#horror!verse

[gallowsheart]

muse: Liam Donnelly (OC) open to: 21+ only please / mutuals and non-mutuals / other OCs, canons, fandom crossovers, whatever! (m only if romantic) plot: liam helps the souls of the newly dead cross over, but this one is particularly stubborn. utp if it's because they're actually still alive (cursed, almost dead, in limbo, etc.), sticking around because they know him/like him, or are evil and have their own agenda, idk go wild.

Liam had been able to sense spirits from the time he was a child, though he couldn't often see them. He’d always known when death was close. It came heavy with the scent of asphodel and the bitter taste of ashes on his tongue. His real gift was helping souls on the border of life and death to transition more easily. His psychic friend, Layla, called him a psychopomp, but he'd been much older by the time he learned that word.

Night shifts were long in the hospice unit where he worked. There was never any shortage of new spirits there, and while he found the work rewarding, it could be draining as well. They didn't usually follow him home. For some reason, this spirit had been lingering in his apartment for days. He was unsurprised to find it hovering in the same corner when he came through the door, invisible to him but unmistakably there. "Hello, again," he said quietly, though if they spoke back to him, he'd never been able to hear it. Sometimes he could, with the very newly dead, but not always.

He shrugged out of his coat and hung it in the closet, removing a few things from one of the pockets and coming to sit on the couch. "I thought we could try something new." He placed a piece of paper with a circle drawn in the center on the coffee table and held a crystal pendulum over it. "Don't laugh, okay? I've never done this before. My psychic friend said to ask you yes or no questions and note which way the pendulum swings. So I guess… what's our signal for yes?" He watched the pendulum closely, feeling a little foolish. This probably wasn't going to work. He'd never needed anything more than innate talent to talk to a spirit before, but he had to try something. He hated to think of them trapped indefinitely in the in-between.

[bettyxsnooper]

•✦• ELIZABETH COOPER has just been issued a ticket to the multiverse. They're a [25] year old cisfemale (she/her) who's currently working as an FBI agent. Originally from • Riverdale •, you might know them best as BETTY COOPER. You know, the one who looks a lot like ✦ LILI REINHART ✦ and has that daughter of the Black Hood, hunting serial killers, crescent shaped scars on her palms vibe? We hope you enjoy your stay here! •✦•

[frightnightx]

@defectivexfragmented

Jerry couldn't recall much about his human life after centuries like this, but he recalled enough about the attack to know he hadn't been meant to survive it. There was no maker waiting for him when he woke, and he'd had to learn the ropes himself. He wasn't sorry for it. He wasn't particularly prone to sentiment, and it taught him how to survive. It was his best skill. Shame so many humans didn't share it. For whatever reason, certain ones had always been drawn to his kind. Curiosity maybe, or simply a fascination with darkness, with death. He couldn't say for sure what this one was, but Jerry was a predator. He knew when he was being hunted.

Or followed, at any rate. He'd slipped into the club to see whether his human tail would follow, and he could admit to some curiosity on his side too. It wasn't just any human who could spot what he was or keep up with him. The other man didn't smell like a killer. There was no blood on him, no fear, both scents that lingered. Jerry had eaten enough serial killers to know the signs. (What? It was more entertaining to hunt monsters than victims when he felt like a challenge.) He was something though, and something was interesting. He did not want to catch the interest of something like Jerry.

He'd melted into the crowd of humans, senses alert for one in particular. He could hear every swish of fabric, every panting breath, every skitter of an insect in the walls over the pulsing music, the lights painting the room a vibrant, gory red. His favorite color. Every human in the place had a scent he could pick out and follow like a thread marking his way until he found the one he wanted. Closer than he'd expected. Did he know how close he was? Intrigued in spite of himself, he drifted closer, moving like water through the crowded dance floor until he'd appeared behind him almost like magic, breath by his ear. "You're playing with fire."

[xdefendingandy]

❛ so, what do i owe this pleasure? ❜

@pleinsdemuses

Andy wasn't always the easiest person to get along with, but since being liked wasn't high on his list of priorities--and it was even lower after the events of the previous year--he didn't particularly care. He didn't have to be liked to be good at his job. His personality had clashed immediately with Neal's when he started working at the DA's office, and it had not improved with time. The media circus over Jacob's trial had demolished whatever was left of their professional relationship, and they barely tolerated each other in the office these days. Since he hadn't liked him much to begin with, Andy considered it a minor inconvenience. It was easier if they could be civil, but it wasn't going to wreck his day.

