#Supernatural Au

[jollyhunter]

"Love me the way you need me" - Part 1.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ COUPLE BadWolf!Dean x SweetVixen!Reader 🍓🥃 -> MASTERLIST

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WARNINGS Special Forces AU, SquadLeader!Dean, age gap, vulnerable!Dean, angsty!Dean, mention of blood, cuddly fluff, angst.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ NOTE This is the first part of two, starting off with fluff and angst. The second part's smut with fluff (and a tiny bit of angst in the end). I had originally intended to post them as a one shot, but separating them feels better to me since this one's pretty laden with angst and it didn't feel right to cut right to the spicy part after that lol. Hope y'all enjoy it <3

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY Dean returns home from a mission - a simple hunt, supposedly, until everything had gone to Hell real fast. As it often did. But this time he's shaken up more than you've ever witnessed him before.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 2,7k

The sound of boots clonking up the stairs echoes through the tranquil apartment complex. It’s early. Maybe 4, maybe 5 am. Dean couldn’t tell when he passed by another pair of identical doors on his way up.

His mind didn’t pay any attention to the names neatly placed next to every entrance. He genuinely couldn’t care less about all the John Smiths and Jane Does - the only thing that matters to him is the nameplate he’d always return to.

The one that reads your name right before ‘& Dean Winchester’.

Grunts and groans stir the serene atmosphere.

Dean came stumbling through the front door and into the corridor of your apartment. His feet shuffled underneath his swaying body, heavy from the effort to not keel over.

The moment he'd entered your home, everything smelled like you. Like his. Like the life you two have carefully built – built to last.

His stomach suddenly twists. The reminder that he had been no more than a hair's breadth away from getting sent to kingdoms come today – less than a goddamn blink of an eye from losing this all – hit him again.

He drags a heavy hand down his face, stopping it mid-way to rub the spot between his eyebrows and a cut on his nose which had dried by now. He tries his best to pull his attention away from the scene replaying in his very own 4D private mind-cinema. A groan drops off his busted lips. His head’s pounding from an impending headache. How does one turn this damn flick off?

Dean takes a step and – trips up. His shoulder bumps into the wall, but he manages to catch himself thanks to his quick reflexes in spite of being through the wringer. The wood and glass shudders next to him – his eyes snap sideways and his arm darts up to steady it.

For a moment, he allows his heavy eyes to settle on the frame that held one of your most recent memories;

In front of a summer field he’s leaned against the hood of Baby, you perched on his shoulders. Arms outstretched like some goofy kid. Beaming. Above it is your handwriting, in arched font, reading ‘Mama, Papa + Baby’.

A pun - you weren’t pregnant. Of course. But whenever he'd walk past the picture, he likes to let his dreams wander for a foolish moment and imagine what it might be like if you did start a family.

His index brushes along the frame before his hand drops down to his side with a heavy sigh. Damnit. Now there's a small stain of blood from his tainted fingerpad.

At least he didn’t send it to the ground. His presence was already enough of a crack in this perfect apple pie life.

He thinks for a moment, his eyes trailing off the wall and along the cutesy decorated corridor.

Picturesque. Yeah. That's how he'd call the home you two shared.

Your word, not his. He just picked it up over the months.

If it was up to him, he’d just describe it as the perfect apple pie life. Minus the white picket fence. You both could have one of those ridiculous fences, but for some reason you had been very adamant about staying in your apartment and him moving in with you.

For now, he’d call your apartment his new home. But he’d get you a house one day or another. He wanted that damn white picket fence, alright? It just comes with the apple pie life package.

Dean shuffles further inside, silently shutting the door behind him. Locking it. Once. Twice. The security chain clicked.

He turns to face the light at the end of the corridor. "Sweetheart?" His voice sounds hoarse. After a moment of silence he calls your name, this time with underlying worry evident.

Wait – it's like 5-friggin-am – why would you be up at this ungodly hour? He scolds himself mentally. After a beat, his shoulders slump.

Why did he suddenly feel so... lost.

Whenever he came home, he always felt like stepping into one of those ridiculously perfect and 'aesthetical' (whatever the hell that meant) pinterest pictures you’d show him.

If it wasn’t for you, he’d feel utterly out of place.

There’s a ridiculously stark contrast between his broad, rugged figure and the way he's surrounded by nothing but objects and furniture he was sure he’d find in pinterest’s ‘cozy’ section.

The morning sun peers past the gaps between the curtains, their golden rays flooding the living room, at the end of the hallway. The soft light doesn’t dare to enter the corridor he’s in, though, leaving him in the dark.

He looks down at his beat up form. Probably for the best he can’t see the entire extent of it.

He kicks off his worn out black boots and pulls off his socks. A sharp exhale leaves his battered nose as his feet sink into the soft carpet that looked like a poodle flattened by a truck.

You’d fought him tooth and nail when you clutched the damn thing under your arm on one of your rare shopping trips. “Dean! Warm homes need a warm welcome!” You had explained to him as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “And I want you to feel warm and fuzzy the moment you return home.” What could he say? He couldn’t argue with that. Thank God he didn’t.

His aching feet felt like stepping onto clouds – in fact they felt numb, now that they were freed from his boots and planted into the familiar soft underground for the first time for what felt like weeks. But it's the good kind of numb.

His eyes note the faint red stain forming on the curly fur that tingles his toes.

Huh, now it looks even more like a steamrolled poodle.

He begins to undo the straps of his tactical suit, his movements sluggish no matter where his limbs go. Then he slips out of his vest, discarding the heavy gear on the floor of the entrance.

He’d police up his shit later. For now he just wanted to strip himself of this damn job.

Next, his coarse fingers start to fumble with the zipper of his jacket. It takes him a moment to unzip the damn thing with the fabric still sticking to his sweat-soaked skin. With a heavy breath, he leans against the wall, shedding the tactical gear off his shoulders. He unbuckles his belt and continues to strip himself of the rest of his suit, layer after layer. The black fabric pools at his feet, along damp clothings, leaving him in just his boxers and a white shirt.

He combs his fingers through his matted hair, ruffling it and ridding himself of some leftover dirt from when he’d been dragged across a gravel path. Multiple times, actually. But he’d keep that information to himself. A hiss comes through his gritted teeth when his hand accidentally rubs over a bump.

Yeah. He was sure he looked bad enough without the additional details.

His worn-out body pushes through the pain of his aching muscles with every shaky step. The familiar smell of your favourite tea hangs in the air when he rounds the corner to the living room.

His eyes dart around the four walls in search for his safe haven. Like a ship in distress. Heart swelling when he spots a curled up form on the leather couch across the room, illuminated by stray rays. The mug's sat on the coffee table, next to it a favourite book of yours, open and turned over like you'd just placed it down a second ago.

Did you wait for him last night and fell asleep on the couch?

When he pads over to you, he can't help but smile softly at the way you had nestled up like a kitten. Cozy blanket wrapped around you like a tortilla with only your face sticking out. Eyes shut closed, breaths slow and expression peaceful. Face dipped in a warm colour by a streak of light from the window next to him.

For a moment he just stands next to the couch, watching your soft puffs of breaths play with some stray hairs of yours. He then crouches down next to you, careful to not wake you. The yellow sprinkles across the emerald glades of his eyes turn them whiskey coloured in the golden morning light.

"Hey, love." He murmurs under his breath, the sound of it almost reverend. His hand moves to brush back a stray hair behind your ear, but he stills mid-air.

His fingers shake. His jaw clenches as his focus shifts to his knuckles. Battered, still bloody. Worst was, he couldn't even tell whether it was his own or of one of the damn things that tried - and failed - to kill him.

A soft noise leaves your parted lips and thankfully draws Dean's attention back to you.

God, you're so peaceful. Is this what peace looks like?

His hand drops down to his thigh. He'll never know.

Drained of energy, he pushes himself to his feet and carefully crawls over your body where he collapses down next to you.

You feel a heavy blanket envelop you from behind. A content hum and you shift in your sleep, instinctively nestling into the warmth. Soon the blanket begins to tickle the side of your neck with tingling bristles brushing your soft skin. Then a warm waft of air licks at your cheeks, enough to make your face scrunch up.

Wait – why does your blanket smell like sweat and musk?

It takes you a moment to register the familiar scent, and just when your eyes flutter open, you feel a deep chuckle rumble against your back.

“Dean..?” You mumble, your mind still catching up with your words.

“Yeah,” He nuzzles his nose into your hair, inhaling your soothing scent before he continues in a raucous voice, “’s me, sweetheart. I’m back.”

You hum, your lips melted into an affectionate smile, “I missed you.” And you attempt to turn in his arms to face him properly but he stops you before you get to roll over, his arms tightly locked around your chest and his forehead pushed into the back of your head.

He doesn’t say anything, just holds you tight with your back pressed into his chest. You feel how his heartbeat thuds in a steady rhythm and smell the hint of smoke that still sticks to his skin.

Hm, a simple salt and burn job, you conclude.

Oh if only it had been just that.

“I missed you too,” he murmurs your name into your hair, the sound of it gravel and low. Exhausted. Relieved.

The tone of his voice has you perk up. Your sleep-addled mind instantly kicks into action and you manage to angle your head enough to get a glance at his face despite his protests.

Your breath hitches at the sight.

That was not a simple salt and burn.

Dean winces at the way your eyes widen in shock.

“I’m fine,” he quickly reassures you. The words raspy when they tumbled off his split lip.

You wanted to believe him, you truly did.

But it was hard to believe that he wasn’t just trying ease your worries when all you could see was streaks of crimson framing his tired eyes. Between them, dark sprinkles mixed with his freckles. The cut across the bridge of his nose had crusted, so has the blood that covered parts of his left cheekbone and temple which ended somewhere in his stubbles. Clearly, a reminder of whatever had almost slashed his face. Almost. Your stomach twists at the thought.

“...Dean, you-”

“Hey, hey, I said I’m fine, sweetheart, don’t worry.”

No joke. No cocky smirk. No chuckle that turns into a cough halfway.

Panic begins to rise inside your chest.

“We gotta clean you up, I’ll get the emergency kit-” You twist and turn in his arms but when you realize he’s still not easing up, you suddenly understand Dean’s not holding but clinging to you. That’s also when you notice his hands are shaking. The same moment his fingers quickly bury themselves in the fabric of your pyjama, making you question whether you’d just imagined it.

“Baby, c’mon, listen - hey –” he husks out your name, his hands now all of a sudden steady and firm as they catch yours to intertwine your fingers with his. “Just- just believe me for a sec, okay?”

You still. Your eyes search his, then trail off to his injuries again, taking note of the exhaustion that’s carved into each of his features.

You nod. Although on the inside you shake your head violently.

Dean’s jaw tenses under your intense gaze. Every muscle in his face is fighting to keep it together. He manages to pull a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. And you're both aware of it. Damnit.

His eyes dart to the ground.

It’s right about now, he wished he’d been more careful to not wake you. Should have resisted the urge to feel close to you. Shouldn’t give in to the pathetic need to just hide in the safety of your innocent presence.

Dean startles when your hand suddenly comes to his face, cupping it and gently stroking below the bruised cheekbone. His eyes snap up to meet yours again, where he can see the worry still stinging your eyes. And it’s too much.

His eyes flutter closed and he drops his forehead to your shoulder, making you startle in his embrace.

You both stay silent for a while. Your hand went back to interlace your fingers, thumb caressing the coarse skin of is tainted knuckles. The only sound that's filling your ears being his ragged breaths right next to you. Worry begins to gnaw at you.

But then thankfully Dean moves a few inches before he mumbles into your shoulder, muffled slightly by it.

“Can we just stay this way..?”

Your heart drops. But you catch it again, for his sake.

“Of course, baby,” you whisper, lips pressed to his hair with a tense smile. And even though you wanted nothing more than him to look at you, you were grateful he couldn’t see your expression right now, because every fibre inside you screamed at you to get up and tend to his wounds before they’d get infected or –

“Just… Need to feel you… please.” he interrupts your thoughts with his husky admission.

Your heart clenches at the sound of his voice. His words. The tiny ‘please’, barely audible.

Fingers still intertwined with his, you give him a gentle squeeze before you tilt your head to nuzzle it against his, careful not to irritate any of his injuries.

“You promise, you’ll let me fix you up first thing before I make us breakfast in the morning?”

“Hm,” he grunts weakly into the crook of your neck.

“That’s my good boy.” You praise him, trying your best to lighten the mood.

And if the circumstances would have been any different, you were convinced this would have earned yourself a moan of his. At least it managed to draw a short sound out of his throat that didn’t make you wince inwardly.

You lower your head to place a gentle kiss onto his forehead, your voice dropped to a soothing murmur as you continue, “I’m here, Dean… I’ve got you…‘M not going anywhere, promise.”

With his head buried in the safety of your neck, he pulls you further into his chest, his arms tightly wrapped around you as if he was a drowning man, clinging onto the only piece of wood in the entire ocean.

It makes breathing harder on your end. But you don’t protest, realizing this is what he needs now.

You’re his lifeline.

You feel his lips move against the skin of your exposed shoulder again.

And even though you can barely make out anything he’s mumbling, you just manage to catch the sound of a broken ‘thanks’ right before he goes silent for the next hours.

“The Bad Wolf & The Sweet Vixen” + Dean Tag List @aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @champagnepoets @livya99 @salemslostwitch

❀ꗥ Want to join my TAG LIST? Fill out this form!

[supernotnatural2005]

Gahhh! I have no words, but then so many!

This was beautiful and intense, and heartbreaking all at once!

I’m so glad you didn’t let her push him away, and that he stayed! The relief i felt! 😮‍💨 And Cas is such an amazing bestie! 😭 he’s exactly what she needs, that tough love!

And the ride home! Could Dean be anymore perfect!!!!?

He’s so patient and careful with her! And i love that he’s the one taking care of her, it’s perfect 🥹

I love this story so much!! I can’t wait for the next chapter! 😭❤️❤️❤️

Rearview - Chapter 6 - Still Here

Summary: You wake up in the hospital with Cas at your side, and Dean rushes in the find you. The two of you talk of 'unpinning' things.

Characters: Dean, Cas, others

Word Count: 5.1K

Warnings: medical inaccuracies, reader is always guilty for something smh, stressed out dean + cas, dr. Linda tran is badass, these warnings are a warning, trauma, denial of bad habits, cursing, I DONT EVER PROOFREAD

Author's Note: did you know im criminally insane

Songs: Break by Alex_g_offline, Thank You by Led Zeppelin

Series Masterlist - Chapter 7

You still have the goddamn headache when you wake up.

Even through your slightly squinted view, the curtained corner of the triage room was still a bit bright, and all too sterile for your senses. There’s an itch where the I.V. drip is inserted in your wrist. The tang from the disinfectant is overwhelming and has been worsening the dull throb in your head. Your whole body feels weighted down, but you’re sure you don’t want to stand up anytime soon. Selfishly, this is the only rest you’ve gotten in about a month, and for once, you push the rest of the anxiety of the hospital bill, and time off from work and school, to the back of your mind. 

The room is smaller than you would think, but then again, they’ve stationed wheeled machines on the left and right of the bed. The three walls around you are painted a frosted mint color, and the accompanying curtain that acts as a fourth wall in front of you is a sickening yellowed khaki, reminding you of stains you’ve seen in old carpet. There isn’t much noise besides the residual beeping of your now-steady heartbeat and your soft breathing. Occasional footsteps of nurses breezing past your room sounded, and quiet murmuring of doctors and patients. 

The I.V. itches.

You drag your right hand to your forearm, scratching just above the puncture site before a hand lightly smacks it away.

“Stop that.” Cas scolds flatly.

Sighing, you bring your worn-out gaze to him, sitting directly next to the bed in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. Cas doesn’t look at you as he hunches over, his elbows resting on his knees. He looks tired too, and though you initially look to glare at his chiding, the same, old familiar guilt starts to sink in– he stayed. After his fuming lecture about your lack of self-care, he still bothered to stay with you as the ambulance brought you to the hospital. You didn’t deserve him. Not after your attitude toward him recently. Your eyes soften instead as you watch him for a couple of seconds.

“You had work.” You frown, saying it like you weren’t also working at the same time.

Cas deadpans, still not turning to you, “I wanted to be here to be the one to say, ‘I told you so’.”

You huff a bit of laughter at that, quirking up a brow at his remark, before exhaling deeply, as if the guilt would leave with your breath. “Yeah…yeah, I deserve that.”

Despite his reigned anger, he does move his head to you, looking over your face like he’s still trying to find something wrong. He’s still concerned but attempts to remain neutral.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fi–”

“Try again.”

You huff, mouth still open from your answer as you hold back the rest of that statement- embellishment, rather. It honestly is a force of habit at this point, and Cas probably knows that by now, too. But, he’s right. It’s obvious that he values the truth in your wellness more than your care about “burdening” him with it.

“My head hurts and I’m tired, but I feel better.” You acquiesce with a slight jut of your head for emphasis.

“Well, I would hope so. You passed out in the middle of the kitchen.” Cas mutters your name, stressing the situation.

“Oh, fuck. Was Roy mad that you left?” You wince as you ask, hoping that Cas still has a job after your fuck-up.

“Roy insisted I go with you– he wanted someone to update the team on your condition. He took care of our tables, and said he would have the other servers run food or cash them out.” Cas explains, reassuringly.

You close your eyes in realization, sinking back into the uncomfortably firm pillow they set behind you as the memories come flooding back to you,  “My tables– your tables…”

Cas scoffs, shaking his head with incredulity, “Do you ever think about yourself?”

You don’t answer him as you turn to him with apologetic doe-eyes, brows lowering with guilt, “I’m sorry.”

His face gentles, and lacks the frustrated worry it had before, “I don’t need an apology. I just need you to care for yourself.”

“Still,” you grimace at your shameful behavior as of late towards him, when all he did was care, “You didn’t deserve me fighting you. I just… I’m so tired of being treated like I can’t handle–” Your words cut off, trying to find the words, or maybe just the word, for the scenario. It’s hard, and you’re unsure if you’d be able to finish the thought even with a clear head.

