#crack post * / bad demon tingles.

[who-knew-a-sheep-can-write]

The Kids Aren't Alright: Werewolf!Cole Cassidy x Reader

I will never say no to werewolf cassidy/mccree, and if I do, kill me

Contains: Light werewolf transformation, blood, violence, drinking, self-deprecation, gunshot wounds

He had been so careful.

He’s sat at the edge of the base, back braced up against a rock, legs spread wide in front of him, his face settled in a pained scowl. He stared into nothingness, eyes trained somewhere on the waves that crashed onto the rocky shore just beneath him, the cliffside blocking his view of the darkness below.

God, he just wanted to sink into that darkness. He prayed for demonic hands to come up the cliff and drag him down, preferably to a cold chamber in hell.

The winds are chilly for a mid-summer night. Maybe it was the alcohol buzzing in his system, sitting in his stomach that was void of any food. His tanned skin was covered in goosebumps, but he made no effort in slugging his serape over his body to protect himself from the winds. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat next to him, having been full when he cracked the seal with his teeth and started drinking from it like that drunkard he is maybe an hour ago. The first sip always burned, but it was becoming less painful as the years went by, now really just drawing a bit of a tingle on the tip of his tongue whenever he drank.

Forgoing a glass, Cole wrapped his fingers around the cheaply designed glass neck, human fingers trembling ever so slightly in a mixture of unstable emotions as he rose the bottle to his lips. Tilting his head back, he allowed nearly half of a mouth full of bitter whiskey before he swallowed, nearly dropping the bottle to the rock beneath him. The glass still made a sharp clinking noise, nearly shattering the glass bottom.

But he didn’t care.

He fucked up. He royally fucked up and now he was paying the price.

He could feel it inside of him, the damn thing never dying no matter how much he tries to drown it with cheap alcohol that could wash paint and rust off of metals. It was like it was pacing inside of him, dragging its horrid claws along a stony wall, its eyes piercing through the dark. He could make out very little of the beast, but he knew it was him right down to the bloodied hands flexing and waiting to dig into something alive. Even now in his drunken state, he could still smell the blood from last night. It was like it had just been spilled right under his nose, the scent of copper stinging his nostrils as the flared when he took deep breaths to calm himself down.

His mind was fucking with him, had been all day, had been all night last night. It kept him up, anytime he would try to close his eyes it would just replay all that happened just hours before like some sick snuff film. It got so bad that every time he blinked his mind would show him stills and images from when he was still lucid.

He can still remember the sight of you; On your back, scrambling away from him, bloodied and bruised, and utterly afraid of him as he towered over you. The love of his life is now terrified of him.

He took another swig from the whiskey bottle, nearly choking as a sob shook his shoulders. Tears stabbed at his eyes, burning at the corners as he forced himself to swallow. His shoulders shook, his back tightened, his ribs felt heavy.

He felt like he was going to throw up.

He had been so careful up until last night.

‘Be careful out there, yeah cowboy?’ your voice echoed in the back of his mind.

‘Always am, darlin’.’

A heavy sob forced its way out of him, dropping the bottle back down to the rocks as he pressed his back closer to the boulder. He felt bile creeping up in the back of his throat as it tightened.

It was a complete shitshow. Everything started off eerie and quiet, your team cautiously entering what was supposed to be an abandoned hotel that Talon had been using as a makeshift hideout after having been drawn out by previous missions. You as well as a few others went ahead of him, having been posted towards the front of the hotel in the trashed and very dilapidated lobby as a lookout.

He had a horrible feeling brewing in the pit of his stomach the entire time he was up front, uneasily rocking back and forth, placing weight on one leg and shifting it to the other as he fiddled with his armor and gun belt. Every noise made him jump a bit, his eyes constantly scanning around for any movement that didn’t belong to Overwatch agents. Straining his ears, he could hear you going deeper and deeper inside the hotel, going up creaking stairs that threatened to give out under the slightest weight. He focused on your heartbeat.

At the slightest hike in its rhythm, he would book it from his position.

He didn’t like this place, didn’t trust it with any fiber of his being. Even the monster inside of him was starting to go nuts, gnawing at the bars of its cage, clawing at his ribs and tearing at his guts inside of him. He could feel icy claws trace along his spine.

The agents around him gave him an odd look out of the corners of their eyes, eyebrows all knit with slight concern at how he was acting. He didn’t care, though, he just wanted to get you and get the hell out of here. His throat burned for a cigarette, his nose crying from the overstimulation this place brought with all of its horrible smells of rot and mold.

Just as he was idly rolling a finger over the carton of cigarettes in his pocket, he heard your heartbeat hike,

And then came the gunfire.

He was the first to peel out of the lobby and into the crowded stairwell, taking the aged steps three at a time. Peacekeep felt as though it weighed a thousand pounds as he pulled the hammer back. He could barely make out the shouting over the gunfire, his voice barely loud enough to call out over it as he climbed the steps toward hell.

He broke through the door like a bat out of hell and shot dead the first Talon agent he saw. He called out for you, dodging bullets and bracing against walls and busted down doors, taking out whatever he could from the flood of Talon agents.

There were so many of them. How did he not smell them? How did he not hear them? If he had just focused hard enough, this all could’ve been avoided.

And then he heard it.

Your shrill scream cut through the chaos like a hot knife through butter. It felt as though he had been shot in the back with a silver round. He barreled through the hallways as though he had been suddenly possessed. He felt himself slipping and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

As he neared the room your scream came from, blood suddenly splattered out from the open doorway as the Talon agent fell backward. Peeling inside with Peacekeeper drawn, he nearly dropped his precious gun at the sight of you collapsed on the dusty floor nursing a nasty looking bullet wound in your side. Your gun clattered to the ground as you clasped both hands on the wound, wincing and crying, applying whatever pressure you could. Cole was at your side, kneeling beside you, encasing your hands with one of his own and applying more pressure as blood leaked between your fingers. You looked up at him with weary eyes, a faint smile ghosting over your lips.

‘Guess I shoulda took my own advice, Cass?’

He shot you a look before calling out behind him for a medic.

‘Yer gonna be just fine darlin’. You took a lot worse than this before. Yer gonna pull right through,’ he crooned.

You nodded, wincing as he applied more pressure. Seconds passed by like hours. His nerves were sparking like he was hopped up on adrenaline. Where was that fucking medic?

As he turned to yell louder, he instead got the same treatment as you did; A bullet, this time getting him right in the lower back, barely missing his spine by a few hairs.

Everything happened so fast. Colors faded together, his body felt like it was doused with icy cold water all while being lit on fire, there was a horrid ringing in his head. He didn’t even feel the pain it all brought on, just the feeling of his clothes suddenly becoming tight before tearing as brawny muscles flexed and covered with fur.

He should’ve known better. He always kept it under control.

The only other thing he remembered was the sight of you, face painted with pure fear, crawling backwards away from him into the dusty corner, blood seeping from in between your fingers.

Cole wiped his face with his metal hand, the plates were cool and strung a bit when he pinched around his eyes to stop the rest of the tears from falling. His body wracked with a harsh hiccup, hunching in on himself slightly. His serape fell forward, hiding his exposed skin from the chilly air.

“Cole?” It was like he had been shot all over again. Fear struck him right in the gut like an icy pike. He could suddenly smell them, he could even taste their worry it was that thick. “Cole?” the small voice repeated.

It was soft, barely audible, almost drowned out by the wind and the waves crashing. He could feel the warmth their body radiated, their smell lingered in his nose. It had started to calm him down without even doing anything. He couldn’t turn his head to face them, instead tucking his head down and allowing the brim of his hat to obscure his eyes.

‘If I don’t see ‘em, they’ll go away,’ he thought painfully.

“I’m not going anywhere, cowboy,” your voice was firm. He could feel your eyes rolling over him, taking in all of the torture he put onto himself. The wrinkled and messy flannel shirt stained with sweat and a bit of bile, the dirty jeans that hadn’t been washed in a while, the boots that had be scuffed with spurs all bent out of shape. Even his arm had lacked care and upkeep, the once shiny metal was dull from not keeping it clean. “Oh, Cass,” you doted, “don’t torture yourself.”

He finally spared you a glance. You were in very loose clothes, the sweatpants you wore barely clung to your waist, dipping a bit. He narrowed his eyes at the sight of the sterile white bandages wrapping around your waist from where the bullet had been dug out of you. Your sweatshirt was unzipped, one of his worn shirts from long ago covered your front under it. You looked exhausted, not a single trace of shame or anger or even fear lingered on your person.

“You shouldn’ be up,” he slurred, turning to look away from you. “Shouldn’ even be ‘round a thing like me.”

He felt you step closer to him before slowly getting on the ground beside him. You didn’t dare sit, fearing the pull of your stitched up wound, instead you kneeled right next to him and kept your hands on your thighs. You both sat in uncomfortable silence for God knows how long before he felt you ever so gently place your hand on his outstretched leg. He stared at your hand, noting the small cuts and odd bruises you had, even staring at the nasty looking bruise in your inner elbow all wrapped up from where they drew blood and let the IV flow. He didn’t look up higher, though.

“I love you,” your words were soft but firm. “Nothing’s ever gonna change that, you know.” He still didn’t spare you a look. He heard you swallow thickly, your hand squeezed his leg a little tighter. “I understand why you never told me about… that. I’m not afraid of you, Cass.”

He broke down, startling you when a dry sob heaved his shoulders. You scooted closer, wrapping your arms around his trembling shoulders, holding him as he sobbed quietly in the mid-summer night. You pressed your lips to his shoulder, holding yourself firm against him as he crumbled with the sounds of the waves crashing beneath you both.

[goatanarchy]

Little Rat

Summary: A spirit wakes up in a body of a mage, to take his place and his name. Notes: Warden/Duncan(implied), Warden is he/they!, AU where Duncan doesn't die and is a companion because I want to, probably very OOC but who cares. I wanted to finish more scenes before I post this one but I have been struggling for months, maybe even a year to write, so here is at least a very short part of it that is done.

The mage was looking at the rat. The rat was looking at the mage.

The deal was made, he is finally free. Both of them.

“Promise me one thing…” - the rat whispered.

“Anything!” - the mage smiled so brightly, the rat felt weird. He could never make this face in the mirror.

“Escape. See the sun, eat some good food.”

“I will. I’ve always wanted to.”

“Good.”

The rat disappeared and the darkness came.

Then gasp of air. The first one! And light, so much light, softness and muscle, the loud beating of heart inside his veins. His veins… filled with warmth and blood and tingling pain inside his head. But even the pain was exciting! It was the first one they felt…

“Are you alright? Say something, please…” - they heard an anxious voice. It welcomed them into the world as they jumped off the bed and looked around abruptly, like a wild animal ready to run.

“Jowan?” - they called out a bit unsure. Lots of memories buzzed in their mind and the mage hid his face in his hands. Cold. Poor blood circulation. Yes it was a friend, they remembered. Not his, but the one before him. Sarikh. He liked that name. He will carry it too.

Sarikh opened his eyes and saw a human… man? Yes. A scrawny one, in heavy dark robes and with sad anxious eyes. Sarikh brought his gaze to other things: walls of stone - cold to the touch, the wooden beds, the closets, big doors, his heavy robes (that he decided he didn’t like) and other people… humans and elves…real ones… Just like him! They were staring at Sarikh from afar with curiosity. Sarikh too was curious, but couldn’t tell what they were thinking about him. He tried to reach for their thoughts but could only catch blurred echoes of their emotions and feelings. Confusion, fear, envy.

“How weird!”, he thought to himself. It used to be so easy to just know.

“They carried you in yesterday and I was so worried… I’ve heard of apprentices who never came back from Harrowing. What was it like?” - Jowan asked.

“It was… harrowing.” - Sarikh answered absently, squeezing the sheets of the bed he was sitting on, wondering at the feel of the rough textures he never was able to feel before.

“And that’s it?” - Jowan asked and Sarikh could see the wrinkles on his forehead come together sculpting his face to look…. sad? Yes. That was the emotion Jowan was feeling. Sarikh smiled apologetically.

“You know I can’t tell you about it.”

“I do. I just wish I knew when they will call me for it already…” - there was frustration in his voice and fear in his mind. Not something Sarikh could fix. He knew Jowan was afraid of becoming a tranquil, as did most mages in this tower. Tranquil or dead - who knew which one was worse?

“Although Irving wanted to see you after you wake up.”- Jowan added after realizing Sarikh wasn’t gonna tell him anything else.

“I should… probably go see him then!” - they said, jumping off the bed and leaving sad Jowan behind. They felt bad for not knowing how to comfort their… new friend.

Sarikh didn't pout for too long and got distracted easily. He touched the cold metal gratings shaped in beautiful spirals and looked through the books in the library. Which he didn’t know had a smell! The knowledge could smell and it made Sarikh giggle. It also made people stare at him but he once again wasn’t sure why.

He looked into every open room and listened to every word. Maker, demons and blood magic - it was all a blur of useless words for Sarikh. The only thing he wanted to find was a window or a crack in the walls that would let him see what the real sun and sky look like.

Instead he found old men arguing. Ah, he knew them. The angry templar, the old Enchanter he was supposed to meet and the hmm… this one was new. Sarikh couldn’t remember him, which meant he was from outside the tower. Exciting! He was a human - clad in shining armor, dark in skin and hair, broad and tall. His eyes were almost black, but bright and determined under the scarce light of the heavy chambers. A knight perhaps?

“Gentlemen, please. Irving, someone is here to see you.” - The man from the outside interrupted and everyone turned to Sarikh. They might have stared at the knight a little too long because the templar, Greagoir, coughed to break the awkward silence so he could leave:

“Well Irving, you are obviously busy. We will discuss this later.”

Irving sighed, tired, but still gave Sarikh a warm smile inviting them to come into the office. Sarikh froze in silence, not knowing what to say. The First Enchanter bore many a memory in the mind of his late friend. Stern and appraising in ways that have made the old Sarikh miserable… He felt a prickle in his heart and had to blink a few times to back down the tears. Another thing he cannot fix.

“H-hello.” - Sarikh pressed out of himself.

“This is?..” - the knight asked. He studied Sarikh with as much interest as they had, maybe just a tinge more dignified in expressing it. Sarikh was an elf, much shorter than most, pale as paper, a poof of dark red hair and red eyes to match, a friendly smile resting on his lips.

“Yes, this is he.” - Irving confirmed, warm and proud. - “Congratulations are in order to our new brother in The Circle.”

“Thank you!” - Sarikh said a lot louder than they anticipated and turned their gaze to the knight to hide the anxiety. The knight only gave a polite smile in return but they could feel his interest spike.

“I see you are much curious about our guest. This is Duncan, of the Grey Wardens. ” - The First Enchanter said.

“A Grey Warden? In the tower?” - Sarikh… vaguely knew of them. In the Fade he has witnessed all kinds of legends and tales from the dreams and the spirits. He couldn’t always understand them but he knew that humans loved heroes and deeds that felt larger than life. And Wardens were one such a thing.

“Grey Wardens go wherever duty sends them.” - Duncan said and it felt like he meant it.

“You’ve heard of the war brewing to the south, I expect? Duncan is recruiting mages to join the king’s army at Ostagar.”

Sarikh’s eyes went wide with excitement, his hair poofed up.

“I want to defend our kingdom!” - he blurted out. That would get him out of the tower, wouldn’t it? Duncan let out a hearty laugh and Sarikh’s cheeks burned red.

“What an eager little fellow, you have here.” - Duncan teased.

“He was always very diligent.” - Irving confirmed more to himself than to anyone else. - “But you mustn't be so hasty Sarikh, you only just passed your Harrowing after all. Have at least a little levity before thinking of war.”

“Yeah-yeah… I will.” - Sarikh mumbled disappointed, looking at the floor. Irving, seemingly satisfied, waved at him to go.

“For now, enjoy your day, rest, and be so kind, show Duncan to the guest quarters… I have some things to discuss with Gregoir.”

“With pleasure!” - Sarikh said, again, way too excited.

—-

“So you wish to be a Warden?” - Duncan asked as they walked through the tower. Sarikh was marching him around every chamber, choosing the longest way to get around. One might think that they were doing this on purpose, but Duncan couldn’t help but notice how confused the young mage looked every time he would open a door and it would be a broom closet or someone else’s quarters entirely…

“I do!” - Sarikh turned to Duncan, his bright red eyes almost sparkling. They didn’t want to sound desperate but - “Would you take someone like me?”

“Someone like you?” - Duncan wondered. Sarikh let out a nervous breath.

“Well, from what I’ve heard about The Wardens…. You are strong and-and… heroic warriors that can take on a legion if you wanted to. And I’m just well… me.”

“A lot of people are just people at the end of the day, Sarikh. Strength doesn’t always come in abundance of muscle or magic power.”

“Oh.”

“Sometimes it’s about being persistent and very very stubborn.”

Duncan watched Sarikh open another door, look inside, blush and close it immediately.

“Well, I hope it doesn't also require a good sense of direction then.” - Sarikh said in a most pathetic tone.

“That’s why you bring the king of Ferelden with you.”

“What?”

“Hm.” - Duncan smiled at something distant in his thoughts.

“Are you going to have the king with you too?” - they asked, not sure if the man was joking or not.

“Hopefully, only for an inspirational speech. Do not worry, though, we have maps if the need arises.”

“Good, good.” - Sarikh nodded satisfied. They opened the last door in the hall and it was an empty and unlived bedroom. - “Ah! These must be the guest quarters.”

“And what if it is not?” - Duncan asked. What little confidence Sarikh had, immediately left them.

“Umm.. finders keepers?” - they said after thinking really hard for a minute. Duncan let out a laugh.

“Well. I can’t argue with that logic.”

[intimesnewhomo]

🌤️🌀☔ :3c tell me bout ur writes

Ofc u would choose the ones that make me think the hardest lol. Gonna bap these bad boys behind a readmore bc there is. A Lot™

🌤️Share your favorite piece of dialogue from your WIP.

(Sorry this is gonna be a lil long sbsbsbdbd but I rly like this exchange between Cyrus and Aym I would have added more but this is long enough so shout out to Aym calling Dara a weed-powered fog machine just a lil bit before this)

"So, what's your deal then?" he asked, changing the subject.

"My deal?"

"Yeah. Like, I'm a werewolf now, I guess, and Aylwin's a vampire, and Keren's a fucking god. I know Dara said something about you having horns." He laughed. "What are you, a minotaur?"

"A demon, actually," Aym replied, turning his gaze back onto Cyrus.

He felt his heart squeeze a little and his breath come up short. For a moment his vision blurred, though the image of Aym's face was burnt into his mind. That image flickered, and then changed. His eyes were solid black, edge-to-edge, and two long, goatlike horns twisted upward from his forehead. As Cyrus watched, Aym's mouth cracked into a long, nasty grin full of sharp fangs and in the middle of his forehead the skin blistered, then split, revealing a third, jet black eye.

Then it was gone, and Cyrus' vision cleared. Aym was watching him intently, brow furrowed, though Cyrus throught he saw the corner of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly in a smug little smirk.

"Are you all right?" Aym asked, leaning forward a little.

Cyrus unconsciously leaned away from him, rubbing his face. "Yeah, yeah, I'm good. Just got a little dizzy there for a moment is all."

Aym was quiet a moment, then: "I'm not evil, you know. The world at large exists outside of humanity's morality." He sniffed a little, brushing more invisible lint off his shirt. "You mortals can't even decide amongst yourselves what constitutes good and evil, why should the rest of us follow suit? A lion preying on a gazelle isn't evil, nor is she good. She is simply following her nature."

A little shiver ran up Cyrus' spine. It was all too easy to imagine Aym as a lion, stalking him through the grass, ready to pounce when the moment was right. That image of Aym flashed in his mind again, all black eyes and sharp teeth, and another shudder ran through him. He wrapped his arms around himself and looked at the floor, the dark tv, out the window, anywhere that wasn't Aym's dark gaze.

"And what is a demon's nature, then?" he asked shakily.

"Chaos."

There was a hint of glee in Aym's voice that Cyrus had literally never heard before and it made his uneasiness worse. His skin prickled and tingled, and he stared out the window, his brain somehow convinced that as soon as he looked back at Aym he'd be that demonic vision from his mind's eye.

🌀Post the fic summary for a fic you haven't written/published yet. It can be hypothetical or something you really plan on releasing...

