#angels of death headers

[serexvu]

isaac foster from angels of death

[starlos-soulmate]

I got into a religious theme mood earlier and was thinking about those themes in Spamton and Pancake's relationship. So yeah, cw religious themes. I had fun with this!!

Spamton is the angel. He doesn't see himself as one, and even if he did he's a fallen angel. Pancake is the demon. She sees herself as a demon, and not someone to be redeemed.

Despite that, Spams calls Pancake "angel" despite this. By the time they get married, he called her "Angel" more than her actual name. He sees her as an angel, something holy, something benevolent. Even if she is typically violent, it's a righteous anger in his eyes, purifying the sin from the world (and Pancake plays OFF, she has a completely different view of the word "purify")

Pancake doesn't see that. She sees herself as an unholy demon executing vengeful wrath. She isn't cleansing the world of sin, she's punishing the sinners. Being called "Angel" seems sacrilegious, especially because Spamton is the angel. A fallen angel, yes, but one that can still reclaim his holy nature.

It's kind of that mutual "building each other up" that they do. They both give each other a sense of worth. Pancake being friends with Spamton, protecting him, making him feel wanted and that he's not a burden to her

Spamton letting her know how much he appreciates her, giving her a nickname that means a lot to the both of them, letting her know she's much more than the morally grey crisies she goes through, that she is wanted as well

Pancake is a Lightner, which automatically put her in the "holy and angelic" section of Spamton's mind. It moreso turned into a vengeful, holy and righteous anger, archangel type thing. His own protector. Someone heard his prayers, and sent him an angelic protector.

Also how would Spams feel about himself during this? Unworthy, definitely. He asked and received, and then felt like he actually isn't worthy of this. Another thing where he feels worth, he has to grow and climb over the obstacles where he feels he doesn't have any worth and he can indeed have nice things.

And Pancake herself would eventually learn to accept her role as an angel, forgiving herself in the process. If Spamton, someone she sees as the actual heavenly being, calling her an angel, maybe she can do it too. Accepting love and help from the other. (There's a reason I depicted Spamton with angel wings and a halo and Pancake with devil horns in the Valentine's drawing.)

Spamton's broken angel wings to Pancake's dulled devil's horns. Letting a demon feel worthy, and letting an angel feel holy.

In fact, inserting some I Scammed Death early relationship lore, this man is devoted to her. She's shown how much she trusts him and such, and he in turn practically worships her.

Giving her gifts out of the blue, trying to set up cute dinner dates and going all out (the best he can by some dumpsters anyway), not wanting to burden her by moving in despite the fact she literally told him he could come in and stay and eat the food in thr cupboard and whatnot. He kinda feels unworthy cuz she's a Lightner and that's her place of safety and he doesn't want to intrude on what he kinda sees as a sacred sanctuary.

But despite that, yeah he treats her like a straight-up god. Trying to show that he's worthy of her (despite the fact they're dating)

And Pancake is at first overwhelmed cuz he wasn't this intense before they started dating. Yes he gave a lot of gifts but he's treating it like a sacred offering sometimes. Eventually she sees what he's doing and tells him "yo I'm just Some Person I don't need you to be all worship-y and all that" and he relaxes some. But that pretty much tells her how much worth she has. Like no one's gone out of their way the same way Spamton had just to make her do something as simple as smile or laugh. Through him, she really does see that she's got a lot of worth

Tagging: @dwdoesarts @speedstershipping @friezaforce @eternally-smitten @shipwrights-lovewright | yeah this is a lore infodump so. Yeah. Lmk if you wanna be taken off or added on

[unholyxvoid]

considering my main f/os are from bnha and my selfship blog is very much bnha themed its really funny that my icon there is not from bnha lol

[iid-smile]

★★ RUSSIAN ROULETTE ⋆

CHAPTER 01 — MiSFiT

series m.list — next >>

content — itoshi rin x gn!reader, spiderman au, crack (its not funny 🙁), bickering, basically just a lil intro of spiderman and the readers friendship, heights, lil mentions of motion sickness, a tiny tiny bit suggestive if you squint but nothing too obvious, protective rin, also mean rin

wc — 1.2k (+0.4k)

a/n — since im planning on having rin being both in and out of his suit, im just gonna call him spiderman when he's actually spiderman to the reader (youll get what i mean l8r) also can we take about how the masterlist actually suits rins colours and this doesn't? there was no way i was going to sit there and edit each and every one of my headers so it would look more like rin's suit. nuh uh... yes anyways me thinks i'll introduce the real rin and the reader in the next chapter

it was both a blessing and a curse to say that you've met spiderman more times than anyone else in japan. that's minus the fake ones at mall meet and greets by the way. time and time again, he comes to rescue you, whether that be in a real life or death situation, or minor inconveniences when you're out and about.

he's like a little guardian angel, but add in an insult every other minute.

once again, he's saved your life, effortlessly swooping in at the perfect moment and pulling you out of a sticky situation that could have ended (not) very badly. you weren't in any dire danger at all, but it's too late to say that when you're already hundreds of feet into the air that you really could've handled it yourself.

as he gripped onto you by the waist, a rush of adrenaline surged through your veins, sending your heart racing with a mix of fear and excitement. the wind whipped around you, and the world blurred in a dizzying, blinding dance of colours and light as he spun you effortlessly.

thank god this wasn’t your first time being swung around like this, otherwise you would've been guaranteed to get motion sickness. okay, maybe you are, but still, you couldn’t help but marvel at how he seemed unfazed by all of the comotion. your squeals of terror echoed in his ears as you clung to him, feeling as if you're going to teeter out of his grasp.

sure, you could have easily sidestepped the trouble if you were watching where you were going, but there's nothing better than a pair of strong arms protecting you from any and all sorts of harm. and what better way was there to draw him in than to create a moment where he feels like the hero?

well, he is a hero, just... not a very... good one.

as you finally approach an open clearing where you're unlikely to smash into a skyscraper, you build up the courage to properly open your eyes, taking in the busy streets and traffic below you. this doesn't feel real at all.

"you're unlike anyone i've ever met, spidey!" you yell loud enough for him to hear you as he cuts through gusts of wind. your hands manage to land on his shoulders, lifting yourself up more for a better view. as scary as it was, you knew he wouldn't drop you.

spiderman's heart starts to pick up from the simple, random declaration, already beating ten times faster than it was before. put it on a scale; it's about as fast as... um... it's really fast. was this the moment he's been waiting for?

"what do you mean?" he tries to keep his voice as even as possible, not letting the anticipation get to him as he awaits your answer. the side of your face was now pressed against his, allowing the both of you to speak normally.

"you're weird as hell!"

oh.

his expression immediately drops back to his usual scowl behind the mask. was that supposed to be a compliment, or..? that was the only word that came to mind in your tiny word bank, apparently. his eyes narrow as he avoids yet another shortcut back to your apartment, opting to take the "safer" way.

not very safe when he purposely makes a hard left, leaving your body threatening to slip out of his hold with your fingers digging into his suit. this guy is a piece of shit. "i don't think you can say that when this is the third day in a row that i've had to save you." he grumbled.

your grin turns sour, pursing your lips and squinting your eyes as you look off to the side in mock offence. if he's gonna play this game, then there's no way in hell you're backing down. "i don't think you can say that when you literally saved me from a piece of gum."

"you were stuck to the road."

"it was blocked off and under construction."

"and you know how quickly construction workers work. what if you got buried under concrete?"

"i wouldn't!"

"of course not." he flatly replies, though his arm tightens around your waist. "you're hard to miss." (he meant that in a good way, but it came out wrong. cons of having a grumpy voice)

wow. isn't he so sweet? "fuck you!" you hiss, kicking your legs to throw him off balance, but it only makes you feel worse. you want to lift your hand, hit him or just do something, but it's like it's glued onto him. "do you want me to start screaming?"

"please don't."

"i will—"

"no." the last thing he wanted was to go deaf from your voice in his ears. was it too late to add in a noise cancelling feature to his mask?

still, he makes another risky decision to swing underneath a bridge, staying attached as the two of you do an entire loop around the structure before shooting into the air.

obviously, your first instinct was to scream.

with your arms securely clasped around his neck, you clung on as if your very life depended on it (which it did), your voice rising in panic as you shouted out into the air. your eyes squeeze shut, head banging from what felt like a headache as you rambled whatever sentences came to mind. "just say that you like hearing me scream then!"

"...what?" his mind goes blank for a split second but he shakes himself out of it, switching the conversation. "hang on tight, we're nearly there."

your legs wrap around him. "can you not see that i'm—"

"just shut up, will you?" he whispers, a "mysterious" heat starting to spread hotter and hotter over his cheeks.

spiderman finally returns you to your bedroom balcony, landing on the railing with light feet before carefully easing you off of him. he keeps a hand on your shoulder, making sure you stay upright and don't tumble over. yes, you were dizzy. yes, you definitely needed to lay down. but you cannot deny that was so fun!

you let out a lazy giggle, pretty much falling into his arms once more from your legs giving out. "thanks for the joyride, spidey..."

he scoffs, pushing you off him and ushering you through your bedroom door. "i got you home safe. that's all that matters." he sounded almost bashful, but your silly self didn't notice.

amid the silence between the two of you, a piercing alarm blares in the distance, its urgent sound slicing through the a a quiet like a knife. the mechanical wail rises and falls, echoing off the buildings and rolling through the streets, creating a sense of urgency that captures the attention of innocent pedestrians.

spiderman glanced over his shoulder, assessing the situation. spidey senses — or something like that. another bank robbery.

you smile playfully at him, your body leaned against the glass door. "i think actually saving the city is more important right now."

though you couldn't tell too well, he wasn't looking directly at you. "...right." reluctant to leave, he stalled for a few seconds, not knowing if he should say goodbye or... no. no. he doesn't need to. it's already hard enough to talk when he's around you.

and just like that, japan's hero was off.

bonus! block blast newbie

after a long day, nighttime started to settle in, though the amount of people outside barely decreased. spiderman was crouched over the edge of a tall building, considering this his "rest time."

"i don't get why they're obsessed with this..." rin pulled off his mask, squinting at his phone illuminating his face as he tried to make sense of the empty blue grid before him.

it was merely a cheap, money-grabbing knock off of tetris — designed for those who seemed to specialise in incompetence and lacking the ability of putting on shoes and going outside for once in their lives. honestly, he doesn't get the hype, and in his experience, only genuine idiots seem to play this game. that doesn't include you, of course!

frustration bubbled beneath the surface as he wondered how something so straightforward could be so interesting that it risks your (and others') safety. actually, even worse, how bad good could it be that it dragged you right into the fate of stepping on a piece of gum?

this might be dangerous...

"oh?" he was expecting the tiles to fall, but instead they stayed exactly where they are, stuck in their position in some sort of awkward shape. coincidentally, the next shapes were a perfect fit, and it was easy enough to fit them into the right space, clearing the board.

'excellent!' his eyebrows furrow at the random male voice coming from the game, weirded out from the sudden praise just from getting a combo. "...i don't appreciate that." he mumbles to himself, quickly turning his volume down until it was on mute.

this was the game that you're obsessed with?

"huh?"

so then, a few minutes passed...

"just how was i supposed to fix that?"

and then an hour... maybe two...

"what—!?" his exclamation was drowned out by the distant but approaching sound of of police sirens, interrupting his little gaming session. he was this close— this close to throwing his phone over the edge.

with a childish huff, he raises a hand to rake his fingers through his hair, pushing back the strands before yanking his mask back on. duties come first, but his battle with this shitty tetris lookalike was not over.

rin never got pass his high score of three thousand eight hundred and nine that day. and he broke his duolingo streak. he was pissed for the rest of the night.

fun fact! — rin is currently learning spanish on duolingo. why? um... he cannot say.

taglist (open!)