“I get it, but you don’t need to handle this on your own. Nobody should handle this on their own. With what’s going on? What you’re going through?” Cas’ face tightens with sympathy.

With what’s going on.

With what you’re going through.

Nick– the text.

Your phone.

You hardly acknowledge the increasing rate of beeping from one of the machines you're connected to. Your face blanches as you remember what landed you hear in the first place.

Cas’ eyes dart to the heart rate monitor as he hears it pick up, and he looks worriedly between you and the machine, “What?”

“Cas, I need my phone.”

His face scrunches with troubled perplexity, “What?”

The curtain is roughly pulled back, and the minimal privacy between you and the ER dissipates as a wide-eyed Dean finds your face.

“Hey,” Dean breathed. His voice is quiet, mixed with anxiousness and relief all in one, but his eyes restlessly rake all over your form on the bed, trying to find the source of injury or ailment or reason you’re here.

“Hey… Dean?” you blink, mouth agape. How, why–

You didn’t even have time to think before Dean strides over to the opposite side of the bed where there’s space, and he pants, out of breath like he had run here, “You alright? What the hell happened?” 

“She fainted,” Cas answers bitterly.

You whine, “Cas–”

“You fainted?” Dean repeats alarmed, his glance bounces between you and Cas- for some kind of explanation.

“She’s been overworking herself–” Cas continues, ignoring your protest.

“Cas–”

“And she hasn’t been sleeping or eating properly. And she’s severely stressed.” 

“Cas, I am right here.”

Cas directs his gaze to you, with a pointed expression as enunciates with frustration, “You don’t admit to the complete truth.” 

Dean disgruntledly snorts with apparent agreement, turning to you with a look almost like betrayal, now with concern more than panic.

“This have anything to do with the whole dizzy spell you had last night when I dropped you off?” Dean accusingly points his finger at your sickly form.

Now it’s Cas’ turn.

He whips his head to you with a set jaw, your name scoldingly leaving his lips once more at your refusal to tell anyone anything.

“Oh my God,” you groan petulantly, staring up at the ceiling in a silent plea.

“Everything alright, ma’am?” 

All three heads turn back to the half-opened curtain when a shorter woman in a white coat steps through wearily to the foot of the bed, eyeing the boys with a narrowed gaze. She was smaller than them for sure, but she radiated a kind of assertiveness. Her thin black hair accentuates her sharp features on her face, toughening her exterior slightly. Her name tag on the pocket of her breast pocket reads “Dr. Tran”.

“Oh, yeah- everything’s fine.” You try diffusing the stressful air that seems to linger in the room.

She looks at you with care and concern, though the boys get a side-eye still, and it almost makes you laugh. Though you didn’t…it might’ve been inappropriate timing.

“Okay, well, my name is Dr. Tran, and I wanted to tell you the results of the tests that we ran,” she warmly introduces herself as she brings up the clipboard that’s been at her side, “Obviously, we’ve ruled out major diagnoses from the blood test. You did come in fairly dehydrated, so we’ve got you on a drip here, along with a cocktail of some vitamins and minerals for you. Your white and red blood cell count is relatively normal, but we’ve noticed some minor deficiencies due to possible malnutrition." The doctor refers to the chart, dragging along her pen on to each level she reads, "Sodium, potassium, iron are all dipping on the lower end of the scale along with electrolytes and blood sugar. These mainly tell us that your diet needs to be changed. If you don't mind, what do you normally eat in a day?”

You swallow nervously. You don’t even remember the last thing you ate.

Dr. Tran looks up expectantly, and at your hesitation, softly requests, “Forgive me for asking so bluntly, but is there any history of an eating disorder that we should be aware of?”

You shake your head vigorously with defense, “N-No, I’m not– it’s not that. I just,” you sigh shamefully, “I go to class and work and, honestly, it just slips my mind most days and I forget, and I should know better.”

The shame in your voice seems to shut down that train of thought for Dr. Tran, and she nods expressionlessly, possibly holding back her judgment, “Your deficiencies aren’t at a severe low yet, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be if this habit continues. You need to be eating meals with 500-700 calories, or get back to a daily count of around 2000– more if you are physically active.”

“We’ll make sure she eats,” Dean crosses his arms, determination set on his face. Cas nods to Dr. Tran as well.

She seems to lighten her gaze slightly at them, “Well, that’s what I like to hear. Now, as far as the other tests we’ve run, the EKG came back with no heart irregularities aside from your heart rate itself. It’s about 10-15 beats per minute faster than it should be. Your friend, Mr. Novak, here–” she glances at him with acknowledgment, “told me you have inconsistent sleeping patterns, and that you are dealing with severe stress almost daily, and possible panic attacks. Is that correct?”

Dean’s eyes feel heavy as they meet yours for a second before you look away.

Your gaze falls to the bed, avoiding eye contact from everyone in the room. You bite your cheek, feeling your face grow warm, and answer her with a reluctant huff, “Yeah, kinda.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dr. Tran said, and you believe her sincerity, “That being said, based on all the test results and what Mr. Novak described before you lost consciousness, we are confident this was caused by a combination of your exhaustion, stress, and anxiety—what we would classify as an episode related to Acute Stress Disorder. We've even gotten a second-opinion from our psychologist on hand, who normally does the evaluations. It’s not uncommon, considering you are under a significant amount of stress, not sleeping well, and not eating enough. Your body essentially decided to do a whole system reboot, like when a computer crashes from too many tabs open.”

You scoff, and you’re not even sure at what. The diagnosis, the doctor, yourself. It seems like such a mockery. That you really couldn’t do all this yourself. That you weren’t strong enough. That Nick is still somehow getting the better of you after all this.

“Okay, so– so, what does that mean? We can get her back home today, and she’ll be okay?” Dean anxiousness gets the better of him, and he brings his thumbnail to his lip, absent-mindedly fidgeting as he stands next to your bed.

Dr. Tran inhales, considering the question, “Most likely, yes. We want you to stay for a little while, just to be sure there aren’t any more episodes, but you will be able to go home tonight. As far as your health–” she gives you a more stern look, “pay attention to your body. If you feel dizzy, sit down. If you’re tired, rest. If you have a headache, eat. Drink plenty of water. Your body needs to relax, and so does your head. The stress can be the biggest factor and if not taken care of, can lead to other problems.”

Cas moves to stand up, pushing off of his knees, “Everything is manageable except the stress. She’s prone to it.”

Your glare slightly at Cas.

Dr. Tran speaks up, “We already have a psychiatrist referral for you once you check out today, as well as two medications. We’re going to give you Ativan tablets for the next three days on a low dosage– around 0.5mg– which will help with panic attacks or sleep. Don’t take it unless you have to, and no more than twice a day. If you need to, you should take it an hour before you plan to go to sleep or if you experience heavy stress or panic. We’re also prescribing you two month’s supply of Zoloft– which is an anti-anxiety and an antidepressant. Take it in the morning right after you eat breakfast. We, the hospital, can’t renew prescriptions once you’re out but we can give the psychiatrist we referred your information, and they can discuss further options if you find that it’s working for you.”

You weren’t going to see a psychiatrist. You didn’t even know if you were going to take the medication. What if it hinders your ability to keep an eye out for the Challenger? Your ability to stay sharp? The whole idea of taking it is to make sure you’re dopey and unaware of your surroundings.

Stewing in your own thoughts and silence, Cas speaks up for you, “Thank you, Dr. Tran.”

“Of course, let me know if there’s anything you need. You boys are welcome to stay if you don’t cause my patient any stress.” She warns thoughtfully, giving the boys a hard stare.

“Yes, ma’am.” They both say in unison.

Dr. Tran nods approvingly, then looks back to you, “Let me know if they give you any trouble and I’ll get them out.”

You smile half-heartedly at that, but it fades quickly after you quietly reply, “They can stay.”

The doctor gives a courteous nod before allowing the three of you your privacy again. Emotional silence consumes the room at the clinking of the curtain being slid closed. Just the whirring of the machines is heard as the information soaks in– to everyone.

Dean’s gaze is on you, and you can see him look at you a few times in your peripheral vision as your eyes travel around the room in thought. You clear your throat some.

“Cas, uh, you mind giving us a minute?” 

You can see Cas sensing the tension between you and Dean, and nods understandingly, taking a couple of steps to the small gap between the curtain and the wall.

“Sure. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Cas–” You call out before he’s out of sight completely.

He halts, looking at you as he holds the curtain open.

You give him a pained, tight-lipped smile laced with guilt, but overwhelmingly more appreciative, “Thank you,” your voice barely above a whisper, the emotion so thick that you could crack at any moment, “For being here. And for caring enough to get angry at me, and giving it to me straight, even if I didn’t want it.”

Cas scoffs, though he replies with a lopsided grin, “Of course.” And he steps out.

And now to handle this situation.

You risk a glance at Dean, who hasn’t made any effort to move to the chair. He stands with his fingers rubbing gently at his forehead, before raking them through his prince-charming-like-mane. His expression is rather blank, but the slight crinkle in his brow gives him away, and you feel awful.

Inhaling, you ask gently, easing into it, “Did Cas call you?”

Dean runs his lip between his teeth before answering curtly, his hand moving to hips “Yeah.”

He starts to pace you notice, walking along from one side of the curtain to the other. The hand that just swept through his hair meets his chin now. He fidgets a lot when he’s stressed, you notice.

You can’t help but wonder if he’s over your bullshit. If this is the last straw, and he’s working his way to tell you that he’s through with this–that he’s done. Hell, you’re not even official yet and he’s already here to see you at the hospital, somewhere after eleven o’clock at night, when he could be sleeping, or out with another girl who would’ve probably got him laid by now. You don’t think you would even question if he would leave, you don’t even understand why he stays.

You take a deep breath in, “Dean…” Your voice is weak, slightly strained with emotion. You clear your throat. “I’m—I’m so sorry you had to come all the way out here this late.”

Dean stops pacing. His head tilts slightly like he can’t believe what he just heard. Then, with a sharp breath, he mutters your name into his hands and drags them down his face before turning toward you, his voice raw with frustration.

“I don’t give a damn about that,” he says, words low but firm. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

There’s an edge to his voice, barely reining in his frustration. Something ignites behind his eyes—something sharp and scared and just barely contained.

Something twists deep in your gut.

But Dean’s not done.

“I mean,” he scoffs, shaking his head, “I get skipping a meal every now and then. I get forgetting to drink enough water. It’s not good, but it happens. But this?” His gaze flickers over the drip in your arm, the heart monitor beside you, the fresh hospital band around your wrist. His expression darkens but remains level still.

“You passed out. Your body shut down for a second.”

His voice drops lower, but there’s no mistaking the urgency in it. “What the hell is going on with you? Why won’t you tell me?”

Your throat tightens.

You attempt to keep your breathing steady, to keep the monitor beside you from reflecting the way your pulse wants to skyrocket. So much for Dr. Tran’s warning. “Dean, I can tell you,” you say carefully, “but I–.” You exhale shakily. “I figured it was easier to keep to myself. I didn’t want you to take it personally, I wasn’t talking to Cas about everything, and I hate talking about it, and every day it just seems to be getting worse and worse–”

Dean steps closer. “What’s getting worse?”

You shake your head. Unsure. Afraid.

Dean’s voice is quieter this time, yet somehow stronger. “What’s getting worse?”

The words come out before you can stop them. 

“I’m giving you an out.”

Dean freezes.

His brows pull together, the frustration flickering into something else. “What?”

You can hardly bring yourself to look at him when your chest feels like it’s caving in. “I’m giving you an out,” you echo, voice barely above a whisper. “You can walk away, and I wouldn’t blame you. I get it. You don’t need this, Dean. You don’t need someone who’s barely got their shit together, who’s got so much fucking baggage—” The words leave your mouth like they cause you physical pain.

And Dean looks like the words hit him just as hard, like you just knocked the wind out of him. 

Then, slowly, he shakes his head. “That what you think?” His voice is rough, unreadable.

Your misty eyes fall on him again. Unanswering.

He looks at you, hurt in his gaze. “You want me to leave?”

You force yourself to speak. “No.”

Dean exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head again. His voice rises, “Then stop trying to push me out.”

You close your eyes, trying to keep yourself together. You kick yourself because you know you’re pushing him out, and dammit you don’t want to. 

You hear him say exasperatedly, “You don’t think I have baggage?”

You hold your eyelids down tightly, not squeezing them, but with enough pressure to know that a tear isn’t going to escape just yet. Those words, his words… they makes you stop.

Dean does have baggage. His mom died when he was four years old. His deadbeat father is pressuring him into giving up the rest of his career–his life– to his mechanic shop, because he wouldn’t. He’s practically guilted into it. And Dean doesn’t need to tell you all that. You can see it in the way he tells you that he feels he “owes” it to his father, even when Dean was the one who grew up too fast– when he was the emotional scapegoat of his broken family. Because he had to take care of Sammy, and his dad. You can read it plainly off his face that he feels like he has a priceless debt to pay.

And hell, you watched him talk about Lisa. You can’t assume as much there, but you know it’s affected him. He didn’t bring her up in a positive context. 

And still, with all the trouble, he stands in front of you.

The lump in your throat doesn’t move, but only seems to grow.

You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to do with the way he looks at you like he gives a damn, with the way his voice is just a little too raw, his fidgeting a little too restless. The way his anger is born out of concern, not the hate you were used to.

The way he hadn’t even made a step closer to exit through the curtain, only taking steps to you.

The devil on your shoulder tells you that he should leave– for his own good. Or that you should leave him.

But he is still here. Waiting for you.

And damn it, you need this to work.

When you open your eyes again, you breathe out, “The pin.”

“What?”

“We put a pin in it,” you murmur. “I’m unpinning some of it. I can’t here, but…”

Dean watches you, piecing it together.

“Your ex.” He says, certain, and his expression morphs into something softer.

Your lips pressed together as you nod.

And he nods. “Okay.”

It’s irrational– you know it is– but even just the thought of being in the passenger seat again makes your stomach drop. 

Dean’s voice is already softer as he steps into your field of vision, “Sweetheart, you’re not walking.”

Your pulse skyrockets beneath your ribcage. You sink the heels of your palms into your eyes, bringing your head down as your elbows sit on your knees.

Cas steps closer behind you, closer to the front of the bed as you’ve fully sat up at the edge. “Dean’s driven me plenty of times—safely, might I add.” His attempt at lightness is met with a wavering breath, which was supposed to be a scoff.

Dean nods, bringing himself closer to where you sit, so he can slightly kneel in front of you, so he’s at your level, pulling at your hands so he can find your eyes, as he soothes, “Listen, sweetheart. I’m gonna drive under the speed limit. I’ll take back roads— the least busiest roads I know. And if you want me to pull over for a break, I will.” 

Dr. Tran watches the interaction, and gently adds, “You can go ahead and take the Ativan now. It’ll help take the edge off, and you won’t feel as anxious during the ride. It doesn’t take too long to kick in.”

Hesitation claws at your ribs as you try to form words. It’s not a no, but you don’t know how to give an okay. 

“Dean,” a weak beg leaves your lips, your glistening eyes pleading at him.

You can almost see Dean’s heart break for you, and he carefully holds your wrists in his hands, tenderly grazing his thumb across them, and his voice somehow gets softer as his eyes lock onto yours. “I promise you, you’ll be safe.”

Cas presses the bottle into your hand, and you turn your head to it, your face is the picture of absolute dread. You huff defeatedly, trying to stare it out of existence, but your arm betrays you and tugs loosely from Dean’s hand.

It was decided that Dean would have you wait for the Ativan to fully kick in, so he opted to drive Cas back to Silver & Flames, where he left his car so he could join you in the ambulance (where he gave the EMTs a hard time about it to the point where they had told him that he could ride with, so long as he was out of the way). 

You hate to admit it but you did feel the Ativan taking the initial edge off by the time Dean had returned to the hospital, though it is not gone. Just dulled– like the panic has been wrapped in cotton, just enough so that you were taking controlled, even breaths with minimal struggle.

Dean parks a short distance into the lot, which makes you take very short strides.

The hospital sign buzzes as you walk under it, following Dean with a bit of sluggishness.

Dean perks up from in front of you, turning his head back, waiting in his steps so you can catch up with him. His shoulder brushes yours, and he moves his right hand to the small of your back– not pushing you, just guiding you.

“I know it’s not ideal, but you do get to meet my Baby. You two will get along great, I promise.” He encouragingly smirks down at you.

You lean into his hand that rests on your back, as your lips barely twitch up in acknowledgment, though it’s not exactly comforting at this moment.

Though, you know his car the moment you see it.

It’s just as he said it was– the black 1967 Chevrolet Impala.

If you hadn’t known you would be riding in the passenger seat in the car or drugged out on anti-anxiety meds, you can confidently say you would’ve gawked. 

Dean keeps walking with you even as your steps slow until you stop a couple of feet away from the passenger side. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

You take slightly heavier breaths.

You can hear him mutter your name, trying to pull you from your muddled thoughts.

“I can’t.” You swallow, backing away slightly, turning away from the car as the panic tries to dig its way out of the cotton.

“Yes, you can, sweetheart. Come here,” Dean lightly grasps your forearms as they find your middle, and pulls them back to your sides. “I’m one of the safest damn drivers you will ever meet. You think I would do anything to jeopardize your safety? Hell, or even my car?” 

You shake your head, frustrated with yourself at this point, “I don’t distrust you. It’s just, I know it’s stupid–”

Dean cuts you off, “Hey, it’s not stupid if you’re bent outta shape from it. Okay? Listen, I’m gonna hug one lane the whole time and take easy streets, and we’ll be at my place in no time. I live less than ten minutes from here.”

Dean’s hands let go of your forearms as he reaches over to the passenger, opening the door for you with a reassuring smile. He walks back out from behind it as you wearily watch him, and he extends his hand to you to gently pull you closer to him– not the car. His hand is comforting to be in, calloused but warm and inviting as he gives yours a light squeeze. He doesn’t let go, even as he backs himself and you into the side of the open car. He lets you get in on your own time, and he makes sure you’re buckled in before he closes your door and rounds the car to the driver’s side.

