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lila-lou · 2 months

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✨Beyond saving - Pt. 2✨

Summary: Dean is back and no longer a demon. But with all the emotions he has to deal with now, he would rather die.

This is part 3 of "Beyond saving".

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only!, Mention of rape, Language, Angst, Hurt

Word Count: 5518

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

As the hours stretched on, the pain seemed to deepen, sinking into your bones and settling in your soul. At first, you lay on the floor, tears flowing freely as you grappled with the overwhelming sense of despair that threatened to consume you.

But as time passed, a numbness set in, dulling the sharp edges of your agony and enveloping you in a cold, empty void. You lay there, lost in the darkness of your own thoughts, the weight of your suffering pressing down on you like a leaden blanket.

After hours and with trembling limbs and tears streaming down your face, you forced yourself to your feet, the pain in your broken wrists and ribs a constant reminder of the brutality you had endured.

With each step, you felt the weight of your pain bearing down on you, threatening to crush you beneath its unbearable burden.

You made your way towards the bathroom, each movement filled with agony.

As you sank into the warm embrace of the bathtub, the water enveloped you like a soothing balm, offering a brief respite from the relentless ache that gripped your body. But even as the comforting embrace of the water washed over you, the pain remained.

Your wrists throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, the broken bones protesting with every movement. Each breath sent sharp spikes of pain shooting through your ribs, the fractured bones protesting against the strain of simply existing. And between your legs, your pussy throbbed with a raw, tender soreness, a painful reminder of Dean's brutal assault.

As you lay there, staring blankly at the water stained crimson with your own blood, you couldn't help but feel a sense of emptiness wash over you. It wasn't just your body that bore the scars of Dean's cruelty, but your heart and soul as well.

Your face bore the imprint of his violence, your Skin bruised and swollen. And beneath the water, your bruised buttocks throbbed with pain, the memory of his forceful kneel still fresh in your mind.

As Sam and Cas returned to the bunker, a sense of urgency filled the air. Sam's heart raced with fear as he noticed the dried blood staining the kitchen floor, his mind racing with dread at the thought of what could have happened to you. Without hesitation, he began knocking frantically on the bathroom door, calling out your name with increasing desperation.

"Y/N, open up!", Sam's voice was filled with concern and panic as he pounded on the door, his hands trembling with fear. "Please, we need to make sure you're okay!".

But there was no response, only silence echoing back at him from the other side of the door. His heart sank as he exchanged a worried glance with Cas, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him like a heavy stone.

"Cas, we need to get this door open", Sam urged, his voice laced with urgency as he turned to his angelic friend for help. "Something's not right. I can feel it".

With a determined nod, Cas focused his powers, channeling his energy into the door with a burst of light. In an instant, the lock clicked open, and Sam pushed the door open with a sense of dread gnawing at his insides.

But as he stepped inside, what he saw took his breath away. There you were, lying motionless in the bathtub, surrounded by water tinged with the faint traces of blood. Sam's heart clenched with fear as he rushed to your side, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch you.

"Y/N, can you hear me?", Sam's voice was thick with emotion as he gently shook your shoulder, his eyes wide with fear. "Please, say something. Anything".

But you remained silent, your eyes vacant and distant as you stared blankly ahead. Sam's heart sank as he realized the depth of your pain.

As Sam pleaded with Cas to heal you, desperation crept into his voice, his eyes pleading with the angel for help. But despite Cas's best efforts, his healing powers seemed ineffective against the depth of your injuries. You looked terrible, completely broken, your body bearing the physical and emotional scars of Dean's cruelty.

Gently, Sam scooped you up in his arms, wrapping a towel around you with Cas's help, mindful of your fragile state.

As he held you close, he could feel the weight of your pain pressing against him. With each sob that wracked your body, his heart broke a little more, his own tears mingling with yours as he whispered words of comfort and reassurance.

"You're safe now, Y/N", Sam murmured softly.

With each step, each movement, you cried out in pain, your broken body unable to withstand even the slightest touch.

Again Cas tried to heal you. His touch enveloped your broken body, his powers surging forth with a gentle glow. With a focused determination, he began to mend the shattered bones in your wrists and ribs, his efforts slowly easing the physical pain that wracked your body.

As the warmth of his healing magic spread through you, you felt a glimmer of relief wash over you, the sharp edges of your agony blunted by his divine intervention. But even as your physical wounds began to heal, the scars that marred your soul remained untouched, a constant reminder of the darkness that had consumed you.

With a heavy heart, Cas realized the limitations of his power. Despite his best efforts, he could mend your broken bones, but the wounds that lay within you ran far deeper than he could reach.

"I've done what I can for your injuries", Cas murmured softly, his voice filled with regret as he regarded you with a solemn gaze. "But healing your soul… that will take time".

Sam's heart ached as he watched you, his own eyes filled with a mixture of compassion and sorrow. He longed

Three long weeks passed before you found the strength to speak again, the weight of your silence bearing down on you like a heavy burden. With trembling lips, you finally opened up to Sam, your voice barely above a whisper as you recounted the horrors that Dean had inflicted upon you.

"I… I couldn't stop him", you began, your voice trembling with emotion as you struggled to find the words to convey the depth of your suffering. "Dean… he… he hurt me, Sam. He hurt me in ways I can't even begin to describe".

Sam's eyes filled with tears as he listened to your words, his heart breaking with each revelation. He reached out to you, his hand offering silent support as you continued to speak, recounting the brutality of Dean's actions with a raw honesty that left him reeling.

"I'm so sorry, Y/N", Sam whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I had no idea… I never thought Dean could… could do something like that".

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face as you struggled to come to terms with the reality of what had happened. "I… I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive him", you admitted, your voice choked with emotion. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to look at him the same way again".

From that moment on, everything changed. The lightness and laughter that had once filled the bunker were replaced by a heavy silence, the weight of your pain casting a shadow over everything you did. Even the thought of Dean filled you with a sense of dread and betrayal, and you found yourself withdrawing further and further into yourself, your hope for redemption slipping away with each passing day.

Six months had passed since Sam had succeeded in healing Dean from the darkness of his demonhood. As Sam carefully uncuffed him in the dimly lit basement, a sense of trepidation hung heavy in the air. Dean’s first question, as the shackles fell away, was for you.

“Where is she?”, Dean’s voice was filled with a mixture of concern and longing as he scanned the room, searching for any sign of your presence. But Sam’s expression remained firm, his resolve unyielding as he stood between Dean and the truth.

“Not now, Dean”, Sam replied gently, his voice tinged with sadness. “She’s… she’s not ready to see you yet”.

Dean's heart sank at Sam's words, a heavy weight settling in his chest at the thought of your absence. "I understand", he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm… I'm not sure I'm ready to see her either. Not after what I did".

Sam's gaze softened with empathy as he looked at his brother, understanding the depth of Dean's guilt and remorse. "She's been struggling, Dean", he explained gently, his voice filled with concern. "It hasn't been easy for her these past six months. She's… she's hurt".

Dean's jaw tightened as he listened to Sam's words, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him like a leaden weight. "I know", he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "And it's all my fault".

Sam reached out, placing a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder. "We'll get through this together, Dean", he reassured him, his voice steady despite the turmoil raging within him. "But it's going to take time. It's going to take a lot of work to earn back her trust".

As you entered your room, after a few days at Jodie´s, the familiar scent of Dean enveloped you, sending a shiver down your spine. It was a scent you had once found comforting, a reminder of the love and connection you shared with him. But now, it filled you with a sense of unease, dredging up painful memories that you had tried so hard to bury.

Unaware that Dean was back and healed, you began to unpack your belongings, your mind drifting back to the last time you had been in this room together. The memory of his touch, his laughter, and the warmth of his embrace lingered in the air, a bittersweet reminder of what had been lost.

Little did you know, Dean had been there just moments before, his presence lingering like a ghost in the room. He had come seeking solace in the familiar surroundings, hoping to feel some connection to you.

But as you moved about the room, your senses tingling with the weight of his presence, a sense of foreboding washed over you. It was as if the walls themselves were closing in, suffocating you with the memories of a love that had turned sour.

And as you stood there, frozen in place, the realization slowly dawned on you—Dean was back. He was here, in this room, just minutes ago, his presence a haunting reminder of the pain and betrayal you had endured.

Tears welled in your eyes as you struggled to come to terms with the truth, the weight of his absence and his return crashing down on you like a tidal wave. You knew that facing him again would reopen wounds, dredging up emotions you had spent months trying to suppress.

As tears streamed down your cheeks, Sam found you frozen in the room, your emotions palpable in the air around you. Concern etched deep lines into Sam's face as he approached, his footsteps slow and deliberate.

"We need to talk", Sam said gently, his voice filled with compassion as he reached out to touch your shoulder.

You turned to face him, your expression a mixture of anguish and resignation. "I already know", you whispered hoarsely, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sam's brow furrowed with concern as he moved closer, his hand lingering on your arm. "Y/N, I know this is hard, but you can't just run away from this", he urged softly, his eyes searching yours for some sign of understanding.

But you were already moving towards the door, your mind clouded with pain and uncertainty. "I can't do this, Sam", you choked out, your voice breaking with emotion. "I can't face him again, not after everything that's happened".

Sam's grip tightened on your arm, his expression filled with determination. "You don't have to face him alone", he insisted, his voice unwavering. "I'll be there with you, every step of the way".

For a moment, you hesitated, torn between the desire to flee and the need to confront the truth. But in the end, it was Sam's unwavering support that gave you the strength to stay.

