#and the only explanation for that was that a demon had possessed it

[pineconepie]

CHARACTERS: Seradiel, Kezareth, Reader/You

WARNINGS/TAGS: Parental yandere(s), religious themes and references, conflict, angels and demons, emotional reader, forced infantilization, cuddling, annoyed reader, manipulation, mentioned possession, Sera and Kez giving divorced parent energy 💔

WORD COUNT: 3.7k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have finally wrote demon yandad! I didn't know whether or not to just make him his own character, but decided for now since I'll only be writing him with Seradiel, to not give him his own spot on series 3 (yet?)

It's dusk when it happens.

You'd already had a long day, made longer by Seradiel trailing behind you like your shadow, fawning over your safety like always. After a night out on the town with friends, you were exhausted. All you wanted to do now was rest in the comfort of your bed and maybe catch something on TV, before calling it a night and letting sleep lull you.

"I told you not to go out today," Seradiel murmurs for the seventh time, his voice gentle but cloying. His hands are folded neatly in front of him as he walks behind you.

"And I told you, I'm not going to change my plans because you 'had a feeling' it wouldn't turn out well," you retort. "Every single time you say that."

"And I am right every single time," Seradiel counters.

You don't respond. You don't even look at him. His constant hovering is wearing you down, and you have a feeling he's well aware of that.

The worst part is, you can't run from him, can't call anyone to get him away from you— because he's a celestial being. There's no escaping someone who doesn't live by human laws.

Suddenly the street darkens. The temperature dips. You look to the sky for some kind of explanation for the strange shift in scenery, but all you see are the same clouds you saw ten minutes ago. You look at Seradiel for an explanation.

His expression has shifted from irritation to wariness. He takes a protective stance in front of you. "Don't move." He's staring ahead, and you follow his gaze.

Standing there is a man who's slightly shorter than Seradiel, but with black wings, horns, and a thin black tail.

His hair is short and dark brown, and beneath his glasses are piercing green eyes, almost glowing. He wears a suit that makes him look like he came from a business meeting.

"Well, well, well," the man— probably a demon, drawls. "Long time no see, Sera."

Seradiel blocks you from the demon's vision with one of his wings. "Kezareth." Your guardian angel sounds downright hateful when saying his name. You never heard such poison dripping from his tone. "Why are you here?"

"New rules." Kezareth grabs a scroll from his pocket and unfolds it, clearing his throat. "Heaven and Hell's High Councils have come to a compromise; for every mortal human that has a guardian angel reveal themselves to them, a demon must also assign itself to said human, to balance out each side's influence." When he finishes reading, he puts the paper back into his pocket. "Since you angel's care about balance so much, this should be happy news for you."

"Oh, please," Seradiel scoffs. "There is no way anyone in heaven with a right mind agreed to this."

Kezareth shrugs. "Believe me, believe the document, or go ask God himself if you'd like. Now, let me meet my new kiddo..." He kneels down as if you're shorter than you are, waving hello. "Oh, aren't you just adorable!"

He reaches a gloved hand out to ruffle your hair, but Seradiel slaps it away. "Touch them and I will tear out your eyes."

"Wow, what a good influence," Kezareth snorts. He rises to his feet, dusting off his suit. "No need to be a drama queen about it, I'm not allowed to do anything harmful to our baby anyway. I'm just supposed to watch them like you do."

"Not 'our' baby," Seradiel growls. "And why on earth would you want to protect them? What even is your job description, if you aren't lying, that is?"

"We need more people in Hell," he shrugs. "While you're trying to get them into Heaven by encouraging them to do good things, I'm doing the opposite. Nothing crazy, of course. Just imagine me as the little demon on their shoulder."

"If you cared about them, why would you want them in Hell?" Seradiel narrows his eyes.

"So they can be with their superior dad? Catch up." Kezareth turns his attention to you again. "Sorry about all the boring bureaucracy. The main thing to know is I am taking good care of you now."

"And I thought having one overprotective asshole was bad enough," you mumble under your breath. Of course, both supernatural beings hear you.

"Language," Seradiel scolds. He hoists you up, giving you a chance to remember his inhuman strength. "And you, you stay away from them." He jabs his pointer finger at Kezareth. "You know nothing of safety."

Kezareth holds his hands up in a faux gesture of peace. "Even if I didn't want to, I don't have a choice in the matter. Rules are rules. And if you were to stop me, I think that'd be a big offense to both Heaven and Hell."

Seradiel runs a hand through his hair. "Fffffine. But if you put them in danger—"

"I'm not gonna. Demons can't harm mortals directly, remember? We can tempt them and suggest things, but we cannot carry them out. Not that I would." He offers his hand to you. "Now! Walk with me, tell me all about yourself."

...

Having two celestial beings in your life certainly changed things around.

The worst part is how Seradiel and Kezareth constantly clash on the smallest things, unable to agree on almost everything regarding your care. Like two parents in a custody battle, the only thing they share is their mutual desire for your safety. That doesn't stop them from bickering like two toddlers fighting over the same toy, though.

"How did you two know each other before?" you ask during dinner (which Seradiel made, refusing to let Kezareth even touch anything in the kitchen).

Seradiel sighs. "Kezareth was an angel once. We were... acquaintances."

Kezareth looks mildly offended. "If you think mere acquaintances spend every single day together, sleep in the same bed, bathe together, then sure, call us acquaintances."

You nearly choke on your food. "So you guys were an item?"

"Not quite." Seradiel dabs his mouth with a napkin. "That is neither here nor there, but yes, Kezareth was an angel until he fell." Disdain seeps into his voice. "He was never a good angel, mind you. Always questioning orders, never attending meetings. The only thing he was good at was slacking off." He glares daggers at Kezareth, who ignores his glower.

"Anyway, I didn't fall," Kezareth says. "I jumped. And I've never felt more free. That's why I don't want you becoming part of that life, (Y/n). It's not all rainbows and sunshine up there."

Seradiel's eyes narrow. "I'd say more strict rules are far better than eternal fire."

"Oh, please, that's just an exaggeration." Kezareth waves a hand dismissively. He turns his attention to you. "I have a pretty big social status down there. All I have to do is pull some strings and you can have your own mansion bigger than Earth. How about it?"

"Don't listen to him," Seradiel huffs.

Wow, this really does feel like a custody battle. "I just want to eat my dinner and go to bed..."

Seradiel pats your shoulder. "Finish your greens first. They'll make you big and strong." You notice Kezareth nodding to that.

...

A few days later, you attempt to shop for groceries, but you can't even do that without these two butting heads.

"Don't get that, that's loaded with cholesterol," Seradiel chastises, plucking the food from your hands.

"Hey, it's fine to be self-indulgent every now and then," Kezareth shrugs, grabbing the food back.

You groan. "It's fine, I don't have the money to get that anyway."

Kezareth puts a hand to his heart. "You're telling me Sera doesn't pay for your stuff?"

"I only pay for things I approve of. Food, rent, clothes. Anything else is a reward for good behavior." He puts the food back. "I haven't a clue why I'm explaining this to you, you wouldn't get it."

"I don't get anything that comes out of your mouth," the demon utters. He ruffles your hair, lowering his voice. "You ever steal anything before?"

Seradiel answers for you. "Don't even try putting ideas into their head."

Kezareth ignores him. "If you don't want to, I can for you. Just tell me you give me permission."

"(Y/n), don't. That is just as bad as stealing it yourself," Seradiel warns.

As much as you don't want to start any trouble, you do admit Kezareth's offer is tempting. A quick glance around tells you the coast is clear; there's no employees or customers around this area. "Alright, if it's just a snack, I guess so. Go for it."

At your agreement, a broad smile crosses Kezareth's features. He leans into one of the shelves and grabs what you're eyeing, shoving it in his jacket. "Perfect." He kisses the side of your head with a dramatic "mwah" sound, ignoring Seradiel's irritated glare. "Anything else you want around here that Mr. Grump would disapprove of?"

You open your mouth to tell him another thing, but Seradiel's disapproving glare makes you second guess your actions. "Uhh, I don't think so."

"That's correct," your guardian angel says firmly. "We're leaving before this gets anymore reckless." He grabs your wrist, dragging you to the check-out.

For the remainder of the shopping trip, there's palpable tension between Seradiel and Kezareth. You pretend to ignore it for your sanity's sake.

...

"Why do you look so upset, honey?" Kezareth coos a few days later, when he sees you trudge in the kitchen.

He knows why you're upset, of course. He had made himself invisible while watching you through the whole day, and knows you had a falling out with a friend (that he may or may not have caused, after all, you were starting to stray away from him, and he can't have that). He stops what he's doing to pull a chair from the table, ushering you over.

"One of my friends... or, well, ex-friends, isn't talking to me anymore. She blocked all contact with me out of nowhere," you utter, sitting down. "Found out she was gossiping about me behind my back with some other friends."

Kezareth starts combing through your hair with his fingers. "Aww, baby. Well, if she thinks so lowly of you, you can do without her," he says smoothly.

"She called me immature and annoying, too. Is that true?"

Kezareth clicks his tongue, moving a chair in front of you so he can sit face to face. He takes your cheeks in his hands. "Nooo, don't believe anything she said, or anyone else for that matter. She's an idiot. She doesn't know anything, baby."

You sniffle. "Yeah, maybe you're right."

He nods vigorously. "Of course I'm right, I'm always right!" He pulls you into a hug. "Besides, even if you are annoying, I don't care about that stuff. I still think you're adorable."

"I have a feeling you're only saying that because you're obligated to." Nonetheless, you return the gesture.

"Honey, I don't do anything I don't want to," Kezareth promises, voice sweet. "Everything I do is out of choice, not necessity." He brushes his thumb under your eye to wipe your tears. "Now, no more tears over someone like her. Okay, sweet pea? Now how about you take a much-needed nap." He hoists you into his arms like Seradiel often does, carrying you to your room.

"I feel too angry to even sleep," you mutter. "I know it's wrong, but I kind of hate her now."

"There's nothing wrong with hate, I don't understand why so many people are afraid of it," Kezareth says. "It's actually better to have a lot of it, otherwise you get walked over all the time." He sets you down on the bed. "And if you can't find it in yourself to hate her, I can hate her for you. In fact, I already do!"

You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. "You don't even know her."

"If she hurt you, then she hurt me." He tucks you into your bedsheets like a burrito and presses a kiss on your nose. "Say the word, and I'll ruin her life for you. Not even joking!"

"As tempting as that is, I don't hate her that much," you chuckle.

"That's alright, sweetheart," Kezareth smiles. "But if you ever change your mind, let me know." He adjusts your pillow so that your neck and head are more supported. "I'll wake you in an hour or so, whenever dinner's ready. I think you're in need of some comfort food!"

When he walks into the kitchen, there's Seradiel, glaring daggers at him.

"Our baby was emotionally wounded, and where were you, hm? Off in cloudland, right?" He walks past the angel, preparing dinner.

"What did you do?" Seradiel snaps. Kezareth turns around, feigning innocence. "Don't give me that look. I can see the wickedness in you, clear as day."

Kezareth sighs. "Some mild possession, what of it? That girl was turning against them anyway."

Seradiel's eye twitches. "Why? Just so you could see (Y/n) cry?"

The demon puts a dramatic hand to his nonexistent heart. "You think so lowly of me! But yes, partially. I need a reason to comfort them and bond with them, since you hog most of their attention to yourself. But also because I need them to come to terms with their more human emotions. Hatred is a natural emotion of theirs that you've tried to suppress for too long."

"I don't discourage them to feel human emotions, I discourage them to act on said emotions," Seradiel points out. "There is a big difference."

"So even though you hate me, by your logic, you can't act on that hatred?" Kezareth challenges.

"You're an exception, since you are not human, and therefore are not bound to those standards," Seradiel says curtly. "I hope you aren't encouraging them to punch anyone."

"Nooo, I'd never want them to get their hands dirty. That's my job. Which is exactly why I offered to ruin that brat's life, but they said they didn't want that. For now, anyway. The offer still stands indefinitely." He adds oil into a pan with a sizzling sound. "Is jealousy eating away at you? Are you frustrated that they aren't crying to you anymore?"

"Stop making them sad just for your ego," Seradiel snarls. "It's sickening and selfish, even for your standards."

"Oh, please, you aren't an angel, either. Oh, actually, I guess you are. You know what I meant." Kezareth peels and chops the vegetables rhythmically, the knife clacking against the cutting board. "Your motives for being overprotective are no different from mine."

"They actually are. I just want them to live a happy, safe life. You just want to drag them down with you to Hell so you'll be less lonely." Seradiel folds his arms over his chest, leaning back against a wall. "At least my intentions come from genuine love and care."

Kezareth snickers. "You're just a control freak. I just want them to be with their superior dad forever. Not as crazy as you make it out to be."

"They are not yours," Seradiel huffs. "I am going to clean the living room. Do not make a mess in here, I already spent an hour cleaning your mess last night."

"Ugh, thank goodness we broke up. You'd make an awful husband, always nitpicking me."

"It wouldn't hurt to pick up after yourself," Seradiel grumbles under his breath.

...

A couple months pass after Kezareth's arrival. While still an adjustment, it starts becoming part of your new routine.

The more time passes, the more relaxed your guardians seem to be around each other too— although sometimes their arguments get intense. You're lucky enough to find them casually conversing with each other every now and then, too, although they still have their disagreements.

One thing that you notice is how Kezareth tends to push boundaries while Seradiel likes to enforce them. Both their protective natures clash horribly as a result.

With Seradiel, at least he doesn't bother trying to mask his controlling nature. On the contrary, it feels as if he takes pride in it.

When it comes to Kezareth, though, he's sneakier about it.

He makes you think you have a say in certain decisions, but ultimately he manipulates you into choosing what he thinks is best. It's clear the only reason Kezareth wants you to do bad things (in Seradiel's eyes, at least) is to not only get you closer to spending an eternity with him, but also to piss off your guardian angel.

But when it comes to things like privacy, independence, and personal freedom, they seem to share a similar perspective.

Just yesterday, you went to hang out with some friends, but of course your celestial babysitters had to follow you around. But with their ability to cloak themselves and disappear, your friends thankfully weren't able to see them.

Though you were, and you swear they thought you were crazy when you randomly shouted at nothing about how annoying they were acting.

To them, they probably just saw you yelling at a wall.

And now, you're trying to go hang out with your friends again tonight, but it seems like your guardians have different plans.

"It's a Saturday night, baby," Kezareth argues. "All of the parties will be crowded with drunk idiots that want to hurt you. Not to mention the possibility of kidnapping. Please stay home, for me? We can bake cookies. Doesn't that sound so much better than going to some concert in a sweaty nightclub with sweaty strangers bumping into you?"

"Not really," you mutter under your breath.

Seradiel cups your shoulders. "Listen, (Y/n), even if we allow you to go, we must accompany you at all times. No wandering off on your own."

"No!" You jerk away from his grip. "Look, this concert won't even last that late into the night. And I'm going with a couple of friends."

"Who?" Seradiel and Kezareth say simultaneously.

"A friend who you don't know and whose name is none of your business," you snap.

"Tone," Seradiel warns, voice stern.

"I'll let you get ice cream and order whatever movie tickets you want for the next month," Kezareth bribes.

"I'm not a baby anymore! Stop treating me like one!" you shout. "You both promised to be more lax if I behaved 'better', but I've done everything you've asked. Yet you still treat me like I'm a child! Well, I'm not. So let me go out by myself for once!" You gesture to Seradiel. "Isn't free will a big part of being a human? Why would you work against that?"

Seradiel sighs. "And you do have free will. Either you go and let us come with you, or you don't go at all. That is a choice you are free to make."

"Why is it the only time you two seem as if you're able to work together, is when you're making my life miserable?" You stomp away towards your bedroom, throwing yourself onto your bed.

Kezareth throws Seradiel a look. "Wait to go."

"Are you seriously throwing the blame on me?" Seradiel scoffs. "You are just as immature as I remember! Perhaps even moreso! Do you even truly care about them, or are you just using this as an excuse to torment me?"

The demon huffs. "Oh, please, you aren't that special. You claim I'm the egotistical one, yet you think I came here just to spite you? Sure, the first reason I came here was because I was curious as to how you're doing, but my priorities have changed! Believe it or not, I do care about (Y/n). And if you choose not to believe it; not my problem!"

Just as Seradiel opens his mouth to retort, they both hear you sob. It's muffled and quiet, as if you're trying to conceal it, but they can hear it nonetheless. At that, any irritation dissipates.

They share a solemn glance and head towards your room.

Inside, you're laying in bed, your blankets sloppily pulled over you, back facing towards the door. Even when the pair enters, you don't acknowledge them.

"Precious, please don't cry," Kezareth coos, sitting beside you. "It hurts our hearts so much when you do that."

Seradiel sits down on the edge of the bed on the opposite side. "Is there anything you desire? You know we would do anything in the world for you." Despite his affectionate tone, his expression is downright heartbroken when he gazes at you.

You shift your position slightly so they can finally see your face, red and tear-stained. "Both of you suck," you mumble. "Every single day, you argue. And the worst part is, I can't escape it! You follow me everywhere! Sometimes it feels like I have no choice but to put up with you guys constantly nagging each other... And when you two actually agree on something, it's something that takes away from my freedom even more!"

Tears well in your eyes again, but Seradiel's fingers are quick to brush them away.

"Baby..." Kezareth says in a small voice. He takes off his glasses to rub his eyes, tears threatening them. "I'm sorry."

Seradiel sighs. "I am, too."

"I'm tired of feeling like your marriage counselor, or having to choose between one over the other," you continue. "I just want you to get along. Or at least tolerate being in the same room as each other." You wipe the rest of your tears away. "And if you have to argue, just do it somewhere I won't hear. Please."

Both of your guardian's faces soften.

They seem almost guilty, which is a rare expression on either of their faces.

"We'll work on our differences for you," Kezareth vows, shooting Seradiel a look. "Yeah?"

Seradiel exhales deeply, then nods. "Yes, that's the very least we can do. Whatever eases your mind." He gently grasps your hand, pressing a loving kiss on your knuckles. "Please, no more crying, my child. May I hold you?" He opens his arms invitingly.

Still mildly upset, you simply crawl towards him, burying your face in his robes. He cradles you like you're made of glass, humming softly in your ear to ease you, gently patting your back in a soothing motion.

Kezareth shifts to lay right behind you. His wings wrap around your frame to keep you warm.

In a weird way, you feel at home, protected by both your caretakers on either side of you. Before you know it, your eyelids begin to feel heavier as sleep consumes you.

"Nighty-night," Kezareth whispers. He and Seradiel share a look, silently agreeing to stay for the rest of the night.

[clown-eating-pig]

Just remembered that, as a child, I had a children’s chapter book that I was fully convinced had demons inside of it. Sooooo Jonathan sims core of me 😍

[reilemon]

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 Possession 𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

♡︎ synopsis: You move into an abandoned mansion looking for a fresh start. Little did you know you're not the only one living there.

♡︎ pairing: demon!Sylus x fem!reader

♡︎ cw: restraints, corruption (if you squint), breathplay

♡︎ word count: 10k

♡︎ a/n: the fourth story for kinktober 2024.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @cafekitsune

The night wraps around you like a vice, pressing down on your skin. Every breath feels heavier than the last as the low, eerie hum seeps into your bones. The melody is fractured, broken, sung by something that doesn’t understand human warmth. It’s wrong, so wrong, and the more you hear it, the harder it is to pretend that everything is normal.

You sit up in bed, the silk of your nightgown sticking to your skin, cold sweat beading along your neck and back. You strain your ears to listen, catching every sound the house makes—the creak of floorboards, the low groan of the wind clawing at the windows. But beneath it, that humming persists, growing clearer.

A footstep.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Something is walking—no, pacing—just beyond your bedroom door, almost as though it knows you're listening.

You tell yourself, ‘this is ridiculous’. You’ve lived here almost two weeks, nothing dangerous has happened.

Two weeks living in this forgotten, decaying mansion. At first, the isolation felt like a cure, a place where you could finally breathe after years of soul-sucking work. The realtor had been so eager to sell it. You remember that first visit—dust motes swirling in the dim afternoon light, the scent of mildew hanging in the air. The long-abandoned estate was priced absurdly low for such a massive property. You had asked about its history, about the family that owned it. “Old money,” the realtor said dismissively. “They never even lived here, not really. They’re eager to get rid of it.”

You pressed her—why would they abandon a mansion like this? She’d shrugged, evasive. “Just one of those things, you know? Big house, lots of upkeep. Not practical anymore.” She'd forced a smile, deflecting. “People want something more modern these days.”

At the time, you didn’t care. You wanted solitude, escape, a place to start over after the chaos of your previous life.

In the first week, you brushed off the oddities. The strange cold spots in the halls, the faint scent of smoke that seemed to come from nowhere, the occasional flickering of the old lights. You reasoned ‘the house is just old, settling’. Maybe it was the stress from the move, or just the overwhelming quiet after years of city life.

But then, things became harder to dismiss.

You remember waking up one night to the sound of soft whispers, like voices just beyond your door. You convinced yourself it was a dream, that you were still half-asleep, that your mind was playing tricks on you. But when you opened the door, the hall was filled with an icy draft, despite every window being locked tight. Your skin prickled with the unmistakable feeling of being watched.

With every night, your paranoia has grown. You’ve stopped sleeping through the night. Every creak, every gust of wind outside feels like a threat. The humming has become a nightly occurrence —soft at first, almost melodic, but it twists, becomes distorted. And tonight, the footsteps. They’re louder. Closer.

You sit there for too long, your mind racing. Each beat of your heart pounds in your throat as you try to summon some logic to ground you. ‘There has to be an explanation’. You’re not some helpless woman in a cliché horror movie. You won’t let fear consume you.

But the footsteps stop, right outside the door. And in that moment, the air feels too thick to breathe.

Fuck.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the cold floor shocking against your bare feet, dragging you out of paralysis. The silk robe slides over your shoulders, its fabric a poor defense against the dread crawling up your spine. You move slowly, the wooden floor beneath you creaking with each step toward the door. Your fingers hover over the handle for a moment, hesitation making your hand shake.

‘It’s just a draft’, you tell yourself, though the words feel hollow. ‘Just the old house’.

You open the door. You swallow, flipping the light switch with a trembling hand, lighting the empty hallway. The old bulbs buzz and flicker before casting their weak glow, but the light feels sickly. You take a deep breath, forcing your legs to move, fingers brushing along the wall as though the contact will somehow steady you. With every step, the hum grows fainter, retreating deeper into the house, drawing you further from the safety of your room.

The sitting room’s light flickers as you pass, casting distorted shapes along the walls. The silence between the hums stretches, amplifying the creaks and groans of the house around you.

The dining room is next. You hesitate at the threshold, your breath hitching as the light stutters overhead, threatening to plunge you into darkness again. But it holds, if only just. The hum is still distant, still teasing, but now there's something else—something heavier beneath it. A low, barely audible rasping breath, like the sound of something alive, breathing with you.

Your hand grazes the light switch to the kitchen, fingers trembling. The moment the light flares to life, it dies.

The room plunges into complete darkness. A thick, suffocating blackness that feels like it’s crawling over your skin. Your pulse spikes, cold panic flooding your veins. The hum is gone now—replaced by the unmistakable feeling that something is in there, waiting, watching.

A faint whisper—right next to your ear, soft and malicious—sends a scream clawing up your throat, but you bite it back, too terrified to make a sound.

‘Move. Move, now.’

You stumble backward. The floor seems to shift beneath you as you flee towards the stairs. You crash into the bedroom, your breath ragged, chest heaving. You slam the door shut with a resounding thud, and the thin wood feels too fragile, too weak to keep anything out. You press your back against it, gripping the doorknob with trembling fingers, your raging heartbeat thrumming in your ears. You stand there, frozen, waiting for something else to happen. But nothing does. No footsteps, no whispers, no movement beyond the door. Just stillness.

You exhale, forcing yourself to unclench your hands from the doorknob, willing your body to stop shaking. ‘Get a grip’, you tell yourself, trying to suppress the waves of panic that threaten to consume you. You're not going to lose your mind over this. ‘It's just the stress. That’s all.’ The isolation, the strangeness of living alone in such a vast, decrepit place—it’s been messing with your head. You force your breathing to slow, sucking in deep, calming gulps of air.

Pushing away from the door, you cross the room and sit on the bed, retreating back into the sheets. It’s late—too late to do anything about it now—but in the morning, you’ll change every lock in this mansion. No more creaky doors, no more unlocked windows. You’ll seal every inch of this place if you have to. And you’ll call Tara. She’d laugh at you at first, no doubt. She teased you for choosing to live in such a remote, old house. "You’re gonna end up starring in one of those haunted house stories," she'd said, half-joking. You smile weakly, despite the dread gnawing at your gut. It’s time to take her up on her offer to visit. Tomorrow, you’ll call her.

Lying back on the bed, you try to focus on the plan—changing locks, calling Tara. You’ll handle this like you handle everything. The house creaks softly, as if responding to your newfound resolve. You ignore it, pulling the sheets up over your face, the fabric cool against your skin. ‘Sleep’, you tell yourself. ‘You need sleep’.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♪ ฅ₍ᓀ‸ᓂマ ੭ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The next day arrives sluggishly. You barely slept through the night, but daylight always brings a faint sense of hope. You push yourself out of bed, running through the motions, pretending for a moment that everything is normal.

Tara arrives just after lunch. You open the front door for her, her playful smile greeting you. But it quickly fades when her eyes catch the tension in your shoulders, the dullness of your skin. "You look like hell." You want to make a joke or a clever comeback in return, but the weight of the last two weeks presses too heavily on you. So you just let her in. You’ve told her over the phone this morning already, but now you tell her everything in more detail. You tell her about the footsteps, the humming, the cold spots. How the house doesn’t feel right.

"Okay," Tara says after a moment, her brows furrowing. "I’m not saying I believe in all that, but I’ve read enough ghost stories to know we don’t mess around with this kind of thing. I brought something." She reaches into her bag and pulls out a bundle of sage. "We’ll burn this. Clears out bad energy, or at least it’s supposed to. Couldn’t hurt, right?"

You stare at the bundle for a moment, feeling both ridiculous and relieved. Maybe it’s silly, but she is right, it can’t hurt to try. "Thanks," you mutter, trying to smile.

"And I’ll ask around, see if anyone knows a good priest," Tara adds, her tone light again, though you can hear the genuine concern beneath it. "Someone could come over and bless the place, right? If nothing else, it’ll give you peace of mind."

You nod, though part of you still feels absurd for even considering it. Together, you and Tara walk through the house, lighting the sage. The oppressive weight that has been weighting you down lifts, just slightly. The creaking stops, the cold spots seem to fade, and for the first time in days, you feel like you can breathe.

"See? Not so bad," Tara says, giving you a reassuring smile. "It already feels better in here. Maybe that’s all it needed—some good ol’ sage and positive vibes."

You nod, grateful, feeling a spark of hope. Maybe this is all it took. Maybe that’s the end of it.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♪ ฅ₍ᓀ‸ᓂマ ੭ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

That night, you follow your routine, trying to remain calm. You lock every door, check every window, twice, and make sure nothing is out of place. By the time you slip into bed, you’re exhausted. You lie there in the dark, the cool sheets against your skin, your eyes slowly fluttering closed.

But in the depths of the mansion, something stirs. The energy has changed, shifted. The air hums with a barely-contained agitation, a dark presence swirling in the corners, crawling through the walls. It had been watching you, waiting. And now, with the sage burned and the mention of a priest, it’s no longer content to simply watch.

A sound pulls you back from the edge of sleep. You freeze, straining to listen. At first, it’s faint, like distant laughter. It’s low, dark, amused, seeping through the room as though it’s mocking your very presence here. You sit up abruptly, your pulse spiking. The laugh is gone, but the air feels colder now. The wind outside picks up, slapping against the windows, and then—you hear it. A loud, sharp caw. A crow’s cry, shrill and eerie, slicing through the still night air. You turn your head toward the window, expecting to see its shape perched on the sill, but there’s nothing there, just the empty darkness beyond the glass.

‘It’s just a bird’, you tell yourself. ‘Just a bird’.

But then the footsteps start again.

They’re louder this time. Not like before when you could pretend it was just the old floorboards shifting. No, these are deliberate. Heavy. The distinct sound of boots on wood, moving slowly down the hallway outside your bedroom. Each step echoes through the house, growing louder, closer, until they stop right outside your door. You can feel your pulse in your throat, every instinct screaming at you to stay in bed, to not make a sound. But the silence is oppressive. You can’t just lie here anymore. You push yourself up on shaky legs, feet hitting the cold floor as you move toward the door, your hand hovering over the knob like before. But this time, you don’t need to open it.

The door swings open on its own.

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, everything is still. The dark hallway stretches before you, stretching into nothingness. But then, at the far end, you see it—a faint, flickering glow. A dim, blood-red light. It pulses, stronger with each passing second, growing brighter, sharper. Your chest tightens as the glow intensifies. You swallow hard, a cold sweat forming on the back of your neck as the realization hits you that this—whatever it is—isn’t something you can ignore.

“Who… who are you?” you stammer, your voice trembling, barely above a whisper. “What do you want?”

The red glow flickers, focusing on you. You feel it in the air around you. The presence you’ve been denying, the thing that’s been watching, waiting. Now you’ve acknowledged it. It begins to solidify, drawing closer. The figure takes form—broad shoulders, a tall, towering frame. And then, his face. Sharp, defined features, red eyes, and silver hair. His gaze locks onto you, and it feels like he’s peering into the deepest, darkest parts of your soul.

You stumble back, heart racing, unable to comprehend what you’re seeing. This can’t be real. This has to be some nightmare. But he’s there, standing before you, fully formed—real.

“I’ve been waiting,” he says, his voice deep.

You stand frozen, every inch of you trembling. This isn’t some ghost story, some figment of your imagination. You take a step back, your legs weak, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of your chest. “W-waiting for what?” you manage to choke out, though your voice barely rises above a whisper.

His smirk widens. “For you to understand,” he says softly, his tone almost condescending. He takes a step closer and the floor creaks under the weight of his boots, the sound amplified in the eerie silence of the mansion. “This place… it’s mine. Always has been.”

You stumble backward again, your mind racing, desperate for some way to rationalize this. But you can’t. The thing standing in front of you isn’t human. “I don’t understand,” you whisper, shaking your head. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

He laughs softly at that, a low, dark chuckle. “I am not the intruder here,” he says, his voice dripping with amusement. “You are.” His eyes narrow, the humor fading, replaced with a cold, hard edge. “This house, this mansion, has been mine for centuries. I’ve seen generations come and go, trying to claim it as their own.”

You’re barely holding on, fear coursing through you. “Who… who are you?” you ask again, though now your voice is almost a plea.