@aise-30 @faylvrs @17020 @sara4uuu @adoresia @defnotciara @levihanmyotp @withlovesai @thenightsflower

[dollfacefantasy]

Just Like the Movies

pairing: leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: your boyfriend dons the ghostface mask to let you live out a fantasy

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, fingering, cnc, praise/degradation, knife play, predator/prey dynamic (he chases her idk what to call it), dacryphilia, voyeurism mentions

word count: 3.4k

a/n: i wanted to write at least one spooky thing for halloween and i love scream so here you go. i'm working on requests i promise, i just wanted to get this out before october ends. as always, thank you for the comments and reblogs <3

tags: @sleepyluxe @kaitkatme @tosuckmyweenis @pupthepokemonenthusiast @bizzarethirst @death-paint @petitecolibri @iron-toxinz ghostface photo used in the header is from @/oikizumi on pinterest!

An old scary movie plays on the television as you relax on the couch after a hard week. You had a soft blanket draped over you and a bowl of popcorn in your lap. The missing piece was your boyfriend. You were just waiting for him to come home and join you for your little makeshift marathon.

You casually watch the movie while lifting handfuls of popcorn to your mouth. You had seen this one before so it wasn’t scaring you, but it was entertaining enough to pass the time with until Leon returned to you.

It was getting to be that time of evening when he usually came marching through the door, tired from work but still with open arms for you to slide into. He hadn’t come home yet though. As you’re wondering where your lover could be, your phone begins to ring.

You sit up and grab it from the table in front of you.

No caller ID.

You raise your eyebrows at the strange nature of that. Assuming it’s a scam call though, you leave it be. However, the phone rings again. You actively decline the call this time. You place your phone down again, hoping that would be the end.

It wasn’t though because not even a minute later, your phone vibrates again.

You reach for the device and see a text message pop up on your lock screen.

‘Don’t ignore me, pretty girl.’

That piques your curiosity. When the phone rings again, you click the answer button and bring it to your ear.

“Hello?” you say.

“Finally, she answers the phone,” a smooth, predatory voice teases.

“Who is this?” you ask.

“Oh c’mon, you don’t wanna ruin the fun already, do you babydoll?” he purrs.

“Well, what do you want?” you ask. The cadence of the voice was familiar, but the actual sound of it, you couldn’t place. It didn’t sound like anyone you knew in real life.

“To talk to you. I guess you could say I’m kind of lonely,” he says with mock sadness.

“Aw, well I’m not, so bye,” you say and hang up the phone. As you begin to place that voice and the cadence behind it, Leon’s late arrival makes sense. You had disclosed this little fantasy to him recently. And it seemed like he had got the modulator to sound just like the movie for you.

Not even ten seconds go by before the phone rings again. An excited chill comes over you as you lift it and accept the call.

“Hello?”

“Why’d you hang up on me, angel? That’s not very nice of you,” he taunts, “You doing something better right now?”

“Mhm,” you hum.

“Yeah? What’s so important that you can’t spare a few moments of your precious time?”

“I’m about to watch some scary movies,” you say, a smile spreading on your face. You sit up on the couch more as you feel where this conversation is going.

“Scary movies? I like scary movies,” he says, “Tell me, do you have a favorite?”

“I like Scream. You ever seen that one?” you say teasingly.

“I’m familiar,” he says, “That one’s not really scary though. I bet I could give you more of a thrill.”

“Mm, maybe. But sadly for you, my boyfriend will be home soon.”

“Boyfriend? That’s a shame,” he says, his voice becoming a hint darker.

“I’m sure it is. Anyways, I should be going…” you trail off knowingly.

“C’mon, blondie can wait a few more minutes.”

“Blonde,” you repeat slowly, feigning fear, “How do you know he’s blonde?”

“I’ve been watching you for a while, baby. Had to make sure everything would be perfect tonight,” he says with a low laugh, “Let’s just say that we have plenty of time now.”

“Why are you doing this? Who are you?” you say, cranking up the fear in your voice. You stand up from the couch and walk to a window to see if you can spot him outside.

“That doesn’t matter, sweetheart. Plus, I thought girls liked the whole man of mystery thing,” he chuckles, “You’re honestly telling me this doesn’t turn you on?”

“It doesn’t!” you say defensively.

“Are you sure about that?” he breathes, “When I cut those slutty little shorts off you, I’m not gonna find a messy cunt crying for me to fill her?”

“No…” you say, your cheeks heating up while arousal pools in your belly.

“You don’t sound so sure,” he teases, “Y’know, I think I can see your nipples getting hard under that thin shirt all the way from here.”

You quickly step away from the window, a shiver shooting up your spine. You bite your lip. “Please don’t hurt me,” you whimper.

His cruel laugh crackles through the phone. “I wanna hear you cry like that when you’re cumming all over my cock.”

Every word tumbling from his lips stoked the flames of desire within you. Your veins were coursing with a primal need at this point.

“I’m gonna call the police,” you say. Your voice was breathy in what could be interpreted as terror, but in reality, it was pure lust.

“Do you think that would stop me?” he rasps into the phone, “Because, we both know I would get to you before the operator could even take your address. But let’s say you did get through. I can be quick, doll. Take what’s mine and have that tight pussy full of my cum with time to spare.”

You shift your thighs and look for the smallest semblance of friction as he lays this out to you.

“By the time any cop did get here, all they would find is a pathetic little mess, lying on the ground all fucked out and bred, a dumb smile on that pretty face.”

The tiniest whine escapes your throat from that mental image. You wonder if he heard it, but the throaty chuckle on the other end answers your question.

“You dirty fucking whore. You love this. You wanna be pinned down and used until your sweet mind is broken and completely cock drunk.”

“No, I don’t,” you say, trying to keep up the act of defiance even though your desire was palpable in your voice.

“Well, too bad. But I’ll be generous, little one. I’m telling you that I’m coming in now. A little head start if you’re smart,” he says, “You better not waste my fucking time. Give me a good chase, or I’m not gonna be nice when I catch you. Find out if your insides are as pretty as the outside.”

You hang up the phone. Your body was on fire with a mix of adrenaline and arousal. You scamper through the house into another room, wondering what to even start with. Your thoughts are cut off when you hear the back door slide open.

Your pulse thunders in your ears. You move quietly across the room you’re in, peering through the doorway back into the living room. You see him. That tall and fit body donned in a tight black t-shirt and pants. He wears black leather boots on his feet. A large hunting knife is strapped to his belt. His head is covered, and when he turns, your heart seizes at the sight of the ghostface mask.

He catches a glimpse of you through the cracked door and starts toward you. You zoom through the other door in the room, maneuvering quickly around furniture and stray clutter. Then, you loop back to the open back door. You can hear him clambering through the hall behind you. Primal fear courses through you, instinctually telling every cell in your body to run.

“Where do you think you’re going, sugar?” you hear the voice modulator crackle.

Moving through the sliding door, you dart across the backyard. The grass was wet against your feet since you didn’t have the time to grab a pair of shoes. You fumble with the gate, your hands shaking from the adrenaline coursing through you. You try to shut it behind you to delay him, but he’s already so close.

You continue sprinting into the woods behind your home. The area surrounding you was dark. It was cold out too. Your skin had broken out into goosebumps, your thin shirt and shorts not providing much warmth, and your bare feet only exacerbating the feeling.

There were trees everywhere, and it felt like there were things hiding within the dense woodland. The whole time you focused on not running into a tree, you could hear him behind you. His breathing was heavier, but it was clear he was exerting minimal effort.

You jump over overgrown roots and duck under stray branches. Despite running for a bit, you still weren’t too deep in the woods. You shoot a look behind you, trying to see if you were any closer to losing him than before. He’s just as close, and in the midst of your attempted glance, your foot catches on a rock. You cry out and tumble to the ground. Skin scrapes against the dirt and rocks beneath you.

He slows his pace to a simple walk, pulling the hunting knife from the sheath. The wide blade shimmers in the pale moonlight. He holds it up and drags a gloved fist over the silver, just like in the movies. Another, low laugh breaks through the speaker of the modulator.

“Too easy, princess,” he taunts, “Get up and keep running.”

Your eyes widen and blood rushes to the lower region of your body at the command. You stumble to your feet and stagger away. Your foot aches a little from the rock and the fall, but you continue in earnest.

He lets you go on for a while longer. Occasionally, he would intentionally fall behind, giving you the illusion that you could outrun him. But also filling you with the dread that you would be out in those woods alone.

Soon enough, he’s had enough of the chase. He speeds up and hooks his arms around your waist. He pulls you to the ground in a swift motion, whipping around your body so quickly that you could barely see it. He’s got one of his knees holding your dominant arm down while a hand holds the knife to your throat. You squirm and whimper under him, causing him to shake his head and make a noise of mock disappointment.

“Poor baby. You did all you could, didn’t you?” he coos menacingly, leaning down closer to your face, “Look at you. Out of breath, heart beating out of your chest. You tried so hard.”

He brings the knife up to your cheek and drags the tip across, not cutting you but letting you feel the cool metal on your soft skin. You whine and scrunch your face in discomfort, eliciting a cruel laugh from him. He drops the knife nearby and shakes his head.

“Not a fan of knives, sweet thing? Too scary?”

Next, you try recoiling from his touch, but he’s caging your body on the ground. The damp dirt presses against your back and smears on his clothing as he wrestles with you to keep you in place. Again, you can see how little effort it takes for him to keep you down. The display of strength has your heart beating harder with lust.

“Keep fighting me, little one. It’s my favorite part,” he breathes before shifting on top of you and roughly flipping you over.

Now, squirming only rubs your face into the soil beneath you. In this position, you can feel his hard cock against your ass. He reaches over for the knife again and brings it to the base of your spine. He uses his knee to hold down your arm again, so he can pull your skimpy top taut and slice through it with ease.

He handles you like a ragdoll and yanks it off. The knife falls to the ground again as he reaches around your body with both gloved hands to knead your breasts. You whimper at the harsh squeezes and rolls of his fingers. His face is right next to your head, and you can hear his ragged breathing under the mask.

He pinches and teases your nipples, your noises now becoming obviously pleasurable. A hand slides into your hair and grips the roots as he shoves your face to the ground. Your cheek is smooshed on the cool surface, and your lips part as your own breathing picks up. Your hips are still squirming, but now only to try and feel some friction with his dick.

“There we go. Such a little slut. Didn’t take much for you to give in. You know this is where you belong. Beneath me, stuffed full of my cock,” he groans.

His hands glide down your body, pulling your hips into place. He tugs your shorts and panties down to your knees, humming in satisfaction when he sees your dripping cunt. Two leather-covered fingers slide through your slick. They circle your puffy clit, drawing mewls from your throat. The fingers then dip inside you and pump in and out a few times. Your body shudders at the sensation.

“So fucking wet. You like this even more than I thought. So sick baby. My twisted little doll,” he teases.

He plants his free hand on the back of your neck and digs his fingers into the side of your throat. His other hand continues working your aching pussy, adding in another finger to your needy hole. You choke out a few moans as your breathing becomes more like panting.

“All this for just my fingers? Can’t imagine how you’re gonna cry on my cock. Maybe scream for me a few times,” he purrs.

After a bit more, he pulls his fingers out of your pussy, shushing you when you whine in protest. You hear the sound of a zipper and the rustle of fabric being adjusted. It isn’t long before you feel the heat of his cock prodding your entrance. You shift your hips back, taking the tip in.

He grunts and his breath hitches as you clamp down on the sensitive head. Once he regains his composure, he slams his hips forward, sheathing himself fully inside you with one thrust. You cry out and claw the dirt beneath you.

“You wanna be an impatient little bitch, I’m not gonna be gentle with you. If you’re so fucking needy that you can’t wait two seconds for my dick, I’ll treat you like the cockslut you are, sweetheart,” he says before beginning to rock his hips back and forth.