With a heavy sigh, you nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that bound you together.

As the days passed, the weight of Dean's presence hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the turmoil that engulfed your life. Despite Sam's assurances, you couldn't bring yourself to face him, the fear and uncertainty gnawing at your insides like a relentless beast.

Each night, you lay awake in bed, listening to the echoes of Dean's screams as he wrestled with his nightmares. His tortured cries pierced the silence of the night, a haunting melody that echoed through the empty corridors of the bunker.

And during the day, you remained holed up in your room, barricaded behind closed doors as you sought refuge from the chaos that threatened to consume you. The sound of Dean's footsteps outside your door sent shivers down your spine, the fear of his presence paralyzing you with its intensity.

Sleep became a distant memory, your mind plagued by a never-ending carousel of worries and anxieties. Dark circles formed beneath your eyes, a testament to the sleepless nights and endless torment that plagued your every waking moment.

In the kitchen, your hands trembled as you reached for another cup of coffee, the bitter taste a poor substitute for the comfort you so desperately craved.

Cas found you in the kitchen, his concern evident in the furrow of his brow as he took in your tired and worn appearance.

"Y/N, you look exhausted", he remarked softly, his blue eyes filled with worry. "Have you been sleeping at all?".

You shook your head, the weariness weighing heavily on your shoulders. "Not much", you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's been hard to find any peace, especially with him back".

Cas nodded in understanding, his expression sympathetic. "I can imagine", he replied gently. "But you can't keep going on like this. It's not healthy".

Tears welled in your eyes as you confessed your fear. "I'm afraid to sleep", you admitted, your voice trembling with emotion. "Every time I close my eyes, I hear Dean's screams and footsteps outside my door. I can't bear the thought of facing him again".

"I can stay with you while you sleep, if that would help".

Your heart swelled with gratitude at his offer, a sense of relief washing over you like a wave. "Thank you, Cas", you whispered, tears streaming down your cheeks. "I don't know what I would do without you".

A few hours later, the sound of the bunker door opening signaled the return of Sam and Dean from their hunt. Sam's footsteps echoed through the corridors as he made his way through the bunker, his expression a mix of exhaustion and anticipation.

"Hey, Cas, you here?", Sam called out, his voice carrying down the hallway.

Cas emerged from your room, his gaze meeting Sam's as he stepped into the dimly lit corridor. "Sam", he greeted quietly, his tone somber.

Sam's brow furrowed with concern as he took in Cas's grave expression. "What's going on?", he asked.

Cas hesitated for a moment before speaking, his words measured and deliberate. "Y/N hasn't been sleeping well", he explained, his gaze drifting back to your sleeping form on the bed.

Sam's glanced into the room, his heart sinking at the sight of you curled up on the bed, your face drawn and pale in the soft light.

"What do you mean?", Sam asked, his voice filled with worry.

Cas sighed. "She's been afraid to sleep", he admitted quietly. "So I offered to stay with her while she rests".

"Thank you, Cas", he said sincerely, gratitude evident in his voice. "I'll take over from here".

And as Cas nodded in acknowledgment, Sam stepped into the room, his gaze lingering on your sleeping form with a mixture of concern and tenderness. With Cas's help, he would ensure that you found the peace and rest you so desperately needed.

As Sam and Cas remained in your room, their voices barely above a whisper as they discussed your condition, Dean found himself drawn to the doorway like a moth to a flame. Despite Sam's explicit instructions to stay away, he couldn't resist the urge to see you, to reassure himself that you were okay.

With each hesitant step, Dean's heart pounded in his chest, his footsteps silent on the floor as he approached the room where you lay sleeping. He knew he shouldn't be here, knew he was risking Sam's wrath by defying his orders, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to see you, to make sure you were safe.

As he reached the doorway, Dean's breath caught in his throat at the sight before him. You lay on the bed, your breathing slow and steady, your face peaceful in sleep. For a moment, Dean was transfixed by the sight of you, his heart aching with longing and regret.

But even as he stood there, a voice in the back of his mind reminded him of the pain he had caused you, of the darkness that still lingered within him. He knew he didn't deserve your forgiveness, didn't deserve to be anywhere near you after what he had done.

As Dean turned to leave the room, Sam’s voice cut through the silence like a knife.

“Dean, what the hell are you doing here?”, Sam’s tone was sharp, his eyes flashing with anger as he confronted his brother in the hallway.

Dean froze in his tracks, his heart sinking at the sound of Sam’s voice.

“I just… I needed to see her, Sammy”, Dean replied, his voice heavy with guilt and regret. “I needed to know she was okay”.

"I get that, Dean", Sam said, his voice softer but still tinged with frustration. "But she needs space, especially from you".

Dean nodded, a mix of shame and understanding evident in his eyes. "I know, Sam. I fucking screwed up", he admitted, his voice tight with emotion. "I just… I can't stand the thought of her being in pain and not being able to do anything about it".

Sam sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping as he tried to find the right words. "I know you care about her, Dean", he said gently. "But right now, what she needs most is for you to respect her boundaries. Give her the space she needs to heal".

Dean swallowed hard, the weight of Sam's words sinking in. "I will, Sam. I promise", he vowed, his voice filled with sincerity.

With a nod, Sam gestured for Dean to follow him away from the room. As they walked down the hallway together, Dean couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that weighed heavily on his heart.

One week later, Sam and Dean sat in the library, the weight of their conversation hanging heavy in the air. They had been discussing Dean's time as a demon, the darkness that had consumed him, and the pain he had inflicted on those he cared about.

After a long silence, broken only by the soft crackling of the fireplace, Dean spoke up, his voice choked with tears. "I can't do this", he admitted, his words barely above a whisper. "I can't live with what I've done to her".

Sam's heart sank at the despair in his brother's voice, the anguish written plainly on his face. He reached out a hand, placing it gently on Dean's shoulder, offering what little comfort he could.

"I know it's hard, Dean", Sam said softly, his own voice thick with emotion. "But you can't give up. You have to find a way to live with what you've done, to make things right".

Dean shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I don't know if I can, Sam", he confessed, his voice raw with pain. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive myself for what I did to her".

Sam's heart broke for his brother, for the torment he was enduring. He wanted nothing more than to take away Dean's suffering, to ease the burden of guilt that weighed so heavily upon him.

Dean’s voice cracked as he continued, the weight of his confession pressing down on him like a heavy burden. “I hate myself, Sam”, he whispered. “I can’t even look at myself in the mirror anymore. Every time I close my eyes, all I see is… is what I did to her”.

"I know, Dean”, Sam said softly. “I know it’s hard, but you can’t let it consume you. You’re stronger than this”.

But Dean shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks unchecked. “I don’t feel strong, Sam”, he admitted. “I feel broken. Like I’m irredeemable”.

"I know she'll never forgive me, Sam", he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I don't blame her. What I did… it's unforgivable".

Sam's heart clenched at Dean's admission, the weight of his brother's pain almost too much to bear. "Dean, you can't give up hope", he said gently, his voice filled with compassion. "People can surprise you. You just have to give her time".

But Dean shook his head, his eyes filled with resignation. "I've lost her, Sam", he said, his voice hollow with despair. "I've lost the love of my life, and the respect I had for myself along with it".

Standing in the hallway, you listened silently to the conversation unfolding in the library. The weight of Dean's confession and Sam's comforting words hung heavy in the air, their voices echoing through corridor.

Tears welled in your eyes as you heard Dean's admission of self-hatred and despair. The pain in his voice cut through you like a knife, stirring a mixture of emotions within you. Part of you longed to reach out to him, to offer him solace and forgiveness. But another part of you recoiled at the memories of the trauma he had inflicted upon you, the scars that still lingered both physically and emotionally.

Taking a deep breath, you silently retreated from the hallway, the weight of the conversation heavy on your heart. You knew that healing would take time, for both you and Dean.

Another week passed, the weight of the unresolved tension between you and Dean hanging heavy in the air. Despite Sam and Cas's efforts to provide support and comfort, sleep continued to elude both of you. And as Cas had to leave to attend to other matters, leaving you without his comforting presence, the nights grew even longer and more restless.

One evening, as you stood in kitchen, the soft glow of the overhead lights casting shadows across the room, you reached for a beer from the fridge. Your mind was consumed with thoughts of Dean and the tumultuous emotions that swirled within you.

But before you could retreat to the solitude of your room, the sound of footsteps drew your attention, and you froze as Dean entered the kitchen. The air between you crackled with tension, the weight of the unspoken words and unresolved emotions hanging heavy in the silence.

As you found yourself alone with Dean in the very room where he had caused you so much pain, a wave of fear washed over you, paralyzing you in place. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart hammering against your ribs as though it were trying to escape the confines of your chest. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision as you pressed yourself against the cold surface of the kitchen counter, seeking any semblance of safety and distance from the man who had once been your everything.

For Dean, seeing the raw fear reflected in your eyes was like a dagger to his heart. The weight of his past actions bore down upon him, crushing him with the knowledge of the pain he had caused you. His own eyes filled with tears as he watched you retreat, his heart breaking at the sight of your distress. Seeing you pressed against the kitchen counter, seeking refuge from him, shattered him in a way he hadn't expected.

"I'm so sorry", Dean whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he took a hesitant step forward, his hands trembling at his sides. "I never wanted to hurt you. I swear, I never meant for any of this to happen".

His words hung heavy in the air, filled with the weight of his sincerity. But he knew that mere words could never erase the pain he had caused you. He longed to reach out to you, to offer you solace and comfort.