He leans in, his face close enough now that you can smell the faint scent of something burning, something ancient. “I am Sylus. This house… my house… it’s been mine longer than you can imagine. And you—" His gaze sharpens. "You’ve been tampering with things you shouldn’t."

He steps back. "I’ll give you a chance. Pack your things. Leave." His words are like a command, absolute, and it makes your chest tighten.

Something in you snaps.

The fear, the dread that’s been building for days—it all crashes into something else, something raw and angry. You clench your fists. Leave? After everything? You’ve fought too hard to be told to just give up.

"No," you say, your voice trembling, though whether it’s from fear or anger, you’re not sure. His smirk widens, a dark chuckle escaping his lips as if amused by your defiance. "No?" he repeats, the word dripping with condescension, as though your resistance is nothing more than a child’s tantrum to him.

But you’re not done. "It’s not fair," you continue, and you can feel the flood of emotions you’ve been holding back surging forward. "I worked for this. You don’t get to tell me to leave!" Your voice rises, trembling with frustration. You can feel your eyes burning with unshed tears. "I can’t just… pack up and go?! This place was supposed to be my fresh start!"

Sylus’ amusement falters. He was expecting fear. Submission. Not this. Not the raw emotion pouring out of you.

You take a shaky breath, your words tumbling out now unfiltered. "I’ve given up everything! My life was a wreck before I came here. I had no friends, no purpose, nothing.” Tears sting your eyes, but you don’t stop, the anger blending with exhaustion. "This place was supposed to be my dream," you whisper, your voice cracking. "And now you’re telling me to leave? After everything I’ve been through?”

Sylus says nothing for a long moment. He stands there, watching you with an intensity that feels almost suffocating, the mocking air that surrounded him fading as something shifts in his expression. His tail, once flicking in amusement, goes still. He opens his mouth, perhaps to laugh, to mock you again, but no sound comes out. Something about your defiance, your honesty, seems to catch him off guard. He had expected you to cower, to run, to tremble at his mere presence. Instead, you’re standing here, pouring your soul out in front of him.

The room is silent.

 Sylus’ gaze doesn’t leave yours. "You think your struggles give you claim to this place?" His voice is softer now, almost contemplative. "You’re not the first to come here, seeking something better. But none of them stayed for long."

You don’t back down. "I’m not them," You say quietly. "I’m not running."

Sylus watches you for a long moment, his sharp features unreadable. Finally, he speaks, his tone more subdued, more thoughtful. "You have spirit, I’ll give you that." You stand there, still trembling, but something in the air feels different now. Sylus, for all his power, doesn’t seem as dismissive as he did before. He turns around, giving you one last glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the shadows. "Don’t bring a priest. Don’t burn any more sage. Consider this a warning.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♪ ฅ₍ᓀ‸ᓂマ ੭ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, the nights are quiet.

After the tense confrontation with Sylus, after his warning and your emotional outburst, something shifted. You still feel him—his presence lingers in the mansion like a shadow that never quite leaves—but it's no longer oppressive.For several nights now, you’ve slept soundly, undisturbed by the creaks of the floorboards or the strange hum echoing through the halls. And though you sometimes catch a glimpse of movement in the shadows, Sylus doesn’t show himself. It’s as if he’s made a quiet, unspoken truce with you, staying out of your way—for now.

A week passes, and the mansion almost feels… peaceful. Maybe it’s the quiet, maybe it’s the way you’ve started to make the space your own despite his warnings. You’ve begun to settle in, unpacking more boxes, putting things in order, reclaiming the mansion in small ways.

One evening, you decide to tackle the attic. You pull the creaky ladder down and climb, your flashlight casting light across the wooden beams and piles of forgotten items. The air is thick with dust, and the faint smell of mildew hangs in the air. Boxes are piled high, old trunks and forgotten furniture clutter the space, draped in old sheets. You take a deep breath, brushing away cobwebs as you start sorting through the old belongings. It’s mostly junk—old letters, tarnished trinkets, broken ceramic figurines. But then you open a wooden music box and your eyes immediately land on something shiny.

A brooch.

It’s in the shape of a raven, carved from some kind of dark metal, accompanied by a large red gemstone. The moment your fingers brush against it, the air in the attic grows thick. You can feel a chill crawl up your spine as you lift the brooch, turning it over in your hand, examining the beautiful craftsmanship.

That’s when you hear him.

"Put it back."

You whirl around, and there he is—Sylus. His red eye glows brighter than usual, flickering with barely contained agitation. His tall frame looms over you, his tail flicks behind him, tense, snapping in the air like a whip.

You freeze, the brooch still in your hand. "Why?" you ask, your voice quieter than you intended.

"That doesn’t belong to you," Sylus growls. He takes a step closer. "Put it back in the box. Now."

Slowly, carefully, you place the brooch back into the wooden music box. The moment you do, you can feel the tension in the room ease. Sylus watches, his eyes never leaving the brooch until it's safely out of sight. His broad shoulders relax, his tail flicking behind him in a slower, more measured rhythm.

"Why does it matter so much?" you ask, genuinely curious.

He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze lingering on the closed music box. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, more guarded, as though he’s choosing his words carefully. "It was made for someone. No one should be touching it."

There’s a story there, buried deep beneath his cold exterior, but he’s not offering it to you.

You swallow, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest. Your mind spins with possibilities, but you keep your thoughts to yourself, not wanting to pry further into something clearly painful. Instead, you glance at the music box, not daring to touch it again. Its melody feels strangely familiar. You pause, recognizing the tune—the same haunting melody you’ve heard in the dark, late at night.

"Is this… the song you’ve been humming?" you ask carefully, lifting your gaze to meet his.

His eyes narrow, but there’s no anger there. He doesn’t answer immediately, but after a long silence, he gives a short nod. "It is."

A soft breath escapes you, and you can’t help the small smile. "Well," you say, your tone a little lighter "you’re always off-key." The words slip out before you can stop them, and for a moment, you freeze, wondering if you’ve crossed a line—if teasing a demon was, perhaps, not your smartest move.

Sylus blinks, his expression unreadable at first, but then—he chuckles. The sound is rough, almost rusty, as though it’s been a long time since he’s allowed himself to find humor in anything. "I didn’t know I had a critic," he mutters with a trace of amusement.

You let out a shaky breath, relieved, but still stunned by the sound of his laughter. You find yourself staring at Sylus, watching the way his red eyes soften, the way the usual predatory edge to him seems to dull, just for a moment. You don’t know what to say, but you don’t need to. Finally, Sylus breaks the silence, his voice quieter, less guarded than before. "Be careful with what you touch in this house," he says, though there’s no threat behind his words, only a quiet warning. "Not everything here belongs to you."

You nod, understanding more than he’s willing to say. "I didn’t mean to…" you trail off, unsure how to finish the sentence.

His gaze lingers on you for a moment, the faintest smile on his lips. "I know." And with that, he turns, his figure dissolving into the shadows of the attic, leaving you alone once more.

But this time, the air doesn’t feel so heavy. The mansion doesn’t feel so hostile.

And Sylus doesn’t feel like a demon lurking in the dark anymore.

For the first time, he feels like someone who’s been through more than you could possibly imagine. Someone who’s carrying the weight of loss and pain for centuries. And somehow, despite everything, you’ve seen a glimpse of something human in him.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♪ ฅ₍ᓀ‸ᓂマ ੭ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The days that followed felt different. The mansion, though still steeped in its eerie silence, seemed to breathe a little easier. Sylus, who had always been a constant, brooding presence in the shadows, began to make himself known in new ways. You would be working around the house—organizing a room, fixing up old furniture, unpacking boxes—and you’d feel him. A brush of air, the faintest warmth at your back.

He never fully revealed himself during the day, not at first. But there were brief moments, when you’d catch a glimpse of him—standing in the doorway, his red eye glowing faintly before he slipped away, or a flash of silver hair in the corner of your vision. And slowly, he started to help.

At first, it was subtle. You’d be struggling to move a piece of furniture, and when you turned around to grab something for leverage, it had already shifted into place, as if someone had pushed it for you. Tools you needed would be mysteriously laid out before you reached for them. And sometimes, when you lost track of time working on a project, you’d find a fire already lit in the fireplace before the chill of the evening would creep in.

One afternoon, you were standing on a chair in the kitchen, trying to reach a high cabinet when you suddenly lost your balance. Before you could even cry out, you felt strong hands on your waist, steadying you, with a firm grip. You turned to find Sylus standing there, his lips curled into that familiar smirk.

"Careful, kitten," he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

Kitten. The word caught you off guard, and you blinked at him. Something about the way he said it—so casually, yet with a hint of affection—left you speechless. He had called you ‘kitten’ like it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t mind the new nickname. Not at all.

The touches became more frequent, intentional. When you passed each other in narrow hallways, his hand would brush against your arm, or his fingers would trail along your back. Every touch would make your heart flutter, your cheeks heat up.

One evening, your muscles ached after hours of working tirelessly around the mansion. You sat by the fire, sipping tea in an attempt to relax. The room was quiet, except for the crackling of the fire, but then you felt it—his presence. Sylus was watching you from the doorway.

“You’ve been pushing yourself,” he said, his voice smooth like velvet. His eyes focused on your hand as it pressed against your shoulder, kneading the sore muscle.

“Maybe a little,” you replied, leaning back into the chair, letting your eyes close for just a second. “But I can handle it.”

Sylus chuckled softly. “You don’t always have to be so stubborn.” He leaned in closer, standing next to you. “Let me help.” His hand rested lightly on your shoulder, his touch warm.

For a moment, you hesitated, but the ache in your muscles urged you to accept. You gave a small nod and turned your back to him. He moved closer, his hands resting fully on your shoulders now. You could feel the strength in them through the thin fabric of your shirt. His fingers dug in gently, working into the tight muscles with a careful yet firm pressure. You let out a small sigh of relief, the tension starting to ease under his touch.

But then his hands moved more slowly, the pads of his fingers tracing over your skin in a way that felt… intimate. The soft kneading of your muscles became something more, his thumbs pressing into the knots in your back with expert precision. You couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped your lips, your body instinctively leaning into his touch, craving the release from the pain.

“You like that?” Sylus murmured, his voice low, teasing as his hands moved lower. Your breath hitched as his fingers worked their magic, easing the soreness out of your muscles. It was impossible to ignore the way his hands felt against your body, the way each touch made your skin tingle.

“You’re so tense,” he muttered, his breath warm against your ear as he leaned in.

You swallowed hard, your mind spinning. His hands on your body, the heat of his breath against your neck—it all felt overwhelming. Every touch sent a spark of electricity through you, and though the massage had started innocently enough, there was no mistaking the shift in energy between you. As his hands moved lower, brushing dangerously close to your hips, you could feel the warmth pooling in your lower belly.

Flustered, you quickly pulled away, standing up from the chair before things could escalate any further. “Th-thank you for the massage,” you stammered. You could feel your face flushing and you didn’t dare look him in the eye.

Sylus leaned back slightly, his lips pulling into that knowing smirk. “Of course,”

You took a small step back. “I think I’ll just… take a hot bath before bed,” Without waiting for his response, you turned and made your way toward the bedroom. The heat in your cheeks only grew worse as you walked away, your legs feeling like they might give out from the mixture of embarrassment and the lingering effects of his touch. You felt his eyes on you, taking in every movement, the subtle sway of your hips as you retreated to the safety of your room.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♪ ฅ₍ᓀ‸ᓂマ ੭ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The phone call left you feeling strange—half-flattered, half-disconnected. A friend of a friend, someone from your old life, asked you out on a date. You politely declined, giving some excuse about being too busy, about focusing on your new home. But that’s not entirely true. The call was a reminder of the life you left behind, and the strange new one you found here.

You sigh, setting the phone down and reaching for the bottle of wine you opened earlier. Pouring yourself a glass, you settle into the sofa and pick up a book. You sip the wine, letting the tension of the day slip away as you open the book. But it’s not quiet for long.

The air shifts, and before you even look up, you feel that familiar presence. Sylus arrives without a sound, as he always does.

With a smile, you lookup from your book. "Care to join me for a drink?" you ask as you raise your glass to him. Although you aren’t sure if demons even can drink.

He chuckles softly, his boots making the faintest sound as he crosses the room to stand beside you. "I haven’t tasted wine in centuries," he admits.

You tilt your head. "So you don’t eat? Or drink?"

Sylus shrugs, "I haven’t needed to," he says simply, but there is something in his tone—an almost wistful note. "I suppose I could try."

You laugh softly, offering him your glass. "Here, then. Let’s see if you still can."

Sylus hesitates for a moment, but then, with a slight shake of his head, he accepts your offer. He takes a small sip, tasting the wine before swallowing.

"Well?" you ask with a smile. "Can you taste it?"

Sylus’s lips curve into an amused smirk. "I can taste it," he says and takes another sip. He makes a face, mockingly disappointed, and returns the glass to you. "I think you should buy yourself something nicer," he teases. "This is a bit cheap."

You snort, playfully rolling your eyes. "Of course you have an expensive taste."

Sylus chuckles. But then, the relaxed expression changes to a serious one. "Who was on the phone earlier?"

You hesitate for a moment, your fingers tightening around your wineglass. "Just someone from my old life." Sylus raises an eyebrow, and you feel compelled to continue. “Asked me out on a date, but I declined.”

You avoid his gaze, but you can feel Sylus watching you. "Why did you decline?" he asks, his voice low. "You’ve been here for months. You don’t get out much. Why not say yes?"

You swallow, trying to gather your thoughts. The truth is too heavy, too tangled, and you aren’t ready to admit it, not even to yourself.

"You’re one to talk," you say raising an eyebrow and mustering a playful tone. "If anyone’s used to solitude, it’s you. You’ve been alone for centuries—I think I can manage a little bit of solitude for a few months."

“Touché.” he chuckles. His gaze turns towards the flickering flames of the fireplace, “But solitude… it wears on you. You might think it’s peace, but after a while, it starts to feel more like a cage.”

The words sink into you, unsettling. But, before you can respond, a question begins to form at the back of your mind, heavy and uncomfortable. Was he truly alone all this time? Were there others before you, drawn into the same dark intensity of his presence? What if this isn’t new for him—this attraction, this electricity between you? What if you’re just another fleeting distraction in the long centuries of his existence?

You can’t stand that thought. You want to believe that you’re different, that something about you has made him change, drawn him out of the shadows in ways no one else ever has. But the growing feeling of jealousy won’t let go. Because if he’s been like this before—if there had been others—then what does that make you?

You take a deep breath, shoving these feelings aside. You feel foolish for letting your mind even go there. The two of you are just co-existing, just roommates in a weird way.

You glance at the clock on the mantel. “Oh,” you say, your voice a little too bright, “look at the time. The movie I wanted to watch is about to start.” You grab the TV remote, as if turning on the television can stop the thoughts from spiraling out of control.

Sylus doesn’t miss your deflection. He never does. “Another distraction?” he asks. He could sense your agitation, your mind wandering somewhere.

You shoot him a look, but the teasing edge in his voice makes your heart flutter. “Do you want to watch it with me?” you ask, trying to sound casual. “It’s about to start. I know how much you love TV,” you add with a playful glance his way. You know how fascinated he is with television, even though he’ll never admit it.

Sylus arches an eyebrow, and for a moment, you think he might decline. But then he stands and settles beside you on the sofa. He’s close—too close.

“I suppose I can indulge you,” he says. “Though, if this movie’s as boring as the last one you picked, I can’t promise I’ll stay.” His arm rests casually along the back of the sofa, and you can feel the heat radiating from him, even though he’s not touching you.

You smirk, rolling your eyes as you flip through the channels until you find the movie. “I’m sure it’ll hold your attention, Sylus,” you shoot back, though your mind is still racing, the earlier doubts lingering in your mind.

The movie begins, and for the first few moments, everything seems normal. It’s a late-night thriller, with captivating plot and ominous music. You let yourself sink into the sofa, grateful for the distraction, but the comfort doesn’t last long. About halfway through, the movie takes an unexpected turn. The tension between the characters on screen snaps, and suddenly, they’re in a dimly lit bedroom, their bodies pressed together. The soft, breathy moans fill the room, while the scene of naked bodies rolls on the screen.

Your breath hitches, and you fumble for the remote, your fingers shaking slightly as you try to find the button to change the channel. “I didn’t know it would… turn into this,” you mutter, clearly flustered.

Sylus snatches the remote from your hands. “Don’t change the channel.” His eyes are on the screen, amusement plastered over his face. Heat floods your cheeks, your heart racing as the sounds from the screen grow more intimate. You can feel Sylus shifting beside you, his arm still resting along the back of the sofa, his fingers just inches from your shoulder.

You try to focus, try to steer your mind away from the images on the screen. And then the uncomfortable question shows its ugly head again.

Had there been someone else?

You’re not sure what you are to him. You’re not sure if you’re just another passing moment in his long, endless existence.

You can’t think about that. You need to clear your head.

Sylus laughs as a relieved sigh leaves your lips when the steamy scene ends, and you can’t help but laugh a little with him.

You make a mental note to call the man from earlier. You’ll call him in the morning, when Sylus is resting, and try to schedule the date after all. Maybe it’ll help clear your head, help you sort through the tangled mess of emotions that has built up since you moved into this mansion, since Sylus slithered his way into your life.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♪ ฅ₍ᓀ‸ᓂマ ੭ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The next day, you had avoided Sylus all morning, deliberately keeping yourself busy with small tasks that didn’t require much thought—dusting the bookshelves, scrubbing the kitchen counters, tending to the plants. But no matter what you did, you still felt him. Normally, you’d catch a glimpse of him here or there, a shadow slipping through the hallway or leaning against the doorway, finding any chance to tease you. But today, you avoided those moments, slipping out of rooms just before he appeared.

You tried to escape the gnawing feeling of guilt as well.

The call you’d made earlier in the morning had gone smoothly. The man had been more than happy to hear from her again. You agreed on the time and even though he was willing to pick you up, you insisted to meet at the restaurant. The conversation was light and sweet. But as soon as you hung up, a part of you regretted it. Even though you shouldn’t have.

After lunch, you retreated into the safety of your bedroom. You took your time getting ready —something you hadn’t done in a long time.The hours dragged on, and you continued to stay in your room, pacing, glancing at your reflection in the mirror - the tight dress is flattering, accentuating your curves. You set aside high heels that made your legs long and irresistible. You still had time to kill, but you couldn’t bring yourself to leave the room. You didn’t want to face Sylus. Not yet. The thoughts of last night still weighed heavily on you—the tension during the movie, the heat of his body next to yours, how you craved his touch.

Then, a knock at the door.

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat. Sylus never knocks. He never enters your bedroom, to give you some semblance of privacy.

"Are you alright?" You can hear genuine concern in his voice from the other side of the door. "You've been in there for a while."

You hesitate, heart racing. Part of you wants to tell him to go away, to keep the distance you’d been trying so hard to create today. But the sound of his voice makes your chest tighten. You swallow, steeling yourself before you answer.

"Come in." Why did you tell him to come in?

The door creaks open slowly, and as Sylus steps into the room, you can see the brief flash of surprise on his face—the way his red eyes widen as he takes you in. For a moment, he says nothing, his gaze sweeping over you, lingering on the curve of your hips, the way fabric of the dress clings to your body.

"Well," he finally says, his voice low. "I thought something was wrong… that you weren’t feeling well. Or that you were avoiding me."

There’s something about the way he says it, the flicker of concern behind his usual teasing, that touches you. You force a smile. "I wasn’t avoiding you," you lie. "I just… took my time to getting ready."

Sylus steps closer, his eyes over you again, savoring every detail. Then, his expression softens. "You look beautiful," he says, the words slipping from his lips with surprising tenderness.

The compliment stuns you. Of all the things you expected from him—teasing, possessiveness, maybe even anger—this was the last. You open your mouth to say something, but no words come out. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks as you stare back at him, unsure how to react.

He doesn’t let you recover, though. He steps even closer, his gaze holding yours, and he adds, "You always do."

His words are so sincere. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to find your voice, "Thank you," the words are barely audible, your heart still racing from the weight of his gaze.

Then his lips pull into that teasing smirk. "So, you are going on that date after all?"

You feel your stomach twist at his words. “Yes, I’m going on a date.”

Sylus steps closer, his towering form closing in on you with that familiar, quiet intensity. Your heart races as he moves forward, and instinctively, you step back. But he doesn’t stop. With each step he takes, you find yourself moving backward, the space shrinking, guiding you slowly toward the edge of your bed.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” he asks, his voice low and laced with that dangerous amusement.

You swallow, trying to stay composed. “You’re the one who suggested it,” you say, hoping that your words don’t betray the storm of emotions inside.

He smirks, clearly not fooled by your attempt to steer the conversation away. His gaze never leaves yours as he steps even closer, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, sending a shiver across your skin. “Is that so?” his tone is almost taunting, “If that’s what you want - to go out… to have fun with someone else… then you should.”

His words hang in the air, but the way he says it—the challenge, the possessiveness barely veiled—makes it feel like anything but permission. His fingers trace down from your cheek, slowly grazing your jawline before trailing to your throat, where they rest lightly, just enough to make your pulse race under his touch. But it’s the way his tail moves—sliding up the back of your leg, curling around your thigh—that sends a wave of heat flooding through you. It lingers there, teasing, the smooth, firm pressure making your legs tremble.

 “You can say the word,” he whispers, leaning in just enough that his breath brushes your lips, his eyes never breaking contact with yours. “If you want me to stop, to keep my distance… just say it.”

His tail continues its slow, deliberate trail over your skin. The air feels thick, suffocating, as you stand there, torn between your desire for something normal, and the undeniable pull of the dark, dangerous connection between you and him.

The silence stretches, thick with tension as Sylus waits, his lips so close to yours. His gaze locks onto yours, waiting, daring you to speak. But your throat is dry, your breath caught somewhere between fear and desire, and no words come. You can’t say it. You don’t want him to stop. And Sylus knows it.

"You’re not stopping me," he murmurs. His tail tightens its grip on your thigh, its smooth length curling higher, the teasing pressure sending a wave of arousal through your body.

Your knees buckle, your body trembling under the weight of his presence. You stumble, falling back onto the bed, but before you can even react, Sylus’ hands are there—gripping your waist, guiding you down gently so the landing is soft. The bed creaks as he follows, his hands and knees resting on either side of you, caging you in.

His eyes are dark and hungry as they roam over your body, taking in the way your chest rises and falls with each ragged breath, the way your lips part in anticipation. His hand slides up to cup your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your bottom lip, teasing, making you crave more.

"You belong to me," Sylus whispers. With that, he finally closes the distance, his lips brushing against yours in a slow kiss. In that moment, everything else falls away—the date, the outside world, the fear of what’s happening between you. All that matters is Sylus.

The kiss deepens, your body melting into the bed as Sylus’ lips press harder against yours, his tongue slipping past your parted lips, swirling with yours leaving you breathless. His teeth graze your bottom lip, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. Your hands are buried in his silver locks, trembling as his kiss grows hungrier, more urgent. But before you can pull him closer, Sylus breaks the kiss. Slowly, he reaches down, his fingers grazing the straps of your dress and bra before tugging them down your shoulders, exposing your breasts to the cool air. He slides one hand up, gripping both of your wrists in a firm, yet careful hold. He lifts your hands, pinning them above your head against the soft sheets.

"Do you trust me?" he asks with softness in his voice.

The question catches you off guard. You swallow hard, your throat tight as you whisper, "Yes."

Sylus’ eyes flicker with a flash of satisfaction, and before you can process what’s happening, the space around your wrists tightens. You glance up and see the dark tendrils of magic winding around your wrists, binding them together. The energy pulses softly, not painful, but firm—like his touch. Your pulse quickens as you realize just how vulnerable you are beneath him, your body completely at his mercy. Sylus takes in the sight beneath him, and you can feel the hardness of him pressing against you.

Without another word, he leans down, his lips capturing one of your nipples, his tongue swirling over the sensitive peak. His mouth is hot, teasing, as he licks and sucks at your breast, his hand squeezing the other, rolling the hardened nipple between his fingers with just enough pressure to make you whimper.

As his mouth works your breast, his tail slides up beneath your dress, the smooth length teasing the inside of your thighs. You shudder at the sensation, your body twitching in anticipation as the tip of his tail finally finds its way to your panties, grazing over the damp fabric.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction as he watches you squirm beneath him. "Look at you," he murmurs, his tail pressing just a little harder against your panties, making you gasp. "So wet already…" The smirk on his lips widens as his tail continues to tease you, the sensation maddening as he presses against your swollen clit through the fabric. Without warning, he pulls the bottom of your dress up over your hips, exposing your lace panties to his hungry gaze. His eyes flicker with a brief flash of jealousy at the sight of the lacy fabric, but then a different look takes over—pride. He is the one who gets to take them off, the one who has you like this.

"Pretty," he says with a teasing edge as his fingers brush over the fabric before gripping the waistband. "But I think I prefer you without these." His tail slides aside, giving way to his hands as he hooks his fingers under the lace and slowly peels your panties down, leaving you bare and exposed to his gaze.

The moment Sylus’ fingers slide between your folds and feel how wet you are, his breath hitches. He can feel the throbbing need building inside him, but he keeps himself steady. He will not lose control. Not yet. A wicked smirk plays on his lips as he teases you, his fingers gliding lightly over your entrance, brushing against your clit just enough to send shocks of pleasure through you. You whine, your hips bucking instinctively against his touch.

"Please," you whisper, your voice breaking with desperation, your wrists still bound above your head as you tug uselessly against the restraints. The heat between your legs is unbearable, and every teasing stroke of his fingers makes it worse.

Sylus leans in closer, his lips brushing your ear as he coos softly. "Tell me what you need," His fingers continuing their torturous, feather-light touches. "I want to hear you say it."

Your body trembles beneath him, and for a moment, you hesitate, the embarrassment battling with the overwhelming need. But the feel of his fingers stroking you, teasing you, is too much, and your voice wavers as you whisper, "I… I need you inside me. Please."

The smirk on his lips widens. "Good girl." He leans back, straightening up, and in one fluid motion, he pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of him. His body is incredible—broad, muscular shoulders leading down to a strong, toned chest and perfectly defined abs. You can’t tear your eyes away as Sylus’ hands moved to the waistband of his pants, the motion enhancing the muscles and veins of his arms. His gaze never leaves yours as he slowly pulls down his pants and underwear, just enough to free his cock. Your eyes widen at the sight of it—thick, long, and already leaking with precum. The sheer size of him makes your heart race with a mix of excitement and nervousness, and for a moment, doubt creeps in. ‘How am I going to take that?’ you swallow hard as you look up at him.

Sylus notices the flicker of worry in your eyes, and a smug grin tugs at the corners of his lips. "Don’t worry," his voice is laced with amusement as he wraps his hand around his length, stroking himself slowly. His eyes lock onto yours as he kneels between your legs, his fingers sliding back down between your thighs, teasing your dripping pussy again. "I know you can take it"

Sylus positions himself between your legs, his eyes fixed on you as he lines himself up with your entrance. His cock presses against your slick folds, the thick head nudging inside, eliciting a whimper from your lips. You’re trembling, but the weight of his body and the heat radiating off him keep you anchored.

“Relax, darling,” his voice is soothing as he strokes your thigh. His gaze is soft as he watches your reactions.

Slowly, carefully, he pushes forward, easing himself inside. The stretch makes you gasp. It stings, just a little, but there’s a dizzying pleasure that follows it, a heat that courses through you as he fills you inch by inch. Your breath is shallow, and you squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed by how full you feel, how intense it is.

“Angel,” Sylus growls softly, his voice thick with desire as he pauses, halfway in, letting your body adjust to the stretch. “Look at me.”

You bite your lip, too lost in the sensation to bring yourself to open your eyes. That’s when you feel his hand slide up to your neck with a firm grip, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Eyes on me,” he orders, his voice soft but commanding, his thumb brushing against your pulse point. “I want to watch your face as I slide inside you. I want to see how beautiful you look.”

Your eyes flutter open, and the intensity of his gaze nearly steals your breath. His red eyes burn with a mixture of lust and something deeper, something more tender. His fingers tighten slightly around your neck, just enough to keep you grounded, to keep you focused on him. He’s watching you closely as he pushes in deeper, sinking further inside you.

You’re a whimpering mess by the time Sylus finally bottoms out. The stretch makes your head spin, tears prick at the corners of your eyes, spilling over as you gasp beneath him. Sylus notices the tears almost immediately. His gaze softens and his thumb moves from your neck to gently wipe them away, the pads of his fingers tender against your flushed cheeks.

“Shh, darling,” His thumb swipes over your skin, catching a tear before it falls. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good, taking me so perfectly.”

His words send a shiver through you, and despite the ache and the fullness, there’s something comforting about his touch, the way he speaks to you. His thumb lingers on your cheek for just a second longer, before he shifts his grip to your waist, pulling you tighter against him. His hips draw back slightly, the head of his cock dragging against your inner walls, sending a shock of pleasure through you.

Sylus groans softly, his voice catching as he feels your slick walls gripping him. He holds himself still for a moment, trying to stay in control, but the truth is, he’s so close to losing it. This is the first time he’s done this since becoming a demon—since being cursed with his immortal body—and the sensation of being inside you, of your tight, wet heat surrounding him, is almost too much. He can’t tell you that, can’t admit that you are the one in control.

He starts to move, his thrusts slow at first, almost careful, but the way your pussy clenches around him makes it impossible for him to hold back. His breath comes in ragged gasps as he thrusts into you, each motion sending ripples of pleasure through your body. “Fuck,” he growls, his voice strained as his hips snap forward again, harder this time. His grip on your waist tightens, his fingers digging into your skin. “You feel so good, so fucking good…”

He’s too close, and before he can stop himself, the pleasure overtakes him. After only a few more short, sharp thrusts, he pulls out suddenly, his cock throbbing as hot spurts of cum splash across the skin of your belly.

You’re stunned for a moment. You did not expect him to finish so quickly.

Sylus’ chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, his eyes glinting with a mixture of satisfaction and frustration. He glances down, where his release glistens on your skin, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something like embarrassment in his eyes. He should’ve expected for you to have such an effect on him.

But even as he catches his breath, his cock is still hard. Without a word, he reaches down, his fingers gripping his length, and he guides himself back to your entrance. Your eyes widen as you realize what he’s doing, the lingering warmth of his release still fresh on your skin as he presses the head of his cock against you again. He watches your reaction closely as he slowly pushes back inside you, the wetness of his release mixing with your own arousal as he fills you once more. “I’m not done with you.”

The stretch feels even more intense the second time, your body still sensitive from his earlier thrusts, and a gasp escapes your lips as he slides inside, burying himself deep again. His hips snap against yours, his cock sliding in and out of you with a rhythm that sends shockwaves of pleasure through your body. His hands grip your hips tightly, pulling you closer, deeper with every thrust.