He finds a rhythm with ease. One of his hands gives your ass a few firm smacks while his other hand returns to your head to pull on your hair. The noise of your skin connecting sounds through the woods along with your whining. His grip on your hair is like a vise. The mild sting of the pull mixed with the rush of pleasure from him drilling into you brings some tears to your eyes.

“That’s right, fucking take it. This is what you were made for, sweet girl. Your body knows it,” he grunts as your walls flutter around him.

He smacks your ass again while getting more erratic with his thrusts. The hand in your hair returns to your hip to give him more leverage. His digits dig into your skin to the point of potential bruises. You whimper and moan, your head becoming cloudy while he stretches you out.

His quiet moans hit your ears and make your stomach erupt with butterflies. You tighten around his shaft. You were starting to work up a sweat despite the cool temperature of the air around you. You shudder and twitch, only causing him to hold you tighter.

Your back arches as more sinful noises pour from your lips. A particular thrust snaps something in you and breaks the dam that was holding in your tears. It felt like he was stroking deeper than ever before, and you just couldn’t hold it in. Warm drops stream from your eyes while your whimpering grows louder and less controlled.

“Are you crying, little love?” he coos, but you can hear the smirk in his voice. He starts rubbing your back with even, soothing strokes without stopping his thrusts, “Cry it out, sweetheart. It just feels too good, doesn’t it?”

“Y-yeah,” you whimper with a weak nod.

“Yes it does. I know, baby,” he says condescendingly. His gloved hand continues caressing your back while he snaps in and out. You grow louder still, whining and moaning through tears.

“Someone’s gonna hear you, doll,” he teases. Your cheeks warm with embarrassment, but you’re past the point of being able to control your volume. “You’d probably get off on that though, you little freak.”

“N-no,” you stutter out in an attempt to defend yourself, but you’re cut off by your own gasps of pleasure.

“No? You wouldn’t cum on the spot if someone saw you like this? Taking my cock like the good little whore you are. Crying cause it’s just too much for you.”

You shake your head as best you can while being pressed against the ground. Your pussy clenches around him though from the description alone.

“Sure,” he chuckles before grunting, “Someone could be watching right now. It’s so fucking dark out here you wouldn’t even know.”

You can’t hide the thrill that gives you. A loud cry tears through you and your hips squirm within his grasp, trying to get you to that peak.

“Yeah, I know you like that,” he growls, leaning down and encasing you with his arms. The new angle lets him piston himself even deeper within you.

He keeps grinding himself into you as you both feel the coils of release getting closer to snapping. One of his arms snakes around your head, his bicep curling around your neck. The plastic front of the ghostface mask presses into the side of your head. He’s grunting and moaning into your ear, bringing you right to the edge.

“I feel it coming, honey. Let it go. Cream on my cock, baby girl. Give it all to me,” he mumbles.

With no reason to hold back, you let your release explode. You writhe in his hold, gasping and crying as euphoria floods your being. You bite your lip and tilt your head back to nuzzle and sloppily kiss at the mask.

He’s not far behind you. A few thrusts later, he’s draining himself in you, filling your insides with hot and sticky cum. His hips sputter and the mask becomes misaligned on his head as the two of you press against each other.

You’re both panting in the end. Leon pulls out and rolls off of you, landing on the ground next to you. You don’t move from your place in the dirt and just look over at him. He tugs off the mask and drops it near the knife. For the first time tonight, you see his charming smile and sweet eyes, a sharp contrast to the performance he just put on. He leans over and gives you a soft kiss as he adjusts the rest of his clothing.

You still don’t move from your position. He sits up and rubs your back again. His hands massage the muscles there for a moment before trailing down your leg. He gently lifts your foot and kisses your ankle.

“Your foot ok, baby?” he asks while rubbing your thigh. Even after all that, he hadn’t forgotten your fall earlier.

“Mhm,” you hum with a nod.

“Ok, good,” he says. 

He starts to help you roll over so you can get up. He smiles at you, brushing some dirt off your cheek.

“Let’s get you home so we can shower,” he says and helps you pull your shorts back on as you sit up. He kisses your temple a few times and strokes your hair, “Then we can cuddle and watch some scary movies.”

That makes you crack a smile, and you kiss his lips.

“Let’s get home quick. It’s cold out here, and I don’t have a shirt anymore thanks to you,” you tease.

You rise to your feet and lean on him for support. He picks up the knife and mask as well as the scrap of cloth that was once your top. He offers it to you with a sheepish smile. You roll your eyes and shake your head.

“Guess, you’ll just have to stay close then,” he says and tucks you under his arm. He kisses the crown of your head before you two start walking back through the woods to your home together.

[mysteria157]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JJK Masterlist | Twitter | Ao3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hemlock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is a book.

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

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

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

Do not open it.

Do not look at it for longer than necessary.

Do not look inside.

These are your rules—your absolutes. And yet…

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

Do not look at it for longer than necessary.

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

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

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

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

Do not open it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do we have here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I would not steal.”

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

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

“I was invited.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lies.”

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

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

“No.”

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

“Give it—”

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

“To you…”

“An offering, little angel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Even so…I cannot leave?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Power.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Freedom to roam where you wish.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please what?” he groans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let go. Surrender to me completely.”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading and Happy Halloween!

[sleeplessdreamer14]

𝕓𝕖𝕥𝕨𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕧𝕖𝕟𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕖𝕞𝕓𝕖𝕣𝕤 . 𝕡𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝟙

fandom: hazbin hotel

relationship: adam x demon!reader

summary: When fate hands you an angelic blade during an extermination, you take a bold risk, catching the first man’s eye.

additional tags: afab!reader, gender neutral pronouns, reader is a hellborn, slow burn, unlikely friends to lovers, star crossed lovers, mild ooc, canon critical, nuance, actually discussing morality, challenging stereotypes, crisis of identity, charlie’s plan is stupid, reader is an imp/succubus mix, eventual plot twist

a/n: dividers provided by @cafekitsune and header image made by me on BeFunky

Hell was made up of nine circles, seven of which were ruled over by the embodiments of the Deadly Sins, one of which you were born in. Surprisingly, the place actually got more and more idealistic the further down you went, and seeing as Pride was all the way at the top, you could say it was sort of like Hell’s version of LA or NYC, the big city where if you could make it there, you could make it anywhere. And on that note… it kinda sorta majorly sucked. 

Maybe it was just you and your own personal biases, but in comparison to the other rings of Hell, in your own opinion, the Greed Ring was the only thing that could compete with the first circle of Hell, if it weren’t for one single factor. 

Sinners. 

For some reason or another, when humans died, no matter the sin, they would all be confined to the pride ring upon arrival. And after spending several years observing not only Hell, but the people on Earth who would later be sent to Hell upon their inevitable deaths, you could confidently say that among other things, these damned souls were a big factor in what made the first ring of Hell so awful. Murderers, predators, abusers, manipulators, all these people who behaved more like parasites rather than human beings, heartlessly taking from the world in whatever form they desire in order to exploit whatever it has to offer. Sure, it was Hell, an inferno of evil and misery, but in your eyes, people like that only made it all the worse.

You couldn’t believe you had forgotten about Extermination Day. Seriously, it was marked on your calendar and the 666 News had even announced it a week in advance. 

You had just been walking the streets of the city when the sky suddenly opened up in a bright golden ring and the next thing you knew, you were hunkering down and watching Heaven’s army slaughter as many human souls as they could get their hands on, weapons shimmering with divine judgement. But you weren’t scared. Not only because Lucifer’s rule granted demons like you a pardon from exterminations, but you felt some odd sense of satisfaction. 

And now, here you stood, holding an angelic weapon you had found buried in the head of a sinner that somewhat resembled a chameleon with small black horns and spines protruding out of her back and tail. Looking down at the weapon in your hand, you caught your reflection in the shimmering blood-stained steel, and you could have sworn this was fate. 

You thanked your succubus parent in your head as you spread your wings out, gently stretching them before you took off into the air, holding the spear in your hands similarly to how you had previously observed exorcist angels wielding their own weapons. Within seconds, you had your eyes locked on a target and swerved around to cut them off at the pass, so to speak. They didn’t even see you until the very last second, allowing you to see the horror in their eyes the second before your blade sliced through the collar. Placing one foot on their shoulder, you yanked the barbed blade free, staining your ripped jeans with wine red splatters.

And all of a sudden you felt more powerful than ever before, unstoppable even, as an excited grin split across your face and you took off into the air and your eyes locked on a new target. The only thing you were missing was a badass music score.

Only a few hours in and heaven’s army had wiped out enough sinners to fill the center of Pentagram City. Multiple areas had been cleared out, and any trace of whatever soul was previously running it was gone with the ashes, now sitting in wait for any future demons to fight for the territory. The monochromatic uniforms worn by the exorcists stood out in stark contrast amongst the crimson soaked city. It was a bit of an eyesore, especially in comparison to the light and gentle colors of heaven, or the diverse hues of the Earth. The one who stood out amongst the army was the leader, who was currently striking sinners with flashes of holy light from his fingers, as his right hand wasn’t too far off. 

But then, there was a new figure amongst the carnage. Out of his peripheral, Adam caught a shimmer of an angelic weapon dashing through the air, but the wielder’s colors were not in uniform with his army. His gaze automatically followed, and he saw you swoop down towards the streets, swinging the weapon in your hands and slicing right through a sinner’s neck. You flew back up to perch yourself on a fire escape, allowing Adam to get a proper view of you. His eyes widened slightly as he recognized you as a hellborn. 

And you were killing sinners, and going by the little smile on your face as you wiped your forehead with your arm, you were having fun. Adam’s eyes were stuck on you for a good moment before Lute called for him. 

“Sir, the troops are moving.” 

“Lute, are you seeing this shit?” Adam asked, casually pointing in your direction. Lute’s gaze followed, and her usually stern and calculative expression shifted to one of surprise as she witnessed you take out another damned soul, this time by impaling them from the back. She could see it, but she could hardly believe it. 

A hellspawn wielding an angelic weapon and using it for its intended purpose. Definitely something neither of them were expecting to see today. “Should we do something about this?” she wondered aloud. It wasn’t necessarily that she thought you were a threat, at least not in this situation, but it disturbed her to think of how you may have gotten your hands on a holy blade.

Adam glanced between you and her for a second before coming to a conclusion. “You lead the troops to the east border zone, I’ll handle this. Rendezvous at the Mange district in five.” he instructed, pointing in the designated direction.

  “Yes sir.” Lute replied, albeit with a trace of hesitation in her voice, before she turned and flew back towards the rest of the army, while Adam went the opposite direction to follow you, keeping just enough distance as to not draw too much attention. He needed to see more of this.

He watched as you moved swiftly and struck quicker than some of his own girls did. One might even describe your hits as merciless, but the way you seemed to use the element of surprise on your targets granted them the mercy of a quick and sudden death. Or perhaps you preferred to not waste time. But by the looks of it, one of them was looking to get the jump on you while you caught your breath. Sinners didn’t typically bother trying to fight back against the exorcists, seeing as angels were invincible to weapons, whether they be from Hell or Earth. But you weren’t an angel, you were susceptible to weapons, and unlike sinners, if you were killed, there was no reviving. 

Adam’s hand moved without a second thought and in a second, the little shit was reduced to ashes.

Nice try, fuckhead. 

On the other hand, the blast of light from behind you startled you so bad you let out a short scream and shot up into the air, spinning around to see what the fuck just happened, still whiteknuckling the weapon in your hands. All you saw was the same old dirty street littered with corpses and a serrated dagger sitting in the middle of the street, mere meters away from where you had been previously standing.

“Hey.” 