He apparently wasn't the only person who found the man's personality difficult, and he'd paused a moment outside Isabella's office. He didn't catch the gist of the tirade, other than to note that it sounded extremely one-sided, and there was only a brief pause before he knocked lightly and stepped inside, stopping Neal in mid-sentence. "Got a minute?" He held up the folder in his hands and tried not to smirk as he stalked past him. He waited until he'd disappeared around a corner before he turned back to her. "Nothing. I just wanted him to leave. I hope that wasn't important." He barely stopped short of asking if she was okay, but the silent question hung in the air regardless. Isabella didn't need him to fight her battles for her, but he'd have stepped in on anyone being harassed in their own workplace.

[vvaywardhunter]

Honesty Hour - Dean, you haven't been compelled what are you still doing with that bloodsucker?

@pleinsdemuses

"Okay first of all, fuck you. Second of all, she did compel me not to leave Mystic Falls, so I'm working with what I've got here."

"Oh, and also the sex is bomb."

And he's starting to catch feelings.

[raisedxbywolves]

“You’re talking mad shit for a guy within kissing distance.”

@pctentialbreakupsong

Theo had a tendency to bail whenever anyone started to catch feelings, which put an element of chaos in any relationship with him that lasted longer than a few nights. He wasn't clear on why Riley was willing to put up with that on again/off again shit they had going on, but that was her business. It made the rest of the pack crazy when they were on, but since that wasn't a lot different from when they were off, he didn't consider their opinions much of a factor.

He was leaning on the pool table at their favorite bar, cue in one hand, and he might have just tossed out a challenge to get her to play with him. That hadn't been the kind of playing he had in mind, but it wouldn't take a lot to persuade him either.

"We tried that, remember? It didn't work." He grinned when he said it though because something not working was absolutely no reason not to try it again in Theo's book, especially if that something was a hot, tiny blonde who could kick his ass without breaking a sweat. Okay, maybe some sweating, given the lycanthropy made him just as strong as she was, but still. He wasn't opposed. If insanity was doing something over and over again and expecting different results, then sign him up.

[grimmusings]

❛ It's amazing how far you can get on denial. You know why so many people use denial to get by? Because it really fucking works. ❜ {for Damien}

Answered here! 🔥

[om3ned]

❛ It's amazing how far you can get on denial. You know why so many people use denial to get by? Because it really fucking works. ❜

@crownedinsin

Damien hadn't really intended to show up at the same bar around closing. He didn't even know what time it was. Hell, he didn't even know how he'd gotten there. He must have blacked out and gone on autopilot, his subconscious deciding this was a safe place. It was easier to believe than that he'd just wished himself there. He'd wanted to get away. Away from the nuns who were trying to save him or kill him, he wasn't sure which. Away from all of Lyon's and Rutledge's fucking mercenaries, or whatever they were. Away from all the people he'd killed, but his mind instinctively shied away from that.

He was half-naked and covered in blood, none of it his. There had been wounds. He distinctly remembered thorns cutting into him in that pit that grave, but his flesh was whole and unbroken now. His teeth were starting to chatter, less from cold than from fear. "I--I'm having a little trouble d-denying right now," he admitted. "I'm sorry I-- didn't mean to come here. I should…" He trailed off, having no idea what he should do. Go home, pack a bag, and flee the country, maybe. It was sounding more and more tempting. The bartender was right. Denial was a good option. As long as he ran, he could pretend this wasn't fucking happening.

[crossoutjenn]

✔️ @biblicallyaccuratemcu liked for a starter!

It wasn't that easy to kill a demon, though getting stabbed in the heart did set her back a bit. She'd had years to recover from that and put a wide distance between herself and Needy, mostly because she worried another confrontation might end in her ex-bff's death. And the past was the past, like get over it and move on already. So she did. Supernatural powers came with a learning curve, and Jennifer had learned a lot about herself in the years since high school. She learned she didn't have to kill every time she fed, but it was more fun (obvi) and the perks were better. Sex, blood, or fear could get her by, maybe indefinitely, but they wouldn't make her powerful or irresistible. And, really, who wanted to be average?

She was well-fed for tonight's campus Halloween party. Jennifer didn't even go to school there, but colleges were perfect feeding grounds. The low-level lust in this room alone was enough to give her a little buzz, and any excuse to wear a slutty costume that made her tits pop was fine by her. She'd dressed appropriately as a devil. She wasn't necessarily planning to eat someone tonight, but if the opportunity was there, Jenn wasn't one to turn it down. Right now, she just wanted to dance and flirt with someone pretty.