Sylus’ tail snakes around your waist, the smooth, firm length of it tightening as it pulls you flush against him, keeping you pinned beneath his body. His hand moves to your throat again, fingers pressing just enough to make you aware of his control. The pressure sends a thrill through you, intensifying every sensation as he picks up the pace. Each thrust drives him deeper, the head of his cock hitting your sweet spot over and over, making your body tremble with pleasure.

You try to turn your head, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all, but Sylus doesn’t let you hide. His grip on your throat tightens just enough to command your attention, as he growls softly, "Look at me, darling."

His fingers slide between your thighs, finding your swollen clit with a precision that sends a jolt of electricity through your body. You’re overwhelmed by the sensation of his thick cock filling you completely, the wet heat of your bodies moving together in sync, and the relentless pressure on your clit. It’s too much, all of it—too intense, too good, too consuming. You try to close your eyes, desperate to escape the intensity of his gaze, but Sylus isn’t having it.

“I said, look at me,” His tail winds tighter around your waist, anchoring you in place. His hips snap against yours, faster, harder, each thrust hitting that sweet spot deep inside you, forcing broken moans from your lips. The fingers move faster, rougher on your clit, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. Your eyes flutter open, locking onto his. You’re teetering on the brink, every nerve in your body on fire. His thick cock slams into you harder, deeper, his fingers relentless on your clit, and your body surrenders completely.

Sylus watches you—his breath ragged, muscles taut, holding back just enough, waiting for you. His hand stays firm on your throat, keeping you grounded, his fingers pushing you towards your peak. He can feel it in the way your walls flutter around his cock, squeezing tighter, and it drives him wild.

"Come for me," he growls, his voice thick with command.

His words are all it takes. Pleasure slams into you, stealing your breath as your body tightens around him. Every pulse, every clench makes the orgasm crash through you in waves so intense that all you can do is cry out, your legs shaking uncontrollably. Your back arches off the bed, but Sylus is there, his hands and tail keeping you pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy. You're helpless, lost in the dizzying sensation, and he holds you tight, letting you ride out every wave.

“That’s it,” he groans, his restraint slipping as he feels you clench around him, your body milking him with every pulse. His voice is rough, almost desperate now. “Just like that, angel. Just like that.”

As you come down from your high, your breath still shaky, you feel the tension of Sylus’ magic keeping your wrists bound above your head. You tug weakly against the restraints, wanting to touch him, to feel his skin beneath your hands, your body aching for the closeness.

“Sylus,” you whisper, your voice soft and hoarse from the intensity of it all, “please… I want to touch you.”

Without hesitation, the dark tendrils of magic around your wrists fade, releasing you. Your arms fall limply to your sides, trembling with exhaustion. But it only takes a moment before you reach up, wrapping your arms around Sylus’ neck, pulling him down into a tight, desperate embrace. The second your hands grip him, your lips find his in a messy, breathless kiss. The taste of him is intoxicating, the heat of his body pressing down on yours offering you comfort.

Sylus groans against your mouth, his hips moving in slow, languid motions, drawing out every ounce of pleasure. His cock fills you completely, each gentle thrust making your body shudder beneath him. His grasp on your hip is almost bruising, his fingers digging into your skin as though holding on to you is the only thing keeping him grounded. But his other hand is soft, cradling the back of your neck with tender care, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

His lips barely pull away from yours between frantic kisses. "Where... where can I finish?" His voice is strained, and his hips falter for a moment. You can feel the way his body trembles with the effort of holding back. His thrusts begin to quicken, each thrust hitting deeper, the wet sounds of your bodies moving together filling the room.

"Inside," you whisper breathlessly, your voice trembling as your hands tug him closer. "Do whatever you want... I'm yours."

Something in Sylus snaps at your words. His thrusts grow erratic, his body trembling as he reaches his peak, and with one final, deep thrust, he lets go. His release hits him hard, his cock pulsing inside you as he spills, groaning into your neck as the pleasure crashes over him. His grip on you tightens for a moment before his movements slow, his breath heavy and uneven.

As he rides out his high, his lips find yours again, kissing you softly. His hips slow to a gentle, rolling motion, drawing out the last waves of pleasure, but never pulling away. His hand cradles the back of your neck, his thumb brushing tenderly against your skin, while his other hand loosens its hold on your hip, stroking your skin as if to apologize for the bruises he left behind.

"Mine," he whispers against your lips. His forehead rests gently against yours, and you can feel his breath mingling with yours in the stillness that follows. You realize there’s no need for words. Wrapped in his arms, with his silent affection surrounding you, you know this is where you belong.

[jyoongim]

Hear me out. I can't be the only one that wants to fuck Al's demon form. Like not just the black eyed tentacle gig, I'm talking full form like the size and all 😭 I can take it I swear, Al (narrator: she could not)

Title: A Reminder To All…

Themes: its giving monster fuc but like oof, demon!form Alastor, tentacles, established relationship, rough sex, growling, blood, possessive behavior, antlers, animalistic behaviors.

It was a rather quiet afternoon at the Hazbin Hotel.

You were up in the radio tower straightening a few things while Alastor was out doing gods know what 

You decided that since you had cleaned up most of the place that you would take a stroll through town as some down time.

You hummed a tune as you passed many sinners out and about. Your stroll led pass the digital shop. You slowed as you noticed a crowd gathered outside a Voxtech store.

There were multiple tvs playing things in the windows and what caught your attention was the deals they had going on.

You bit your lip. Oh it couldnt hurt to window shop right?

You entered and was immediately overwhelmed by all the fancy tech.

why did hell need modern tech you had no idea.

A shiny pink camera caught your attention.

And it was cheap.

You did need a new camera. It would help with advertisement and to show the progress of the hotel you thought as you happily paid for it and went about your way.

what you didn’t know was that Vox had been tracking you the moment you left the hotel.

that camera of yours was now his gateway into seeing what Alastor was up to.

Once back at the hotel you pulled out your shiny new purchase.

you turned it on and walked around filming a bit.

You checking the footage to check out the quality when you heard a record scratch

”what is that my dear?” 

You jumped at the sound of Alastor’s voice and spun around holding the camera

His eyes narrowed on it and quirked his brow at you, airing for an explanation.

”Well Al I-I just thought that the hotel could use a camera to help with promoting. We can record our progress. Now you don’t have to do all the work.” You said with a nervous smile, hoping he wouldn’t toss it.

He walked closer to you, mainly keeping his eyes on the tech.

”and where did you get such a frivolous thing?” 

you gulped “At the v-voxtech store”

His ever-present smile tightened before he shrugged “fine if you think it’ll help”

you breathed a sigh of relief and happily went about your way testing it out.

Unaware of the growing shadows emitting from him.

after spending a few hours getting the hang of your new device, you decided to call it a night and put your camera on your nightstand as you got ready for bed.

You shivered slightly under your cover, grumbling you furrowed further to seek some warmth.

why the hell was it so cold?

you shifted again in bed to feel a heavy weight on top of you.

your eyes flew open and you were met with a very frightening sight.

Alastor.

In his demon form.

Your breath got caught in your throat “A-Al?”

He tilted his head, smile wide and sharp “Sleeping well my dear?” His voice was staticky and distorted.

you were so confused.

you hardly EVER saw Alastor upset, especially to the point were he was in his demon form.

“Why is that in your room dear?” He hissed out, jutting his chin to your camera.

You tilted your head confused at his question.

he was angry about a damn camera?

A clawed hand was at your throat.

”I allow many things dear, but this unattractive piece of scrap in your room? That is where I draw the line”

You let out a squeak as your clothes suddenly disappeared and covers ripped away.

”A-Al?!”

Your hands were quickly restrained by his shadows and your legs were spreaded to welcome him closer.

when the hell did he undress?

You felt the faint ghost touch of a tentacle slide against your cunt, teasing your clit. You let out a soft moan.

”Already soaking dearest?” He hummed amused.

You felt the weight of his dick slap against your cunt.

your eyes widened he wasn’t going to…

”Alastor w-wait! I c-can’t!”

A long tongue sweated the side of your face

”But you will darling” and with that he slammed into you.

Your body seized at the sudden intrusion. You let out a cry that was silenced by a tentacle wrapping around your mouth.

Alastor rutted into you, growling and snarling.

Your eyes faintly drifted to the camera by your bed.

A blinking red dot turned on and off.

Alastor gave you a rather harsh thrust.

”eyes on me dear”

you whined loudly, trying to shift your body to accommodate to his harsh thrusting. Your eyes drifted to the top of his head.

Antlers.

you felt your fingers itch with the need to find purchase on them.

you gave a tug at the shadows and huffed, making little grabbing motions hoping he would get the hint.

he granted you grace and your hands immediately flew to his antlers.

He let outa low growl and sunk his teeth into your shoulder.

With his dick hitting that delious spot inside you, you could feel him bottoming out.

You were flipped onto your stomach, facing the camera.

the shadow around your mouth disappeared and a claw hand found your tongue.

”put on a show Mon cher” You felt him flush against you.

Moans and whines filled the room as he  pounded your cunt.

A high pitch whine left your throat as you felt your cunt clench around him.

you were gonna cum soon.

”A-Al-la-stor Ah!” Your eyes crossed as your body tensed and twitched from your orgasm. He let out a deep growl and quickened his pace.

Did he get bigger?

you were suddenly face to face with him.

Your noses brushing against each other as he sought after his own release.

Your arms wrapped around his elongated neck and a hand found one of his ears.

you tugged.

Static ran through your body as he slapped his lips on yours and slammed his hips into you, purring as he filled you with his cum.

you whimpered as your legs were finally released and dropped.

Alastor was breathing heavy as he reached over to the camera

”hope you enjoyed the show old pal” he laughed before destroying the camera.

you were drifting to sleep as you watched him transform back to normal.

”sleep well my dear” was the last thing you heard as he tucked you into his side, humming a soft tune with a wide smile.

He gave a reminder.

Dont fuck with the Radio Demon.

[muzansfangs]

Imagine Douma’s first real emotion is jealousy and/or anger (alongside some horniness), and you being the cause of it, meaning he will be letting it all out on you.

Jealousy.

Starring: Douma x f!reader; Akaza;

Format: drabble;

Warnings: nsfw, jealousy, lust, first time Douma actually experiences a human emotion, possessive behaviour, dom!Douma, sub!reader, rough sex, biting, fear play, unprotected sex, mention to bruises, vaginal sex, dirty talk;

Plot: He had always desired to feel something. From the dreadful emotions to the blissful ones. When his multicolored eyes landed on you back then, Douma knew you might have helped him to feel less of an empty shell. Surely, he did not expect to feel sick at the sight of his ‘best friend’ conversing with you.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

“What did you do to me, huh?” Douma rasped out, hands pinning your twitching ones above your head, whilst his hips smacked against yours in a steady and brutal tempo. He demanded an answer, he wanted to hear an explanation from you, he yearned for coherent words to roll out of your tongue and not those high-pitched cries and moans filling the air as he occasionally hit your cervix.

You witch, you had clearly casted a spell on him. If it was not for your human nature, he would have probably blamed it on a demonic technique. He felt so sick.

If only he knew what your proximity, what his lust over your pretty face and body would have caused to him, he would have probably ignored you at the local festival the infamous night you met. He should have devoured you. After all, it was what demons did: they ate humans. Then again, he had not felt that urge, primal desire to consume you to the bone back then. Something had stopped him and, naturally, he took it as a manna from the Heaven.

Years of clinical apathy, centuries spent in observing people interacting and chattering in ways he could not comprehend, eager to mimic their emotions, to experience them too for real. He thought he had grasped the essence of them all, the feeling they caused. Why? Faking them should have been the equivalent of manifesting them.

It all turned out to be useless, in the end. He had always wanted to feel something, whatever it was that life had gifted him with. The salty tears streaming down his face, when he pretended to be heartbroken in front of his followers, had never actually tasted bitter and found himself hoping they did now. He had never felt the typical pang of sorrow in his chest, prelude to a meltdown, or the lump in his throat hard to swallow for the very first time before bursting into a desperate cry. He had always feigned his emotions, especially the dreadful ones people tried to escape. Still, he had tried to imagine what those sensetions would have felt like for real.

But, oh dear, did it feel horrendous now that he was affected by one of them.

You writhed underneath him, squirming, sweat beading your forehead as he thrusted into you with a cold brutality he had never showed before. You knew he could not be in love with you, his heart had never been blessed with the capacity of feeling that surge of positive energy and dizzying emotions all people did. Yet, you did love him and you had chosen to stay by his side. For that, Douma lavished you, he showered you in exepensive gifts, he gave you honors, he treated you with care.

The beast hovering over you now, though, was not your loving boyfriend. It was a pissed off Upper Moon, whose fangs were bared and claws were scraping your tender flesh. His cock, engorged and twitching, was bullying your gummy, delicate walls with ferocity to get answers from you. He was going insane.

“I did n-nothing!” you choked out, screwing your eyes shut as he scoffed and shook his head.

“Don’t lie to my face! You talked to him! You sang! You treated him the way you treat me! How dare you?” Douma seethed, a vein popping on the side of his head as he brought his mouth down to yours in a searing kiss. Your blood had run cold for a split second. Those pearly fangs, sharp enough to rip out your throat, had dangerously grazed your jaw and finally bit down onto your bottom lip. The metallic taste of blood on your tongue a warning to take matters in your hands.

You knew what had happened, what was going on with him right now. It took you by surprise, but he was going through the different stages of jealousy. Currently, taking it all out on you was the last one.

The root of his envy and anger was the way you, his companion, were beaming at his so-called best friend. You had heard so many stories about Akaza that you had been dying to know him. He was a kind demon, at least to women. Striking up a conversation with him came natural to you, therefore you had offered the Upper Rank Three to sing for him like you did to Douma.

A smile, a sweet and innocent smile of yours had been the final straw.

The sound of pottery smashing, your look of concern when Douma coldly demanded Akaza to leave, and the way he had easily sliced his arm off of his body at his refusal to leave you with him in his moment of instability, were all you could recall before he had you moaning out his name onto his bed. You were struggling to endure this pleasurable torture. You had lost the count of how many orgasms he had denied you. With a blurry vision, you arched your back to lock your legs behind the small of his back.

“J-Jealousy! You’re feeling something! This— Ah! This is jealousy, D-Douma!” you blurted out, only for him to still his thrusts and push further down onto the mattress.

Jealousy. Disgusting feeling, a lame one. Out of everything he could learn to experience, Douma had been sentenced to endure such a deplorable emotion.

He snorted, hand grasping your jaw as his tongue lapped at the small cut on your lower lip, still bleeding “Jealousy, huh? If that’s the case, you can fix it, right? Be a dear and stay away from any man in the Temple, at the village, down to the cities and at the Infinity Castle” he snarled, the glint of malice making his kaleidoscopic eyes even more mystical in the dim light provided by the candles on the nightstand.

His, permanently, caged and strangled by his consuming love. This was your fate, for you were his and no one else’s.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hello there! Oh, how dearly I had missed writing for my favorite upper moon. Thanks for this thirst, anon! I hope you enjoyed the meal!

Likes, comments and re-posts are greatly appreciated!

X O X O

TAGS: @doumadono @mrskokushibo because we started a cult with the upper moons✨

[itsabouttimex2]

Eclipse Kings

Part One: Mountain Monkeys

(Part One: You Are Here) (Part Two: Barbed Dusk) (Part Three: Wild Dawn) (Part Four: Sweet Little Star) (Part Five: Constellations)

(Extra One)

(The eternal kings of Flower Fruit Mountain certainly did not expect a thief smelling of their lost son to invade the palace on the day they intended to mourn his disappearance.)

The people in your village don’t go hungry.

But they’re never full, either.

Abundance is a word whispered only in longing, yet never a reality to be tasted.

Plates are modest—never empty, yet never brimming. Bread and fish are the staples, filling enough to survive but just shy of satisfying. There’s no indulgence here, no clinking glasses of wine or wedges of cheese. The villagers say this is the way of life for those who dwell beneath the gaze of the demon kings of Flower Fruit Mountain.

Once every month each family is expected to deliver a “tribute” to the two demon kings who reign over your village from

And if you “play your part” to the kingdom and make your proper tributes, the kings of Flower Fruit Mountain WILL protect you, your family, your property- that is not a privilege many demons are willing to provide.

Some families choose the customary fruit offering for the little long-tailed monkeys around the mountains. Young, tender fruits like mangoes, starfruits, and papayas are diced into neat chunks, artfully arranged on freshly washed taro leaves, and tied up with twine. The leaves are then hung from the branches of the flowering trees at the mountain’s base, a silent signal for the little monkeys to descend.

These creatures are far from simple animals; they are spirits of the mountain, bound to the Kings, with eyes that shine with uncanny understanding. They clamber down with hungry, chittering excitement, ravenous for the colorful spoils. Villagers know to keep their distance, watching from afar as the monkeys gnaw on the bounty, tearing at the fruit until nothing remains but juice-stained leaves and the echoes of satisfied squeals. The villagers believe the monkeys carry whispers to the Kings, tales of each family’s offering—or lack thereof.

Some of the craftier types (usually those with several little mouths to feed) in the village whittle toys from wood and decorate them with feathers or colorful strips of fabric and leave those about in the woods, saving more food for themselves and their children.

Some villagers, either brave or foolish, choose to journey directly up the mountain with their tributes. This is a long, exhausting up a path that was treacherous, steep, and wild, twisting through the ancient woods that seemed almost alive with the spirits of the many mortals who came before.

They would inevitably be hounded by monkeys and insects, trying desperately to sample the goods before they were given to the mountain lords to be devoured or given as gifts to those few other demon lords that the vaunted simian had compiled as allies.

And though the tribute was mandatorily gathered each month, and every family’s name was marked and closely tracked in a ledger by the sable king, with sufficient enough explanation tribute can be delayed or even outright pardoned- as the Eclipse Kings were fathers themselves, they took mercy upon struggling parents and orphans.

…they probably wouldn’t bat an eyebrow at you, honestly.

Living in a ramshackle hut sank half into the earth and insulated with straw and mud that you had smeared into the ever-growing fractures, it was just enough to tide you safely through the year.

When it grew hot you would pull out all the dirtiest blankets and clothes in your possession, sitting for hours in the shade of the many flowering trees of Mount Huaguo, feet dipped into the cool waters of whatever lake you found first- and you’d shred those tattered fabrics to long strips and bundle them up for kindling in winter.

They would be the last thing to go, only after the dried grass and wood you had gathered months prior were gone, used to melt ice for water or ease the ache of deep chills.

You had accustomed yourself to this cycle- prepare for winter all through summer and fall, then take spring as a chance to relax and live a little more freely.

You had accustomed yourself to it for a while, at least.

And then little MK had come tumbling through your door, sniveling and shaken.

Back then he had been almost too young to speak, too small to voice whatever his fears were, too utterly weak to cry for more than a half-minute before the tiny thing collapsed in your arms.

He hadn’t needed to explain.

The pounding footsteps and booming hollers had told you enough- he was being hunted.

Months prior you had dug a little shallow ditch in the soft mud of your home, then hid it under the stiffest rug you could find, reinforced with bark and smeared with mud for camouflage, praying that it would hold and go unnoticed in the event of a raid such as this.

You hadn’t expected to share it with a toddler, though.

But it had held firm and gone unnoticed even as everything else in your home was overturned and thrown askew, ripped apart by invaders with cheap leather armor and fishing knives- an hastily gathered army, clearly.

Before leaving in anger, the lot of them had shredded through your broken house and thrown their frustrated fists through the crumbling walls, leaving dozens of holes that you would have to patch with naught but straw, hay, and mud.

Winter would be harder this year, and every year after.

Especially with a baby in tow.

You hadn’t the heart to throw MK out, or leave him to the elements, but you hadn’t been brave enough to seek out his parents, either- if someone wanted him dead, then you would be on their list for harboring him, too.

“Y/N,” the young boy squeals, breaking you from reminiscence as he runs up to you with a smile. “There’s monkeys outside again!”

“…huh. Usually they don’t come around here. Make sure you stay away from the door, buddy.”

You turn to face him, only to sigh at his blatant disobedience- he’s toddling straight towards the broken hole you use as an entrance, only covered by a thick sheet of wool- it had been a sweater that grew too dirty for further use, leaving you to use the rancid thing as a weighted tarp to keep out chills.

Soap was a luxury you could rarely get your hands on, which meant it was better used for personal bathing than clothes-tending.

If you or MK; whom you tiredly sweep up into your arms, needed new clothing, you could always head down to the cemetery on a windy night to snatch up all the fabric left as offerings- they could easily be repurposed into makeshift garments.

The boy squirms in your lap, tugging on a lock of your hair to steady himself as he stands up.

“Why can’t I go out and play with the monkeys? I’ll be good, I promise!”

“Monkeys like to eat babies, kiddo. They might snatch you up and throw you into a pot,” you return, poking his squishy little cheek.

“I’m not a baby, and monkeys don’t use pots! Cause they don’t have kitchens!”

“Yeah? I hear they get to use the whole palace on the top of the mountain,” you lie, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “And I hear they take itty-bitty babies up to the ovens to be cooked.”

“…liar.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

MK, in spite of his age, is a pretty good sport when it comes to teasing and jesting. He doesn’t hold grudges and doesn’t ask for much. He eats what you give him and never asks for a second plate.

…really, he’s just a good kid.

You’ve done what you can for him. Warm clothes and clean bedding, and the occasional toy when you could scrounge it up. He eats before you do, and you make sure he has the softer portion of whatever meal you’ve scraped together. At night, he sleeps close by, wrapped up in the cleanest blankets you have, his little head nestled against your shoulder. Sometimes, his tiny fingers tangle in your shirt, holding on tight as if, in sleep, he’s afraid of being lost.

You’ve made it through rough times with him at your side, never without purpose as long as you could return to him.

You can make it through anything, you think, as long as you have MK.

But this year, you worry. Winter feels sharper already, creeping into your bones even though it’s only autumn. The flowers on the mountain haven’t died off yet, but the chilly bite warns you that cold days are coming fast. Supplies have been meager; the mountain rains came early, spoiling at least some of the crops before they could be harvested and gathered.

But MK—little, bright-eyed MK—he’s full of life, unafraid, and curious. Where you see danger in the forest’s shadows, he sees playmates and adventure. His world is small—just your home, the patch of trees nearby, and the lakes you risk bringing him to in the break of dawn. He doesn’t yet understand what it means to live with less. To him, the world is a place of wonder.

And you, for all your struggles, feel lighter with him around. His laughter fills the little corners of your life, and his bright chatter fends off the loneliness that once crept in on quiet nights.

“Y/N?” MK’s soft voice pulls you from your thoughts again. “If the monkeys go back to the kings, maybe they could tell them to bring food down here.”

You raise an eyebrow, smiling. “Oh, you think the demon kings will listen to a bunch of monkeys? They’re big and mighty, MK. They don’t worry about little things like the people below.”

“Maybe…” he murmurs, thoughtful, “But maybe if I ask really nice, they’ll listen. Then you wouldn’t be hungry.” His face scrunches up, serious and brave. “I can be nice. Really, really nice.”

Your heart squeezes a little at that, seeing the determination in his young eyes. “Oh, buddy,” you murmur, stroking his hair. “You’re plenty nice. But there are some things we can’t ask for, even from the kings.”

He frowns, thinking it over. “But…maybe if I brought them a really, really good tribute, then they’d listen?”

You stifle a sigh. MK’s generosity knows no bounds—he has so little, yet he dreams of giving. “Let’s not worry about the kings,” you say gently, redirecting his thoughts. “The best thing you can do is keep me company, just like you always do.”

He considers this, nodding, and a smile breaks out on his face again. “Okay!” He hops down from your lap, already chasing after a stray insect that has wandered into your home, flitting in and out of the small rays of sun that pierce through the cracks in the walls.

And you know, as you watch him, that no matter how harsh this winter might be, as long as MK is with you, there will be warmth to hold on to.

“Y’know, I hear that today is the lost prince’s birthday!”

“Really?!” he gasps, his tiny hands clasped in excitement.

You nod, a sly smile playing on your lips. “Yep. Word is, there are grand feasts in his honor, all the way up in the palace on Flower Fruit Mountain.”

His eyes widen, filled with wonder, his mouth forming a perfect ‘o’. “Wow… Can we go see it?”

“Ah, but it’s only for royalty and their guests,” you reply, ruffling his hair. “They guard that palace like hawks. Only those with a golden invitation can even get close. But, this year… I hear that before they eat, they’re going to the village a mountain over to visit their friends this time… and that their guards are going with them.”

He perks up immediately, eyes wide and gleaming- a little ray of lustrous light to match even gold.

“Y/N… are you going to sneak in?”

“I’m gonna rob them blind,” you confirm, squishing his cheeks between your hands. “That’s why I need you to stay inside today, buddy-“

“I’m going up the mountain.”

Those had been the start of your parting words to your surrogate little brother, instilling a brilliant radiance into his wide, innocent eyes. The thought of a belly full of food fit for kings… what orphan didn’t dream of that?

The trek up had been strikingly simple- all the usual simian distractions had retreated to their dens to mourn the lost prince, leaving you with only the occasional fly or gnat to swat away.

No guards. No soldiers. Nothing to stand in your way.

In hindsight it had been foolish to expect things to be so easy, but… the journey up to the peak hadnlulled you into a false sense of security.

The climb grew colder as you neared the palace. The lush forests below gave way to sparse, twisted trees and jagged rocks, their edges sharp enough to draw blood if you weren’t careful. Shadows lengthened as the day waned, and the silence grew thick, broken only by the occasional whistle of the wind through cracks in the stone.

At the top, the palace loomed—a grand structure carved from dark stone, adorned with gilded statues and red banners that snapped and waved in the mountain breeze. It was as silent as a tomb, its towering gates shut tight.

As you reached the summit, a dense mist clung to the air, and the grand stone gates of the palace loomed before you—ornate and ancient, their carved simian figures seeming to leer down with knowing eyes. Despite your heart thundering with the thrill of what you were about to do, you felt a strange weight settle in your chest. The palace was silent, and the eerie hush made it feel like a place caught between realms, haunted by whispers of an ancient power that was never meant to be trifled with.

But in spite of that internal warning you had crept easily enough to the side, and popped open a glinting, golden-framed window, then slid your legs through the maw- and started your thieving crawl through the palace.

The kitchen is laid with a spread so luxurious it makes your stomach clench with hatred and greed- golden plates piled high with delicate fruit, honeyed meat strung from a dozen racks, wine jars glittering with jeweled necks, the air itself thick with the scent of expensive incense and exotic spices.

All for the birthday of the lost prince, you reminded yourself, a prince who had likely never known hunger or hardship.

“Qi Xiaotian,” he had been named, was lost as a babe to a rebellion led several years ago by the discontented people of your village, those who decided that dying by their makeshift blades was better than living under royal heels.

After he had been; presumably, kidnapped by one of the rebels who had broken through the palace gates, the kings had grown cold and harsh, retreating from the world at large and leaving their lavish dwellings only to accept tributes and settle riotous disputes.

…that wasn’t enough to make you feel bad for them, though.

Tray after tray you scout, going through rows of jars, sacks, and baskets overflowed with preserved fruits, dried meats, and delicate pastries. Your hands tremble as you fill a small bundle with as much as it could hold- a handful of salted meats here, a mooncake wrapped in delicate paper there—enough to sustain you and MK for… maybe a month.

Just as you were finishing up, a strange sensation prickled at the back of your neck. You turned, heart thudding, but saw nothing. Just shadows. The silence, however, had shifted, as if holding its breath. Then a voice—low, smooth, and dripping with amusement—broke the stillness.

“Well, well, well… what do we have here?”

You froze, and before you could even think to run, a figure stepped out from the darkness. His robe flowed like liquid night, embroidered with threads that gleamed in the faint light. A crown of twisted vines adorned his head, casting intricate shadows over a face that was as beautiful as it was terrifying.

Beside him is a simian bearing fur the color of sunlight, radiant fur flecked with beads of gold and wound with strings of glimmering citrine. His garments are wrapped with shimmering threads, emphasizing each muscle bulging from below the silk.

The Eclipse Kings of Flower Fruit Mountain: Sun Wukong and the Six-Eared Macaque.

The sable king steps closer, eyes narrowing as he looked down at your small, trembling form. His lips curved into a smirk. “Stealing from the kings of Flower Fruit Mountain. Bold, and… foolish… unless you were planning to pay us back for it?” Prods the long-tailed macaque, poking your crumb-stained cheek with his forefinger.

“I don’t have anything to give,” you whimper, tears of fear and pain beading up in your eyes. “I don’t-“

“Hush hush hush!” Coos the brighter of the kings, moving to lightly swat his mate’s hand from your chin with a dramatic flourish of his claws. “Moonlight, look at this little one!”

As the king who had caught you steps back to make space for his husband, the golden monkey snatches you by the waist and lifts without so much as straining a muscle, clearing your feet well from the ground. His golden tail wraps lazily into an approximation of a heart, bouncing around happily.

“Just look at you, dumpling! Such a cute little thing rummaging around in our cabinets, hmm? Were you too hungry to stay away?”

“…you shouldn’t give grace to such a naughty thief, Peaches,” says the umbral king, holding his hands out to you. “Let me see them.”

Although this one is clearly the icier of the two, he holds you with care in spite of needing to exert more effort than his mate.

“Usually,” the golden simian chirps with glee, “we would execute thieves on the spot! My mate’s cleaved more than a few right down the middle for snatching from our castle.” His face is pulled into an easygoing grin, tail still excitedly wagging.

“I stopped doing that a long time ago,” snaps the darker monkey. “It takes forever to clean bloodstains, and maids are hard to come by, Peaches. I don’t need them wasting their time scrubbing down my carpets.”

“Our.”

“Shut up, you damn-“

“And speaking of what’s “ours”… what do we do with this little thing?”

The two monkeys look over you with varied looks, one grinning ear to ear as he pokes at your cheeks and strokes your hair, the other more restrained with only a cocked eyebrow.

“…what we usually do to thieves and trespassers.”

The feeling in your gut isn’t unlike a falling icicle, coldly sundering any hope you had of making it out of this castle alive. You were going to die. You were going to die and never see your brother again, and then he was going to starve all alone in that awful little hut.

You were going to die alone.

You were going to die unloved.

The golden king sounds a pitying gasp as tears begin to spill over your cheeks and trickles down your chin, splattering onto the polished marble floors below.

The air in your lungs begins to quickly fade, replaced with sharp gasps for breath interspersed with desperately babbled apologies. Sorry after sorry after sorry after-

“Little one, little one! Shh, shh,” the Great Sage pleads, scooping you into his powerful arms. “Shhhh, shhh, there there… it’s okay, dumpling… please, no more tears… you’ll just break this old monkey’s heart, you know that?”

