Multi-Fandom One Shots

I See What I Do To People (Hilda and Zelda) NSFW

"Why did you leave?" Diana asked, gaining another glare from the eldest Spellman. You calmed Zelda on purpose with your hand, though accidentally with your laugh. "Let's not stir up that old drama. They're gone."

Diana looked toward the cemetery behind the house, for Spellmans and autopsies left unclaimed. Her disapproving mother-in-law had just been lowered into the ground that morning so she could guess the root of the 'drama'. Nodding, the mortal woman let the topic drop. Looking at her husband, the blonde could see he had wanted her to let it go as well. It was worse than she thought.

Ambrose touched your elbow to draw your attention next, back to him. "Did you visit Stonehenge?"

You flexed a stern eyebrow. "Did you visit the Vatican?" you reflected.

Ambrose was coy as he turned away. He never wanted you to know the full story, and so you let the truth fade into his memories. No matter how much you wanted to know, you had little right to push yourself into your son's immortal antics. He had nearly 40 years left of his sentence and each year was marked by letters you sent on every special occasion.

The sun touched the horizon and your magic was brewing again, seemingly of its own volition. You felt it when none of your surrounding family did.

Hilda was off in the kitchen again, baking and cooking the evening's supper, humming cheerily despite having just buried her mother for the final time. Zelda was off preparing a spare room "without you knowing". Ambrose was clearly tasked with distracting you until Edward dismissed him to do so himself. Your only brother sank beside you on the same couch, though you were permitted to sit on a cushion now. "So, how long are you staying this time?" Anytime you visited back when the mortuary/home was owned by your now-dead parents, you never so much as stayed the night. Now that they were gone, clearly everyone thought your days of leaving home were done.

You smiled adoringly at your older brother before turning your head to look out the window.

Edward followed your gaze, then deflated when he realized. You didn't practice as they did. The moon phases and star placement and geographic leylines made all the difference when it came to your craft. He couldn't follow it well enough to follow or limit you, but he understood enough to follow a silent explanation. "One of these days..."

You laughed. None of your family could control you, but that didn't stop them from trying. You were the youngest, if you didn't count your mortal in-law, though you were the black sheep. You were the most loved, though the most frowned upon. You bought into very little, borderline nothing, the family valued so highly. Your parents, your High Priest, even your oldest sister tried to alter your way of thinking, but you'd refused to change, to convert. Your father dropped to the ground, dead within a moment of you saying so. You almost thought he was faking, or being dramatic until he was buried later that same day. That was the longest you'd stayed in the Home until then and the longest since. Your mother had beaten you with mere inches of your life, and you'd lived that life, with them, for a month until Zelda first killed your older sister and buried her next to your father. You'd run away without another moment's hesitation, two years before your Dark Baptism. You only returned 20 years later, five measly years older, a powerful and capable witch of another brand. It wasn't for some time before your return that you understood Hilda was dead only temporarily. Your 16th birthday had passed without a hex or retrieving spell tossed your way, and you'd hoped they'd given up hope on you. You didn't return for nearly a century.

It was the Witching Hour when you appeared in your sisters' room and interrupted their sleep. You'd had an enraged and petulant pre-teen Ambrose holding your hand. They started awake and sat up in their respective beds, taking in your young son and your tear-streaked face. You told them your son wanted to respect his family's tradition and craft and the boy vehemently agreed. He jerked his hand from yours and your sister nearly came out of her bed. They took him in and taught him their filthy ways. It broke your heart, but you left before your mother discovered your return. You started your letters that year. Untraceable yet undoubtedly from you, Ambrose read them out loud on those holidays. But he didn't respond until after the Vatican. He never informed you of his terrorist attempt, though you always seemed to know anything he tried to keep from you. You visited some years, though you only stayed when both your mother and son approved and when your mother swore not to start shit. Her vows were rarely kept, but she grew weaker and weaker with every broken oath bound to her power.