Someone talking right behind you made you jump and turn around, and the sight you were met with nearly caused your wings to give out. The large golden wings and bright halo were a dead giveaway, you were flying mere meters away from the leader of the angelic army, who not only towered over you even when flying, but was also staring you down with an indecipherable look on his face, or rather his mask.

Ohhhhh… fuck. 

Adam scoffed out a chuckle, seeing your thoughts written all over your face. “Don’t piss yourself, I’m not gonna kill you. Couldn’t even if I wanted to anyway.” Adam explained, before pointing to the weapon in your grasp. “Just wanted to know where you got that.” 

You looked between him and your blade for a second, before finally finding your voice. “Oh, I just- I plucked it from a corpse.” you explained, eyes darting around a bit as you jut a thumb downward. You watched his expression as he seemed to gauge you, looking you up and down. “I’m sorry, should I… not have done that, or-?”  

Adam held a hand up, prompting you to stop mid sentence. “Heaven Embassy, this time, week from tomorrow.” he instructed- more like ordered- plain and simple. It took you a second to fully realize what he was telling you, but once you did, you straightened your back and held your head up. 

“Got it.” You could just barely contain the excitement in your voice. “Um, do you want this back when this is all done?” you asked, holding up the weapon in your hand. Adam seems a little surprised by your question, before he just smirked and shrugged.

“Nah, you hold onto it. Now,” Adam clapped his hands together and with a flash of golden light manifested a huge electric guitar with a color scheme to match his own, that apparently doubled as a battle axe. “Back to business. See you next week, and don’t be late!”

As Adam left, you stayed in your place for a moment, a little smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Snapping out of it, you returned to your objective, not even that upset that you lost track of your kill count. Head in the game. 

The bells tolled, the day was over. Your eyes drifted upwards towards the crimson skies as the heavenly portal reopened and the angelic army began to retreat back to their own realm. You may never know exactly what possessed you to spread your wings and take off into the air, despite only having so much stamina left. 

Luckily, your wings carried you just far enough for you to come to rest atop a tower, hooking your weapon on its spire and watching the exorcists ascend to heaven with a sense of wonder, but also a twinge of melancholy, longing for a light you knew you would never truly know. But perhaps getting to be this close could be just good enough for you. And hey, there was always Earth’s sunrises and sunsets, which were just as good. 

As the portal to heaven closed again, the clock tower tolled on, and the countdown reset back to 365.

Now may be a good time for you to head home. 

It took a little longer than normal to return home, considering you needed to keep a low profile and you were carrying an angelic weapon with you, especially having to smuggle that shit through Elevator 666 to get back to your home in the Lust Ring. And by a little longer, I mean by the time you were at your front door, the day was already half over. 

Once in the safety and privacy of your own abode, you spent a good twenty minutes cleaning as much blood as you could from your clothes, and then the blade before you tucked it away somewhere out of sight. Exhaustion took its toll as you fell backwards onto your bed, now in a different change of clothes. Turning over on your side, you grabbed your phone, still on its charger, and opened you routine apps, checking notifications and other such whatever. 

Then you remembered what Adam had told you before, ‘Heaven Embassy, this time, week from tomorrow.’ 

You decided to set a reminder on your phone now before you forgot. Once you saved the date, you wriggled around to get yourself under the covers, deciding to nap now and shower later. Midnight showers became more common for you ever since you moved into your own place. Within minutes, your eyes felt heavy, your breathing evened out, and rest began to overtake you, and you drifted off to sleep, smiling to yourself. 

The week couldn’t go by fast enough.

[One week later…]

After knocking out all your chores for the day, your phone pinged with the reminder you had set, ‘Heaven Embassy, tomorrow,’ while you were in the kitchen making yourself something to drink. Nibbling on your lower lip in excitement, you took a seat down on the couch and flipped your TV on so you could watch the same six episodes of your favorite show over and over.

“Breaking news in hell today!” exclaimed the unmistakable voice of news anchor, Katie Killjoy, as Channel 666 News interrupted your streaming time, giving you a small startle. Although you were initially annoyed at the disturbance, that annoyance quickly melted away as you listened to the news report. As the feed switched over to the giant hourglass in the pride ring, panning upward to show the countdown go from 358 to 176. 

No fucking way.

“Yes!!” you shouted with delight as you shot up from your seat, accidentally knocking your drink over, but you didn’t quite care at the moment as thrilled laughter filled your apartment. The day just got a whole lot better.

kudos to my mom for beta reading <3

tag list 🏷️ @circescircle @cosmiiwrites @angelicpoison12 @activesplooger @ithopi0s (comment if you’d like to be added on)

[sharp-silver4795]

Creepypasta Phobias

I came up with this idea after starting a different draft. This one will probably come out first tho 😅

I will link the post here when it’s done

Everyone is scared of something… even serial killers~

Social/Personal

Autophobia: fear of being alone

Ticci Toby

Liu Woods

Anthrophobia: the fear of any sort of interpersonal relationships

Jane the Killer

Nina the Killer

Dark Link

Ochlophobia: the fear of crowds of people

Wilsom the Basher

Kat Hunter

Proditiophobia: the fear of being betrayed

Jason the Toymaker

Nathan the Nobody

Environment & Nature

Claustrophobia: the fear of small or tight spaces

Masky

Lost Silver

Laughing Jack

Laughing Jill

Acrophobia: the fear of heights/high places

Hoodie

Bloody Painter

Agrophobia: the fear of open spaces

Rouge Proxy

Kate the Chaser

Xenophobia: fear of the unknown

Kagekao

Jeff the Killer

Ornithophobia: the fear of birds

Scarecrow

Phonophobia: the fear of loud sounds

Zechariah

Pyrophobia: the fear of fire

Any the Wight

The Body & Self

Hypochondria/Germophobia: the fear of being sick and/or germs

Neon Spike

X-Virus

Thanatophobia: the fear of death

Eyeless Jack

Puppeteer

Spectophobia: the fear of mirrors/reflections

Zero

Candy Pop

Candy Cane

Atychiphobia: the fear of failure

Judge Angels

Chest Master

Inanimate Objects

Trypanophobia: the fear of needles/sharp objects

Bloody Angel

Clockwork

Pediophobia: the fear of dolls

Doll maker oh the irony

BEN Drowned

Divider Creds: Sister-Lucifer

Header Creds: ME!!!

[chevroletdean]

Ambitious — Chapter 2: The Bunker Ranking

SUMMARY: Dean came up with 'The Bunker Ranking' to motivate their group of hunters. A little competition never hurt anybody, right? It was how he first met her, after all.

SHIP: Dean Winchester x Original Female Character GENRE: Angst & Fluff TO NOTE/WARNINGS: Can be read as a standalone one-shot, timeskip from the first chapter, established relationship, rivalry, pressure to perform, angst, anxiety, hurt/comfort, Phoebe has issues with self-worth and confidence, fluff, Dean's here to kiss it all better WORD COUNT: 3.2k A/N: This second chapter of the Ambitious mini-series marks another entry for the @jacklesversebingo challenge. PROMPT: "Of course, you're good enough, you idiot." CREDIT & LINKS: header by myself ─〃★ gun divider ─〃★ flower divider ─〃★ jacklesversebingo 2024 masterlist ─〃★ series masterlist ─〃★ ao3

⏪PREV. CHAPTER ▶️PLAYLIST

“The what?”

Everyone’s eyes were on Dean. On Dean and his wide smile, all toothy and proud.

“The Bunker Ranking,” he repeated with a firm nod and a just as firm tap of his marker against the whiteboard.

The table he had set up on there included everyone’s names as well as a currently empty kill-counter. Below, there was a rather poorly drawn illustration of a trophy, an underline within waiting to be filled out.

Castiel was tilting his head in that generally confused fashion of his, eyes squinted slightly as if he was trying to decipher the scribbled notes up front. Jack, though also looking a bit lost, sat up straight, fully alert and clearly interested. And despite the way Sam’s eyebrow was raised in doubt, it was Phoebe who was the most skeptical.

“Thanks, babe, I can read,” she sighed with a teasing smirk — a poor attempt of deflecting from her own apprehensions. “What’s it supposed to be, though?”

“Motivation,” Dean shrugged vaguely.

“Dean,” Sam finally groaned, rolling his eyes. “You already have our attention, just elaborate.”

“Fine, okay,” the older Winchester grumbled, then cleared his throat. “It’s a competition, basically. We’re on a roll, eleven cases last month. Let’s amp it up, we can top that. And the best thing about it: We can see who’ll be number one in four weeks.”

Phoebe didn’t like where this was going at all. The fact that they had been working non-stop last month was precisely why the sight of charts and data did not thrill her. To put it bluntly: She needed a break. And she thought they could all use a breather.

But not Dean, apparently. Her boyfriend was all fire and flame, pointing at the drawn trophy once again.

His voice almost sounded like that of a child on Christmas morning: “So, what do you think?”

Phoebe’s teeth were glued together. She wanted to voice her concerns, but admitting to feeling burnt out was like a death sentence.

She remembered her own words from back when they were after the rye wolf: “I never say no to a competition.”

Those words from years ago, when they first met, were hanging in the air. No, they were drilled into all of their brains, set in stone, weighing down on her now.

Phoebe remained tight-lipped. Her last hope was a glance towards Sam, but even from the corners of her eyes she could tell Sam didn’t hate the idea. She thought he might hold a speech on how they can’t afford to be careless, but instead, he gave in with a shrug.

“Sure, whatever,” he said, and while it wasn’t the enthusiastic response Dean wanted, it was no refusal either.

“How do we count the points, though?,” Phoebe asked. “What if we’re working on a case together and—”

Jack chimed in, excitement written all over his face: “We could go on solo hunts, right?”

Good grief. The thought alone had Phoebe’s stomach churn even more. Jack was powerful, but she did not like the idea of sending him out on his own whatsoever.

“I don’t think we should take any unneccessary risks,” Castiel brought up and he never was more of a God sent angel than now.

Finally a voice of reason.

“We can still team up and hunt in groups, and whoever strikes the monster down gets a point,” Cas suggested.

Nevermind.

“That’s the spirit!,” Dean beamed approvingly and that’s how Phoebe knew her fate was sealed.

They were all keen on this little competition, but to Phoebe the question of “Who can kill the most monsters this month?” equated to “Who’s the best hunter and who sucks ass?”

Lately she was feeling more than under the weather, although she’s managed to mask her fatigue just fine. This event would be quite the hassle for her, at least under these circumstances.

She has always been the feisty one and her fire was what had made Dean fall in love with her. Now, just a few years later, she has lost some of that spark. Hunting takes a toll on you and everyone has their limits, right?

She knew this was her life, and with Dean by her side, she wouldn’t trade it for the world. But it wasn’t always easy. Right now it certainly wasn’t.

Even as the others all agreed with either smiles or neutral faces, she wasn’t able to fully match Dean’s enthusiasm.

Where her now boyfriend and she had been energized by their rivalry in the past — serious at first, playful after years of being a couple — she dreads this Bunker Ranking.

Yet, she found herself nodding too, unable to tell him, or anyone. Phoebe didn’t want to sour the mood. Dean was so excited about this, so keen on coming out on top. Who was she to deny him his fun?

But within the next couple of days alone, it became torture for Phoebe. She was barely able to focus on research, to begin with. Her mind was elsewhere. It was nowhere.

The only thing that was driving her in all of this, was anxiety. It would be so awkward to lose this challenge, especially since she was usually known to be a bragging loud-mouth. Her confident attitude was biting her in the ass now.

Dean wouldn’t shut up about it for the rest of the year if he were to best her at their game.

This was the essence of their relationship, after all, no? To a certain degree, at least, they thrived on a little bit of (healthy) rivalry. It was one-sided this time, but he didn’t know that, of course.