The drive is slow, just like he promised. It’s inevitable for the city traffic to quiet or dull, but Dean finds alternative routes that you didn’t even know existed, and you begin to ease into the ride. There’s a low hum of classic rock playing through the speakers, it sounds like Led Zeppelin, and you focus on that for a while.

Dean focuses on driving. He catches you in his view when he yields to the right or makes a turn, but he lets you sit, lets you breathe.

By the time he pulls up outside his apartment complex, you aren’t exactly sure how long it’s been. Dean said it was a ten-minute drive but you would’ve also bought if he said it’s been an hour. The exhaustion is creeping up on you as the effects of the medication linger.

You miss Dean’s proud smile at you when he gets out of the car first, rounding Baby so he can reach for the handle.

“Dean, I can—”

“I want to,” his voice is distant, muffled as the door still separates you, and he cuts off whatever protest you were saying with his signature smirk. 

He offers a hand to you as he opens the door for you to step out of the car, a little disoriented, but the kiss that lands on the crown of your head grounds you. Steadies you.

His complex doesn’t have a lobby like yours, so there are two flights of stairs that seem to drag on forever or get longer, and steeper. Dean stays behind you the whole time, not yet having to push you forward, but his arm hovers a couple of times.

His apartment is nothing less than what you expect. It’s not exactly lively with decoration and color, but his living room furniture matches and actually compliments his space rather well. And you gotta give him credit where it’s due– he has a coffee table in front of the sofa and a painting hanging above the TV.

The plus is that it’s a studio. He gets it all to himself.

“I figure I’ll give you a grand tour when you’re better rested, but it ain’t too much.” Dean steps in behind you after locking the door, watching you, making sure you don’t break in front of him.

And you don’t. You turn around to him with a small grin, “You don’t have to worry about me. If you have a bed or couch, that’s perfect.”

Dean flashes his teeth slightly in amusement, and looks to you warmly, “I’ll take the couch.”

Your brows furrow as you look at him, “Why would you take the couch in your own apartment?”

“Because. At La Casa de Dean, women who come home from the hospital get the most comfortable sleeping arrangements.” Dean’s intonation firms slightly, but his face remains gentle and playful.

After a moment, you meet his eyes again, “You can stay. With me then.”

He takes a moment to really read your face, checking to make sure it wasn’t guilt, but rather a want for him to stay near. “You sure?”

You nod, “Yeah, I am,” you look down as you let out a deep exhale, “We can unpin… everything tomorrow if that’s okay. I’m not trying to keep anything from you but, the Ativan is just–”

Dean purses his lips as he shakes his head, “No– I want you to get your rest first. Absolutely.”

For the first time tonight, you feel a true sense of relief. It breeds the grateful smile on your face, and you lean into Dean. A hand meets the back of your head, and you feel a little safer again.

A/N: ngl its four am im eepy

taglist: @suckitands33 @globetrotter28 @supernotnatural2005 @star-yawnznn

[wint3rbog]

season 4 smoke breaks

[patterspoon]

everything in its place

and everything has its role

yes, I inspire fear

but I take away the pain

[lactaidsaveme]

Skystar mermaid au with selkie Dratchet au on the side

[arxiwon]

could you write an extended version of sunghoon turning his lover into a vampire? i’m curious to see how he’ll act when his lover finds out that he turned them with no hesitation regardless of the consequences :0

No Way Out | psh

Pairing: Vampire!Sunghoon × Reader

Genre: Angst, Supernatural, Romance, Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Blood, turning without consent, emotional conflict, existential crisis, mild possessiveness, suggestive themes, vampire instincts, intense emotions

U can read for the OT7 Thread too

Synopsis:

Sunghoon never hesitated. He never second-guessed. When faced with losing you forever, he did the only thing he could—he turned you. But now, as you wake in his arms, the weight of his decision crashes down on both of you. You didn't get a choice. You weren’t ready. The hunger, the loss, the new eternity ahead of you—it’s too much. And yet, despite the anger, despite the pain, there’s one truth you can’t deny. You don’t want to be without him either.

But love like this has never been soft—it’s sharp, unrelenting, and inescapable. Now, you must decide: Will you embrace the darkness with him, or will it tear you both apart?

The taste of blood lingered on his lips.

Sunghoon hadn’t thought. He hadn’t hesitated. He had only acted on instinct, on desperation, on the sheer terror of losing you.

Now, as you lay unconscious in his arms, the sharp scent of iron thick in the air, he felt a slow, creeping dread settle in his chest. His grip on you tightened. You were still, far too still, and for a moment, the horrifying thought that maybe he had done it wrong—maybe he had been too late—began to gnaw at his mind.

But then, your fingers twitched. A shaky breath left your parted lips.

And your eyes shot open.

The change was immediate. The soft warmth in your gaze had been swallowed by something darker, something feral. Your pupils dilated unnaturally, and your breathing came in short, uneven gasps. You looked different—still you, but sharper, more hauntingly beautiful in a way that sent a shiver down Sunghoon’s spine.

You sat up abruptly, body trembling. Your hands clutched at your throat, then your chest, confusion twisting your features. You could hear everything—the rustle of the wind outside, the soft hum of electricity in the walls, the way Sunghoon’s breath hitched when your gaze finally locked onto him.

And then it hit you.

The hunger.

It was overwhelming, suffocating. A burning pain clawed at your insides, demanding, screaming. Your lips parted as if to say something, but nothing came out—only a strangled, broken sound as your body curled in on itself.

Sunghoon reached for you immediately, pulling you against him. “It’s okay,” he murmured, stroking your hair. “You’re okay.”

Your hands clenched around the fabric of his shirt, nails digging into his skin. “Sunghoon,” you gasped, voice raw. “What… what did you do?”

The pain in your tone sent a sharp pang through his chest. He pulled back just enough to see your face, and his heart clenched at the tears pooling in your eyes. “I—” He swallowed thickly. “I saved you.”

Your entire body stiffened. “Saved me?” The words came out in a whisper, laced with disbelief. Your fingers trembled as they touched your own skin, your lips, the place where your heartbeat used to be. There was nothing. Only silence. A dead, empty stillness.

“You turned me,” you choked out, realization dawning in your expression. “You—without asking, you—”

Sunghoon’s jaw clenched. “I had no choice.”

“You did,” you shot back, voice rising. “You did have a choice. You could have let me go.”

He inhaled sharply, his hands gripping your arms as if grounding himself. “I couldn’t.”

A bitter laugh left your lips. “So you made the decision for me.”

Silence stretched between you. His face remained unreadable, but his grip on you tightened, fingers digging into your skin—not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you there. “You would have died,” he said, voice quiet yet firm. “I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

You shook your head, feeling a wave of emotions crash over you—anger, grief, confusion. “I was ready,” you whispered. “I was ready to go.”

His expression darkened. “I wasn’t.”

Your breath hitched at the sheer intensity in his gaze. There was something possessive in the way he looked at you, something unwavering. His love for you had never been gentle—it had always been consuming, all-encompassing, as if he would rather burn the world down than lose you.

Your hands balled into fists against his chest. “You didn’t even let me choose.”

Sunghoon exhaled, a tremor running through him. “Would you have chosen this?” His voice was almost a whisper, yet it carried the weight of something far heavier.

You hesitated.

And that hesitation was all he needed.

A small, mirthless smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “That’s what I thought.”

You hated how well he knew you. You hated that, deep down, a part of you wasn’t just angry at him for taking away your choice—you were angry that he had made the right one.

Because despite the fear, despite the pain, despite everything… you didn’t want to be without him either.

Your breathing was uneven as you shook your head, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks. “I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted, voice breaking.

His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing away your tears. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

Your fingers curled around his wrists, holding onto him, grounding yourself in the only thing that still felt real—him.

Sunghoon leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he murmured. “I know I should’ve asked. I know I should’ve given you the choice. But I couldn’t… I can’t live in a world without you.”

Your heart clenched at his confession. You wanted to be angry. You wanted to scream. But more than anything, you wanted him.

And maybe… maybe that was enough.

You exhaled shakily, pressing yourself against him. “Then don’t leave me.”

A slow, relieved smile formed on his lips. “Never.”

Because even in death, even in darkness, Sunghoon would always find his way back to you.

[bbuubby]

Supernatural but they’re vibing in some Korean countryside

Call it 시골 (sigul) au

They just run around, collect beetles, flip over rocks in creeks for crayfish, and share ice cream. He lost one of his front tooth trying to knock off a persimmon on a tree.

Inspired by this mtfker cuz that’s just Dean if he was Bart Simpson.

[watermelongirl01]

Sweet Rescue Masterlist

Firefighter!Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have always heard about the brave and strong firefighters around your town, but never gave it the relevance it truly deserved. That is, until you find yourself caught in a horrible car accident, one that makes you see your life flashing before your eyes. Now you feel the overwhelming need to thank the fire department that rescued you. How can you show them? By gifting them a year of your finest desserts. Little did you know, this was the key to Captain Dean Winchester’s heart.

Who thought that the accident would begin the most wonderful love story between the fireman with the sweetest tooth and the best baker in town?

Content Warning: English is not my first language. This will be a mini-series AU with fluff, angst, and eventually smut.

If you are interested and reading this, please let me know. I Will be adding chapters as soon as I can.

Please DO NOT copy or translate this.

Chapters:

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Tags: @ladysparkles78 @ariesandwolves @n-o-p-e-never

[wildernessuntothemselves]

Now See Them Burn in Fire | Part 1

Genre: dark fic, future smut, angst

Word Count: 7.1k

 Chapter Excerpt: “Do you let him kiss you?” He asks you, face blank apart from a muted curiosity. He was so close you can see every individual eyelash framing his gorgeous dark eyes, every tiny blemish on his otherwise flawless skin, the elegant slope of his nose, the firm but soft pillowing of his lips. 

You stay quiet, too scared to speak, too scared to unintentionally set him off. What if this is what the star meant? What if it was warning you of your untimely demise and that is why you were the only one to see it? 

“So you have.” He takes your silence as affirmation, swiping his thumb across your bottom lip. “Then it’s only fair if I get a taste too.” 

Warnings: fem!reader, DARK FIC, FUTURE NONCON/CON, mentions of people being burned alive, iron age au, supernatural au, yandere beomgyu

_____________________________

Your fingers strum along the chords of the sacred lyre, producing celestial tunes that rise up to the heavens to reach the ears of the gods you’re worshipping through your songs, words of revelation passing through your lips like a prayer as the people of your tribe gather to witness and take part in the ceremony, offering up their own silent prayers for the ones above, wishing for food, safety, a good harvest, an opportune marriage for their children… It all moulds together to encase your song as it moves up to the heavens. 

Usually, you would be lost in it, surrendering yourself as a vessel for the will of the people to reach their gods. That is your role after all. As a priestess, you’re the link between the mortal world and the heavens above and you take your role very seriously. These people have entrusted you to carry their messages to the gods and the gods have entrusted you to deliver those messages, any distraction on your part could result in a failure of this process and the squandering of the people’s goodwill and the gods’ trust in your abilities. 

That’s why you feel guilty right now. You can’t focus your full energy on your job, not when you can feel his heavy, suffocating gaze on you. You look up to the heavens, seeking to gather strength from the stars above to guide you back to that enlightened state of being you usually access when performing the ceremonial prayers, but as your eyes land on the stars, you’re startled to see one suddenly fall down from the heavens in a bright flaming blaze. Your heart stops as you follow the distressing demise, no one else noticing it, all too focused on the song and dance and liveliness that you and your fellow priests and priestesses are putting on for the tribe. 

No one even notices your hands faltering over the strings, blasphemously ruining the perfection of the heavenly song. No one but one. And as the star heads to the earth, flickering its last flames of light as it approaches its demise, it disappears behind the trees, leading your eyes directly to the original source of your apprehension as if it had fallen merely to guide your attention towards him.

But you didn’t require such sacrifice to realise the burden of his scrutiny, you moved through every waking moment of your life entirely absorbed by the feeling of being watched and knowing whose eyes are upon you. 

It’s those eyes that belong to the boy with the long dark hair and even darker gaze. He stands out from the crowd, not for his clothes or jewels or status, but for his attitude of somberness and stillness among the joyful festivities of others which is enough to raise the hairs at the back of the neck of anyone who has the misfortune of noticing him. He stands there unmoving, his heavy eyes locked on you and no one else, and you–under that singular watchful gaze–hit the wrong note, plucking your own heartstring in the process, before you stop playing completely. 

No, this can’t be. You may not know precisely what all of this means but even the unenlightened can recognise such a glaringly bad omen–the star falling out of the heavens to point straight at the ill-fated boy. 

You're jolted out of your spiral when your friend nudges you, shooting you a concerned but sharp look, silently urging you to keep playing, and with widened eyes you quickly pick up your lyre again, looking around to see the concerned and strange looks from the tribes people, and the angry looks of your family. You can’t take your role lightly, not even for a second. You have a duty to your people and every second you’re not joining in the collective song, you’re weakening the prayers and risking their failure. 

You diligently join back into song, but you know your heart's not in it, not when you can still feel his cursed eyes upon you. 

He’s been watching you for some time now, and it wasn’t making only you uncomfortable. Others have noticed it too, and rumours have already started to spread–rumours about his inclination towards you. Some are making fun of you for being the object of desire of the tribe’s outcast–as if it makes you deficient in some way to be wanted by him–while others have started to distance themselves from you because of it, not wanting to be adjacent to the troubling boy even if it’s through the most tenuous connection to you. 

It makes you angry to be so unfairly burdened by the unwanted association with him but you can’t blame them too much. You know where their fear is coming from, and you wish he would stay away from you too. 

It’s not that he’s uncomely. If any of you were to be fair, you would readily admit that he is one of the most beautiful humans you have ever laid eyes upon, his handsome features seeming to have been carved out by the hands of a god… but which one, you’re not sure. A trickster god, perhaps, for the boy’s unrivalled looks that are meant to entice and enthral clash harshly with the unsettling darkness that surrounds him and keeps others away despite that immense beauty that under normal circumstances would have made him one of the most popular eligible young men in the tribe. 

The quiet orphan boy never quite fit in despite his parents having been formidable warriors and therefore much loved and respected members of the tribe. His father’s power and influence at one point even rivalled the current tribe’s leader, a fact that has undoubtedly been the source of the hushed and vile speculation by some of the tribe’s people asserting that that is precisely the reason behind the boy’s parents sudden and mysterious deaths when he was just twelve.

Of course none of it was true. These were just the ramblings of the bored and nefarious, gathered under dwindling bonfires and spouting their ignorant and hateful conspiracies. The leader is a kind and loving man. He would never deprive a boy of his family unjustly.

Just as unfounded are the rumours that the boy himself was at fault for his parents’ death. After all, they failed to bear a live child after him–his mother’s womb becoming a graveyard for multiple of his lost brothers and sisters until it eventually killed her. 

After his poor mother died while birthing yet another departed soul, his father was never the same afterwards. He became cruel and vengeful. He took his grief and turned it to anger–an emotion a warrior was much more familiar with handling. Unfortunately when defending the land and killing the tribe’s enemies wasn’t enough, he turned that anger towards his only son.  

You had felt sorry for the boy to be the subject of his father's anger and resentment. You even went out of your way to be kind to him every time you saw the marks of hate on his body or saw him crying to himself in the woods. For a very brief period, you may have even considered yourselves friends. 

He didn’t appear evil from up close. He wasn’t so quiet and menacing. He was a child like all of you were. He wanted to play and laugh and enjoy himself, and you really enjoyed watching him do that. He was a silly child when you were alone together and for a short while it warmed your heart to see him let go around you. He had a beautiful smile and a tinkling honey laugh. You developed a minor addiction to it and you craved to see it more and more. 

That is how you justify to yourself your traitorous indiscretion of secretly revealing to him some of the magic only those raised under the guidance of the gods should have access to. You couldn’t help it. He had shown such interest in it and you couldn’t refuse to indulge him in one of his very few desires. It wouldn’t do anyone any harm. It’s not like he could ever do anything with that knowledge. Only those chosen and trained by the temple could put that powerful knowledge into meaningful action. 

And so you felt comfortable telling him secrets about the practice that even seasoned mages didn’t have access to–secrets you’d only known by eavesdropping on your own high-ranking parents, and he lapped it all up, pushing you for more and more which you happily provided.

Truth is, you enjoyed divulging such secrets about priesthood to him because despite it being a very respected and esteemed position to hold, it was also incredibly isolating by nature. The arts you’ve learned allowed you to tap into great power meant to help and protect your people, but also necessitated that you guard the secrets to it closely so they don’t fall into the hands of those who have not been taught how to correctly use them, or worse yet, those with ill-intentions. 

Even amongst your fellow apprentices, each of you had your own area of study and weren’t privy to much else. That way each of you would only be skilled at a particular art and that art only lest you become too powerful and think yourself rival to the gods much the same way the great Gija did–an ancient priest so powerful he rejected the rule of the heavens and in his arrogance thought he could bring down the gods and take their place instead. His greed was like a sickness that spread through the tribe and corrupted your ancestors, convincing them that if they directed their duplicitous charges at the heavens, they could fell the gods and rule in their place, revelling in endless riches and heavenly desires, only for the gods to strike him down, leaving him to a fate worse than death and laying waste to your people–turning them from a once prosperous and opulent civilisation to one that is barely surviving amongst the wilderness. 

Many of the secrets of that ancient power were lost then, only a few ruins from that time remain guarded in the heart of the sacred temple and even fewer taught to you and your fellow apprentices in bits and pieces that are intentionally scattered amongst you to prevent another Gija from rising. 

That is why there are now so few priests and priestesses who have been allowed to learn more than one art of magic and why you’re forbidden from sharing secrets about your practice even amongst yourselves. 

But no one in the tribe knew you were meeting him in the woods under the cover of darkness and therefore no one could stop you from divulging all your secrets to him. It was harmless. What would he even do with that knowledge? He’s a warrior just like his parents–not a very good one much to his father’s chagrin, but it meant that he wouldn't be able to do anything with the secrets you were exposing to him even if he wanted to. He did not have the gift. 