I'll give you the Abominations summary since that's my Big Project and what the snippets I'm sharing are from. The overarching plotline is just. The trials and tribulations of a polycule of gay ass supernatural creechurs and their close friends and family (honestly more or less one giant polycule surrounding and branching off of the core five. These mfs are just. Fucking sm). The first book, the one I'm working on rn (tentatively titled Rebirth) deals with Cyrus joining the family and coming to terms with his new life as a werewolf. He's a college student who gets attacked at a party and almost killed, and now he has to deal with his new werewolf status, the supernatural world, and figuring out his place in the family and the growing pains for all of them that come along with it. And if all that isn't enough, the asshole bastard man who attacked him comes sniffing around causing just, so many problems tbh, not only for Cyrus and the fam but for himself and his little pack. (And his presence is going to bring More Trouble down the line but. Shhhh >:3) I'm aiming for very. Urban fantasy with splashes of very very Queer™ romance. (Genuinely I don't think we have a single heterosexual in the cast even the minor character couple who are "str8" married are actually bi4bi so. The only characters who I could say For Sure are straight are. Future antagonists, that I would genuinely almost classify as actual villains lmao)

☔Is there a fic concept you have that you'd like to just explain and share because you're not sure you'll ever write it? If so, what is it?

Godddddd probably my Adieu fic 😩 I want to write it sm but I don't know if I'll ever get around to it bc I have too many original fics I want to focus on more. I know I've already given you a big ole rundown of it but mostly it would consist of the Rammlads being an elite assassin squad for The Church™ and Till getting captured and slowly regaining lost memories and uncovering the dark secrets abt their existence, namely them being clones of the first resistance group that rose up against The Church™ and that keep getting replaced and given the same (at least half fabricated) memories any time they get killed or injured beyond saving. Till would help the other lads recover their memories and then it would kind of. Segue into the video, with them going into church headquarters and blowing everything up to end the cycle and hopefully deal a debilitating blow to The Church™ itself.

[slaheir]

senpujin >>   setsuna vc:: apparently you have.. you just run away before you realize you were caught . ( she's definitely teasin btw xD ) 

    ❛ what the- I have NOT! I have never kissed anYONE and when I get to the bottom of who’s spreading these rumors I swear !!!  ❜  

[whatifxwereyou]

Firestorm Part 2: Determination

Fandom: Mortal Kombat 2021 Liu Kang x Reader

A/N: That plot getting real again tho. It's funny to me how different the plots for both sides have become just from one little decision. Thank you guys for the support.

If you would like to be tagged for Firestorm when I post, let me know. I'll start a tag list.

The Oncoming Storm Part 1 Part 3 Chapter Index

“What else can you remember?” Feng tapped his fingers against the charcoal. He’d done several sketches of the demon-looking creature that you’d seen in your visions but none of them had come out quite right. It was like the image that had once been clear had become jumbled up when you tried to describe it. It was deeply upsetting honestly. To think that someone’s power over you could be so strong that they could literally twist images in your brain. You felt betrayed by your brain.

Feng had the patience of a saint for dealing with your confusion. You were no artist either, so describing the creature had been exceptionally difficult. You had five portraits to work from and each of them was startlingly different. You hoped that at least one of them was accurate enough for Raiden to recognize.

“The horns were different.” You struggled to remember and rotated your pained shoulder. It had been heavier that day for whatever reason.

“Are you okay, Y/N? Do we need to stop for today?” Feng set the sketchpad down in his lap with concerned eyes.

“What?” You hadn’t realized that you’d been cradling your arm to your chest. Oops. You let it go but it ached in objection. “No, I’m fine. We can keep going.”

“Okay…” He drifted off nervously and began to alter the horns on the sketch. Then he stopped again with a heavy sigh. “Maybe you should go get that looked at,” he whispered as though others could overhear even though you were very much alone. You stole a glance at the mark that spread from your shoulder to your chest. It was red, enflamed, and swollen.

“It’s probably just all this rain.”

“I’d feel more comfortable if you got it looked at.” Feng bowed his head politely. You sighed heavily again. He was worried about you, yes, but you knew your limits. You were tired of being treated like you didn’t, but you also understood his concern. It wasn’t just that he was worried about you, either. The latest ‘tea’ was that you were dangerous and unpredictable. “You seem distracted. We can pick it back up after you’re less pained.”

“If that’s what would make you comfortable, then fine.” You wouldn’t argue with him anymore. It wasn’t worth it. Feng went about gathering his art supplies and you focused on your shoulder. The crack ached deeply, like someone had run a hot knife through it while you’d been sleeping. “Thank you for the help, Feng.” You yelled after him when he practically ran from the room.

People had taken to treating you like a ticking timebomb. You’d played into it a few times because it had been ridiculous. You tried not to let it bother you but on and off it had. Your shoulder was bad today so maybe Feng was right. You should stop by the infirmary. Plus, you hadn’t seen Chen yet today and it would be nice to chat with someone who wasn’t afraid of you. As much as you wanted to sit around and enjoy the storm, when left alone with your thoughts, you couldn’t stop thinking about your conversation with Liu Kang from the night before.

The infirmary it was.

“Oh, good!” Chen stomped angrily toward you as you approached the infirmary. You looked behind you to make sure that there wasn’t someone there that deserved this much of Chen’s wrath. You’d never seen Chen that aggressive before. In fact, you had been certain that nothing bothered Chen enough to make you stomp around. Oh, how wrong you were. “I need to talk to you about those boys.”

“Could you be any louder about it?” You didn’t turn red this time. You’d grown tougher skin since the last time Chen had teased you. “And can you look at my shoulder first? Or during? I don’t care when as long as you look at it.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Uh… it’s swollen and it hurts.” You couldn’t believe Chen’s attitude. Chen grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the infirmary. With a twist of your wrist, you were forced to sit down. You held your hand then protectively away from Chen who wasn’t being at all gentle. “If you aren’t going to be nice to me then I will ask one of the other monks to help.” Your shoulder was now throbbing after Chen’s pulling. Your stomach churned like you’d eaten something bad.

Chen seemed to consider then and then sighed. “You are kind of gray, I suppose. What did you do to upset it? Did you overwork it like I told you not to?”

“Why do you assume that I did something wrong?”

“You have a track record, Y/N.”

“I think it’s the weather. Feng practically fled from me because of it.” You held your arm protectively against your chest as Chen reached for it. “Are you going to be nice? It hurts. I don’t need you tugging on it unnecessarily.”

“Yes, I promise. I’m sorry.” Chen took a breath and finally smiled. “After we took a look, we are discussing those boys though.”

“Quieter, please.”

“Oh hush, Y/N, everyone here knows what’s going on and I have a lot to say. I can’t be blamed for my tone right now.” Chen tugged your arm free, and you yelped and saw stars. You fanned your face with your other hand when it became way too hot very suddenly. Your lips were tingling.

“Chen, you’ve got to…”

“I overheard those two sneaks talking and…”

“Chen?” You scooted to the edge of the bench and spoke with urgency. Your head was spinning. You might vomit. Oh no. It was too hot in there. Had it been that hot in there when you’d arrived? Were you just now noticing?

“Don’t avoid the topic, Y/N.”

“Chen, I think she’s being serious.” One of the other monks came over to you and clasped Chen’s shoulder. Your ears were ringing. You saw the two of them arguing. The monk was pointing at you while he argued with Chen. Then you fell forward, and everything went black before you hit the floor.

***

Stone was hot beneath your body. Burning. You sat up, rubbing the sore spot on your head from hitting the ground but every movement was like you were stuck in molasses. The wind was whipping at you, and your hair flew wildly around you. The air was red hot and instead of rain fell embers.

You were atop a mountain. How had you gotten outside? Lightning struck all around you and the stone beneath you began to crumble. You could see it falling on top of the buildings below. People were screaming. A thousand voices overlapped, crying in pain, and calling for help. You managed to crawl to the edge of the crumbling mountain but was thrown back as lightning struck too close to you. Flames raged from below.

The temple was on fire. You tried to make your way over the edge, but your shoulder felt as though hooks had been driven into it, hooks that were attached to weights.

The storm! You realized, deafened by the roar of fire and the grumble of thunder what this was.

It was going to damage the temple.

People were going to die.

You had to do something, but the weight was too much. It dragged you down. You could barely move. People were screaming over the thunder, over the fire. You could smell burnt flesh. There was no escape from it, and you sat in agony, helpless amongst the fire and the death.

***

You sat up with a start and a gasp. The infirmary spun. You were on the floor and spotted Chen about ten times as the world spun. You were coated in a thin sheen of sweat and your body was trembling.

“Oh, oh no… no lay down, Y/N. Lay down.” Chen carefully urged you to lay back, but you fought her. Then you stopped and gulped, feeling the burning of nausea in the back of your throat. “Please! Lay down, Y/N.” The other monks were gathered nearby but had left a wide berth around you just in case. There was no ink that you could see, so there was that.

“I need to talk to Raiden, it’s urgent.” You muttered, pushing Chen’s hand away from you. Chen grasped your pained shoulder and you hissed in objection. “Chen!”

“You had a fit, Y/N. You need to lay down. Take it easy. Did you have a vision? There wasn’t any ink, you just collapsed and smacked your head on the floor.” Chen was checking your pupils and you were trying very much to escape the death grip Chen had on your shoulder.

“I had a vision, I need to…”

“Lord Raiden?” One of the monks spoke in surprise. Then they were all bowing as the god entered the room. Chen relaxed her grip on your shoulder in surprise and then stepped back and bowed low to the floor. Raiden had known that you needed to speak with him.

“What is it, Y/N?” He crouched low by your side. His presence was more imposing than ever, but you felt so afraid by what you’d seen that you weren’t intimidated.

“I saw something. There’s going to be… an accident.” You held your head in frustration as you struggled with words. There was a knot right on the side of your head above your ear from where you’d fallen. Why couldn’t you just say it? There was going to be a collapse! A fire! Lightning would strike the mountain and there would be devastation. The words were there but by the time they reached your mouth they were gone. You couldn’t seem to translate the images into words, and you had never been more frustrated. “Ugh.” You held your head in your hands and grasped your hair in annoyance. “It’s important but I… I can’t…”

“Can you show me?”

“I…” You hesitated. The infirmary was filled with people, and you were terrified of putting them in danger. Nothing good had ever happened while you were sharing visions with Raiden. What if they got hurt? It was one thing to hurt Liu Kang, a trained warrior who had put himself in harm’s way. This was another thing entirely. You suddenly realized just how dangerous you truly were.

“I will take you somewhere isolated.” Raiden seemed to read your mind. Either that or your expression had said is quite plainly. Before you could add that it was urgent, Raiden grasped your arm. Lightning crackled and you had returned to the chamber you’d referred to mentally as his. Raiden helped you get to your feet and then urged you to take a seat on a bench near the wall. “You’re pale.”

“I don’t… that’s not important. What I saw, Raiden. It’s urgent.” You didn’t care that you were sick or dizzy or pale. Whatever. If what you saw was going to happen during the storm, then it would be happening soon. You needed Raiden to see what you saw and interpret it for you. It occurred to you that not all visions would be accurate. Some of them could have been that creature screwing with you, taunting you.

“Yes, of course.” Raiden looked hesitant though you couldn’t say why. This was urgent.

“Please.”

Raiden placed his hand atop your head. Then with a crushing pressure you were gone. Like a light had been turned off inside of you. There was nothing. No pain. No struggling. No visions.

Just darkness.

Then you woke up.

The room that spun around you was one you didn’t recognize. Location didn’t matter anymore. At least you were awake. Your heart was racing like it was going to take flight, as though you had spent hours running beyond exhaustion. You sat up with a grunt but then Chen was pushing you to lay back down again.

Ugh.

“Relax, Y/N. You’re safe.” Chen reassured you but her expression betrayed her. She looked exhausted and worried. She was stuck on Y/N-duty again. Poor Chen. You bet that she regretted getting close to you now with all the extra work she had to do. “Please listen to me for once. I need you to lay and relax. You have a fever but you’re okay.”

“My heart.” You patted your chest nervously to mimic the beating of your heart.

“It’s stress but you’re okay. It’ll calm down.” Chen assured you but picked up your wrist and took your pulse anyway.

“What happened? Is everything okay? Did…” You drifted off as you forced yourself up on your elbows. Your whole left side was tingling and numb. Chen frowned at you disapprovingly.

“Raiden saw. It’s okay, Y/N. Lightning struck the mountain on the other side of the ravine but…” Chen then held her finger up to silence you so she could count. You held your breath, hoping that Chen would tell you more. Then Chen swatted you for holding your breath and you pouted.

Raiden’s presence made you both turn your heads toward the doorway. “Leave us.” He ordered in a stern tone but then bowed his head as if realizing he’d spoken too harshly. Chen sighed, frustrated, and then gently squeezed your hand.

“I’ll find you later.”

“Thank you, Chen.” You carefully pushed yourself so that you were sitting upright. Your shoulder throbbed and your left arm felt numb and useless. You cradled it to your body with your other hand. Raiden sat down on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees.

“You saved a great many people today.”

“I didn’t do anything, I don’t…”

“You did.” Raiden looked to you from the corner of his eye. “I was able to see your vision and minimize the damage. Lives were saved.” He then bowed his head. “The devastation you foresaw was tremendous. Because you were able to communicate your vision to me, we caught it before it happened.”

“I didn’t do anything. I don’t- I don’t want that credit.” You frowned. You really hadn’t done anything worthy of praise.

“You saw.” Raiden’s expression was serious. You felt again like a little girl who had disobeyed her father, so you didn’t object. “That creature told you that you would not see, and you saw anyway. You were meant to see, Y/N.”

You hadn’t thought of it that way.

You hadn’t thought about the fact that you were terrible at this was because of that creature. He stifled your ability to see. Duh. But you’d seen anyway. Raiden had said it with such pride that you felt a little proud. Even though seeing had kicked your ass, it had been worth it.

“We will find a way to separate you from this curse. You will see clearly. You will see and you will fight.”

You teared up.

You stuttered, wanting to thank him for his help, for his belief in you but no words came out. You wiped your eyes. Much to your surprise, Raiden hugged you. It was a fatherly hug, something that you hadn’t felt in so long that you weren’t sure how to emotionally respond to it. You had never been close with your father. In fact, he’d frightened you. He’d never hurt you but he’d been imposing.

“I’m sorry that I hurt you.” He let you go and you pulled back, adjusting to sit against the wall behind you. You were exhausted but at least the feeling was returning to your arm.

“Oh no, no Raiden. I’m not. You had to. I was… out of control.” You hadn’t blamed him. You had hurt Liu and the ink had been filling the room. You’d needed to be stopped and he’d done what he thought was right.

“I hurt you more than I intended. I’m still sorry.”

“It’s okay. I have more than forgiven you.”

“I’ve moved the artifacts somewhere safe. I’m hoping that the distance will offer you some relief.” Raiden got up and was back to his usual composed and intimidating self. You tried not to smile. It had been exceedingly kind of him to reassure you. Sweet, even. “If we can get control of your visions and your arcana so that they are at least less destructive then it is a step in the right direction. I want you to work on that when you’re feeling a little better. You must survive long enough to discover who has done this and why. Why you? What motives could they have other than to stifle your visions? And why is it that you have these visions? They are unrelated to your arcana.”

“I’ve thought about that more than you know. I’ll do my best to get some control over it. I’m going to fight, Lord Raiden.” His belief in you had given you strength. You’d been teetering on having faith in yourself for so long that it was nice to feel determined. You had needed that push. Even though you felt like absolute garbage after having your vision and sharing it with Raiden only moments after, you still felt better than you’d felt in a long time.

“Good.” He turned to face you again. “Thank you, Y/N. You saved many lives today and I am grateful. Get some rest.” He bowed to you and then left the room. Chen returned through the same doorway only seconds later in a huff. She seemed overwhelmed and you couldn’t blame her.

“What did he say to you? I tried to listen in but I think he knew I was listening. I couldn’t hear a single word!” She pouted in frustration, as if she had failed at being a gossip.

“Good. It wasn’t your business, Chen.” You teased but then rested your head on Chen’s shoulder with a sigh. Chen slipped her arm around you in a hug.

“You doing okay, sweet pea?”

“I don’t like that.” You laughed, sitting upright, and holding your sore shoulder. “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”

“When you stop collapsing all over the temple then I’ll stop worrying.” Chen scolded. “I can’t keep reassuring you when you keep doing things to worry me.”

“I know, I really do. I’m working on it. I’m sorry to have worried you.”

“Don’t be sorry. I just want you to be okay.” Chen furrowed her brow. You felt lucky to have her. “Why don’t I help you back to your room so that you can get some rest?”

“That’s probably for the best.” You tried to roll your shoulder but your body wasn’t having it. “Wait, you were up in arms about something earlier. Weren’t you? Or was I imagining you being mean to me?”

“For another day, Y/N. Right now I want you to rest.”

“Are you worried about stressing me out because of the heart thing?”

“I absolutely am.” Chen giggled and then helped you to your feet. Your legs were wobbly but once you were on them, you were fine. Chen insisted upon helping you back to your room regardless. You didn’t want to sit and listen to the storm for the rest of the afternoon. Earlier you would have been happy to but after talking to Raiden, you were motivated.

For the first time in your life your visions had been more than a burden that deteriorated your health and made people call you names. You’d seen the potential destruction of parts of the temple and it had saved lives. Raiden had been the one to save those lives but without you he never would have known it was coming.

You didn’t want credit for it but it did feel good to have done something other than destroy and maim.

[obeymeluv]

Red String of Fate

Something a little different! Drabble lead + headcanons! I really like the idea of being connected to someone, so have this~

Also: very long, so I only did a few of the brothers. I tend to do them in order but I tried to jump around for variety’s sake since I published a partial post the other day.

Features: Lucifer, Mammon, and Asmo (short-ish, but for a reason. Makes sense when you read the lead-up),

I have to get to bed. Need to get up early for studying + a morning class. Really love this idea so I’ll be working on something unique for the rest of the bros :)

Casual conversations about soulmates and bad dates inspires Asmo to find your one true love. He swears up and down there’s a book that can do it. Being a lover of love and feeling like it’s his duty to see you off into the best of hands—the hands made to hold you!—he sets out to find the book. Legend says Cupid pricked his finger while writing out love lists with his enchanted quill and threw the dirty pages away, deeming them unusable. Instead of being discarded, they were salvaged by another and turned into a book that would answer any love-related question the reader had.

All it would cost is a drop of blood.

Cupid, who was very serious about his task of uniting hearts and forging bonds, felt insulted by the book. He felt cheapened and could not see the joy it would bring before his arrow was destined to arrive. In a fit of rage he threw it from the heavens, assuming it would disintegrate before landing in another’s hands.

He was wrong.

The book circulated for centuries, making its way through humble and haughty, poor and princely. Some say it even inspired the most romantic of playwrights. It was kept by a family of matchmakers for generations before their home was pillaged and burned by a spurned heart. Traded out of guilt or in a desperate moment for silver or food (Asmo didn’t remember which), it ended up in the hands of a scholar. He sat with his crush and read the book, the two asking it hundreds of questions and finding themselves quite content with each other.

After the two got married, they were convinced it was a lucky charm of sorts and passed it along to their friends. Once those friends found their true loves, it started a chain of giving. When one family had all of their children married off, they would pass the book on to someone else. The book spent a fair amount of time collecting dust when one person lost their soulmate too soon and didn’t open it for about five years, convinced it would stay blank. A new love came into their life and they were so moved by the magic, by the joy, that they donated the book to a thrift shop.

Asmodeus lost the history after the thrift shop. Too many people went in and out of it, too much time had passed. All he knew is that it ended up in the hands of a witch who made serious money off of love potions and romantic divinations. One of her grandchildren—a quarter succubus and three-quarters human—had donated it to RAD’s library.

He should’ve just texted his friends about the damn thing instead of researching it like Levi does his events. Should he be proud of all the effort? You could be, but he was kind of put off by all the work. It was shabby and beaten, hardly bigger than a typical planner. Definitely unassuming and definitely looked like it’d seen some things. Asmodeus was expecting something gorgeously gilded and velvet.

Hopefully a peek into your future would make up for all the disappointment. “I bet it’s me.” he touched a finger to his soft lips with a giddy smile, little ring glinting in the light. He practically skipped out of the library and back to the House of Lamentation. At the very least, he’d get to go on and on about how he found it and how grateful you should be that he cares for you so much to do so!

Asmodeus whisks you away into his room, the bed already set with pillows that were both aesthetic and luxurious. Nothing too out of the norm for him, but he wanted something that complimented the romantic undertones of this little endeavor. He coddled the two of you in a plush pink blanket before cracking it open and guiding your finger along the edge of the page. The red soaked in, ink blossoming in a faint pink that turned a brilliant scarlet.

The book grew warm, almost burning as the scarlet began to sear and shimmer on the page. You heard him hiss and grabbed the book as he started to squirm and scoot out from under it. You’d barely grabbed the book when pinky-red smoke exploded violently in your face. It didn’t burn or have a taste but it was surprisingly thick.