As Dean took another step forward, his expression wrought with anguish and regret, you held up a trembling hand, your voice trembling with a mixture of fear and anger.

"Don't… don't come any closer", you pleaded, your voice barely above a whisper, yet laced with a palpable sense of urgency. Your cheeks were wet with tears, your entire body trembling with the weight of your emotions. Every fiber of your being recoiled at the thought of him drawing near, the memories of his past actions haunting you like ghosts in the night.

"I can't… I can't do this", you continued, your voice wavering as you struggled to maintain your composure. "Not now, not ever. You… you've broken something inside of me, Dean. Something that can never be fixed".

Your words hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the irreparable damage that had been done. The distance between you felt insurmountable, a gaping chasm that stretched on for eternity.

Dean froze in place, his heart breaking at the sound of your trembling voice and the anguish etched across your tear-stained face. He longed to reach out to you, to wrap you in his arms and beg for your forgiveness. But he knew that he had no right to ask for such mercy, not after what he had done to you.

"I don't expect you to forgive me, (Y/N). Not after everything I've done".

His words were heavy with resignation, his gaze cast downward as he grappled with the enormity of his mistakes. The pain in his eyes mirrored your own, a reflection of the shattered pieces of both your hearts.

"I just… I just want you to know that I'm sorry", Dean continued. "I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make things right, even if I never earn your forgiveness".

As Sam stumbled into the kitchen, his eyes half-lidded with sleep, he froze in his tracks at the sight before him. The scene that unfolded before his eyes sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through his veins, instantly banishing the remnants of sleep from his mind.

The sight of you, standing there with tears streaming down your face, your eyes wide with fear, pierced through him like a knife.

"Hey, hey, what's going on?", Sam's voice was soft but urgent as he rushed forward, his eyes flickering between you and Dean, who stood nearby with a look of devastation etched across his features.

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. His instincts told him that something was seriously wrong.

With a sense of urgency, Sam stepped forward, his gaze never leaving yours as he reached out a comforting hand. "Are you okay", he asked, his voice filled with concern. "What happened?".

With a shaky voice and a forced calmness, you respond to Sam, "Nothing, Sam. Nothing happened". But the tremor in your voice and the haunted look in your eyes betray the truth of your words.

Before Sam could press further, you turn abruptly and practically flee from the kitchen, your heart pounding in your chest as you race towards the safety of your room.

As the door slams shut behind you, the sound reverberates through the quiet bunker. Inside the confines of your room, you collapse onto the bed, tears streaming down your face as you try to quell the storm of emotions raging within you.

Meanwhile, Dean stands in the kitchen, his fists clenched at his sides as he stares at the spot where you had stood only moments before. The silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the sound of his ragged breaths and the steady thud of his heart.

With a growl of frustration, Dean lashes out, his fist colliding with the wall with enough force to leave a sizable dent. Pain shoots through his hand, but it pales in comparison to the anguish that gnaws at his soul.

Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes as he sinks to the floor, the weight of his remorse pressing down upon him. He had thought that seeing you again would bring him some measure of closure, some semblance of redemption. But all he had accomplished was to reopen the wounds he had inflicted upon you, tearing them open with brutal force.

In that moment, Dean feels utterly lost, adrift in a sea of regret and self-loathing. He had shattered the one thing he had cherished most in this world, and now he was left to face the consequences of his actions alone.

As Dean sat on the floor, his back against the wall, Sam approached him cautiously.

"Dean, man, are you okay?", Sam asked softly, his voice tinged with worry.

Dean looked up at his brother, his eyes bloodshot and filled with tears. "No, Sam, I'm not okay", he admitted, his voice choked with emotion. "I don't think I'll ever be okay again".

Sam sinked down beside him, mirroring his brother's posture as they both sat in silence for a moment. "Dean, what happened between you two… it wasn't your fault", he said gently.

But Dean shook his head, tears streaming down his face. "No, Sam, you don't understand", he insisted. "I hurt her, Sam. I hurt her in ways that I can't even begin to comprehend. And now… now I don't know how to fix it".

"Dean, you need to forgive yourself first".

Dean's voice trembled as he spoke, the weight of his words heavy with shame and self-loathing. "How am I supposed to forgive myself, Sam?", he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "How can I ever look her in the eyes again, knowing what I did to her? How can I live with myself, knowing that I… that I raped my own girlfriend because I was a fucking demon?".

Dean felt like he's drowning in a sea of guilt and remorse.

"Sam, you don't understand", he said, "This… this is worse than anything I ever experienced in Hell. Worse than purgatory. Since I've been back, since I'm no demon anymore, the pain of what I did to her… it's unbearable. It's like a constant weight crushing down on me, suffocating me. I can't escape it, Sam. I can't escape the guilt, the shame, the remorse. It's consuming me from the inside out".

"I don't know how to live with myself, Sam", he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Every day, every moment, I'm haunted by what I did to her. And the worst part is… I know I don't deserve to be forgiven. I don't deserve to be happy. I don't deserve anything".

Sam's heart broke for his brother, knowing the depth of his pain. He reached out, wrapping Dean in a tight embrace, offering what little comfort he can. "Dean, listen to me", he mumbled softly, his voice filled with conviction. "I promise you, we'll find a way to make things right. But you have to hold on. You have to keep fighting".

For a moment, Dean allowed himself to lean into Sam's embrace, seeking solace in the comfort of his presence.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

Part 3

#jensen ackles #dean x you #dean x reader #deanwinchtser #sam and dean #dean winchester #castiel #spn #supernatural #sam winchester #sam x reader #dean winchester x y/n #demon dean x reader #demon dean #hurtful #angst

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lilac-5ky · 1 year

Text

Roommates from Hell, pt.1 (Toji x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 1: Stolen Fries taste best

(pic from loving yamada at lvl999, adorable manga, recommend)

Chapter 2 | Story Masterlist | Masterlist

Plot: Out of all the women that come and go in Toji's life, you're the only one he calls his friend. But when he suddenly forces his way into your apartment, the feelings you've kept from him are put to the test.

Setting: Pre Hidden Inventory Arc. Toji and reader are both in their late twenties, no Megumi in picture... yet :p

Themes: Cohabitation, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers

Warning: Slight sexual content minus the actual smut.

A/N at the bottom

“You’re late. Again.”

The small silver bell at the top of the glass door notified you of a man’s arrival, his heavy steps refusing to wipe themselves upon entry, spreading mud all over the now-blotted checkered tiles of the dimly lit diner. You’d been expecting the owner of those shoes for the past six hours, his untimely arrival coming as a bitter aftertaste to an afternoon full of childish joy and mayhem— popped balloons, colorful confetti, and half-eaten pieces of cakes swept into one big pile at the room’s southernmost corner by yours truly.

“I never said I was coming,” the voice retorted, its defiant sound overshadowed by the gruesome screech of a metallic chair. “Not interested in celebrating some brat’s b-day, ‘specially if it ain’t mine.”

“How many helpless children must have spent their birthdays without their no-good father, I wonder,” you wiped your hands against your cherry-red apron, pushing the broom back into place. “If your goal is to repopulate Japan, I’m certain you’ll succeed.”

Hefty fingers mindlessly combed through a head of obsidian black, little spikes forming and then settling back down. “None, as far as I’m concerned,” sarcasm dripped from his tongue.

“Well, I find that hard to believe,” you mumbled under your breath, circling through the room to ensure everything was dealt with: leftovers in the fridge, gift wrappings in the bin, and the large aforementioned pile of garbage waiting to be scooped up. “You’ve known Kenzo since birth. Even if this ain’t your thing, the least you could’ve done was make an appearance. He kept asking about his favorite uncle all night long.”

“Except I’m not his uncle. Don’t mix me in with your sister’s family, I ride solo.”

Sigh.

“My sister’s family might as well be your family, Toji. You know how much Hinata and her kids adore you.”

“Good for them, I suppose.”

Another sigh.

“Can you at least tell me what was so important for you to not even pick the goddamn phone up?”

As if the device had grown sentient, a generic tune began tooting from the back pocket of his sweatpants, eradicating your final hope that it’d simply run out of battery.

Without budging from his seat, Toji twisted an arm around his back to pull his flip-phone out, the silver-tinted lid slamming shut as soon as he’d peered at the caller’s number, his next immediate move being to drown the sound in a glass of leftover Coke, fizzy bubbles playing the device’s final requiem.

You didn’t need to ask to know it was a woman, and he didn’t need to answer that she, whatever the name of his latest conquest was, happened to also be the reason for his being unfashionably late.

It was always like that. He was always like that. He went out with one girl after the other; from women of extreme beauty and poise to mindless bimbos who couldn’t tell tea leaves and coffee beans apart. He’d spend some cash to butter them up with expensive meals at overpriced restaurants, or VIP entrance at the hottest club, or even pay for the name tag on their designer clothes, but come next morning, he was either caught stealing straight out of their pockets or checking whether the tag was still attached to the dress for him to return it to the store—at which point, the vast majority gave up, except for those few poor souls who earnestly believed they could fix him, though they never would.

If there were two things in this world that remained unfaltering and resolute throughout the eons, then that was the earth’s orbiting the sun, and Zen’in Toji’s being the bastard of a man you knew and loved— special intonation of that last part.

It was quite the oxymoron. To know him as an irredeemable scumbag with no intention of changing, and to love him for all he was; a sentence as contradictory and controversial as the man before you. What was there to love? He never gave two shits about the people around him dying, and if he could encourage or partake in their deaths then he certainly would. He gambled every cent of cash in his hands away, and his every attachment ended with the disposal of his used-up condom. He was vulgar, cynical, and brass, and he possessed a great charisma of making people dislike him at first glance. His only saving grace was his good looks and even those he managed to scrape on a daily basis.