Still, he understood your frustrated and disjointed ramblings well–a part of you secretly worried that he may have understood them too well for he would then make off hand alterations to incantations that would help you crack a spell you'd been struggling with for some time or bring you rare ingredients from the forest that were very hard to come by, maybe even dangerous, and would be the missing touch to a potion you’ve been slaving over to no avail. 

You didn’t understand how he knew what was missing each time but you selfishly didn't ask because you didn't want to ruin it. Not when his help was setting you apart from your peers and enabling you to make a mark for yourself as the most promising young priestess of your generation. 

For his part, Beomgyu's eyes would light up every time his help would cause you to advance further in your training. He never cared that he couldn’t claim credit for it in front of others. He would just smile and make you his special wildflower and mushroom soup to celebrate which tasted like nothing out of this earth and made you crave it almost as much as you craved his smile. 

That smile–that cursed smile he would wear as he looked at you while you gushed or complained about your training. He didn’t care, seemingly happy to listen to you talk either way, and your foolish young heart liked to think you could see a special fondness in his gaze. It was a stupid passing fancy of course. You couldn’t possibly consider him seriously, not with the dark rumours surrounding him even then and especially not after his father too passed in a uniquely gruesome way. 

As the story goes, he had been out drinking his sorrows as usual. At some point during the pitch black night, drunk and disoriented, he left the group of men he was drinking with to head towards his abode but he never made it back. He was found in the morning impaled on a spear that had gone through his eye and out the back of his head, his lifeless corpse suspended by it. 

It was deemed an accident, an intoxicated man tripping and falling on top of an improperly stored weapon. There was no evidence of a struggle, and even his own men could testify he was not walking straight when he left them. There was no reason to think anymore of it, they said, but between themselves the people talked… yet another death around the dark child. It scared even you. You knew he hated this father. You knew he had an inexplicable knowledge about magic. You knew many have died around him. And so as the whispers grew stranger and more fearful, and stories of curses and dark magic swirled around, you silently stepped away from the boy, your friendship living and dying under the darkness of the night. 

He tried to seek you out, tried to find out why you were suddenly gone, tried to win you back–but it was difficult for him to get to you when usually you were the one who would go out to meet him in the forest at night, away from prying eyes. He couldn't approach you when you put others in his path and so he tried to express himself through gifts and flowers that he would hide in your home, hoping they would help him gain back your favour.

His gifts were beautiful and precious–a stunning bouquet of wildflowers, an iridescent stone adoring a delicate ring, valuable ingredients for your potions… all carefully thought out and picked just for you which made you feel all the worse for rejecting them but you had to. This had gone on too far and for too long. You had both grown too attached to each other and you needed to end it. He must not think he has a chance with you. It was not fair to either of you so it was best to end it quickly, even ruthlessly. 

And so you threw his gifts away–you cut up the bouquets, scratched the jewelry and burned the ingredients, leaving them out in the woods where you knew he would find them and get the message that you wanted nothing to do with them. 

And he did get the message, for shortly after you stopped receiving any more gifts. The boy fading back into the unknowable abyss where he belongs. For years he stayed there. For years you knew peace–a guilty, lonely peace but a safe, secure one. He wasn't there to light up your nights anymore and you weren’t there to make him smile, but you were also spared the rumours and gossip that had long surrounded him and were threatening to infect you. 

It hurt you more than you liked to admit to lose him but it was necessary. There was just no future for you together and he seemed to finally understand that. 

Until now. Now it seems like those once familiar black eyes were watching everything you do once more, but you no longer had silly fancies about any imagined lost innocence in them. Instead they scare you the same way they scare everyone else, maybe even more. He has grown somber and serious without you. You haven’t seen his smile in years. He has abandoned his family’s legacy of fighting and heroism for the feared but respected path of foragers. It fit him. After all, he was always in that forest doing the gods only know what and now he has made a tenuous but necessary place for himself in the tribe by it, wading into that same forest to harvest or hunt for things and creatures unknown from treacherous regions that no one else dared to wade into. 

As part of the mysterious foragers profession, he has made himself indispensable to your people as they depended on him and his few peers to bring them the rare and crucial supplies that numerous factions of the tribe–the priests included–depended on in order to do their job. And he was the best of them. He could get you anything you had need or want for, no matter how remote or dangerous, for the right price and as long as you didn’t ask any questions. 

This, of course, caused more rumors to spread around him than ever before, the tribes’ people coming up with all sorts of tales about how he managed to find these things and what he had to do to procure them–whispers of dark pacts, evil ceremonies and dancing with demons dominated the imagination of your people, but no one dared to say anything directly to him. Not anymore. Not now that they needed him.  

You on the other hand were scared, not just of him but for him. Every time he would disappear for days on end in that wretched forest, you would wonder if he would come back, wonder if this is the last time you would ever see him as he inevitably makes his last trip into its dreary darkness like many other foragers have done before him. It’s a perilous, lonely life and so many do not make it for long. Yet he does. He always comes back, and you’re always relieved and scared to be met with his handsome face, the shadows under his eyes taking on a new layer of darkness every time.

What does he see when he goes in there? What creatures does he encounter? What horrors does he face? How close does he come to death and how does he manage to outwit it? 

You do not know for you could not ask him. He hasn’t even met your eyes in years following your pointed rejection of him. Even when he would drop off supplies at your temple, he would keep his eyes downcast as if meeting your gaze would reveal all his secrets to you.

Yes, he has avoided your eyes for years, which makes his recent unwavering stare all the more unnerving. Something has seemingly flipped in him overnight and now you’re the one hiding from his gaze that never falls off of you whenever you’re around him. 

You think you know what he wants. It is the summer fertility festival. It’s a time when those like you and him who have just come of age are encouraged to reach out and start looking to find a companion. You have already received multiple gifts from other boys in the tribe, most of them loudly claiming them and boasting about what they have managed to buy or trade or hunt for you. 

But one gift was unclaimed, the most precious of all, nestled in a nondescript wooden box with a delicately carved wildflower on top of it, and inside… inside was a night bloomer, a sacred plant that flowers only one night a year that the ancients would consume to aid in their divination. It is an integral part of your religion, a powerful tool that once upon a time allowed your people to peer into the future and speak to the gods, but after the great Gija rebelled against the gods and was smote down, the knowledge of where to find it and how to harvest it has been lost and so did the flower. 

No one saw it for centuries until it became the stuff of legends to the point that some of your fellow priests doubted its very existence, preferring to view the mentions of it in religious myths as a symbolic tool to signify how close the ancients were to the gods through their strong belief and how they lost that connection when they betrayed them.

Yet there it was, a bloomed flower sitting in your hands. And there can only be one person who could’ve found it for you. 

You should’ve rejected it. You should have given it back to him so he could give it to someone who will take him, but you were too selfish for that. How could you pass up this once in a lifetime opportunity? You would never get the chance to use a night bloomer again and you could not find it in you to do the right thing and return it to him. You needed to find out for yourself if it really was as powerful as all the legends described it. So you eagerly made it into a tea and drank it, ready to use its power to gaze into your future–another sin of yours. You were told over and over again not to use the powers gifted to you for your own gains. They’re meant to be used to guide and protect the tribe and not for your own selfish desires, but once again you couldn’t resist, and maybe that’s why you were punished so brutally.

The visions the flower brought you were horrific. They were twisted and bloody and demented–filled with death and gore and terror. In them, you saw everyone you knew and loved die in the most gruesome of ways. You saw them cry out to you for help as their skin melted off their bones and their eyes leaked out of their skulls. Their charred hands reached out to you, begging you to make it stop but you couldn’t. You could do nothing but stand there and watch–the smoke stinging your eyes and blackening your lungs. You couldn’t even look away or get yourself to wake up. You were trapped in the ugly visions for what seemed like eternity–none of them making much sense to you as visions usually don’t, but the smell of burnt flesh and the anguished cries needed no explanation, and throughout it all you felt watched, like someone or something was doing this just to see you suffer. 

The visions went on and on in a loop until you felt you would be trapped in them forever–perhaps a punishment for your misuse of this onerous gift–but slowly your vision cleared up and you could see the world around you again.

You found yourself burning up, covered in layers of animal fur as your mother tended to your feverish body. You wanted to throw them off but couldn't spare any energy to move your arms. You couldn’t even speak, the only thing that came out of your mouth was dry deathly whispers that immediately got carried away by the wind before they could reach your confused mother's ears. You lay like that, sick and immobile, for days, your muscles stiff as if the fire had burned off all the water in them as your mother nursed you back to health. For weeks after you'd be caught out by a sudden whiff of smoke and your heart would pick up and panic would flood your body. You quickly had to make every effort to cover up your visceral reaction to anything fire or burning as it attracted too much attention and threatened your place in the temple. Nobody wanted a hysteric apprentice to train or a frightened priestess to protect them. You’re supposed to be the personification of calm and strength. You would lose everything if people found out that the mere smell of ashes secretly sent you into a ball of terror. 

So you covered it up. You pretended that you didn't want to run and cower under your covers every time fires would be lit to warm up or make a simple meal. It was ridiculous. It was weak and laughable but you couldn’t help how your body reacted to it, and you could no longer stomach the taste of meat anymore–a bite of the cooked flesh would send you into a heaving and retching mess. You had sworn off it since then, much to the confusion of others and the irritation of your family. They never liked it when you did anything to draw the curious attention of others. You were not supposed to step out of line except to excel in your training. As their only child, your performance reflected directly on them, and they did not appreciate the strange way you've been acting since you had consumed that cursed night bloomer.  

Did he mess with it somehow? That can’t have been what the ancients used. This can't be your future. You refuse to believe it. He must have tricked you somehow. 

Your mother had attempted to enquire about what has happened to you–she pushed and prodded but you remained steadfast in your insistence about it merely being an illness brought about by eating spoiled meat which conveniently explained your newfound aversion to it. She didn't believe you, of course, but you also knew she preferred to be ignorant of anything that would indicate any brewing trouble, a crack in her perfect daughter, only telling you to get yourself together and not do something stupid to ruin your future. It was a clear order. Whatever it is that you had done, you better fix it–it meant.

That’s why you must stop whatever advances Beomgyu is trying to make on you. He can only bring you pain and trouble. Just like right now.

As soon as the prayer is done, you’re strong-armed back to your home by your chagrined family who were less than happy about your embarrassing performance tonight. 

“What was that?” Your father hisses at you as soon as you are tucked away in your shared abode, away from prying eyes. “How could you disgrace us in such a way in front of the whole tribe?”

“I am sorry, father. I–I–” You hang your head down, hesitating for a moment as your tongue falls almost paralysed under the weight of what you were about to reveal. “I saw something fall from the heavens. I saw a star die.” 

You choose to omit the part about the boy. Your family doesn't know about your brief secret friendship with him. They don’t know about everything you’ve told him. They don’t know about the blasted gift you have accepted from him. They can’t know. They might cast you out if they did. 

“What?” Your mother whispers fearfully, a tinge of denial in her voice as if she does not wish to believe you–again hiding away from the ugly truth. 

“It was big and bright and beautiful but–” You gulp, wrapping your arms around yourself to stop your body from shaking at the memory. “But I saw it flickering in the throes of death as it bled across the heavens and crashed to the earth.” You finish fearfully, and that fear latches onto your parents immediately. 

Your father strides towards you and grabs you by the shoulders roughly, face pale. “Are you certain, child?” 

“As certain as death. I saw it with my own eyes.” I saw it pointing straight towards him.

Your father casts you away as if you were stricken with pestilence and paces around the room, passing back and forth in front of the pale and ghastly figure of your mother. 

“Father. Mother. Tell me the truth. Tell me what this means.” You ask hesitantly, not certain you even want to hear the answer. You knew it was bad, of course, but their reactions were heightening your anxiety to intolerable levels. 

“The stars are supposed to be eternal watchers, the guardians of the heavens. If one of them falls then the ranks have weakened.” Your mother explains fearfully, “Something has managed to get in or out of the heavens.”

You shudder. What could that be? And what does it have to be with the boy who will forever be your one regret?   

“Only you saw it?” Your father asks and you gulp. “I think so.” 

“Good. We do not want to cause a panic unnecessarily, especially this close to the climax of the fertility season.” He proclaims, trying to compose himself but the pallor of his face gives him away. “The leader’s boy seems close to making a proposal for your hand.” 

You frown. Is this really what you should be focusing on right now? Certainly, you have been more than delighted to garner Kai’s favour and, prior to tonight, you have not been thinking about much else, but surely this star issue trumps trivial earthly matters of marriage and ranks. 

You know your family is pushing for this marriage to go through and you understand how monumental this would be for your position in the tribe–to marry into the ruling family would raise you to the top of the ranks and bathe you in the riches only available to them, but that does not mean you can neglect your duties as priests and priestesses. This fallen star could be fortelling a catastrophic future to befall the entire tribe and you need to set aside all your selfish desires to protect your people from this mysterious fate.

“But the star–” 

“Make no mention of it to any soul.” Your father cuts you off sharply. “Not until we find out more about it. Your mother and I will consult the temple’s ancient inscriptions. You just focus on winning that boy over. And make no repeats of that disgraceful display today.” 

You look down to your feet. You hadn’t meant to embarrass them. They would understand if they knew about your new shadow, but they must not know. No one must know. He is like a pestilence–anything he touches withers and dies and you will not let yourself be one of the ghosts hanging around him. 

You may not know what this dark omen means but you feel in your heart that it is related to him and you have to stop him. Maybe then you can avert this calamity from occurring.

So you meekly accept their admonishment and warnings, keeping your head down and waiting until your parents are well on their way to the temple before you slip out yourself, following in the direction you know he would be, along a trek you should have never have allowed yourself to get familiar with and are now determined to sever from your life. 

The path takes you out of the settlement and into the dark woods. The chill in the air didn’t suit a midsummer night, and it only grows more frigid once you spot the boy’s hunched over figure on the ground, digging for something with his bare hands. Your heart beats rapidly as you watch him pull weeds out of the ground as if he’s gutting the earth and for a second you consider turning around and running back to the safety of settlement. You don’t know what he’s doing out here at night–the once familiar, sometimes even welcoming forest now a strange and bizarre landscape of terror to you. He could be up to all manner of unsavoury things out here and there was no one around to protect you from him. Maybe you could find a way to speak to him in the morning…

But before your feet can move, he cranes his head back to look at you, his dark gaze rooting you to your spot, and just like that you cannot move a muscle. 

“What are you doing out here, flower?” He asks softly, voice deep and saccharine, bathing you like a fly in honey so you won’t escape. You resent yourself for being so improperly affected by it–still feeling a silent pull towards him despite your better judgement, but how can you convince your eyes to deny his beauty? How can you get your ears to shut away his honey voice? 

What you can do is contort your face into an ugly scowl. He doesn’t get to call you that anymore. You should have never allowed him to get close enough to have affectionate names for you. 

“What are you doing here?” You throw the question back at him, needing answers to quiet your worrying mind and time to gather your courage for what’s to come.  

“Gathering supplies for my soup.” He tells you readily, and your scowl loosens a bit at that. Of course, how can you forget his soup? You’ve tasted it many a times to the point that just the mention of it has a remnant of its memory tickling your tongue and making you salivate at the reminder. “Would you like to come home for a bowl? You haven't had any in ages.” 

You curse yourself for how much you suddenly crave it which is then followed by a sinking feeling in your gut as you question why exactly you’re craving it so much. Yes, it was one of the most delicious things you have had the chance to taste in your short life but why was it so? Did he do something to it the same way he did to the last “gift” he gave you? 

You shudder as you think about the countless bowls of soup he had made for you over the course of your brief friendship and what he might’ve slipped in them. No, you would not like to try strange soups from the strange boy, no matter how much your body craves it. “No, thank you.”

He frowns, looking upset–almost hurt–at the rejection. You would laugh if you weren’t so scared of him. “You don’t visit me anymore.” 

You can’t, however, hold back your scoff at his whiny proclamation, as if you owed him that acquaintance. “It is not proper for an unwed woman to meet strange men in the night.” 

“You meet Kai.” He retorts simply and anger and dread wrap around your cold form. What does he care about Kai? Does he really think he and Kai are on the same standing when it comes to you or anyone else for that matter? Has he forgotten himself? 

“That is not your concern.” You hiss at him, scared that he might do something to ruin your tentative relationship with the leader’s son. He has expressed his interest in making you his wife by providing you with the most luxurious gift during this fertility festival. You would be crazy to turn him down and even crazier to let whatever delusional fancy Beomgyu holds for you ruin your chances with him. 

“Why did that make you angry? Are you letting him do things to you that you know you shouldn’t?” Beomgyu confronts you, expression unnervingly blank. “Are you letting him under your skirts?” 

You stalk towards him, raising your hand up and slapping him, then watching a red handprint bloom across his handsome face. You immediately regret it. You’re now within arms reach of the dark boy and he looks angry. 

Before you can step back and run, he reaches out to grab the arm that you struck him with and pulls you to the ground with him. You try to fight him off, using all your strength to attempt to push him away but that just makes him climb on top of you so he can still your thrashing arms and pin them above your head, his body holding yours down as he presses you against the cold mud. 

He was surprisingly strong despite his lean frame, though you suppose you shouldn’t be so surprised given his warrior background even if he quit that path years ago. 

You stare up at him, his dark eyes almost swallowing up the stars above. You don’t dare speak or move. You just lay still as he uses one hand to keep your wrists above your head so he can free up the other to cradle your face, his muddy hand staining your skin. 

“Do you let him kiss you?” He asks you, face blank apart from a muted curiosity. He was so close you can see every individual eyelash framing his gorgeous dark eyes, every tiny blemish on his otherwise flawless skin, the elegant slope of his nose, the firm but soft pillowing of his lips. 

You stay quiet, too scared to speak, too scared to unintentionally set him off. What if this is what the star meant? What if it was warning you of your untimely demise and that is why you were the only one to see it? 