“What? No names!” Asmodeus had finally swatted away enough of the smoke to see a blank book. “It’s supposed to be names!” he scowled, kittenish fangs threatening to poke at his lower lip.

“Maybe there’s been a revision,” you blinked distractedly, talking more to yourself than him. Nope, still there. You wagged your finger at Asmodeus, showing off the bright red string tied around it.

His oncoming rant receded immediately, eyes shining a gorgeous and unmistakable pink. “Let’s see where it goes!”

To Lucifer:  

He’s in the middle of doing paperwork (shocker) when he finds a vibrant red string tangling in his pen and catching on the lines

Tries to shake it off (very undignified, glad no one saw it)

Puts his pen down to pick at it and untie it. When that doesn’t work, he slips the opposite glove off with his teeth and lets his demon aura come out just enough to turn his fingernails into claws

That didn’t work either

Physically tries to pull the string off and begrudgingly stops when he realizes his finger might come off first

A huffy, annoyed man

Takes an awkward pic with his D.D.D and sends it to Diavolo, wanting to know if it’s a prank

Diavolo swears it’s not and Barbatos suggests it could be the red string theory, that thing some humans believe in.

Could it be true? Does he have a soulmate? Could he, being a fallen angel? Demons had soul mates?

All the questions swirl and he just leans back in his fancy padded chair to absorb it all. There’s something beautifully sad and...comforting...at the thought of demons having a soulmate, someone made just for them

Lucifer doesn’t really think that a soulmate’s at the end of the string, but he tells himself it’s a walk for the sake of his health, to stretch, and sets off to find the string

The eldest is quite surprised to run into you and Asmo, the string clearly tied around your finger.

“A bit overboard, don’t you think, Asmo?” Lucifer’s a little aggravated by it. What is this, a set up?!

His little brother swears against it, holding up a beaten book not even Mammon would waste money on.

Apparently, the string disappears when the soulmates touch their fingers together. Lucifer rolls his eyes and tries to soften his scowl as he presses his finger to yours.

You’re both surprised when the string thickens until it resembles a ribbon, kinking in the shape of a heart before disappearing in a burst of pinky-red smoke that has your fingers tingling

Lucifer says nothing, silently stunned and heart yearning at the tingling in his finger. It’s warm, like your love.

To Mammon:

IS IT ONE OF THE WITCHES?! IS THIS A TRACKER?!

First reaction: “OI! What the hell?!”

Also shakes his finger

Immediate second reaction is to chew on it and try to get it off

Ends up sucking on his tender finger like a baby because he basically chewed on himself instead of the string

Texted all the sorcerers and witches he knew. They all deny hexing him or mentioning him in potion-making.

He’s surprised to find he can still move around with the string. It’s not straining or limiting him, so he goes in his closet of magical seals, peeling a few back to reveal a sizeable hoard of stuff he’d stolen over the centuries (including some stuff he had on him from the Fall).

He tries daggers of all sizes and types. They don’t cut the string, either

When nothing seems to work, he marches towards the source, wrapping it around his fist with a grumble.

He pulls on it at random just because it’s a minor inconvenience and he couldn’t get it off.

Mammon notice that it runs under Asmo’s door and he yanks on it really hard, hoping he’s tearing thread off of a sweater or something. Annoying ass little brother!

When you yelp he freezes. Brain hasn’t quite kicked in yet and he yanks it again to check the reaction. Another yelp, and a thick thud behind the door.

Sounds like you’re involved somehow. Oops.

Turns out you had a hard time coming out of the room because he wound the string too quick (and weren’t strong enough to tug it back to yourself)

Asmo’s in the middle of lecturing him as he squishes your poor little face, scowling and lamenting that MAMMON is your soulmate. MAMMON, of all people, who’d been smacking you against a door for the last few minutes!

Now Mammon’s interested and needs the story

Gets a biiiig shit-eating grin when he realizes what’s happened.

Takes your hand with his usual fanfare of ‘’Course I would be! I’m their MAIN man! Their BEST man!”

The string seems to tie your hands together for a brief moment before exploding in a burst of smoke and Mammon’s still grinning like an idiot.

He doesn’t let go of your hand

To Asmodeus:

He’s waving that smoke away when he feels a new, subtle weight on his finger

Whatever it is, it’s flitting and ticklish. He can feel it catching on some of the fashion rings he wears

Asmodeus doesn’t know whether he wants to purr or squeal. He did something that hurt your human ears though.

Didn’t realize it hurt your ears until after the noise bottoms out to a lower pitch, and immediately cups his hands over yours ears, sliding them up into your hair while he showers the crown of your head in apology kisses.

Makes a video clip to send to the bros in a group chat and has to redo it several times because they can’t really hear his words over the smug purring and clicking

It warms his heart to know he has a real soulmate. Asmodeus really struggles with the concept of genuine, non-sexual love.

He figured the most he could ever get was platonic love or brotherly love, but this is a whole new thing for him and he’s honestly blown away

For a brief moment he feels like Heaven’s Jewel again, so treasured and special. It almost makes him cry

He’s lowkey crying.

100% takes advantage of the fact that your fingers are tied together until you touch fingertips. You guys giggle quietly and cuddle close as he loops the string around his finger so you put your arm around his neck

“You don’t need a string to make me touch you, you know.” you tease him, wrinkling your nose in that cute human way you have

“I know,” Asmo gives you an Eskimo kiss that turns into a few butterfly kisses on your mouth, leaning over you and into you.

Totally uses the string as an excuse to cuddle you and turn down any activities the bros want you to go to. (”Can’t, they’re kind of tied up.”)

Let this baby bask in his sure thing, okay? He really needs it, and you know he’s good for it

Gives you hand kisses and cuddles into you

Gets the bright idea to try to bottle the smoke that’ll erupt when you touch fingertips. Sacrifices his most beautiful perfume bottle to immortalize this moment

Catches the littlest bit, so thin that he has to hold it up to the light to see it.

Complains about probably swallowing most of it during that attempt

Is now even more shameless about demanding his cuddles and attention because you guys are destined lovers.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens one-shot - “Wrong Address” (Rated NC17)

Summary: Since Aziraphale won't let his demon come over during lockdown, Crowley decides to send him a special gift. It doesn't work out quite the way he planned...

... but that might turn out to be an unexpected blessing. (1655 words)

Read on AO3.

"Anthony J Crowley! Did you send me a care package?"

"Yes, indeedy, angel," Crowley admits, a smug smile tugging his lips up at the corners. He reclines in his throne, phone pressed to his ear, staring out his windows in the direction of his angel's shop, beaming at the smile in Aziraphale's voice.

"What a wonderful surprise! This has positively made my day! Whatever made you think of it?"

"Well, when you mentioned finding those cookbooks in your shop, you sounded so damned happy, I wanted to see if I could top it even if you won't let me come over so I can watch you eat your tasty creations... " Crowley mutters on the finish, still bitter at his angel's reluctance to bend the rules, especially since those rules shouldn't apply to them. There's no way either of them can get sick! "So when I saw this online, I thought it could be a way for me to be a part of your culinary journey."

"How very thoughtful of you," Aziraphale says apologetically. He's not trying to hurt Crowley. He would love nothing more than to have him slither over and share a crumpet or two. 

But angels assigned to Earth stations are meant to be role models. What he does, he does for appearance's sake. 

He must lead by example.

Though, to be honest, it's quite annoying being penned in like this for the good of mankind when humans can't see fit to sit on their arses for a few months until this whole virus bother blows over. 

"So... " Crowley nudges as an expectant silence falls between them, each waiting for the other's next move.

"Indeed! Don't keep me in suspense!" Aziraphale says, rubbing his palms together. "What's inside?"  

Crowley rolls his eyes. Like he's going to set up this whole surprise and then just spill the beans! "You won't know until you open it, will you?"

"Oh! You want me to open it now then? With you on the phone?"

"That's wot I was hoping. I want to hear your reaction. You know, since I can't be there and all."

"Okay. Give me a moment. I need to find a letter opener or a box cutter or... or something... " 

Crowley sinks further into his seat, closes his eyes, and makes himself comfortable. Knowing Aziraphale and his unique organizational system, this could take a while. But listening to his angel hum as he roots through his desk drawers relaxes him. Crowley finds himself drifting off, lulled by the sounds of Aziraphale simply being Aziraphale. But he can't let himself get too cozy. It would be a shame if he knocked out and missed Aziraphale digging into his gift. 

Crowley considers snapping his fingers and giving his angel a hand with the packing tape when he hears a dull pop! and a triumphant, "Success!" Unpacking noises follow - the crumpling of paper wrap being pulled apart, amplified through Crowley's phone, then a giggle that falls somewhere between nervousness and confusion. "Oh! Uh... "

Crowley sits up straight, peering into the distance as if he could see what Aziraphale sees from Mayfair if he tries hard enough. "Wot? Wot's going on?"

"I... I don't know how you intend on me making a meal with what's in this box. Or are you punishing me because I won't let you come over? That would be unnecessarily hurtful, even for a demon."

"Why?" Crowley springs up and stalks over to the glass, addressing the greying treetops below. "Wot'sss in the box?"

"Don't you know?" Aziraphale teases when he starts to suspect this as an honest mishap and not a ploy by his demon.

"Obviousssly I don't!"

"Let's sort through the contents together then, shall we?" Aziraphale reaches into the box, pulling out items one by one. "We have here a pair of silky black knickers. I think these would suit you more than me, my dear."

"You think so?" Crowley asks, annoyance replaced in an instant by intrigue over his angel's impression of him.

"Oh, yes. I think they'd be most flattering on you. And here we have something called a Ben Wa ball, some... " Aziraphale clears his throat before he owns up to the next one "... anal beads... "

Crowley snickers, more at Aziraphale's tight tone than the item itself.

"... a Do Not Disturb sign with an illustration on it that’s anything but subtle, and an object I can only describe as a gel-filled self-pleasuring device. Oh... this one needs refrigeration."

Crowley's mouth goes dry, his imagination running wild with that description, trying to conjure a vision in his head of what such a thing might look like, and where it would go, especially cold. He presses a hot palm to the glass and shivers involuntarily. "Oh my... "

"You sound surprised. Is this not what you ordered, dear?"

"No!" Crowley squeaks. Aziraphale stifles a chuckle when his voice cracks. "No, I didn't," Crowley repeats, fighting for composure while the rest of him itches to bust through the window, unfurl his wings, and fly to his angel. 

He could probably make it to him before the first splinter of glass hits the pavement.

But no. 

Boundaries. 

Aziraphale's determination to not have Crowley over is about more than protocol. Crowley knows this. Angel set up boundaries. And even though his reasons for doing so are ludicrous, Crowley needs to respect them. "Is there a company name on the box?"

"Let me check." Aziraphale mumbles as he searches the package for a name. "This end up, handle with care... here it is! Tantalize Me - the premium adult date night mystery box. Ooo! That sounds interesting! Do you think there could be a murder to sort out in all of this?"

"I don't think that's what they mean by mystery, angel," Crowley says, hearing Aziraphale dive back into the box.

"A-ha! I think I've found the problem."

"And that is... ?"

"I'm afraid this package was meant to go to another bookshop on my same block. It's entirely possible they may have my box."

"I think you learned some information about your competition that you maybe didn't want to know."

"Yes, I suppose I did."

Crowley sighs. "But now I feel like a heel."

"Why is that?"

"I promised you a meal and I didn't deliver."

"Pun intended?" Aziraphale asks with a snort. 

"Not," Crowley replies, less than amused.

"I don't think you can be blamed for a mix-up with the post, my dear."

"Bet I can... " Crowley says, thoughts shuffling back to that awful Horizon IT scandal he lazily threw together that went, unfortunately, better than he'd planned.

"There is one thing to eat in here."

"Really?" Crowley grumbles, turning away from the glass and leaning his back against it, an intense chill seeping through his clothes and into his skin, its sting matching his rapidly fouling mood. "What's that?"

"A tube of personal lubricant. And it's chocolate flavored!" Crowley's eyes widen when he hears the telltale snap of a flip-top lid opening, followed by a wet squelch. "Mmm. It's not half bad."

"Are you actually eating that?" Crowley asks breathlessly.

"Only a little. I licked it off my finger."

Crowley fumbles his phone, catching it before it crashes to the floor. "A---Aziraphale... " 

"Listen to this! It says on the label that it tingles with body heat. Isn't that interesting?"

Crowley's eyelids flutter shut and he swallows hard, his entire body becoming a solid, throbbing ache. Aziraphale doesn't have body heat. Not all that much. But as a demon, Crowley is full of Hellfire. What would it feel like to have his angel spread that lube on him, press his body against him with his skin tingling like crazy? Jesus Christ! "Aziraphale... "

"Whatever is the matter, my dear?"

"Nothing. Except now I think you're punishing me."

"Carl and Tish Lloyd are probably expecting their package. They must have some big plans. I should send it on its way," Aziraphale suggests with infuriating rationale. "Shouldn't I?"

"Th---that wouldn't be good form!" a desperate Crowley argues. "You've already opened it! And sampled it! You can't give it to them in that condition!"

"That is true. That wouldn't be very neighborly. But what to do with it? That's the question... " Aziraphale wonders while Crowley dies inside, a moan trapped in his throat struggling to break free every time he thinks about Aziraphale licking chocolate-flavored lube off his fingers. "Did you want to... uh... try a bit? Of the chocolate goo, I mean?"

"Are you going to ship it over?"

"I guess I could do that," Aziraphale muses. "But who's to say it will get there? What with the post office making such tragic errors. No. I think there's only one way we can ensure that you get your fair share."

Crowley's brow furrows, his brain cluttered with mixed signals. "Are you asking me... ? Can I come over?"

"I have some conditions."

"Name them," Crowley says, prepared to bolt the second Aziraphale gives him the go-ahead.

"You can come over only if you can make it here without being seen. No giving the humans irresponsible ideas. I know that's your job, but I can't be a party to that. Deal?"

"Deal." A snap of his fingers and a second later, Crowley snatches the tube of lubricant out of Aziraphale's hand. He takes Aziraphale's right wrist gingerly in his grasp, squeezes a dollop of lube on it, then licks it slowly off, amber eyes locking on his angel's blue gaze. Aziraphale's whole body shudders from a single swipe of his tongue, Crowley's tastebuds tingling on the finish. He licks his lips, depositing a thin layer of the lube, which fires across his skin like firecrackers. He sees his angel tremble, sees the white glow of lust in his eyes, and he grins. 

Crowley is about to enjoy the best meal of his life.

[darthmarrsgf]