“Stop fussing,” demands his mate, reaching over to card through your messy hair. “You aren’t going to manipulate us.”

“I- I’m not- no, I’m not- that’s not-“

“Shhhh! Be a good little mortal and shush! No more words, little one!” Macaque, what are you even-“

“Haven’t you noticed how they smell?”

The golden king freezes, glittering eyes going wide as his mate points out something he sincerely hadn’t noticed at all- that your scent is indeed strikingly familiar in a way that shreds out his heart and leaves him weak.

Sun Wukong, Great Sage Equal to Heaven, Handsome Monkey King- buries his face into the top of your hair, cradling you like a babe as his lips ghost the crown of your scalp, not unlike a father bidding his child goodnight with a kiss. He breathes in deep, taking the scent into his lungs and chest and holding it tighter than he holds you, only gasping it back out when breathless tears prick his eyes.

“…you smell like our son,” he whispers, holding you tighter and tighter. “I thought I was never going to- I thought I was going to die before I ever felt this- I- no, it- it’s like… gods, it’s like he’s here with us. Macaque, what do… what do we do?”

“…mortals don’t have the same scents as demons. They’re not as complex or strong. The only way a mortal gets the same scent as a demon is to spend hours with them.”

“So he’s alive”, Wukong croaks, the air in his lungs warbling with the effort to stay steady. “Our baby boy is alive. Macaque, he’s still here. Gods, he must’ve been lonely. He was so little, Macaque! He… he’s still alive.”

Wukong drops sharply to his knees, setting you on the ground with the downwards crash. The gold-veined marble cracks under the force of his movement, a testament to well-hidden power.

“Sweetie,” he coos, speaking to you as one speaks to a startled toddler,” “tell me- tell about all of your friends. Start to finish, okay? Can you do that for me, sweetie? I need to know who all they are.”

There’s a deep, desperate pleading in his voice, golden eyes scrunched to hold back tears.

“Please, please. Please tell me you know where my baby is.”

He’s so brokenly hopeful, so pleadingly anguished, so despairingly optimistic that give in to the welling guilt and admit-

“I only h-have one- he- his name is… it’s MK. He… he has brown hair and black eyes, and he’s… his favorite color is orange. He-“

Macaque screams.

He screams louder than the winds howl atop the mountain in winter, louder than tornados roar in the dry spells of summer, louder and louder and louder with each consecutive shriek until gilded windows shatter and silver braziers are snuffed.

“THAT’S HIM,” the sable king wails, throwing a fist through a solid sheet of the gold wall before him. “THAT’S MY BABY!!”

He rips his bleeding arm from the opulent ruin and tackles Wukong in a fit of relieved tears and broken openness, leaving the two tumbling in an eclipse of hues, gold and ebony rolling together on a red carpet.

They embrace in a moment of sheer, mind-numbing relief, wailing together that their beloved son hadn’t been lost, so utterly allayed that they almost forget there’s a world spinning around them.

You take your chance, and dart from the room, footsteps dulled by the luxurious carpet below.

They’ll realize that you’re gone any minute, and raise a din and raise their army- you can imagine them in the village already, desperately offering armfuls of gold and silver to any who can find you or drag you from whatever hiding place you’ve snuck to, to anyone who can return their last ticket to reuniting with their precious little cub.

You don’t even turn a single corner before what sounds like four steps of footsteps sound, racing close behind- too scared to look back, you simply fling yourself from the nearest broken window and pray you’ll land safely.

Sure enough, there’s a peach tree just below you, providing an uncomfortable cushion that prevents any fractures or breaks, thought not without shredding your arms and knees against the rough and untrimmed branches.

But losing a little blood wasn’t much when you were already afraid to lose your life.

The night air feels is oppressively thick, bitingly cold as you scramble down from the branches, your whole body aching from scratches and bruises.

It hurts, but not as much as the thought of losing MK hurts.

Every cut burns, but fear drives you forward as you push through the dark orchard. Peaches litter the ground beneath the trees, bruised and rotting, filling the air with their sickly-sweet scent. You can still hear the faint echo of anguished screams from the castle above, and you know you have to keep moving, no matter how heartbreaking the noise.

Branches continue to scratch at your skin as you hurry through the orchard, weaving between the twisted trunks of ancient peach trees. The cries of the two kings haunt you, but your heart pounds with a different terror—a need to survive, to get back to MK and keep him safe.

Swallowing hard, you push onward into the forest, where the air turns colder and the ground is uneven, littered with stones and roots. It’s dark, and the towering trees block out even the faintest hint of moonlight, leaving you to stumble blindly forward, each step a gamble.

Your lungs burn, each breath sharper than the last as you push through the dense underbrush, your only light the faint silver of cloud-breaking starlight piercing through gaps in the canopy. You can’t help but glance over your shoulder, half-expecting to see the flash of golden eyes in the shadows.

You’ve had your fill of gold and silver- that gleam has quickly lost all luster.

In your scramble down the mountain path, you nearly trip over a root hidden under the leaf-strewn ground, catching yourself just in time. You can feel a faint ache in your chest as you think about MK, probably huddled up alone, waiting for you to come back. You bite back the surge of guilt for leaving him and going so far in the first place; there’s no time for regret, no time for anything but survival.

So you fervently press on, slipping and sliding overrocks and mud, your hands numb and cold as you cling to branches to steady yourself.

You’re going to feel like hell in the morning.

Every step feels heavier, but the thought of MK—waiting, maybe scared and hungry—keeps you upright. You cling to that memory like a lifeline, using it to drag yourself forward when exhaustion claws at you, urging you to collapse into the moss and leaves.

Just as you’re ready to push on, you hear something rustle behind you, faint but distinct. Your heart skips, and for a split second, you’re sure it’s them—the kings, tracking you, maybe already upon you, with Wukong’s wild desperation and Macaque’s icy agony close on your heels. You whip your head around, pulse thundering dangerously fast in your chest. But there’s nothing there, only shadows that play tricks on your eyes.

It’s just the wind, you lie to yourself.

Yet, no sooner have you relaxed than you hear another sound—a soft murmur, almost like…laughter? It’s chilling, unnervingly familiar, a low chuckle that seems to drift from the very darkness around you. You start running, branches whipping against your cheeks, the laughter echoing in the trees like mocking ghosts.

As you push further, the underbrush begins to thin, the ground leveling out into a narrow path long worn into the mountain. Relief fills you as you recognize it—the way back to the village, back to MK. But just as you think you’ve escaped, a figure steps out from behind a nearby tree, blocking the path ahead.

It’s Macaque.

The dark-furred king stands there, arms crossed, his piercing gaze fixed on you. His tail lashes behind him, giving away a tension that his otherwise calm expression doesn’t. “Running away, little rabbit?” he purrs, voice smooth and soft, velvet hiding a dagger. “You thought we wouldn’t find you?”

Panic coils tighter around your heart. You don’t answer, can’t answer, with your breath shallow and eyes locked on his, searching for any hint of mercy. Yet, even in your fear, you see the pain in his eyes, the raw, unhealed wound that losing a son has left behind.

He takes a step closer, and you instinctively back up—until your heel catches on a loose stone, and you stumble. Macaque moves in a flash, catching you before you can fall, his grip like iron around your arm. There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, almost as if he’s hesitant, but it vanishes just as quickly.

At that moment, you feel a warm presence nearby, and a golden glow illuminates the path. Wukong appears behind Macaque, his expression far softer than his husband’s. He looks at you with tearful eyes, earlier desperation simmering beneath his clouded gaze. “We just want to know where our son is, sweetie,” he says, voice coaxing. “Help us find him, and we can put all of this behind us.”

For a moment, you’re trapped between them, their eyes—glowing —boring into you with the weight of ages, burning on either side of you. You are prey, trapped in the gaze of ancient predators, creatures who could tear you apart if they chose.

You feel a lump rising in your throat, guilt twisting in your chest. You want to help them, to tell them more, to ease that raw grief carved into their souls. But how could you? MK didn’t remember them. He’d never once spoken of a family, of a past like theirs.

Would it really be a betrayal to bring him to people who could no doubt care for him better than you ever could?

You rip from his clawed grasp with a sob, blood spilling from your arm where his nails were clutched tight- and then step back.

Air whistles around you through the sharp plummet, blaring out the wails of the two kings. It’s not too long of a fall, it won’t break or kill you- it’s just one more thing that’s going hurt tomorrow, when you wake up next to MK -and you will wake up next to him- and bid him “good morning”.

As you fall, the world blurs around you, and for a moment, there’s only the rush of air and the distant cries of the kings above. The impact comes suddenly—a jolt that rattles every bone in your body as you hit the shallow puddle below, your vision sparking with a burst of white. Pain blooms in your side, sharp and searing, but you manage to roll onto your hands and knees, gasping for breath. Everything aches, but you’re alive. And more importantly, you’re closer to the outskirts of the village, closer to MK.

You rise shakily, wiping a streak of blood from your face. The path ahead is illuminated by starlight growing ever fainter, barely peeling through even the sparsely dotted trees.

The half-hovel is only a short walk away, barely three meters from your spot of impact, leaving you to start crawling; hands and knees alight with pain, to that little refuge.

Every inch forward feels like a mountain climbed, your breath coming out in ragged gasps, as you drag yourself closer to that pitiful excuse for a home. The hut is run-down, its roof half-collapsed, with walls patched by whatever scraps you could find. But right now, it’s the only place that feels safe, and the only place where MK will be waiting for you.

Your fingers scrape against rotted as you pull yourself up onto the threshold, bracing against the shattered doorframe, steadying your shaking limbs. The inside is dim, with just the faint embers of the fire you lot in that little stone pit, the weak light casting long shadows against the walls. And there, curled up on a ragged mat, is MK—sleeping soundly, his tiny form bundled up in a blanket far too thin for the chill in the air.

You feel relief rush over you like a wave, washing away the pain and exhaustion, if only for a moment. You swallow back tears as you carefully lower yourself beside him, reaching out a trembling hand to brush a lock of hair from his face. He stirs at the touch, eyes fluttering open with a groggy mumble, his gaze unfocused at first before he realizes it’s you.

“You’re back,” he whispers, his voice small and sleepy, a hint of worry melting into relief as he reaches for your hand. “I… I thought you weren’t coming back this time.”

“I’d never leave you, MK. Not for anything.” Your voice wavers, and you squeeze his hand tighter, trying to push down the overwhelming flood of emotions. “I’ll always come back for you.”

He smiles—a soft, innocent smile that nearly breaks you. You can’t tell him what happened, can’t bear the thought of burdening him with the danger you faced tonight, or the kings who would give anything to find him.

Instead you settle beside him, draping an arm over his small shoulders as he curls up against you, his warmth seeping into your aching bones.

“Did you get any food?” he asks tiredly, eyes drooping shut again.

You reach for the cloth bundle on your back and pull it off, watching all four corners unravel and flutter open as it’s tossed into the ground-

It’s all still there. Busted, bruised, some of it mangled, but it’s still there. Fruit, veggies, nuts, meat, and even sweets.

Just like you promised.

The boy (a prince, you’ve learned) squeals with delight, clambering over to sample the spoils of your hellish night. He settles for cramming his little face with an assortment of the pilfered banquet, accidentally crushing some bit of it into crumbs with how badly his hands shake from excitement.

It’s only when he’s full enough to pause that MK looks over to you with a frown, clambering over with a mooncake held tight in his little hands- and then he pushes it to your mouth.

“Say ‘ahhh’!”

Even through the agony pricking through your skin, a smile forms- such a sweet little thing he’s grown into, even in these… limited circumstances.

“…aaaah”, you acquiesce, allowing him to nudge the pastry between your parted lips, eating half of it in one go.

“…good?”

“Really good, buddy.” You take another bite, swallowing the rest with some small satisfaction. “I’m gonna take a quick nap, okay?”

“…promise you’ll wake up.”

Oh, gods. That hurt. Sometimes you forgot how perceptive the boy was, how eager and clever. How could you think he wouldn’t notice the suffering crawling all through your body?

“Oh, kiddo. I will wake up, I promise. I’m just tired. I’ll wake up and start a fire, and we can roast the meat and nuts to warm ‘em up, okay? I promise.”

He doesn’t seem too convinced, but settles into a hushed state as he polishes off a mango and ties up the bundle again.

“You better,” the little one huffs, looking over to see that you’ve already fallen asleep. He shuffles to his little chest and pulls out the cleanest blanket he has, draping it over your shoulders before starting to crawl in with you-

Right until a knock sounds on the outer wall of the hut.

MK freezes, clutching the edge of the blanket, his wide, black eyes darting to the door. The thin walls do little to muffle the gentle, deliberate tapping. His face twists in confusion and fear, and he inches back toward you, pressing himself close against your side, trying to make himself as small as possible. He can hear his own heartbeat hammering in his chest, the room so silent that each beat feels like a drum signaling his hiding place.

The knock sounds again, a steady rhythm that’s somehow polite but insistent, as if the person on the other side knows exactly what lies within and won’t leave without answers. The thought tightens MK’s chest with dread. He glances at you, wanting you to wake, but exhaustion has claimed you too fully. He shifts, leaning close to your ear, whispering with all the urgency his little body can muster.

The matted wool curtain is pulled aside, and a long shadow falls over the two of you.

It’s Wukong.

He’s not dressed in the regal robes from before, his crown and adornments discarded somewhere along the journey down the mountain. He looks oddly… humbled, vulnerable even, his golden fur matted and streaked with grime. He too has trekked through brambles and mud to find this place.

In that moment, the fierce, untamed warrior, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, reduced to a father—nothing more, nothing less—just a father, lost and found in the presence of his child.

“My son.”

MK stiffens, eyes going wide with confusion and a strange, nameless feeling that curls tight in his chest. The voice calls to something deep within him, something he doesn’t understand yet can’t ignore. He doesn’t remember this voice, but he feels it as though he’s always known it—like a lullaby, like the whisper of leaves in the wind.

MK clutches the edge of your blanket tighter, his face a mixture of uncertainty and fear as he looks up at the stranger in the doorway. Wukong’s gaze softens further, and he steps into the dim light, eyes filled with a desperate hope tempered by patience. He’s careful, his movements gentle and measured as he crouches down, bringing himself to MK’s eye level.

“Do you know me, little one?” he asks, voice trembling slightly as he waits, searching MK’s expression for any glimmer of recognition.

MK tilts his head, brow furrowing as he studies Wukong. There’s a flicker in his black eyes—a hint of familiarity that he can’t quite place, something ancient and deep inside him stirring, like a faint memory from a distant dream. But he shakes his head slowly, his lips pressed together as he shrinks back a little, still clutching the blanket.

Wukong’s face falls, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his grief. He swallows, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill. “I… I thought maybe you’d remember.” His voice is barely a whisper, so soft that it sounds like a confession, a plea.

But Wukong quickly straightens, forcing a small, trembling smile. He can’t bear to scare his child, can’t bear to make him feel any more uncertain than he already does. “It’s okay,” he says, his voice still gentle, though there’s a glimmer of resolve in his eyes. “It’s okay if you don’t remember, little one. I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He glances down at you, still asleep beside MK, his expression softening with gratitude. Despite everything, despite the fear and pain you must have faced, you had cared for his son, protected him in his absence. There’s a flicker of respect, maybe even admiration, in his gaze.

But then, before he can say anything else, the curtain shifts, and Macaque steps into the hut as well, his dark, intense gaze zeroing in on MK. His movements are slow and deliberate, as though afraid that anything too sudden might frighten the boy. He stops just inside the threshold, his usual sly demeanor replaced with a vulnerability that’s almost startling.

“…my baby.”

The weight of those two words settles over MK like a blanket of warmth, a feeling he doesn’t quite understand . Still, it stirs a pull in his heart that defies reason. He glances at you again, hoping for some guidance, some sign of what to do—but you’re still sound asleep, completely oblivious to the quiet storm raging in his heart.

After a moment, MK opens his mouth, and his voice, so soft and uncertain, trembles through the space.

“Why don’t I remember you?”

The question, so small yet filled with an innocence that pierces both kings, brings a quiet gasp from Wukong. He reaches up to touch his chest, struggling to contain the ache there. He can’t meet MK’s eyes for a moment, his gaze fixed on the floor as he takes a shuddering breath.

“That’s… that’s because you were very young when we… when we lost you, my little peach,” Wukong finally whispers, his voice hoarse. “You wouldn’t remember us, not after so long, but… we’ve missed you every single day.”

MK steps forward for a moment, wanting and wanting and feeling so very loved-

But then the boy pulls his hand back, glancing at you beside him, his expression suddenly filled with uncertainty. “But… I already have someone,” he says softly, nodding to your prone form. “They take care of me. They’re… my family.”

“We’ll take them too,” Wukong spits out, dropping to his knees and becoming his lost son forward. “All four of us can go home together, Xiaotian. Like… like a big, happy family.”

Macaque steps forward shaking with the effort spent to not rush him immediately. “That’s right, baby. We’ll take you, and… and we’ll take the little thief, and we can go home. Together.”

MK looks back at you, so broken and worn that he fears you might not make the night without someone else’s help- the thought straightens his brow, and sets his little head into a stiff nodding motion.

Finally, he could help you, just as you had helped him so long ago.

“Ok. Let’s go home- all of us, together.”

[cryptidghostgirl]

I have another chubby reader for you! I was only gonna ask for one but YOURE SO AMAZING I JUST HAD TO PUT IN ANOTHER REQUEST😞😩 Alastor x chubby!reader, where reader goes out with angel Dust to a party or something wearing a *cough* slutty *cough* outfit and Alastor SEES THEM WEARING IT 👀 and he gets possessive of reader and won't let them leave with angel (whose smirking in the background and fluttering his eyelashes like he's innocent because reader and Alastor are bother emotionally constipated or something and haven't confessed to each other😤) and reader is nervous enough wearing something so revealing already (but they felt good enough in their own skin to wear such an outfit; that confidence is quickly fading when Alastor stops her from leaving with the outfit) so she gets the wrong idea that Alastor thinks she disgusting or body shaming her 🥺 but Alastors just ranting about being ladylike and "dressing like a proper lady" , Angel Dust is now watching this heartbreaking train wreck happen and tries to intervene but then Alastor turns on him about tainting the reader or something but reader has heard enough and just quietly just turns around and walks to her room heartbroken 😭 then angel yells at Alastor and tells him everything *shocked Pikachu face* and goes to reader to fix this misunderstanding, you take it from here????? BUT THEY DO CONFESS

(I LOVE ME SOME HURT/COMFORT AND LOVE CONFESSIONS! YUMM!)

A/N I love your requests and I'm so glad you liked how Sweet turned out. I am actually really proud of that one myself. Of course I will write this. 11/10.

Pretty Bunny (Alastor x Chubby!Rabbit Demon!Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Warnings: Hurt/comfort. Body image and weight stuff. I feel like Alastor is a bit ooc but I think this is cute so I don't super care.

Word Count: 2,049

Master Lists:

Master Lists 

Hazbin Hotel Master List

“And where exactly is it you two are off to in such a hurry?”

Y/n and Angel froze, Angel's hand resting on the handle to the hotel's door.

"Well?"

Exchanging a covert look, Y/n and Angel turned to face Alastor. Y/n clasped her hands innocently behind her back, looking up at Alastor through her lashes which Angel had done up in silver falsies, and Angel fixed a smile on his face.

"Just out." Y/n hummed.

"Yeah," Angel chimed in, draping one of his lower arms over Y/n's shoulders and bringing her into his side, "little Y/n here deserves a night out on the town and some fun."

Y/n quickly elbowed Angel in the side. The spider demon knew Alastor and his opinions on the night life of Pentagram City. He was tempting fate. Alastor raised his eyebrows.

"You deserve 'some fun,' do you?" Alastor asked, fixing his gaze on the shorter of the pair of demons.

Angel released his grip on Y/n, shoving her forward slightly. She stumbled a bit, shooting him a glare before looking carefully back at Alastor. His scrutinizing gaze traversed her form with care. Angel had insisted on dressing her up and while the outfit he had put her in was a bit out of her comfort zone, Y/n felt incredibly pretty. The little white satin dress hung from her hips, playing gently against her thighs when she walked, and the black knee high platforms made her at least a couple inches taller. Angel had even placed black satin bows around the bases of her rabbit ears to tie the whole thing together.

There were also the chains, thin and dripping off her body. A necklace here, a carefully placed waist chain there, she looked practically angelic. Alastor crossed his arms, tapping his foot menacingly as he impatiently waited for an explanation.

"Well, we've been working so hard to become better people and it's been three months since we've done anything... fun. Besides, it was my birthday last week."

"Uh-huh." Alastor nodded, his lack of amusement with the situation obvious, "And where exactly are you two planning on going?"

"Oh come on, Smiles. It's just a club I know." Angel sighed, "You're starting to sound like Charlie. I thought you wanted to see us fail."

"That is true." was the only response the Radio Demon gave Angel before fixing his attention on Y/n once again.

She was beginning to grow uncomfortable under his piercing stare. Y/n wrapped her arms around herself, her shoulders hunching slightly.

"So what is the issue, Alastor."

The name felt foreign on her tongue. Although she had been a guest of the Hazbin Hotel practically since its creation, she avoided Alastor. At first, it had of course been due to intimidation. Then, as he had slowly begun to reveal his true colors to the residents of the hotel, it had morphed into something entirely other. Y/n thought that the Radio Demon, one of the most feared overlords in all of Hell, was pretty.

Y/n had never been good at dealing with crushes or flirting or anything. She avoided him like the plague. Her tail twitched thoughtlessly with trepidation, shifting her skirt just the slightest bit, revealing just the smallest big more of her thighs.. It was the last straw for Alastor.

"You're not going out in that."

Angel pressed his palm to his forehead, shaking his head. Love was his specialty, the act and the feeling. It was obvious to him Y/n had a thing for the Radio Demon, and not just because she had revealed the information to him in one of their late night talks. He never brought it up with the rabbit demon who had become a dear friend in the time they had known one another, but he was relatively certain Alastor had some interest in her as well. The Radio Demon seemed to constantly be a few steps behind her, entering rooms she had just left, letting his eyes linger on her when they did their group exercises.

At Alastor's words, Y/n's mouth fell slightly open. Her breath caught in her throat, a shiver running through her.

"Oh."

Her voice was strained and Angel could tell she was holding back tears. Y/n turned away from Alastor, her shoulders slouching even further.

"That is no way for a proper lady to dress." Alastor continued, not seeming to notice the effect his words had had as he lectured the smaller demon, "I mean, you're barley wearing anything at all! For goodness sake, your shoes are covering more than that dress an-"

"Alright," Angel cut in, stepping up beside Y/n and pulling her into his arms, "that's enough big guy."

"You're clearly tainting her with your promiscuity." Alastor sighed, "What, you want to bring her to some club so ignorant wimps can drool over her all night? Or maybe that's what she wants to have happen."

Y/n pulled herself from Angel's grip and marched right up to Alastor. Her eyes wet with unshed tears, he looked down at the finger she was jabbing into his chest in mild shock.

"You are mean." she stated, "I can't believe how wrong I was about you. I thought... god!"

She let her finger fall and crossed her arms over her stomach once again.

"You ready to go, sweet cheeks?" Angel asked and she shook her head.

All the fight had gone out of her.

"No, you go ahead without me. I think... I think I'm just gonna go to bed. Thanks for... yeah."

With those parting words, Y/n stormed upstairs. Angel and Alastor watched until she had long since disappeared into the depths of the hotel. Slowly, they turned to face each other once again.

"What." Alastor said in the most deadpan tone Angel had ever heard come from the demon.

"How could you do that?" Angel asked accusatorially, taking a step towards Alastor, "She is the sweetest little menace on the planet!"

"Do what?"

Alastor's brow furrowed in confusion. He didn't think he'd said anything wrong, done anything wrong. Y/n was the one who had over reacted, stepped out of line, right?

"Do you have any idea how long it has taken her to be confident enough to wear something like that? She has worked so hard on her relationship with herself and... and... she felt pretty. Why would you say that shit to her?"

"I... what?"

"She liked you, ya dumbass! She cared about what you thought of her!"

Alastor took the slightest step back, his hand not grasping his microphone raised to his chest, hovering over his heart.

"I am afraid I don't understand you."

Angel sighed, trying to calm himself.

"Look. Y/n has a crush on you and you just told her she wasn't pretty."

"No I didn't. I told her she should be more ladylike. A crush on me?"

"Yeah well, that's not much better. She is who she is and she is wonderful! The way that she dresses doesn't change any of that."

"She has a crush on me?" Alastor asked again, dumbstruck.

"Yes you idiot."

"But she never speaks to me. I thou-"

"That's cause she's nervous. Geeze, you are dense."

Y/n jumped in shock as she caught sight of Alastor using his shadows to teleport into her room through the reflection of the mirror. Her makeup half off, she turned to him.

"The fuck are you doing here?"

Alastor opened his mouth, about to make a comment about her language before thinking better of it and closing it again. Y/n rolled her eyes, her anger and hurt having festered into irritation. She turned back to the mirror, using the cotton pad in her hand to take off the last of her mascara. Alastor watched her face through the mirror as she tossed the cotton pad to the side.

Reaching up, she slowly began to disassemble the sculpture of a hairdo Angel had put her in.

"Why are you here?" she asked again, placing a bobby pin on the table.

"I came to... apologize." he replied, taking a small step forward.

"What, did Angel force ya' to?"

It wasn't often her accent slipped out. Y/n had been raised in Brooklyn but her parents had been insistent she work not to have the accent. People didn't take people who had them seriously, they said. It only ever made an appearance when she was drunk or feeling any emotion to it's extremity, especially anger.

"No, I am here of my own volition."

"Yeah, sure." she scoffed as she pulled the last of the pins from her hair, allowing it to fall freely around her face as she turned back to him over her shoulder, "I totally believe that."

"It was not my intent to make you feel like you weren't... pretty." Alastor carefully said, avoiding her eyes, "Just tha-

"If an apology involves an exception, is it really an apology?"

Alastor had never been good at this. Apologies or any of the other feelings he had been actively suppressing about the rabbit demon since he had come to the hotel. She stood up from her chair, walking over to him.

Y/n knew the clock was ticking, felt the heat of the tears building in her head again.

"What." she asked, throwing her arms out to the sides and looking around the room, "Ya' think I'm ugly? Unladylike? Is that because I let Angel dress me up or because I'm not stick thin?"

"Y/n."

There were tears dripping down her cheeks now. She looked away, crossing her arms tightly across her stomach in protection.

"Just leave, Alastor."

"Y/-"

"Leave!" she commanded, "Get outa here!"

"Y/-"

"I don' wanna talk to you! What don't ya' get about that!"

"Y/n!" Alastor grabbed her shoulder, turning her to face him.

"What!" she yelled back, tears streaming hotly down her face, "What, Alastor."

"I... I think you're beautiful."

The tears stopped, Y/n's eyes wide. Fueled by a sudden wild courage Alastor continued, grabbing her hands in his own.

"I do. You... I don't have the words. You..." he shook his head, "I really don't. You are a wonder."

Her nose twitched subtly, her ears adjusting themselves atop her head.

"But then why... why did you say those things to me?"

"I was jealous." he anxiously admitted, "I never meant to make you cry."

"Jealous?" Y/n repeated with a slight laugh and Alastor nodded.

His cheeks were hot and his heart pounding in his chest but he refused to look away from Y/n. Releasing one of her hands, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a handkerchief. Gently, he raised it to Y/n's face, patting away her tears.

"You were jealous."

He wasn't going to be able to escape this one.

"That some other guy was gonna see you like that? Was going to charm you and hold you in their arms while I did nothing? Of course I was."

"I have a confession to make." Y/n said after a moment.

"And what might that be?" Alastor asked as he took another step closer to Y/n, still holding one of her hands in his.

He tried his best to repress a smile, her bashfulness was so endearing.

"I maybe, kind of sort of... think you're beautiful too?"

She looked up at him through her lashes. He let go of her hands, grabbing her by the waste and pulling her body into his.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." she nodded shyly.

"You know, I might have heard something along those lines from Angel just a bit earlier."

"From... that little bitch! I mean snitch! I mean both actually I guess."

Alastor laughed at her antics.

"So, pretty bunny, what are we to do with this revelation?"

Y/n's ears cocked. Alastor could feel her tail twitch, brushing up against his arm where he held her. A shiver traveled down his spine.

"Oh I don't know." Y/n feigned indecision, her hands finding her way around his waist as well, bringing them even closer together, "Maybe you should ask me on a date? If you're interested."

"Interested?" Alastor laughed, leaning down, "Of course I am."