“So you have.” He takes your silence as affirmation, swiping his thumb across your bottom lip. “Then it’s only fair if I get a taste too.” 

Your breath catches in your throat as he leans down and meets your lips with his. They feel unfairly good against your own, fit you too well and you hate it. What is this inexplicable hold he has on you? What has he done to you?

In defiance, you command your body to stay still. You may not be able to fight him off but you won't give him the satisfaction of responding to his unwanted advances. So you just lay there and let him mould your mouth to his. He is incessant but surprisingly soft, pushing and coaxing until you unwillingly find yourself whining lowly, and when you open your mouth to let out a small gasp, he uses the opportunity to press his tongue in. 

He tastes so sweet fruits, honey and milk–all things you remember he loves so much and that you always used to provide for him just to see that smile that you now have not seen in years. 

How is it that he tastes this good? What unnatural magic is he using to entice you? He must be because you could not possibly be this inclined towards him.

Your doubts are further confirmed when you detect a hint of something bitter hidden underneath all the sweetness–a sharpness that prevents you from falling completely into him and keeps you on alert. 

Beomgyu lets out his own small moan as his tongue caresses yours and you should be disgusted to be so engulfed by the dark boy, to let him force himself over the boundaries you have put up to keep him away, but the heat radiating off him feels so good against your goosebumps afflicted skin, his small stuttered breaths and whimpers make your body tingle and sizzle and you have absolutely no control over it. You begin to fear you will be trapped here forever under his spell. 

But when his mouth leaves yours to make its way down your neck, you are allowed reprieve to gaze at the sky above and focus on something that isn't him. That's when your eyes stray to the spot where the fallen star was, naturally drawn to it like a tongue is drawn to a missing tooth, and with the phantom taste of iron in your mouth, you snap out of the spell he put you under. 

What the hell are you doing? How can you lie there and let him slither his way back to you? You're a disgrace. 

Disgusted at your weak self, you use that repulsion to fuel you as you gather all your strength and try once again to push him away, but all you could muster is enough power to unlatch him from your neck, exposing the wet freshly kiss-laden skin to the frigid air and making you shiver. 

He gazes at you with a farce concern as he gently cups your cheek, his warm hand like the soothing touch of honeyed milk to your skin that once again compels you to let your guards down, but his blown-wide pupils and his laboured breathing keep them up. 

“Hey, it's okay. I got you, my flower.” He tries to soothe you, bending back down to catch your lips again, but he only manages to freak you out more. 

My flower? No! You must stop this. 

You bite down on his lip harshly, tasting blood, and he reels back, cursing in pain. “What the fuck?” 

In his shock, you’re finally able to push him off and scramble to your feet. “Stay away from me. I do not want you. I have chosen him so stop whatever the hell you’re doing. I will never be yours.”

He levels you with a dark look, the little bit of blood dripping down his chin making him look even more chilling. “Why not?” He asks bitterly. “I can do good by you. You don't have to pay mind to the rumours about me. You know me.”

You shake your head vehemently. “No, I do not know and never wish to know you. You are unwell. Stay away from me.” You proclaim with all the conviction and strength you could muster, before you turn around and dart back to your home. 

You didn’t want to give him the chance to challenge you. You do not know what he's capable of and you have disgraced yourself enough already. 

Your heart hammers in your chest as you run, and you whip your head around constantly to make sure he isn't following you. You feel as though he is, gooseskin prickling at the back of your neck at the feeling of being watched, but every time you whip your head back, certain you'll meet his dark eyes, you find nothing there. 

Your family is not back when you reach your home which is both a relief and a grievance. You’re glad they are not there to question your whereabouts or your dirty frazzled condition but you do not wish to be left alone in case he comes to find you. 

In order to soothe yourself, you cast a protective spell on a powerful talisman and hold it to your chest, burying yourself under heaps of fur and praying that is enough to protect you from whatever evils linger around the dark boy.  

_____________________________

A/N: so excited for this series, let me know what you think please!

[mellianart]

SUGURU GETO SUPERNATURAL AU 👻

this guy’s got coffee and nicotine for blood

My autumn supernatural marathon went insane 🌚

this titile is so much dear to my heart i just CAN’T, i saw our babies Satoru and Suguru so clearly in that universe. Just imagine them travelling in an old car, listening to rock (Satoru hates it), staying in motels and hunting monsters while struggling with their own mental issues and mysteries of the past (oh yeah they are not that easy)

Actually, i have a lot of lore in my mind, so you can ask questions about them, i am happy to answer

Planning to make Satoru’s sheet one day, and lots of doodles of their hunting life. So stand by!

[please check pinned post]

[mothstiel]

alternate 15.18 ending where the empty is stalled for like a good fifteen seconds and dean just collapses in cas’s arms because he doesn’t want him to leave and it’s just a good couple seconds of yearning and sobbing before cas shoves dean out of the way

[mysteria157]

Pairing: Demon! Nanami Kento x Angel Black!Fem Reader

Rating/CW: grey morality, religious undertones, corruption kink, worship, power dynamics (subtle fem submission), monsterfucking, smut, tongue fingering, pronged tongue, vaginal sex, oral (f! receiving), mild blood/biting. MDNI!

Summary: The thick muscle of your wings press against cold ancient stone as he circles you with wicked, stone-faced intent. Glimmering obsidian fingers trace along your feathers until they quiver--fluttering with touch-starved bliss no angel should ever feel. It's forbidden--this sensation in your belly, this humiliating slick between your legs that be can smell, this overwhelming desire that you've spent eons trying to quell.

But now, trapped before a demon so captivating that you can't help but feel equally terrified and dreadfully aroused, reality burns your skin like the holy water that bubbles whenever it's within your reach.

You're not here to serve a divine purpose--you're an offering. And only Heaven knows if you'll fall to your knees before him, begging for corruption.

Author Notes: Here it is! My submission for @tsukimefuku 's Spookinky event! I had so much fun writing this. Thank you, Fuku, for hosting such an awesome event, and I truly apologize for the filth (I do not apologize). Thank you all for your support, and thank you, @aliasnnmknt, for letting me use your art for my banner and helping me create it. Your art really inspired most of this fic!

Header: art by @aliasnnmknt | Divider: @arcielee @enchanthings | network tag: @pixelcafe-network

JJK Masterlist | Twitter | Ao3

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

You’ve never set foot in a demon’s realm.

You’ve heard the stories—flames that burn flesh from bone, screams that echo for eternity, demons that feast on corrupted souls. For the many eons that you have been in existence, the pristine light you thrive in tells enough horrid stories to keep you away.

You do what you can to show you are pure in your thoughts and heart and that you will walk the line given to make the one above you proud in His selection of you. You’ve done well. It’s why you’ve been given this task—a pilgrimage to a sacred altar within this dark realm, to find the relic it holds and be promised enlightenment and a deeper connection to your spiritual life. For once, you feel special. You are special.

The relic you search for holds ancient divine text that the Heavens would like to make sure does not fall into the wrong hands. Your ability to decipher that text and other old tongues made you the perfect choice—though you try not to question why that ability exists at all. This mission feels important and they insisted you were the perfect choice. Your gifts would serve the greater good. Serve Him.

Maybe that’s why they sent you alone. A single angel, moving quietly through dark territory, would draw less attention than an entire group.

Finally, after so many years of wary glances and hushed concerns. Your many ‘gifts’ that have set you apart—the way ancient texts rearrange themselves under your touch, how you see patterns in chaos that other angels cringe from, your thirst for knowledge that shouldn’t be explored. Finally, it’s all paid off.

Or…at least that’s what they told you. Even as something in your grace whispers warnings you choose to ignore.

Angels bask in absolutes, in the pure warmth of divine light and the straightforward clarity of purpose. There is certainty in right and wrong, never a grey in between. Your wings should bask in holy breeze, not in this thick air that tastes of dreadful sin.

You expected the realm to smell of death and destruction, to look as if every natural disaster had run through the land so the shadows could roam freely to commit sin. It’s what you’ve been taught at least. This Realm specifically is forbidden and faith has been used as a boundary to keep other angels in line.

The outskirts of this realm is covered in a haze, a thick russet fog that smells of ozone and decaying flowers. It settles on your skin like an uncomfortable garment, scratching the surface and burning your dermis. Your wings curdle in pain, burning to ash and regrowing through your bleeding muscles. Gnarled, skeletal trees reach up like claws, the birds that sit on their branches malnourished and dying. Distantly, you hear the constant drip of water from a faucet, yet there is no water in sight. Whispers of sin and moans of agony carry on the wind.

Your white dress flows like liquid moonlight, now stained with ash and ember burns. The neckline dips lower than most angels would prefer.

“To be comfortable in the vessel He gave you is to honor His creation.”

Is what they had said, their justification now seems like a cruel irony as the fog caresses your exposed cleavage with burning fingers. The bottom of your dress trails on the ground as you walk, the dirt burning with red soil that seeps through the toes of your bare feet. It feels as if you’re walking on hot coals, the heat burning the fabric of your hem in tendrils of smoke.

You knew to expect this pain, but it’s different. There is a calculated precision to it, intentional in how it burns you as if testing if your form is solid, if your soul is worthy of corruption. The bell sleeves of your gown flutter in a nonexistent wind, ash and soot collecting in the folds of fabric that they once praised as divine elegance.

Your eyes burn, tears streaking melanin-soaked skin that cannot absorb the shrouded sun up above. As you navigate blindly through the oppressive haze, the shadows around you morph with the darkness and skitter past you on multiple hands and contorted feet.

An infinitesimal part of your grace shivers in fear. It’s small yes, pushed away and ignored like you have been taught, but it’s there in the quickening of your pulse and the break of sweat on your neck, it’s there as you walk further through the vicious landscape of horror and pain, as you try to ignore the gurgling of what you do not know from all around you.

Your wings curl around your body, a small gesture of protection that you fall into when the fog gets thicker. It slides languidly up your nostrils and down your throat, catching along the corners. You cough, sputtering wildly through ash and decay, your eyes bubbling with more burning tears. That fear flickers again in your chest and wiggles like a worm in search of moist dirt in your rib cage.

You can do this. You have been chosen. Your lips curl and part as you recite your prayer in silence, asking for strength even as your fear climbs higher to the surface of divine worship.

Then—through burning tears, you see it. A path of pure obsidian that cuts through the horror, its surface covered in a thin layer of water that reflects starlight not in the skies above. Your feet pick up in pace, moving before conscious thought, drawn to its dark beauty and vast difference of the world around. The moment your toes dip into the water-slicked stone, the moisture sliding off your skin without wetting it, everything changes.

The burning on your skin and feathers stops. The pungent fog parts like a curtain and dissipates into the air. You pull in a deep breath, savoring the thickness that is no longer there, your throat coated in clean oxygen. Your dress, moments ago stained with ash and fiery burns, returns to its pristine white. Once the tears in your eyes clear, you take in the changed landscape.

Perhaps the realm only transforms if one gets this far, because now there is no destruction but a defiance of what you see. The sky is tinged a permanent grey, overcast even though there’s a warmth to the low hang of the clouds. There are no lakes of fire, and the ground beneath your feet is no longer hot with clay-colored dirt that seeps between your toes. The obsidian path winds before you through tall garden walls of pearly white flowers, the leaves pitch black instead of earthly green.

Above the dark canopy of the garden walls, a monolith looms tall, piercing the grey sky as if demanding to be let into the heavens. It’s built to resemble a vast tree, its surface rippling with starlight, the bright core pulsing like a heartbeat, beckoning you deeper into this realm of misconstrued beauty. The garden path must lead to it. Even the pearly white flowers weaved into the walls all point forward, ushering you on.

Your wings furl closer to your spine as you shuffle to one of the garden walls, hesitantly reaching for the flowers twined in the vines and leaves. It’s a beautiful white, with small petals that curl toward a sage core. They’re littered along the walls, a beautiful landscape against darkness but the closer you get, the more you realize—

Hemlock

A poisonous flower, the symbol of death, betrayal, and sacrifice. It sits in it’s refined beauty, enhancing the black leaves around you, but they are just as dangerous.

You snatch your hands away as if stung, clutching the fabric of your dress like a lifeline. You try not to think about how the hemlock watches you with pale eyes. You try not to think about what they represent. You try not to question why these flowers would point and line a path to the divine relic you seek.

With every step you take, the pulsing from the monolith in the distance vibrates through the ground, the water rippling currents with each beat. The obsidian path narrows, forcing your wings closer to your body, your arms so close to the deadly blooms. The garden walls rise higher, leaves trembling in that same empty breeze.

While the air no longer feels thick, it is heavy with a taste both nonexistent and flavorful. Flavored with the knowledge you seek when others do not look and secrets that make your eyes linger even as your grace warns you against it. The questioning urges of your nature that Heaven always tries to quell stir awake like a beast being poked after centuries of rest.

You should ignore it. You should ask for forgiveness and count the blessings you have been given in this long existence. But your heart leaps at the chance you have also been given, right now.

The monolith’s base reveals itself slowly, the garden walls parting gradually with dark promise. Your breath catches at the sight—this is no crude demon architecture. The structure rises before you like an otherworldly giant, jet black vines weaving within its bright innards.

You’re struck by the beauty of it all, a resplendent sight that you never imagined would bless your eyes. And as you draw closer, the glass obsidian floors open up before you. From the open floor, a column of marble rises, its surface bleached bone and covered in aging vines and greenery.

On that altar, rests the relic you seek. It is no crystal that contains energy to create vasts universes. It is no seed that once planted will wreak destruction with its pollination. It is no amulet capable of manipulating time.

It is a book.

A single book that is thick with words of forbidden knowledge, its cover worn and weathered from eons of hiding in the shadows, its pages yellowing along the edges.

Such a simple relic, but you feel it’s dark power from your spot at the altar.

You’ve been tasked to tuck it away and sneak back to Heaven, to deliver it to your superiors and be given your eternal reward. While simple in theory, your hands hover over it, hesitating with shaky fingers.

Do not open it.

Do not look at it for longer than necessary.

Do not look inside.

These are your rules—your absolutes. And yet…

Your fingers twitch, reaching and pulling back at the elusive call of the tome, your feathers trembling with a desire you shouldn’t feel. Your eyes burn with tears of veneration as the symbols on the worn leather illuminate and rearrange before your eyes like dancing embers, the translated text reading in your mind like an endless scroll.

Do not look at it for longer than necessary.

You snatch it up, pressing it to your chest as a means to stop your racing heart. Your soul palpitates with want, a baseless need to curl your fingers under the lips of the book and tilt it open.

It’s temptation, that festering desire that always seems to coil in your belly when the explanations you are given never feel right, when the world around you seems too pristine and you want to know more, when you linger in the mortal realm, watching the humans with a curious eye that is more than what is required of you.

It’s quick and on a whim, you pulling the book from your chest to look down at it, as if by looking it will answer the questions you seek. You trail your fingers along it’s ancient skin, soft and unmarred fingertips feeling along ridges and scars along the cover. It looks as if the relic has gone through it’s own personal Hell, no doubt jerked around from realm to realm over the centuries, pried open and its secrets stolen. There’s a faint beat of sadness that you feel in your chest at the thought of what it must have gone through.

But your fingers still finger beneath the lid, the worn pages jagged on your tips as you worry it up with a slow movement.

Do not open it.

You squeeze the tome, pressing the pages inside more into each other in a silent attempt to seal it and your temptation away forever. Your toes curl into the water beneath you, cold on your skin but still passing over you dry and without moisture.

But once again you catch yourself loosening your grip, your fingers adventurous, your mind begging for more and it’s right here.

In times like these, you find yourself turning to the one manifestation that has never answered you, but exists in your very being.

“Father,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Give me the strength against temptation.” Your wings draw tight, your spine aching from the sudden action, before they expand in a glorious span, feathers opening like extended fingers before they curl around you to shield you from your own curiosity. “Guide me from this darkness, keep my thoughts pure…”

But even as you pray, your body rebels—your fingers part a page and slide along the rough texture of papyrus. There’s a power to the book now, a deep pulse that seems to be in rhythm with the monolith, beckoning you further. The ancient text burns brighter, the translated words whispering in your ears to give in just this once—look inside, soak in your knowledge, seek what others deny.

Your lips quiver, eyes burning with unshed tears at the way your body betrays you. You’re no better than a fallen angel, than a demon or a human who walks the path of darkness—easily tempted and consumed.

You’re not damned, you’re not, you’re not—

“What do we have here?”

The voice slides through your tumultuous thoughts like silk, rich with bored amusement and something darker. Your prayers die in your throat, catching along the edges of your esophagus, your body icing over with a chill of what you try to rebuke as fear.

You’re not alone and you knew the dangers of wandering this realm so freely. You call upon your grace, manifesting a celestial dagger of light and purity, before you whirl around to face the demon who pursues you.

But you’re met with nothing—just the empty garden path you came from.

When you turn back to the altar, your scream catches in your throat.

He stands with casual power and predatory grace. His skin is a pitch lighter than the obsidian paths, but still scattered with constellations. His hair falls in golden-blonde waves, the ends touched with flame that frames sharp features and elegant black horns that curl from the top of his head. His eyes are a burning yellow, studying you with a calculating hunger that makes you shiver.

He stands tall, an inhuman height that makes you feel incredibly small, his wings the color of dark flames spread lazily behind him, their edges flickering with crimson light.

The armor that adorns his upper body is otherworldly and crafted not by divine or mortal hands—navy as dark as night, trimmed with gold that wraps around his shoulders and sides, his chest bare. His hip rests against the altar as if he owns it, expectant like he’s been waiting for you.

He’s beautiful, a manifestation of dark and light, a being that walks his own line not predetermined. As you study him, something tugs at your memory—flashes of encounters that have grown fuzzy over time. In the mortal realm, when you linger in the shadows to observe the humans, a tall figure in navy and tan, warm eyes hidden behind glasses with no arms, hair not tipped with flame but parted clean and tucked behind his ears.

He lingers in the darkness, in damp alleys and abandoned buildings where misery and pain give birth to grotesque figures that terrorize the mortals. You’ve seen him—or you think you have—convinced it was a coincidence and ignored the way your wings would shiver at his distant presence, tilting toward him as if searching for someone lost.