monday night tumblr fic

or: big game hunting for fun and friendship

i love qyzen. i was so jazzed to do his alliance recruitment mission with my consular because we're buds, and this resulted. (more theron/consular. i'm being boring but this is what i have the most written/unpublished for, and also, this is Very Scary to me, so i'm easing into posting, lol.) unbeta'ed as always; probably repeated words without realizing which is one of my biggest personal demons.

~~~

“Caf?”

Sohlara responded with a single raised eyebrow.

“Fine. There’s a little whiskey in there, too.” Theron rolled his eyes as the Jedi huffed out a laugh and turned back to scan the landscape with a pair of downright antique-looking macrobinoculars. “It’s really not as bad as you think.”

She hummed noncommittally. "Should I be worried about you drinking and shooting?”

“Nah. This is just enough to pretend you’re staying warm. Besides, I’ve shot my way out of a fight with a lot more alcohol in me.”

“I can't decide if that’s reassuring or not. Here,” Sohlara said, passing the binocs to Theron. “Due north.”

Theron tucked away the flask as he squinted into the viewfinder. “Big. Think Scorekeeper will approve?”

“We’re about to find out,” she replied, offering Theron a hand after smoothly moving to stand. “We’ll go on foot. If there are more around, I don’t want to draw their attention yet.”

Theron had to pick up his pace to catch up to the woman, who had already outpaced him with seemingly silent strides through the snow. Actually, he reasoned, they probably were silent.

“You probably could have talked him into coming without offering to hunt,” he observed as he reached her side.

She shrugged. “I know I could have. But he’s a respected warrior. It’s only fair that I prove I can regain my score, the same way he did. And hopefully, it will show his men that we're worth helping.”

“So when he calls you Herald—"

“Scorekeeper’s Herald. Qyzen was an old friend of my master’s. I assume you’ve heard that story?”

Theron nodded. Between his close affiliation with several members of the Order, his history in the SIS, and details Sohlara had mentioned herself over the years, Theron was familiar with the unexpected trials that had led to her designation as Barsen’thor.

“He was on Tython when Yuon first fell ill. He helped me without question, but he was captured.”

“Which is bad.” He remembered that much.

“It’s a forfeiture—worse than death. When I freed him, I convinced him that he should try to regain his score by helping me hunt Lord Vivicar.” Sohlara stepped deftly between boulders and snow drifts, moving quickly enough to avoid the beast’s gaze. “He determined that Scorekeeper chose me as her Herald to guide him through a second chance.”

“Well… he wasn’t wrong.”

“I won’t take for granted the trust he gave me, even as a Padawan. A soft thing.” The corner of her mouth quirked. “He has honor. It’s not exactly honor in the same way you or I might see it, but I do my best to respect it.”

“Herald, Barsen’thor, Commander... You’ve racked up quite a reputation.”

“You know what the Esh-ka called me?” She paused, peering around an enormous spire of ice with her binocs.

“I truly have no idea.”

Sohlara leaned toward Theron, expression deadly serious. “Silent Teeth,” she whispered, snapping her jaw shut centimeters from Theron’s face.

“Blast—" Theron flinched, rubbing his ear as Sohlara laughed quietly and turned back to face the tundra.

“They let me pick that one, though. Oh, and there was a group of Gree ambassador droids on Coruscant—I never thought being called a ‘black bisector’ could be such a compliment."

“A black—never mind. I don’t want to know.”

Theron mimicked Sohlara’s slow crouch as they edged their way from behind the boulder. The animal was just yards away, back turned to the pair as it crunched on the bones of some unfortunate, smaller creature with a cracking sound that ricocheted through the icy canyon.

Faster than Theron could blink, she rushed forward on feet bolstered by the momentum of the Force. He sighed—he hated when she did that, because it always took him an extra second to catch up. But he couldn’t help but admire her like this. As much as they both groused about the planet’s climate, Sohlara had seemed particularly at ease since they arrived on Hoth. Between reuniting with her old friend and spending time away from the constant pressures of the Alliance base, the Commander was clearly… lighter.

As he fired off impeccably aimed rounds at the beast, Theron reflected with a twinge of guilt. He should have been paying closer attention to the clear stress Sohlara was exhibiting. She was always getting onto Theron for working too late into the night, but when was the last time she’d been able to snatch more than a few uninterrupted hours to herself?

Theron closely monitored the fight, but Sohlara took the beast down with ease and a particularly theatrical flourish of her saber.

“When was the last time you went on vacation?” Theron asked, slipping his blasters back into their holsters as the Commander wrenched a square of the animal’s pelt from its body with brutal efficiency.

Sohlara blinked up at him, sending a sudden pang of longing through Theron's chest like lightning. He willed himself to commit as much of the moment to memory as he could—the bright pink of her cheeks, brought to the surface by the combination of exertion and Hoth's frigid wind; the strands of chestnut hair flattened against her forehead with sweat; the tingle of awareness at the base of his neck as the protective Force barrier she'd cast around them retreated into her body. Even now, seeing her so vibrant and full of life felt like a miracle after all the time he'd spent trying to forget the way her eyes sparkled when they met his own.

“A vacation? Besides the five years I spent as Arcann’s wall decor, I— No. Sometimes we would stay an extra night to rest if we passed through a big city, but I suppose I've never been on a real vacation.”

Theron stepped forward, letting his fingertips brush her shoulders as he leaned in close to her lips. “Let’s take one. When we get back. Even if it’s just a couple of days.”

Sohlara’s eyes drifted shut, just for a moment, and she swayed into Theron’s space. “What exactly about hunting predator animals for sport on a desolate ice planet inspired this?”

“Nothing to do with the ice ball,” Theron declared, moving out of the way so she could shove the trophy into the sack the hunters had provided. “Although seeing you fight is always sexy. I’m serious, Sohl. Lana is more than capable of handling things for a few days, and we should go while—"

Theron swallowed. He hadn’t meant to say that part out loud, but it was too late now. “While we still have the time.”

Her expression was soft as she turned to face Theron. “Okay,” she murmured, brushing a feather-light kiss over his lips before stepping toward the main trail.

“O— Wait. Okay?” Theron blinked in surprise.

“Okay. Where are you going to take me on vacation, Agent Shan?”

Theron grinned, jogging to close the distance between them. “Somewhere warm. Somewhere private.” He reached forward to brush his hand against her ass, smirking as she nearly stumbled. “Watch it.”

“Watch—" Sohlara jammed her shoulder into his. “You can apologize on our vacation.”

[goodomensblog]

Afterward - Part 15

A Good Omens Choose Your Own Adventure Fic

Here’s how it works:

I’ll write a scene.

At the end of each scene, you’ll be presented with 2-3 options for what the characters will choose to do next.

Comment or reblog to vote for your choice. I’ll count all votes after the first 24 hours after each update is posted.

Read: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14

(#3 wins because y’all love chaos, don’t you? Totally understandable. I love it too.)

Afterward - - - Part 15

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Beelzebub, lord of flies, master of tyrants, patron of demon worship, and prince of Hell, is having, by their own estimation, a pretty shit day.

“I think I’d honestly rather die,” Beelzebub groans, as Crowley hauls them impudently up onto his skinny back. 

“I’m saving you, you ungrateful lump of flies, whether you like it or not.”

And Beelzebub, who is having the unfortunate realization that they are too weak to so much as wriggle their way out of this humiliating position, settles for flopping over the demon Crowley’s shoulder in such a way that the black, clotted blood dribbling out of their mouth splats grotesquely down the front of Crowley’s shirt.

“Thank you. Thanks for that,” Crowley says, grabbing underneath Beelzebub's legs to hike the demon a little higher on his back.

“Welcome,” Beelzebub replies, and more blood dribbles out.

Snatching the jar of Hellfire from the table, Crowley clutches it to his chest. With his other hand scooped behind Beelzebub’s leg to keep them in place, he kicks the door open and prowls, piggy-backing Beelzebub, prince of Hell, into the halls of Heaven.

Beelzebub, bouncing with Crowley’s every loping step, has closed their eyes. Head lolling forward, they’ve half given into the encroaching darkness, when Crowley’s annoying, incessant mutterings drag them back into full consciousness. 

“-now for this to work, I’ll just have to-”

The jar lid pops open. Hellfire leaps up, red flames lapping at the edges of the jar and the nearby grasping fingers. Beelzebub can feel it - the rich, tantalizing heat, and slumps forward, breathing in the fire’s acrid scent.

Crowley carelessly drops the jar, and it clatters across the floor as eager flames wrap around the demon’s wrists; they twist, winding up and around his forearms. It’s at that point that Crowley resumes walking. He does nearly trip over the dropped jar, but manages to stay on his feet with a skip and a hop. 

With each step, Crowley mutters sibilant syllables beneath his breath. They are rich as velvet, coaxing the fire with ancient, saccharine promises.

Beelzebub is generally repulsed by Crowley, but not enough to resist perching their chin on Crowley’s shoulder when the first flickers of flames slide over Beelzebub’s dangling arms. They sigh, going limp with relief as revitalizing flames sink into their skin.

Crowley continues walking and chanting and only stumbling occasionally. And Beelzebub hates Crowley, they really do, but they have to admit - he’s not bad at coaxing Hellfire. Beelzebub can feel the healing warmth of the flames sinking into the marrow of their very being. 

“You awake, Lord Buzziest?” Crowley asks, hiking up Beelzebub from their slowly sliding descent down his back.

When Beelzebub opens their eyes to a completely unfamiliar hall, they have the abrupt and horrifying realization that they had indeed drifted briefly to sleep. While being piggy-backed, no less. Would the humiliations never cease?

“Of course I’m awake,” Beelzebub grouses, digging a bony knee into Crowley’s side. “And no nicknames.”

“Alright, alright,” Crowley says, hands up. “I’ve given you all the Hellfire, by the way. Is it working?”

Beelzebub straightens up, pressing a hand against their chest. Eyes closed, they draw a long breath in. Breathing out, they tip their head from side to side, cracking their neck.

“Yeah,” Beelzebub answers, fingers splayed across dry, cracking blood. “Starting to.” 

They hadn’t expected the Hellfire to make them good as new, but it has at least kick-started the process. Beelzebub can feel the infernal energy within themself stirring, slowly mending what had very nearly been irreparably broken.

“I’m looking for Aziraphale, or Gabriel - or I guess, really anyone,” Crowley says, the tension in his voice embarrassingly undisguised. “They’re not where I expected them to be. At least based on the earlier racket.”

Beelzebub’s lip curls in disgust at the emotional display, but nonetheless closes their eyes, spreading their awareness wide. 

Heaven is... not exactly what Beelzebub remembers. Not that they remember much. But somehow, in those blotchy, indistinct recollections, it is brighter, louder, warmer. Safe. 

And there definitely wasn’t a malignant, pulsing thing in the central courtyard. 

“The thing is in the innermost courtyard,” Beelzebub says, opening their eyes. “Don’t know if your stupid angel’s with it.”

“Alright then,” Crowley replies, and promptly sets off in that direction.

He’s halfway down the corridor before Beelzebub fully processes the significance of Crowley’s unilateral decision.

“Hey! Hey! Hold up!” Beelzebub says, weakly digging their heels underneath Crowley’s ribs. “I don’t want to go near that thing. Put me down!”

Crowley doesn’t slow. “Can you walk on your own yet?” he asks, yellow eyes rolling up behind his dumb glasses.

The tingling ache in Beelzebub’s extremities suggests they probably cannot. It’s infuriating and humiliating and Beelzebub wants to die.

Crowley takes their silence as an answer. “Guess you’re tagging along, then,” he says with a grim smile.

“I hate you. With the entirety of my being.”

Whistling, Crowley walks faster.

As they approach the courtyard, the air begins to feel heavy, and it tastes - tart, cloying, rotten. Beelzebub’s lips curl back, and they warily suck the air between sharpening teeth.

“Demon Crowley,” Beelzebub orders, fingers curling over his shoulders as their sharp gaze scans from left to right. “Go slowly.”

Crowley, for once in his miserable existence, listens. Rolling through his steps, he prowls cautiously into the courtyard.

It’s exquisite - if you’re into uninspired pale flagstone and modern, geometric looking decorative fountains. The bodies on the ground don’t at all fit with the aesthetic.

The Archangel Gabriel is slumped over the edge of the fountain, golden blood sliding down his arm, dripping into cloudy water. The second figure is crumpled closer to the center of the courtyard - as though they’d put themselves between the archangel and whatever had been attacking him. The second one, though further away and also face down, is obviously Crowley’s angel - Aziraphale.

Crowley makes a pitiable, strangled sound, and Beelzebub just knows he’s going to charge out into the courtyard. Nails shifting to claws, Beelzebub digs them into Crowley’s shoulder.

“He lives, Crowley, I can feel the flicker of life from all the way over here,” Beelzebub hisses at his ear. 

Beelzebub can feel Gabriel’s life as well, a bright flare of energy at the fountain’s edge.

“Do not rush in,” Beelzebub continues, clenching at cloth and skin, “Something watches from the shadows.”

Crowley stiffens at that. Head tilted, he slowly, carefully, pulls down his glasses. 

“Who’s there?” he calls out.

Beelzebub shivers, the hairs on the back of their neck rising, one by one. Not daring to breathe, not daring to move, Beelzebub watches the space they know a creature waits.

At the courtyard’s edge, a figure unfolds itself from the shadows.

It is...an angel. The short, balding one. Sandalphon, if Beelzebub recalls correctly. 

Beelzebub and Crowley watch as the angel Sandalphon strolls out of darkness. His pale, pudgy hands are folded in front of his stomach, and he narrows his eyes, chin tilting inquisitively up as he inspects them.

Crowley looks from that angel to his angel, and Beelzebub digs their nails deeper into his flesh. Do not move. Do not move, Beelzebub thinks, squeezing.

Sandalphon tilts his head and speaks. “The angels fought me. And then they ran from me. At least, they tried to.” 

The voice that emerges from his throat is layered and ringing and it leaves Beelzebub with more than a passing inclination to shove their claws deep into their own ears, if only to make it stop.

“I thought I’d conquered all of Hell,” Sandalphon continues, lips quirking in puzzlement, “and yet here, in Heaven of all places, I find two unconquered demons wandering about.”

“Conquered?” Beelzebub growls, mind racing. 

They’d fled Hell after Satan had gone mad and started attacking his Princes. At the time, everything had been a giant fucking mess, and Beelzebub had made a tactical retreat to recover. Hell had been chaotic, sure - but conquered? 

Crowley cuts in before Beelzebub can say another word. “You’re not Sandalphon, are you?”

The thing smiles wide, revealing the angel’s ostentatious gold capped teeth. “I’m wearing Sandalphon. Just like I’m wearing Satan. And the demons and angels who weren’t quite quick enough.”

“Satan-” Beelzebub breathes, trembling. They’d thought he’d been bespelled. or some level of possessed, but this was - unforgivable.

“And God?” Crowley cuts in, voice sharp.

The thing tilts its head in a jagged, unnatural jerk. “She disappeared before I could get my hands on her, I’m afraid. Awfully cruel of her, I say, abandoning all of you like that. Though I suppose you two are rather used to it.”

“What the fuck are you?” Beelzebub snaps.

“Oh!” And the thing wearing Sandalphon like a second skin gives a start, “I didn’t introduce myself, did I?”

Sandalphon’s head dips forward. From the back of his neck, pale, twisting limbs unfold. Like spider’s legs, bent and folded back over themselves, they jerkily unfurl. There must be at least eight, and at the end of each limb, bony, clawed hands splay - reaching. The pale, sickly limbs spread out, lifting a creature which emerges from the back of Sandalphon with a frankly horrifying squelch. The thing is limpid and waifish, and watches them with black, eternity old eyes.

“Dear creatures of this poor, dying universe, you may call me Entropy.”

“Entropy?” Beelzebub hisses.

As Crowley says, “This universe?”

The thing smiles, and it’s mouth is a void. “Everything ends, honey. I hop from place to place, returning universes to the nothing from which they came.”

“Why?” Crowley asks.

“Why not?” the thing answers, void smile spreading across the lower half of it’s narrow face.

And then Crowley is unhooking Beelzebub’s arms. When he lowers them down, Beelzebub hates how their legs, still embarrassingly weak, give out beneath them. Teeth gritted, Beelzebub kneels on cold flagstone.

Crowley steps away, turning toward the abomination of limbs and hands.

“Demon Crowley?” Beelzebub calls when he takes a careful step forward.

“Gonna get Aziraphale,” Crowley says, soft.

The thing - Entropy - looks down. Round eyes unblinkingly survey the courtyard. 

“Aziraphale,” it says, singing the name in that horrifying voice. “Is he the soft looking one? He did put up a formidable fight.”

“I’m taking him with me,” Crowley says, low and dangerous.

The thing laughs and it’s so awful Beelzebub has to physically refrain from flinching back. “No. No you’re not,” it says, and laughs again. “He’s strong. And I need the strong ones. I like wearing them best. And if I’m not careful, even the strong ones-”

The clawed hands encircling Sandalphon squeeze. Within moments, black cracks are crawling ominously over the angel’s form. The air begins to whine. Then, with a pop the angel’s form folds in. He shatters into a cloud of black and gold dust that falls silently to the floor.

“Oops,” the thing exclaims.

Beelzebub and Crowley stare, mouths open and the pile of angel at the creature’s feet.

That kind of power is...Beelzebub can’t conceive of it. Not that they have time to try. Before the last Sandalphon dust speck has fallen, Crowley launches into motion.

“Shit,” Beelzebub breathes, because this is not a fight any angel or demon can win.

Crowley gets to Aziraphale before the creature does, but he only just has time to drag Aziraphale aside before a clawed hand spears down, piercing clear through the stone tile. Crowley, scrambling, drags Aziraphale back, avoiding a second stabbing hand.

“Move faster you idiot,” Beelzebub shouts.

“Trying to,” Crowley yelps, yanking his angel another several feet back, barely avoiding the third strike.

He’s not going to make it, Beelzebub realizes with a sinking certainty. Crowley has always been a slippery one, but this thing - this Entropy - is like nothing Beelzebub has ever encountered. It has the strength to casually turn an angel to dust, and Crowley was half-exhausted when they entered the courtyard. 

Beelzebub should get the hell out of here - while the Entropy creature is preoccupied with Crowley. 

Bracing their hands on cold stone, Beelzebub, rises on shaking legs. Their legs burn - and not in the good way. Clenching their jaw, Beelzebub sways, remaining determinedly upright. They take an unsteady step back, away from the chaos in the courtyard.

Behind them, Crowley screams.

Beelzebub, shaking with effort, looks back.

Crowley is on the ground, one leg speared by the creature’s clawed fingers. He’s pushed Aziraphale behind him as the creature, balanced on pale, spindly legs, rises above them both. It’s speaking, void-black mouth stretched in that wide, unsettling grin.

“Poor, poor demon,” it croons, and presses the claw deeper. “Abandoned by God. Left to rot in Hell. And then you didn’t even fit in there did you? What kind of outcast doesn’t even fit in with the outcasts?”

The claw twists and Crowley gasps.

Beelzebub closes their eyes, clenching aching muscles in an effort to remain upright. If they are going to escape, it’s now or never.

“I do want the angel,” the creature says, it’s porcelain face looming over Crowley, “but don’t you worry demon - I’ll mercifully end your miserable existence.”

Beelzebub moves.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A creature calling itself Entropy is revealed! It seems to have plans to end this universe, and has already single handedly conquered both Heaven and Hell (yikes). Entropy intends to use Aziraphale and to kill Crowley, and Beelzebub is left with a choice. Beelzebub will…

Fight. Mustering their remaining strength, Beelzebub will show this Entropy abomination the hell a real demon is capable of raising. It’s not that they care about Crowley (or his stupidly nice angel)….they just don’t want to feel like they owe him.

Flee. Beelzebub is a survivor. They are injured and weak and they are not about to enter into a fight they have little hope of surviving. Sorry Crowley….it’s nothing personal. (Note: this will result in an immediate POV shift)

Please comment or reblog to vote! :) 

(also, I absolutely love all of you who have been taking the time to explain the reasoning behind your votes. It’s always interesting to see where you all are coming from!)

Part 16

[tikoy]

Kinktober Day 17

Day 17:

Series: FGO

Diarmuid ua Duibne x unnamed female master

First person POV

Warnings: Sex

Rating: Explicit

On a Rayshift, Diarmuid gets injured so he reluctantly asks you for a mana transfer.

--

Rain poured heavily all through the night. Winds howled against the walls, sending occasional groans and rattles all through the dilapidated building. I twisted and turned, trying in vain to fall asleep. My body was exhausted, but my mind kept racing. It had been hours since I’d turned in, but I’d just lain awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Thoughts of the earlier battle kept running through my head. Flashes of brightly emblazoned fur, enormous tusks, and glowing eyes seemed burned on the backs of my eyelids. I could still smell the fetid breath of the demon boar as it charged. We’d managed to scrape by, but my servants paid the price. I bit my lip.

Injuries were expected. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen blood spilled, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. But it had been months since my servants had gotten more than bruises or scrapes. We’d been doing so well. Guilt still sat heavy in my gut even after I’d patched them up as best I could. I’d hesitated for a second, and that was all it took. A second of indecision and paralysis that everyone else had been punished for. I turned and pressed my face into the pillow. It was pointless and counter-productive, but I’d wished that I’d gotten injured as well, to help lessen the guilt.

After a few more minutes of wallowing in guilt, I gave up and got out of bed. I made my way to the makeshift kitchen, hoping that a drink of water would help. The wooden floorboards creaked and groaned, but the storm outside was much louder. I felt my way through the dimly-lit halls and stairs, hoping that I wouldn’t fall through the holes in the woodwork. I arrived unscathed, but I wasn’t alone. A familiar dark-tressed knight stood vigil, staring out towards the barred wooden doors. At the sound of my approach, he turned.

“Master, is something the matter?”

Even in the low light, he was beautiful. His cheekbones were sharp, and his jaw strongly defined. His amber eyes sparkled in what little light it caught. For a moment, I stood transfixed, my purpose forgotten. A flash of lightning snapped me back to my senses. I cleared my throat and gave a sheepish smile.

“I couldn’t sleep. I was hoping that a drink of water would help.”

“Ah, then let me-“

“No! It’s fine, it’s fine. You’re still standing guard. I can do it myself,” I insisted, walking towards the sink before he could move.

As I held a relatively clean glass under the faucet, I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He’d turned back towards the door, his two spears at the ready. There was a certain stiffness to his shoulders, and his grip seemed too harsh. A tension had hung between us ever since I’d given him chocolates earlier this year. It wasn’t as if it affected his ability or the dynamics between us during battle, but outside of combat we could hardly speak to one another. I always got tongue-tied whenever I addressed him, blundering through even the most mundane of small talk. He’d reply politely and calmly, making my awkwardness even more glaringly obvious. No matter how politely he replied however, I always got the sense that he was trying to pull away. It hurt, and I didn’t even have the right to be hurt.