[ppnuggiexxx]

-> best / biggest tits to suck on || whb

• characters :: ronove ,, mammon ,, marbas ,, glasyalobolas

• contains :: dom reader ,, fem reader ,, hickies ,, marking , possessive reader (mammon + marbas) ,, switch marbas ,, making glasya submit ,, mentions of glasya's chest hole ,, possibility of being caught by levi (glasya) ,, they all have fat tits

• minors dni

-> ronove

| • hes one of the few larger demons ,, and one with a large chest too . most devils of abbadon already know how big his tits are ,, having experienced them first hand

| • though when you see for the first time ,, after finally getting him out of all that clothing ,, you were whipped for a little touch

| • have you seen that one fanart of him as a nun w/ nipple piercings ?? had me drooling ngl

| • his would be so soft ,, after all he does take good care of his skin and his chest is mostly covered by soft cloth

| • his nipples perk easily with temperature change and / or the slightest touch

| • all you gotta do is rub your thumbs over them and theyre already budding up ,, hardening under your fingertips

| • now they arent too sensitive ,, but that doesn't change the fact he still feels pleasure from them

| • you can truly tell how soft they are when your tongue swivels around one of his nipples

| • he'll groan through his gag ,, humping against your leg as you suck on his nipple

| • 10/10 tiddy ,, 10/10 experience ,, softest skin ever

-> mammon

| • i mean ,, is there even an explanation needed for him ? he has his tits out 24/7 ,, takes any chance possible to have your face buried in them ,, and encourages you every time you ask to put your face there

| • theyre so soft and squishy ,, its quite addicting and makes you always come back for another feel ,, only to end up unsatisfied when your time is up

| • though he'll always have time for you ,, its only when other kings pull you away from his chest does your time end

| • no matter how much you whine about your lost ,, the other kings won't listen to it ,, mammon being the only one to back you up on your wants

| • after all ,, what his master wants is what his master will have ,, even if its his body ,, especially if its his body

| • if you wanted his body then you would have it ,, all of it or any specific part you want ,, because you're his master and you will always get what you want from him

| • and if that includes sucking on his tiddies selfishly ? well ,, who is he to deny you such a thing ,, especially if you get all shy and fidgety about it ,, he finds it cute whenever you ask in a quiet voice to suck his tits

| • theyre not as soft as ronove's ,, but theyre still super squishy ,, who needs a stress ball when you have this ? who needs slime when you can just massage mammon's tits whenever and wherever you want ?

| • though he can't help the little whimpers he gives when you finally suck on his tits . who knows ,, maybe you could splash some liquid gold on there and lick it off his nipples and suck bites into the flesh

| • it'll certainly be obvious who he belongs to ,, fueling your selfishness and letting him walk proud knowing you own him ,, that only his master can give him such treatment and truly feed into his sin

-> marbas

| • it'll certainly be a moment before you can get him shirtless . after all ,, lucifer has him bound and restricted for a reason ,, not to mention his role as a doctor for devils coming day in day out with injuries

| • though the moment you get him without a shirt on ,, probably in the morning or at night when he's changing his clothes ,, is when you'll finally get your chance to pounce

| • his are rough and firm ,, but it doesnt make it any less fun to suck on

| • straddle his lap ,, he'll keep ahold of your hips while you take your time with him ,, sucking and biting wherever you can

| • even though they'll show up as bruises the next morning ,, he wouldn't mind ,, as he is a doctor and does have solutions to hiding any signs of pain on his skin

| • though the devils that do notice dont bother to say much ,, though a few will be bold enough to ask and tease ,, asking if he got ravaged by a wild beast with how much you've marked his pale skin

| • he'll only glare at them and continue with his treatment ,, quickly shooing them out of his way for the next patient

| • that doesnt mean he hates it ,, if you want to mark him head to toe he'll gladly let you ,, granted he could do the same

| • after all ,, you do have all night ,, and the night after that and the rest of the year and years to come

| • you can renew your marks whenever and he can return the favor for you

| • his nipples are always perky ,, firm and always budded up ,, but theyre quite sensitive

| • you can suck all you want against his nipples ,, maybe even give them a little nibble . you'll feel his hard dick twitch underneath you ,, pressing up against his pants painfully

| • whenever they brush against his restraints he has to hide his moans ,, the stimulation only adding up more reasons for lucifer to bound him tighter

| • the last thing he needs is marbas losing control of his pleasure while healing patients ,, this is a hospital not a club

-> glasyalobolas

| • it doesnt take much coaxing from him to let you see his tiddies ,, you just have to know the right method

| • while a fan of seeing trouble be caused ,, hes not one to enjoy getting in trouble if it means being caught

| • but the thrill of being caught by leviathan ,, with you sucking on his fat tits while sitting in his lap ,, outweighs his worries

| • he'll risk being hung and punished ,, especially since you're so polite when you ask ,, how cute you look asking if you can suck on his tits ,, saying you'll let him grind against you if he wants to

| • its offer he has trouble refusing ,, taking you to an empty room near leviathan's office and letting you have the satisfaction you've been craving

| • his chest is also firm ,, but his skin isnt as soft but its not exactly rough ,, not to mention the whole in the middle of his chest

| • a healing wound ,, but one that you can have fun with ,, poking your fingers in it and threatening him that if he makes a noise ,, that if leviathan hears ,, you'll do worse then just stick your fingers in there

| • glasya couldnt help the whimper he gives ,, his gaze darkening as he mutters how cruel you are

| • though you decide to save that for another day ,, another night where you can have him all to yourself and tease his body to your heart's content

| • he'll be quiet when you finally suck on his nipples ,, maybe gasping and groaning when you bite him

| • due to how tall he is ,, he'll probably lean up purposely ,, making you lose your grip on his nipple as he stands up

| • all you have to do is command him to kneel ,, and if he doesn't you could always pull his noose to bring him to his knees ,, maybe pushing him farther to ground with your foot

| • trapping him against the wall and ground ,, standing above him as you hold onto the chains attached to his horns as you threaten to punish him again

| • he'll listen this time ,, letting you enjoy your suckle and leave hickies along his skin ,, knowing you'll get off to his pain

[paishoeyeroh]

Bearer And The Bound

☰ Pairings: Sukuna x Reader, Slight Megumi x Reader

✧ Summary: When you stumble upon an ancient ring in an abandoned house, you unknowingly bind yourself to a cruel, powerful demon who thrives on torment. Trapped in a reluctant bond and forced to navigate a shared existence, Sukuna plots your downfall while you fight to survive his sadistic games. But as your fates entwine and secrets of Sukuna’s dark past begin to unravel, the lines between enemy and ally start to blur.

✧ Tags: True form Sukuna, Enemies to Lovers, Dark Romance, Demonic Bonds, Heavy Angst, Slow Burn, Sukuna is Bad at Feelings, Possessive Sukuna, Tension, Forced Proximity, Eventual Smut, College/University AU, More Tags To Be Added Later

✧ Status: Ongoing

✧ You can also read it on AO3

☰ CHAPTER TEN: Fracture

Chapter Summary: You push. Sukuna breaks.

☰ Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Sukuna is ignoring you.

At first, you don’t think too much of it, assuming he’s just quiet this morning. You hadn’t seen him since last night, after all, and you figured things might be a little… tense. But by the time you’re sitting through your first lecture, tapping your pen against your notebook in distraction, the truth becomes evident. He’s doing it on purpose.

No odd comments thrown your way, no dry observations, no flickering glances. He follows, because he has to, but he doesn’t acknowledge you once. It’s as though you don’t exist.

You try to push it aside, to focus on your professor’s voice, on the words you should be writing down, but it hurts. There’s no denying that.

There’s really only one explanation for his coldness. Last night. The way you were drawn to each other like magnets. And then, Megumi’s call. A reminder of the one person Sukuna seems to despise, though you’ve never been entirely sure why. He’s never liked Megumi, never tried to hide his distaste. Whatever his reasoning, you know the timing isn’t a coincidence. Whether it was the moment itself or the interruption that followed, it’s clearly bothering him.

And if it’s not? If there’s something else behind his silence? That thought is even more frustrating, because it means you still don’t know what’s going on inside his head at all.

Between classes, you catch sight of a familiar head of pink hair bobbing above the crowd. Yuji. At the sight of him, you remember your conversation with Megumi last night. You decide to call out his name.

He turns immediately, eyes lighting up the second he spots you. A wide grin spreads across his face, and before you can brace yourself, he’s bounding toward you, all but skipping across the hall.

“Hey!” he exclaims, wrapping you in a tight, familiar hug. The embrace is warm, effortless, and you sink into it without hesitation. A real, genuine smile tugs at your lips, one you didn’t have to force. His energy, so bubbly and contagious, fills your insides with light, chasing away the darkness you’ve been carrying all morning.

“I was just thinking about you! Nobara and Megumi are coming over later to hang out. Wanna come?” he tilts his head closer to you, his hand coming up to cup the side of his mouth as he lowers his voice, “there’ll be weed and snaaaacks,” he sing-songs, as if he’s trying to bribe you into coming.

You giggle at his antics, but you feel a tight pang in your stomach at the realization that he’s trying to convince you, probably because he thinks you don’t want to go.

“Alright, I’ll come. But I’m not smoking any of your weed. Not after what happened last time,” you say with a grimace. Yuji’s weed is always incredibly strong, and since you’re not much of a smoker anyway, it had too great of an effect on you the last time you tried it. You don’t even want to think about it. The head spinning. The paranoia. The crying. Not fun.

Yuji throws his head back as he laughs, squeezing his eyes shut tight, and you have no doubt the memory is playing back through his mind.

“Oh yeah! I forgot about that. Good times,” he mocks as his hand comes up to squeeze your shoulder. “Well, just come over whenever after class. Nobara and Megumi are catching a ride with me, so we’ll all be there.” He waves his hand at you as he walks away. “See ya later!”

You find yourself still smiling long after Yuji passes by you in the hallway, his bright and bubbly mood never failing to cheer you up. Tonight is going to be just what you need.

As long as Sukuna behaves with Megumi around.

Your smile immediately falters at the thought. You glance over at him, standing a few feet away leaned up against the lockers, looking in the opposite direction of you. You sigh as you head to your next class.

The rest of the school day goes by quickly, now that you have something to look forward to. As Sukuna continues to neglect your existence, you become more and more certain that he will keep up the charade at Yuji’s place. The thought almost comforts you. Maybe it’ll feel like old times again, before you ever put on that damned ring.

You make your way up to Yuji’s apartment, lightly rapping your knuckles against the door.

It flings open suddenly, and Yuji’s standing there in all his marijuana-induced glory, having clearly started smoking already. His eyes are half-lidded and red rimmed, and there’s a wide, goofy smile plastered across his face as he welcomes you.

“Heeey! Guys, I told you she’d come!” he shouts back to the others, before beckoning you inside. You take a step in, with Sukuna following behind you before Yuji closes the door.

The moment you step inside, the thick, unmistakable scent of weed hits your nostrils. It’s warm in here, cozy in that lazy, indulgent kind of way. The coffee table is a mess of half eaten snacks—open bags of chips, crumpled candy wrappers, a box of cookies that’s already looking dangerously empty. And right in the middle of it all, Yuji’s bong sits proudly, a testament to the night they’ve obviously already been having.

Megumi is sprawled out on the couch, legs spread wide, looking more relaxed than you’ve seen him in months. His head tips lazily toward you, and a slow, lopsided smile spreads across his lips as he greets you. You return it, unable to control the tugging at your lips at the sight of him so at ease for once.

Yuji flops down beside him with a satisfied sigh, stretching his arms over the back of the couch. Meanwhile, you settle onto the floor next to Nobara, who turns to you with a look of pure relief.

“Thank god you’re here. I can’t listen to those two anymore, especially Yuji. I think I can actually feel him making me dumber.”

“That’s not because of me, it’s the weed, idiot,” Yuji quips, ducking to avoid the pillow she throws at his head in response.

You laugh, shaking your head, as you turn back to Nobara. “How’d your date go the other night?”

She immediately rolls her eyes, reaching into her bag of chips and pulling out a handful. “Ugh, don’t even get me started,” she shoves the chips into her mouth, crunching loudly. “First, he didn’t open the door for me. Then, he tried to, like, order my own food for me? And to top it all off, he didn’t even compliment my outfit!” she crushes her bag of chips in her fist in anger.

“So, naturally, I ghosted his ass. I don’t have time for that kind of disrespect.”

“Naturally,” you snort, as Megumi coughs loudly, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke as he takes a rip of the bong. He reaches out, offering it to you.

“Want some?”

You turn to him, shaking your head.

“Nah, I’m good.” you decline, watching him pass the bong to Yuji. As you do, you notice something out of the corner of your eye. It’s Sukuna, and you watch as he rounds the corner, walking out of sight. Probably off to go pout somewhere by himself like a sullen child, you think as you inwardly roll your eyes. You have no intention of dealing with that for the remainder of the night. You quickly turn your head back to the group as Megumi speaks.

“Guys, can we put a different show on?” he asks, his voice strained, almost pleading. He swallows thickly, his gaze locked onto the screen like it’s about to crawl out and grab him. “This one’s freaking me out.”

Yuji squints at the screen, then back at Megumi.

“What? It’s just Pokémon, dude,” he says before he leans forward, studying Megumi like he’s the most fascinating thing in the room. “Are you good?”

Megumi stands shakily, his face pale, quickly making his way down the hall. “I’ll be back,” he weakly mutters over his shoulder.

Nobara and Yuji watch him for a moment, bursting out in simultaneous laughter after the bathroom door slams shut.

“He must’ve smoked too much. He’s probably in there freaking out,” Nobara manages to get out through her wheezes.

“It’s not his fault,” you defend, “Yuji’s weed is way too strong. Last time I smoked with you guys, I convinced myself I was in a simulation.”

You shudder as you recall the memory, but it only encourages another round of cackles from the two.

You watch them for a moment, trying to contain your own laughter. But after what feels like way too long for a regular trip to the bathroom, Megumi still hasn’t returned.

You glance over at Yuji and Nobara, but they’re engrossed in their own conversation. They’ve either forgotten about the situation entirely or are too high to care. Or both. You realize that you’re going to have to be the one to go check on the poor guy.

You stand up with a sigh, preemptively pouring a glass of water in the kitchen before heading down the hall.

As you pass by Yuji’s bedroom, the open door offers a glimpse inside. You glance in casually, only to stop dead in your tracks at what you see.

Sukuna is there.

Flat on his back, sprawled across Yuji’s bed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. But something’s off.

His upper set of hands are thrown over his face, fingers digging into his forehead, covering his eyes like he’s trying to block out the world. The lower set of hands are clenched into fists, the muscles in his forearms tight, twitching with some kind of barely restrained force. You don’t even have to see his face to know he’s seething. Pure, unadulterated anguish radiates off of him, thick enough to suffocate the air in your lungs.

You watch him for a second, concern twisting deep in your gut. You’ve never seen him like this. Ever. Sukuna does not unravel. But here he is, unraveling right in front of you, completely unaware that he now has an audience.

Your lips part, the start of his name forming on your tongue, but before you can speak, his hands slide up, gripping into his hair with so much force it looks like he might tear it straight from his skull.

You stand in the doorway, mouth open, quickly snapping it closed when you notice the look on his face.

His eyes are squeezed shut, brows furrowed so tight it looks like it hurts. His lips part slightly as he exhales a slow, trembling breath, one that sounds like it’s been forced from the depths of his chest. His jaw clenches, the muscles flexing repeatedly, and his fingers tighten their grip on his hair almost desperately, as if he’s trying to anchor himself, to keep from coming apart entirely.

Your own breath stills in your throat. Every muscle in your body goes rigid, your mind struggling to catch up with what you’re seeing.

What the hell is going on?

A lump forms in your throat as you try to make sense of it. He’s been avoiding you all day, shutting you out since last night, and now… this? The distance, the cold silence, was all a cover, that much is clear now. But for what?

A part of you wants to go to him. To reach out, to touch him, to offer anything that might ease whatever war is raging inside of him. The urge claws at you, visceral and insistent, your arms aching to wrap around him in comfort.

But another part of you hesitates.

I shouldn’t be here.

You’re witnessing something raw, something unguarded and deeply, painfully human. A moment he never meant for anyone to see—least of all you. You’ve been toeing a dangerous line with Sukuna for a while now, but this… this feels like stepping over it. Stumbling over it, straight into a place you don’t belong.

You should leave.

The need to understand him, to help him, gnaws at you like a hunger, but he isn’t someone who needs things like that. Sukuna doesn’t want help. He is power. He is control.

But right now…

He looks like he has neither.

You catch yourself before you do something you’ll regret, clenching your hands around the glass of water you’d forgotten you were holding. Slowly, as to not make a sound, you creep past the doorway, heading over to the bathroom.

You press your ear against the door, listening for any sign of life from inside. Nothing. No movement, no shuffling. Only silence.

After a brief hesitation, you turn the knob and push the door open, peeking your head inside.

Megumi is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his elbows braced against his knees, his head cradled in his hands. His shoulders rise and fall with slow, deliberate breaths, the kind you take when you’re trying to will your heartbeat to steady.

“Megumi?”

He lifts his head at the sound of your voice, blinking sluggishly. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, his pupils blown wide. It takes him a second to register you standing there, and when he does, his posture stiffens just a little. A ghost of a smile flickers across his lips—weak, sheepish—before he clears his throat.

“I’m alright, I just needed to chill in here for a second.”

You step into the bathroom, closing the door gently behind you before lowering yourself onto the floor beside him. The cool tiles press against your legs as you settle in close to his feet, holding out the glass.

“Here, drink this. I got you some water.”

Megumi takes it, fingers brushing against yours for a fleeting moment. He doesn’t look at you right away, instead staring down at the rim of the glass like it suddenly holds the secrets of the universe.

“Thanks,” he mutters, finally lifting it to his lips. He swallows a few careful sips before adding, “Sorry for ruining the vibe.”

You shake your head, lips twitching into a small smile as you reach out, rubbing his arm in comfort.

“Don’t worry about it,” you assure him, your voice soft, “you didn’t ruin anything.”

That gets him to look at you, but only briefly, his eyes flickering to yours before darting away. He shifts slightly on the edge of the tub.

You grin, deciding to tease him just a little. “Come back out whenever you’re ready. Oh, and I’ll make sure that show isn’t on when you do.”

His lips part slightly before pressing into a flat line. A weak chuckle escapes him, half amusement, half mortification. “Yeah. Thanks for that.”

You squeeze his arm lightly before rising to your feet. As you do, you glance down at him one last time, watching as he rubs the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. Stifling a giggle, you reach for the doorknob.

“See you out there,” you say, stepping through the doorway.

As you make your way back to the living room, you pass by Yuji’s room once again. This time, you keep your gaze fixed straight ahead, resisting the urge to steal another glance inside. If Sukuna were to catch you looking, even for a second, he’d know you saw him earlier. He always knows. And you’re not sure you’d be able to school your expression fast enough to keep the truth from spilling across your face.

Right now isn’t the time to deal with whatever it is Sukuna’s got going on. Right now, you just want to have fun with your friends. You can deal with anything else once you get home.

That’s what you keep telling yourself.

Upon re-entering the living room, you notice the show from earlier has already been turned off, the soft hum of music filling the space instead—low, rhythmic beats that sink into the atmosphere like a gentle pulse. Yuji is sprawled across the couch on his back with a half-eaten chip bag laying forgotten on his lap, one arm tucked behind his head, the other drumming lazy fingers against his stomach in time with the music. His gaze is fixed on the ceiling, his expression distant, no doubt lost somewhere in the hazy lull of his high.

Nobara mirrors his sprawl on the floor, phone in hand, absentmindedly scrolling as she occasionally pops a chip into her mouth. You retake your spot beside her, snatching one from the bag without a word.

“Do you think that grass is, like, the earth’s pubic hair?”

“Yuji. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” Nobara responds immediately. Based on her reply, you can only assume this has been going on for a while.

“I’m just saying! It makes sense if you think about it.”

“He’s kinda got a point,” you add with an amused tilt of your lips.

“Please, don’t encourage him.”

“You guys just need to get on my level. Nobody’s on my level,” Yuji pouts.

Before anyone can respond, Megumi reappears, looking far better than he did before. His complexion is no longer pale, his movements steadier, the color returned to his cheeks. He runs a hand through his hair as he steps into the room, shaking off the last remnants of his ordeal.

“Welcome back, buddy!” Yuji exclaims, immediately sitting up to make room for him on the couch. “We were worried about you! Were you fighting demons in there or what?”

Megumi levels a deadpan look at him before scanning the room, his gaze settling on you and Nobara before he sinks back into his previous spot. In one swift motion, he reaches over and swipes the bag of chips right off Yuji’s lap with a little more force than necessary.

“Nobody speaks of this outside of this room,” he says, voice flat as he pops a chip into his mouth. “Or you’re all dead.”

“Alright, jeez. Relax. Not like we’ve never greened out before,” Nobara mutters without looking up from her phone.

As the night winds down, conversations fade into a comfortable lull, and Nobara suggests putting on a movie. You settle in as it plays, watching it unfold on screen, but your mind is elsewhere now.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t stop thinking about what you saw in Yuji’s room—Sukuna lying there, his hands fisted in his hair like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will, seemingly teetering on the edge of some sort of breakdown.

You’ve never seen him like that, so unguarded, so vulnerable. You’ve seen him express emotion, sure. Anger, usually. Or quieter flickers hidden beneath sharp words and sharper smiles. But you’ve never seen something like that, not from him. It was unsettling, to say the least.

Is it because of me?

The question nags at you, digging into your ribs like a phantom dagger, whispering doubts into the corners of your mind.

Would he be angry if he knew you saw him like that? Or would he shut you out even more?

The idea sends a wave of sadness through you. Your heart aches for him. Whatever it is he’s going through, you have a sinking feeling that he’ll never open up, no matter how much you pry.

You shift in your spot, eyes flitting toward Yuji’s bedroom before quickly turning away.

Don’t.

The urge to check on him gnaws at you, but after the cold shoulder he’s been giving you all day, you doubt he’d give you the answers you’re looking for.

So instead, you decide it’s time to head home for the night. Yujis passed out anyway, having fallen asleep almost as soon as the movie started, and Megumi looks like he’s close behind him. You stand, gathering your things as you whisper your goodbyes, heading to the door.

Just as your fingers curl around the doorknob and open it to step outside, Sukuna appears, rounding the corner with his usual quiet grace. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t look anywhere but forward. He just slips past you and steps out the door ahead of you, carefully maneuvering his body so that his arm doesn’t so much as slightly brush your own.

You exhale slowly, watching his back as he strides ahead, his steps long and deliberate. You’re not surprised to see him keeping up his silent act. He doesn’t know that you saw him in Yuji’s room, after all. He doesn’t know you stood there, rooted in place, witnessing him beginning to unravel at the seams.

You step outside after him, the cold air a sharp contrast to the cozy warmth of Yuji’s apartment, slapping you like an icy wake-up call. Sukuna is already way ahead of you. The wind tugs at the strands of his hair, but he doesn’t react—just keeps walking, his movements purposeful, controlled.

By the time you reach the car, he’s already inside, the door shutting with a firm click. You sigh, tightening the grip on your keys.

You settle into the driver's seat, starting the engine and pulling out of the parking lot. The hum of the car feels louder than usual in the empty space between you. Neither of you says a word.

You want to say something, anything, to break this awkward tension. But… what can you say? You glance over in his direction briefly, but Sukuna is turned away, the side of his face barely visible in the dim light coming off the dashboard. You can’t tell if he’s avoiding you, or just lost in his own thoughts. Probably both. Either way, you can feel the distance continuing to grow between you with every minute that ticks by.

You clench your jaw, fighting the urge to demand an explanation for his behavior today.

Just drive.

When you finally pull into the parking lot to your apartment, Sukuna doesn’t wait. As soon as the car comes to a stop and you shut the engine off, he’s already out, his door slamming shut before you can un-click your seatbelt.

You watch his back as he walks ahead, his long strides forcing you to pick up your pace just to keep up. With every step, frustration burns hotter inside of you, winding itself around the ache that’s been sitting there since you saw him in Yuji’s room.

Why won’t he let you in? He’s hurting, you saw it with your own eyes. So why is he still keeping you at arm’s length? Why does he insist on suffering in silence when you’re right here?

By the time you reach the door to your apartment, your chest feels tight with your unspoken thoughts, the urge to voice them aloud becoming harder and harder to resist. You step inside right behind him, closing the door softly despite your inner turmoil threatening to spill over. And once again, Sukuna moves past you without a word, already striding down the hall, probably planning to disappear to wherever the hell he goes when he doesn’t want to be seen.

You make a quick decision. You’ve had enough of being ignored. You can’t just keep pretending everything is fine, like you’re sure he intends to. You have to say something.

“Sukuna.”

He stops, turning halfway around to face you. You study him carefully, searching for even the faintest trace of what you witnessed earlier—the tension in his jaw, the desolation in his face, the silent war he was waging within himself.

But there’s nothing.

Where there should be emotion—something raw and real—there is only an empty stare, a hollow reflection of the man you know lurks beneath his mask.

Cold. Dark. Void.

It’s a door slammed shut, an unspoken message that whatever moment of weakness you glimpsed was never meant for you.

The air between you grows infinitely heavier, colder. You can almost physically feel it, the absence of him, like something vital has been drained from the space he occupies. It prickles at your skin, wrapping itself around you, a quiet, almost suffocating numbness that mirrors the emptiness in his gaze.

He raises his brows at you, waiting for you to continue.

“You’ve been ignoring me.”

“Have I?” his voice is steady, indifferent.

You fold your arms across your chest, feeling your irritation finally rising to the surface. “Yes. You haven’t said a word to me all day. You haven’t even looked at me, not since—“ you cut yourself off, afraid to bring up the almost-kiss directly, “not since last night.”

Sukuna turns away, dismissing you with the shift of his shoulders, as if the conversation itself is beneath him. “There’s nothing to say,” he replies flatly, his tone impersonal, like he’s already decided this discussion isn’t worth his time.

But you refuse to allow him to slip through your fingers so easily. “Come on, don’t do that,” you step closer to him, determined to not let him brush it off, “don’t just… shut me out. Haven’t we moved past this?” your voice softens, the concern evident in your words.

Sukuna remains still, his shoulders drawn tight, his entire body wound like a thread stretched too thin. He doesn’t turn to respond, but his silence speaks louder than any answer he could give. And still, you push, even knowing it might only drive him further away.

“Why won’t you just talk to me?” you continue, your frustration giving way to something dangerously close to pleading. “I’ve opened up to you about everything—about my past, my ex, my life. You’ve basically seen it all. But you? You’ve given me nothing. You hide behind this wall like you’re… some… untouchable thing.”

At that, Sukuna finally turns his head, just slightly, his narrowed eyes settling on you over his shoulder. There’s a shift in the way his eyes almost darken, like a tide pulling back before the wave crashes. His voice is low, almost a growl.

“What exactly do you want from me?”

His question stings, cutting deep. Your throat constricts, like his own words have wrapped themselves tight around your airway, but you swallow hard, willing yourself to push through it.

“I want you to stop pretending that this means nothing to you,” you say, gesturing between the two of you, between the space that feels impossibly vast despite how close you stand, “that I mean nothing to you.”

For a moment, he just stares blankly at you in response. Then, without warning, a low, humorless laugh escapes him, dry and sharp, like the crack of a splintering bone. “You think this… whatever this is, means something to me?”

You take a breath, the words that have been stuck inside you for days, weeks, finally crashing to the surface.

“I know it does,” you say, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts, “and I know you feel it too, Sukuna. You’re not as detached as you think you are.”

He whips around at that, his face twisting, a sharp flash of anger breaking through his emotionless exterior. His brows pull together in disbelief, a deep furrow forming between them.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he snaps, his voice sharp. “Let me guess, you think just because we’re stuck in this bond, you can ‘fix’ me, is that it? You think I can feel anything? Love? Don’t be foolish.”

You’re taken aback by his words, his sudden anger. This is not how you wanted this conversation to go at all. But it’s happening now, spiraling out of control right in front of you, and there’s no turning back.

“I’m not trying to fix you. I’m just asking you to let me in.” You step closer, desperate to break through the icy wall he continues to throw up, to finally see the real him that he’s been hiding behind it. You’re tired of him pretending there’s nothing left of the man he once was.

Fuck it. You might as well let it all out.

“I’m not like her, Sukuna.”

His reaction is immediate. Sukuna’s body stiffens, his shoulders locking into place as if he’s just been struck. His eyes widen dangerously as his stare burns straight through you, unsettling you to your core.

“What?” His voice is low, quiet, but full of warning, like a blade pressed to your throat.

Your pulse pounds rapidly in your ears, your instincts screaming at you to stop and retreat, but you can’t stop yourself. The words continue to spill out.

“Look, I know about Uraume. I know what she did to you. I—“

“If I were you, I’d choose my next words very carefully,” he interrupts, his tone razor-sharp and dripping with venom.

You really should stop talking. Any rational person would. But the next words are already on your tongue, your desperation outweighing your better judgment. If you just keep pushing, if you can just make him see—he’ll believe you. He has to.

“I’m not her, Sukuna. You can trust me. I would never do that to you.”

His eyes flash, cold rage igniting in them like a distant storm, dark and inevitable. He takes a slow step toward you, his presence suddenly overwhelming, and you have to lock your legs in place to fight the urge to step back in response.

“Since you think you know so much,” he growls, his voice dripping with contempt, “then surely you know what happened to her, don’t you?”

Your eyes widen and you shake your head in response, your voice sounding much smaller and less confident than before. “No, I don’t.”

His expression changes, the sharp edges of his fury settling into something eerily calm. Too calm. His lips curl, not into a smirk, but something that resembles more of a grimace, though his eyes remain wide, uncanny and hollow.

“I killed her.”

He takes another step closer, and a sudden, primal fear rises inside you, sharp and instinctual. Your body tenses as you cower back.

His jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, a shadow of something—pain, maybe rage—contorts his features. But it’s gone in an instant, swallowed expertly by that cold, unrelenting mask.

“She screamed,” he continues, his voice dipping lower, “begged for mercy, for forgiveness.” A slow, humorless chuckle escapes him, causing a chill to run along your flesh. “As if it meant anything. As if I would ever grant her either.”

He takes a final step forward, and you don’t move, don’t breathe.

“I tore her apart, piece by piece for what she did to me. Watched her blood stain the ground like spilled ink. And when she finally stopped screaming, when she gasped that last, pitiful breath—“ he leans in, just slightly, “it was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard.”

Your stomach plummets, a sickening drop that leaves you dizzy. His words coil around your throat like a noose, tightening, choking. You had considered the possibility—of course you had. Sukuna had killed before. You had seen it yourself in the visions of his past. But those had been in battle, acts of war and conquest.

This… this was something else entirely.

A slow, merciless dismantling. A deliberate, calculated destruction of someone he once loved. Nausea rises in the pit of your stomach, threatening to bubble up into your throat. You stare at him, at the thing standing in front of you, and for the first time, you feel like you’re truly seeing him. The demon. The unrepentant, merciless king who had bathed in the blood of those who wronged him.

The Sukuna you’ve come to know—the one who met your wit with dry amusement, the one whose touch had once felt gentle against your skin, who had almost kissed you just yesterday—is gone.

“I…”

You take another step back, the words struggling to form on your trembling lips.

“You’re nothing like her,” he sneers, his voice laced with disdain, “and you never will be. You think just because you have some sort of odd little obsession with me, that makes you special? That I could ever feel for you what I once felt for her?” His lips curl into something akin to a snarl, “I am a monster. I kill, I destroy, I devour.”

His words strike like a blade, each syllable leaving his lips like tiny knives carving into your heart, stripping it away piece by piece, leaving you hollow. You can do nothing but watch, wide-eyed, empty, nothing left but the overwhelming ache where hope used to be.

“You’re nothing to me,” he continues, cruel and cutting. “Your pathetic little life is a mere speck in the grand scheme of things. I have been here for centuries. And I will continue to be here long after you’ve rotted, buried deep and forgotten underground.”

The room feels like it’s closing in on you, your vision blurring around the edges as your eyes begin to fill with unshed tears. You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You have no words. The air is heavy, thick with the weight of his cold dismissal of you.

“I’m not capable of love, girl, and you’d do well to remember that.” He says, his voice quieter now, but no less harsh.

“I’m not some human you can change and mold into a version that you prefer. I’m a demon. That’s all I’ll ever be.” He takes a step back, his face hard and unrelenting. “And if you think for even a second that I could ever care about you, then you’re even more fucking pathetic than I thought.”

The tears come fast, scorching trails down your flushed cheeks as your breath turns ragged. Your vision blurs, the room shrinking in around you, and all you can think is that you need to get away. Away from him, from his words still ringing in your skull, splintering through your chest like jagged glass.

You don’t look at him. You don’t even think. You just run.