Phoebe even considered willingly letting him have the victory, but it would be a bad look on her if she didn’t even try. She had to put in some effort, or at least pretend to. Right? Maybe it was just a bad day, or a bad couple of days. She just needed to get her head back into the game, pull herself together and perform.

There was more than just the victory and her pride at stake, too.

Jack was so hyped and this was the first time she’s seen Dean get along with him so well.

While their youngest addition to the group wasn’t allowed to go on any solo-hunts, Dean and him were working together on a case. All five of them were huddled in the library, each working on their own research. The nephilim proudly waved his findings in Dean’s face, earning him an approving pat on the shoulder.

How can she in good conscience act like a party pooper? This Bunker Ranking System seemed to glue the group together and she didn’t want to be the one to ruin it. Dean had that rare sparkle in his green eyes. No, she couldn’t possibly back out now.

“Good one, kiddo,” Dean cheered, even gave Jack a high-five. “Keep it up and we’ll outrun these sloths in no time.”

They had their differences and quarrels in the past, Jack always seeking Dean’s approval, and this was his chance to get it. Butting in felt like destroying a seedling before it could bloom.

But, even if they were meant in teasing jester, Dean’s words cut deep. A sloth. She didn’t want Dean to think of her like that — if her passion was what he loved about her, how disappointed would he be if he saw she had none of that anymore?

As silly as she knew the thought was, the doubt was gnawing at her all the same.

In a way, that did motivate her to put in more effort. But at what cost? She barely slept, fear of failure making her agitated and skittish. Capable of a hunter as she was, the upcoming days were filled with frustration.

Two weeks in and she was staring at the leader board. It was the middle of the night and the bunker was so silent you could hear a pin drop. Phoebe was sitting at the main table. Although the laptop was sitting in front of her, a news article about a possibly haunted house, all she could look at was that godforsaken whiteboard.

Castiel was already at five points — lucky him, for finding a whole group of demons and smiting them all in one go. Sam and Jack were close behind, their points even since they were teaming up most of the time. Everyone knew Sam had scored all of those six points mostly by himself, but he had insisted on splitting them up evenly, leading to three for himself and another three for Jack.

Dean currently came on top with a whopping nine kills — and of course he was not shy about it either. He kept reminding everyone, 24/7, making it his whole personality.

He had every reason to. Nine kills in fourteen days was impressive. Sure, one of them had been a vampire nest, one Phoebe and him had taken out together. Thing is, he took out five vampires all by himself, while she had only managed to decapitate one.

“Better luck next time, sweetheart,” Dean had been grinning and wagging his eyebrows at her for the rest of the day and her confidence had been crumbling ever since.

Putting aside all his boasting, Phoebe knew right then and there that she was pretty much done for. Adding that one demon she had taken care of last week, her score was rotting at a sad two.

A two. A meager, miserable two.

Dean Winchester: 9

Castiel: 5

Sam Winchester, Jack Line: 3 (Although those were a straight up lie.)

Phoebe Bennett: 2

The very bottom of the pyramid. And honestly, she had zero hopes of catching up.

All she could do was sit in this main hall and look at the whiteboard with a frown. There was a lump in her throat, forbidding her from swallowing her tears. She couldn’t clench her teeth hard enough to bite them back.

A shaky sigh escaped her lips, though it sounded more like a small sniffle, or even a whine.

The numbers weren’t lying, she felt utterly useless to the group. When did she fall behind this much?

Caught up in her own mind, she didn’t even hear the steps approaching from the hallway.

“You’re still up?”

Dean’s voice had her jolt in her chair. She quickly cleared her throat and wiped at her face, hoping with her back facing him he couldn’t see her current state. Or, that if he did, he’d attribute it to the late hour and her being tired.

It wouldn’t be a surprise — and she did feel tired, too. All she wanted was the comfort of a soft bed and Dean’s warm arms around her. But she was also too stubborn to give up now.

“Just doing some research,” she mumbled, without even daring to turn around. To emphasize her statement, her fingers started flying over the keyboard of her laptop, eagerly copying some notes from the article.

He paused for a second and she felt him staring holes into the back of her head, as if he could read her thoughts that way. In a way, she knew he probably could.

“Need some help?”

“So you can steal more kills?” She snorted, but what was supposed to sound like a light-hearted joke, felt like actual bile in her throat. Not directed towards Dean, necessarily. He hadn’t so much stolen any of her kills as she had just given them away freely.

“So you can get some rest,” Dean corrected her.

Surprised by his words, both firm in that scolding way and also gentle in that caring way of his, the movement of her hands froze. She could feel her lower lip tremble, but she bit down on it, hard, and just shook her head instead.

“C’mon, Phoebe,” Dean sighed. “It’s 3 AM, research can wait.”

“I need to get this done,” Phoebe insisted, but her voice was shaky and her shoulders slumped.

Dean wasn’t having any of it. He walked up the remaining few steps, stopped behind her and reached over, ultimately closing the lid of her laptop and ignoring her protests.

In fact, he cut right through her annoyed “Hey!”, simply taking a seat in the chair beside hers and keeping one hand pressed down onto the laptop.

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

Although she wanted to glare at her boyfriend, Phoebe still had her gaze averted, too fearful of exposing her red-rimmed eyes.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she grumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just onto something.”

“Seems to me like the only thing you’re on is on edge,” Dean hummed.

His free hand reached for one of hers and he squeezed it gently, prompting her to finally look at him. The deep worry line between her brows and the glassy shine in her eyes only confirmed his suspicions.

Dean’s eyes softened in a way that made her dam finally break. As her tears were spilling over, her face burnt up with shame.

“I don’t wanna lose this stupid game,” she cried at last.

“Whoa there,” Dean hushed. “C’mere.”

He swiftly tugged at her wrist, abandoning the laptop to circle both of his arms around her waist. Phoebe didn’t resist when he pulled her into his lap, nor did she stop him from cupping her face and wiping away those fat, hot tears that kept rolling down her cheeks.

“It’s just a game, baby,” he muttered.

The gravel in his voice, hoarse from waking up in the middle of the night, was as soothing as his touch. Her sobs eased into sniffles, though when she cast her eyes downwards again, he tilted her chin up and looked her directly in the eyes.

“I just thought it would be a fun challenge.”

There it was. Those were the words she had dreaded to hear. Phoebe didn’t want Dean to think of her as ‘not fun’ or anything of the sort. Her bottom lip began wobbling again, corners of her mouths turned downwards.

“I’m failing it. All of it. I’m failing you,” she hiccuped weakly, her words interjected by her flustered stuttering.

“What? No, ‘s not true ‘n you know that,” Dean retorted, his thumb stroking across her cheekbone again. “You’re not failing anyone, least of all me.”

“But—” Phoebe paused midsentence, struggling to find the right words. “I’ve only managed two kills, that’s like… I might as well just quit hunting altogether.”

Part of her knew that she was exaggerating. She was being dramatic, but all this pent up frustration, the pressure, the anxiety — she couldn’t contain any of it any longer. The self doubt was explosive.

Even Dean seemed to be at a loss for a moment. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her like this and it certainly distraught him. Worst of all, he felt guilty for even starting the whole challenge.

“Alright, stop,” Dean cooed gently. “You think your worth is measured by how many kills you’ve got under your belt? It’s not. And, hell, if it were, then you’d be ahead of all of us, combined, by far. So what if the past few weeks have been slower?”

“You’re just sugarcoating it to make me feel better,” Phoebe mumbled under a still quivering voice. “It’s not just the past few weeks. I just… I suck. I can’t compete with you anymore, I’m not good enough for this job and I’m not good enough for y—”

Dean silenced her swiftly by gently squeezing her cheeks together. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, sweetheart.”

“It’s true,” she whined and wiggled free from his grip, squirming away. “You’re like the best hunter I’ve ever met, Dean, and I can’t keep up with you and it feels like we’re drifting apart, like you’re slipping away and I can’t reach your level anymore and—”

Again, her rambling was interrupted. This time by a pair of warm lips on top of her own.

Dean held her close in his embrace, allowing her to melt into him, to relax against his broad frame. A silent, but effective way of letting her know that he was there. He wasn’t going anywhere. He’d always be there to support her, just like she would for him.

He poured all of those unspoken words into the slow dance of their lips, willing to kiss her until she’d understand.

Grounded by the gesture, Phoebe’s tension eased slightly. Enough for Dean to pull back again, just enough to look directly at her. He leaned his forehead against hers, his breath still warm on her lips and his taste still sweet on her tongue.

“Of course, you’re good enough, you idiot,” he whispered.

Phoebe’s gaze flickered away from his glossy-with-spit lips, up to the vital green of his eyes and for the first time this night, it felt like she was genuinely listening to him.

“This whole challenge— I wanted you to see how you bring out the best in me. And I wanted to do the same for you,” Dean explained. “I didn’t realize the pressure I put on you. Who cares who wins or how many points you get? You’re literally the best thing that happened to me and I love you, shittily drawn trophy or not.”

Phoebe swallowed thickly, unsure of how to respond. This all got blown way out of proportion, but it had seemed so important to Dean that she hadn’t wanted to disappoint him.

Dean’s follow-up question broke her heart: “Why didn’t you tell me it was too much?”

She shrugged lamely, blinking away more tears. “You seemed so excited, I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“I was excited to do some hunting with my girl. We’re not just some rivals, we’re partners, remember?” Dean said. “It’s not fun if you’re forcing yourself.”

As dumb as she felt for it, she hadn’t thought about it that way before. She thought her struggles were her own problem, or that she didn’t want to bother anyone else with it.

Sensing she had no reply, Dean continued: “Tell you what, I’m a winner simply for scoring you, and you’ll always be the champion of my heart anyway.” He said it teasingly, with a playful half-grin, and he snorted when she rolled her eyes at his cheesy puns.

“You know that’s not what this is about,” she huffed, her annoyed act belied by the pink blush dusting her nose.

“No, it definitely is,” Dean doubled-down, voice smooth and steady again to convey his sincerity in the matter. “I mean it, you’ll always rank number one in my eyes.”

Dean Winchester Taglist:

Put a green heart 💚 in the comments to be added to the Dean x Reader taglist. (Please note: Ageless blogs will only be tagged in fluff and angst posts!)

@ladysparkles78  @ariasong11 @winchester-whiskey @whormotional @spacecowgirl126

@zepskies @calibootsgirl @hot-and-confused @spookyfunhottub @berryblues46

@midnight--raine @emmy21842 @whichwitchwanda @foxyjwls007 @emma1998sblog

@lyarr24 @charliesangel67 @spn-reader @whump-loverz @cassieriddle713

@ilovedeanwinchester4 @amberlthomas @mccartneyqp

[art-that-fucks-you-up-tournament]

Behold, a bracket!