So, really, what was there to love about a man whose place fitted best among the pile of garbage in the corner? What was the point in all that?

He never answered your question, and when you realized he wasn’t planning to, you dragged a second chair to his side, propping your elbows first and then your chin over the vinyl backrest, feet landing at each side. You took in his expression— sour and undeniably agitated, with a frown tugging at the scarred corner of his lower lip, and a glare too icy to be meant for the wall of American-styled neon billboards he mercilessly studied. Something definitely bothered him, and as a huff stiffened his chin, the reason became evident enough for you to point at it.

“Woman or work?” you gestured at the blood that dribbled below his ear and down his neck.

He followed your forefinger with his eyes, thumb scrubbing where the gush began. He seemed oblivious to his injury, though it wasn’t as if his becoming aware changed a thing.

“So it is a woman,” you gladly seized the chance to rub salt into his wound, drawing a frustrated grumble from him.“What did you do this time? Stole her car and crashed it into a tree? Blew all her savings on cockfight betting?”

“Horse races,” he had the nerve to correct.

“Or… did you by any chance bring an uncalled ménage à trois to her bed?”

“What kind of man you take me for?” Toji protested.

“A very, very, veeeery bad man,” you smirked, and he returned it. You knew him like the back of your hand. There was no need to pretend otherwise after well over a decade’s worth of friendship.

“If a very bad man is what I am, then why’d ya let me in?” he asked. “A young unprotected woman all by herself in the middle of the night letting such scum in never ends well. Thought you were smarter than this.”

“If I was smarter, then I wouldn’t be calling you my friend, would I?”

His grimace turned into a full-blown devilish grin, the kind that secretly had your heart buzzing against the frail set of bones of your chest. He always looked so dazzling when he smiled, that sometimes you couldn’t find fault in those women wanting to believe in his pretty lies, because you, too, wanted to. You hoped that whatever the price for those smiles was, you would one day be able to afford it and gain ownership of his heart, no matter how wretched or blackened it was.

“You are a real idiot to mix it up with me,” he conceded. “Though, you are a greater idiot for letting that term define us. I bet your nights serving meals at some kiddie place get rather lonely. But I could help. I could make you feel really good, Y/N. So good that you’d risk some prick getting in, lest he is me.”

His tongue poked out his mouth, giving his bottom lip a brief lick while he peered at you through half-lidded eyes. He had this way of turning things sexual in the blink of an eye, selling himself so well that your refusal to buy seemed commendable— despite the unmistakable affection you held for his face. Little did he know how much you longed to push that chair to the side and rip his cocky expression along his black-sleeved shirt off his body, making it so that neither of you had a place to hide from the other.

Now, that’d feel good.

“My nights are fine as they are, thank you very much,” you countered your instincts much to his disappointment. “And if I ever needed myself a helping hand, know that you’d be the last I’d call!” Not as if you’d pick up, anyway, you mentally added.

His gust of interest fizzled out as soon as it surged, your rejection forcing him to rock back and forth between the chair’s legs. He wasn’t interested in continuing this. It was enough for him to take in the dusty pink shading of your ears and smile to himself, knowing you were still the kind of woman affected by his charms. Yes, that certainly was enough, for now.

“I’ll clean you up,” you declared, getting off your spot in haste and strolling through the bar in search of a clean towel.

Once you found it, you let it soak under the faucet and brought it back to him, rubbing against his skin regardless of his petty attempt at gritting his teeth. You placed one hand on his shoulder and another at his jaw, pushing them apart to no avail. Every muscle in his body was stronger than your entire bodily force combined, and he was awfully willing to flex that difference between you, just as he was at letting you straddle his hips and climb all over his body like some sort of feral monkey in heat.

A string of profanities that ranged from “bastard” to “shit-eating-asshole-shithead” poured out your mouth while Toji smirked, and smiled, and grinned, and didn’t even try to stop you from knocking the two of you onto the ground, palms barely managing to stable your head over his face. Your pleated skirt had risen, or rather flipped, over your panties, revealing the strawberry pattern panties you were wearing to his greedy hands as they hiked up your flesh without an ounce of shame.

“Wh-What are you doing?!”

“What do you think I’m doing?” he cooed, burying his calloused fingers under the elastic waistband of your underwear.

You felt him trace the inward of your thighs in languid strokes, the fabric stretching the further his hand dipped— closer, and closer to your now-pulsing core, but never so close as to make actual contact. His hot breath tingled your lips, smelling of nothing in particular, but a sweaty tang of a woman’s deodorant that still lingered in his clothes. Had he fucked her before making it here, you wondered, heart tightening at the thought.

Your legs wiggled shut, unable to fully repel his hand, and for a brief moment, you considered letting him go through with this— whatever this was. Even if you came to be another conquest won, you didn’t care. All you needed was for him to hush all logic from your brain, and fuck you senselessly against the checkered tile floor of the “kiddie food place” you served meals at.

“Toji…” you begged, uncertain what you were begging him for until you felt the warmth in your thighs subside.

“Makin’ sure to preserve your maiden’s dignity,” he said as he fixed your skirt in place. “Wouldn’t want some perv catching sight of your cute little ass, would we?”

His condescending tone made you want to throw a slap across his face and then yours; for thinking that maybe this wasn’t a mistake, that you could really move past the pretense of friendship and aim at what you really sought. But he’d been right once before. You were stupid, stupider than all those girls combined, considering you knew and still wouldn’t mind being dragged down with him one bit.

“Fucking asshole,” you blurted as you pushed yourself off him, dumping the cloth on his smug face.

Your lip quivered as you stepped onto your feet, unable to quite shake the feeling of incompletion from your core, walls pathetically clenching around nothingness. You refused to look at him, lest you caved in a second time, and thus you paced around the booths, stopping before the one window whose blinds didn’t block the magnificent parking lot view. Only a black SUV was left— most likely his newest rental.

Following a beep, you watched the lights flicker white, his reflection in the window lifting the chair back up. You crossed your arms over your chest and waited, your impatience and frustration churning into a dangerous mix within your guts, as the asshole whose name wasn’t worth saying moved past you and walked straight to the door, not a single word or goodbye said.

“What about your phone?” you asked, at last paying him a look of spite.

“I’ll text ya my new number.”

“We both know you won’t.”

He glanced over his shoulder and showed you his pearly white canines, his expression not polished enough to be called a smile. You rolled your eyes in the opposite direction, spotting his old device blinking a variety of different lights, refusing to die just like its bastard of an owner.

“What should I do with this?”

“How the hell should I know?” Toji shrugged. “Get rid of it, or toss it in some burger. I’m sure no one will be able to tell the difference. Later,” the bell chimed as the door collided with the frame, chiming a second time as his head popped in a moment later. “Loved the raspberries.”

“They were strawberries, you scatterbrained swine,” you cursed, but he’d heard none of it. The car was gone, and so was he, and it was for the best that he didn’t get to witness the strawberry-colored shadow that loomed over both your cheeks.

Fanning some of that heat away, you returned to the table, surprised to find a white envelope with the name Kenzo hastily written on the front. Cash. Lots of cash. Enough cash to keep a low-end apartment afloat for at least a couple of months. An excuse and simultaneously the answer to all your previous questions.

“You fucking bastard,” you hummed, the term switching to one of utter endearment.

When the first instance of a wintry breeze came charging at the semi-exposed features of your face—a scarf’s fluff tucked right below your nose— you knew that walking all the way to the location where the unknown ID claiming to be Zen’in Toji ordered you to meet up was probably a bad idea.

For starters, you’d turn into an icicle long before making it back to your workplace. Not to mention you had no foolproof way of guaranteeing the person you were about to meet wasn’t some random impersonating psychopath. But when you finally spotted the yellow curvy “M” upon the rectangular red sign that spelled the fast food chain’s name, you narrowed down the psychopaths to that one cheapskate you happened to know.

Walking into the nearly vacant dining area —only the first two booths near the door occupying a family of four each— you detected him almost immediately. He was the only one seated in his wing. Head slightly tilted to look past the window, golden highlights showering the curve of a nose as it arched into thin eyebrows, calm eyes glinting with subtle emerald, and fingers that absentmindedly tapped away onto one of the two paper-covered trays. He had the decency to wait for you before getting into his food, though that didn’t stop him from munching on the occasional fry.

You tugged the handbag off your shoulder and slowly approached him, hesitating to enter his field of view, if just for a moment. He seemed so peaceful and serene, that if you had the guts, you’d snap a picture of him right then and there and make it into your phone’s wallpaper. But you didn’t. You’d never be able to explain it to him in a non-humiliating way, should he catch you in the act, and so, you shook the notion off and marched in his direction, his eyes lighting up in recognition.

“What’s the point of calling me out here for lunch if we are gonna have burgers?” you dropped your bag at the far end of the table. “Why not eat at our place?”

“I like the fries here better,” he bit onto one as if to affirm his claim, licking the salty essence off his fingers. “You should be glad I got you some, too,” he nodded toward the closed dome-shaped box that lay in front of you. “Nuggets over burgers, right? Didn’t know what toy ya wanted though. Cashier girl told me bunnies are quite popular with girls your age, so I went with that.”