You barely make it to your bedroom before the first sob rips free, raw and uncontrollable. The door slams behind you, but it does nothing to stop the pain from clawing its way up your throat, your shoulders heaving with the force of it. You stumble forward, collapsing onto your bed, curling in on yourself like a wounded animal.

Your hands tangle in your hair, gripping tightly, desperately, as if you could anchor yourself, as if you could stop the ache spreading through your chest, sinking deep into your bones. But it’s useless. The sobs wrack through you, shaking you to your very core, your breaths coming sharp and fast, too fast, until you’re gasping, until it feels like you’re drowning in it, in him, in everything you thought you had and everything he just tore apart in an instant.

And still, his voice lingers. Still, it hurts.

How could you be so stupid?

Of course he doesn’t care. Of course he doesn’t feel. He’s a demon—a creature of pure, unrelenting cruelty. You knew that. You’ve always known that. And still, somehow, you let yourself believe. You let yourself hope that there was something more beneath all that rage and ruin, something real. Something for you.

But there isn’t.

There never was.

You’re just a pathetic, lovesick fool, chasing a dream that was never yours to begin with. He’s not a man. He’s not someone to be understood or saved, not someone who could ever love you back. He is darkness, destruction, a force of nature that does not bend, does not break, does not care.

Your stomach twists with the sheer humiliation of it, shame seeping into your skin like poison. How could you let yourself fall? How could you have been so blind?

Your body trembles as you curl in tighter, rocking slightly, trying to push it away, to find some shred of comfort in the wreckage. But the thoughts won’t stop. The hurt won’t stop. It digs into your ribs, carves itself into your heart, reminding you over and over and over—

“You’re nothing to me.”

A strangled sob tears from your throat, raw and broken, as you bury your face into the pillow, desperate to muffle the sound. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. The ache in your chest is too big, too unbearable, clawing at your ribs, crushing the air from your lungs.

For a fleeting moment, you think about leaving. Just getting up and walking out the door, disappearing into the night, never looking back. Maybe if you run fast enough, far enough, you can outrun this pain, escape the weight of what you’ve done, what you let yourself believe.

But where would you go?

There is nowhere he wouldn’t follow. No distance you could put between you that the bond wouldn’t snap back into place, dragging you right back to him. He is inescapable.

And you are trapped.

Your chest tightens violently, a crushing, suffocating weight settling onto it, making it impossible to breathe. The walls feel smaller, the air thinner, the room closing in like a prison. You squeeze your eyes shut, fists clenching in the sheets, trying to steady yourself, to think, to breathe.

Breathe.

Eventually, the sobs fade, not because the pain lessens, but because your body simply can’t keep up with it anymore. You lie still, curled in on yourself, drained beyond measure. The tears don’t stop, though—they slip silently down your face, soaking into the pillow, leaving behind the sticky remnants of grief. The hurt remains, dull now, a hollow, throbbing thing inside your chest, like an open wound that refuses to close.

You take a trembling breath, staring blankly at the wall as the crushing silence of the room presses in around you, thick and suffocating.

“You’re nothing to me.”

The words replay in your head, slow and deliberate, sinking deeper with every repetition. Maybe he’s right. Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe you were foolish, delusional to think you could ever be anything more than a passing amusement to him. To believe you could reach something inside him that simply doesn’t exist.

And yet.

Even as you think it, even as you try to carve the truth into your own heart, a part of you refuses to believe it. Because you know better.

You’ve seen it. Felt it.

Despite his cruelty, despite the ice in his voice, despite the way he shut you out like you were nothing—you know there’s something beneath it all, something he won’t let himself admit.

But if he refuses to acknowledge it… does it even matter?

The thought lingers, heavy and unresolved, sinking deep into the marrow of your bones.

It shouldn’t matter. It can’t matter.

As you lie there, hollowed out and aching, the weight of his words pressing into your ribs like iron, you know this wound won’t fade so easily. It’s carved too deep, settled too far inside you.

So you let the tears fall, silent and endless, tracing paths down your skin like a grief that refuses to be swallowed. You close your eyes against the darkness, but there is no escape—not from this, not from him.

All you can do now is endure.

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☰ Taglist: @nerdybouquetofkittens-blog @after-laughter-come-tears @rizzyjuney609 @prezzleyy

[watermelongirl01]

Undercover

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

Criminal Minds x Supernatural

Summary: A new case with no so new partners.

Content warning: Fluff, Violence, Torture talk, Past trauma talk.

“I’m not talking about it anymore.” She said as she looked out the window. “I already told the cops and doctors and no one believes me, They think I’m crazy.”

“Well, we are different; you can talk to us, " you said, pointing at JJ and you.

“I was possessed.” Your eyes looked up at her.

“What do you mean?” JJ asked. 

“It doesn’t matter.” The woman quickly shook her head and crossed her arms.

“It matters to me.” You swiftly said, her eyes briefly looking at yours to see if you were being truthful.

“When I heard my husband scream, I was there on my head, but I couldn’t control my body.” JJ caught your posture shifting, and your knee quickly bouncing, but she said nothing. “I saw what I was doing but couldn’t stop, I just wanted to stop.”

“I’m sorry.” JJ said.

“You don’t need to apologize.” She smiled.

“Some of your neighbors told the police you and your husband didn’t get along, that you fought often.”

“But I never wanted to kill him.” The woman desperately said as she took your hands, taking you by surprise. “Do you believe me?” Her eyes pleading.

How could you not? 

At first, when this case was brought up by JJ, you thought all of this was a coincidence, something outside of your territory, but when Hotch asked you to look into it while the team was working on it, you realized he was right and this was indeed your type of case.

Now you’re just confirming it.

The only problem was that you were about to take away the case from your friend JJ.

“I do.” You smiled and cleared your throat. “On the day this happened, did you happen to smell anything?“

“Anything like what?” The woman and JJ sent you the same confused glance.

————————————————————————

“What was that?” JJ asked, her voice cutting through the tense silence of the psychiatric waiting room.

“What was what?” you replied, faking confusion.

“The smell thing,” she clarified. It was obvious she wasn’t going to let it slide.

“Oh, that.” You forced a nervous chuckle and shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t know.”

JJ’s frown deepened, skepticism written all over her face. At this point, you were running out of believable excuses, so you decided to embrace denial.

“I don’t know,” you repeated.

“You don’t know?” she pressed, eyes narrowing.

Just as you opened your mouth to scramble for a more believable explanation, salvation arrived. One of the doctors stepped out of their office, clipboard in hand, and called JJ over to discuss the woman you'd just interviewed as JJ had requested a minute ago.

You took the opportunity, pulling out your phone to update Hotch on the case. His response was brief, as always: “Understood.”

As you were actively trying to avoid JJ’s gaze, keeping your focus anywhere but on her. You caught sight of a tall, brown-haired man lingering at the edge of the room you and JJ just left.

Your stomach dropped.

His green eyes locked onto yours.

For fuck’s sake. 

Sam fucking Winchester.

This couldn’t get worse. Could it?

You subtly tilted your head toward JJ, signaling him to move. He got the hint instantly, spinning on his heel and sprinting down the hallway without a glance.

————————————————————————

After sending a confused and questioning team back to Quantico to work on a sudden and extremely important case led by Rossi.

You and Hotch stayed to wrap everything up, normally only you would stay, but for some reason, Hotch didn’t want to leave your side, as if you hadn’t dealt with these cases for years.

”Find anything?” He asked.

He drove you to the crime scene this morning, he had been really helpful so far, but refused to leave you alone.

“Been over the entire house twice, no sulfur.” You sighed in frustration as you rubbed your temple with two of your fingers.

“No sulfur, no demon.” He mentioned.

“Do you think she lied?” 

Just as he was about to speak, the sound of an engine interrupted your conversation. His always prominent frown deepened in confusion.

“Oh.” You said as you recognized the sound.

“Oh?” 

“The boys are here.”

“The boys?” His piercing eyes looked at you.

“The Winchesters.” You said as you stepped back, trying to escape from his gaze.

“What are they doing here?” He placed a hand over his hip.

You slightly bit your bottom lip as you shrugged. “We are about to find out together.”

The door suddenly swung open.

“Are you dressed?” Dean’s voice shouted from a distance. 

You closed your eyes for a brief moment as your face turned red, Hotch sent you a questioning look.

“Excuse him, you know, I think all those creatures dragging his ass and banging his head against the floor in hunts are finally starting to affect him in some way.” You said as you heard the steps of both brothers entering the room where you and Hotch were.

“Howdy partners!” Dean said with a smile as Sam looked at both of you with a shy smile on his face.

“Partners?” Hotch lifted an eyebrow.

“Well, we are kind of ahead in this case, we were here first, maybe we can help.” Dean shrugged.

“How did you know about this case?” Hotch asked.

“Newspapers, there was a supernatural thing all over this, we came to check and found out you were here as well.” Hotch nodded.

Hotch raised a finger, motioning for you to follow him. His hand closed gently around your arm as he guided you into a nearby room, far from the brothers’ earshot.

“They can’t stay,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“What? Why not?” You frowned, already anticipating the answer.

“They’re wanted.”

“They’re basically presumed dead,” you countered, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Please. Just this once.”

“No.”

“Please, please.”

“No.”

“Aaron, please.”

You’d never called him that, it wasn’t a big deal, was it? You’d kissed him more than a few times. Surely you could call him by his first name.

But still, you froze. Not today. No risks. You’re not taking any chances.

But his frown softened slightly at the sound of his name or maybe was the sound of your begging.

“I mean, Hotch.”

He studied you for a moment, weighing his options. “Fine. They can stay this one time. But they will follow my orders.” He said with a reluctant sigh.

“Done. They’re already used to me being bossy.”

“And you will follow my orders too,” he added, catching you off guard.

“What? But this is my case. We’re on my territory.”

“You want them to stay? I’m in charge.”

“That’s not fair,” you argued. “But, fine.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he leaned closer, his face inches from yours. His breath ghosted over your skin.

“Say it,” he murmured, his tone low and commanding.

“S-Say what?” you stammered, your legs trembling under his intense gaze.

Fuck, he really affected you that much.

“That I’m in charge.”

Your voice was barely a whisper, your cheeks burning. “You’re in charge, Sir.”

Sure, you should’ve put more resistance on that, but everything inside you said otherwise.

He straightened, putting distance between you again, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

“Good. Then we’ll work together.”

You nodded, still trying to steady yourself.

“And,” he added, his voice softening, “It’s okay for you to call me Aaron.”

He turned and left the room, leaving you standing there, heart racing and mind spinning. Half the time, you didn’t know where you stood with him or where this thing between you was headed.

Clearing your throat, you pushed those thoughts aside and followed him back to the others. The brothers looked up as you approached.

“So?” Dean asked, his arms crossed, suspicion written all over his face.

Hotch glanced at you, his silent cue to explain.

“We accept your help,” you said, “but Hotch is giving the orders.”

Dean frowned, clearly not a fan, but before he could protest, Sam stepped in.

“Fine. We’ll follow his lead.”

Dean shot his brother a look but decided to drop the subject. “What do we have, then?”

“No sulfur,” Hotch replied.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “No sulfur? No sulfur, no demon. No demon, no case.”

“We’re aware, Dean,” you said. “But she wasn’t lying. There’s something we’re missing.”

Dean grumbled under his breath, but Sam nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Then we’d better find it.”

————————————————————————

“There’s been another death.” You announced as soon as Hotch opened his door.

“Where?” He asked.

“The same area, just a few houses away from the previous couple.”

“In broad daylight?”

“Yep.”

“Same pattern?”

“Yeah, but this wife decided to shoot at his husband.” 

He gathered his stuff as quickly as he could and walked beside you.

“The boys have something.”

“The boys?” Hotch frowned, his tone sharp. “How did they get there so quickly?”

“Uh, I guess they’re staying at a closer motel,” you offered weakly.

“We’re staying at the closest motel.”

“Well, they’re quick. I don’t know,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze.

Hotch stepped in front of you, blocking your path to the SUV. “Look at me.”

You closed your eyes, exhaling a heavy sigh before reluctantly meeting his piercing stare.

“We made a deal,” he reminded you.

“They’re pretending to buy a house in the same neighborhood,” you admitted. “They spent the night there.”

Damn, you’re so used to lying to him to get your job done, why is it so difficult now?

Hotch sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly, before stepping aside and opening the car door for you. He climbed into the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the wheel as he started the engine.

“Do they do that often?” he asked, his tone suspicious but calm.

“No, no,” you replied a little too quickly. “It’s their first time.”

You turned your head toward the window, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your face betrayed the truth. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his jaw tighten, but he said nothing as the car pulled onto the road.

————————————————————————

“What do you have?” Hotch asked, his tone commanding. You were used to it, The Winchesters? Not that much.

“The neighbors heard some noises, and they told us—” Dean started, but Hotch cut him off.

“The neighbors?” Hotch asked, tilting his head.

You sighed, already knowing where this was going. “He knows.”

“Wow. You fall under his pressure real quick. What was it, like, two seconds under his stare?”

“I tried,” you said defensively.

“I don’t think you did.”

“Nobody cares what you think, Dean.” You crossed your arms. “Just tell us what you two know.” 

“We heard the shot coming from the house next to us, so we went to check it out.”

Hotch brought his index finger and thumb to his nose bridge. “You went inside?.” 

“Uh... maybe?” Dean replied, glancing at you for support, but you just motioned with your hand for him to stop talking.

Sam sighed and nudged Dean aside, stepping in to continue the conversation.

“We did, and we kinda fought the wife to surrender the gun, but she was very strong, and, get this, she had ectoplasm leaking out of her ear.”

“What?” You jumped out of your seat. “How?

Sam looked at a very confused looking Hotch. ”Ectoplasm is a black substance that only comes from a pissed-off spirit.”

“So, we’re looking for a ghost?” He asked even more confused than before.

“It’s got to be ghost possession, it’s pretty rare, but it happens,” Dean stated.

“I thought only demons possessed people.”

“If the ghost gets angry enough, they could take control of a person’s body.” You explained.

“Which explains why our EMF detectors went crazy.”

“Mine hasn’t beeped at all. Not even at the first house.” You frowned 

“Yeah, that’s another thing, when the ghost left the body of the woman, the detectors went silent.”

“So the ghost is constantly moving?” Sam nodded, giving you a knowing look, he knew you despised hunting ghosts. “But we still don’t know how.” 

“Fine, Sam and Dean will go to talk to the family, you and I will see what the neighbors know.”  You nodded at Hotch’s command.

After a whole day doing interviews and doing research, the Winchesters found out about a woman called Betty Mayers, she was a housewife who used to live with her husband and children in a house next door to the first victim a few years ago. 

Betty was completely devoted to her family, until she found out about her husband cheating with his secretary.

Betty couldn’t bear the betrayal, so she opened two of the bottles of wine her husband collected, and drank them all. Encouraged by the amount of alcohol she had consumed, she went to confront the cheating bastard and her mistress, but sadly on the way to her destination, she suffered a car accident and died.

But Betty didn’t leave with the reaper that day, no. She stayed, hoping she could get to see her husband drowning in guilt after her death. But she didn’t. Instead she burned with rage when, after a year of her passing, the man who swore to love her, married his young secretary.

After that she swore to end the life of every single cheater she knew of.

“So what’s the plan?” Dean asked.

“Let’s leave this town and let her finish the job.” You smiled.

The three men in the room looked at you like you were crazy.

“No, she may be after cheaters right now, but it’s only a matter of time until rage blinds her and starts killing everyone in front of her.” Sam reminded you.

“Fine, whatever, it was just a suggestion.” You said holding your hands up. 

“Well, it's probably just a matter of time till she kills again.” Aaron reasoned.

“Are there many cheaters in this neighborhood?” You asked.

“Seems like.”

“Do we know how the ghost is moving?” Aaron asked the brothers.

“Not really, her father kept the house and just moved two months ago,” Sam explained. 

“Just before the first attack.” 

“So he must’ve brought something with him.”

“And she was cremated,” Dean added.

“So, maybe an object.”

After another full day of talking with the neighbors and trying to learn more about the case, you and Hotch found out about Betty’s Mayer father. He was a plumber and lately he had been working around the neighborhood, specifically the houses of the two last victims.

You also learned from Mrs. Black, a neighbor who lives around the corner, that Betty’s father always keeps her daughter close to, with a golden locket he uses as a keychain.

“So, we need to catch her attention,” Dean said, arms crossed.

“Yeah, but how?” you asked.

Dean’s face split into a wide, teasing grin. You frowned. That look never meant anything good.

“We fake an affair,” he announced dramatically. Then, without hesitation, he walked over to the kitchen sink of the house you had all conveniently invited yourselves into and burst the pipe. “While her father fixes our sink.”

You barely had time to process Dean’s plan before you felt a familiar presence behind you. Hotch leaned in, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered. “The FBI is not paying for that.”

He didn’t move away. If anything, he stayed closer. Close enough that you could feel his chest rise and fall against your back every time he breathed.

“We’ll pay,” Sam reassured.

Hotch turned his head slightly. “How?”

You stepped away quickly, needing space before your thoughts spiraled. “Don’t ask if you don’t want to know,” you warned, trying to steady yourself. His proximity was doing things to you, and you needed to focus. “You heard the boys.” you continued, forcing yourself to sound normal. “This means going undercover.”

Hotch gave you a half skeptical, half amused look. “Is this why you’re always insisting we go undercover in cases?” His lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corners.

You shrugged. “Maybe… or maybe I’m just discovering my passion for acting.”

Dean let out a short laugh. “Sounds to me like you’re into role-playing.”

Sam sighed, already exasperated. “Dean…”

You shot Dean a glare. “Do you ever shut up?”

“You know he doesn’t.” Sam muttered.

Dean just grinned, clearly pleased with himself and his dumb joke.

The plan was stupid, dangerously stupid, but it was all you had before the ghost started killing again.

It consisted of Betty's father coming to the house to fix the sink while you and Hotch faked an affair, and ”Your husband Dean” caught you in the act.

You were sure Hotch would say no, but apparently you were pretty wrong, cause he didn’t just agree, he insisted and talked you into agreeing as well.

“You think this is stupid.”

“Of course I do, Aaron.” You said as you sat on the bed. “We are guiding a pissed and violent ghost towards us like it’s no big deal.”

Hotch stood looking out the window, waiting for the man to arrive.

“And I don’t think we are fooling anyone, not even the ghost.”

“Why is that?” He said, still focused on the window.

“No offense, but you look way too federal with the tie and everything,” you teased.

Hotch finally looked at you, his eyes sharp and unreadable. Without hesitation, his fingers loosened his tie with ease, slipping it off and tossing it aside.

“Fine. It’s gone. Something else?” he challenged.

You smirked. “I'm not crazy about those pants either.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, clearly onto your game. 

“It was worth the try.” You shrugged with a smile on your face.

“Well, you don’t exactly look like an unfaithful housewife,” he said, his voice steady but edged with something you couldn’t quite place. “Lose the shirt.” He said, no, commanded.

You froze for a second. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll wear mine,” he said simply, already starting to unbutton it.

Fuck.

You hesitated, your fingers hovering over the buttons of your own shirt. But in the end, you turned away, facing the wall as you unfastened each button, keeping your movements controlled. But you could feel his eyes on you, burning into your back.

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust him. It was about you. About the scars that adorned your abdomen. You didn’t want him to see him like that, vulnerable, damaged.

If he sees you, he would ask questions you didn’t want to answer and it would bring back memories you didn’t want to relive.

You swallowed hard, shaking the thoughts away.

“Here.”

Hotch’s voice was quieter as he handed you his shirt. You grabbed it quickly, but in your rush to hide from him, you made it evident.

Hotch saw how you covered your abdomen, he would expect you to cover your chest first, but you didn’t. You gave him full access to the view of the black bra supporting your breast instead.

And he thought they were looking beautiful, delicious, but his eyes flickered downward, catching the movement. And just like that, you knew.

He saw them.

You could tell by the way his expression changed. His gaze didn’t linger long enough on your breasts. Instead, it dragged over your sides, catching the faint, faded scars adorning your skin.

He opened his mouth, about to say something, but the sound of a car pulling up outside shattered the moment.

Betty’s father had arrived.

Without another word, you slipped on his shirt, buttoning it up quickly as Hotch straightened, his usual unreadable mask slipping back into place. But his silence said enough.

He wasn’t going to forget what he saw. And you had no idea what that meant.

“Show time.” You murmured as you slipped down your pants, letting Hotch’s shirt cover your whole body.

The hunt went way better than you expected. Betty’s ghost possessed her own father's body when she learned about your “affair” and fortunately she didn’t have time to drag you around the house, but you distracted her enough for Winchesters to get the keychain to burn it while Hotch tried his best to protect you.

Case solved.

————————————————————————

“Are you ready to go?” you asked, glancing up at Hotch while closing your suitcase.

“Actually, we’re staying one more night,” he said.

You frowned slightly. “Why?”

“I think we need to rest a little longer. We’re going to need it, there’s another case waiting for us as soon as we get back.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “We? Are you actually planning to rest? That’s a new one.”

He gave you a look, unimpressed. “We both need it.”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s pointless trying to lie to me.”

You smirked. “Hotch, I do that for a living. I’d say I’m pretty damn good at it.”

He stepped closer, eyes locked on yours. “Not lately.” His voice was quiet but firm. “Lately, you haven’t been able to.”

So he was aware of the power he had over you. Awesome. Just awesome.

You could practically hear Dean’s voice in your head: ‘Two seconds under his stare, and you start spilling all our secrets.’

You exhaled, shifting uncomfortably. “Listen, I know what this is about, and I’ll say it again, I’m fine.”

“They didn’t seem recent.”

Your stomach tightened. He was talking about the scars.

“They aren’t,” you said simply, hoping that would end the conversation.

No such luck.

“I’ve never seen them before.”

“I keep them hidden.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Why?”

You sighed, stopping mid-motion as you packed, then sat on the bed. “Because,” you muttered, picking at the hem of your sleeve, “I don’t like them, okay? Those scars remind me of things I haven’t thought about in a long time.”

“I understand.” He nodded, but you shook your head slightly. 

“No, I don’t think you do understand,” you said, a bitter laugh escaping before you could stop it. “They made me insecure about my own body. Do you know how many boyfriends insisted I wear a shirt during sex? They avoided looking at them, let alone touching them.”

Hotch crouched slightly, making sure you were looking right at him. “Look at me.”

Your eyes met his, reluctantly at first.

“They’re beautiful,” he said, voice steady. “Like you.”

You searched his face, expecting pity. But there was none. Only sincerity. You saw in his eyes he meant it, but you just gave him a side smile.

“I meant it.”

“I know.”

Hotch felt a pang of something deep in his chest as he looked at you. He had never done this before, but something told him it was necessary.

Without a word, he stepped in front of you and pulled his polo shirt over his head.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What are you—”

Then you saw them. The scars. The ones left behind by Foyet.

Your breath hitched. You had been so caught up in your mind, in your pain, that you had forgotten. And now, seeing them like this, guilt settled heavy in your stomach.

You weren’t there when it happened, but you remembered your father talking about how badly Hotch had been hurt.

Hotch took your hand gently, guiding you to stand. Then, without a word, he placed your palm flat against his chest. His hand trembled slightly over yours, the vulnerability evident.

Your other hand moved on its own, fingertips ghosting down the lines of his torso. His breath hitched, but he didn’t stop you. His grip on your right hand remained steady, grounding.

“He stabbed me,” he murmured, his voice quieter than usual. “To match his scars.”

You looked up at him, but he didn’t meet your gaze.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” you said softly. “I understand, Aaron.”

His eyes flickered up at the sound of his name.

“But I want to,” he admitted.

His focus dropped to where his hand still held yours, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin.

“He offered me a deal,” Hotch continued, voice measured. “He had a previous arrangement, one that gave him satisfaction, holding power over the authorities by forcing them to stop investigating. But when I refused, I took that power away from him.” He exhaled sharply, like he could still feel the weight of the choice.

“There’s no such thing as an honorable serial killer,” you said, voice firm. “You couldn’t have known.”

He didn’t respond, just studied you for a long moment before slowly letting go of your hand.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

You didn’t hesitate. “I do.”

His hands moved to your shirt, carefully unbuttoning it. He was slow, deliberate, giving you the chance to stop him. But you didn’t.

As the fabric slipped from your shoulders, your scars were revealed, two large ones, one on your right side and another slightly higher.

Hotch’s expression remained unreadable, but his gaze softened.

“Did you know this job was never meant for me?” you said suddenly.

His brow furrowed, the shift in conversation catching him off guard.

“Your older brother was supposed to take your father’s place,” he recalled.

You nodded. “It was supposed to be that way. But one night, Dean and John came to our house. I thought they were just distracting themselves from Sam leaving for Stanford.” You let out a quiet breath. “But in reality, they were following a lead on a demon.”

Hotch stayed quiet, his eyes telling you to continue.

“That night, while they were out hunting, I went dancing with friends. It was nice… until I went to the bathroom.” You paused, staring at a point past him. “I just remember black smoke coming out of the vents.”

Hotch stiffened slightly, his hand brushing over your arm in silent support.

“They wanted revenge,” you continued. “For my father helping the Winchesters kill one of their ‘brothers.’” You let out a humorless laugh. “Who knew demons played family down in hell?”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“I fought it,” you said, your voice quieter now. “I fought so damn hard, but losing control of my own body drained me. By the time my father found me, I was exhausted.”

Hotch’s fingers traced soothing circles against your skin.

“It was all a trap, but I couldn’t warn them,” you whispered, your throat tightening. “I screamed inside my own body, but the demon just laughed. I couldn’t stop myself when it pretended to be me, when it ran straight into Dean’s arms.” Your breath wavered. “And I couldn’t stop myself when I took the knife and stabbed my own body. Twice. In front of my father and the Winchesters.”

Your voice cracked, and suddenly, Hotch’s hand was on your cheek, gently brushing away the tears you hadn’t realized had fallen.

You swallowed hard. “That’s why I got the tattoo.” You forced a shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Anyway, after that, my father enrolled me in the FBI Academy to replace him instead of my brother. I already knew the truth, so it was easier that way. My siblings… still have no clue.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but not suffocating.

Hotch took a slow step closer, his fingers grazing your chin, tilting your face up toward his. His breath mixed with yours, his lips so close but they barely brushed against yours, teasing, testing.

A shiver ran through you at the warmth of his mouth hovering over yours, the tension building with every second he didn’t close the gap. It was agonizing, intoxicating.

And then you broke.

You surged forward, your lips meeting his lips in a kiss full of desperation and longing. Hotch responded instantly, his hands sliding to your jaw, his grip firm yet gentle, anchoring you to him. His lips moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm, like he was memorizing your mouth, savoring every second.

The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing against yours, drawing a quiet whimper from your throat. He tasted like warmth and control, like safety. His fingers slipped into your hair, tightening just enough to send a spark down your spine.

He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like he wanted to unravel you piece by piece.

And you let him.

That night, Hotch kissed you like no one ever had before. In a single kiss, he made you feel cherished and desired.

And little did you know, you made him feel the exact same way.

Tags: @adrienneleclerc @hayleym1234

[ximmortalis]

A peak into the life of Ingellvar: Lucanis and Spite

Rook should mention to Lucanis that she could hear Spite in close proximity but there is something about the once Spirit of Determination, now turned Demon, navigating the world outside of the Ossuary. It’s dare she say almost endearing the way he is curious of most things. He is surprisingly chatty, and it’s become a guilty pleasure of hers to listen in.

The dynamic between Lucanis and Spite shouldn’t exist; Lucanis isn’t a mage and possesses no magical abilities, yet due to the extreme circumstances he managed to work out a deal with Spite. It’s fascinating, it takes everything she knows of abominations and turns it upside down.

She’s lounged in the common room book open in her lap; recently Rook has found it difficult to sleep it’s no surprise considering the weight on her shoulders. Rubbing the back of her neck to alleviate the tension stuck there, she sighs and takes a sip of tea. Chamomile with vanilla and a touch of honey for added sweetness, it was her go to drink when she was a student back at the Necropolis; a way to help her relax during her studies.

The door creaks open stealing her attention it’s Lucanis.

More accurately, it’s Spite.

He looks much like a child being caught doing something they shouldn’t, no doubt making another escape attempt.

“Hello, Spite.”

The spirit grumbles annoyed that he’s been spotted. Spite could easily make a run for it; wearing only her night clothes and without shoes, Rook isn’t prepared for an outing in the crossroads. However, Spite seems to linger and is watching her with interest; seemingly waiting for her reaction.

Rook pats the cushion next to her, “Would you like to join me?”

Spite moves in a way she would describe as predatory, fluid like and with grace, footsteps near silent. He’s nimble and appears in front of her within a blink of an eye.

“I. Want. To. Leave.”

She smiles softly, “I know, but Lucanis is needed here and so are you.”

There is a flicker of confusion on his face, “I. Needed?”

‘’Of course, may the Gods perish swiftly and painfully by your hand.’’

Face lighting up in sadistic glee, ‘’YES. GOOD!’’

Eventually she manages to convince him to sit with her and she places the book she has been reading between them. It’s nothing to fancy just a tome on the different types of magical properties of crystals for enchantments and spells. She doesn’t expect for him to take an interest, but he does pointing to the different crystals on the page and listens with rapt attention at her explanations.

‘’Jade, for protection and to repel negative energies.’’

‘’Taste. Like. Mint.’’

Rook hums, ‘’I suppose it could.’’

They go from page to page and with each one Spite has a guess on the flavour of each crystal. A garnet would be spicy, obsidian like liquorice, Citrine is citrus – obviously. He was particularly proud with that one, it seems he had a sense of humour, very dry but it was there. Rook has no clue how long they are at it, but she is more than happy to feed his interest, as she turns to another page; Spite tenses and then goes limp and a very groggy and confused Lucanis is with her.

‘’Rook?’’

Lucanis glances around the room, ‘’How did I get here?’’

‘’Spite tried to leave,’’ She explained, ‘’Don’t worry he didn’t get far; I’ve been teaching him about crystals.’’

‘’Amber. Taste. Like. Honey.’’

Rook tries to hide a grin as Lucanis pinches the bridge of his nose, ‘’No. We are not eating crystals.’’

Spite grumbles unhappily protesting loudly like a child throwing a tantrum; Lucanis makes a valent effort to ignore him, but the longer he does the louder Spite becomes.

‘’Now, now Spite; you’re going to give poor Lucanis an aneurysm.’’

Lucanis looks towards her with only what she can describe as look of pure horror and Spite goes silent. Rook on the other hand keeps her eyes on the page of her book, a smile on her face.

‘’You can hear him?’’ Lucanis questions.

‘’When you are this close, yes.’’

‘’I am so sorry.’’