Pretty was currently being loomed over in a corner of the kitchen by a dude who clearly thought size meant he had his pick, a Neanderthal state of mind she'd never had any patience for. Jennifer didn't bother to get a further read on the situation. Maybe the girl was into it, or maybe she was three seconds away from stabbing him with a butter knife. Whatever. She put a hand on his chest and gave a single firm push. She was stronger than she looked, and his eyes were startled as he stumbled back a step. "You're not even close to being hot enough for her, dude. Time for all small-town gomers to go back to mommy's basement." Her other hand found the redhead's and gave it an excited tug toward the dancers. "Come dance with me."

[vvolfsbaneblooms]

🐺 @luminescenc1e liked for a starter

It wasn't the first time Larry had woken up in a tomb, wolfsbane on the floor and not a familiar face in sight. He'd like to have a talk with whoever had moved his corpse and resurrected him, but they weren't coming forward to take credit. It had been less than a week since he woke, and he was still acclimating to the jarring changes in time and place, uncertain exactly how much time had passed since he hadn't known the year he'd last died. It all seemed to run together, like something out of a nightmare.

Night was falling when he went walking through the town. There were a few people still out, but in general he preferred to avoid a crowd. The wolf's head cane had been buried with him, which made him suspect another motive other than grave robbing, the silver harmless against his human flesh. His senses were little better than a human's in this form, but he could swear he knew the scent of another wolf. He didn't mean to stare at the other man, but he'd never met another of his kind, with the exception of the one who turned him, and there hadn't been a lot of dialogue in that encounter.

"Sorry… Could you tell me what city this is?"

[vvolfatthedoor]

⭒˚⭒ AVEN ALICE WOLFRAM ⭒˚⭒ has just turned to a new page in their story. They're a [ 30 ] year old cisfemale (she/her), and they're an ORIGINAL character. They're also a [ werewolf ] who's currently working as a romance novelist. They look a lot like ⭒˚⭒ PHOEBE TONKIN ⭒˚⭒ and come from a world of [ supernatural ], but you'll know them best by their wolf at the door, the pen is mightier than the claws (but watch those too), knows no strangers vibe. ⭒˚⭒

[gallowsheart]

muse: Lilah Cavalleri (OC) open to: 21+ only please / mutuals and non-mutuals / other OCs, canons, fandom crossovers, whatever! plot: essentially the premise of bodies, bodies, bodies. a group of friends in a remote location plays a game where one player "murders" the others one by one and they try to guess the killer, only to end up with someone actually dead. utp if y/m is a friend, a stranger, the killer, etc.

Lilah didn't usually go to things like this. She was more likely to stay home under the blankets writing a ten thousand word fic than attend what was essentially a weekend-long party, but she was trying to do more things outside her comfort zone. (Everything was outside her comfort zone.) When a few of her sorority sisters asked her along, she'd said yes thinking she would find an excuse not to go later. The next thing she knew, her bag was packed, and she was standing in a foot of snow outside a cozy mountain cabin.

It hadn’t been so bad at first. There was some dancing and some drinking and some party games. But what was supposed to be a cozy weekend getaway had quickly turned into a nightmare. First, the power had gone out. Then, there was a body on the kitchen floor. A real one, not the fake ones they'd been "discovering" all night. She hadn't particularly liked Derek. They'd sort of had a thing her freshman year, and he was sort of a fuckboy about it, and she'd sort of retreated back into her fictional worlds afterward. But that didn't mean he deserved to die.

Even upstairs in her shared room, Lilah couldn't get the sight of it out of her head, there every time she closed her eyes. She'd mostly stopped crying, but she couldn't stop shivering, and she'd come upstairs for another sweater. It was already cold away from the living room fire. "Thanks for c-coming with me." It wasn't really optional. They'd all decided that nobody went anywhere alone for the rest of the night and divided into threes for safety. She pulled the sweater over her head and pushed her arms through the sleeves, a puzzled frown creasing her brow as she peered around the dark room. "Wait… where's Sam?" Somewhere between the stairs and here, they'd lost their third.

[heartlikeawound]

"'Try putting soldier of fortune down on your tax return and see how well that works.’”

