted softly. “I do not have a problem at all.”

He smiled, knowing that he had you forever now.

That you would never slip from him again.

The silence follows you both into the house.

The house that was supposed to feel different soon. Supposed to be louder. Brighter. Filled with the tiny sounds of a life you’d both been waiting for.

A home for three.

Now it feels like a hollow shell.

You don’t eat. You barely sleep. The days blur together in a haze of exhaustion and grief.

Every morning you find yourself standing in the doorway of the room with the pastel yellow walls.

The nursery.

The crib sits empty.

Sometimes it feels like it’s mocking you.

You stand there for minutes—sometimes longer—just staring at it, imagining what should have been there.

The soft rise and fall of a tiny chest.

The quiet little noises babies make when they sleep.

What could have been.

Simon never tries to pull you away from the doorway.

Never tells you to stop looking.

He just… takes care of things.

He clears the empty mugs from your bedside and replaces them with fresh ones. Brings you food and gently nudges the plate closer when you don’t touch it.

“Just a few bites, love.”

Even when your appetite has long since vanished.

At night he wraps his arms around you and holds you close. Solid. Warm.

A steady, silent presence while you lie awake staring into the darkness.

A week passes.

And not once do you see Simon cry.

Not a single tear.

Tonight, though… the question slips out before you can stop it.

“Simon…”

He glances down at you where you’re resting against his chest.

“Hm?”

“How are you doing?”

Your voice is quiet, careful.

Because you know Simon. If he’s going to talk about it, you’ll have to pull the words out of him.

He’s quiet for a long moment.

Then he exhales slowly.

“How d’you think I’m feeling?”

His voice sounds empty. Hollow. Like the weight of everything is finally starting to catch up to him.

“Angry,” you say.

Not guessing.

Knowing.

He lets out a quiet, humorless breath.

“Yeah.”

The word cracks like old stone.

“Angry.”

His jaw tightens, teeth grinding once before he looks away.

“I wanna smash something,” he mutters. “Punch through a wall. Find whoever’s in charge of this shite and ask ‘em why it had to be us.”

His voice drops lower, rougher.

“Why you?”

The words tremble at the edges.

“But I can’t even do that.” He swallows hard. “Because if I break down…”

His eyes flick back to yours.

“Who’s gonna hold you?”

Your chest aches.

You lift your head from his chest to look at him.

“I need you to break.”

Simon goes still.

He’s used to being the strong one. Used to carrying things so other people don’t have to.

His hands slide down to your waist, his thumbs tracing slowly over your hips through the fabric of your clothes.

“I don’t want to break, love,” he murmurs.

“Not while you need me.”

“I need to know it’s not just me,” you whisper.

Your voice cracks as you tuck your face into his neck.

“I need you to grieve with me, Si.”

Your tears soak into his skin.

His breath hitches.

A tremor runs through him—deep and sudden, like something inside him has finally fractured.

Then it breaks.

A choked sob tears from his chest, raw and helpless.

His arms tighten around you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, voice shaking. “I’m so bloody sorry.”

His grip on you tightens.

“I couldn’t… couldn’t save him. Couldn’t protect you…”

His body shakes as the grief finally tears its way out of him.

And this time he doesn’t fight it.

For the first time in years…

Simon “Ghost” Riley breaks.

“Your father don’t matter right now!” Dean interrupted, flashing a devilish smile. “And neither do suitors who think they can marry you off like you’re some trinket. You’re comin’ with me.”

You gasped. “I. Do. Not. Consent!”

He shrugged, obviously entertained. “Consent, schmeh… ye’re on my ship now.”

You glared harder. “I’d rather drown than go back to shore and get married off like a prize cow!”

Dean blinked, then laughed. A sound that made the ship’s timbers shiver. “Aye,” he said, leaning closer. “I like the spirit. Gutsy, stubborn, fiery… perfect.”

Days passed aboard the Black Seraph. You cursed, plotted, bickered, and threatened him incessantly.

Dean barely noticed, honestly. Each time you tried to climb overboard or make a dramatic dive for freedom, he caught you with ease, holding you against his chest as you flailed and spluttered.

“Yer hands are too slow, lass,” he teased once, holding you by the waist as you screamed, “I’ll drown myself if you don’t let me go!”

“And I’ll make sure ye don’t!” he shot back, grin wicked. “Admit it—ye enjoy the sea more than ye admit.”

“I do NOT!” you gasped, chest heaving. “Don’t you dare bring me back to that hell hole!”

Dean raised an eyebrow, tugging you closer as the waves crashed around you. “Eye roll won’t save ye, darling. But… I do admit…” He paused, voice low and soft. “…I enjoy seeing ye like this.”

You froze, cheeks burning. “W-What?”

“You. Spirited. Fire in your eyes. Stubborn as the sea. That’s a treasure, lass.”

Your glare could’ve sunk ships, but the tug in your chest betrayed you.

----

One night, under the blanket of stars, the two of you sat on the deck, knees brushing as the waves lapped gently.