Regret and guilt were a horrible combination in my gut. The valentine chocolates had seemed a great idea at the time. But all I got from that momentary glee was self-inflicted disappointment. I’d found myself turning towards him more frequently, and a flutter in my chest whenever I heard his voice. It was embarrassing. I was a grown woman. A crush shouldn’t affect me to this degree! Especially considering what I’d been tasked with doing. To be distracted by such trite matters was unthinkable. Unforgivable.

“Master, your cup overflows.”

I flinched, jerked back to reality by the sound of his voice. Water had been running over my skin now, the cold rendering it numb. Hastily, I turned off the tap and brought the glass to my lips. I drank, doing my best not to choke under his scrutiny. He’d left his post by the door and stood next to me, staring silently. His spears had vanished. While I had no doubt that he’d still be able to effectively deal with threats anywhere within the room, it was highly uncharacteristic for him to approach. When I’d finished drinking, I turned to him, an apology already upon my lips-

“It seems you have plenty of things on your mind, Master” he stated. “May I know what troubles you?”

-only to be tongue-tied once more.

“I-I… uh… the battle earlier.” I caught his split-second flinch. “I’m so sorry I hesitated and got you all injured…”

“It is a small matter. Nobody died and we managed a win. I remains a success,” he replied, waving the matter off easily as if he hadn’t gotten gored at the side earlier.

I frowned at him and stepped closer to prod at his chest. “You really shouldn’t be letting me get away with these things so easily, you know! Even if I’m the master, you’re still need to point out my mistakes so I learn from them.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “But it seems as if you’ve already learned your lesson however. Calling attention to your mistake again would be akin to tearing open a freshly lanced wound. It serves no purpose.”

“Don’t tell me that you don’t harbor even the least amount of resentment over it. I mean, even Cu and Hans flicked me on the forehead for it earlier.”

“You wish to be flicked on the forehead?”

“Argh! No I mean- uhh don’t you want even the teensiest bit of revenge for it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand…”

“Well, what I’m saying is that you get a free pass to do anything to me. Just this once because I messed up… I mean anything outside of outright killing or significantly injuring me!” I rambled

“Hm.”

Something flickered across his expression. He stepped closer, close enough that I felt his breath fan my face. His eyes seemed strangely intent. His hand clasped mine gently. My knees felt weak. I could hardly breathe.

A soft thud sounded in the hall, followed by a series of curses. We jumped apart, panicked. As I tried to calm my beating heart, Hans stepped out of the shadows of the hall, rubbing his head, his eyes clenched shut.

“Hans, are you okay?” I asked, doing my best to not seem flustered.

“Eh? Master, you’re awake?” he called out, squinting into the dimly-lit room. “Just had a bit of a stumble in the dark. I’m fine.”

“If you are unwell, I can keep watch for this next shift as well,” Diarmuid offered.

“Bah! Do not coddle me. I am not the type of writer that pries apart two lovers engaged in a late night tryst!”

My cheeks flared as I stammered out my denial. Diarmuid was equally as adamant, though significantly less flustered. Yet the author paid no heed to our words, merely ushering us out into the hallway. Resigned, we walked through the hall silently. Gone was the friendly air we’d managed to wrangle earlier. All we had left was our usual tense silence, now heavier with questions regarding what happened before Hans interrupted. I bit my lip. I didn’t dare hope.

We reached my door, but he didn’t depart immediately. He lingered, frowning at the ground. After a few more moments, he sighed and gave a low bow.

“I apologize for my behavior earlier. It was unbecoming of a knight.”

“I-It’s fine!” I stammered out. “I was the one who put you on the spot. It’s my fault.”

He firmly shook his head. “No. I am at fault. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of a lady’s offer t-to-“  He cleared his throat. “The fault is completely mine, I assure you, my lady.”

The title sent my heart fluttering once more. I bit my lip, doing my best to stamp down the glee of him addressing me as his. “Diarmuid,” I called out, “what were you planning to do earlier?”

He glanced to the side. “I wanted to ask for a bit of mana.”

“Ah! Um! Yes! Okay! N-no need to be ashamed of that!” I assured him. “I-I mean that’s normal!”

My hands trembled in a mix of nervousness and giddiness. It wasn’t an unusual request, but he’d never asked anything like that before. He seemed content enough with the supply that Chaldea gave. I tried to open the door, but my hands shook too much to turn the knob. As I struggled, his hands drifted towards mine and engulfed them.

“It’s not,” he muttered, keeping his gaze averted. “May we speak further of these matters inside your room?”

He held fast to my hand as we went inside my room. When the door shut, he closed his eyes and squeezed my hand.

“I… have affections for you, Master. It is unbecoming, especially since I had intended to ask mana from you.”

Glee shot through me like a firework, setting everything ablaze. My skin tingled. My chest seemed too tight, too filled with joy. I was quickly losing the battle to keep a smile from my face. It was getting difficult to form coherent thought.

“I don’t follow…” I wheezed. “W-why would that be a bad thing?”

He frowned. “My wish had only been to serve loyally and fight for a Master who wouldn’t betray me. And so far in my stay in Chaldea, I’d managed to get that. I greatly respect you, Master, and still wholeheartedly pledge my being to your cause. But-“ he broke off, biting his lip, “these feelings ruin matters.”

He let go and buried his face in his hands. “I had done my best to keep away from such matters, yet now my ruin comes by my own hand… Perhaps this is revenge for all the suffering I’d caused before.”

“Diarmuid, it’s fine. This… this doesn’t have to change things-“

He growled. His hands fell to the sides, clenched in tight fists. “It has already changed everything! I cannot stand to be alone with you. When we speak, I struggle to keep myself distant, to keep myself from pursuing the conversation further. Even now as I loathe these feelings, my arms still long to hold you.”

He sighed and leaned against a wall. Anguish colored his expression. His breathing was ragged. His eyes bore into mine, pleading for answers that I could not give. Everything was bittersweet. I slowly made my way over, careful not to startle. Ever so gently, I wrapped my arms around his frame and pulled him to a hug. I kept my hold on him until his breathing relaxed, until the tension eased from his body. I knew not how long we stayed holding each other, only that it settled a comforting warmth over my chest.

He pulled away just enough for me to see his expression. He looked much calmer now, though his mouth still dipped downward. “I apologize for my earlier behavior, Master. I am… unused to these types of feelings.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it too much. I… actually have something to tell you as well.” I bit my lip. “I uh… have affections for you too…”

Panic seeped into his expression. “I’m sorry. I can’t control the love spo-“

“What?! No! No! I mean, if this was entirely because of that geas, don’t you think I’d be more aggressive? And that I would have pursued you much earlier?”

He furrowed his brows, still unconvinced. Nevertheless, he dropped the matter and just continued to hold me close. He played with the ends of my hair. I traced patterns onto his back. Even through the fabric, I could feel where the bandages bunched up on his torso. Idly, I pressed a kiss against his chest in apology. He shuddered and lightly tugged at my hair.

“Do you still want that mana transfer?”

He hesitated only for a moment. “A small amount would be sufficient…”

I reached up to press a kiss against his lips. I trembled as I kissed him, leaving touches as delicate as spun sugar. There were no fireworks this time, just tiny little pinpricks of glee as our lips moved. I pulled away, breathless. His amber eyes were half-lidded. He leaned  closer and whispered a desperate “more” against my lips. I left a hundred butterfly kisses on his cheeks. When I’d run out, he cradled my chin. “More,” came the breathless plea. He slanted his mouth over mine, licking at my bottom lip until I opened my mouth. His tongue dove in, exploring every nook and cranny as if committing it to memory. When my chest burned for oxygen, he pressed his lips against my neck. “More.”

I led him to my bed as we kissed. He sat down and pulled me to his lap. I left tiny rosebuds on his collarbones. I tugged my shirt up half-way before I prompted, “More?” “More.” He helped ease off my shirt, and ran his fingers down the newly-exposed flesh. He grasped my breasts almost reverently, rubbing and squeezing as if afraid of breaking me. I sighed and arced my back, enjoying the gentle affection. Desire built up inside me. As he continued, he started to buck his hips. His arousal stood at full mast. I reached down and stroked, squeezing a drawn out groan from him. He pressed his face on my shoulder and hissed. “More?” “…More.”

I got out of his lap. I pulled at his tights until they dissolved under my touch. His arousal was flushed and curved. I knelt in between his legs and pressed a kiss against the base.

“More?” I asked, gazing up at him imploringly.

“More,” he choked.

I took as much as I could of him into my mouth. What I couldn’t fit, I stroked with my hands. I hummed around him as I sucked, drinking in his shudders and twitches. I bobbed my head faster and faster, doing my best to keep my gag reflex suppressed. He groaned out my name and grabbed my head. I glanced up to see him biting his lip fiercely, eyes grown dark with lust. His face and neck were flushed. I pulled away for a moment. “More?” “M-more…”

I pressed my breasts around his arousal and started stroking. He hissed, threw his head back, and swore. His entire body trembled. From time to time, I’d take the tip into my mouth and swirl my tongue around it. It left him keening and crying out my name. It was addicting to see him come nearly undone at my mercy. As the pace increased, so too did the volume of his cries. His hips started bucking faster. His body trembled and tensed. He gripped my hair tighter. He came in bursts, coating my face and breasts with his cum. He leaned down as he recovered, as if watching for my reaction. He wiped away as much he could from my face, doing his best even as he trembled.

“Are you alright, Master? Do you require assistance?”

“I’m fine. Just give me a minute,” I wheezed.

I climbed back onto the bed and lay down beside him. Our hands  were clasped as we both tried to recover our breath. I closed my eyes. Exhaustion hit and it was slowly dragging me down to sleep. I twitched and struggled, fighting back to stay awake. I felt Diarmuid shift beside me. Soft lips pressed against mine in a chaste kiss.

“Going to sleep?” he asked.

I shook my head. “N-no. I’m… I’m just resting my eyes…”

“More?”

“M-more…”

I felt him tug my shorts and underwear off. My legs were nudged apart. A few kisses and nips were planted along my inner thighs. A warm mouth descended on my core. I jerked and opened my eyes. He watched me as he ate me out. His tongue lapped at me eagerly, occasionally brushing against my clit. I hissed and bucked, but his hands kept me firmly in place. He pulled his mouth away soon after, and replaced it with his fingers. He slowly eased one finger in, eagerly drinking in my reactions as I squirmed.

“You look so beautiful, Master,” he crooned. “It’s just one finger but you’re reacting so much.”

I bit my lip to keep my voice back but he started thrusting the finger in even faster. I hissed and kicked at his shoulder as he increased the pace. After a few minutes, he added in a second finger. He began to spread them apart and rub more firmly against my walls. After he stroked a particular spot, I tensed and bucked into the air. A big spark of pleasure ran through me, leaving me breathless. He started rubbing more insistently at that spot. I shuddered as the sparks slowly built a raging flame.

“My lovely debauched Master! Moaning out my name while I pleasure you…  making such delightful little noises with that pretty voice of yours…”

I clenched tighter around his fingers. To hear the usually polite knight flatter me in such a bawdy way gave me a heady rush. I whimpered as he took his fingers out and gave a cursory lick, tasting my essence. As he continued to pleasure me, his other hand stroked his growing arousal. At regular intervals, he kept increasing the fingers until we were all the way to five. I was near delirious at this point, desperate for release. I reached my arms towards him, beckoning him closer.

“Diarmuid,” I begged, “fuck me…”

He smiled sweetly, as if I’d merely asked him to hold my hand. He lined his arousal up with my entrance and gently pushed it in. I squeaked and shuddered, holding close to him as he reached the hilt. Diarmuid was a gentle lover, letting me feel every glorious centimeter of his length as he ran it through me. He kissed my cheeks as I cried out. He kept at a slow gentle pace until I begged him to fuck me faster. He put my legs over his shoulders and set a faster pace. The angle made sure that he kept on hitting that spot consistently. He kept cooing and praising me whenever I clenched tightly around him. He peppered kisses down my neck as he whispered words of adoration. I scratched his back with my nails and hissed out his name. The fire inside me was now a conflagration, ready to burst out my skin. I clenched tighter around him, begging for release.

We came one after another, each crying out one another’s name. He kept moving even as he came, stuffing me full of his seed. We fell asleep in each other’s arms, holding on until morning light came. I knew not what we were to one another. It was no longer just a bond of a Master and her Servant. It wasn’t love, it wasn’t that brilliant or completed yet. It wasn’t friendship nor simple infatuation. Whatever it was, it felt warm and comforting, a refuge.

--

Thank you for the suggestion nonny! I’m sorry I went with female for this prompt because it was t*tfucking. 

I have many thoughts about Diarmuid. 

He’d probably have a LOT of reservation and hesitation before getting into any sort of romantic entanglements willingly. While I don’t doubt that he could probably still be attracted to people, I feel like he’d be the type to ignore it as much as he could. He’d even be more wary of people claiming they like him because a) the love spot geas, b) how people being attracted to him led to his downfall. 

Initially when I began this fic, I went in with the idea that well as far as falling in love goes he’d probably be the least hesitant if it was with the lord/lady he was serving, right? NAH. That love and adoration is going to color his loyalty and service. He’s not used to that so it probably really makes him nervous. Add to that the complication that is mana transfer. It is a physical thing, sure, and if you’re really determined it’s just going to remain that way. But if attraction is added to the mix, it introduces a whole host of problems. The question of “am I asking for a mana transfer because I do need mana or is because I want physical affection?” comes up a lot and is probably the one Diarmuid is primarily concerned with. (Tried to squeeze this into the fic but it was getting long and I was getting tired sorry)

I did my best to do justice to his character, tweaking and prodding at circumstances to make it still feel like this is still him willingly entering into something sexual with his master. Let me know which parts you thought needed more improvement! Thank you!!

Accepting suggestions!

[thefoulbeast]

Monstrum Malum (Evil Monster)

It’s finally october!! U know what that means!! Aoextober!! I’ve been waiting to be able to post this hahhhahahaa… some good ole soft horror in the spirit of the month of scary… I’ll also put it up on ao3 soon…

Characters: Todou Saburota, That demon he had at first, Todou Homare (mentioned). Contents: Violence & gore, monsters, memory manipulation, surrealism (or is it derealisation? basically we got some weird stuff going on), elements of horror. Rating: Teen & up. Word count: 2 888.

__________

It’s all a little fuzzy, this far back in his memories…

According to family tradition, Saburota receives his temptaint at ten years old. It’s scary beyond belief – the sudden grotesque presences that await him at every turn.

There’s a thick black snake on the teacher’s desk that watches him, a cat with two heads and three tails and no skin that doesn’t meow as much as it yells, spidery, shadowy hands that wave at him from dark corners and alleyways, always beckoning closer in silent invitation.

The horrible sounds of screaming and crying at night he can’t drown out no matter what he tries to do.

He doesn’t understand how his father and brothers and – everyone, really- can just ignore it all, can just pretend like it’s all normal and okay.

Though, he supposes it’s not too implausible – their ability to ignore things is quite remarkable. One time they pretended he didn’t exist for a whole week – and honestly, he’d been questioning his existence himself by the end of it.

But the problem is these… demons. These ghosts and spectres that follow him and distract him and terrify him.

Saburota tries to focus on the page in front of him – a test in maths that he’s writing in pencil because his pen is bleeding red blood – an ever-growing puddle over the surface of his desk that never reaches his papers and drips over the edge with quiet plips.

The numbers in the problems tilt and tumble and his hands are tingling. But if he focuses just so- if he can keep them in his mind long enough, he can do this.

Pit-pat… Pit-pat…

The blood drips steadily down onto the floor. No one else notices it.

–

“Oh, come now! You’ll get used to it,” his aunt says when she sees him flinch back from a dark mass that covers the floor like a living carpet, undulating and scintillating and breathing.

She walks right over it, and the black sticks to the heels of her shiny beige pumps like tar – but she doesn’t even seem to notice-

“Come on, Saburota, let’s go,” she pulls him by the arm, stronger than he can dig his heels into the ground. The black thing is unpleasantly soft under his feet. He feels it writhe.

“Don’t be so obstinate, we’ll be late to the opera!” she huffs, exasperated, “Honestly, you’d think a boy your age would have some manners.”

The black clings to the bottom of their soles without end even after they’ve crossed all of it and are out on the street, spreading out from every point of contact their shoes make with the ground, melting together to form a winding, snakelike path.

“What show are we going to see?” he asks cautiously, trying to distract himself.

“Three dead men and the devil, of course” she answers haughtily, “Why, Saburota, it’s as if you’re trying to irritate me on purpose! You’re the one who wanted to go!”

He did?

“Oh, I remember now!” he says, but it’s a lie, it’s his mouth moving on its own, “I hope it’s as good as the reviews promise!” he says again, a giddy edge to the words- but they’re not his words.

“It will be,” his aunt answers with a mysterious sort of smile, her hand tightening around his wrist.

–

Saburota’s hiding under the bed, curled up in the dark. It seems like no matter how much he shrinks down; he still feels watched, still feels threatened. Feels like he’s not alone, like there’s something else inside him.

The door opens and footsteps make their way over to the bed – but they’re sharp, like knocking wood on wood, and so loud.

Saburota holds his breath when hooves come into view right in front of him. Fear is like a bird trapped in his chest, raging desperately against the bars of his ribs.

Whatever it is climbs up on his bed with an ominous sqeak of the springs and a decidedly animal huff.

“Oh, you’re already in bed, honey?” the voice of his mother speaks from the doorway. She all but floats over soundlessly. Her skin is deathly pale and dry beneath the hem of her nightgown.

“I’m scared, mommy,” the thing says in a voice that’s nowhere near Saburota’s own. “I think there’s a monster under my bed.”

“Monsters don’t exist, silly,” she coos, “but I’ll look and make sure for you, alright?”

She gets down on all fours and peers beneath the bed. Her unseeing eyes look straight at and through Saburota. Her face is as pale and bloodless as her feet and hands, a greenish-blueish tinge to her lips and eyelids.

“There’s nothing here, honey,” she says in her beautiful, sonorous voice. Her smile reveals her teeth that look much longer and sharper now that the gums have dried out and shrunk back.

Then she rises again and says, “Now, will you be a good boy and sleep? We have a busy day tomorrow. You need to be ready to do what has to be done.” She kisses the thing sweetly goodnight before leaving, footsteps as soundless as when she entered. The door closes behind her, and so disappears that last bit of illumination the room had.

The darkness left behind feels like it’s eating Saburota whole, encompassing him in a tight and claustrophobic space. He reaches out to prove the feeling wrong, but the darkness is smooth and solid against his hand, pushing up against it with incrementally increasing force.

“You don’t have much time left down there, do you?” the thing up on the bed asks, soft and sleepy. It yawns. “You know, God can’t see you anymore, and neither can most other things.”

The darkness pushes up against his skin, too tight to move, too tight to breathe.

–

They’re in the main hall. A soft record plays in the background, a gentle but somber croon accompanied by a saxophone and a cello.

“You know they don’t exist,” the shadow sitting across from Saburota at the dinner table says, “right?”

It’s gesturing at his family, where they’re chatting amongst themselves as they eat. At the other, farther end of the table – it’s farther than usual. The table is as long as the room as opposed to taking up just the center.

There are so many empty seats. So many set plates, untouched. Like there’s supposed to be a banquet, but no one’s shown up.

Saburota stares down at his plate. The soup is black and thick, and there’s the smooth off-white surface of a bone peeking out from beneath the surface.

He’s not particularly hungry.

“You’re wrong,” he tells the shadow quietly ad he pushes the plate away, and the damn thing laughs in response. It’s fuzzy and translucent, and smears in Saburota’s vision when it moves.

“Oh, my bad!” the shadow chortles and picks up a knife, and twirls it around the fingers of its hand; the gleaming facets of the blade catch red and orange lights from some strange and unknown source, “You’re the one who doesn’t exist, I meant to say. Easy mistake to make.”

Saburota feels goose bumps break out over his body. A cold gust of wind whistles over the edge of his collar, ruffling the back of his hair. He places one of his palms protectively over his nape, feeling unsafe.

The room is colourless now, and his family sounds all muffled - and the shadow is gone. He shivers, then takes a fortifying breath and reaches for the spoon again, hand trembling minutely.

Saburota lifts a spoonful of the simple noodle soup to his mouth hesitantly. It doesn’t seem like there’s anything wrong with it, but… he’s just got this nagging worry that something isn’t right.

–

“I see right through you,” the creature says hotly in his ear, “you’re little more than smoke - a miasma leaking through the cracks of the skin you wear.”

Saburota stares at it through the mirror. It’s taller than him, wider than him, has horns like an ibex and hands like eagle claws, poised up in the air, talons glinting menacingly.

“Poor little Saburota,” it hisses, leaning in even closer, snake tongue peeking through its teeth on the ‘s’. “So damaged and twisted that no one could ever like you. You empty little puppet, you pathetic fucking piece of shit.”

Saburota shrugs at its words. They sound about right. It’s what he’s heard all his life, what he’s thought all his life. A truth confirmed over and over.

“You should bite them back for making you,” it says with a beastly leer, talons wrapping around his shoulders and digging in, drawing blood in small beads, “Make them regret your existence. Teach them what it means to hurt. You want to. You need to. I’ll help you. I’ll make you strong, I’ll make you dangerous.”

There’s a certain desperation to the thing’s words.