No longer able to contain herself she laughs; Spite is clearly more delighted at this news than Lucanis. The Crow collapses further into the couch and slings an arm over his face and curses. He looks like a man in mourning at her admittance, a part of her feels slightly guilty at not telling him sooner but her Mourn Watcher ways had wanted to get to know Spite better, she wanted to see how he saw the world around him and how it influenced him. Rook pats his shoulder in sympathy and Lucanis removes the arm from his face, there is a small barely their smile breaking out on his face.

‘’Well, at least you can hear what I have to deal with.’’

‘’Rook. Rooook. The crystals. I want to. Eat!’’

Oh dear.

Rook isn’t too sure yet but she thinks she might have bitten of more that she can chew.

[thewinchestah]

"Chega de Saudade" - Alastor X Reader fic

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader.

Summary: When Alastor breaks into the V's building seven years later he expects to find a lot of things, lot of obnoxious, enraging, tacky things. He did not expect to find you. The Radio Demon does not take betrayl lightly and you have to live with the consequences of selling your soul to his worst enemy. Better yet, you have to live with the consequences of selling your soul to Vox and Alastor finding out. The soul you sold because Alastor left you for 7 years. Safe to say, it's a mess. A pretty, angsty, dark and delicious mess.

Warnings: Alastor is in Hell for a reason,general hellish violence,general hellish creepiness,eventual smut, i carioca coded valentino bc i can and bc he is very carioca sorry everyone,blackmail, Soul Selling, author is really invested in politics and decided to micromanage hazbin hotel canon, Corruption, Extortion, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, but nothing too explicit,mature themes in general, canon divergence, Not Canon Compliant, Eventual Smut, Alastor gets insane in this one you've been warned, fear play, Possessive Behavior, posessive sex, big bad radio demon is gonna fuck up the guy who stole his girl and will make it everyone's problem, Reader-Insert,no y/n,no beta we die like men here, i feel bad for tagging vox in this fic cause i think it's a disservice i really hate him and i make it clear so vox stans be warned, it's hell i hope y'all remeber ethics are fluid, posessive!Alastor, unhinged!Alastor, Isane!Alastor

Taglist: honestly only my queen @jyoongim i have no credibility to tag anyone anymore after being away for so long. If you wanna be tagged on future updates just let me know!

A/N:HI HEY BUNNY ANON IF YOU ARE STILL HERE THIS ONE FOR YOU!! Hiii everyone guess who's back. I had this fic cooking for a while now, actually i had a lot of writing cooking but in a very Ao3 author fashion a lot happened. You see i was on this writing streak and then my 15yo dog died while i was out of state. I had to go back on anti depressants and take a sabbatical. I got a new puppy and she's the light of my life. Got super sick, won a horse show. My first plan for this fic was having the first 3 chapters done and ready for debuting together because i always feel i'm lacking when i show up with only one chapter lol. After a while i realised i needed to get this first chapter out too see the light of day if i wanted to write again so here it is. This fic is a bit different from my other Alastor fics and i have a rough outline of 5 chapters so i think this beast will be more than 20k words long for sure. I decided to get a little deeper into Hell's politics and all the "no one ever thought of using heavenly weapons against hell even tough Hell's ancient and the best worst of humanity and demonkind is here". I call that bullshit sorry i'm brazilian i'm well versed in shady politicians and shady politics and unfortunatly, dear reader, you are in for this ride too. This fic kicks off right after "Stayed Gone". Also did i mention i'm brazilian and that my works are heavily inspired by brazilian media. This entire fic was inspired by one of my favourite songs of all time "Chega de saudade". And let's be real, Alastor and bossa nova are the perfect match. So yeah, english is not my first language and this isn't beta'd so sorry for any confusion or mistakes. Thank you so so much for reading my fics and always leaving the most kind beautiful and heartwarming feedback. I hope i can still deliver a nice story to my darling readers.

Click here for my other fics.

CHAPTER ONE: chega de saudade a realidade é que sem ela não pode ser.

In the first year you were calm and collected. There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation to why he is gone. Is he even gone, gone? He’s coming home soon, you can feel it. 

In the second year you convinced yourself there were signs everyone explaining why he was gone and when he was coming back, you were just too oblivious to them before. But everything can be a sign when you are delusional.

In the third year you cried so much you felt you were constantly drowning. You barely left home and some thought you were gone too. Gone to him.

In the fourth year you finally gave in and took the deal. Lack of self-preservation and machiavellian schemes working together to create a trap for him. He would come home out of anger, ire. But you can't outfox the fox.

In the fifth year you decided to scour hell and beyond after him. You went to places just to taunt him. Paranoia became your best friend, blood sweat and tears as you repeat “This time it will work, I'm sure of it”. Can a lie be said so many times it becomes the truth?

In the sixth year you accept defeat. You buried him deep and went about like he never existed in the first place. Isn’t it mystifying how this city screams his name?

It’s the seventh year now. The alarm on your phone rings and rings and you feel like scratching your face off. It’s time to meet your damned executioner.

Rolling out of bed you open the curtains to let some light in. The penthouse from the V’s building has a great view of Pentagram City, looking down you get the feeling of dystopian sci-fi that is so characteristic of the technology district. Limelights, digital outdoors, and big opulent, oppressing screens greet you like a constellation of dead stars, long distorted from their original purpose and form. 

You follow processional routine as you get ready. Choose a beautiful dress, put on make-up, and do your hair. It all feels like preparation for a sacrifice. One thing you learned from Alastor is that appearances are the best strategy and you intend to greet your handmade battlefield like a roman legion. 

Alastor. Even thinking of his name hurts, especially today when you need to face the consequences of your actions, the consequences of his actions. He is gone, he left you. And now Vox owns your soul. You blame your fall from grace entirely on him, he forced your hand, he made you do it. Out of desperation, out of defiance, you sold your soul to Vox so he would come back and save you, so he would come back out of hatred, anger and ire to tell how foolish you were, how betrayed he felt.

Betrayal. Selling your soul to his sworn arch enemy should be treason worthy of him dropping anything he was doing to come and punish you, to address you. You just wanted to get a reaction out of him, proof that he still cared. That he didn’t just get bored of the empire of terror he fought so hard to build in Hell. That he didn’t, deep down, just disregard you like a shiny novelty, to be left when it got old. 

You dry the persistent tears that insist on falling with clinical coldness. You are past feeling sad now, you don’t even feel angry anymore. You are past any emotion really, you just want to get this over with and get back home.

You went about your deal with Vox in many different ways, sometimes you felt like it was a good alliance, a slap on Alastor’s face. A side quest to gather as much information from the V’s inner circle, a social experiment. The truth is, during these past almost four years you were a mental gymnastics pro to justify your new arrangements. The cognitive dissonance required to live with the decision of being forever tied to Vox was an herculean task and boy he didn’t make it any easier on you. He would never be as refined as Alastor when it came to torture but there’s something about the coldness and calculated reality of the television business that was it’s own type of Dante’s inferno.

As soon as he got word of Alastor’s disappearance the TV overlord was on your scent, and he wasn’t shy about it either. You dodged him and led him on for almost four full years before finally giving in, everything was more or less under control during the early years of Alastor’s disappearance. 

Until you saw the angel army leaving.

  Death and gore were all around you. The sky rained blood. You couldn’t breathe. You tried to take a step forward only to realize you were knee-deep in demon blood. Adam was particularly ruthless this time, he seemed to have realized the unbalance in Hell’s power structure with one of the most prolific demon overlord’s absence and took full advantage of it. You choked on the sulfur filled air while the portal closed and Adam threw a last middle finger at the Pride Ring. A clawed hand offered you support as you were about to fall, your heart skipped a beat, for a split second you felt elation. In that split second a thousand thoughts, four years of misery and confusion passed through your mind like a movie. You were sure this was Alastor, showing up after the unprecedented carnage of today’s reaping. With the next heartbeat came the delivery of the most cruel reminder: the hand reaching for you was Vox’s. Alastor doesn’t care about anything anymore, not even losing territory. 

The TV overlord was covered in thick, red blood and looked vindicated, a wide chesire’s cat grin on his face. Baptized in carnage, Vox had finally triumphed for the V’s.The V’s were now a force to be reckoned with in Hell, there’s no argument to be made.  A good chunk of Alastor’s territory was now under their control, and everything that came with it too. Including you. 

“My darling doe, be careful, we can’t have you hurt after the battle is won can we?” 

Darling doe.

You threw up at the casual cruelty of the name Alastor called you with such affection being desecrated by Vox. He still supported you as you spilled your guts, you’d blame it on the nerves, the adrenaline, the reeking smell of death. Not on the fact that you knew he finally won, that the thing that broke you was to hear your name like that, on your lover archenemy’s lips. After that it happened. You sold your soul to vox. Of course he coerced you into it, and you were so mad with grief and betrayal that you felt like betraying Alastor back was the just thing to do. Pettiness and paradoxical hope dripping from your lips as the whole thing was done. 

Every year this same flashback assaulted your mind as you got ready to meet Vox on the anniversary of your deal. It never went past the look you gave those pixelated eyes as he held you on that barren land, stopping right there when you made the decision that finalized your ruin. You still wouldn’t, couldn't face what really went down when you formalized your deal with Vox. Those memories were suppressed and tucked in under layers and layers of regret and self-hatred. 

You gave yourself a final look in the mirror. No makeup smudging this time, you were getting good at numbing your feelings. Just a few tears, no more sobbing.

The yearly meeting with the V’s after the extermination was the perfect cover actually, everything was done in a way that it seemed like you were all cooperating. After all, you did hold a very good knowledge of the inner workings of Alastor’s deals, subordinates and territory. You knew who the V’s could “call in favours” and how to keep the peace. Or as close to peace as peace came when an abrupt power transition happened in Hell. You were a valuable asset to anyone really. Articulated in politics, masterful at the art of persuasion, kind, soft, charismatic, assertive, all in perfect balance, and frankly, breathtakingly beautiful. It wasn’t without reason that Alastor fell for you and that you became his most trusted advisor. You and Rosie were able to conceal his absence and manage his affairs for good two years and the better part of the third without raising any suspicion. Of course, the bigger they are the harder they fall and now you were walking down the corridor of the V’s building carrying a bulk of important intel that would dictate the fate of the Overlord power structure for the next year, at least. 

The hallways of the building changed a lot since you first walked them. As the V’s grew in power, the building grew in grandeur. It was now an imposing beast, looming over Pentagram City. Modern corporate architecture that incorporated the savage capitalism of Vox Tech. Savage, cold, sterile, overbearing that’s how being inside the lair of Hell’s most up and coming trio felt. The tall ceilings and big glass windows were exactly what you would expect of a broadcasting network and silicon valley Big Tech company combined. As an esteemed guest, you got the privilege of staying in the coveted penthouses, with someone to attend to your every wish and demand. You also got an idea that Vox went a little extra with your treatment as a form of flirtation, he has been trying to convince you into moving in for a while, every time you stayed in, your usual penthouse had some shiny new thing that was  made just for you, as he repeatedly emphasized. 

This year’s token of affection was a makeup mirror-gadget-thingy, that looked out of a Totally Spies episode. You had to admit to yourself that this was way more thoughtful and useful than the gifts from the previous years. The thing was cute, practical and would come in handy, which was a big improvement. Vox had tried to sway you with all types of guns and high tech devices in vain. Well, there was also that embarrassing stance with the wire flowers with a hidden recording device. Needless to say that after that entire debacle Vox learned that he may own your soul but you weren’t a damsel in distress and you would reinforce your side of the bargain if he went too far. 

You reached the elevator and went in, pushing the button for your destination. 

The earlier you start this the earlier it is over, you remind yourself.

The panoramic elevator descended to the well guarded conference room, the guards didn’t bat an eye to you entering. You realized you were becoming a familiar face around here, that made you dread what’s ahead of you even more.

“There she is! Hello princesa, I missed that pretty face!” Valentino greets you. He’s the only one inside, sitting on the edge of the table.  Well, that’s unusual… you think. Vox was always the first to get to the post-extermination meetings, plus he always gave you a slightly early timetable so he could have some alone time with you. Something must be going on.

“Hey Valentino, it’s nice to see you too! What gossip do you have for me today?” you give your best chirpy tone to the love moth. Look, you know how bad Valentino is, he is despicable really, even to your standards. But ethics are fluid, to say the  least, in Hell. The acclaimed porn king was surprisingly engaging to talk to. He was fun and actually treated you like a person, which was paradoxical in itself, considering how infamous he is for exploiting and commodifying souls. You drove yourself mad with theories of possible agendas behind Valentino’s kindness towards you, but it was the simplest of answers really, for some reason Valentino liked you and he never denied himself of what he liked.

“You have no idea! We have a lot to catch up on, did I tell you about that bitch who was trying to spy on us?” a set arms gestures to you to sit down next to him. The next 10 minutes are spent talking frivolities with the moth. You’re not complaining, it's nice to get your mind off this dreadful day and you don’t get many. 

Valentino, as always, has a lot to say, little goes on in Hell without him knowing who, what, where and why. Information, gossip, rumors, facts, if a single out of context word can be weaponized  you better be aware that he knows. Pentagram city can be divided into districts and ruled by lots of different overlords, still, Valentino’s intricate web of influence and coercion stretches across all territories. Another poor soul manifests here and goes somewhere they should not be, talk to someone they should not talk to, discover something they should never know. All cases of “wrong place at the wrong time” are happily solved by a large sum of money from the moth and suddenly another thread is weaved into his web of knowledge, another secret  made his. Valentino doesn’t operate like most Overlords and that’s where his power  lies. He bribed and fucked his way into every major circle, every  overlord’s inner circle, Hell’s best kept secret. If you were anyone in the hellish afterlife Valentino either fucked you or fucked someone very close to you. 

Knowledge is power, and Hell’s gossip girl was proof of it.

You swallowed a lump you didn’t know existed, hearing the moth talk about how things changed in a matter of hours during the early post-war made you even more aware of the severity of the intel you were carrying. It was earth shattering (no pun intended) information. 

Angels can be hurt. Angels can be killed. That meant a completely different way of existing in the afterlife, if this information goes public, the consequences are unpredictable and dire.

You don’t feel excitement knowing you technically can fight back, you feel pure dread.

To be completely honest, you feel like these “news” are not really news. You were pretty acquainted with politics back on Earth and this whole “omg no one knew about this! even though this was staring us right on your faces! is total bullshit. Hell is ancient, the exterminations are not a new thing, and there are some pretty smart people down here. To think that millenia after millenia masters of torture and skilled killers never thought of using heaven’s own firepower against them is wishful thinking at best. Sure, maybe after a few generations most sinners, even those who have power, may have been kept out of the loop about the chick in the holy army’s armor… but not knowing this at all just feels like a pretty convenient case of collective amnesia. 

Convenient, that’s exactly what this is. It’s brutal, but that’s Hell. A scheduled massacre is a blessing to those who rule to maintain, reinforce and extend their power. And if you get lucky enough, empires will fall and you will make your move. 

Vini Vidi Vici, that’s all you need to know about how Hell's politics work. 

It’s true that with every massacre the Angel Army gets more and more brutal and unhinged. What was once justified as righteous mercy killings to stabilize the ever growing hellish population now is just a display of cruelty, these angels kill for sport. There have been rumors floating around of how the disproportional annihilation tactics are preparation for something bigger for a while now , and with the demonic royal families either operating totally off Pride Ring or being completely MIA, it is no wonder those influential enough are starting to get restless. 

And that ties back to your first point, the thing that got you picking the skin around your nails while Valentino gossips. There’s a reason why this is being revealed now, you know how creating a narrative works, a few smart words and ideas become beasts of its own. A beast of its own that will tear anything on its way with the right fuel. The V’s have fuel to spare. Whose interest is that this information stayed hidden? Whose interest is that this information was allowed to be shared now? 

Hell is constructed by layers and layers of complicated militias and parallel governance, each one a locked room of secrecy that is impossible to enter without a huge amount of connections and power. 

“In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king. And, honey, you should see me in a crown” Valentino wisely said to you once. He’s a man of many many keys, and right now you are holding the fucking master key under your arm. 

Speaking of Valentino, he notices that you dozed off and snaps his fingers, grounding you back to reality. 

“My, my. You must have extremely sensitive information today to keep you from hearing the nastiest, hottest gossip of the moment babe” He takes a hit from his cigarette, an elegant and sensual move straight from an Old Hollywood film. The heart shaped smoke rings caress your face and for an instant you feel hypnotized, nodding your head profusely. 

“But I already knew that” behind the rose coloured shades, you see a playful wink from his infamous red hot eyes. 

The porn overlord quickly snaps his head towards the huge automatic doors, that open and reveal Vox and Velvette walking side by side exchanging looks between them that scream conspiracy.

“Sorry about the wait, my darling” Vox purrs on your way, stopping behind your chair and placing his hands on top of it, fingers dangerously close to your neck and shoulder. He pushes your hair to the side and lingers there, on your neck. “but as they say ain’t no rest for the wicked, am I right?” Velvette takes her seat beside Vox’s empty chair, meticulously placed in front of you, polite pleasantries leaving her mouth. She’s still a mystery, you never know her true stance on you, she keeps you on your toes. Does she like you? Does she hate you? Does she even care? 

“If you say so, boss!” you give him your best pageant smile. “So, who’s climbing up the ladder of the food chain today?” You bat your eyelashes at him. Your performance begins.

“Aw baby, you know I love when you call me boss! keep talking dirty to me” Vox lands a wet kiss on your cheek and makes his way to his chair.

 Right in front of you, so he’s always staring at you, drinking in your every move. You cannot fail, you cannot falter. 

As much as you’ve gotten used to pretending, pretending you like the V’s, pretending you don’t feel disgusting inside for being here, pretending you don’t hate Alastor for putting you in this situation with a burning passion but still missing him so much you feel someday your heart will stop beating in protest to him absence, it’s still hard. Especially when Vox touches you. Your eyes focus on cybersharks swimming behind Vox’s seat and concentrate on keeping your awarding winning poker face. 

“This year looks really promising I will tell you that! The orders for both your weapons and tragedy porn cameras doubled since the last extermination! I will give credit where credit is due, that fuckboy Adam knows how to put on a show!” he snaps his fingers graphs, stats and footage appears on the various screens. But it’s all irrelevant, it won’t matter when you spill your secret. 

“Lot’s of veeeery interesting happenings but I thought this year we might… start differently. Let’s forget the profit talk for now, change things a little. Did you guys see anything out of the ordinary? Did something stand out?!” he spins around his Big Boss ™ chair and stops with his hand under his chin, leaning in to you like a schoolgirl with the hottest new gossip. 

“Oh! I heard things -” Val also leans in getting closer to the TV overlord face. 

Vox’s grin shrinks, lifting a finger in protest 

“We know, we know, you always hear things Val” he replies in a monotone tone

Velvette, who spent this entire time typing away on her phone, interjects 

“Look, don’t take this the wrong way girlypop” finally looking at you she asks, or rather, states the million dollar question “ but what Vox means is that we know you have something  big cooking inside those files, so let’s drop the bullshit and go straight to it” 

The doll puts her phone down, she knows how important this is, how this secret will probably dictate how things will go from now on. You can call Velvette many things, but she is clever and under all that attitude and posh accent lies a brilliant strategist. 

“Plus, we all know you are contractually obligated to tell anyway, so spill, and can make this quick and painless to everyone involved” 

Right, your cartesian, empirical proof that angels can be killed.  Caught on the scene of the crime with the gun in your hands. 

You don’t waste anymore time, the words leave your lips like you’re choking with the threat they present. You tell them everything: where the exorcist was killed, how he was killed, the golden ichor blood that oozed from the wound, where the body was hidden. Everyone is silent while you speak, even the mechanical sharks seem to have stopped swimming to listen. 

After that you don’t remember much more of the meeting, it felt like you took the backseat of your own mind, the overwhelming feeling of dread making you so out of breath. Something is coming, something fucking coming and you can’t breathe. Anxiety sets under your skin like a second skeleton begging to crawl its way out and you find yourself sitting in one of the lavish anterooms of the V’s building. 

“So, the cat’s out of the bag then” you recall hearing Vox saying when, as if on cue, a few moments before the meeting was being declared over, the emergency broadcast about the reduction of the extermination date from a year to six months was issued. You four watch the transmission and you wonder if that’s what it feels like to get the news of the end of the Cold War, the doomsday clock finally hits midnight and we are nuking each other out. 

Mutual destruction assured. 

Your mind wanders back to your life on earth, if life up there is better or worse these days. You died so young, everybody told you, your Untimely Demise a big topic of conversation that you yourself didn’t know much about. But nothing, nothing in all of your living years and your years from Hell to eternity could prepare you for what comes next.

“So the Radio Demon is back in town! Why is he hanging around? What does it mean for your family?” 

The news hit your ears like a tsunami and you feel dizzy. It’s easy to find a big screen here and you are running to the closest one before your brain can even compute the words. 

Alastor is back, Alastor is back, and he didn’t come find you.

The next sound wave is even worse, dragging you ashore to your feelings without any reprieve. 

“Salutations!

Good to be back on the air! Yes, I know it's been a while, since someone with style treated hell to a broadcast

Sinners, rejoice!”

This isn’t a prank, there are no cameras and a sadistic tv host waiting for your humiliating reaction, instead all pairs of eyes in Hell are glued to the screen watching as the two Overlords fight it out. 

Thus, no one notices how your entire body shakes and your vision goes black. It’s too much, and you grip the rails from the stairs that lead to the foyer for dear life. Your heart is beating out of your chest. No one notices how you cry, how you whimper Alastor’s name like a prayer, how the tears run down your face and you feel paralyzed. You want to run, a million thoughts per heartbeat making your head swim. The best you can do is collapse on the floor. So you do, you collapse trying to catch your breath as you plan your sweet escape, how you are going to Houdini yourself out of this situation right to his arms.

“Tune on in

 when I'm done, your status quo will know its race is run”

You want to kiss him, you want to slap him, you want to tell him how much you missed him, you much your fucking hate him. You want him to drag you to his rooms and make you pay for cursing him out. You want him, you want your Alastor back. You cannot breathe.

“Oh, this will be fun.”

and then all the lights go out.

There’s a beginning of an uproar happening, the electric building dies a quick and unforgiving death, demons run around and Vox is flying down the stairs trying to do damage control. But even he is failing to keep his composure, because he knows. Oh how you know too. 

Alastor is like a natural disaster, a shattering force that bends everything on its way with the sheer force of will. The inevitable reckoning that comes to your town, that judges and executes everyone that you love. 

And now he is here. 

You see the burning red hot pair of eyes first, their predatory gaze hold the entire room hostage, looking for his prey and then they land on you. 

The piercing intensity of Alastor’s eyes, the flickering reds of damnation itself, regard you with surprise, elation and something more. So overbearing those eyes are, they make you shiver, bearing the weight of his gaze that penetrates deep into your soul. Your soul that is not yours anymore, it belongs to the man he hates, the man he despises. 

The Radio Demon’s towering frame closes the distance between you two in five long strides, you do your best to keep yourself upright and not cower at the sight of him. He looks like Rapture and righteous torture, coming to deliver your setance. Vox knows his sentence is being delivered here and now too, so he runs, runs to you.  You feel static and an electrifying pull, metal clinking. A chain. A glowing blue chain on your neck and Vox’s pulling it tight.

“What? what the fuck is going on? what’s this?” snapping your neck quickly towards Vox you whimper, you beg. The few seconds you stopped looking into Alastor’s eyes causing seething rage inside the deer demon, ire that makes the room tremble. 

‘“Talk over the radio, that way everyone can hear, baby” Vox says straight at Alastor, like it is a shooting gun. The look on the TV Overlord is maniac, a sideway cocky smile that drips pettiness. Just because Vox clearly lost this battle, with all tvs and electricity on petagram city going dark, it doesn’t mean he can’t still forever tarnish this victory. 

Alastor’s demonform covers the already dark building in opaque, thick shadows, radio static picks up around the room like a tornado chocking the majority of the unfortunate demons that are still inside, in a desperate attempt to seek shelter. 

No words leave the radio host’s lips as he grows even taller, breaking the posh entrance of the building, debris flying down causing even more damage, the tall glass windows shatter in a million pieces courtesy of his tentacles tearing down everything on their way. The sounds of destruction and despair are loud but you haven’t been listening to the world outside you and your returned lover’s radio dial eye’s for a while. A doe caught in the headlight of his eyes the best you can do in brace for the inevitable impact that is coming your way.

In a flash of his scarlet eyes a fire ignites, the flames born from it are unnatural, behaving like a hive mind to kill and destroy.

 You always knew that facing Alastor after these 7 years would not be easy, but you never imagine your reunion like this, in the midst  of pomppeian fire, a wild raw power, the oncoming storm that is Alastor when he attacks. 

Vox knows this fight is over, his ego hurt and today’s accounts always written as a victorious comeback from the Radio Demon, nevertheless, between the three of you Vox will always know who really won, who drew the last card, had the last laugh. He did, holding Alastor’s girl on a leash because he owns her. The soul of the woman the Radio Demon dared to love is his, the man Alastor despises with a burning passion, and that’s enough for now. 

The raging flames circle the three of you and without much more flair Vox drops his act, your chain disappearing from your neck. You drop to the floor, branching yourself on all fours. You consider crawling your way to Alastor, so you can explain, so you can cry, so you can beg. You don’t know for what exactly you will be begging for: your life? his forgiveness? his punishment? you just know a lot of begging and pleading will be involved. 

But the decision is made for you.

“Run, run my little darling doe” Vox commands “Run and do whatever you need to do” 

You get up on your feet in a completely ungracious move and Alastor’s out of the room instantly. The flames never touch you on the way out, the outside world greets you: a cacophony of screams, sirens, burning sounds, the infernal orchestra that becomes the soundtrack of your life.  

“Oh, and by the way” Vox screams from the threshold of the decaying building “we just got news that your place on Cannibal Town got trashed by some wayward sinners during extermination. But don’t worry you can always come home here, come home to me!”

You do your best to ignore his taunting, and you pray to whoever is listening that Alastor didn’t hear it. But it’s futile, the pavement where he is stepping cracks a dark cloud of static and shadows trail after him. He definitely heard and felt the implications of these words. 

“Al.. Al!” you scream running after your lover. 

Fuck, you’re still in heels, and those aren’t your running heels.

Kicking the damned shoes off you run faster, you cry harder and plead faster.

When you lived, your life always felt a bit surreal, weird stuff happened to you that you couldn’t really explain. People always joked that screenwriters of your life were the most creative people alive, the thing that happened to you never happened to anyone else. You died young, with a big, full life ahead of you, but you took this as gospel to your afterlife, after all everything related to your death was a mystery to you. But the things that happened to you living or dead were a raw reality impossible to make up.

 The uncertainty of your death only fuels your resolve to fight for the life you found in the afterworld. 

“Al, wait!” you are starting to get truly desperate, you need to get to him otherwise you are pretty certain you will drop dead here and now.

 “Alastor please, please listen to me” your voice failing, you finally choking from the smoke, from the suppressed tears. If Alastor doesn’t hear you now you are not sure you can carry on after him, you’re too tired too scared. You him to save you like the damsel in distress you are right now so bad.

Alastor dramatically comes to a halt. 

“I. am. Not. Having. This. Conversation. Here.”  his voice is staggered, still. Filled with static and a murderous edge to it. His long arms catch your wrist and pull you close, flush against his chest, you almost stumble but a powerful arm around your waist locks you tight to him. 

It’s the first touch in seven years, your legs shake at the realization that he’s real, he’s here. You lock your arms around his neck, the familiar fabric of his overcoat, the soft strands of his hair, they all feel like coming home.  

Something inside Alastor snaps when he remembers, when he feels how small you are in comparison to him, only one arm securing you safely to him. Some paradoxical fight starts inside him, wild wild want, wild wild rage against tameness, the docile calm you bring whenever you are at his side. 

The world disappears for a few seconds as darkness engulfs both of you,  inside the black moving vacuum only the two of you exist, greeting each other in bloody homecoming. 

Alastor takes you back to the Hotel, landing with a low thump inside his room. For a second his hand supports the small of your back, preventing you from falling forward. After all it’s been 7 years since you shadowtravelled with him, he knows you are terribly out of practice. 

His consideration towards you only lasts this precious second thought, because he makes his way across the room, creating as much distance as he can between the two of you. Your touch disarms him, he is aware of that since the first time your hand brushed against his, the first time his lips ghosted on top of your knuckles. If Alastor is touching you he is extremely likely to get soft, to remember how much you mean to him, what you do to him, so he will be merciful. And right now the last thing the deer demon wants is to be disarmed, to show you mercy. He can feel your betrayal burning inside his veins, clouding his judgment with ire and jealousy.

Alastor doesn’t fight those feelings, on the contrary, he lets them take him by storm adding fuel to his already bad temper. That’s the only way he can face you now, that’s the only way he can make you understand. 

You don’t get any time to gather your bearings, from the corner of your eye you notice a forest. His room is bigger on the inside and has a fucking conservation area but that’s hardly the most pressing matter at the moment. The pressing matter at the moment is that you are getting whiplash from touching your demon lover for the first time in seven years and his subsequent refusal to touch you, stationing himself across the room to you.

Why isn’t he with you? by your side as you ride the shockwaves of today together? You are scared, but above all you feel overwhelming sadness. 

“How did it happen?” he finally snaps, breaking the deafening silence. It’s the first time Alastor regards you, directly, in 7 years and the weight his words bare is so heavy you wish for more of the silence. “Tell me, how did it happen?” his eyes are wild, dangerously close to radio dials. 

“How did it happen? You tell me Alastor! You left me, you fucking left me!” you wish you could be your usually articulated self, you rehearsed this conversation so many times in your mind and in none of them you started with such venom on your lips. But it has been too long, and maybe the poison from all those years alone and afraid beside Vox drips through. 

The Radio Demon sees the tears that fall profusely from your big doe eyes, and they sting more than an acclaimed torturer like him could have anticipated. Alastor finds himself still disarmed, because with every single glistening tear that falls he can see how hurt, how scared you are. He is the only one allowed to make you scared, he owns your fear.

But that’s the problem isn’t it? He owns nothing. Vox does. And that realization turns him back to feeling seething rage. 

“So my mere absence is enough to change your devotion? Is me being here the only thing that stopped you from falling into his arms?” more poison. By the end of the night you both will choke on it. 

“Al.. Al” you are sobbing now, your throat tightens and it’s hard to breath it’s hard to speak. “ I had to do it. You don’t get it, you don’t get it.” your voice breaks “hemademedoit, hemademedoit!!”. You swallow half the words, whimpering, as if you say it fast enough the action will quickly become the past, as if the memories won’t haunt you. And yet the memories flood your mind

A dim-lit room, the smell of blood and something burning.

“He is gone baby, and he isn’t coming back”

Electricity makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. 

A stranger’s hand pushes the hair to the side of your face, dread creeps up inside of you.