And in your dreams too—dreams of large hands filled with experiences of the world, of whispers in your ear of eternal knowledge. You’d wake with your grace trembling, convinced it was just your mind playing tricks even as the apex of your thighs trembled with the sheen of your sweat and forbidden essence.

Perhaps that’s why your superiors ask for you after these dreams. Perhaps that’s why they press their fingers to your temples and bury the memories deep. So you do not have to worry. So that you can resist temptation. Right?

Yes. All of it is a temptation to test your faith.

But now he stands before you, solid and real, and those ‘coincidences’ suddenly feel intentional. Had he been watching? Waiting for this very moment?

You adjust your grip on your dagger, forcing away those thoughts that never seem to go away. You stagger backwards, your celestial dagger shaking in your hands, your prayer wielded before you like a shield.

“Our Father who art in Heaven,” you whisper, desperate words that feel as if they fall on closed ears, your fear radiating from your bare toes, through the strong muscles of your white wings, and up to the top of your skull. “Hallowed be thy—”

The demon moves towards you now, each step gobbling the distance between your retreating form until your back hits the garden wall, a gasp dying in your throat.

“That name,” he murmurs, sultry low as he cages you with muscular arms, “holds no power here.” His eyes drag down your form, cataloging you bit by bit, lingering on the sight of a shaking chest that is pressed to the tome you clutch.

He leans in close, too close, until you feel the burning heat from his skin. You press your back harder against the garden wall, dark leaves and hemlock brushing along your cheeks and neck as he inhales deeply along the column of your throat.

He smells like the archives you lose yourself in, like the green tea you love to drink in the mortal realm, like a dark concoction of burning honey that would make the noses of other angels crinkle but your nostrils open to inhale more. Your divine senses blur.

This is temptation, you tell yourself as your wings putter against the wall behind you. You’ve practiced for this, you know what you should do. But your body betrays you, your head tilting slightly before you can think about it, offering more of your neck for his inspection.

Horror at your sin, ice cold as it washes over you, makes you act. You press your celestial dagger upward, against his bare chest where one particular constellation burns brighter than the rest.

But the blade dissolves like sugar in the rain the moment it touches him, holy light scattering for a home as it shimmers across his skin to form new constellations.

“How interesting…” The deep voice inquires, hot as it puffs on your neck. “An angel, stealing what does not belong to them. Surely there’s a rule about that, is there not?”

You clutch the tome tighter to your chest, your mouth opening to snap that this is your mission, your divine purpose. But the book vanishes from your grip in black tendrils of smoke, your hand smacking into your breasts from the gap created.

“Give it back!” Panic rises in your throat as you try to meld with the leaves behind you, your fingers wrapping around vines and leaves like a vice.

A sigh, long and drawn out as if mentally exhausted, as if this isn’t the first this has happened, leaves his giant form and travels over your body.

“No, I don’t think I will,” he drawls, pushing off the wall and walking away as if your presence means nothing. He turns to face you at the altar, eyes half-lidded as he rests his forearms on the marble surface and opens the tome that is now manifested in his hands. He’s giving off every impression that the relic you seek will not be going home with you, and he is more than prepared to read it all until you go away.

“W-well, you…” you trail off, your eyes flickering to the open book in his hands. You can’t see the words inside, but you can practically smell the papyrus, a smell that warms you when you trail your fingers along the archives in Heaven. You tighten your grip on the leaves, flexing your wings to extend in a display of dominance, even though it feels as if this demon has read you the moment you stepped into this realm.

The tome sits like an infant in his hands, small and precious as he turns a page, long galaxy shimmered fingers gliding along the text as he reads. That curiosity beckons, a familiar pulse of sin that fires along the nerves in your legs to take a step toward him, to peak over the edge of the book and look inside.

“Demon,” you press, swallowing a lump of your frayed nerves.

His eyes flicker up at you, burning gold irises mildly offended.

“That is not my name.” He turns another page, pulling his gaze away from you, dismissive. “Though, I suspect you already know what it is.”

Why would you know his name? While the sight of him invokes some distant memories, you both have never spoken. The confusion mixes with your flood of panic, your eyes locked on the ancient text in his hands.

“I don’t—I’m here on divine purpose. The Heavens sent me to deliver this relic.”

“They sent you to steal this relic,” he corrects. He slams the tome closed, the sound making you flinch before he walks back to you in casual strides, his form almost gliding on the obsidian floors.

“I would not steal.”

“Coming to a place without invitation and taking the items inside is, indeed, stealing.”

You sink back into the flowers as he draws closer, your heart pumping erratically in your chest, your limbs filling with shame at the logic he draws. But still, you resist.

“I was invited.”

You’ve always been around to see the return of angels from long missions where they are surrounded by darkness and pain. They seem so strong, their chests puffed in pride, their wings shining brighter as a badge of honor. There’s a bravery that you wish you could have right now. But you’re afraid—whether that fear is pure or mixed with something sensual and dangerous—you still don’t know.

“I-I was chosen,” you insist, despite what you feel.

“Oh, I’m sure you were.” His head tilts as he regards you.

The book disappears from his hands before materializing in your own, warm smoke wrapping around your wrists before dissipating. “Take it. Return to your divine purpose.”

You clutch the tome, hoping for relief to fill your wings, but you can only feel disappointment instead. You hesitate, flickering your gaze up to the demon who stands expectantly with arms crossed, like he knows what the outcome will be. Like he knows you will be back.

You turn around and flea down the obsidian path. The garden walls adorned with pearl flowers blur past you until—

The walls part again, the altar and demon coming into view.

“That’s not—” you spin, turning back toward the path and running faster this time, your relic pressed to your body, your lungs burning with the truth that you’re trying to deny.

The hemlock flowers seem to laugh as you pass, their white petals pointing the way with mocking fingers until—

The altar. The demon, an eyebrow raised. Again.

“Stop this!” Your voice breaks as you turn around to try again, sprinting so hard that your wings flap against the wind, your toes touching the top of the thin layer of water below you. You come to the altar a third time, then a fourth, each leading back to his knowing and patient form.

“I’m not doing anything.” His voice holds a gentle pity that pricks at your skin. “But why? Why would they send their most curious angel into a demon’s realm? Why alone? Why you?”

Something in his tone, in the endearment wrapped around seduction makes your grace shiver. You long to have an answer ready on your tongue, and you do, but it’s more practiced, copied, and spit out and resonates in your bones incorrectly.

“The relic requires eyes that can transcribe so I select the right one. My abilities—”

“Your abilities,” he interrupts softly, materializing behind you, “the ones that they’ve tried to suppress. The ones that they’ve feared. Yet suddenly, all of it is for naught, and you’ve been given this divine purpose?”

The towering demon circles you slowly, analyzing you like a predator waiting for his wounded prey to finally submit. You swallow hard, fingers digging into the leather of the book, eyes downcast.

“They finally saw my worth,” you insist, but the words sound hollow even to your ears. “I am pure. Free of sin. I do not stray.”

Warmth by the shell of your ear, the rich smell of him forbidden, an erotic melody that makes your blood long to sing.

“Lies.”

Your wings slash through the air in deep powerful strokes, twitching in their plumage. “I would not lie!”

“Neither would I, little angel. But it seems you have been led here under false pretenses.”

“No.”

“There is no relic.” The tome in your hands disappears, it’s solid form no longer tethered to existence.

“Give it—”

“There is no mission,” he presses on. “There is no divine purpose. There is only you. Cast down here and given to me.”

“To you…”

“An offering, little angel.”

The word makes you chill over in disgust, the very thought of being a sacrificial lamb enough to make you sick to your stomach. You shake your head vehemently, insistently denying as best as you can even though your grace radiates with the truth.

“No. They would never sacrifice someone. They—they wouldn’t—they wouldn’t do that to me.”

The demon clicks his tongue, pity filling his otherworldly features with a slight pout of his lips as he studies you. Before you can take another breath, the realm shifts, reality bending in a plume of smoke. The monolith and altar disappear, the darkness of the garden walls fading to give way to the eternal light you recognize as your home.

The tall pearly gates that surround your kingdom smile down at you, pearlescent clouds that seeps beneath the doors kissing your bare toes. Your wings waft in the air with ease, pumping euphoria through your veins as you smile up at your home. The tome is back now, cradled safely in your arms, reminding you of your mission. With a hope bright in your chest, you rapt your fingers on the doors.

“Father! I’ve retrieved the relic! I’m home!”

But the doors do not open. There is no sound of movement on the other side, no shift in the white clouds around you. It doesn’t even feel as if someone is not home. You can feel your siblings, you’ve always been able to sense them in your grace, but this sensation is reluctant. As if they peak through closed curtains on the other side, watching through a window with their hand on the door to prevent you from coming in.

“H-hello?” you try again, voice shaking as you knock with more fervor, denial warring with growing dread. “I-I said I’ve brought the relic.” Silence. “Hello?!” You smack on the doors now, the holy wood splitting at your skin and healing over again. Surely someone must be home. Maybe they are away? Maybe they are busy and do not hear?

You press your forehead against the door, wings drooping. Through your grace, you feel them there, still watching. Waiting for you to leave. But not to welcome you home.

“Please,” you whisper, eyes stinging. “Will someone—”

“They will not open the doors, little angel,” the demon speaks from behind you.

You jump from his sudden appearance, your body drained of all blood at the sordid thought of what is happening right now. Reality shifts again, the divine light of your home sucking back into darkness, the monolith and marble altar and obsidian floors coming back into view.

Your legs threaten to give as realization washes over you. You shake your head, lip quivering as tears blur the edges of your vision, your fingers curling on the altar. How could they do this to you? You have always struggled in this life, always been so ashamed that you do not think like the others. But to cast you out? To give you these wings and then make you feel as if you are beyond saving?

“Perhaps it is a mistake,” you whisper, your hope crumbling with every word. You feel his large form next to you before you hear any steps. “Why would they do this to me?”

You have no choice but to look up at him, to seek some form of answer in his burning yellow eyes. There’s a flicker of something that crosses his face—amusement? Maybe pity?

“They have offered you to me. A sacrifice to take the darkness from their pristine walls and feed it to the realm it belongs to.”

The words hang in the air, the horrifying truth once again presented to you. Your heart lurches in your chest. You recoil, your wings drooping to brush along the water covered floor.

“They fear you, little angel,” he continues, voice softening. “Your potential, your curiosity, your unwillingness to follow their absolutes.”

You slap your hands on the altar, the sound reverberating through the emptiness around you. “I will not.”

The demon chuckles, a low, sardonic noise that crawls up your dress and wraps around your throat. “Such defiance,” he purrs. “It’s quite…alluring.”

You can’t help the noise of shock and anger that crawls up your throat, shooting him a dark look. “I will not be corrupted by the likes of a demon like you.”

“Like me? So you imply that another demon may have a chance?” His jests fall on rageful ears, your wings flapping in defiance as you gape at him. He leans in close, his breath warm against your lips as he whispers. “You deny it all little angel. But you already are corrupt.”

You try to pull away from him, but a large hand falls to the small of your back, his fingers weaving through your wings in a caress that makes you choke on a whine.

“Come now, my dear.” The tip of his nose trails along your cheek, the touch sending flames of desire down your neck. You curl your fingers into a fist on the altar, your body ramrod straight.

“I can smell it on you,” he continues, his voice a silken caress. “The insatiable curiosity, the yearning for more, the essence that pools between your thighs every night before you sleep.”

The fingers in your plumage massage your skin, your shoulders relaxing into a traitorous sigh before with a swift motion, he plucks a feather from its root. You wince, your hand flying back to bat him away before he holds the feather in front of you, its tip stained a deep, inky black.

“Do you not try to hide it? You sneak to the archives. You let them smother your dreams. You do not tell them that you sneak away to the mortal realm to watch them eat, and bathe, and sin.”

He turns your wing to expose the underside where the feather was plucked, your eyes widening as if you’ve been caught. The skin is marred with a dark scar, the muscle underneath dried with blood and presenting as damning evidence of you plucking those feathers over and over, your cheeks covered in tears as you did your best to hide them away.

“You pluck your true self,” he whispers, voice laced with dry amusement. “But they only grow back stronger, don’t they?”

A breath catches in your throat, his words piercing through your defenses that you have built with weak mortar and brick for eons. Your eyes catch his, your desire reflected in burning gold.

“Even so…I cannot leave?”

He hums in reverence, a pointy finger trailing along your collarbone to brush a lock of hair from your shoulders, exposing more of your scent for him to breathe in.

“You have tried to leave already and you cannot. There is nowhere for you to go. I can let you roam to any realm you choose, but the doors of Heaven will be locked for you forever.”

Your eyes bubble with tears. It’s an unfortunate hand that you have been dealt. A hand always opened to you in promise even as the other held a dagger behind the back of divinity. There’s a deep part of you that would try to find some sort of silver lining in moments of darkness, a silver lining that only benefits you.

“If I stay…what will you give me?” you ask, your voice small and defeated.

The demon sinks to one knee in front of you, his eye level now only a little taller than you, but still more humane than his hovering from before. He offers a slow, predatory smile, his lips parting to reveal sharp pearly white fangs.

“You already think in ways that will benefit yourself, don’t you? Whatever you desire, little angel, I will give it.” The sharp point of his nail trails down your cheek, casting a wave of arousal down your body, your stomach tightening. “Anything at all.”

You cannot deny the promise of whatever you want does not make you perk mildly with curiosity, the same curiosity that was always quelled.

You lick your lips in thought, a nervous habit that your siblings have always discouraged. It’s unbecoming of an angel, they’d say, a physical manifestation of want. But you’ve always like the way your tongue feels against the plump flesh of your lips.

“Anything?”

He inclines his head to you, eyes answering without having to say. You hesitate, your mind racing with possibilities, unleashed with nothing to hold them back.

“I want…” you begin, stopping short at the coil of desire that burns in your body. You’ve never given it a true voice, and now that you’ve been presented with the opportunity, you are unsure of how to proceed.

The demon’s eyes roam over your form before they brighten with understanding. “You wish to read the tome.”

You nod, unable to speak past the dry lump in your throat. He summons it quickly, the worn leather materializing in his enormous hands as he hands it to you like an offering of forbidden fruit.

“Take it,” he urges in a seductive whisper. “It is yours.”

You reach out with trembling fingers, your grace pulsing with desire, it’s feel growing bolder as you snatch it up into your hands and let it flow through you. The leather is cool beneath your fingertips, worn with the promise of centuries of words you’ve always wanted.

When you open the book and let your eyes fall on the faded script, they rearrange themselves like before, translating to you in a seductive dance that makes your toes curl. The knowledge overwhelms you, flooding your senses in a wave of information about this realm—its history and inhabitants and magic. You feel a thrill of excitement, a suppressed sense of liberation as you turn page after page.

From your peripheral, you see the demon offer that same predatory smile. With a snap of his fingers, the world shifts around you again. You are further from the monolith but instead of the altar, you are surrounded by looming bookshelves, all filled to the brim. Ancient tomes and scrolls, dusty relics that have been neglected over the years but kept in condition by this demon who rules this realm.

“This is a taste of what I can offer you. All of it is yours.” He steps closer, the energy that he radiates filling your space with darkness and seduction that terrifies and excites you. “There is so much more I can show you,” he whispers in your ear again. “Would you like that?”

Even though your body and soul buzz with satisfaction from the books around you, the shame is still there, still bubbling beneath the surface next to your dejection.

Sensing your unease, he places tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, a gesture that you long to fall into before the world morphs again.

He takes you back to where you began, the realm’s outskirts. However there is no russet fog that is thick and smells of decay and misery, this time your vision is clear. The shadows that once hovered around you in your quest to the monolith now reveal themselves as souls—humans that you recognize from your years of observation.

“Do you remember her?” the demon asks, pointing to a small woman tending to a bush of flowers. “The woman from years ago who stole medicine for her dying child because she had no money.”

You do remember watching with tear filled eyes. It was an ancient time where death was a sentence given freely, and this mother had been called to the land of the dead for stealing bread.

“You watched her pray for forgiveness even as she did what was necessary.” His hand rests on your lower back, reassuring in its pressure. “Heaven would have condemned her. I gave her purpose.”

“How do you give purpose if you are a demon?”

The demon huffs, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “It is true that I gain my strength through corruption. But it is corruption through intellectual rebellion and questioning minds. I am strong because no matter how many years may pass, there will always be a soul that questions.”

Each soul that you pass triggers a memory—struggles you watched but could never reach out and help. And in each memory, you gain more clarity—he was always there in the mortal realm, appearing in navy and tan just like you thought.

“You’ve been watching me then,” you inquire, tucking your tome closer to your chest as you cast a sidelong glance to him.

“It is my nature,” he rumbles from next to you. “You understand the beauty in grey areas. The necessity of balance.” His fingers glide along the empty space where you plucked your blackened wings. “Here, you could judge with mercy and justice. Rule in the knowledge they feared.”

Power.

A destructive thing that has elevated so many and torn them down. But the call of it has always been sweet, and now you are the subject of it. The very thought of it makes your knees weaken, your grace fluttering like a leave in the wind. This could be something more honest, not Heaven’s sterile authority.

The soil that is no longer red vibrates beneath you, pulsing up your ankles and calves, around your waist and torso in thick vines that pull you to the monolith miles away.

“Easy, my dear,” he murmurs, a muscular arm sliding around your waist to prevent you from swaying further. “The first taste of true power always overwhelms.” Your grace flickers between divine light and seductive shadow, somehow grounded by his hold.

Every soul’s story calls to you now, complex choices and grey morality making your divine nature pulse with stomped out recognition. You lean into him, falling more into his scent, your wings brushing his back to seek balance.

“I…” you trail off, clutching the relic in your arms, using it to ground you through your thoughts that fight between light and dark.

“What else would you like?” he purrs in your ear, his hand reaching out to the realm beyond that begins to shift again. A vast kitchen filled with warmth and enticing scents. “Earthly pleasures are denied amongst angels.” The pristine counter tops are soon overflown with rich goods and goblets of wine. “Even something as simple as this.”