“Maybe someday,” Saburota murmurs, stepping forwards - out of the creature’s embrace towards the sink, heedless of the shallow wounds left behind by the drag of its talons. He needs to brush his teeth and get to bed.

The bathroom darkens and the walls and floor wobble dangerously, like light broken on the edge of water, like matter passing through the planes of a prism and coming out wrong.

“You’re ready,” the creature wails, upset at his coy evasions of what needs to be done.

“No, I’m-“ he stammers. God, everything here looks so fake it makes him nauseous. He needs to- he needs to set himself straight. Needs to recalibrate.

”I’m not ripe yet,” Saburota says gently, cautiously - looking at the beast without turning, eyes dark like the sky on the night of a new moon.

–

Father’s saying something to him. He looks angry. He’s gesticulating like crazy.

Saburota can’t hear it. The sound’s muted. Pure silence.

No, not pure… there’s something whispering in his ear. It takes a moment for him to understand what it’s saying…

Saburota feels a smile spread out over his face at the promises of violence, bloodshed, nasty ugly retribution-

The world seems sharper somehow. Like it’s come into focus after being blurry and vague for his entire life.

Saburota looks at his hands. He’s got claws – mean, nasty looking things, the kind that maim and rip and rend. When did that happen?

The little whispering voice giggles in his ear. I’ll give you this. I’ll give you this if you just let me-

–

“I’ve been cultivating you for years,” the thing says, looking down at him from its full height. The creature is menacing, attention catching, terrifying. “You’d be nothing without me. You’d be small and powerless and pathetic.”

Its arms wrap around his shoulders covetously, possessively. The talons sink into the flesh of Saburota’s deltoids like a butcher’s knife sinks into a hunk of meat.

“You’re all mine,” the thing whispers, opening its maw to reveal row upon dizzying row of teeth arranged in a beautiful rosette. Saburota touches a tooth and pricks his finger.

Blood red. Drops on the floor. He smears them with the toe of his shoe and suddenly realises.

Oh, what a clever thing. Had him really going for a while.

“No, I’m not,” Saburota says, something in his voice dark but… whistful and dreamy. “You did nice this time, I’ll give you that. Too bad you’re so slow with it all,” he says, and reality shifts.

Well, the not-reality shifts. Saburota’s holding the thing – a squirming little creature with a long leathery tail, smaller than ever and…

And perfect for eating.

–

He’s not afraid anymore. Despite the thing’s attempts – this particular memory remains unchanged, remains his fully. So far.

There’s carnage all around – his family, the house staff – mutilated sacks of meat, strewn about carelessly, all carved up and bled out.

Saburota can taste it – the metallic tang of something raw clinging to his palate, the edges of his teeth.

He knows what he did. He knows how he did it. But… he’d been too excited, too in-the-moment about it. It’s all a red haze in hindsight.

“Well, this was easier than expected,” he says, all light and happy and unburdened.

“You finally did it,” Homare says as she watches him from the top of the stairs, her face a blank mask.

“You’re free now,” Saburota says with a wide grin, “This power could be yours too, Homare.”

It slips off his tongue like a well-oiled phrase. This isn’t the first time he’s said this.

“Why won’t you let me out, Saburota?” she says in someone else’s voice. Shadows cling to her, making her larger and darker than what she is. The beast is here again, messing with his mind and senses. “Why must you deny me so? You can’t hold me down forever. I will claw my way out.”

The house is dark and crawling with black shapes and bugs the size of rats. Saburota feels his mood sour. That’s not right, that’s not what she really said.

Homare’s walking down the stairs towards him, heedless of the gore she steps in, looking at him like she wants him to burst open like an over-tense bulla.

“Kill yourself, Saburota, you worthless fucking heap,” the thing says, even if it’s Homare’s lips that move, “Getting all cocky and full of yourself. You will regret it. I will make you regret it.”

Saburota smiles lazily, “You’re just throwing a tantrum because I’m stronger than you. Tsk-tsk. You’d think that demons had more class than that.”

Saburota flicks open the zippo in his hand, and the smell of buthane hits him above the wet smell of fresh guts. His hands are shaking, his heart is racing. There’s a cacophonous screaming in his head above it all.

“Let me out, Saburota,” the thing says through Homare’s lips, low and thunderous and so angry, “Let me out and let me in for real.”

Saburota flicks the wheel and sparks the flame, looking right into Homare’s eyes where he sees it looking at him.

He drops the zippo carelessly, ignoring the beast’s words. This – all of this is his.

And he’s going to burn it all down.

–

Saburota wakes with a jolt that has the water sloshing against the sides of the tub. He’d dozed off again.

The nightmarish pictures of his dream fizzle out into the subconscious part of his brain. The phantasms are creeping upwards again, seeking to dig their claws into his more recent memories.

He sighs tiredly, rubbing a palm over his face. It had taken him too long to notice. Next time the demon might get him for good. He rests a palm over his stomach where he feels it like a hot, familiar weight in his gut. So small, so stubborn, so bothersome.

Saburota can’t remember his childhood clearly anymore, not the way it really was. His recollections are all twisted and maimed, cut up and pasted together into tid-bit horror stories and fantastical exaggerations, much like the dream had been.

It comes with being a demon eater. There’s a certain cost, a sacrifice he has to make in the form of his memories and occasionally, his personality. One can only hold on to darkness for so long until it grabs back.

Saburota barely ever sleeps anymore. Whenever he dreams, the distortions get worse and feel more real.

Realistically, he knows there wasn’t a dead man lying on the table and singing at Homare’s tenth birthday party… he knows that his mother died in childbirth when she had her last pregnancy, that he’d never heard her voice and had only ever seen her in pictures… but he can remember these delusions so very vividly it’s kind of scary.

“Your brain’s rotting…” He tells himself in a low voice. Then, he chuckles,” Heh, who knows if what’s left is even you anymore…” He pauses, moving his hand through the water, watching it slosh against the sides of the tub.

He’s awake, sure, but he still feels like he’s dreaming, like this isn’t reality. Another chuckle, a little more self-deprecating, “Good thing that won’t matter soon enough.”

Saburota sinks lower into the water so that his nose just above the surface. The water’s lukewarm now, so it doesn’t seep into his bones and muscles the way he wishes it would.

He’ll get out in a minute and get dressed and do things, but for now he just… ruminates. On what he is. On what he’s done.

He doesn’t regret his choices, but… sometimes he wonders what life would be like if he was… more normal. If he’d never clashed with his family the way he had… if he’d just…

Well, whatever. Those thoughts don’t lead anywhere.

He’s made it this far – that’s the only thing that matters. He just needs to pull through and do his part in getting the phoenix for the Illuminati. He’s been planning it for years now, sowing doubt and trust in the right places, and it’s finally so close he can taste it.

That’s his purpose now. That’s what’s important. He has a goal and a purpose, and he is needed. With that much, he’s satisfied.

As long as he does what he needs to do for the Illuminati, for The Commander, what happens to him afterwards doesn’t really matter…

[spnsmile]

Final Monday: Profound Bond

for #SPNstayAtHome Challenge by @helianthus21 @bend-me-shape-me @pray4jensen ❤ with beautiful art from @verobatto-angelxhunter  here!  ❤

When almost everyone—demons included— all but told Dean that his angel is the hottest, most devastatingly handsome angel in the face of the seven seas, he not only believed them, but he’s secretly and most exclusively Cas’ number one fan.

Cas is really the looker and even without all the buzzing acclaims from hell and earth, Dean’s already smitten from the start. Cas’ vessel is naturally attractive and really stands out with that crazy dominant eyebrow, lightning in a bottle blue eyes, cutting jaws and regal high-cheek bones— but more than the vessel, it’s the insane hot angel beneath trench coat that makes his insides swoon.

Dean can’t explain it—every time Castiel just goes all out wrecking doors, walls, even smashing on cars and smite a whole pack of demons and monsters alike in a blink of an eye— now that—that is really hot!

So he doesn’t blame them from noticing his strapping companion, he actually isn’t that surprised when someone approaches them one day to scout Cas to be a model while they are in a middle of a Djinn case.

“Dean is my model,” replies the angel with that dorky side tilt, getting Dean’s stomach to flutter.

“No, Cas he meant uh, you know… they wanna take pictures of you, you posting like Mr. Calendar,”

“Why?” Cas says sharply.

Dean tries his best to explain but at the end of the day, and because they still need to monitor the case on a closer level, they agreed with talent scout to have a screen testing the next day. Dean was also asked but he politely declined. The worse thing he can land himself in as a hunter is to be under the public scrutiny who will follow his every movement.

Cas on the other hand has a lesser risk because Cas doesn’t care. The angel is an enigma and can get himself out of situations with one flap of his wings.

So here they are, just another day with another case inside a studio with Dean trying to focus his attention to any supernatural occurrence around, but really the only supernatural thing happening at the moment will be Castiel half-naked in a setup of white clouds and overcast skies for of a Bruce Almighty segment.

And Cas’ theme?

Angels.

Dean still can’t stop laughing at the irony and kept the hilarity of knowing how no one is capable of cracking any expression from the angel’s stony face.

It was all fun at first when Castiel was dragged away and Dean was hollering when he spoke to Sam over the phone about the developments of the Djinn case preying on dreamers in the modelling agency that has killed two victims so far. He waited for Cas to come out imagining the long white toga the angel would be wearing like one of those pictures of angels with harps. Cas hates those representations and Dean can’t wait to bawl his eyes out laughing.

Meanwhile, Dean smiles and winks at beautiful models passing by and to his credit, they all give him a disgusted look. Oh well. No one likes the police these days.

He was busy ogling at himself in one of those giant reflectors when Castiel’s team came out. Dean was ready to make fun of him imagining Cas finally in proper angel dress— only to get a slap in the face when he sees Castiel stripped off his trench coat and toga—but was wearing a blue tight jean showing a well-shaped round ass and loose white button-down shirt where the barest of holy skin is peeking.

[sexy Cas art here]

Dean gasps, electric shock hitting him straight to Manhattan because holy fuck this isn’t what he was expecting—what the hell happened to the angel theme?

It didn’t help that almost everyone has the same reaction and if the photographer wasn’t there barking his directions, Dean’s sure Castiel will be smothered to death.

“That magazine is going to be sold out.” Says one of the crew guys standing behind the lighting next to Dean, “I’ve never seen anyone so… cute and hot and…” a struggle for the right words then— “divine. How does he do that?”

“Exists?” Dean drawls with arms tightly crossed on his chest. The crew guy beside him snorts.

“He can easily get followers and we need models with huge fan base online, you know, free advertising.”

Dean half-rolled his eyes at the crew member mesmerized by the amateur model. Half an hour later, green eyes following Castiel’s every movement in the middle of a battlefield of flashing cameras and light reflectors, of smothering group of stylists with powders ready at hand and demanding photographers asking for a ridiculous mood board— and what’s with all those hands touching Castiel?

Dean can’t help feeling sour every time the assistant manager runs to Cas’ side just to dust his shoulder, open his collar more or when he simply tilts Castiel’s jaw the right way—Dean is livid—who touches his angel so casually with grubby hands!?

And he’s beyond control when he sees the man opening Castiel’s button-down wider like—just strip them out stop teasing! Dean finds himself shrinking to the wall while murmuring curses and snapping on the phone every time Sam calls. They have work to do and Sam’s been constantly asking for updates while he works the field over the victim’s family for any lead to follow and Dean only has eyes for his angel being instructed by the photographer. Cas was bewildered at first with all the goading and salacious comments, Dean cringing for his friend. Castiel looked miffed at some point, but Dean can’t go to his side yet. If he does, he might grab him and leave the premises and that’s not being professional.

They need to find the Djinn among these people soon.

Standing in the sideline watching his friend try different angle that surprisingly fits him— except the photographer is losing his patience with the dorky angel who doesn’t understand structure and context—

“This is like a dance, move those sexy hips, give me suave look, pout lips— that’s grumpy, baby—give me seduction—yes those blues, seduce me— seduce me, don’t murder me! That’s it, you got this sweetheart, make me melt with that look! Melt me—melt—where are you going—?”

“You said melt you—I” he raises a hand—

Dean nearly jumps from the wall to stop Cas smiting any hollering directors but then—

“Go back in position, sweetheart, don’t make me lose all my hair where you can’t see them—okay, look devious—devious—don’t frown— imagine a blade in your hand. Now that’s fantastic, a tilt of the head? Adorable, now quit that, we’re aiming for sex appeal! Now make me want to have you—pout those sexy lips—pout, pucker them—forward—no, don’t slump forward you’re not Quasimodo’

“I don’t understand that reference.”

“Give me passion—give me something you want so badly!”

Castiel glances at Dean.

“He’s not bad,” Dean grunts to himself as he meets the blue eyes. Castiel pulls back and stares up the sky. Dean doesn’t know what he sees there but the sigh that came out is drawn long.

When the photographer exhaustingly shouted five minutes break, Dean watches Cas get crowded by the stylists to one corner, hearing them praise the angel about not sweating and giving him googly eyes.

Dean leaves the room and heads straight to the vending machine stations. He was just about to push for a coke when two members of the crew stop beside him to use the next vending machine supplying chocolate bars. Dean would have ignored them except one of them says Cas’ fake agent name.

“Wright? Got everything wrong. Yeah, he got the face but he’s so stupid. Giovanni’s giving all the best instructions and the model just stands there like a wall. Doesn’t even bat an eyelid, he’s like a hammer, at least a hammer is lethal, that Wright guy doesn’t know any instructions.”

“You know what they say about pretty faces, they lack a brain.” says his companion. They snicker and press for chocolate bars.

Dean remains silent as two cokes slide down the port with clanking sounds. He bends to take them quietly.

“The bar is stuck,” says one of the crew members.

“Don’t add to my shit day, it’s a long day already with that useless model—” A loud crashing sound breaks in the corridor as Dean slams his fist on the metal side of the machine. The chocolate bars fall on the slot with the crew’s mouth hanging open.

“Your bars.” He says, walking away but not without leaving a huge dent on the corner of the machine. He hears the whispers after him, the comments about the public property but Dean doesn’t care. He could easily smash their faces but he’s not that violent.

He gotta get Cas out of there.

Speaking of the angel, Cas is immediately in his space the moment Dean returns in the studio.

“Dean,” he says in his usual gravely voice, “where did you go? Are you okay?”

“Hey, how’s the pretty model?” Dean dismisses him as he let his eyes roam the model’s gorgeous new look as he hands Cas his coke. “You don’t look bad, Cas, you’re killing it there.” Actually, killing them, he adds thoughtfully.

Castiel raises a hand to reach the refreshment, but he ends up pulling Dean’s other hand.

“Thank you, now why is your hand hurt?” blue eyes stare at him dead in the eyes. That kind that really goes straight to your soul.

Dean swallows hard. He can never understand why Castiel cares so much. He’s spent years without anyone watching his back and now he’s got his own angel. Dean really doesn’t know who to thank for that.

“Nothing,” Dean tries to pull his hand to no avail, “The vending machine was broken, had to get my money’s worth,”

“I don’t think that is a good displace of a public officer,” Castiel raises it closer to his lips and kisses the pain away.

“An angel would know, huh?” Dean sighs upon feeling Castiel’s grace smoothen the slight tingling pain and pulls his hand back once Castiel lets him. Castiel’s eyes are still intent on him.

“What’s the development with the Djinn?”

“Uh… yeah, Sam’s on it and since you’re playing the sexy bait—”

“I don’t think any Djinn would find me appealing,” Castiel confesses and it’s too adorable not to take the chance to tease so Dean grins.

“Oh, come on, who knows? You might marry one someday?”

“Angels don’t marry.”

“Sure, they don’t, they also don’t do modelling,”

 “Well, I’m not attracting them right now as I am anyone in this place, I’m failing you, Dean, I’m sorry.”

“Are you kidding? You’re like hot captain garrison out there—very good mood play with the face, it’s so uh—angelically unreadable, and nice button toss,” Dean reaches a hand to Castiel’s collar and in swift movements, because his hands have been itching, he buttons it all the way up Castiel’s throat. “Let’s just not show too much when your off-duty.”

“Off-duty?”

“Off—like uh turn off the sense responsibility?”

“I see,” Castiel narrows his eyes. “The basic human response when feeling lethargic. Indifference to things that do not directly harm them. I am not that. I am feeling quite fit, in fact, even when my thighs can’t freely move from this…  suffocating jeans,”

They both look down the angel’s thighs and Dean licks his lips. When opportunity just presents itself, who is he to deny himself the pleasure? But then—

“It’s impossible to get in that dress alone—Cas did they—?”

“I ripped two pairs,” Castiel says quietly. Dean stops, eyes wide.

“W-what?”

“I tried putting them on my own, they won’t fit. I tore them to shreds whenever I pull it up, so they had to help me,”

Dean makes a face, “Yep, dorky Hercules,”

“I don’t understand that reference.”

“Sam ripped his jeans once too,” Dean smiles from ear to ear, “We were digging and he’s so tall and his jeans are frigging tight and he bents down and—" he makes a tearing sound which makes Castiel slowly smile.

“That I understand.”

Dean laughs.

“You do. Look, Cas, I know the photographer’s being a hard dick on you…but it’s not your fault you can’t understand the references because we’re the ones not adjusting to you… now look here, buddy… you can’t trick a fish to climb a tree so it’s okay to just be you…um… you get what I mean?”

Castiel is still smiling softly. “I understand you are trying to comfort me,”

Dean shrugs. “Is it working?”

Castiel tips his head, “Have you been a model, Dean?”

“I’ve been everywhere,” Dean tells him mysteriously and gives his friend a pat on the shoulders, “So later you’ll go get em, little tiger,”

Castiel nods

“Excuse me, Mr Wright?” they both turn to a young lady in a black crew shirt with a clipboard is standing behind the angel. “We need to set up your wings for the next op,”

“Set up my wings?” Castiel quickly turns at Dean and if that doesn’t get the hunter to act quickly, nothing will. He immediately holds Castiel’s shoulder and tightened his grip so his friend doesn’t interrupt.

“Where is it? I’m going to help him,”

“There’s really no need, we have plenty of staff—"

“I insist,” Dean gives her his most brilliant flashing smile and she quickly points the direction of the props room. Dean drags Castiel there.

Dean picks up a fake white wing with wires and holsters and shows it to Cas who easily frowns who presses it back to Dean’s hands.

“I have wings,”

“Yeah, not like you can let people see the shadow flip-flap thing, okay?”

“Flip flap thing?” Castiel repeats uncertainly, eyebrows raising. Dean shrugs.

“You know, making your ginormous shadow show in the flashing lights—you can’t do that. They want a model and yeah, they need to do marketing, but not that kind. No flip-flap of wings,” Dean throws the wings back at the table.

“I will use my wings I just have to contain my power so it doesn’t break into its real form.”

“You can do that?”

“I can do anything.” Castiel’s eyes suddenly glow without warning and Dean steps back as Castiel raises his magnificent wings with the cracking sparks of fluorescent lamp and there is Castiel, the angel of the lord, in all his glory and dorkiness included max out—Dean’s eyes reflect and behold its beauty. Until the power steadily holds and shrinks down to a fitting one enough at least to make him fit a door.

The power in the air subsides and Dean realizes how he is holding his breath. The beauty of his friend did not strike him in its real essence until now—where Castiel is actually bare in front of him with his black wings’ appearance. He exhales and stands next to the angel where he can see his wings.

It strikes Dean yet again how Castiel is an angel. But every time he looks at his friend, in this form, in this vessel, he's just ultimately... Cas. 

"That's fucking hot, Cas,"

Castiel smiles all gummily. "Thank you, Dean."

“Can mortal eyes see this now?”

“Yes,"

Dean whistles. Then there's that question that's been itching to be said, a question Dean knows won't leave him in peace if he doesn't ask now. Because it's now or never.

“Uh...Cas...can I touch it?”

Castiel's glance is an automatic sharp look that Dean can describe as a shock, but then the angel nods slightly without looking at him. He doesn’t reach. Something about Castiel’s reaction is bugging him.

“Are you sure I can?”

“Yes, please."

Dean takes him to his word and runs his fingers on the wings, his fingers sinking on the soft feathers like it’s made of cloud. Castiel trembles under his touch with a slight moan escaping his lips. Dean stares and sees the tip of Castiel’s ears are red.

"It's beautiful..." Dean licks his lips, "Cas... you... you're truly magnificent, have I told you that?"

"Not in so many words," Castiel doesn't look at him.

Dean just knows he is also having a mental breakdown.

“C-Cas?”

“It’s fine,” the angel whispers, head bent. “Just a little… it’s never been touched by human hands.”

Dean wavers on the spot and takes steps back in shock.

“Y-you mean—I’m the first one—I’m your first?!”

Castiel glances over his shoulder, his eyes leveled. He nods. "What's mine is yours, Dean. I'm yours."

Dean Winchester's head is a puddle melted and stirred by none other than the hottest angel in the garrison. He wants to tell Castiel never to say something like that- not when they are in a room alone because Dean is only a man- instead, he pulls Cas into a deep kiss. It's unexpected and truly catching them both in surprise, but when Castiel doesn't pull, Dean sighs and holds Castiel's shoulders steady. He doesn't know if he can tell Castiel that, but Cas is one of the best kissers he knows attributed to the pizzaman. 

To Dean's delight, Castiel kisses him back. It's swift and lingering when Cas bites his bottom lip and runs their tongue together in a dance. He never thought he'd be kissing Cas like this. Then there's the noise Cas makes, especially when Dean runs his palms on the smooth surface of his chest. Dean pulls only to breathe because angels don't do that, the moment he does, Castiel is there capturing his mouth in another heated kiss and Dean drowns in him.

Castiel is absurdly hot. All the bumps and contours his palm lands into, Dean can't help getting electrified. He knows he is getting hard and there's only one thing left to do- he slips his right knee between Castiel's legs and grinds his steadily hardening groin on Castiel's thighs. The sensation is instantaneous and Castiel doesn't let up. The angel kisses him between the soft moan and sighs that all can Dean do is cling tight on the angel's hipbones. He wants to do many things to Cas aside from pressing hard on him with hands roaming all sacred places that make Cas catch his breath too. He wants to tell Cas to take them away but the thought of his brother facing a Djinn stops all his thoughts.

But he promises himself he will take this. He and Cas, later, tonight, they will have this.