Text form below the cut because trying to copy all the 256 into the alt text sounded.... horrifying. Warning for 128 matchups, seriously, this list is long, and so I've avoided adding the artists until the polls.

a note: the pinned post has started misbehaving, so only open polls will be directly linked. closed polls instead have the results page linked in the set header, all the polls are linked from there

Set 1

The Lament for Icarus (Miao He) vs The Lament for Icarus (Herbert Draper)

The angel came to me in a fever hallucination, perched upon my bed as I returned from the bathroom. vs Sweet Brown Snail

Figures vs A Philosopher Lecturing on the Orrery

Happy Shoppers vs Hubble Deep Field

Lovers Painting vs Bath Curtain

Dr. Helen Taussig vs Une Martyre

Orangoutang étranglant un sauvage de Bornéo (Orangutan strangling a Borneo savage) vs Can’t Help Myself

Rape vs Technicolor Hiroshima

Set 2

A Walk at Dusk vs Based on “Autoportrait with the Model” by Maria-Rayevska Ivanova

Diary Page vs Les Jours Gigantesques (The Titanic Days)

Dead of Night vs You Won't

Christina's World vs Bobby

Untitled (I’m Turning Into A Specter Before Your Very Eyes And I’m Going To Haunt You) vs Two Sisters (On the Terrace)

Sharecropper vs Lustmord

The Parca and the Angel of Death vs Untitled (Zdzisław Beksiński)

Stress vs The Fallen Angel

Set 3

Device to Root Out Evil vs Travelling Light

Diana vs Fifty Days at Iliam: The Fire that Consumes All before It

The Plains, from Memory vs Exotic Bodies

Doubting Thomas vs Self-Portrait in the Bathroom Mirror

Empty Nest vs Somebody Fell From Aloft

Anguish vs If I Died

Cat in Obsolete Bath vs You're Not Boring Anymore

Salvator Mundi (Savior of the World) vs Untitled (billboard of an empty unmade bed)

Set 4

There Will Be No Miracles Here vs Symphony of the Sixth Blast Furnace

Fox Hunt vs Tarpaulin

Khajuraho Group of Monuments vs Ranakpur Jain Temple

ปราสาทสัจธรรม (The Sanctuary of Truth) vs Grande Panorama de Lisboa

Heroic Head of Pierre de Wissant, One of the Burghers of Calais vs The Weather

The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit vs If this is art

Statue of Vincent and Theo van Gogh vs Jeanne d’Arc écoutant les voix (Joan of Arc listening to the Voices)

Fountain vs Judith Slaying Holofernes

Set 5

Cueva de las Manos (Cave of Hands) vs Cave of El Castillo

Chauvet Cave Bear vs Uffington White Horse

Laocoön and His Sons vs Winged Victory of Samothrace

Crouching Aphrodite vs Statue of Taweret

Guardian Figure vs Kūya-Shonin (Saint Kuya)

Ancient Greek doll vs Arena #7 (Bears)

Enbu (炎舞) (Dancing in the Flames) vs Yearning Shadows

Belfast to Byzantium vs Freedom

Set 6

The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayan vs Portraits

The Blood Mirror vs Nighthawks

Electric Fan (Feel it Motherfuckers): Only Unclaimed Item from the Stephen Earabino Estate vs "Untitled" (Portrait of Ross in L.A.)

Lady Agnew of Lochnaw vs Forgotten Dreams

Saint Bride vs Pixeles (a group of 9 works)

War Pieta vs The Sunset

The Handmaidens of Sivawara Preparing the Sacred Bull at Tanjore for a Festival vs Ajax and Cassandra

Nāve (Death) vs Abstraction

Set 7

Yes vs Meeting on the Turret Stair

Hacked to Death II vs Stańczyk

Closeness Lines Over Time vs Voice of Fire

The Maple Trees at Mama, the Tekona Shrine and Tsugihashi Bridge vs Portrait of Sir Thomas More

Survival Series: In a Dream You Saw a Way vs Takiyasha the Witch and the Skeleton Spectre

Death blowing bubbles vs The Kitchen Table Series

Painting 1946 vs In the Grip of Winter

Untitled (Black and Gray) vs NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt

Set 8

Blue Plate Special vs Red Cedar

Palace of Fine Arts vs Mosque–Cathedral of Córdoba

Le Château des Pyrénées (The Castle of the Pyrenees) vs Susanna and the Elders, Restored - X-Ray

Moby Dick vs Viva la Vida, Watermelons

Venus Envy Chapter One (Of the First Holy Communion Moments Before the End) vs how to look at art

St. Sebastian vs Untitled #12

Carroña vs The invincible one

Untitled (Two Dogs) vs The Dog

SECOND HALF

Set 9

David (Donatello) vs David (Michelangelo)

The Other Side vs The Temptation of St. Jerome

Seated Woman with Bent Knees vs Starry Night

Headdress - Shadae vs Untitled for the Image Flow's Queer Conscience exhibit

Woman with Dead Child (Frau mit totem Kind) vs Les Amants (The Lovers)

Siroče na majčinom grobu (Orphan on Mother's Grave) vs You Make My World a Better Place to Find

Fighting Against SARS Memorial Architectural Scene (弘揚抗疫精神建築景觀) vs Fallingwater

Resting vs The Hull

Set 10

Olive Trees vs Worship

Glow vs Wheatfield with Crows

Study after Velázquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X vs Untitled (He Plays Very Badly)

D.I.Y. by John Wiswell vs The Tragedy

Judith and the Head of Holofernes vs Beethovenfries (Beethoven Frieze)

The Memory of Me (How Could I Forget) vs oh god i had a really big epiphany about love and personhood but i’m too drunk for words

I am happy because everyone loves me vs 瀕危形態 (Endangered Forms)

Three Scaffolders vs Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan

Set 11

San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk vs Water-Lilies, Reflection of a Weeping Willow

The Grief of the Pasha vs Monolith in Vigeland Sculpture Park

Passion vs Space Diner

Hamlet and Ophelia vs Two Earthlings

Ellen Terry as Lady Macbeth vs Seer Bonnets

Photograph from "SNAP OSAKA" Collection vs Clytemnestra after the Murder

“Untitled” (Perfect Lovers) vs The Lovers (TIE)

Kedai Ubat Jenun vs Orange Store Front

Set 12

The Apotheosis of War vs Portrait of the Dancer Aleksandr Sakharov

Julie Manet vs Mouth

The Icebergs vs Kaleidoscope Cats III

Maman vs Caza Nocturna (Night Hunt)

The Book of Kells Folio 188r: Luke carpet page vs Ardagh Chalice

Yusuf and Zulaikha vs Dome of the Rock mosaics

Rowan Leaves and Hole vs Untitled (prisonhannibal)

Le Désespéré (The Desperate Man) vs The Dedication

Set 13

Deimos vs Dog and Bridge

The Mocking of Christ vs Prudence

The Broken Column vs Siberian Ice Maiden shoulder tattoo

Transi de René de Chalon (Cadaver Tomb of René of Chalon) vs Head of Christ

The Day vs Spirit of Haida Gwaii

Eleanor Boathouse at Park 571 vs Jatiya Sangsad Bhaban জাতীয় সংসদ ভবন (National Parliament House)

Juventud de Baco (Bacchus Youth) vs Barges on the Seine

Oath of the Horattii closeup vs Visit hos Excentrisk Dam (Visit to an eccentric lady)

Set 14

Christ Crucified (With Donor) vs St. Francis

Thunder Raining Poison vs Piazza d'Italia

The Grove vs Among the Waves

Pintura Mural de Alarcón vs Sagrada Família stained-glass windows

Noonday Heat vs La Dame à la licorne (The Lady and The Unicorn)

Matroser i Gröna Lund (Sailors in Gröna Lund) vs Gielda Plakatu

Reply of the Zaporozhian Cossacks vs The Garden of Earthly Delights

Kuoleman puutarha (The Garden of Death) vs Haavoittunut enkeli (The Wounded Angel)

Set 15

i've wasted a lifetime pretending to be me vs da oracle

minus #37 vs Panel from Fun Home

Excerpt from illustrated edition of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner vs La Mort de Marat (The Death of Marat)

The Veil vs Düsseldorf 4 (Museum Kunst Palast)

Capriccio vs Zodiac calendar for La Plume

The official imperial portrait of empress dowager Cixi vs José y Maria

Blooming Lilacs vs Lágrimas De Sangre (Tears of Blood)

An Interlude vs Boy Staring at an Apparition

Set 16

Mermer Waiskeder: Stories of the Moving Tide vs The Gran Hotel Ciudad de México Art Nouveau interior

Unfinished Painting vs To Arms!

Memorial to a Marriage vs The Island

Dropping a Han Dynasty Urn vs A Few Small Nips

Saturn Devouring His Son vs Guernica

Fairy Princesses vs Lamentation over the Dead Christ

Mummy with An Inserted Panel Portrait of a Youth vs Little Girl Looking Downstairs at Christmas Party

Agnus vs The Cup Of His Murders Is Flowing Over And In His Coat Shall Be Many Curses

[sir-walton-goggins]

The Ties That Bind Us

Arthur Morgan x fem OC

1.7k words

Summary: Arthur is back to camp way earlier than expected. His wife wonders what possibly could have him back so soon... and in such a bad mood.

Angst + Fluff

Tw child death, tw death

Credit for the header goes to @raevennsge

It had been a long day, and Kris was exhausted when she rode into camp at sundown. She lugged her heavy body straight towards the campfire, where she noticed the silhouette of her husband sitting around it.

‘Is he back already? That’s weird’ the woman thought, perplexed. Arthur usually stayed out for days, even weeks at a time, but now he was back after just a mere day. Something was off.

As she approached from behind, he leaned forward, head bowed, hands conjoined together as if in prayer. There was a dark aura to him that made Kris nervous. She could tell he was upset even before seeing his face.

“Hey,” she cautiously greeted him before laying her hands on his shoulders. Arthur didn’t move.

“Hi.” His tone was tired, forlorn.

“Are you okay, honey?”

No response. Instead, Arthur sighed and sniffled, picking up a pebble and throwing it into the fire. Kris waited patiently, rubbing his broad, tense shoulders.

“I need to be alone” was his lapidary answer. His wife nodded.

“Alright. I’ll be in our tent when you’re ready” she murmured, exhaustion getting the best of her.

While Kris got undressed and laid down to get some rest, Arthur remained perfectly still, sitting on the log alone. The fire was burning into his clear eyes, broadcasting his internal turmoil. He observed it like he wanted to part it and walk through it, to disappear forever. He desperately kept the pain inside his chest, and it jabbed at him mercilessly, slicing his breath short. He refused to let it out at the risk of breaking down, losing his composure. He couldn’t afford it: his composure was all he had now; he was the solid rock upon which everyone in the gang could count on. There simply is no time for weakness, when dozens of people depend on you to survive.

But he wanted to talk. Desperately. He wanted to tell Kris how much he was hurting. But his mind bounced back and forth between doing it and thinking it was stupid. After all, he had no reason to be that upset. It had been long enough now, hadn’t it? He was just being a big baby.

The outlaw had lost count of how long he’d been staring into the crackling flames, inhaling their smoke. The full moon peeked through the naked trees, stars glistening like tiny gemstones on a black evening gown. Everyone else had already turned in.

He should’ve gone to bed, but his eyes were wide open, his chest and shoulders too heavy. He missed Kris.

Arthur poked his head in their shared tent. His wife laid on the cot, sleeping peacefully. She looked like an angel: an halo of dark, wavy hair circling her head on the candid pillow. His chest temporarily felt a bit lighter in front of such a peaceful sight.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, Arthur undressed and climbed into bed next to Kris. He cuddled up to her, nuzzling his face into her shoulder and inhaling deeply. She smelled like home, like his safe place. It was so comforting, he almost forgot all about-

“Arthur…” she protested, making him curse under his breath.

“Sorry, dear,” he whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake ya”. His grip on her waist tightened and he pulled her into a hug. Kris exhaled, melting into his embrace and stroking his forearm. She has missed him, too.

“Wanna tell me what’s going on?” she asked, sleep still heavy and low in her voice.

Silence. Just rhythmical breathing, Arthur’s heavier and more disjointed. He exhaled, burying his face into Kris’s hair.

“Something happened yesterday…” he began. Nervous, he fidgeted with the stitching on Kris’s underwear, pulling at it and twirling it around his fingers.

“Wanna tell me about it?” Kris encouraged him softly.

“Not really…” His mind at fought a dire war between the effort of bringing up something painful and the temporary comfort of burying it down with the rest of his past.

“Okay,” she took his restless hand in hers, squeezing it lovingly. “But I think you should, honey. You’ll feel better after”.

She moved her head so she could look at him in the eyes. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

The blond nodded. He knew.

Kris smiled and kissed him on the cheek, cupping it and rubbing the coarse stubble with her thumb in a circular motion.