Ignoring, or rather postponing your answer to his outrageous suggestion, you peered through the contents of your meal’s box, spotting the wrapped-in-plastic purple-colored bunny key chain right at the bottom between the small portion of deluxe potatoes and even smaller portion of chicken nuggets that still steamed hot air. You were surprised he remembered everything about your order, down to your preference for milkshake over other beverages, and perhaps you would have shown your gratitude if it wasn’t for that last comment of his gnawing at your pride.

“How old did you tell the cashier I was, again?” you gritted, trying to suppress the toy’s cuteness within your fist.

“Didn’t. Just said it’s for some kid I know. Probably thought it was for my daughter or something.”

A pair of googly eyes popped out from their sockets, the bunny’s head in serious danger of coming right off.

“Stop acting like an old man,” you muttered in embarrassment. “A nine-month head start in life doesn’t make you old enough to be my father.”

“Still older than you, kid,” said Toji, his fingers latching onto his wrapped-up burger. “Now eat up. Didn’t pay ya lunch for it to go cold.”

Annoyed by his remarks, but oh-so terribly starved, you decided to let things slide, the two of you lunching in a period of temporal truce. He went through his burger in big bites, clearing it out before you even finished your portion of nuggets. You mildly wondered why he’d held off if he was this hungry, but didn’t press on the reason behind his invitation until after his tray was half-emptied.

“So… why’d you wanna meet up? Got something to tell me?”

“Mhm, I actually do. How would you like us to be room—Nah, that doesn’t sound too right,” Toji shook his head off, dusting the excess salt off his fingers. “I decided I’m moving in with you.”

“You, what?!?” You shrieked, eyes wide with shock, resembling those of your newly acquired key chain.

“What I just said. I’m moving in,” he repeated as if you hadn’t heard him the first time around. “Got everything right here. I’ll pop by later so you can show me my room.”

You glanced down at what he tapped as “here”, spotting a large black duffel bag that rested on his feet. He wasn’t joking, you panicked. He was being 100% serious about this. Directing your milkshake to your mouth, you took a nervous sip, nearly choking on the plastic straw between your teeth, while Toji kept staring at you, awaiting no answer in particular. After all, he wasn’t asking. He was proclaiming.

“Why would you want that?” you asked once you regained the ability to think rationally. “Weren’t you the one who said you ride solo?”

“Numerous reasons,” he stated, drawing his forefinger forth as if to recount. “For starters, rental prices going up, gas too. Inflation in the market and all that crap. Your place is also closer to work, and” he leaned closer, “wasn’t your neighborhood the one on the news recently? You know, those serial break-and-enter cases? As far as I’m aware, the culprit’s still running loose, could be a cursed spirit or something. You can’t see ‘em, but I can. I’ll keep ya safe. Wouldn’t you want that? Sounds like a fair deal to me, at least.”

The repetitive pattern of a catchy pop song blasting from the speakers served as a backdrop to your thoughts, eyes flickering between the table and his face. He wasn’t exactly wrong about what he said. The girl next door was the robber’s last victim, and from what you’d gathered, it seemed like the ones targeted were exclusively single women in their twenties. Curse or not, that was the intruder’s type, and you just so happened to tick both of those boxes.

From a standpoint of reason, his suggestion sounded fair alright, but this was Toji we were talking about. The man whose name was your first thought in the morning and the final afterthought in the night. The man you were coincidentally in love with.

Living with him would entail being around him a lot more than you could handle. Waking and sleeping and eating in the same house as him, spending your days off together, bickering about bills, take-out, and the TV remote’s ownership, doing things that only couples got to do, and of course, sharing a bathroom, which on its own meant seeing him parade through the cramped little space of your apartment in nothing but a soggy towel, hair slick and teeth beaming as he’d be asking if you’d like to join him in the shower—

You hit the break on these thoughts and pressed your forehead flat against both palms, feeling the heat exuding through your fingers. You were only able to keep this relationship platonic because of the distance he put between you. If he were to suddenly close it, what would come of you? How on earth would you be able to hold back?

“Don’t you want me?”

“Huh?” you bit at the straw again, snapping it in half.

“I said, you hate the idea of living with me that much?”

Toji certainly didn’t mince his words, but the way he was looking at you, brows furrowing and lips quivering into a frown despite the edge in his tone, almost made it seem as if hearing your rejection out loud would hurt him, and because of that, you had no choice, but to shake your head in denial. You wanted this. More than words could express, you wanted to be with him like that, even if you refrained from disclosing that truth.

You wanted him.

“What about your girlfriends? Wouldn’t they be against you living with some woman?”

“Nah, I’m done with that. Done with all of ‘em.”

“But my apartment is too small. I don’t think it’d suit you—”

“I’ll manage,” he cut you off.

“I don’t even have a second bed-”

“We can always share,” he smirked, letting out a light-hearted chuckle as he watched color paint your cheeks. “Couch is fine, too. So, whaddya say, roomie?”

“…Fine,” you conceded, very well knowing you’d come to regret this decision. “But we need to set some ground rules! No trashing the apartment, no throwing your ‘work tools’ all over the place, no smoking, no drinking, no loud music, and no bringing in random women. No starting fights either! You’ll help around and pay half of what’s needed, so no gambling your money away. Those are my terms.”

“You drive a hard bargain, roomie,” Toji said, balancing his chin atop his elbow. “Fine by me. Told you I’m done with half those things anyway, and I don’t mind helping you with anything. I mean that.”

But I could help. I could make you feel really good, Y/N.

His words from that night still lingered in your mind like an unfulfilled promise, and when he phrased it like that, you couldn’t help but be reminded of how good his hands felt that night, creeping all over your skin as if he owned it— as if he owned you.

“G-good!” you said, picking up a fry off his tray and tossing it in your mouth, lest you said something stupid.

“No one taught you stealing other people’s food is rude?” Toji shot you a glare unequal to your crime.

“It’s not stealing if you are done with it!” you protested. “You haven’t touched your fries in over ten minutes now.”

His tongue clicked against his mouth’s roof, producing a series of “tsk” sounds while he shook his head in disapproval. “Didn’t take ya for such a brat, Y/N. Disrespecting me in my face right after we came to an agreement? That’s some bad business ethics.”

You rolled your eyes at his comment, barely keeping yourself from groaning. “I’m so terribly sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have stolen your esteemed fries, sir. Won’t ever happen again, sir. Please allow me to express my profound remorse, sir.”

Although Toji knew you only addressed him as such to get on his nerves, he was still pleased enough to grace with you an unsuspecting smile, seconds before you shoved a ketchup-covered potato against his mouth, smudging the left corner of his lips in a way akin to that of his right corner scar. He blinked, clouds of fury gathering in the bleakness of his eyes and cheeks puffing up, painting the most adorable expression you’d ever seen him wear.

“So cute,” you gushed, unable to suppress a hearty laughter that agitated him even more, red blooming across his cheeks— most likely by the lack of oxygen, you interpreted.

“Fucking brat,” he hissed, dipping the last of his fries in ketchup and then stuffing your mouth with it before you could even react. “I’ll show ya how it’s done!” he declared, your lips puckering against his fingers, condiment spreading all over like lipstick. His other hand forced your head in place, stilling your chin for him to work on his masterpiece, making a much bigger mess out of you than you had made of him.

“Hmphmmph!” you hummed while Toji laughed, a deep sound that reverberated straight from his guts, his eyes glinting along with his teeth in sheer joy that convinced you to give up so as to not spoil his fun. It was rare to see him genuinely happy.

“That should teach ya to behave,” he spat, smugness in every aspect of his features as he pressed his thumb onto his mouth, cleaning the ketchup off with a lick. “But you did address me properly, so you’ve earned the right to choose. Napkin or my lips? Which one?”

Stupefied as you were, you didn’t understand the full context of his question until you felt the sudden warmth of his mouth flutter over your skin, the tip of his tongue sloppily gathering the leftover ketchup off your right cheek. Your jaw popped open, a small gasp escaping as a result of his action.

“Too slow,” Toji whispered, hooded green eyes peering right into yours. “I’ll ask again. Napkin or my lips? What’s it gonna be, doll?”

“N-n-n-napkin!” you must have stuttered at least a thousand times before forming a comprehensible answer. He was so close that if he tilted his head any closer your lips were sure to touch. “P-please get me a napkin.”

“Please?” he chuckled, acting as if was really going to kiss you and then pulling away. “Be right back.”

Even after Toji let go, you could still feel the weight of his thumb holding you down, your eyes zeroing in on his black sweater as he set off for the other side of the room where the napkin and condiments stand was located. You heard a few whispers coming from beside your table, catching three pairs of eyes shooting daggers right at your back.

“Don’t they have a home?” a woman’s voice echoed first.

“Kids these days…” a man added.

“Honey, don’t look at their sinfulness, it’s the devil’s work.” A second woman concluded.

You were on the verge of experiencing a cardiac arrest, and you were pretty darn sure you would have if Toji hadn’t returned with the napkins in time, his hand snatched by yours as you forcefully dragged him out of the place, spelling frantic apologies at whoever was listening.

Once you’d made it outside, you sighed in relief, winter’s viciousness coming as a much-needed slap across your face. You took in a few breaths, letting go of his hand and padding a few steps away from the store’s windows, afraid you were still the focus of their attention. Toji followed, one hand stuffed inside his jeans pocket, while the other held the duffel bag over his shoulder in a lazy manner.

“Can you give me a lift to work?” you managed to ask, dodging his stare even as he stepped to the front.

“I would, but I can’t. Gave the car away.”

“You did what?”

Nothing about your reaction was funny in any shape or form, but he seemed amused enough to break into a soft chuckle, his eyes, too, softening ever so slightly.