Dean pulls back knowing anyone can come to get the model and when he did, Castiel flaps his wings demandingly, frowning at Dean's withdrawal. Dean doesn't know what to say to that so instead, he soothes the angel by running his hands on the smooth surface of the wings. He sees Castiel's eyes droop, sees the contortion of eyebrows leaving the heavenly forehead, knows that Cas is relaxing under his care. There's a long sigh when Dean is done and he stares at his shaking hands next.

“Dean, can you stay beside me,” Castiel says looking slightly put out and Dean quickly steps right into his space and stares Castiel in the eyes. Castiel doesn't even question the kiss. Dean thinks they still need to talk about it later. For now...

“What’s up?”

“I don’t want anyone else touching it,” Castiel says deadly serious. Dean is about to point to himself but the angel holds his gaze and adds, “Except you.”

Dean wants to hide his face somewhere.

“Dean, are you okay? Your face is red—Dean?” Dean turns away from the angel, body reaching boiling point if he thinks more about what else Castiel is allowing him to do when his phone rings. Still a little shaken, he answers softly only to be greeted by his impatient brother—

“Dammit, Dean! I’ve been trying to reach you for a full ten minutes! I got the Djinn in the warehouse—you may want to help me out! And stop making a pass at Cas! Now is not that time!”

So the kiss was only ten minutes?

“I’m not making a pass, give me the location, bitch,” Dean listens carefully and once he’s done, he turns to the angel apologetically. Castiel’s expression turns serious.

“I understand, we are here for a case, after all, I am sorry my job is in your way.”

Dean stares at him in awe.

“Cas, you’re not a real model, we’re ditching this job!”

There’s a beat.

“Oh.”

They were just about to leave the building when Castiel remembers to get his trench coat. Making a side trip back to the changing areas, Dean meets Sam halfway who informs him the Djinn has been taken care of no thanks to Dean daydreaming about his model boyfriend.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Anyway, where’s Cas?”

There’s a scream from the changing room.

The Winchesters exchanged glances and together they run inside to find Castiel standing in the middle of the room wings spread out and on his hands is the talent scout they’ve spoken to yesterday. Dean’s mind reels—is this another Djinn?

No, that’s human!

“Hey, Cas—no, no we don’t smite talent scouts!” Dean hurries beside the angel, firm grasp on his arm as he tugs it back, causing the talent scout to fall on the floor coughing. Sam is beside him at once while Dean deals with the hot-headed-angel. “Cas, what the hell!”

“He says he wants you,” Castiel growls back, pure anger hatred in his eyes.

“What?”

“He says he wants to take you and you have given me permission to defend myself

Dean throws the talent scout a dirty look. “What exactly did you say to him?

“I said I wanted to recruit you, okay?”

“Not your exact words,” Dean narrows his eyes. The talent scout grimaces.

“I said I want you, that’s it, is it hard to understand? I want him too,” the talent points at Sam while massaging his throat, “You brothers would make the best boxer models,”

Dean blinks at Sam who stares back in disgust.

“No, thanks,” his brother says, “not my dream come true.”

“Might be mine,” Dean turns to the agent, “Okay, dude, here’s the thing—we’re done being models and frankly, it’s not even the safest job. Now leave Cas alone too, he’s cut for it, but not for us...”

“What made you choose him anyway?” Sam wants to know. Dean throws his brother an incredulous look.

“The man was smiling like a real angel when I saw him, of course, I’d recruit him.”

And Dean looks back to when it was before the scout approached them, he and Castiel standing side by side and talking about the most mundane things Dean has done that day. It’s weird because not once has Castiel said about not understanding reference when the topic is about Dean.

Castiel gets him. Dean is his reference. It makes sense.

Sliding an arm around Castiel’s shoulder, he pulls him closer and smiles.

“Come on, Cas, time to go home.”

Castiel slowly looks at him, really looks deep inside his soul, and the angel smiles—and Dean’s glad he can crack that from such a handsome face.

“Yes, Dean.”❤

-end- ao3- ❤

Thank you for giving us this escape during quarantine! We enjoyed it! :)

[slaheir]

how pure are u

          nobody tell him , let him have this. 

[doctordiscord123]

The Worst Kind of Pain is the Lonely Kind

Celine is so lonely...so she turns to a close friend for comfort. It spirals into so much more, for better or for worse

I’m gonna have to split this into multiple parts! So keep an eye out uwu

Buy me a ko-fi

Tag List: @demon-dark-666 @devon-rever-860 @smash-ash26 @bender-of-life @verse2wo @vociferous-chaos @sammael-is-here @itsjustkyss @takethepainawaybae @the-pan-anon @ts-famderartist @rottingmolars @revolutionbastard @toothfairy2298 @sororia04s @sirkawaiipotato @darkest-shade-of-light @bitchbyebibye @posts-random-art @xoskeletonkid   If you want to be added just let me know!

 Warnings: Emotional Neglect, Touch-Starvation  Characters: Celine, the Colonel, the Actor  Pairings: Celine/the Actor  Word Count: 1929 words

Celine was lonely.

She laid awake -- alone -- in bed, staring idly at the clock. It was nearing dawn. Five-ish am. Mark still wasn’t home. She knew he wouldn’t be, he’d been contracted, shooting a movie...somewhere. Ridiculous hours. And the second he came home in the morning, he’d go straight to bed, and sleep through the day till he left again to continue filming.

Leaving Celine alone 99% of the time.

It wasn’t his fault. She knew that. He loved her, and she loved him. But she was just so tired. Tired of spending her days alone in the massive manor with no one to keep her company. She’d brought up getting a pet, once, to Mark, but his immediate reaction of the face he pulled and him fretting over his suits with possible animal hair getting all over them was an obvious no. Celine tried not to show how disappointed she was, and Mark had tried to comfort her, to cheer her up, but it was all empty words as she was left alone once more.

And again.

And again.

She craved to be held, to be touched, to be kissed. She just wanted to be loved. She knew Mark loved her. She knew that. But it was hard to feel loved when she barely saw him for months on end, and their limited interaction was Celine desperately trying to strike up conversation while Mark brushed her off with exhaustion heavy in his voice and collapsed into bed.

She’d read the entire library twice now, in attempt to pass the time. Lost herself in worlds and relationships that weren’t real, which made her chest ache as the loneliness grew. She baked. She cooked. Food that was never eaten, the she couldn’t eat all herself, and was left to spoil. She just wanted affection, physical affection, acknowledgement, something more than what she was getting!

Was that really too much to ask?

She sighed as the clock struck 7:00am, the time passing so agonizingly slowly, each second a year, and forced her weary, leaden body out of bed, to the kitchen, to make a breakfast she didn’t need to share. She still always made a second helping, in case Mark was ever less tired when he came home, if he ever wanted to actually sit down with her, his wife, and spend time with her. But, so far, he never did. And Celine always ended up setting the plate out in the garden for any animals that desired to visit to eat.

When the doorbell rang, Celine was sitting alone at the table, and a little surprised Mark was home so early. It was usually another hour at least. She got up, leaving her barely eaten and mostly picked at breakfast on the table to answer the door and let Mark in.

Only, it wasn’t Mark at the door.

Celine blinked, rearing back in surprise, before splitting into a happy smile. “Wil!” She threw her arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug, and tried to suppress her shudder at how warm he was, at how good his arms felt wrapped around her as he held her back. She buried her face against his shoulder, standing on her tiptoes, and held back a sigh. “It’s good to see you again!”

William laughed, happily holding her tight and squeezing her a little before pulling back. Celine tried not to let her touch linger, but, well...she couldn’t help herself. He placed his hands on her shoulders, smiling warmly at her, and she could feel her heart ache and plead to hug him again, to be as close as possible, to get the affection she so desperately craved. “Well, this wasn’t a welcome I was expecting.” His mustache twitched into the beginnings of a smirk, and he leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “It’s good to see you, too, Celine. It’s been far too long.” He glanced into the manor, letting go of her shoulder with one hand to push up his ridiculous glasses. Her skin felt so cold with the absence of his touch. “Is my brother home?”

Celine frowned and visibly slumped. “No, not yet. He’s shooting a new movie. Most of the shots need to be done at night, and well. He’ll be home soon, though.” She smiled again, taking his hands and leading him into the manor. “Come in! Have you eaten breakfast yet? I’ve just made some, it should still be warm!”

William laughed again, letting her lead him along with no complaint. Celine knew she was starved for human contact, but she didn’t realize just how bad it was until William arrived on her doorstep. She was loathe to physically part with him, even as she sat him down at the table, every touch lingering, her fingertips dragging across his shoulders, the back of his neck, as she moved to plate the breakfast she’d technically made for Mark. She set the plate down in front of him, and anxiety spiked up her spine when William frowned. “Wait -- isn’t this for Mark? Doesn’t he need breakfast, too?”

Celine waved her hand in vague dismissal, sitting down next to William and shifting her chair a little closer to him subtly, pulling her plate back in front of her. “Oh he’ll be fine. He doesn’t eat much at home these days. I hardly ever see him, to be quite honest. He just comes home in the morning, goes to bed, and disappears once night hits.” There was more than a little bitterness in her tone, no matter how much she tried to hide it, as she stabbed at her food with her fork.

William reached over, covering her hand with his own. “Well, that’s no good. That isn’t right, for him to treat you like that.” He squeezed her hand lightly. “You must be so lonely in this big house all by yourself. God knows Mark and I got lonely as kids, even with each other and the servants. Too big of house.”

Celine smiled at him again, though it was shaky, with tears pricking at her eyes, threatening to fall. She shifted her hand to hold his, squeezing back. “Oh I’m fine. It’s okay. I’m used to it by now. Though I do suppose I get a little bored.”

She tried for a laugh, though she knew William saw right through it. She continued to pick at her food, never actually eating it. Maybe the forest creatures wouldn’t go hungry today after all. William huffed, squeezing her hand again, before drawing back to eat his own breakfast. “Well, that simply won’t do. I’ll make it a point to visit more often, then. I’m afraid I can’t stay much longer than a couple hours today. I have...an appointment.” He cleared his throat, rubbing his right shoulder. He never liked to talk about his time at war. Celine never pushed. She didn’t think it was fair to. But even still, it wasn’t hard to figure out he’s been shot at least once through his shoulder, with the way it acted up and he had difficulty reaching upwards with that arm. And once, Celine had accidentally caught him with his shirt off, applying some salve to another healing bullet wound just under his ribs, on his left. Neither ever brought it up.

Celine cleared her throat, finally spearing a piece of egg onto her fork and lifting it to her mouth. “So, have you talked to Damien recently? He never answers when I try to call.”

William nodded, smiling a bit again. “Yes, just the other day, in fact! Poor sod is so busy, he looked like he was in the middle of three crises at once. Forced him to sit down and have a bit of drink with me, and he seemed marginally calmer.” He grinned. “He’s made a new friend in his office. A District Attorney, it looks like. They’re the one keeping his head from spinning off his shoulders.”

Celine laughed, genuinely this time, and rolled her eyes affectionately. “He’s never been good with stress. Why he decided to run for mayor I’ll never know.”

William snorted. “He’s brilliant at it, though. The city is definitely in better shape than with the last mayor. He left the place little more than a rundown shithole.”

Celine choked on her eggs with her laughter, covering her mouth her hand in a poor attempt to stifle her giggling. William laughed as well, before leaving back in his chair and stretching. Celine couldn’t help but watch. William and Mark may be adopted siblings, but they still looked so much alike somehow. She missed Mark, missed her husband desperately, and William always made nice company, but all he did in this moment was remind her of the hole in her chest.

She didn’t know when her laughter turned to tears. She just knew that in one moment she was laughing along with her childhood friend, and in the next painful sobs were being wrenched from her chest, and William was pulling her close in comfort, practically into his lap, and Celine might’ve blushed were she not so utterly desperate for the contact, so completely touch-starved that every slight brush of William’s skin on hers made her skin tingle and burn. He was so warm, and she clung to him, pressing as close as possible, face hidden against his throat as she sobbed and cried.

William whispered soothing words of comfort into her ear, rubbing her back, his other arms wrapped around her waist. He let Celine cry, let her hold onto him with no complaint. And even when Celine’s tears dried, she made no move to let go of him, pressing as close as possible, trembling in his hold. They were silent, save William humming something low in his chest, voice deep, sending soothing vibrations through Celine akin to a cat’s purr, and she relaxed, slowly, before tensing up again and she tried to nestle closer. Her voice was still thick and cracked with her emotion. “...When do you have to leave?”

William sighed, resting his cheek against her hair. “Not for a while yet. Don’t you worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

Celine nodded idly, making a small noise. Time passed quickly, with William here. She didn’t want him to leave at all. She didn’t want to let go. She wanted to stay here, wrapped in the warmth of his arms, till she fell asleep.

But, the doorbell rang again, and Celine reluctantly got up to let Mark in, William trailing after her. As always, she tried for a smile at the sight of her husband, kissing his cheek. As always, Mark looked exhausted, stage makeup smudged, heavy bags under his eyes. And -- as always -- he brushed her off, immediately retreating to the bedroom to sleep. He didn’t even notice William standing behind her. And Celine was left standing by the open front door, trying to hold back tears once more, as her shoulders dropped and she bowed her head.

A hand was laid on her shoulder, and she spun around, tears trailing down her cheeks without her entirely noticing. That is, until William cupped her face in both hands, brushing them away with his thumbs. “...I’ll make it a point to visit more often,” he said, voice soft. He smiled a bit, mustache twitching again in that adorable way. “Hopefully, I can try and ease your loneliness.”

Celine said nothing, just wrapped her arms around him in another hug, cheek pressed to his chest, and closed her eyes as William’s arms enveloped her.

[cherry3point14]

To Catch A Winchester.

Pairing: Demon!Reader x Evil. Dean x Pie. Warnings: Demon!Reader likes bad things. The first scene is, like, kind of evil. Killing people and such. Also complete demon crack. Word Count: 3,056. Prompt: This post. A/N: I don’t have a good excuse for this. I made this gif and loved it so much I wanted to write something and it’s terrible. But mainly I need y’all to tell me how much you love this gif I made because I have watched it a thousand times.

Ao3 if your prefer

You’re reminded of that old show Madeline.

With lightning slicing through the night—occasionally illuminating the pews as you wandered through the church—here you are with your very own version.

Twelve little nuns lined up in a row. Slit their throats and a seal will blow!

A holy river of blood from steeple to sanctuary. A fancy way of saying bathe a church in blood, holy blood at that. It was such a delectable prospect you’d practically begged for the opportunity.

They’re tied up in the pews and you take them one by one. Each nun only goes so far. A couple killed in the tower, the belfry, a few in the lantern. The only problem is there’s one that won’t stop talking. On and on about how you could be saved, it wasn’t too late. How God still loves you. After your third trip down the stairs for your next victim, you’d gone as far as landing a punch to her ancient jaw. The way her bones had cracked under your hand was lovely.

She’d looked like she’d almost died. Beautiful, knocked the wind right out of her until she catches her breath and tells you. “You catch more flies with honey.”

Coming from a super-nun aside you like that turn of phrase. You lock it away in the back of your head for a rainy day, it’ll come in handy you think.

Then finally you take Sister Mary-won’t-shut-up to the bottom of the spire, climbing out into the humid night. It had rained but it’s stopped. The wet surface of the building, with your crimson additions, makes for a very pretty, glossy sight. Reflective even in the darkness. Really does look like an entire river when actually it’s only twelve dead nuns.

Eleven, you suppose. You’re about to kill number twelve. A flick of your wrist and she whizzes to the top while you climb, a knife between your teeth and the inky black of your eyes saying more than the mouth of your meat suit ever could.

Demons can’t be saved. God doesn’t love me. Lucifer does.

You’re straddling the cross at the top of the church, because why the hell not, while you drain her now limp body. Thunder booms and another strike of lightning reveals the outcome of your efforts. You wish you could take a fucking picture. This is what most demons are missing, some goddamn artistic vision. This church covered in holy blood was your hellish Mona Lisa.

After the seal’s break and Lucifer rises you had arrogantly assumed that evil and shadow would finally rule the Earth. Couldn’t heaven give it up and accept defeat already?

Now, it’s a whole new ballgame. The Winchesters are to be meat suits. Lucifer actually wants to wear one of them. Even Michael the dickless could do better. Although it wasn’t your place to say that, ever, unless you wanted to become a sacrifice to the demon blood cause when the time comes. Which, you didn’t. Things were more fun top side. There are only so many hundreds of years you can torture people in hell before it becomes repetitive.

You’ve fought on Earth for the cause for decades now, and you have no intention of stopping. Everyone has their part to play. Unfortunately, a big part of yours was breaking seals. You were fucking great at breaking seals because it required one of your best skills; creativity. So, you’re turning that creativity to something else. Hunting down Michael’s sword. Hell’s most wanted.

Dean Winchester.

Which leads you to Canton. Although technically you’d started in Cleveland. You’d caught wind of that stupid car they drive and followed them. Dumbasses the pair of them.

Whatever. Not the point. Nobody needs these boys for their brains, it's what's in their blood. The point is you’re in Canton now, so are they. They’re trying to stop some people dying because, disgustingly, that’s what they do with their limited time left on Earth.

See, here’s where you’re taking a slightly different approach. Most of your fellow black-eyed friends would go in swinging, throw them against a wall like all the demons who have failed to take them down before. Sometimes demons are so... so… obvious.

Not you. In all the time you’ve been up here you’ve had time to be bored. There are only so many missions and murders to commit. Even sex has grown tiresome. Humans are weak and none of them like pain as much as they claim to. Pathetic. So, you’re creative and you’re bored, and that’s how you learned patience.

It’s not enough to catch them in a moment of weakness. Those moments don’t last. They’re downward blips with quick recoveries, the Winchesters have impressive rebound rates and a knack for getting out of trouble. You need to focus on their weaknesses, those two extra letters make a huge difference.

You needed to find out what would bring them down and stay down. Or Dean at least. Figure out Dean’s vulnerability. Because Sam has some sort of loathsome bond with his big brother, enough that he’s given up on demon blood—for the time being. It won’t be enough to hurt Dean, you’ve got to split them up.

Which is how you end up in a bar, playing with the plastic cocktail stirrer between your fingers. The old fashioned the bartender made you is passable at best, no one has made you a good once since prohibition. Across the room is Dean Winchester knocking back beers like they’re going out of style.

This was going to be a time-consuming project it seems, how much could you really learn watching him like this? Clearly he’s an alcoholic but that’s not something that's helpful.

After the fourth beer, after he’s patted his empty glass at the pretty little tap whore, is when it happens. He looks up. Not at you directly, just up. His nostrils flare and you’re convinced that he’s smelt you. They may be dumb humans but they know about demons. You don’t freeze in fear for your life or anything, you didn’t want to give up this meat suit is all, she’s pretty enough to get free drinks most places.

The spell breaks when his phone rings before he has a chance to scan the room and lock eyes with you. You take a long drag of your drink, enough to empty the glass before you use the opportunity to escape. He’s turned his back to answer and you’ve seen all you need to see for now.

It’s a good thing you’re so patient or you might have fucked that up.

There’s something powerful in Nebraska. You can taste the cackle of demon in the air as soon as you arrive a few hours after Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber. The only thing you can think is, whoever it is better not waste your time. The Winchesters are officially yours and nobody will be taking them from you. Nobody else knows that and actually, you aren’t all that focused on Sam. Sam is Lucifers and you aren’t stupid enough to come between that. But, Dean?

Dean, you were looking forward to getting your hands on. The man has been to hell already and when you caught him and took him back with a bow on…? Oh, you would so enjoy breaking him. Again.

Until that blessed day, you slink around after them. Being subtle in the way you plot and scheme. So, yes, whatever demon is in Nebraska needs to stay away from your side mission that has become your sole focus.

You were project managing this bitch and you weren’t looking to delegate.

Ignoring the powerful thing in Nebraska, the town is wonderfully insane. People scratching their own brains out or that guy who ended up with square eyes from watching TV too long. Even the stuff that isn’t life-threatening is so fun that you have to respect the game.

You had no idea that the thing you could feel was him. The antichrist. You were an idiot.

The demon trying to get him goes in guns blazing, obviously, and the kid destroys him. Absolutely casts him out. Not just out of that meat suit of a mother, out of existence. And you’re watching the whole thing from across the street like a creep. You’re about to go in because you need that kid. Lucifer needs that kid. More than you need Dean. Enough to blow your cover but before you can, he’s gone.

The power disappears from Nebraska like it’s been sucked off the face of the planet. As much as it is a shame you can't say you're upset. Now you get to carry on your game.

The hotel is the sort of place you’d love to burn to the ground. It would look fantastic lit up in yellow and orange.

When you first step foot in the place nothing makes sense. Not the hundred wannabe Winchesters or the fact that there are humans walking around pretending to be demons. You don’t like being confused. You were supposed to be getting somewhere and now it’s like being back at square one.

After your initial shock, you actually want to test this out so you sit there in your pretty new meat suit and flick your eyes onyx. Some idiot next to you has the audacity to lean over and compliment your Ruby costume.

As if you would be caught dead calling yourself Ruby. Your fingers itch to snap his neck for the fun of it and you almost do. You only resist because you picked up your new skin a few days ago and there isn’t anyone that you can see who would be a suitable replacement.

Everyone piles into the conference room for some sort of announcement, eventually, leaving you in the hotel bar to figure things out.