Arthur now felt reassured enough to open up, but he still hid his face in Kris’s thick hair.

“I was passing through this small village…” Arthur gulped, doing his best to spit the words out, where they wouldn’t rot him from the inside out. He paused to recount the scene.

Arthur rode in from the west side of the village, passing right in front of the tiny graveyard. He noticed a bunch of people gathering around an open grave, mourning the loss of a fellow citizen. What struck him the most was the utter silence and reverence in such a big crow: must’ve been someone important. He felt compelled to stop and watch from afar, like pulled into place by an invisible thread. The priest was the only one speaking, sending the poor soul off to their final rest.

As the clergy man droned and read from the Sacred Scriptures, Arthur got off his horse and approached, keeping at a safe distance from the funeral. Curiosity got the best of him, so he leaned out to have a look at the dug up hole in front of the tombstone.

His heart sank down into his stomach. That was too small of a grave.

“Today we lay our dear Ishmael to rest. His life was taken from us too soon, but when the Lord calls, we shall answer, and so now he sits next to His throne, in Heaven, forever safe from earthly suffering.”

Arthur felt all blood drain from his face. He desperately wanted to run, but he couldn’t bring himself to just turn around and leave. He felt like he deserved to sit through this. Like he had to.

Once the priest finished his speech, the undertaker began shoveling dirt on the casket, and it wasn’t long before the tiny body was hidden from mournful eyes forever, six feet deep.

A young woman, who had to have been the little boy’s mom, threw a red rose on the coffin, her face a veritable mask of pain. Two other women had their arms linked to hers, the only force holding her up and preventing her from falling on her knees, wracked by grief. And fall she did; she began to wail desperately, a sound which pierced right through Arthur’s chest and sent a wave of white hot pain straight to his head. Before he even noticed people were staring at him, he was bolting back to his horse and taking off at full speed.

“Oh, Arthur…” Kris sighed, the picture he painted way too real and raw.

Arthur swallowed the knot in his throat. He opened his mouth to speak again, but nothing came out.  

“I…” he paused, feeling his eyes sting unbearably.

“I miss him. Every day” he closed his eyes, tears that had been locked away for too long wetting his face.

Kris held him closer, squeezing him into a hug that she wished could’ve healed all his pain. Arthur wept in his wife’s arms for the first time ever, his deep sadness spreading to her. He never talked about Isaac, ever. It left Kris feeling so shocked that this was even happening. She froze, unable to come up with anything to comfort her grieving husband. She silently embraced him as tight as she could, caressing his hair and waiting for his sobs to settle down. With each one of them erupting from his chest, Kris felt a sharp knife stabbing her heart. Oh, there’s nothing worse of the sound of your beloved crying.

As Arthur calmed down they laid there for a while, entangled in each other’s arms, without speaking a word.

“Y’know,” he broke the silence, voice still broken. “I think this was punishment. I couldn’t save ‘em, and now I’m paying for it.”

“No, Arthur, this wasn’t your fault. Please, don’t blame yourself.”

He insisted, pain permeating his every word. “If I was there, I could’ve protected them.” Kris had never heard a sentence spoken with so much regret. She listened, heartbroken by all the guilt he carried, and felt so utterly powerless in the face of it.

“And now I’m scared I’ll ruin things again” he confessed, pressing his palms against his eyes to erase that poor mother’s face from his memory. “I don’t deserve a second chance.”

“Arthur.” Kris removed his hands away from his face. “Look at me.” She intertwined their fingers together.

“You do deserve a second chance. And you won’t ruin it. Because we are in this together, and I’m not backing down. Ever.”

Arthur looked up at her, unconvinced. “You should be with someone better.” he whispered, breathing it out with all the melancholy left in his lungs.

Kris laughed softly and shook her head. “I probably should, but I won’t” she brought his hand to her lips, “because I wanna be with you.”

Arthur smiled, eyes filled with unshaken love. Here stood his wife, his family, the finest woman he ever met, his second chance at life, at love. A day hadn’t passed where he didn’t feel grateful to be with her, even if guilt and conflict sometimes clouded his judgment. He wouldn’t let his past ruin the precious thing they had together, in the present.

He leaned forward, meeting her lips and rubbing his nose against hers gently.

“Afraid you’re stuck with me, Morgan” Kris joked, actually making him laugh for the first time in who knows how many days.

He cuddled into her shoulder. “I think it’s the other way around, Mrs. Morgan.”

“Mh. We shall see” she snarked, closing her eyes. “Goodnight, dear. Try to get some sleep.”

Arthur obliged, finally feeling lighter. What do you know, Kris was right. Again. He closed his eyes and Morpheus’s gentle embrace lifted him off the Earth, giving him some respite.

[bunji-enthusiast]

Hiii I dunno if you're open but.. would you consider doing some Mael hc's with a female s/o 👉👈

Finally having a little character header… sob sob. Anyway, hope you like your headcanons! :D

Mael's devotion toward you is unwavering, his soft-hearted nature is albeit rarely shown towards others in contrast to his ruthless side, but he has gotten better. His love towards you is genuinely one of his greatest sources of strength, and hopes to forever keep it that way, you garnered a side of him he didn't know he had and Mael wishes he can live the quiet life with you. For however long, he hopes it can be for forever.

Despite maintaining a powerful and intimidating presence due to his previous exploits when he had carried the epithet, 'Angel of Death' -- He cherishes the quiet and tender moments with you, where he can actually truly let his guard down and express his affection through small, meaningful gestures.

He is particularly fond of watching the sun rise with you each morning. Even if he had lost the Grace of Sunshine, it always reminded him of the shared hope and new beginnings, and to leave the idea of death and famine behind. Mael will do anything possible to protect that, even if he is gentler and kinder now, doesn't mean he lost his ability to fight.

The archangel has an unfortunate habit of reflecting on his past actions, manipulated into mutilating innocents who had done no wrong. But it was in due part, lucky even, that you were there to help him through that, finding forgiveness and peace can be difficult. Especially with the life he used to lead.

His fierce protection over you would extend to somewhat of an overbearing responsibility. He'd go to great lengths to ensure your safety, even if meant making personal sacrifices. Even if he was well aware of such behaviors, Mael was too fearful of you being suddenly stolen away from him, talk to him and he'll double down to a bearable extent.

Gifts of light, he is still very much capable of imbuing his own personal hand-made gifts with light - his own light. Quite the magical gift, as it can serve as a reminder of his love and protection even when the two of you are apart, Mael wants you to know that, he hopes you do anyway.

Given Mael's long life, he ended up developing a deep appreciation for the various cultures that stretched across the continent. He is always happy and able to share his knowledges and experiences with you, to acknowledge the beauty and diversity. He's come to appreciate things more often because of it otherwise, though he talks like a librarian, you can't help but laugh sometimes when he has such a fond look on his face when he speaks of the stories he's come to learn.

It's not without its struggles when it comes to having such a stable relationship, but the result reaps it's rewards. Mael has his difficulties of balancing his rather intense love for you and the dark influences of his past history, having your identity and memories twisted (additionally with being strongly manipulated) for so long can be hard on the mind and body. He still appreciates you for still sticking with him regardless of his rather awkward moments of depression.

Of course, his concern always surfaces immediately when you have your bouts of hardness and difficulties. Mael wishes he could just fix it right away, and erase the look from your face, but he knows he can't do such a thing that easily. Still, the archangel still continues to persist to do what you would do for him.

After regaining his memories, Mael’s relationship with you will allow and help him rediscover and embrace his true self, rekindling a sense of romance and hope that had been overshadowed by his past traumas. One step after the other, but frankly he still feels embarrassed you saw such behaviors and a side to him he never wanted you to see.

Mael would be deeply committed to creating a legacy of love and hope, not just through his actions but ensuring you know just how much you mean to him and how much you had helped him heal. Surely, he knows and had faced challenges and adversity where he has to work himself through it, but Mael still wants you to know the mark of his appreciation for you.

In private, Mael would show his vulnerability and share his deepest fears and regrets with you, finding solace and understanding in your presence. In a way, he has such an understanding of what Elizabeth and Meliodas felt toward each other, he is so glad to have crossed paths with you in the first place.

There could be common goals that you two work toward together, perhaps to protect those you care about or fighting for a cause the two of you believe in, at least similarly. Surprisingly though, your mutual affection and partnership around each other grew as a source of inspiration and support to others.

Mael might experience jealousy or insecurity, particularly if you showed interest in others. However, this would lead to personal growth and a deeper understanding of his own worth and the strength of your relationship. He understand's that he needs to have better control of his feelings and be more open to communication, Mael is open to growth and change after all.

When engaged in combat, Mael’s primary motivation would be to protect you and ensure your safety, fighting with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. In some ways or more, this truly had allowed him to be stronger and even sturdier.

Mael might envision a future where he and you build a life together, possibly including the idea of a family. He would cherish the thought of creating a peaceful and loving environment for them to thrive. Though, he much rather would want to wait for your consent first, children or not, he still will continue to love you regardless.

Mael would occasionally surprise you with elaborate, heartfelt gestures, such as recreating a special memory or creating a magical display of light in your honor.

[bilightningwhumper]

Whump Writing Intro

People who use AI in their writing (generating scenarios, generating story text, etc) please DO NOT follow me or interact with my posts. I absolutely DO NOT consent to any of my writing, posts, or reblogs being used as inputs or data for AI.

Seriously, don't. I don't care your reasoning. Theft is theft. End of story.

Whump writing side blog to @bilightningwriter

Generic writing blog is @bilightningwriter-writing

My blog is majority labeled as Mature or 18+. If you're a minor and interact anyway, on your own head be it.

Link to my kofi (if you want, absolutely no pressure)

Blog header image made from [dolldivine.com], watermarks for the creators of the games left in the images. On the left is Minna and the right is Kyrie from my "Belonging with Nightmares" story.

Ask box is open, but if you do anything with an ask game or prompts list, please tell me which one because I share a lot that inspire me randomly. A lot of the ask games I'll come across I've been tagging with #just tell me it's from this or I'll forget, so that's a good tag to check if you want to do those! Questions about my WIPs are also welcome!

Main writing whump tropes used in no particular order:

institutional whump (partially inspired by the BBU community)

noncon/ nsfw (majority of my noncon scenes are kept to whumpee's perspective only, not the whumper), more explicit in consensual situations, but I am a descriptive writer regardless

Female/lady whump, as well as male and enby whump

Captive whump

Creepy/intimate/manipulative whumpers

Torture whump (more mental and emotional than physical but I do write all of these)

Conditioning whump

Nonhuman whump

Lab whump

What I don't write:

gore

main character death (unless it's a whumper)

explicit underage (try not to, anyway; will have warnings if that occurs)

Consensual incest (thought I'd had it on this list but just noticed I didn’t; tbh, this is a squick of mine, too)

I also write LGBT+ and/or neurodiverse characters. I enjoy happy endings, so hurt/comfort is big for me. Basically a lot of whump eventually followed with a lot of fluff.

{IMPORTANT NOTE: Because of AI scrapers, all of my fics on Ao3 are avaliable to user-readers only. Remember, you can make an account for free on Ao3 (it's not money-subscription based, it really is just free) with your email.}

My Ao3 Psueds

Works below the cut

[Starting Nov 23rd, 2024, I plan on queuing parts of stories for 5pm EST each Friday/Saturday (Friday if completed in time, Saturday if delayed) to hopefully write at least one piece a week; with the exception of writing events that I join in with]

All characters are LGBT+ and/or neurodiverse unless stated otherwise. If you want to be on a taglist, feel free to dm/pm me or comment on the post, as I don't update on a schedule (just whenever I finish a piece/chapter).