You’ve never had wine—it’s forbidden—at least for you. But the way it catches the warm fireplace behind it, deep and rich…your mouth waters.

“Freedom to roam where you wish.”

Glimpses of different realms flash by—clouds of different shapes and sizes, landscapes of mountains and water as clear as crystal, beings that take on their own forms as they wander the lands—places you’ve only dreamt of exploring, of asking to see and always been denied.

His voice drops lower, more intimate and hot on your cheek. “Or perhaps…” Another shift. A dark room you remember faintly—through gauzy curtains, you see two figures entwined in candlelight. The brown skin of limbs and curves wrapped around tan that shimmers faintly. You recognize the hips of the woman, the collarbone and hair, and you realize it’s you. You wrapped around this very demon next to you who appears in the mortal realm as a human with carefully parted locks and a height fit for yourself.

Your blood boils beneath your skin as you try to look away. But like every forbidden thing that’s ever called to you, your eyes are drawn back to the scene—to the way your dream-self arches into his touch, the way your neck cranes, the sight of his tongue sliding along the sweat of your brown breast.

He hums from behind you, his demonic form pressing closer as you watch his human glamour worship your other self. That familiar wave of shame wars with the desire in your body, trying its best to smother the arousal that tightens your nipples beneath your white dress. All of it you suffer night after night—your grace singing, skin hot and sweaty—essence coating your thighs.

“I—” you stutter for words, eyes locked on the human form that rolls his hips and swallows a moan that shakes from your other-self. “This is wrong…”

His starlight fingers trace your collarbone, mimicking the tongue of his human form. “Your body remembers what they tried to smother away. How many nights did you wake burning for this? For me?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

The realm shifts one final time, the familiar garden walls and monolith appearing before you, the altar pressing into your back. The demon circles you, giving you no time to recover as his prying eyes pick you apart feather by feather.

“Even your grace recognizes where you truly belong.” He reaches out, trailing pointy nails down your spine, your body arching of its own volition. “Here. With me.”

His hands engulf your entire waist, his touch making you gasp as he lifts you up to sit on the altar before him.

“Every dream they tried to bury,” his hands trail up your thighs, “every desire they made you forget…” he steps closer, taking the oxygen from your lungs that you expel, his naked chest a hairsbreadth from your searching fingers. “All of it has lead to this moment. To me.”

“I—” you try to protest, but it dies in your throat as he tilts your chin to face him.

“You were meant for this realm,” he leans in, trailing his nose along your shaking lips. “I will make you mine. As my queen, my consort, my equal.” You press the tome further into your chest like a lifeline as his hand rests on the side of your neck, his nails grazing the lobe of your ear. “You’ve always known it. Even in those dreams where you surrendered to me so sweetly.”

His lips are close enough to kiss you, but they brush your jaw instead, trailing electricity down your throat. “Anything you want,” he breathes against your pulse, smiling at the sight of it’s rapid flutter, “you will have, little angel.” His mouth moves to that sensitive spot behind your ear that you discovered one night centuries ago. “But you must surrender to me. You have been offered and now you must be consumed.”

You clutch the tome tighter, using it as a tether even as your head tilts to give him better access. “I should not…”

“Surrender,” he whispers, lips ghosting your shoulder now, each kiss punctuated with promises that you should deny. “Let me worship you.” A kiss to your collarbone. “You will never be denied again.” His mouth traces back to hover over your lips. “Submit to what you have always wanted.”

The burn in your body makes your skin tingle, your core pulse with forbidden need, your nipples tighten in pleasure. Everything you’ve always wanted, could be given to you right now.

All of your dedication to faith has only led to tears and shame and disappointment. But here, you could be rewarded for your curiosity, exalted for your power to see what others do not, consumed in pleasure without the eyes of disdain looking down on you.

Here, with this beautiful demon, you can have it all.

For as powerful and as dark as he is, despite the patient hunger in his golden eyes, you realize he’s waiting. You must give the final say. A final say to do away with eons of denying, of plucking dark feathers, of letting them bury your dreams…

“Please,” the words shake from your lips before you can stop it, the tome slipping from your defeated grasp.

His eyes flash with satisfaction, mouth twitching with the urge to smile, but he relents. “Say it properly, little angel.” His mouth brushes the corner of your lips in not quite a kiss. “Tell me.”

Your wings spread wider of their own accord, trembling and stretching past invisible threads that have always held them down. “I want…I will to surrender.”

You hardly finish your words before you feel the press of his lips against yours, gentle and almost reverent. It’s the first time you’ve ever kissed, and it’s as euphoric as you’ve always thought. Your toes curl in satisfaction, your body hums with arousal, low and beneath the surface but quickly growing.

The hand on your neck tilts you up so he can feast further, a wet tongue sliding along the seam of your lips in a quiet ask for permission. You let your body guide you, opening your mouth to welcome him with a groan.

He tastes like he smells—green tea and honey, a hint of rich bread that you occasionally try in the mortal realm. It’s intoxicating, dark mingled with your fading sweetness. One that speaks of corruption and surrender.

What started as gentle quickly turns hungry and consuming. Your grace shivers as you catalogue every shift in your body, learning from the lessons of his tongue. Each stroke of him feels like corruption, like freedom, like finally coming home and you arch into him for more.

Your white dress slowly disappears before you, your body revealing to him naked and shivering. You try to cover yourself, an urge ingrained in you since your coming of existence, but the demon’s large hand stops you, gathering both hands in his strong grip and placing them at your sides.

He does not wait a second longer, his mouth trailing in worship down your neck and across your collarbone to pepper the swell of your breasts, your core pounding incessantly as he gets closer to one nipple before he wraps it in his hot mouth.

A moan shakes from your mouth, unexpected and loud into the quiet air of this monolith room. Your hands reach up to card in his golden locks, they’re warm and impossibly silky, the flame colored ends burning more than the rest. You let the pain of it singe your fingertips, basking in the euphoric pleasure pain of your skin growing back and burning all over again.

His hand envelops your other breasts, his sharp nails teasing your nipple before he drags it slowly across your areola. Your fingers tighten in his hair from the pain, your core dripping on the marble altar you sit on.

“You taste wonderful, little angel,” he purrs into the wet skin of your breast, pulling away before he gently nudges you onto your back. Your wings stretch languidly to make you more comfortable against the flat surface. The urge to cover yourself is not as insistent as before, the desire eating you up without reservation. “But I must taste more.”

He leans over the altar you lay on, kissing your lips gently before his tongue slides along the skin of your neck and down your body. It’s longer than a mortal tongue, and when they circle your nipples again, you shake at the pronged tip that flicks your bud.

He worships down your torso to dip in your navel, over the dip in your hips before his hands push your legs up onto his shoulders and he licks your sopping core from bottom to top.

You arch sharply, teeth digging into your bottom lip in a futile attempt to stop the moan from shooting from your throat.

You’ve watched the humans many times in the shadows, transfixed when their mouths worship these parts of their partner, but to experience it yourself? To feel the demons tongue part your folds and circle the bud at the top that makes you cry into your pillows at night. Heaven has hidden away beautiful pleasure.

“Look at how much you give me,” he whispers, kissing the inside of your thigh before you feel his tongue on you again, prodding your entrance that you’ve sunken your fingers into at night.

You bite down on your lip, shivering in pleasure as he prods further and further, your legs widening with each current of pleasure until he sinks his wide tongue inside of you. You taste copper from your bleeding lip that heals over quickly, your bare feet digging into the demon’s broad shoulders as he feasts on your essence.

With every gasp, your wings quiver in anticipation, curling into your body to protect yourself from a euphoria that is growing so quickly in your stomach.

“Please,” you whisper in disbelief, hands twisting his hair with your divine strength. He hums in satisfaction, satisfied with what you give and digging for more.

His tongue strokes inside of you with purpose, caressing something along the roof of your hot walls, his nose brushing your bundle of nerves once, twice, the pleasure enough to make your jaw drop, to make you pant feverishly into the air, to make your back arch until the base of your spine hurts as you come apart by the seams.

Your release makes you cry out into the air, the sound brushing along the monolith, the constant pulsing stopping to take in your pleasure before it resumes its steady pulse.

He rises slowly as you struggle to catch your breath, his golden eyes tracing over your shivering form from head to toe. His grey obsidian hands slide up your trembling thighs as he leans over you.

“Beautiful,” he purrs before he kisses your lips. You swallow your taste—tangy and rich like the divinity that courses through your veins. “But I must have all of you to make this complete.”

All of you?

You look down to find that his pants are gone, starlight shining bright on his hips that seem to point down to the member that hangs between his thighs. Your eyes widen—he’s definitely bigger than mortals, purplish veins that trail along the sides, a tip that is darker than his grey, the skin flickering with those shimmering stars you are growing to love.

He’s beautiful, and without thinking you reach out to touch. He’s impossibly hard but also incredibly soft, and you watch in fascination as his dark flame-colored wings expand and shake in supplication.

He leans his head back to the grey skies, swallowing deeply at your touch and there’s a sense of power you feel. To know that with a single touch you can make this powerful demon fracture just a little.

He wraps his hand around yours to stop you, pulling you up so that he can sit on the altar instead. Even though he’s tall, you’re able to reach up and wrap your arms around his neck.

Your wings stretch and flap behind you, sparse feathers wafting in their air to fall around you both in white, grey, and black. Even though you feel loose from your first release, there is a subtle power that thrums with every flap of your wings.

You look at the monolith again. The pulse has picked up steadily, seeming to match your own heartbeat. Maybe there is a connection to the power inside of it and what might be coursing through you now.

As you tail up the length of it until it disappears into the grey clouds, you think faintly of those who cast you out. The pleasure fractures a little with pain, your eyebrows furrowing in disappointment.

“My angel,” he calls to you, softly, turning your gaze back to him. His golden and flame locks are messy, his horns pulsing with shimmering light, the navy and gold armor gone so that he is as naked as you are. “That pain that you feel will go away with time. I will make sure you will never know it again.”

The promise fills you with hope, and the press of his lips to yours makes the sordid thoughts fall to the wayside, your pleasure humming to life at the base of your spine.

The touch of his fingers to your core makes you whine into his mouth, pulling away with only a gossamer of saliva connecting you both. He strokes your bud, drinking your sighs and moans as your thighs and stomach tighten, your fingers digging into his soft shoulders.

He pulls you up onto your knees, your wet entrance brushing the thick tip of him before he guides you onto him slowly. It’s a stretch, far thicker than your fingers and foreign inside of you.

The initial pain makes you gasp, tears pricking your eyes. It feels as if you’re being split in two from your hips, torn apart with a strength that only makes you shiver and moan.

One hand slides along one wing to soothe you, his lips pressing to your neck. Eventually, the pain gradually melts into pleasure, his hands possessive on your hips as he guides you with careful restraint. You quake at the feel of him inside of you, stretching and molding your muscles in each euphoric stroke.

“Perfect,” he breathes against your shoulder. “Look how well you take me.” His voice resonates deep in your core, a sound that both terrifies and entices you, a forbidden melody that you are slowly learning the notes to.

You whimper in response, relishing in his praise as you begin to move faster on top of him, bouncing with a newfound sense of purpose. Your wings flap with more insistence, stretching and bending with the power that begins to seep out of your skin, white feathers less in abundance with each flap.

The demon’s nails dig into your waist and you sigh into the pain, picking up the pace until you’re not sure where he stops and you begin.

The power takes you higher and higher, your skin breaking into a sheen of sweat, your gasps dying in the air as you pant and moan above him. The pleasure at the base of your spine heats quickly, bubbling with sticky satisfaction as it slides down your vertebrae and into your core.

“That’s it,” he growls, nails digging into the flesh of your cheeks, canting your hips toward him so the tip of his member brushes that spot on your upper walls once again.

You choke on a moan, head thrown back in bliss, nails dragging down the solid muscle of his chest. Your wings curl around you, dark feathers replacing white with each thrust.

“Transform for me completely. Embrace what you truly are.”

“Yes,” you hiss, your mouth falling open as you struggle for breath. Your core tightens around him, the bundle of nerves shaking even untouched, and you’re falling, you’re falling, you’re—

The demon shifts again, his member leaving your hot core and denying you of release, your hands now pressed to the altar as you’re bent over. You whine in annoyance, looking over your darkening wings at his large form as he heaves with breath.

He regards you with a dark look, one that shows just how capable he is of picking you apart, and your mouth fills with saliva at the thought.

He draws one leg up onto the altar before sliding into you once more without pretense. You groan around the stretch of him, marveling at the pinch of pain that bleeds into overwhelming pleasure as he picks up his pace inside of you.

What starts out as reverent and gentle soon turns feverish. His strokes are deeper, his hips snapping against your open legs, a haze of pleasure clouding every crevice of your mind as he kisses spots inside of you that makes you groan, hiss, and whine.

The monolith picks up in speed, pulse matching your heartbeat as you climb higher and higher up a ladder of darkness that has always been denied.

You don’t know why, you don’t know where it comes from, but the last slivers of your salvation slide to the surface, tickling your throat one last time before they leave your soul forever.

“Please, please, Father,” you moan, eyes filling with tears of satisfaction as your body jerks with every harsh thrust of the demon behind you. One of his hands weaves into your locks, curling tight before yanking you back to him, arching until our stomach presses into the altar. “Forgive me.”

“We will have none of that,” he warns, out of breath. “You seek forgiveness to someone who is not listening. You pray to someone who has cast you out. And here you are. Under me. Calling for him as you weep on my cock in pleasure.”

His sharp fingers slide down your hip to circle over your bud of nerves and you cry out, tears streaming down your face, power radiating up your limbs. “Keep moaning, little angel. Keep begging.” He leans over you, pressing his hot chest into your wings, his breath hot on your ear as the tips of his pronged tongue slide along your lobe. “In your eyes you are soiled. Filthy. And my sweet goddess loves it, doesn’t she?”

You shake your head to deny, deny, deny. But a hard thrust, a stroke of his thick cock that kisses your cervix, and you sob in the pain that molds into pleasure. Your nipples brush against the cold marble, each icy touch shockwaves down your spine.

“I’ve watched you, my dove. When you study the humans in their pleasure. I’ve seen the way your pupils dilate. I’ve smelt the essence between your thighs. You dream of this don’t you?”

You try to whisper your Father’s name one last time, to show with your last breath of divinity that you were an angel who worked hard.

“You won’t say his name here anymore. Not in my realm—in our realm. Not in my arms while you cum on my cock. The only name you will moan and beg and plead is mine.”

Your wings flap in reverence, responding to his demands as they stretch around you. No longer are your feathers white, now they are inky black, as dark as midnight, as mysterious as the darkness you peer into.

The monolith quickens, a hummingbird’s wings, the bright core sliding up and down the tree-like structure and bleeding with vibration through the ground and up the altar.

Even as your mind tries to deny what you are becoming, your soul speaks otherwise, your core clenches around him unwilling to let go. The demon behind you grunts with each thrust, low and seductive on the back of your neck, his nose smelling the skin.

“I can’t—” you choke, fingers sliding on the altar from your sweat. “Please.”

“Please what?” he groans.

“More, please more, more, more,” you beg, words and resolve splintering in your throat as he rewards you with deeper thrusts, each one making you see the stars that shimmer along his skin.

“Say my name,” he demands, one hand sliding up your throat. You gasp at the subtle pressure on each side, not enough to do anything, but enough to make a dark current of pleasure pulse inside of you. “Let the skies above hear who you belong to now.”

You don’t know where the name comes from. He’s never given it to you. You’ve never asked. But somewhere, deep down in some ancient place in your soul, you’ve always known all along. Known him.

“Nanami,” it falls from your lips like a broken prayer. “Nanami, please—”

His teeth graze your pulse, sharp fangs dragging along your skin as pleasure builds in your body beyond reason. Your wings spread impossibly wide, your skin hums in arousal, hot and stinging.

The monolith’s pulse quickens with you, its light growing brighter as the power in your body travels through your veins to complete a transformation you can feel in your fallen grace. Even with every harsh pump of his hips, you feel worshiped. Worshipped by his hands. Worshipped on this altar in front of a monolith that watches over you both.

“You were an offering—a gift to me. Molded by the heavens. And now you’re mine. And your Father sent you to me,” he growls against your throat. “My dark goddess.”

His thrusts grow harder, more desperate, each one a brand searing its mark into your very soul. A mix of your essence and his precum pools on the altar where you are joined. The last embers of your angelic resistance crumble completely, replaced by an insatiable hunger that mirrors his own.

“Let go. Surrender to me completely.”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

That hot lava at the base of your spine explodes like a volcano of unholy fire as his teeth sink into your neck, marking you as his. Your release bursts from you, your core squeezing his thick member, your muscles seizing as your mouth falls open and your cries echo through the realm as divine light fractures into starry darkness.

All of your abilities that have been repressed swirl within the darkness and mix with the forbidden powers awakening within you. It feels like the very essence of your being is changing, transforming into something wild, a reflection of the demon who guided you with a sultry voice down this path.

You feel a rivulet of your blood trail down the side of your neck from his puncture, blazing with the essence of darkness that now pumps through your veins. He releases his teeth from your neck and turns your head to him with more force than necessary, sliding his tongue into your mouth as he kisses you senseless.

You can’t breathe, your body is loose, your grip on the edge of the altar slipping with each relentless thrust but you love it. Every smack of heavy balls against your clit, every slide of sweaty muscles of his chest against your wings and back, every pulse of your cunt around his cock.

Nanami pulls away breathless, the hand around your throat tightening imperceptibly, the sharp tips of his fingernails breaking skin. His pronged tongue slides along your cheeks to collect your fallen tears.

Every noise that leaves your mouth is against everything you hold dear, a sound of sin, debauchery and lust.

“I’m yours,” you whisper against his lips, your breath punching out of you with each desperate thrust. Nanami’s eyebrows furrow and his nose crinkles with a snarl, his wings pulsing with flame as his release climbs up his body as well. “I’m yours, Nanami.”