“This is the only way my dear, the best decision you can make” 

The same stranger’s hand grab you by the waist 

“I’m the only one who can protect you now, you know that right?”

eyes that make you freeze, it’s hard to think. eyes that make it hard to say no.

“If this is hard for you, you can pretend that I’m him” 

a wrong type of static pricks your lips 

“This won’t hurt” 

a shockwave hits your body and it feels like you are being split open

You have to steady yourself on the closest piece of furniture. You cower as the repressed memories from the night you finally gave in to Vox assault your mind, trying to make yourself as small as possible, like he is coming back to do it all again. Cries and incoherent words leave your lips and you don’t know if you actually said what happened or if this entire time you have just been crying. You entire body hurts as you hyperventilate “Al, I’m so sorry” you whisper 

That’s what undoes Alastor, you curling yourself in a ball, defeated and scared at the ghost of the man he hates. You looking away from him like you are undeserving of him, of his punishment, of his love. Like you are tainted. Alastor can’t make the exact words of your confession about how it happened, but he heard enough. Vox would never make you come to him willingly, Alastor knows that. Whatever Vox did - and Alastor has a lot of ideas of what he did - he will pay double for it. 

 Alastor’s blackened heart shatters when he calls your name and you don’t look up to meet his eyes, like you always do. He was always your lantern for when you were drowning. He meant to break you, hurt you like that. He just wanted to make you come to him, beg for his forgiveness, beg him to soothe the pain. 

“Mon coeur, my sweet darling doe you are safe” Alastor voice goes so soft it hurts “Don’t fret, it’s in the past, it’s over, you are safe with me now as you are meant to be” he coos.

Still, you can’t read your lover’s mind. So you don’t know his heart is shattered, you don’t know how much he loathes himself for letting this get this far. You are so caught up on your own feelings, reeling the rage and the memories that you miss the softness of his voice and his outstretched hard and you inevitably choke on the poison. 

“No. No!” you snap “You don’t get to say that. You have no right to say that!” you scream as you get up “I’m not safe, I will never be safe because you weren’t there to protect me, you promised Alastor, you fucking promised” the poison is now inside you, heartstopping waves of hurt consume your body and sprit. Right now the same burning passion that makes you heart beat for Alastor makes you hate him too. You were never good with ugly feelings, you always pride yourself for being soft to be strong. Your kindness and act of rebellion during the hellish reality you lived. You were never good with bad feelings, so you do something you never thought you’d do.

You shove the Radio Demon, that man you love so much it drives you to insanity. You shove him because the shame is too much, all the ugly feelings ball up inside, convincing you that you don’t deserve him, that you already lost him. And you won’t survive his dismissal. 

You never talked back to him, you never raised your voice. Not because you were afraid to, but because you never had to, hence the reason why Alastor is so taken aback that your pitiful attempt of violence actually moves him from where he was standing. 

Alastor shoves you back, pushing you up against the wall with a searing kiss. He kisses you like you are his last chance at salvation, like he wants to be redeemed. He licks your lips as you struggle to catch your breath, pushing his hips hard against your core, making you straddle him. Alastor doesn’t grant you a moment of reprieve, his lips come crashing down on yours again, his tongue inside your mouth dancing to a madman’s tune. He does what he does best, he takes and takes and takes. He takes your breath away, he takes all the callous words that threaten to leave your lips, aimed at him. 

You succumb to your demon lover, your nails dig into his skin and he moans inside your mouth, he bites your lips enough to draw blood. In the end Alastor is still Alastor, and of course he gets all hot and bothered when fighting. You feel delirious with the taste of his lips, your blood and your salty tears mixing together, an unholy ambrosia. His hardness press just the right way to make you sing creating a current of desire after a seven year long drought. 

His hands are quick, ridding up your shirt making he grab your ass and then your hips, strong enough to bruise. His clawed finger is already tweaking your nipple that way he knows you love. Your bravado melts, in perfect synchrony to when he sinks his teeth deep into your neck, drinking everything: that wretched poison that tarnished your words, the sacred warmth of your blood. You moan his name like a prayer that he promptly answers, he’s kissing you like a drowning man again, your blood on his lips painting your lips red like you both just drank from the holy grail, his hand cups your other breast and you vow to never speak to him like that again, only if it’s gonna get you up against the wall like that with him. 

And then he stops. 

“I hope this kiss haunts you” he says, voice still drunk with desire, low and threatening. He swiftly moves you off him, walking away and creating the same distance from when this all started “haunts your every breath, finds its way inside your every waking moment until you are mad with regret” 

You are bewildered, eyes widening in disbelief. What is he doing? How can he go from 0 to a 100 so fast? 

“I hope this kiss haunts you, so you never forget that you were the only woman who ever had me at the palm of her hand and you decided to throw it all away with that calamitous cynicism of yours.” 

So that’s what’s happening. You can never expect to beat a master at his own game, Alastor is still cruel when he is merciful. When push comes to shove he will always win. There’s only so far you can get with taunting his repentance,  playing with his heart laid bare at your feet, filled with sorrow and begging for forgiveness. He was ready to apologize, to dry your tears and soothe your fears, worshiping your delicious body and the ground you walked on. He was ready to admit that this was half his fault until your venom stung him beyond the realm of spoken word. 

“I understand it now, it must be hard for you to cope with your own decisions, your own failings, so you take it all on me. I hope you remember this when you come back to beg, on your knees for my forgiveness. And trust me, you will.” Of course Alastor would torture you with the knowlodge of his guilt and despair, the loss of his benevolence, the promise of desire and carnality. He will always be a torturer at heart, and you forgot that’s the first rule you need to always remember when dealing with him. 

“You’ve got your demons darling” never was your precious pet name said with such disdain. Static starts to gather around you, and in a flash his hand is on your neck

“and they all, Look. Like. Me” his voice is distorted when he finishes cursing you, there’s a tempest behind his eyes that entraps you, the burning red of his irises condemn you. 

The Radio demon is a raging fire, an oncoming storm. But he is also meticulous, cruel and calculating, if you dared to question him, to step on the grace he gladly gave you, you clearly were aware of everything he did to lull his absence. All the plans and contingencies he made to hush your worrying thoughts about him and bathe your threshing heart on tranquiline waters.

And you decided to mock it. To mock him and his love for you. 

You are crying again, but this time Alastor is fucking glad he was the one to hurt you, to reduce you to a mess of regret and tears. 

Tonight in Hell, power shifts from one Overlord to another. Sinners plan and freak out accordingly.

 But their machinations are all meaningless. 

The 7 years you spent away from Alastor made you sad, the three years spent on Vox’s side made you bitter. The V’s operate on poison, it’s their fuel. And maybe the poison drips through.

Tonight you drank the poison and it broke you.

Tonight, for the first time, the poison broke Alastor too.

[trashmouth-richie]

⛧eddie x f!reader + previous steve x f!reader || all hope is gone || 18+

⛧tattoo artist! steve — ⛧rising rockstar! eddie — ⛧ f!reader= cherry

⛧summary: series of blurbs revolving around you, eddie and steve. after vecna: eddie sold his soul to remain alive— him and steve leave hawkins and indiana to go to college and leave what happened in the past. eddie is on the rise of fame while steve is still battling his demons. they both meet reader at school. reader has no idea what happened, and never finds out the truth. eddie progressively turns into a mentally abusive asshole throughout this story so keep that in mind. he’s not our lovable boyfriend.

⛧part one summary: a surprise for your boyfriend, you decide to get a tattoo of his name in a very private spot, from the only one he would trust to do it, his best friend… whom you have a past with. 

⛧warnings: implied smut, depression, anxiety, possession, selling soul to devil, post s4 where both eddie and steve leave hawkins. there will be a few blurbs in this au, (in other parts: smut, degrading, possessive mean! eddie)

It was your idea to surprise your boyfriend with a tattoo. After months of him joking around about branding you as his in a more permanent way, you decided to do it.

A tattoo would last forever, it wouldn’t heal like teeth marks did or fade away like his hickeys would. His dick kicked up at the thought of his name scratched into your delicate skin. The same night he had mentioned it he had you face down in the sheets, burying himself deep within your walls until you were both out of breath. Panting, aching for and from one another. 

The date was set, and you knew better than to go to anyone but Eddie’s best friend to get it done, and Steve agreed to do it for free, since you’re Munson’s girl. 

He agreed to keep it secret because you had wanted to surprise Eddie, but as the appointment creeped up, you became more and more nervous about trying to keep your present for him under wraps. 

The day of the appointment landed on a Friday, the same night Eddie’s band was set to play at The Bloody Dime, an up and coming bar that was known for fights breaking out and drinks being cheap. 

Per his demands, you weren’t allowed within 10 feet of such a place, already having to find out the hard way when he beat the bricks off a guy who wouldn’t stop staring at you. 

Pretty baby like you doesn’t belong there, kitten… understand?

Steve’s shop was downtown from your apartment, a cozy little space nestled into a black brick building—Inked Demo spelled out with neon blue lights. 

The walls were covered with paintings of strange creatures you couldn’t imagine in your worst nightmares, deep reds and violent shades of purple. Various plants hung from the ceiling and were potted in planters or tucked into ornate little terrariums. 

It smelled of rich cedar and hand rolled cigarettes. The bell on the door dinged announcing your arrival and Steve stepped from behind the back wall. His hair was how it always was, slicked back in a dark wave, and he merely nodded to acknowledge your presence. 

“Cherry,” he greeted, using the name Eddie had introduced you to his friends. He wrapped you in a bone crushing hug, kissing your cheek gently before he held you at arms length. 

Out of all of Eddie’s friends, Steve knew you just as well as your own boyfriend did. 

A smile creeps across his lips as he lets your arms go and walks to a small desk. His tall frame slinking like a shadow as he clicks on a slim lamp and begins flipping through a binder full of current work and past tattoos. He finds the heart shaped cherries with Eddie written in pretty cursive underneath. 

They were perfect— Steve was able to capture your ideas through horrible explanations and give his own little twist to them. A modern mockup of American traditionalism with the speckles of glitter you had seen on Pinterest.

His eyes sparkle through the shadow from the light as he proudly holds up the drawing, “so… where we puttin’ this sucker?”

Originally you had thought to put it on your chest, but decided against it when Robin had told you how much her tattoo had hurt there, even more so when she had to get Barb’s name covered by a butterfly. 

Crossing the tiger print carpet to the black tattoo chair, you sit down gently with your ankles crossed, “umm, would it be weird to put it on my thigh?” you asked meekly, “kinda high up so it’s a little more private?”

Raising your skirt, you show Steve the placement. A slivered peek of scarlet lacy panties are visible beneath the hiked up fabric in your fingers, and he nearly bites a hole in his cheek to not look. 

“You could put it there,” he ponders, moving a large veiny hand through the slick of his hair, only to land on his chin to really sell the act of him thinking, tapping his bottom lip, “but ass tats are really popular.”

Eddie would go berserk seeing his name anywhere on your body, but you had to admit— there was something a little bit sexy about his name being tattooed only somewhere he could see. 

“Will it hurt?” 

His eyes light up as he grabs supplies to sanitize his work area clearing his throat, “haven’t had anyone cry yet, so I’m gonna go ahead and say no.” 

Steve’s reputation for his artwork spread far and wide, he was booked solid for months on end, self taught, making tons of money for a college drop out— despite what his dad had said. 

He had done all of Eddie’s tattoos including the enormous stretch of bat wings that spread across his shoulders and down the expanse of his back. Sharp talons protruding onto the beginning of his hips, curved around to his wrists. Steve had freehanded most of it, as if it were from memory. 

Biting your lip contemplating the placement, you think of Eddie and the swelling size of is cock as it split you open once he laid eyes on his name branded into your skin. 

“Okay,” you smile, “let’s do it.” 

Steve smirked and rubbed his jaw, “cool, lay on your stomach for me.”

Flipping onto your front you lay with your hands under your chin, looking up at him through your lashes, “like this?” 

Steve sits on the stool facing away from you, straightening his table and tattoo gun, looking over his shoulder meeting your eye, “yeah… that’s perfect, Cherry.” 

You watch in amusement as he sterilizes his work station and sets up the ink, “Eddie playin’ at the Dime tonight?” 

“Yep,” you sigh, thinking of all the time you’d spent alone while he was gone, “last show of their College Daze Tour, then back to finals, and normal life.” 

A scoff rumbles from Steve’s throat as he wraps his gun, “what’s even considered normal? Everything is pretty shitty around here.” 

Propping up on an elbow you set to argue with him, “going to class is normal, hanging out with our friends, partying, sleeping in the same bed instead of him crashing in the back of someone’s van— that’s all routine for me, for us…” you sigh a little, picking at your thumbs. 

Steve looks over and sees the sadness in your face, grabbing the pink disposable razor, “last I heard from him, he was looking to leave Corroded and start up somethin’ with a few guys from here. Can’t say I blame him, anything to do with home is hard to deal with.” 

Eddie never talked about Hawkins. The only thing you knew about it was that he and Steve got the hell out of there the year he graduated, never looking back, never visiting. 

“That’s the plan for now at least… honestly, I wish he would take a break for a while, but you know him— he’s really driven to be the best he can be.” 

Steve knew all too well. Spending nights awake staring out of his large apartment windows, missing the way things used to be, regretting everything that happened in Hawkins. 

 “Eddie’s…passionate…about the things he cares about, he’s always been that way.” 

That part was always true, Eddie carried his feelings on his sleeve, never afraid to show his emotions, or make sacrifices for people he loved. Steve himself was a living breathing reminder of that. 

“…alright Cherry,” his voice dripped with smoothness as he got closer to you, “everything’s ready…I’ll need to lift your skirt so I can prep the skin, you cool with that?” 

You reply with a yes, and feel the goosebumps prick at your skin as the cool air hits your exposed cheek. The rubber of Steve’s glove drags across your skin as he rubs in the sanitation spray. “‘m gonna shave you now.” 

This being your first tattoo you didn’t know what to expect, heat flooding your cheeks immediately, “oh my God is it hairy?” 

Steve chuckles low, a fan of his breath blowing warm against your skin, “not at all honey, it’s just standard procedure for any tattoo.” 

He was delicate as he ran the blade across you in small motions away from him. One rubber gloved hand held your skin taut, the other on the razor. Your ass bounced back to him after the last drag of the razor leaves your skin, and you swore you heard him suck in a breath. 

Steve had always been handsome, ever since the first time you met during that freshman year mixer in the backyard of some random frat house it was that he was rushing for. 

He was different then, preppy clothes and expensive shoes, surviving during the week just to live for the weekends. A flask with his name claim permanently pressed to his palm. King Steve. 

But somewhere along the lines of college stresses and life back in Hawkins— he changed, dropped out of college completely and dove into his natural talent. Making a name for himself, carving his own path. 

That was why you had fallen for him to begin with. 

“E-Eddie said you have a date this weekend, are you excited?” 

Steve wipes your skin with a paper towel and spreads a thick ointment to lay the stencil, “I wish he’d stop trying to set me up.” 

His thumbs sweep across the stencil laying it firmly in place, “oh c’mon Steven…Lydia’s cute, she’s in one of my elective art classes, she reminds me of you.” 

Steven. Nobody ever called him by his full name.

“Of me?”

Looking over your shoulder you meet his deep mossy eyes, “in a weird way I guess, yeah.”  

He looks back into your eyes, watching as you slowly blinked and drifted your gaze downward to where his large hands were still splayed across your ass. 

The dusting of hair on his arms tickled your skin when he pulled back gently, pinching a corner of the transfer paper and peeling it from you. He purses his lips and blows on the stencil lightly. 

Steve often thought back to the way things were three years ago. The way your eyes gleamed under the string patio lights, the scent of your vanilla perfume and how it seemed to bake deeper with the sun's rays on your skin. 

He remembered how your lips tasted like melted ice cream against his, and how deeply he craved to be floating in the candy confectionery of sugar and sprinkles with you in the center of it, center of his world. 

Steve shakes his head, trying to erase that time in his life but always coming up short. “This won’t hurt too bad, I’ll stop whenever you need, okay? It’s best if you lay down.”

Your chest tightens with nerves as you nod your head, pressing your cheek into the vinyl of the black headrest. 

The gun starts and Steve tells you he’s going to do the outline of the cherries first. The needle vibrates into your skin and you wince at the first few lines made but eventually getting used to the way your skin buzzed and the pain that came from it. 

You whimpered out in a few spots and Steve’s velvet voice shushed you gently, telling you the worst was almost over. 

“Outlining is finished,” Steve murmurs, rubbing ink from your skin, “you’re doing really good, honey.” 

Your mind slips to him saying those words in a different setting, a miniature golf course with clubs that were too short and a go-kart track. He had said it when you finally sunk your ball after par ten thousand on hole eleven. 

Sarcasm spread across his face and you wiggled your tongue at him and threw a middle finger his way. Only for him to chase you around the tiny windmills and grassy hills, catching up and tickling you under your arms until you were near to tears. 

You thought he would have kissed you that night, but to your surprise and dismay— he had waited for the third official date.

“Thank you,” you smile weakly. 

He returns the smile and looks away, clearing his throat, “the shading will be a cake walk, we’ll be done here before you know it…might even catch the end of Eddie’s show.” 

“Really?” you say with a spring of hope in your voice. He couldn’t dismiss how his friend's name made his mouth taste like poison, but how it made you weak in the knees. “That would be great, Steve.”

“Sure thing princess,” he nearly whispered, “lay back now, I’ll be done soon.” 

Steve tried to blank it all out as his tattoo gun spelled  Eddie in a cursive calligraphy he knew was yours. Letter by letter he swallowed down the feelings he had been harboring from you, from him— from everyone. 

He wished he had never taken you to that concert. He loathed himself for the way Eddie slithered between the two of you, how Eddie could have had any girl at that after party but he chose you simply because you were with him. 

Steve tried to deny him of it, tried to steer him toward another girl, a girl who wasn’t you. One he hadn’t been in love with, one who didn’t appear in his dreams despite the nightmares clouding in. But one low growl and a flash of those sharp fangs and Steve knew he didn’t stand a chance. 

Letter by letter he branded his friend’s name into your skin, giving the girl he loved a silent goodbye with every curve and final dot of the ‘i’.

“All done,” he said with a shaky throat, cleaning you up, “wanna see it?”

You nod and reach for his outstretched hand,  swinging your legs and standing to follow him to the mirror. It was perfect. Equal parts colorful yet traditional with a spark of modern flare added to it. 

“Steve,” you gasp, mouth hung open in adoration, “it’s beautiful!”

He rubs his neck and watches your reflection in the mirror, the way your mouth ticks up on the ends into the sweetest smile he’d ever seen.

His heart was aching knowing it wasn’t for him

[customboytoyz]

You know what, now that I think of it with that “monsters other than werewolves” ask I sent months ago I didn’t give possessed by a demon that makes you take hrt enough development.

Like imagine a social media influencer. She’s pretty, but not the scalpel-enhanced doll-pretty of the most popular on her website of choice. She doesn’t have the money for that, she’s never had the money for that, but what she does have is her grandfather’s grimoire. Despite all she’s clawed and scraped and kicked down ladders to get where she is, she does still have a soul and she’s willing to trade it for the perfect body.

She’s shocked when the demon tells her he doesn’t want it. Instead he holds up a single clawed finger.

“You have good bones, but I’ll need significant time to make the necessary adjustments. I want one year in full control of your body.”

She blinks at that, one year with a monster steering her around. She decides he’s probably some fucking pervert and shrugs. A year of ogling her own tits would be worth it if she hits 1 million by the end of it.

“Fine,” she agrees. “One year.”

As they shake on it, he melts into her skin and she begins her year as a passenger.

The demon begins a daily course of injections. Some glowing red shit she doesn’t figure would have any earthly counter part. He keeps posting to maintain her online presence. Lots of shots of them drinking pre work out, going to the gym. She hadn’t been a wellness influencer beforehand but she guessed it was fine, they were getting a decent amount of engagement. She tells the demon to lay off the creatine she doesn’t want to get too bulked up but he always just laughs and insists in her voice that he knows what he’s doing.

The panic hasn’t set in quite yet, that only comes when she helplessly watches her own thumb hover over the edit button of her bio.

“What are you doing?”

The demon clicks it. Removes her carefully crafted bio and replaces it with “need some time to think. Taking hiatus” before replacing her profile pic with a blank red circle and her screen name with a single period.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

“I’m moving to the next stage. We want them to think this was surgical not supernatural.” He says flatly. Tossing her phone on the couch as he finishes. She can’t help but notice her voice is huskier than it used to be. The explanation makes sense but she can’t help but feel like something’s wrong.

Even without being online they still go to the gym. They’re starting to get more and more stares. Looking at herself in the mirror as the demon exercises she can’t help but notice that her jawline has gotten sharper. Her cheek bones more prominent. It gives her hope. She’s going to look fucking snatched.

After the gym she watches him order a pair of clippers online.

“What are you planning to do with those.”

“Your hair is too damaged to work with properly.”

She desperately tries to wrench back control of her body.

“You’re going to make me bald?!”

“That’s part of why you’re going on hiatus. I’m giving you time to grow it back.” He assures her. Still she fights him every single day to no avail until the clippers come.

He sheers all of her hair off as if it’s nothing. It becomes nothing. Just a pile on the cut open garbage bag he had been using as a make shift tarp. He runs her hand over the remaining bristles and she wretches uncontrollably.

“Don’t be a baby,” he sneers. Her voice is definitely deeper.

He begins upping their dose to two injections per day and the changes start to become more radical, but he refuses to let her see. He begins covering every single mirror in her house and working out there to avoid her catching a glimpse in the gym mirrors. But even if she can’t see it she can still tell. At night she feels it as she lies awake but paralyzed. Her shoulders cracking, her ribs aching, the sharp pain in her shins. During the day she starts sleeping more often while the demon moves about. It’s easier to sleep when she isn’t in pain.

One day he walks them over to a mirror and wakes her up. She hardly has time to shake the rest from her mind before he whips the cover off. She doesn’t recognize what she sees until the figure in the mirror shifts the way her hand shifts gently turning his face so that she can see. She stumbles back and the demon lets her, ceding control. She’s grown strong lean muscles that complement her broad frame, her jawline is sharp and darkened with five o’clock shadow, her short dark hair is neatly combed away from her face, framing her harsh brow and piercing eyes, her breasts are completely gone. If she saw herself on tinder she’d say she had the perfect body, but the face in the mirror makes her scream.

It’s suddenly cut off as the demon takes back control. He stands, picks up her phone, takes a new profile picture and types up a new bio.

“What do you want your new user name to be?”

“FUCK YOU!!!”

He shrugs and types something new in himself, before drafting an announcement post.

“CHANGE ME BACK RIGHT NOW!”

“I can’t do that.” He answers calmly continuing to type. “I’m not done making your body perfect yet.” He hits post. “And even if I was, I still have 6 months.”

ohhhhhhhhh ohhhhh WAITER WAITER MOOORE POSSESSION FORCEMASCCCCC dude this is the first long scenario in a WHILEE that ive been sent on here thats making me crazy. 😋😋😋 thank youu

also do you think after the reveal the demon jacks off their cock in front of the mirror as she protests internally. i think he would. :)

[kandadze]

FoF rewatch ep 3: or, Gone sleuthing (gifs and loose thoughts)

Before we begin, let's take a second to appreciate our beautiful elven boy and his (absolutely adorable) tiny bright blue horns hair clips (while he's roasting ZYZ for being sarcastic at the prospect of the rest of the squad losing their heads in 5 days' time... that's why you never sign a binding document in blanco, folks!):

Speaking of signing binding documents, let's look at the Great Demon acting all cool while literally at the feet of our archivist:

This moment, the way it was lit and the angle at which it was shot, is just everything:

(Look at him, so pleased with himself:)

And now let's take a second to appreciate ZYZ's slow blink at ZYC after telling him about the life contract with WX:

Overall, knowing how the story progressed, ep 3 is the last one where humor definitely outweighed the angst, and any hints for our characters' backstories were merely sketches. We get a lot of running around collecting clues, with Bai Jiu being the main comic relief, the girls not far behind, and everyone roasting the hell out of ZYZ while he only sometimes nips back, pretty jovially, and mainly at ZYC.

(Damsel Bai Jiu, desperately in need of smelling salts)

The girls:

The boys doing their sleuthing in their own ways:

Also, this is the first ep with our characters shown outside of the city, in nature, and it's so beautiful:

"All demons are ugly." "Nonsense!"

(Reader, it was indeed nonsense.)

ZYZ: talks about white hair being beautiful to demons

ZYC's Petty Little Bitch mode: activated

(But soft, reader, here's proof that our lovely ZYC has since matured lol)

Right in the middle of the sleuthing shenanigans, we have a beautiful conversation about dreams, human nature, how everyone wishes for something, how everyone has something they want to escape from. We get a mention of the Truth Eye, together with a blink-and-you'll-miss-it wistful look from ZYZ that makes so much sense later.

We find out that ZYC doesn't dream; in WX's memory, we hear ZYC's explanation of why he fears to dream, and for the umpteenth time on this rewatch, I went (say it with me), foreshadowingggg!

Aaaaaand we get introduced to our sexy possessive demon, though we have no clue who the heck he is at this point, only that he knows ZYZ and is clearly uhhhh conflicted about him.

Also holy shit but only now on the rewatch did I realize what the illusion Ran Yi tried to use on ZYZ was - and why ZYZ was so freaked out... (all together now: foreshadowing!!!! I swear if I took a shot each time I say it while rewatching I'd put myself in a goddamn coma.)

Huh, Ran Yi thought ZYZ had the Truth Eye... on the first watch we still don't quite know what that is, only that it helps to see through the illusions, so it would make sense that ZYZ has it. Rewatching, and knowing that he doesn't, *and* what happened to it... makes for a nice little circle going back to LL's introduction.

Speaking of the devil, the possessive demon is gonna possess (*and* also look good while at it):

And our demon hunter now knows that there's definitely something... fishy going on in the Qi manor:

Ahhhh I forgot about the low maintenance pets exchange! XD All the kinks unlocked in this drama istg...

Huh, I also completely forgot about him catching the arrow!

ZYZ flashing back to the younger, softer LL just as he half shields WX from what he knows is a completely different animal *now*, is absolutely not hitting me in any feels, nope:

(There's also something to be said about the fact that ZYZ is not surprised by LL possessing some (not so) random dude, so even on the first watch we're bound to assume that it happened before and ZYZ is not a fan. We don't get to see any of those instances, but one sentence from ZYZ is enough.)

WX immediately recognizes LL's name but still thinks it was him who killed her shifu, simply because being tossed aside like a rag doll by him is the last thing she remembers from that day...

I was close to screeching at my screen when he activated the true seeing in her, and not only is he ::gestures at the whole of him:: but then she looks to the side and ZYZ looks like *that*, and the effect is still not lost on me on the second viewing:

They made sure to end almost every ep with a well timed cliffhanger, but since we don't have to worry about that anymore, on to ep 4!

I'll just leave this pretty shot here before I go, because those swirly things are so cool (and so unsettling when put in context):

[supernaturallyedsheeran]

⛧┈♛ Dean Masterlist ♛┈⛧

Take Me Baby, or Leave Me Out of nowhere Dean is taken by a Demon. Sam comes to your rescue muddling your thoughts on who you really are in love with. WC: 3508 Witch Hunt After a hunt goes wrong, and Dean is in a coma, you sneak out to seek the witch that did it - only to get caught up in trouble of your own. WC: 4082 Unravellng Fate Based off this post by @sinner-sunflower WC: 1024 Bunker Board Games You've been stuck too long in the Bunker with Dean - and when he finds some old board games, he takes it to a whole other level. WC: 774 Lost & Found After a day spent on the road with Dean, confessions of love shared between you, you find yourself injured, and unaware of who he is, or where you are. WC: 2951 Bar Babe Fresh out of a breakup you're at a bar nursing your emotions, when from the other side of the room, a new face comes to nurse your wounds WC: 536 Date Night Surprise Trying to get anything out of Dean after a hunt seems impossible - especially when he's trying to surprise you with a date night. WC: 618 Unexpected Encounters your at college trying to finish some papers for finals when a stranger appears, asking questions about local lore...he's handsome and has charm, why not entertain his crazy questions? WC: 3848 Strength in Darkness After a brutal meet with your boyfriend, Dean Winchester is set to keep an eye on you - but after the attack, you find yourself noticing things; things that you can't recall where they came from, or how you got there. WC: 5385 Baited In a moment of frustration and after a hunt gone wrong, your anger leads you into the clutches of demons; using you as bait to lure the Winchesters. WC: 2941 Coffee with Dean You flirt with Dean, and he cracks under pressure (same version available with Sam) WC: 993

The Road, The Plan, and Dean Winchester You reflect on the plans you had with Dean to start a new life together. But he left you without explanation, leaving you only more confused. *inspired by the song Austin by Dascha* WC: 825

Under my Skin You’ve been possessed by a demon, trapped in your own body, forced to watch as it manipulates your every move, as it's set on tearing you apart. With the Winchesters help, you fight to reclaim control before the demon can fulfill its plan, knowing that saving you may come at a price no one is prepared to pay. WC: 3795

Chasing You You've grown indifferent to Deans flirtations, and through the day, you can see you're eating away at him slowly, whenever you don't react to his teasing and smirks. As he pushes harder to get your attention, you start to realize, maybe you like the game he plays. WC: 241

I Remember Everything In the Impala by the beach, you and Dean struggle to face the reality that your relationship is falling apart despite your shared memories and love. As emotions rise, you wrestle with the choice of holding on or finally letting go, neither fully ready to do either. WC: 454

Tincture inspired by this post by @bajablastlover1 You're in an asylum after Sam traps Lucifer in the cage. You and Dean were thrust into different parts of the country by the explosion, both thinking each other dead. Castiel finally finds you and reveals that Dean is in fact still alive, and you need to find a way out. WC: 1479

Peroxide Deans been feeling low lately, and after he spills how he thinks he is not enough, you are there to comfort him and convince him you aren't going anywhere wc: 582

Vital Signs You hadn't seen the boys in years after you left them. Too afraid to put them in danger as much as they were to do to you. They stumble upon you after you finish a hunt, Dean's heart racing, thinking he'd never see you again; only for you to pass out in front of him. Taken back to the bunker, something dark has taken hold of you, and Dean works to get you free. COMING SOON - MAY 3

I Ain't Sayin' You go to a bar to wait on a date who never shows — but Dean does, and somehow sneaks his way into your date. He didn’t do it to rescue you, but it just reminded you that maybe you deserve someone who does show up. COMING SOON - MAY 24

Wild Fire (A small multi Part Series) Castiel burst into the bunker, cradling your body; lifeless in his arms, Dean crumbles beneath the weight of guilt and love, a war brews—one that will end with Heaven in ruins and Dean's blood on your hands. WIP