“Planning to walk around town like a bloodsucker?” he asked, bringing a napkin to wipe your lips with greater care than you’d think. “How dirty,” he cooed, gently tapping at the center. “Next time, I won’t ask for permission to kiss you, roomie. Let’s go.”

“W-Where?” your voice came out so frail that you doubted he’d heard your question, his bag bouncing over his taut body with every step he took outside the parking lot.

“You asked for a ride, didn’t ya? Come.”

A/N: Launching a new series because I have so many feelings bottled up that I'm in danger of farting hearts and rainbows and shit. Decided to take the time off and write this fic for myself cause I needed it, but then I thought why not share it with the world? First time writing for Jujutsu Kaisen and Toji in particular, so hopefully it's received well!

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athanasius-symposium-of-writings · 4 months

Text

Mating

Dragon Hunter!Composer x Dragoon!reader

Rated M | Warning: you both have dragon blood you can guess how that goes

The dragon blood within him sings when around you. At first, it sang the song of adversity. The first time you met him it was when he was hunting beasts. You were hired to save a child, nothing more nor were you aiming to kill the dragon within the area.

But he complicated the situation by making his battle some grand spectacle, the audience being you and the dragon blood-tainted child. The dragon only took what was offered as a payment for protecting the village, the child was theirs to raise as kin. Its blood binds it to the child and the child to it.

“Begone sellsword! You will only get in the way.” The Dragon Hunter is known for his might and bloodthirsty nature.

“You will stand down.” You are not a slave to your blood nor are you its master, you are equal to it. Human and dragon coexisting within body and soul, blood singing with power. “This dragon is innocent. Trickery has been done by mortal words.”

“You lie.” Not that he cared. The dragon is his prey and he will smite it! “Stay aside or fall with the beast!”

“So be it.” You pull the lance from behind your back and go into a battle stance. “Take your child and flee as far as you can.” Ordering the wounded dragon, the child clinging to its adopted parent. “Go no!” As you block the rush attack from the Dragon Hunter.

Each strike is blocked, and each attempt to go after the original prey is met with your lance snatching and throwing him into the ground.

“Fine, then I shall deal with you first!”

As a Dragoon, your dragon blood roars to life, the aura imbued into the lance and your armor. Those who have fallen crafted into the bone armor and redden by their rage. When the Dragon Hunter stabs his blade into your shoulder, you roar as you bring him into the air.

He is no match for a Dragoon in the air, this he learns when has he to attempt to ground you.

The fight is spectacular, the Dragon Hunter has never felt this rush, this thrill before! To meet one who battles like a dragon, to witness the might one can tap into when it draws upon the blood of such magnificent beasts!

“Marry me.”

You were on the ground holding yourself up by your lance and a knee on the ground. The veteran has met your match and now he towers above you equally a mess from the fight.

“Be mine and I will not hunt the dragon and its kin.” It is rather cruel to have you choose to forfeit your life for the lives of others—

“Then I shall wed you.” Standing up to keep your pride. You do not hesitate to save anyone at any cost.

Frederick has never heard of a Dragoon much less seen one, nor has anyone captured his attention the way you have. Your armor is different, with spikes and scales like a dragon. When he touched it he felt the wrath of its spirit, the mighty fury of a dragon in rage. The lance you call Gae Bolg is crafted to represent a dragon in flight and strike like the dive of one. Had the Dragon Hunter been a wizard or human, you surely would have killed him.

“This is unnecessary.”

“It is quite necessary!” He finally can see you and you can see him without the armor. “Though I intend to marry you, we should probably get to know each other.”

“Was the trip here not enough time to know my body well enough for you, Frederick the Dragon Hunter.” You say with no emotion.

The man nearly chokes on his wine. The dining table is decorated with all types of food, drinks, and treats. His wealth befits a dragon, greedily hoarding wealth but you must admit his kingdom seems prosperous despite his greed.

“Frederick, my dear. We do not need titles when alone.”

“We do. It keeps us from mating once again.” You are very bluntly stating the events as it is true. After the battle, a new fight started. Dragon mating can be… Rather frightening to see for humans, it is about domination, proof of worthiness, and in the end compatibility. As human dragon hybrids, this follows.

Several days of fighting before the actual mating happened. The wedding will only be symbolic for humans, and it seems the Dragon Hunter wants to fully entertain courting you in a human fashion.

You, being raised more as a dragon than a human, do not see the point given you marked him as your mate.

“Humor me. I think you will enjoy the human mating ritual.” Drinking his goblet of wine while you take a seat beside him, your hands on the table. He hums pleased but then stops drinking when you do not grab the utensils on the table. “Is something wrong?”

“I do not know how to use these.” Because you only eat food with your hands given you are wandering time.

There is a silence before he starts snickering.

“Careful Frederick, I will not be mocked.” You grab the fork awkwardly before he reaches over and gently corrects your hand and finger placement. “... Thank you.” Quietly saying those words. He does not mock you when you try using the fork by aggressively stabbing your plate. It is strange and you prefer using your hands, easier to pick up things.

After dinner, Frederick takes you to the armory. Here is displayed all of the various armors throughout the ages. His victories and paintings depicting them.

“Seems you truly are a worthy mate,” Examining one of his oldest armor, “A safe home for our children, you have means of protecting them, and a legacy for them to uphold.”

“Children, dragons move fast.”

“Dragons have no true concept of time. For humans, it will appear slow but for us, it will be a blink of an eye. We are eternal. Nothing has to be immediate.” True. Your father took many human centuries before deciding to mate and have a child. When time and death have no meeting, waiting an eternity is nothing.

“Would it be a topic to come again?”

“If you so wish.”

Frederick grew up with human parents, the church called upon him to consume dragon blood, and the people who needed a savior. You grew up with your father who consumed your mother so their souls are joined as one, you became a dragoon as traditions of old call upon all hybrid children of dragons, and you wander to see the world.

Two very different people bound by the instincts of the dragons.

There are a lot of things you learned from each other. A give and take, the wedding was strange and very elaborate. It pleases your mate so you go along with it. Your father had given the Dragon Hunter his blessings and attended the wedding. The great Siegfried, the first and last Dragon Slayer of his kind. You never knew the human remembered as a hero once more, last your father recalls the human deemed him a monster. He was a human who became a dragon to save his home.

Interesting how times have changed.

The celebration after was much louder and Father took a human form for the occasion.

Dancing, eating, drinking, the weird sentimental speeches. More drinking and dancing. The celebration lasted until the evening when it was announced the newlyweds were leaving. The unspoken time for mating.

“Now they all know we are having sex.” Humans are strange.

“It is not exactly a secret when we slip away to our chambers what is going to happen.”

“Still, humans love to claim they are so reserved yet are easily enthralled by desires. Next, they are going to ask to witness our mating to ensure we have consummated our marriage.” You are naked now and Frederick barely has his ceremonial armor off. “Get on the bed.”

“I am still— Oh.” Pinned down on the bed with you on top of him straddling them without shame as you are naked for only him to see. The scales of your dragon heritage shine in the light of the candles in the room. His eyes dare not wander as your gaze locks his with yours.

“You can still perform with the armor on. In fact, you may need the extra protection for our mating.”

That certainly makes his dragon stir, “I can handle you.”

“Show me, dragon hunter.” Grinning at him.

#idv #reader insert #fanfiction #identity v x reader #idv x reader #identity v #identity v x you #identity v composer #composer x reader #composer x you #frederick kreiburg x you #frederick kreiburg x reader #frederick kreiburg

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ghouljams · 10 months

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THAT

the last tag

the # its not what Ghost needs at least

does Ghost ever tell Die that ? how does Die feel about it ? in your opinion, what *does* our Ghostie boy need ?

This is just my opinion and character analysis but what Ghost needs is a safe harbor, someone that he doesn't have to be Ghost with. What Hell thinks he needs is another weapon in his arsenal, and someone to cover his back(because the man is imho probably not taking great care of himself).

Die is a great compliment to Ghost, she's vicious, tactically smart, and enjoys her work. She's not, however, a good compliment to Simon; a man who's already gone through hell and doesn't need or want the reminder. A man who I think holds a lot of complex feelings over the man that he's become as Ghost, and who is desperately clinging to the idea that he's doing evil for the greater good.

Ghost is avoiding you. Which is a real testament to his abilities if you’re being honest. You’re quite literally tied to his soul and somehow he’s still managing to keep you from catching him. You thought things were going well. You finally got a decent meal, Ghost got to let out some of the meaner thoughts he’s had about you --you’re not examining that-- and everything should be totally good. Peachy even. So why the hell is your lieutenant dismissing you and brushing you off at every turn. You can’t even creep into his thoughts, he’s shut up tighter than a vault.

Soap catches Ghost's arm in the gym, "You seen Die, I had a question."

"Haven't seen 'er all morning." Ghost tells him evenly.

"Liar," You whisper in his ear. He swats at you, smacking your arm where you're hanging on his shoulders. You know he prefers not having you draw attention, but it's a small team. It's not like they don't know about the devil literally on his shoulder by now.

"Right," Soap says, like he doesn't quite believe him, "That why your shadow's all-" He motions with his hand. Ghost glances over his shoulder, then at the ground, checking what Soap means. You wave a hand, your shadow following the motion. Ghost groans.

"Alright off of me, go on." He shrugs his shoulders and you drop back into his shadow with a pout.

“What’s your question?” You pull yourself up from the darkness, sitting on the edge and trying to give Ghost the same cold shoulder.