~ ~ will be around whichever story/masterlist I'm fixated on at the moment

Whumpees Masterlists-

~My Lady/Female Whumpee-led Story/Fic Collection~

My Male Whumpee-led Story/Fic Collection

My Enby/Nonbinary Whumpee-led Story/Fic Collection

Main works-

~Belonging to Nightmares: a "12 Dancing Princesses" inspired story~

~BtN Masterlist~

The New Eden Institution series: Omegaverse institutional/nonhuman-adjacent/conditioning whump, retelling Fairy Tales in a Modern Dystopia AU with LGBT+ and neurodivergent characters (more modern than medieval, but you'll see why as stories go on)

TNEI Tumblr Masterlist Ao3 link to series TNEI Ao3 link Masterlist Mangst 2024 Masterlist with this series

Shadow of a Shield: Omegaverse AU with alternate ending to Endgame where some Avengers had unknown children

SoaS Series Masterlist Ao3 link to series (in the process of being rewritten) SoaS Ao3 link Masterlist

Temptations of Fate: Sapphic Romeo and Juliet-inspired angels/demons story

ToF Masterlist

Completed writing events/challenges-

My AI-less Whumptober 2024 Masterlist

Current writing events/challenges I'm doing or finishing-

My Angstober 2024 Masterlist

My Flufftober 2024 Masterlist

Corresponding Ao3 Collections for October 2024 events

I don't know what's going to happen in the coming years, as I live in the USA (even if I'm in a relatively "safe" state). But I plan on writing as much as I can until I can't anymore. If I stop, it won't be because I wanted to.

[chaoscouncilcreaturecorner]

🧊⛓️💀 About

This post will hold information about our system and about this blog! Please read at least the rules/blog part before you request!

.:˘°🌌*🌑;˙+´~ About the Blog

.The Rules of The Blog are:

💜 Keep Things Civil and preferably SFW unless the Fandom you are requesting from is the one that's usually NSFW in itself. We won't be doing requests from fully NSFW and Sexual Media, however, things like Helluva Boss/Hazbin Hotel are alright! 🩷 Be respectful of the ones who lead the Blog and of each other! Treat others the way you wish to be treated in return! Saying that you had a bad day isn't an excuse to act disrespectfully! 💙 This Blog is for Fictionkins, Alterhumans, Therians, Otherkins, Conceptkins, Plantkins, and basically, any other kind of kins except for kinnies/kinning for fun who wish to be disrespectful to alterhumans without looking into information about what being an alterhuman/therian/otherkin actually is! We highly advise you to read a carrd we linked down below! We don't mind factkins either because they get enough hate already. If you are confused about why we don't mind them there is a very nice carrd that explains our own reasoning too alongside what it means to be a kin and what "kinning" really is, we will link it at the bottom of this post! [Kinnies please read it as well if you stumbled on this blog before requesting things!]

.Blacklisted Requests:

🪻Fully Sexual Shows [Shows focused on the acts themselves and not shows which contain them, if it was the latter about half of the fandoms would be banned from our thread!]

🫧 Themes: Character Death, Torture, Sexual Acts in Moodboards/Stimboards/Etc.

.Things We Will Make:

🤍 Moodboards

🩶 Stimboards

🖤 Neopronoun Suggestions

🤍 Name Suggestions

🩶 LGBTQIA+ Flags [Xenogenders Included]

🖤 Userboxes

🤍 Kin Calls

🩶 System Source Calls, Canon, Media, Etc. Calls has moved to this blog

🖤 Userboxes

🤍 Therian & Kin Tips/Help

🩶 [New !!] Headers

.:˘°🌃*🌊;˙+´~

About Us

We are a Disabled Traumagenic [DID/OSDD] and partially soul-based system from Europe. We only recently figured out that we have an additional spiritual origin as well, however, we also have DID due to childhood things. We use TraumaEndo or Mixed nowadays. We are bodily a young adult however we do have littles and middles as well so for the sake of them we will keep our age at that! Several headmates are also alterhumans, therians, conceptkins, fictionkins and so on! All Frequent Fronters [[Except for the Littles/Middles who are under 16 who will not be allowed to participate in the Blog for their safety!!]] will have their own symbols on our blog and we may or may not also post a small bit about ourselves as well!

🧊⛓️📻 / 🧨⛓️📻 Alastor/Wilbur/Ghostbur [[Main Host - Sources: DSMP, Brain Made Source & Hazbin Hotel]] ⚡📺Vox [[Co-Host - Sources: Hazbin Hotel]] 💃🏻💗🕺🏻Angel Dust [[Sources: Hazbin Hotel]] 💣🔥Kai [[Sources: Brain Made Source]] 🪐♉ /🪐♉🐉 Titus/Ace/Taurean/Terrence [[Sources: Brain Made Source]]

.:˘°🪐*⛓️;˙+´~ DNI List

- Pedos, Terfs, Zoophiles, Racist, Ableist, etc. people - Anti: LGBTQ+, Xenogender, MOGAI, Alterhuman, Otherkin, Witch, Pagan, Therian, Furry, Endo [We are Endo Neutral, Endos are welcome here !] - Anti: Allosexual, Alloromantic, Aromantic, Asexual people who's stances don't align with most people's beliefs [Ex. Sex Favorable Asexual people, Romance Repulsed Alloromantic people, Romance Ambivalent Aromantic people] You guys are more than welcome here and you all are valid ! - We also don't support people who still follow Content Creators who had allegations with a lot of backed up evidence. An example is Wilbur Soot and Shelby and other girlfriends situation [Those who are fictives, factives, etc. are welcome!]. People who follow Content Creators who proved their innocence after allegations are still welcome !! [So in this case if Wilbur Soot was proved innocent supporters would be welcome, but otherwise not.]

All of the dividers are from: saradika.tumblr.com! Thank you so much for these beautiful dividers! ^^

The carrd we mentioned earlier: https://kinninginformation.carrd.co/

Last Edited: 9/3/2024

[yutamayo]

Xmayo Masterlist 🎅🏻

Inumaki Toge

Bachira Meguru

Reo Mikage & Nagi Seishiro

Todo Aoi

Edogawa Ranpo

Toji Fushiguro

Armin Arlert

Eren Yeager

Denji & Power

Choso Kamo

Fushi (TYE)

Douma (KNY)

Suzuya Juuzou

Sangbum

Muichiro Tokito

Oh Sangwoo + More Sangwoo

Nanami Kento Cake

Mimiko & Nanako

Hideyoshi Nagachika & Kaneki Ken (trauma)

Shinji Ikari

Babygirl Power Bottom Millions Knives

Neji Hyuga

Akaza KNY

Tomioka Giyuu

Itachi Uchiha

Yuuri Katsuki

Mob & Dimple

Near (Death Note)

Sai (Naruto)

Yoon Bum

Zenitsu Agatsuma

Uzui Tengen (Flashy Santa)

Kaneki Ken

Megumi Fushiguro

Yuji/Megumi/Nobara (past & present)

Young Yuji/Megumi/Nobara header + GIF

Sasuke Uchiha

Naruto Uzumaki

(cumming soon): (on hold, maybe until next xmas)

Dazai Chuuya

Aki Angel

Light L Misa

Tanjiro Nezuko

Senku Gen

Sukuna Yuji

Gojo Geto

Nobara Maki

Nanami Haibara

Yuta Toge 

Vanitas Noe

Shinji Kaworu

Naruto Sasuke

Hideyoshi Nagachika

Takizawa

[nfumbewalk]

Opening

A candle I had burned for my son. Its his zodiac sign color, red for Aries. The knot in the wick still has me concerned.

Well, I've been recently been thinking of my opening and attunement that's been happening for the last two years. Its apparently all been due to me accepting muertos and embracing them into my life. Mostly Rodolfo. He's been instrumental in many changes that have happened in me and my environment. He took many of my fears away and helped me realize that I need to chill out and let my intuition come to me at full force - stop trying to muffle it or deny it.

I did not know my full power. And, my dad didn't tell me much until near his death about muertos speaking to him. Plus his amazing intuition, which now I remember witnessing often. My dad was very empathic and tuned in. As a kid, I went to him when I was ill in the middle of the night - he knew before it happened because he was awake and waiting for me with medicine. Mom never awoke.

Dad was so special and had the temper of a devil. But most times, he was gentle to me. Such a Scorpio too! He was quite interested in astrology and witches, and the powers of stones and plants. He had a learning disability, so his focus was off, but he remained interested in some stuff that I did. I think his death last year has really blown off the lid. I'm so open now!

Before he died, I couldn't hear my relatives talking to me, and really, not many other muertos - just Rodolfo. Seriously! I hear both of my grandpa's, one grandma, my dad, and now - my mom! I know other muertos will come. Hopefully it won't be too overwhelming. I know I'm not making this up. The things they say are so separate from the things that I think of. Their words are nothing like mine. And I've mentioned that they sound SO weird!!

My mom, who I had not heard from since she died in 2006, sounded low and warbly. The women have. Men sound kind of high pitched and whiny like old time radio from the 1930's. Yes, I've heard very old radio. Lol! Now, Rodolfo sounds normal. I think its because he's been dead longer. He sounds kind of like Cheech from Cheech & Chong. He took no offense when I said that. But his voice register is a bit lower.

So, I don't have any idea if my attunement is still happening or not. Oh, Rodolfo just said its not over yet! Egads. What's next?!? I don't know of many other relatives to die. Phew! But, I mentioned Tom's stepdad Chuck. I do think he would communicate with me if he passed. He's already giving away belongings, like a $300 watch to Tom. And a exquisite leather coat to me. He was very wealthy, but lost money due to his son and his other stepson. I hope he will hang on for a bit, unless he is really ready to go. I swear I'm the Angel of Death. I was there when both my parents died!! Well, my dad was gone a little bit before I arrived, but I was holding my mom's hand when she died. 10 minutes to 10 AM, December 16th 2006. Dad was August 25th 2023.

You all can see Rodolfo's tombstone on the header of this blog. He was only 35 years old when he died. He told me he was shot in the guts. I believe him, but Tom is skeptical. The Free Souls are a super cool MC (motorcycle club) but they were/are still dangerous af!!! He didn't make it very far in the Army - his tombstone reads, "PFC." That's Private First Class, very low on the totem pole. He must have gotten out, but honorably discharged because his rank is allowed on his stone. If dishonorably discharged, the military won't let that tombstone happen.

Rodolfo has also said his hand got mangled - perhaps that was the military discharge?!? I've mostly just seen his face and silhouette, so I haven't seen his mangled hand yet. Interesting to just put that together. Look! Neurons firing!! 😂 I think he's proud of me! Haha! He got his tequila today and its going pretty quick. His ritual this morning should have been longer.

I'll make it up to him when I do the Siphoning of the Earth with my Baston de Muerto! Rodolfo just loves it. Dunno why but I see a big grin. Probably because I developed this ritual move for and with him. Oh, and he loves this tool of mine, he says. "Baston de Muerto," means Dead Man's Staff, or Cane. Mine is the staff that you can see in all of Rodolfo's altar photos, on the right side, next to his vessel (bottle). Its a bit over 5' so its taller than me. I'm 4'9". But I wield it very well!

Trying not to jump topics. Its all muertos, right? Lol. My post about Palo brought me another muerto today. My dead Tata. He told me a lot. He tried to comfort me. He kind of did. He said to remember that he was a Palero on the fringes of the religion and wasn't accepted either. That was there was no doubt that I can do it, but my own way. Also that I would need to search Spanish Palo books. He reiterated that these other Paleros that I knew couldn't initiate me for a reason. I wasn't meant to be a branch on their trees. Ill fitting and possibly cheats, they are. He also said that I'm not meant for all of the Regla, just some. Weird, huh? Another muerto!

My opening is still going strong! Apparently I have more work to do? I truly had a change in fortune start this September. I did some ritual work...must have really turned the wheels. Well, good!

Hope this was interesting!

M.M. 💖💀💖