HISTORY:

tw: death, war, injury, weapons, violence, blood, scars, self-loathing, guilt

'10s

Will never met his father, but he knew him. Everyone did. James Locksley was one of the richest men in New York City in the early 1900s, happily married with a son that was his pride and joy, so of course he could never be associated with a scandalous affair with a woman from the wrong side of town. Iris Hendricks struggled to make ends meet, and though she never explained some of the things she had to do so they could survive, Will understood. As soon as he was old enough–-before that, really–-he was taking any job he could to support her, many of them on the wrong side of the law, and quietly resenting the man who had left them both without a backward glance.

'30s

When she died suddenly just before his eighteenth birthday, Will was blindsided. The next couple years were a blur of drinking and bar fights and scraping by. It was by far the lowest point of his life, and he didn't much care if he lived or died. He thought death had finally come for him when something attacked him outside the city. He didn't know there were wolves that close--if that was even what it was--and he didn't understand how the wounds could be healing so fast. He had no idea what was happening to him until Andrew Grant stepped in. He was the alpha of a small, wandering pack, most of them career soldiers.

He never even knew the wolf who turned him. It was Grant who helped him through those first full moons when he was terrified and still half-believed this was some sort of delirious fever dream, who gave him a place in his pack and on his team when World War II found its way to the States. Will had a documented allergy to authority, but it was different with Grant. He'd finally found someone worth following, someone worth his loyalty, and perhaps he'd never known just how deeply loyal he could be. The pack was family, brothers, comrades in arms, and as far as he was concerned, that was the whole world.

'70s

There was always a war to fight somewhere, and he spent decades as a soldier, eventually working his way up to Sergeant and Grant's right-hand man. Slowly, though, the pack dwindled as members drifted off to put down roots or fell in battles. Even supernatural healing wasn't always a match for modern warfare, and the better they were at what they did, the more dangerous the ops got. He wasn't prepared to be the last man standing when one of them went wrong.

It wasn't the first time Will wished he was dead. For all intents and purposes, he was, his identity dying with his squad, since there was no way he could explain how he'd healed from that. He was back where he'd started, aimless and looking for a purpose, although this time he didn't limit himself to one city. He spent time with various packs as he traveled first Europe and then the States, many of them the new homes of his old pack members, but nothing stuck.

Present

He was more or less back where he'd started before he met Grant, only now he was cursed with a longer life. He traveled the world, reluctant to join another pack only to lose them again, and finding none that inspired the kind of devotion of his old alpha. Will knew his way around mechanics and weapons, so it was easy to settle in a town and make himself useful for a few months. The wanderlust never completely left him though, and when that restless feeling started growing in him again, he took jobs as a bodyguard or a mercenary, even signing up for the occasional tour of duty, his most recent a four-year circuit in Syria.

"‘You fall asleep in the foothills, and the wolf comes down from the mountains. And you hope someone will wake you up. Or chase it off. Or shoot it dead. But when you realize that the wolf is inside you, that’s when you know. You can’t run from it. And no one who loves you can kill the wolf, because it’s part of you. They see your face on it. And they won’t fire the shot.’"

PERSONALITY:

Depending on the context, there are two sides of Will you're most likely to get. The more common is the easy charmer who can make small talk with anyone (probably while he's stealing your wallet), the casual flirt who's quick with an irreverent joke or a slightly wicked smile. Heads or tails how much of it is real or just sleight of hand at any given moment, but it's the one most people are familiar with.

When it comes to conflict, the charm falls away, and it's all business. He can deflect just about anything aimed at himself, but he has no tolerance for people who come for his people, or for bullies in general, and he'll fight for those who can't do it themselves. On the battlefield, it's dead-eyed sniper stares and clean, efficient fighting, nothing wasted. He's there to get a job done, and he's gotten very good at it after almost a century.

The nightmares are less about the people he's killed than the one's he's failed, and there's a bit of a self-hating streak buried under the rest of it. Deep down, Will doesn't believe he's a good person. He's not even sure he's aiming to be a good person most of the time, when so much of his life has been purely about survival. It's not the best way to live, but it's a good way not to die, and no matter how self-sabotaging he can be at times, he's not the type to let himself give up.

RELATIONSHIPS:

platonic

Platonic is where Will excels, whether that's family or pack (not a lot of distinction between those for him), and he's always made casual friends easily. He'd always been fascinated by cameras, some of the skills oddly transferable from aiming a weapon, and photographs are some of the only things he's saved over the decades. When he's bothered to unpack instead of leaving his stuff in storage, framed pictures cover his walls, and when the talk over drinks turns to stories about the past, he's always got a few. It's the only real way of keeping their lost loved ones with them.