“How do I get one o’ ya’?” Soap asks. That’s an easy one, even if it is outside of your jurisdiction.

“You don’t,” Ghost cuts in before you can say anything. You turn quickly to face him and he’s not even looking at you, “Die, dismissed.” You open your mouth to say something and he jerks his head to glare at you. Soap looks between the two of you as you finally pull yourself fully from his shadow. Fine. You’ll find something more fun to do than sit around waiting to get a crumb of conversation. You can ignore Ghost just as well as he ignores you.

Except that you can’t. The problem with being bound to someone’s soul is you sort of can’t turn off your connection to them. You’re never off of alert, never not keyed in to Ghost’s heart rate, to his adrenaline, to the sound of his voice. Always prepared to respond to any stimulus or order. It feels unnatural even being just outside the room.

You settle leaning against the wall by the door. Your anxiety and instincts clash, your fingers twisting the fabric of your skirt unsure what to do besides wait to be called on. You don’t know how humans function without each other.

“You don’t want a demon Johnny.” Ghost’s voice filters through everything, “You’re a good man, don’t be so quick to try and give that up.”

There’s a short lived silence as Soap responds.

“I’m not, and that- She’s a bloody testament to it. I can’t even touch her without-” He cuts himself off, unwilling to say it and give the feeling name. But you can feel it, his spike of anxiety, the anger and bitter sadness that rolls through your charge. Then disgust, and suddenly you know why he’s been avoiding you before Ghost can even say it. You represent everything he’s been made into, all the violence brought against him, being forced to laugh at death, to live with death, to claw his way out of a grave to something almost resembling a life. Yet here you are holding the last nail in the coffin of his humanity.

“What else am I supposed to think? You want to know how you get a demon?” Simon takes a shaky breath, you cover your ears even though you know it won’t do any good, “You become such a monster that Hell sends someone to keep an eye on you. So, don’t tell me you want one of those things.”

There’s a commotion from behind the doors, footsteps storming your way. You fix your face, quell your emotions, before the door opens and Ghost comes out. Soap’s still talking, hot on his tail, looking upset.

“-say that Ghost. You think Gaz and Price-” He spots you and stops. You know what he was going to ask, you think it’s nice that he’s so kind. Kind enough to try and spare your feelings. Feelings you don’t have. You’re graded for combat. You’re just another weapon in a vast arsenal. Cold, unfeeling, inhuman. You’re supposed to be, anyway.

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heartfullofleeches · 11 months

Text

Squish

Yan Slime God hcs/blurb

One botched resurrection and a couple - hundred liters of human blood lead to the creation of the slime I introduce to you today. Squish is a rather aloof; mischievous entity. It loves tricks, and driving people mad all the same While retaining the collective thoughts of those its consumed - Squish has yet to grasp the reality humans may not like having their blood drained out of all their orifices to further its growth or find blood in their pipes amusing. Squish considers these folks a drag - but the screams of the last human who found blood raining from the pipes in their shower were oddly... cute. Wonder who that could be?

• Squish can - and will be any one or thing for you. If you like cats, the slime will sport ears and a tail - and catch dead birds for you. A key thing to note about them is that they have a human skull floating around in their gel to stabilize a human form. Squish also can "possess" others through their bloodstream or entering their body after death. The downside with the latter is the corpse still rots and at a faster rate than normal. If there is someone you hold dear enough, Squish will execute and wear their skin until their blood completely rots before swapping its previous skull with theirs. It sees no difference between the feelings you harbored for them now that they're apart of it - so you should love them just the same.

• In the presence of others - Squish must be blinded at all times. The entity it originates from was a vile, bloodthirsty tyrant and Squish still carries that same lust which can be nullified if it cannot see. Squish does not make its presence known until it is worked into every nerve it possesses that it will not harm you - don't stop them from biting the soul out of your thighs when you don't give it the attention it craves. To combat its violent tendencies in regards to you, it taped a photo of you to its eyes and willed their restraint into existence.

"Dummy - do not turn this human into soup. Do not drain them of every drop of their precious blood even though it'd probably be really, really good. You are stronger than your urges, you are supreme, you... really want to bite them while they're sleeping."

• While being their darling - you are not immune to their tricks. If anything - they're amplified when it comes to you. We're talking blood leaking from the ceilings, swallowing your keys when you try to leave without their permission, leaving their skull in plain sight so when you notice the odd decor it can lick and/or bite you when you pick it up to inspect. Squish loves getting a rise out of people and your reactions are ones to treasure.

• An excellent hunter - cook not so much. Considering how easy it is to grind humans into paste, Squish realizes they need to care for you and one of the best ways to them is providing you with meat as it may benefit them as well. Squish will hunt deers in the woods and drag the bodies back, wearing the skull of its catch - or break into local markets and rob the delis. It both drains the meat of its blood and infuses it with their own as it figures the nutrients from it will keep you healthy- only downside is they try to get you to eat it raw for a while until you drill it into their bed that humans can't eat uncooked meat. They pout about it - but eventually let you use their catches in proper meals

• Makes articles for you to wear out of its blood - or just slaps a bloody hand print on your shirt and says consider it a new fashion statement. If you want to leave without them - you'll have to do it on their terms and this way they can still track you. A bracelet/necklace or earrings are its preferred choices. The problem with this is your bracelet growing spikes if you shaking someone's hand or your necklace nearly choking you out as it tries to tug you away from crowds

• A cuddler/very touchy. Loves the feel of your skin. Very soft, very bitable. I would assume most wouldn't be too sound with the idea of a blanket made of blood slime - but you'll have to get used to it with them. They'll settle on a cute teddy bear with an unsettling skull for a face if that makes you feel any better.

#yandere oc #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere insert #yandere blurb #yandere teratophilia #yandere god #Squish my oc

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co-mixed · 9 months

Text

Why Boom Still Can’t Get Buffy Right

My love for the Buffyverse is concrete but it has its limits. Yesterday I had a very unpleasant experience finishing yet another unimpressive Buffy run, courtesy of Boom Comics. It’s always disappointing to me because Buffyverse has so much potential and untold stories. It’s a goldmine that is constantly held back and simply can’t find its footing in the comics medium. Why is that?

Boom’s been rather relentless in trying to make Buffy work. Several years and runs later, there’s still no big WOW story that can attract readers and viewers alike. Not just that, but even seasoned buffy fans don’t seem very interested in continuous attempts at rebooting the Slayer tale. You can blame the word reboot (it does tend to scare people) but the real reason is still Boom’s inability to deliver a good captivating story.

Boom had tried reinventing Buffy, sending her back to school, developing alternate realities and futures. But in every iteration, Buffy and the Scooby Gang were plagued with the same mistakes over and over again.

Hey, I’m not sure what I am, so bear with me here

The characters from Buffy are some of the most well-developed characters out there. Each one has a point of origin, a story, and a final form. We love them because we know them. And we know them extremely well.

Let’s take the fan-favorite, Spike. We’ve seen his whole afterlife and even bits of his life. We know how he became William the Bloody, then Spike, a neutered vampire, and finally, an ensouled champion. We know how, and more importantly, we know why.

I’d hate to throw in one more why but there is a reason Spike exists in the show, and we know it.

When you read Boom comics, it feels like writers stick him into every arc just because they like him. He brings nothing to the story, he has no soul or chip yet chooses to join the scoobies. That does not look like the Spike we know. That guy was in s2-s4, not s5-s7. That’s the guy from School Hard or the one who got the Gem of Amara and happily marched to kill Buffy.

But there’s nothing stronger than the author’s desire to make things ‘right’. Hence this spike lookalike joining the team every time.

The funny part is, I can very well imagine a soulless chipless Spike who’s not a monster. If Dru sires him and never sees him again, if she never introduces him to Angelus, if he keeps on writing his bloody awful poetry only forever. He probably would’ve turned out like that poor librarian guy whose glasses Dru broke or like Harmony who still tried to be decent. But it’s the writer’s job to explain it, to write it into the story, not just throw a character into a book and see whether they swim or go down. They will always go down.

Spike is only one of the issues here. In the show, both Kendra and Faith exist to show us the perfect (according to the council) and the fallen slayer. Two possible realities for Buffy. They have their own arcs (well, Faith does) but the show is strong because supporting characters serve a purpose. Just like the people we meet in real life always serve a purpose for us. You might believe that one character pushing the development of another is cruel, but that’s still how good stories are made. That’s still why Buffy is popular 20 years after the show’s finale.

Kendra and Faith did that for Buffy in the show. In the Boom comics they just exist. They show up for no reason and they just hang around. You can take them out of the story and nothing will change. At one point in the initial reboot there were three slayers at the same time, and that felt more like a fix-it fanfic than a quality comic book. Unfortunately, some slayers have to die and some have to turn evil. Besides, without her rebellious personality, Faith is meaningless.

I have one more bone to pick. I know that Buffy and Angel (still the OTP of the show!) are a complicated matter to many modern writers. And readers, and viewers. There’s no place to hide from the creep factor and even though I will defend this ship till the day everyone finally agrees with me, I can’t deny its presence. But that doesn’t mean you get to discard this ship and separate Buffy and Angel into different books. One doesn’t exist or grow without the other. There is no Buffy in love with a vampire without Angel. There is only Vampire. Slayer. Dead vampire.

Without Buffy, Angel is not in LA helping the helpless. He’s in New York eating low rats. Before trying to launch two separate books, how about Boom launches one good one, that provides background, even if revised and adapted to the modern days?