“You’re insane,” you muttered, trying to ignore the warmth of him beside you.

He smirked. “Maybe. But the sea’s my life. And ye…” He tilted his head, watching you with something softer in his eyes. “…Ye’re worth the trouble.”

You laughed bitterly. “Worth… the trouble? I’m a governor’s daughter. I should hate you.”

“You do,” he said, gently, “But not enough to leave.”

You swallowed. “I… I don’t want to go back. Ever. I’d rather stay here. With… you.”

Dean’s grin softened. He lifted your hand to his lips, brushing it with a gentle kiss. “Then stay, lass. No one’s forcing ye back. Not if ye don’t want to go.”

The wind blew, the waves danced, and for the first time, your chest felt light, free — just like the ship beneath your feet.

“I suppose,” you said quietly, leaning a little closer, “…I could get used to this pirate life.”

He didn’t lower his weapons. Not yet. He couldn’t. “I can’t let you do this, Y/N. This isn’t you. I want to help you, please, let me.”

She laughed—an eerie, hollow sound, barely human. “Isn’t me? Haven’t I always been like this? You just… never saw it. Daddy’s right. I can’t escape him. And you… you can’t save me.”

Dick’s chest tightened. She wasn’t fully aware of what she’d become—or maybe she was, and that was what scared him most. Every swing of her knives, every manic smile, it reminded him: this was the girl who once wanted to bake cookies, who once adored bedtime stories. The girl whose mother, Harley, he’d never even been able to truly protect.

“…You’re still my Y/N,” he said, voice low. “The girl who liked painting, who laughed when she was embarrassed. The girl who’s not him.”

Her hands shook, the knives trembling. “I… I’m trying to fight it. I really am. But Daddy… he… he tells me it’s the only way. That’s the only way I can survive.”

Dick’s eyes softened, despite the adrenaline and fear. “…You’re already surviving. You don’t need to be him. You don’t need to kill, to hurt. Not for him. Not for anyone. You’re better than him, Y/N.”

Her gaze faltered. “I… I still… I care about him, Dick. And I hate it. I hate that part of me. But I can’t… I can’t leave him. He’s… he’s my father.”

He stepped closer, careful to stay within her line of sight without threatening her. “He’s a monster. And he’s using you. That love, twisted as it is, isn’t real—it’s manipulation. And I… I can’t let him win, not with you.”

Tears blurred her vision. She dropped the knives, letting them clatter against the roof. “I don’t want to be like him… but I… I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Dick lowered his own weapon, slowly reaching out. “Then let me help you find out. You’re not alone. Not now, not ever. You don’t have to be the Joker. You can be yourself. The real Y/N.”

She flinched at his touch, then, trembling, let him take her hand. For the first time in months, her shoulders relaxed slightly. But the fear in her eyes remained—the fear of her father, of herself, of the world she’d been forced into.

“…I want to believe you,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I… I want to be me again.”

Dick’s jaw tightened. “…Then we start now. Together.”

The wind whipped across the rooftop, carrying the chaos of Gotham below, and for a brief, fragile moment, she let herself cling to him—not the Joker’s daughter, not a villain, just… a scared girl who wanted to be saved.

But she never spoke out loud. She never intervened. She never took her eyes off him when they’d beat him senseless.

He wanted to reach out, to tell her it was okay to fight back, that she didn’t have to pretend to be complicit. But he couldn’t. And she couldn’t.

The Capitol made sure of that.

The day it happened, Finnick knew something was wrong. There was a tension in the air, heavier than usual. The guards were harsher, the crowd darker, louder, more present. And he noticed her moving in an uncharacteristically hesitant way, her eyes flicking to him, a warning he didn’t understand.

Then it happened.

“They’ve decided she must be… corrected,” one of the officers barked, dragging her forward. Finnick froze. His chest tightened, stomach dropping into a pit that had no bottom. “She’s been too lax, too insubordinate. She cares too much for people who don’t matter.”

She looked at him once, just once, and her expression shattered his heart. No fear. No tears. Only… resolve.

“Come on, come on, escape, please,” he whispered to himself, voice lost among the Capitol’s jeers.

The execution was swift. Clean. Horrific. Finnick’s lungs refused air, his hands shaking violently as he tried to look away, but he couldn’t. He watched as she stood tall, defiant even as they ended her life to make him obey, to make him complicit.

And the last thing he saw was her jaw tightening one final time, a silent promise to him that she had tried. That she had fought, in the only way she could, to protect him.

Finnick fell to his knees afterward, unable to stop the tears. The Capitol’s laughter felt like fire in his veins, like knives twisting in his chest. Her sacrifice had been absolute, and it left a wound that no victory, no rebellion, could ever heal.

He never forgot her. Never forgot the way she had watched, the way she had tried to fight in silence, the way she had made the ultimate sacrifice so that he could live. He would never forget the way she used to slip him candy late at night while the guards were too drunk to notice her absence.

He would never forget the look of defiance on her face right before they executed her in the town square either.