He struggles when it comes to deeper connections. He's a deeply loyal friend, and there isn't much he wouldn't do for the people close to him, so by necessity he can't give that much of himself to just anyone. He'd do anything for the his pack when he has one: fight, steal, or die for them on a dime, but there's a wall there that didn't exist before. Losing Grant almost destroyed him, and he doesn't think he has that in him again. If his life has taught him anything, it's that everything ends. Better not to have anything he can't live without.

romantic

All casual, and he'll be the first to admit he's not looking for anything serious, or ever had anything he'd consider serious, and that's entirely by design. He knows he tends to hurt people simply by being himself (and no matter how often he says it, some people won't hear him on it), so it's safer just to keep it simple. He's out the door when either side starts to catch feelings.

Of course, that's just as much a self-preservation instinct. He loves deeply and recklessly when he lets himself, and he's a little afraid of how that would translate in a romantic relationship. He's already lost the two people who were most important to him, one family and one pack, and watched his pack members survive the loss of their mates, and he's not sure he can do it again. Letting someone that close just to lose them might wreck him permanently.

antagonistic

Will tends to take people not liking him as a personal challenge, but it's even money whether he'll try to win them over or find the exact thing that irritates them and lean on it, so there's probably no shortage of petty antagonism. Typically, he's not one to take it seriously though, or to find offense where none was meant.

Of course, it's a different story when his pack is at stake, and he'll take a battlefield approach on that. Nobody wants to be standing too close if it's bad enough to call up the soldier. He wouldn't choose vengeance for its own sake, but he wouldn't hesitate to make a point either. He can make it clean with no evidence, or he can make it messy enough to be a warning against coming at them again, but neither will trouble his conscience. Don't fuck with family. Don't fuck with people who can't fight back. The rules are simple but unbreakable.

"This was his territory as much as it was mine. I would get angry, and then he’d step in, not to defuse the situation, but to cover it with napalm.”

STATISTICS:

≛ Age: 106 ≛ Height: 6'0" ≛ Build: Lean and packed with muscle from a dedicated gym routine that includes weights, cardio, and sparring practice ≛ Eyes: Blue that shifts in shade depending on his mood, the lighting, or the shirt he's wearing ≛ Hair: Dark brown, cut close when he's been overseas, but he's been known to grow it out in the intervening years, sometimes long enough to brush his shoulders and with the scruff to go with it ≛ Distinguishing Features: Faded scars from the attack that initially turned him, along with a couple more recent here and there from silver, but nothing he pays a lot of mind to. There's a tattoo of a howling wolf and an iris flower on his ribs for Grant and his mother, and various military ink scattered here and there.

strengths

≛ Physical strength, agility, and endurance. He's a ruthless and efficient fighter in either form, with decades of martial arts and weapons training. A high tolerance for pain lets him push through all but the most severe injuries to get a job done (and he'll spend most of the first month after a tour sleeping off the physical and mental effects). He won't flinch at violence or doing the dirty work to protect the pack or discourage further threats--and if he's pushed that far, he might even enjoy it a little.

≛ Extensive weapons training, in both long-range and melee, from years of military ops. He's a sharp eye behind a sniper rifle or a blade between the ribs before you even knew it was coming, and hiding knives or smaller guns among his regular clothes has become a bit of an art form. While he has the usual weakness against silver like all wolves, there are silver bullets and knives in storage with the rest of the weapons that aren't for daily use, and a little nausea won't stop him from using them if he's up against another pack or rogue wolves.

≛ He's always been able to make easy small talk with strangers, swiftly charming them into letting their guard down. It was partly a survival tactic at first (watch this hand while the other robs you blind), but it's so much a part of him he can't separate it anymore. He's good at character assessments after short interactions, getting a sense of someone's strengths and weak spots, and they're usually pretty accurate. That's not to say his own issues don't cloud his judgement from time to time, and he's a little too capable of turning that critical eye on himself.

weaknesses

≛ Will is his own worst enemy, and while he's aware of his self-sabotaging streak, he's probably not conscious of just how deep it runs or the way it shapes almost every aspect of his life. There's too much blood on his hands for him to ever consider himself a good person, and there's still a fair bit of survivor's guilt in him over his mother's death and Grant's. If people got what they deserved, they'd still be standing instead of him.

≛ Going hand in hand with this self-sabotage is the fact that he's a proven flight risk. He's always got one foot out the door on any romantic relationships. No matter what he's temporarily committed to, there's a part of his mind that's always going to be making contingency plans. It's safer to assume nothing is permanent, and it's become a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy for him.