There are books. How did no-one in hell talk about this? Everyone is obsessed with finding those boys and nobody thought to do the research. That’s the problem with demons these days, new evil, it’s all so rushed. Sometimes a lighter touch is required.

You steal copies from a stand while everyone is cheering about something in the other room. This follow the Winchesters crap is making you soft because that act of defiance alone makes your meat suit tingle. You should be concerned about that. Except only doing a light skim of the pages, you have a veritable bullet-pointed list of ways to make Dean Winchester cry. So, you’re still getting somewhere.

Hours later you’re in the car you stole along with this body and you see a word in the books, so innocuous that it shouldn’t stand out to you. Pie.

You remember that nun then, must have been more than a year ago. You remember that sentence you tucked away for a rainy day. Maybe you’re weakened by remembering how good it felt to break a seal that night. Maybe that memory makes you weak for the words she’d said after you felt her jaw crack.

You catch more flies with honey.

Most humans would call it a beautiful Sunday morning. Sweet Lucifer, crap like that made you sick.

It’s the perfect cover though. Nothing bad happens on Sunday mornings.

They’ve been staying in this bumfuck nowhere town outside of Phoenix because they escaped from a mental hospital or something. The ‘or something’ is probably pretty relevant but you don't care, not really, not unless it helps you.

If their guards are down, sure, it’ll help you out, if not, that was fine too. You’ve got the perfect plan anyway.

You watch Dean leave the motel they’re in looking, surly? Doesn’t matter, the fact is he’s alone. His face is explained when he stops in a diner to get coffee. He's tired. You’d been following him on foot till now because it’s easier to keep you distance walking around town, he won’t be in town much longer though.

You’ve been setting this up for days, weeks actually, but in this town; days. The plan has been in motion for a while you'd only been waiting for them to settle down for a few and finally, they did.

The woman behind the counter of the diner is named Glenda. Glenda is the sweetest little old lady this side of creation. Or at least that’s what you’d told her the last time you went in. You’ve been speaking to her every day, laying the foundation, taking the time to become her friend. It would be exhausting if you ever got exhausted.

Glenda has been telling anyone in a 30-mile radius about the pie truck that’s pulled up on the old Applewood farm, run by a ‘sweet young thing’. You run the best traveling bakery in the country, your mama taught you everything you know. You’ve been supplying the diner all week.

And now she’s telling Dean.

“Oh yes,” you can see Glenda nodding enthusiastically through the large windows. “All the pie we’ve had all week came from that truck. Apparently, she has a big setup for today and then she’s moving on.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up.

Perfect.

You jump into the car you’re using this week and wait the three minutes it takes for him to come sauntering out like the cat that got the damn cream. This idiot thinks he’s getting pie. Well, there is pie. You couldn’t lure him without having the pie. There’s also a trap is all.

It’s nice to follow Dean out to the farm, it’s nice because you know it’ll be the last time you have to follow his stupid car. After today you were cashing out.

Hayley is standing at the pie stand. You couldn’t be there obviously. Dean wouldn’t want a side of sulfur with his cherry pie. Hayley is a local you hired when you came into town. She’s more than happy to do everything for you, for the amount you’re paying her. You blame this whole 'catching with honey' schtick because you’re actually paying her too. You’d need to kill a whole mess of children after this to get the nice off of you.

Or breaking Dean might get you back to your brilliant, evil self.

He pulls up and his crapmobile bounces on its suspension with the same excitement he jumps out of the car with. Yes, you would enjoy making him pay for the months you’ve spent on this project.

Dean is so pleased as fucking punch to get a pie he doesn’t even notice your car crawling along the dirt path and parking some ways behind him.

The key here is the sign that says Try Our Award Winning Cherry Pie. It is award-winning. The bakery the pie actually came from won a gold star or some shit. You didn’t pay attention to the ins and outs, only that the pie looked perfect. That’s what you need, him to want that pie.

He does. The son of a bitch sees it and he grins. Points at the sign. He’s practically giddy.

Hayley nods to the second table, there’s only one left. You hadn’t planned that part. She must have had some customers already this morning. Glenda and her big mouth.

He takes a step towards it and you get out of your car. Another step and you start walking. A third and you pick up your pace.

He takes that last step, plants one foot in front of the table, and reaches out for the pie. Unlucky for him you’re sprinting to catch up and with a flick of your wrist, the table jumps back. The pie is in his hands so that’s fine, that’s safe, but now there’s a little space in front of him. Everything happens quickly. His second foot tries to catch up with his first except there’s no floor beneath him. The cloth mat the table had been sitting on falls away, supported by nothing.

You can’t help the laugh that comes out of you when he growls, “what the fuck?” before disappearing.

Hayley screams, whether at the table moving or the trap her customer falls into, it’s delightful. Fuck you missed hearing someone scream. Bloodcurdling and scared, it's a whole meal for your ears.

“Run home Hayley. Tell anyone about this and I’ll find you and kill you. ‘Kay?” She nods, tears starting to roll over her cheeks. She runs, as fast as she can, in such a hurry to leave she forgets her bike. If you remember later you’ll kill her anyway because damn is it nice to be back.

You have a Winchester to deal with first though.

The hole is 15 foot. You figured that would be enough to capture the 6-foot ape without him getting away.

You stand at the edge of the hole and look down. You almost laugh at the sight. Dean is standing in the bottom of this pit, the mat beneath his feet and the pie still in his hands. He's scuffed a little but the pie is perfectly intact. Damn, if you had a heart you'd say he deserves the pie.

You don't laugh though. It's time to put on your game face which means hands on your thighs as you lean over and stare down at him all-black eyes and satisfied smiles.

"Hi, Dean. A little birdie told me you like pie and I had the most, delicious, idea. Whatdy'a think?"

He looks equal parts stoic and mad, which is adorable. "Since when did you bitches get into baking?"

"What else are we gonna use all that fire and brimstone for?"

"Alright. What's the big plan then?"

His eyes don't leave yours, his hands still holding the pie as if it will save him. Somehow what you're about to do feels as wicked as painting that church.

You wave your hand and he slams into the dirt wall of his captivity. The pie falls to the floor, top first, his boot lands smashes into it.

"We're going on a road trip. Don't worry you won't need that where you're going."

By 'that' you mean the pie and by 'where' you mean the trunk of your stolen car.

Once this was all over you were going to teach fucking seminars on catching Winchesters. Because nobody does it better. 

5eva tags: @divadinag​ @darthdeziewok​ @fluentinfiction​ @witch-of-letters​ @supernatural-teamfreewill-blog​ @magnitude101999​ @alexwinchester23​​ @jesseswartzwelder​​ Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles​​ @akshi8278​​ @erins-culinary-service​​ @bloodydaydreamer​​ @iamabeautifulperson18​​

[caiminnent]

your hand, my knife [kylux, rated T]

Prompt: insomnia (@badthingshappenbingo​, 4/25)

Summary: On the nights his skin feels stretched thin over his bones and the voices in his head sound truer than his own, Kylo comes to Hux for comfort. It will be the downfall of them both.

Fandom: Star Wars

Tags: Post-The Last Jedi, Non-TROS Compliant, Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Sharing a Bed, Non-Sexual Intimacy

3K || Also on AO3.

On the nights his skin feels stretched thin over his bones and the voices in his head sound truer than his own, he wanders.

Technically, there’s no night on a ship. It’s all cycles this and shifts that, systems built strictly to make the well-oiled machine that is the First Order even more efficient. Even the layout is designed specifically to direct rotations through the routes where they would be most valuable, not a square inch left unmanned in any given moment.

Not a square inch to fucking breathe is what that truly means.

He doesn’t realize there was purpose in his stride until he finds himself at that door. Third time this week—Hux will revoke his access again. This time for good. His palms are already sweating in his gloves at the thought of being locked out here with half a dozen officers still mulling around, their consciousnesses threatening to seep in through the cracks of his failing mental barrier—

That’s absurd. He’s the Supreme Leader. He has nothing to fear from an access panel; he could blast it into a million pieces if he so wished.

Ripping his glove off, he presses a thumb on the panel. It beeps, blinking green once before the locks disengage with a hiss that hides his sigh.

Past the narrow entrance hiding the rooms from the immediate gaze, Hux is—

Hux is sprawled across that awful couch in his robe with a datapad in hand, petting a sleeping Millicent on his lap with his other, strands of damp hair framing his face. The sight is… soft, almost, impossible to reconcile with the vicious, ruthless face of the First Order prowling the bridge. General Hux wouldn’t be caught dead looking halfway human, let alone at home.

Armitage might, though.

Unease rolls off Hux, a low wave that sends Kylo’s skin crawling. His fingers tingle with the need to soothe it away—he’s not here to leech off Hux’s comfort, only to find some of his own—but Hux would sooner throw him out than accept the peace offering. The marks around his neck, down his side that he wore like a fuck you for weeks were proof enough.

Kylo hates everything. Especially himself.

Hux lowers the datapad and slowly sits up, keeping a hand on Millicent. “Supreme Leader,” he says smoothly, nothing in his tone betraying his anxiety. “Pardon my state of undress; I wasn’t expecting company at this hour.”

Of course he wasn’t. No one dares disturb the General for anything short of an emergency during his off time—no one but Kylo.

“Don’t call me that,” he rasps, heart high in his throat. “Not here.” He never comes here as the Supreme Leader. He doesn’t even look supreme right now—in a single glove and the first clothes he’d found on his floor, cape forgotten in his hurry to get out, he feels more like a giant shit stain on the pristine rugs.

Hux’s assessing glance says as much as he scans Kylo from head to toe, trying to pinpoint what broke him this time. “Very well,” he says with a small dip of his head. “Ghosts?”

“Yes,” Kylo lies. Ghosts. Demons. Nightmares. All good reasons to excuse away why his feet won’t stop carrying him here. Simple. Dismissible.

He’s worn them thin by now, though. Hux must not be looking closely to miss how see-through they’ve become. Maybe he stopped caring about it, for all he still asks; what does the reason matter when they all mean Kylo is here to ruin his night?

Releasing a put-upon sigh, Hux glances at his datapad like it pains him to part with it. “I used to get so much work done during rest cycles.”

The knot in his stomach unfolds. “Sorry.”

Hux only rolls his eyes, stretching to the side table to put the datapad away—nearly tips his caf over before Kylo steadies the half-full mug with the Force.

Millicent jerks her head up, tail and ears prickling up as she scans the area. Hux smiles at her—a warm, lopsided little thing that takes ten years out of him, a new gleam to his eyes. Kylo is struck by an image he’s never seen: Hux half-naked in his bed, blinking sleep out of soft, blue-green eyes, his lips curling into that sweet smile for Kylo.

Pathetic.

Scratching between Millicent’s ears, who settled on Kylo as the source of curiosity, “Stop staring and go get cleaned up,” Hux says, a note of amusement lingering in his tone. He turns to Kylo and it disappears. “I’ll be a moment.”

------------

Cleaning up is the part Kylo dislikes the most.

He’s not a beast, like Hux likes to insinuate often; he knows how to clean himself—but Hux has him wash with scented soaps until his skin is red and his scalp is hurting before allowing him into the bed. Punishment for all that he’s done to Hux on Crait—or power play, Hux exerting his will where he’s allowed to.

Or maybe, whispers that voice at the back of his head, he simply doesn’t want your smell on his sheets. He doesn’t want to remember that you’ve been there.

The thought cuts deeper than it has any right to.

Once he’s up to Hux’s standards, he steps out and into his old clothes—on second thought, takes the shirt off again and hides it at the bottom of the hamper for a cleaning droid to find. Hux will have a fit when he finds it neatly folded among his uniforms.

Part of him hopes Hux has already fallen asleep, so that Kylo can skip to the comfort of lying next to someone already, but the energy in the dim space is too off for that. He follows it to the bedroom, where Hux is enjoying a cigarra on the steps leading down to the full-height viewport, the pretentious bastard. The smoke detectors overhead are conspicuously passive.

Watching Hux watch the galaxy out there is far from a new experience. Kylo has seen that particular shine of red against the backdrop of stars a thousand times by now; the novelty has long worn off. The weight in his chest, the aching desire to card his fingers through that silky hair and slip the shoulder of the robe just that much lower have no place between Hux and him.

None at all.

Too tired for more games, he drops his gloves on the dresser and gets into the bed without waiting for express permission, burying himself under the plush duvet. The shower wasn’t enough to stave off the chill in his bones, nor is the wasteful warmth of Hux’s rooms. Nor will the duvet be, but Hux makes no move to even acknowledge him, let alone join him, so it will have to do.

Sleep hasn’t been a part of Kylo’s nights for quite some time. He stopped expecting it to be, trying to be content with drifting on the edge long enough to keep his head during the day. Still, irritation spikes in him when he’s drawn back from his rest, Hux’s barely considerable weight shifting the mattress underneath.

“Oh, hush,” Hux says even though Kylo didn’t make a sound, sliding under the covers. He’s dressed again, in a dark shirt that looks too big on him and matching pants. Kylo is already missing the robe. “Turn around.”

Kylo faces the viewport and closes his eyes, his body already growing lax in anticipation. No matter his words, Hux’s touch is always gentle as he combs the strands falling on Kylo’s face away, the lingering reek of smoke on his fingers sharp enough to sting.

Kylo grimaces. “Did you have to smoke the entire pack?”

The grip in his hair tightens in warning, not enough to hurt. “Do you or do you not want this, Ren?”

Kylo presses closer in answer.

Confusion and surprise rise in Hux like dust kicked off the ground, leaving a bitter taste in Kylo’s mouth. So Kylo is needy tonight, big deal. He’s not about to apologize for it. Shouldn’t Hux be glad to have more to throw in his face?

Hux carefully, almost experimentally, runs his fingers over Kylo’s scalp, through his hair, down a shoulder blade—pulls away at the shiver that elicits. Shame spreads through him, sudden and burning. Hux’s hands never really warm up, no matter the temperature of his surroundings or how long he keeps them under hot water. Poor circulation. Can’t do even that right. Weak, thin, useless—

It’s not Kylo’s thought.

Heart hammering in his chest, Kylo rolls over. Startled, Hux scuttles away, fear flashing over his face before his expression shutters into a guarded mask. The shame that coats Kylo’s insides is all his own this time.

Doing his best to pitch his voice low and soothing, “Give me your hands,” Kylo asks, extending his own with the palms up. Trustful. Open.

Hux frowns, eyes flitting down at Kylo’s hands on the duvet. “What—”

“Your hands,” Kylo repeats, trying to hold onto the thin threads of patience he’s never had for anything. He has to comfort Hux—doesn’t know why, doesn’t know how, but all his instincts are screaming at him to do something and by stars, he will. “Please.”

He doesn’t need the Force to sense the mix of distrust and curiosity oozing out of Hux as Hux cautiously places his hands on Kylo’s, allowing him to take them under the covers. Kylo tucks them against his chest and starts rubbing Hux’s wrists, palms, each finger—moving back up.

There are easier ways to do this. He could use the Force to help redirect Hux’s blood flow, no touching necessary unless Hux wanted it. He won’t ask, though. The trust Hux is—has been—placing in him is still fragile, tentative; it wouldn’t do to risk it by stirring up bad memories.

Hux’s eyes are trained where he can’t see their hands under the duvet. “What are you doing?” he asks on a low, bemused laugh.

“Warming you up,” Kylo says simply, starting on Hux’s forearms under the sleeves. The skin is smoother here, not calloused or scarred like his palms or fingertips, save for where his blade usually sits. “I hear I’m a human furnace. Might as well put it to good use.”

“Right. Can’t let your security blanket become an ice block.”

A security blanket. That’s what Hux believes himself to be. A kriffing child’s kriffing comfort toy.

Which one of them does Hux intend to insult?

Either way, Kylo’s not going to rise to the bait. “Something like that,” he says, shrugging his free shoulder. Humor drains from Hux’s face.

He makes his way down from Hux’s elbows, following the long, angular marks with his thumbs—Hux takes his hands away before he can get to the wrists. Kylo lets him, feeling oddly emptied in his guts—robbed of something he doesn’t even own.

“That’s quite enough,” Hux bites out, pulling his sleeves down sharply. “Let’s put your good work to test, shall we?”

Kylo grudgingly turns again, not bothering with the duvet. The backs of Hux’s fingers are only marginally warmer, but Kylo manages to suppress the shiver this time as they slide down his nape, between his shoulder blades, to the middle of his back and back up—like soothing an agitated animal. Soon enough, his eyes are drooping low despite himself, tension he hadn’t realized he carried slipping from his shoulders, his forehead.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” he mumbles, too boneless for more—stiffens again when his brain catches up to his mouth. Pillow talk. He’s trying to have pillow talk with Hux. As if Hux would ever tolerate that.

The hand has stilled on the curve of his spine. Kylo bites his tongue to keep from saying never mind. Hux might run this show, but he doesn’t call all the shots; Kylo can ask a stupid question without wanting to kick himself for it. He’s allowed to.

Hux takes a long breath, his touch caressing up Kylo’s body again. “Medbay,” he says on the exhale. Kylo wills himself into a statue, lest he do anything that makes Hux reconsider. “During my first years on the Finalizer—before I made it into High Command—I often had… causes, for extended stays. I couldn’t fall asleep in such an exposed, accessible place, however, nor would I accept sleeping aid for fear that I might grow dependent on them.  This was a… tolerable solution, at the time.”

Kylo’s head is buzzing. Why had Hux had to spend so much time in the medbay? Do any of the personnel at the time remain on board, so that he can reward them and then banish them to a backwater planet for having touched Hux so intimately? Does Hux ever think back on those nights when he can’t sleep and wish for someone to soothe him like that?

Might Hux ever consider Kylo for the task?

The questions are like beetles in his lungs, scratching at him to get out—Hux radiating anticipation and regret behind him. Before, Kylo would push on regardless, stealing the answers from Hux’s mind if he has to, the urge to sate his curiosity winning over the risk of having Hux retreat back into his shell.

He doesn’t even remember when before was.

Swallowing hard against the words trying to crawl up, “Thank you for telling me,” he whispers. Maybe, in some far, unlikely future, Hux will tell him the full story—willingly. Maybe Hux will want to share things with him.

Until then, Kylo will hold his tongue.

------------

He’s fallen asleep without intending to, he finds when he wakes up to an arm circling his waist and warm breath tickling his nape, Millicent at their feet.

He’s never felt safer in his entire life.

Closing his eyes, he allows himself to pretend, just for a bit. To imagine that this is just a regular morning in their shared quarters, nothing he hasn’t experienced before, nothing out of the ordinary. That Hux won’t be displeased to see Kylo has lingered past his welcome.

The alarm blaring from the side table shatters the dream.

For all his no-nonsense efficiency in everything, Hux wakes up slowly. Kylo can feel every shift against his back as Hux’s body resists wakefulness—sends a prayer to every deity he can think of that Hux can’t feel his heartbeat in return, evening out his breathing to feign deep sleep.

Hux’s whole body stiffens against his, that chalk-dust feeling rising again.

Instead of jerking back in horror, Hux pauses as he takes in the situation, the gears in his head turning almost audibly. He’s probably making that face, with the pinched mouth and lines cutting across his forehead. Kylo’s memorized it over countless simulations and battle plans, strategy meetings he only attended to appease the General.

Hux tends to radiate murderous intent by the end of those, though, not—not fucking contentment.

The thought sinks into his stomach like a hot stone.

The temptation to look into Hux’s mind and see for himself is overwhelming. He must be wrong. There’s no other explanation; he must be reading things wrong or—or the Force must have anchored on someone else passing in the hallway, in other quarters—hell, Millicent. Hux isn’t capable of feeling anything but contempt and dissatisfaction.

A thumb brushes against Kylo’s stomach and his heart skips a beat.

Hux pulls away. The alarm shuts off a moment later, followed by the refresher door.

Kylo rolls onto his back as if pulled in by gravity, staring at the ceiling. The room looks exactly the same as last night. As it should. He’s the one thrown off-kilter between then and now—the one with stupid, dangerous desires that will only see him dethroned, if not killed. The one that gets undone by a stray brush of skin.

Swallowing against the lump at the base of his throat, he pushes himself up and out of the bed, reaching for his boots in the corner. He doesn’t know what Hux’s morning routine entails, but Hux must want some alone time for it, to put on his uniform and his general face and the stick up his ass. Kylo’s already pushing his luck; he should leave before Hux comes back and kicks him out.

Hux appears before Kylo can get to the second boot. Kylo keeps his eyes on the task, not eager to face the General’s displeasure full-on.

Pausing in the doorway, “Oh,” Hux says mildly. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah,” Kylo says, trying to tug the boot up. He should’ve just used the Force and be done with it, but that would have woken Millicent up again. “I was just leaving.”

“Don’t.”

Kylo looks up sharply enough to hurt his neck—catches only a flash of Hux’s expression before Hux moves briskly past to the closet. Nothing but rows and rows of regulation clothing, jackets hanging without a speck of dust visible on them.

“Everyone is already awake,” Hux points out as he pulls out his clothes. “You will only raise heads in your… current state. My job is difficult enough without having to snuff out rumors that I’m fucking you for my position.”

Right. This is where they stand: Supreme Leader and his devious pet general. General Hux and the attack dog he’s trying to keep on a leash. Two monsters vying for power—nothing more, nothing less.

Kylo would do well to remember that.

Hux glances over his shoulder with the stack of clothes in his hands, raising a brow. “Some privacy, if you will.”

“Yeah.” Kylo nods, already picking up his gloves and the boot he’s knocked over. “Sure, of course.”

Hux watches as Kylo limps back into the main area to wait out the morning crowd, closing the door behind Kylo. All surfaces are cleared out of anything remotely personal again, the robe nowhere to be seen. If it weren’t for that ice blue couch, Kylo could have been in anyone’s rooms.

The door opens again. “And Ren?”

Kylo turns, almost tripping over his feet in his hurry.

“I’m keeping my end of the bargain,” General Hux says, nodding at the unmade bed. “Make sure to keep yours.”