“Take my essence, little angel,” he demands, biting your lip until you draw blood. You lick up the coppery tang, falling into the prickly grip on your neck as he takes what he needs from you. “One day, when you have ruled with me for centuries to come, when you are one in your skin, perhaps my essence will take root.”

Your eyes widen at the implication, your soul no longer quivering in blasphemy but in satisfaction. How you would love that. One day. With him.

“Yes, Nanami,” you whisper into him, accepting one more kiss as he strokes once, twice, and a final time before he shivers from head to toe and groans with deep pleasure into your mouth.

His darkness seeps into the remnants of your light, a forbidden dance of shadow and flame now made true. He pumps hot semen into you, far too much for comfort and your essence combines with his demonic energy, feeding the power that still ebbs in your veins.

He falls into you, his hold on your throat vanishing to slide down to your naked stomach, pressing to the spot where he is still lodged inside. You reach back, carding your hands through his burning hair, reveling in the shiver he gives you.

He pulls out of you slowly and your cunt clenches around nothing, legs shaking at the feel of his semen dripping from you. He does not entertain the mess but gathers you in his arms, carrying you past the defiled altar and monolith that has fallen into a gentle ebb once more. The obsidian floors open up again, the thin layer of water rising within a large tub of water that steams with inviting heat.

He sinks you both into the steaming water, your new darkened wings flapping at the moisture that touches your plumage. When he dips your head beneath the surface, it feels like baptism in reverse—washing away heaven’s hold rather than blessing you with it. When you emerge, you feel reborn, your shame and disappointment for your former family now washed away.

You sigh at the effect hot water on your muscles, melting into the large expanse of his chest. He does not speak and you do not ask questions, content to watch him manifest a tray of oils and soaps that smell of green tea and burning honey.

He plucks a marble comb from the tray and drags it gently through your curls, each stroke bending with the texture of your hair to guide without tangle, each pass worship and calming.

Once your hair is untangled and silky, he washes your skin with the soap and oils that smell of him. You study him openly now—the way constellations shift across his skin, how his golden eyes hold both demonic power and intelligent precision, the careful way he maintains order even in darkness.

He dresses you in black fabric that flows like liquid shadow, clinging to your curves like his possessive touch. Instead of the starry sky, the black material is adorned by golden accents that match his eyes and armor.

The altar recedes into the floor and in its place, two large thrones emerge. Carved from pure white marble shot through with veins of gold, they’re identical in height and grandeur—a statement of what he promised you—equal rule.

Dark vines curl around their bases, blooming with black roses, while plush velvet cushions in deep navy make them as comfortable as they are magnificent.

He throws you an inquisitive rise of his brow, what was once used to pick you apart upon first meeting him, now make your lips curl in a smile. You pretend to ponder which you will choose, humming noncommittally before you sink into one chair, sighing into the softness around your body and wings.

Nanami bends down, taking a hand in both of his before he kisses your palm. “You look magnificent,” he purrs, your hand still in his while he sits on his throne.

With a snap of his fingers, the garden walls disappear, revealing the vast landscape that was once shrouded in horror and fear when you first arrived.

Now it appears without malice, without misery or shame, but of exotic greenery and souls who have been neglected for only choosing a path that feels wrong even though it is right.

The heavens is but a distant memory now, infinitesimal in the many years you will continue to exist. Now, you bask in the new power in your bones, in the brush of Nanami’s lips to your palm once more.

As the stars on his skin ebb and fade with light, you take in the muscles of his torso, the strength in his movements as he worships you without speaking.

It has taken eons to get to this moment, but some part of you preens with the satisfaction that Nanami has always been watching, waiting for you to come to him.

Thanks for reading and Happy Halloween!

[beastking-golion]

Collection of some supernatural doodles I’ve done. You can see I was working out their dog designs considering the inconsistency lol (also ft lil bird cas and hawk jack)

[sheydi0]

👀Destiel Detroit Become Human AU

[lactaidsaveme]

Selkie AU in the same lore as the Skystar mermaid au

AUGH…

[supernotnatural2005]

ℕ𝕠.𝟠 𝕎𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕙𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣

Pairing: Hockey player!Dean x Reader AU

Summary: You and Dean have a forbidden kind of love, but one that burns bright and true despite the odds.

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings/tags: Implied Smut (non-graphic) So much fluff! Little angst, swearing. Hockey player!Dean, High school!Dean x reader

Prompt: Sports AU

AN: This is another submission for my @jacklesversebingo card. I've been seeing a few hockey!Dean fic's around lately, especially @titsout4jackles ‘s series, which i love so much!! And it's what inspired my go to for my sports au. I love how it turned out and hope you all enjoy 😘

Masterlist

JVB Masterlist

Dean blew out a breath, his eyes scanning the rink, looking for an open teammate to make his pass. Little icicle flecks kicked up beneath his skates as he glided effortlessly down the left-hand side, dodging each offending player with precision. His grip tightened on his stick, every muscle in his body coiled with the intensity of the game.

The crowd was electric, a mix of nervous tension and excitement rippling through the stands. Chatter filled the air, some bellowed yells of praise rivalling insults from the away team goers. Other’s belonging to a group of girls was locked in conversation as they eyed the ever sort after Winchester number 8 jersey.

“He’s so dreamy” one girl sighed; eyes glued to him as he manoeuvred across the ice. “Is he single?”

Another scoffed, irritation in her tone. "I heard he’s been seeing someone in our year."

"No way," the first girl protested. "He’s never with anyone."

"That’s because his dad doesn’t like him dating during hockey season," a third girl chimed in. “Say’s it’s a distraction."

On the ice, Dean had no time for distractions. There were seconds left on the clock—only enough for one shot and one shot only.

He weaved through two defenders, the cold air sharp against his flushed skin as his breath came in ragged pants. The puck skimmed just ahead of him, dancing on the ice. Benny Lafitte was open, but so was Gadriel. He had to be smart. No room for mistakes.

A flick of his wrist, and the puck zipped through a gap between the opposing defensemen’s skates. Gadriel caught it cleanly, his body twisting as he lined up for the shot.

Time stretched thin, the world slowing to a heartbeat.

The slap of Gadriel’s stick echoed like a gunshot as the puck sailed through the air, a blur of black against white. Dean’s breath hitched, his pulse hammering in his ears. The goalie lunged, gloves reaching—

But the puck kissed the back of the net.

The buzzer blared.

For a split second, the arena was silent, the weight of anticipation hanging in the air. Then—

Chaos.

The stands erupted, fans screaming, feet stomping against the bleachers. Dean barely had time to process before he was tackled by Benny, both of them hitting the ice in a tangled heap of triumph. Gadriel whooped; his helmet knocked askew as the team swarmed together in celebration. Gloves were flung in the air, sticks clattered onto the ice, and Dean could barely breathe, but damn, it felt good.

They had won.

The party was in full swing, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with students celebrating the win. Music blasted from the speakers, shaking the floor beneath them. Red solo cups littered every surface, and the scent of beer and sweat lingered in the air.

Benny, ever the showman, thrust their newly won trophy into the air, grinning ear to ear. "Let’s hear it for your champions!" he bellowed, and the room exploded into cheers once again.

Girls swarmed around them, eyes wide with admiration, hands brushing against his arm as they giggled and vied for his attention. Gabriel and Benny were lapping it up, basking in it, but Dean’s focus was elsewhere.

Through the crowd, his eyes found what they were looking for—more so, who he was looking for. A smirk tugged at his lips as he shrugged off the girls trying to deter him. His attention was unshakeable.

The cheerful buzz of the party faded into the background as he moved, weaving through the shifting bodies, following a familiar scent and teasing glimpses of a smile he knew too well. His heart pounded harder than it had during the game, anticipation coiling in his gut as his pursuit led him deeper into the house.

Until it brought him right outside a door.

With a cautious glance to either side of him, ensuring the coast was clear, he slipped inside.

As soon as he was inside, his gaze raked over you from head to toe, drinking in the sight of you without the thick coat you had been bundled in at the game. And what a sight it was.

Short denim skirt, bare legs smooth and enticing. A tight top, dipping just low enough to tease him with the view of your breasts. The bite of your cherry lips, the flutter of your thick lashes as you hungrily took him in had his resolve crumbling in seconds.

"God, I’ve missed you," he murmured, his voice husky as he reached for you, framing your face with strong, calloused hands before crashing his lips to yours.

The moment he saw you, his breath hitched. Short denim skirt, bare legs, that fitted top hugging your curves in ways that had been driving him insane all night. The mischievous glint in your eye as you took him in sent a fresh wave of heat rushing through him.

"God, I’ve missed you," he murmured, his voice husky as he reached for you, framing your face with strong, calloused hands before crashing his lips to yours.

You tasted sweet, addictive. More intoxicating than the victory high still buzzing through his veins. The past few days had been filled with nothing but practices and crowded spaces, too many watchful eyes, too little time to slip away. But now, here, behind closed doors, there were no rules.

His hands roamed as he pressed you against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, his body flush against yours, the heat between you both impossible to ignore. Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails raking over his back as the last of his restraint crumbled.

A breathless gasp, a whispered name, and then nothing else mattered.

Time blurred—hot, urgent kisses, teasing touches, the rush of anticipation giving way to something deeper. The party raged on just outside, but in here, all that existed was you and him.

His hands skimmed your thighs as he lifted you onto the counter, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, closer, until—

A low groan, a shared shudder, a promise murmured against your skin.

And then, nothing but heat, tangled limbs, and the sound of your name on his lips.

For a moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing, of racing hearts slowing as reality settled back in.

Dean let out a slow breath, his forehead still resting against yours as his fingers traced idle patterns against your thigh. The aftershocks of what you’d just done still hummed between you, but reality was creeping back in, bringing with it the frustration neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

You reached up, running your fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, your nails scratching lightly against his scalp. He sighed into your touch, eyes slipping shut for just a moment before he pulled back slightly, studying your face like he was memorising it.

“I hate this,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the distant bass of the party outside.

Dean let out a slow exhale, bringing his hand up to cup your flushed cheek, tenderly swiping his thumb across the warm flesh. “I know, baby.” His voice was rough, tired, like he was just as worn down by this as you were.

By ‘this’ you meant the sneaking around, the pretending like neither of you existed outside of these stolen moments, like what you had wasn’t real. Because it was. It was real, and raw, and everything you’d ever wanted—but the world outside this room refused to let you have it.

And yet, you both knew why you had to hide.

Dean sighed, his thumb brushing idly against your hipbone. “You know i’d love nothin’ more than to grab you in front of everyone, kiss you stupid so every damn person in this school knows you’re mine. To take you out on a proper date without worrying about who’s watching.”

Your chest ached at the honesty in his voice, the quiet yearning beneath it. You wanted that too. You wanted him in the sunlight, not just in the shadows.

But that wasn’t your reality.

His dad had made it clear—no distractions. And for John Winchester, dating was the biggest distraction of all. Dean needed to be focused, especially this year. The scouts were watching. One wrong move, one misstep, and everything he’d worked for could slip through his fingers. The weight of that expectation was suffocating.

And your own family wasn’t much better. Your parents had never been shy about their disapproval of high school relationships. Boys, in their eyes, were nothing but trouble, especially ones like Dean. If they found out? If they knew you spent your nights tangled up in him, breathing him in like he was the only thing keeping you alive? They’d never let you see him again.

Dean must’ve seen the flicker of sadness in your eyes because he softened, tilting your chin up until your gaze met his. “Hey,” he murmured, thumb ghosting over your cheekbone. “All we gotta do is make it through the next couple more months, and then we’re off to college. No parents. No rules. Just us.”

You swallowed, blinking up at him. “And until then?”

His lips quirked into a smirk, but there was a sadness behind it. “Until then… we keep sneaking around.”

You huffed a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Not exactly the most romantic answer.”

Dean’s grin turned wicked as he leaned in, nipping at your bottom lip before murmuring against your mouth, “Guess I’ll just have to make up for it then, huh?”

His lips captured yours again—slow, deep, like he was trying to make you forget all the reasons why you couldn’t have this out in the open. You melted into him, fingers curling around his broad shoulders, grounding yourself in the heat of his body. He kissed you until your lungs burned, until all the frustration and longing blurred into nothing but him.

And when he finally pulled away, his green eyes locked onto yours, something raw glinting in them. “I love you.”

Your breath hitched, and your heart melted, warmth flooding through you, reminding you of the first time he’d said those three words—two weeks ago.

It had been a rare, quiet night. His parents were gone for the weekend, on some romantic getaway, leaving Dean in charge of the house and Sam. Sam, who knew about the two of you but had made it clear he wouldn’t rat you out—so long as Dean agreed to do his chores for a month. The kid was a master negotiator.

You’d given your parents the usual excuse of sleeping over at Jo’s, a lie she willingly backed without hesitation. When you first told her about you and Dean, she had been thrilled—grinning like she’d won the lottery and swearing she always knew there was something between you two. But she also understood the weight of keeping it quiet. 

She knew your parents, knew how strict they were, and she didn’t judge you for sneaking around. Instead, she promised to cover for you anytime you needed. She always had your back. And for that you were grateful.

Dean had been sprawled out on his bed, chemistry textbook open in front of him, scribbling down notes with the same focus he had on the ice. If he wanted to get scouted, he needed the grades to go with it, and you were more than happy to help him.

Your relationship wasn’t all about sex, which is how you knew Dean was the one. He supported you in every aspect of your life, and you did the same for him.

Though, the fact that the sex was really good wasn’t without its perks.

You’d been sitting at his desk for too long, boredom settling in as you were writing up your own notes —it was a well-known rule the two had whenever you studied together, at least 2 feet at all times, just as a precaution from unwanted ‘distractions’—when your gaze landed on the white jersey draped over a stack of books. Your fingers skimmed over the embroidered number 8, a smirk tugging at your lips.

With a playful bite of your lip, you slipped the jersey over your head. The fabric was long enough to just barely cover your ass, teasingly brushing against your bare thighs.

You turned toward the floor length mirror, angling yourself to admire the new fashion statement. “Look at me,” you mocked, deepening your voice and flexing exaggeratedly. “I’m a big, tough hockey player.”

Your giggles filled the room, but when you turned, Dean was staring. His pencil was frozen mid-scribble, eyes wide, lips parted like you’d just knocked the wind out of him.

His gaze dragged over you, dark and reverent. “You look so fuckin’ hot right now.”

You laughed, stepping closer. “Yeah?”

Dean swallowed hard, nodding furiously, pupils blown wide with want. His hands twitched, like he was barely holding himself back.

You climbed onto his bed, knees sinking into the mattress as you gently moved his books and papers aside. Settling into his lap, you wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers threading through his hair.

The second you were close enough, Dean’s arms wrapped around you, holding tight, like he needed to keep you anchored to him. His lashes fluttered as you scratched your nails lightly against his scalp, his breath hitching at the sensation.

Then his lips were on yours, soft and tender at first, before the kiss deepened, heat unfurling between you as his hands slid up your sides, fingers skimming under the fabric of his jersey, mapping out familiar territory. 

You shivered against him, giggling when his fingertips brushed a ticklish spot near your ribs.

Dean froze at the sound, then smirked. “Oh, you’re in trouble now.”

“Dean—”

Before you could protest, he flipped you onto your back with ease, caging you beneath him. His fingers dug into your sides, pressing into all the spots he knew would drive you insane.

You squealed, squirming beneath him, breathless with laughter. “D-Dean, stop!”

He grinned down at you, relentless in his assault. “Say you surrender.”

“Never—”

A particularly well-placed tickle had you gasping, tears pricking your eyes from how hard you were laughing. “O-Okay! I give; I give!”

Dean finally relented, resting his weight on his forearms as he hovered over you, cheeks flushed, breath uneven. His smile softened as he took you in—your wide, sparkling eyes, your lips kiss-bruised and parted from laughter.

And then he felt it. That unmistakable pull in his chest, the warmth that tightened his stomach and made his throat go dry.

Love.

It wasn’t new, this feeling. It had been there for a long time. But it was the first time he truly let himself feel it.

His gaze softened, a thumb brushing along your cheekbone. “I love you.”

The words fell from his lips before he could stop them, before he could overthink it.

Your breath caught, eyes searching his face. “Dean…”

“I mean it,” he murmured. “I love you.”

You cupped his face, smiling so bright it could’ve outshined the damn sun. “I love you too.”

It had taken you both longer than it should have to admit what had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. Your relationship had never been conventional—never simple. And maybe, in a twisted way, you’d both clung to the same unspoken thought: that if you never said it out loud, the sneaking around wouldn’t hurt as much.

It wasn’t just your parents who couldn’t know. It was the rest of the school, too. If word got out, if the wrong person found out, it could all come crashing down.

Dean was highly sought after, practically worshiped by half the girls in school, and you had no doubt that some of them would gladly use their jealousy to expose what you had if given the chance. After all, you weren’t in his circle. You weren’t someone people stopped in the halls for, weren’t someone they remembered once you were out of sight.

But somehow, Dean did.

Apparently, he always had.

And as it turned out, he had been the one too shy to make a move. Not because he didn’t want to—because he knew whatever this thing was between you, it was deeper than just some fleeting crush. It wasn’t meaningless. And that? That was a risk he wasn’t sure he could afford to take.

So, he took his time.

First, he started sitting next to you in class. What began as brief smiles soon became soft greetings, casual small talk. And then, when your English lit teacher told him he needed to pull up his grades and suggested you as a tutor, he jumped at the opportunity.

From there, a friendship formed. And with it, his crush deepened into something more desperate. Something real.

You had been patient with him from the beginning—understanding, unwavering. And now, as he kissed you again, slow and deep, in this dimly lit bathroom at a party he barely remembered showing up to, he knew one thing for certain.

No matter what—no matter the sneaking around, the pressure, the expectations—this? You?

You were worth it.

AN: I hope you guys enjoyed this one, I really loved the relationship between these two, I think they're adorable 🥹 I'd love to know what you all thought 😘

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2 @deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @cevansbaby-dove @shadysoulangel @piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27 @idontwannabehere7 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith @zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @waynes-multiverse @jaredpadonlyyyy