≛ What's that they say about poking a sleeping dragon? Will usually knows where the lines are, but that doesn't always stop him from deliberately stepping over one. It's not something he turns on friends or pack members regularly, since he actually likes and respects them, but he will occasionally entertain himself (or them) by seeing how long it takes before a stranger takes a swing at him. Fighting back would be unfair, of course, so he'll just smile with blood on his teeth, offer up a mocking salute, and walk away.

aesthetics made of mischief ≛ heart like a lit fuse ≛ click of a camera shutter or a sniper rifle ≛ blades twirling between fingers ≛ polaroids all over the fridge ≛ how sharp is your knife (flirting) ≛ permanent five o'clock shadows ≛ I am being perfectly fucking civil ≛ roar of a bike ≛ cocky smirks ≛ blowing smoke in your face ≛ leather and motor oil ≛ sorry about the blood in your mouth ≛ open road at sunset ≛ middle fingers hanging out the window ≛ baking asphalt ≛ wolf stares ≛ desert sun ≛ sticky fingers ≛ allergic to authority ≛ mocking salutes ≛ loyal to a fault ≛ the fire was put out as quickly as it started

[frightnightx]

🩸 @defectivexfragmented liked for a starter

Humans didn't often capture his attention, which was probably for the best. It rarely ended well for the human. Once, he hadn't been that particular about who he turned when he wanted a family. There was strength in numbers, and most of them were just cannon fodder, but the world wasn't made for that anymore. Now, he turned one if he turned any, spent years or even decades with them, and then left them to their own devices. Every fledgling went off on their own eventually, and Jerry didn't fight it. It was the natural order of things. He checked in on them now and then, or they dropped in on him, and that was enough.

It had been some years since he'd had a companion, and he was starting to get… he wouldn't have called it lonely. Bored, restless, tired. Unfortunately for Clint, the archer had caught his attention. Jerry could never say exactly what it was that drew him to a specific human. Perhaps it was something different every time. Vampires as a whole tended to be drawn to beauty and talent, things they didn't have, and Clint had both. What he'd initially thought could be a problem--close neighbors had been a problem for him in the past--had turned into an entertaining diversion.

It was obvious Clint didn't believe in vampires, and it had almost become a game to Jerry now, seeing what it would take for him to notice and put the pieces together. Garlic, mirrors, running water, holy items-- all myths. He couldn't turn into a bat or a wolf either. (Pity.) Sunlight, on the other hand, was very real, and so was silver, at least in large quantities. Shoot him with a silver bullet, and it would burn like fuck, but it wouldn't kill him if he was already at full strength. A wooden stake would be more dangerous to him, but those were damn hard to aim. Had to destroy the heart completely. Invitations were also real, and he'd enjoyed himself a time or two leaning in Clint's doorway to see if he'd ask him in, finding veiled excuses to leave if he didn't.

Even Jerry got bored with games after a while though, and he was about to take this one to the next level. He knew Clint was following him--no matter how quiet, there was no masking his heartbeat--and he'd deliberately taken a turn into a more posh neighborhood. Knowing full well that Clint would have a clear view of him, he leapt a high fence faster than a human would have been able to and vanished into the shadows around the back of an empty house. He could smell that the home had been empty for days, but the in-ground pool was well-kept, the landscaping carefully maintained.

[rosenkranz-does-things]

Praise the Signal which will not cease! Praise the sacred currents!

[vvaywardhunter]

😈 Summon a demon

@pleinsdemuses

It wasn't the first time Dean had died. It wasn't the first time he'd been to hell either, but unlike most demons, he had the pleasure of wearing his own meat suit. The Mark of Cain bound him to it, making exorcisms impossible. He hadn't spent a lot of time topside yet, too many entertaining diversions in hell, but that was about to change. Nobody really wanted to stay in hell, not even demons. There were much better toys upstairs, and Dean's little plaything was about to make a big mistake.

It was almost sweet, the lengths she was willing to go to get her human back. Summoning a demon at the crossroads was almost absurdly easy--so more people would do it, obviously. He had all of Dean's memories but none of his empathy, and he knew he would have hated her risking her soul for him. If vampires even had souls. The old Dean believed she did, but the old Dean was too blinded by his feelings for her to see things clearly. There was a sinister smile on his face as he stepped out of the shadows, eyes flickering black. "Well hello, sweetheart. Miss me?"