I always worried what would happen when that b*tch got some funding

All this chaotic mess with the characters determines the stories Boom puts out. They tend to have an interesting start but by the time issue 3 comes out, it’s either Camazotz flying around Sunnydale, a giant crab taking over the main street, or whatever the hell Silas was (a soul eater?) Didn’t care for him much. Not even when we were evil.

More often than not Boom writers suffer from the same disease that plagued Dark Horse comics – scale. Just because you can do anything doesn’t mean you should. Comics allow you to draw literally any kind of baddie but you are playing within a specific world, and suspense of disbelief only goes so far. Besides, in the show, it all grows gradually. You go from the Master to the First evil. In the comics… seriously, what the hell was Silas?

From what I’ve read so far, Boom knows how to ask interesting questions:

What if Buffy went to school today?

What if Willow took over as the slayer?

What if Buffy was older?

Those are all good what ifs but Boom has a problem following through. They don’t know the answer to this question and it feels like they’re making it up as they go along. If I’m being honest, it even feels like they wrote random ideas on pieces of paper, through them in a hat, and started pulling each time they hit a wall.

Characters show up for now reason (hi, Tara from the latest run), they don’t feel like themselves, and the saddest part – none of it feels like you are getting your favorite show back.

These characters deserve better than that.

And there’s not a one who can say this ended well

At this point, I don’t know if Boom wants Buffy comics to succeed. I don’t mean to be this dramatic but every time someone mentions comics, fans think Dark Horse. Not because they are still considered canon, but because they had a connection to the beloved show. Boom comics don’t give you that, so you can’t look the other way when writers don’t deliver. It’s just how it works.

I keep thinking what Boom can do to get out of this vicious circle. And I do believe there If they want to successfully play in the Buffyverse, they have to seriously up their game. It’s not impossible either. I mean, Something is Killing the Children is being released by the same studio. And what is that if not a more gruesome version of Buffy? So it’s not exactly magic. It’s doable.

Personally, I still hold out hope that someone would dare explore the terrifying bloody past of the Whirlwind. Wouldn’t that be fun and gory? I’d like to see deep well-thought-through stories of past slayers. I’d happily read a well-illustrated comic run based on In Every Generation. And if we have to go back to Buffy variants, why not reinvent her story? But before we get to that, we’d have to work through every step of every character. Get them to where we want them, and start with a story that we want to tell, from start to finish. From her first day as a slayer to her last one (she didn’t have to empower the potentials after all).

That, of course, requires a lot of work. And if Boom isn’t ready to put in that kinda effort, they could just move from season 5, introduce a new slayer, and watch how her adventures unravel.

Buffyverse is a hell of a property and there are too many stories waiting to be written. I’m probably still gonna give it a shot whenever Boom comes up with something new. I just hope I won’t have to write yet another long read complaining about it.

#buffy comics #buffy x angel #buffy summers #buffy the vampire slayer #buffyverse #buffy x spike #buffysource #comics #comic books #long reads #boom buffy #boom comics #btvs #btvs comics #kendra young #faith lehane

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forlorn-crows · 1 year

Note

Hey Crow! :D I think this might be my first time sending you a ficlet request, how fun! I feel like your style would scratch a specific itch I have so well ❤️

So listen, I've been having this persistent migraine for *days*. It's not constantly blasting me with pain, sometimes it lowers into just a fuzz for a few hours and I think it's gone but then it builds back up and it smacks me in the face again. I'm very tired of said migraine loop and in need of my projection ghoul going through it and the pack helping them. May I please request Swiss dealing with a shitty headache and getting some comfort from someone? Any other ghoul is fine, or a group of them, all good, I just want my projection boyo being comforted and cared for. Can be gen, can be smutty cause Satan knows some fun play time can take your mind off of a headache alright, it's up to you.

If that's something you'd be interested in wreiting of course, no pressure!

Mushy May Day 11: Unspoken 'I love you's

a little quip about Swiss' raging headache coming up! featuring Aether and Sunshine. what says 'i love you' more than helping your packmate ease their pain without being asked?

Pairings: Aether/Swiss/Sunshine

Words: 715

Swiss grumbles in Sunshine’s lap, begging her thighs to smother him so he doesn’t have to feel the incessant throbbing behind his eyes anymore. He claws into his own hair as a spike of pain sears through his right temple, knocking his breath right out of his chest.

Sunshine gently pries his fingers out of his hair and redirects them to latch onto the hem of the blanket scrunched around his shoulders instead. She pets his hair with soft, flat palms, offering what little warmth she can conjure.

“Fuck,” he hisses in their infernal language, the curse sounding more like a hex on his tongue.

“That bad?” Aether asks from the hallway. When the waves of pain emanating from his packmate started branching off in sulfuric tendrils across the void, the quintessence ghoul roused himself from the comfort of his bed, unable to relax while Swiss was suffering.

Sunshine nods. Her expression is one of empathy and concern, eyebrows upturned as she regards Aether across the room. “Going on hour three, now,” she says, still running her hands across Swiss’ tight curls. I’m trying, she mouths with a sad smile.

I know, Aether mouths back, genuine.

“Brain feels like it’s in a fist fight with my skull,” Swiss mumbles.

Aether motions for Sunshine to let him switch places with her. She settles on the other end of the couch, lifting Swiss’ feet into her lap.

“You’ve just got such a big one,” he jokes in hushed tones. “Okay, marshmallow,” he soothes as Swiss grumbles at the displacement, “there you go.”

Swiss buries his face into Aether’s lap just as deeply as he had with Sunshine. The quintessence ghoul runs a hand down his neck, running between his shoulder blades and back up again in long, slow motions.

“These bodies of ours,” he begins quietly, “are fragile. The magick that runs through all of us, in each varied way, hits a limit, in which it has nowhere productive to go.” Aether’s fingers sparkle with that telltale ultraviolet hue, floating just under the base of Swiss’ skull now. “So it manifests as pain. You’d do well to let that glamour go sometimes, give that soul a little more room.” The words are targeted at Swiss, but it serves a gentle reminder for all of them, really.

The multi-ghoul sighs heavily as Aether brings his hand to the crown of his head, pressing gently with his fingertips. Sunshine tentatively rubs little circles into his calf muscles. She observes the way Swiss’ shoulders melt into Aether’s lap at his touch, quintessence seeping into the pain-filled crevices of his brain and scooping it out with its magick tendrils. He groans with relief, tail finally uncurling from around his own thigh. The spaded tip falls limp to the floor with a soft thud. Sunshine can’t help but trill happily at the sight of Swiss finally relaxed.

“But,” Aether continues softly, “we can’t face the burden of pain alone. As I’m sure Sunny already told you, marshmallow.” The ghoulette nods in agreement, having done her best to usher a curled-up multi-ghoul into her lap after breakfast once he started wincing.

“I know,” Swiss whines, voice muffled by Aether’s legs. Aether just chuckles, continuing to massage his magick along his scalp, trailing down his neck and shoulders every so often. But he knows there's an unspoken thank you in there somewhere.

The three sit in silence, Aether and Sunshine running their warm loving hands over their packmate until a low purr kicks up in his chest, the multi-ghoul finally and truly relieved.

“Hey Aethe,” Sunshine chirps inquisitively after a while.

“Hey Sunny,” he parrots back.

She giggles. “How come you call Swiss ‘marshmallow’?” Swiss snorts a laugh in Aether’s laugh.

“Well, couple years ago there was this little packet of hot chocolate in one of the hotel rooms—you know, the drink Papa likes to carry around during the winter time and insist it’s actually coffee?” Sunshine nods. “I don’t know why I noticed it. But the brand was ‘Swiss Miss’.”

“The kind with mini marshmallows,” Swiss chimes in.

“So,” Aether gestures vaguely, “marshmallow.”

“So dumb,” the multi-ghoul mumbles amusedly.

“I think he secretly likes it,” Aether stage whispers across the couch. Swiss shakes his head in defiance, rubbing his face in the quintessence ghoul’s lap, but Sunshine can hear him holding back laughter.

#this one took me a while to get to but i needed some comfort ghouls too <3 #perfect for #mushy may 2023 #!#the band ghost #fanfic #ficlet #the band ghost fanfic #aether ghoul #swiss ghoul #sunshine ghoulette

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the-lonelybarricade · 2 years

Note

Since we know rhys taught feyre I would like a little something where everytime feyre reads a whole paragraph without once faltering rhysand rewards her like y'know what reward 😈

Btw you really are keeping the feysand fandom alive. They less and less talked about in the fandom.

THANK YOU FOR THIS PROMPT ANON!! My brain worms needed it today. I hope you can excuse that this is unedited and untitled, it's late here and I wasn't expecting to write a full smutshot but here we are. This is set pre-mating bond acceptance cause I wanted to sprinkle in a little bit of angst for ✨fun✨

Rhysweek Day 3 - High Lord

Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord.

Feyre frowned at that familiar first sentence of the document Rhys had set on the table in front of her.

“What is this?”

“Practice,” he answered, smirking from where he’d perched one elbow against the table. She’d seen that look on his face too many times for it to invite any measure of comfort.

“I thought we’d finished practicing my writing,” she said, holding up the parchment in protest. “I can read what this says.”

Rhys pushed off the table, faelight glinting off his eyes as he circled around her chair. His fingers trailed over the wooden spindle as he went, brushing ever so softly against her back. “Go on, then.” He tipped his chin towards the page. “Read it.”

Through gritted teeth, Feyre read, “Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord.”

She jumped as his voice murmured in her ear, “I do love to hear you compliment me, Feyre.”

In a winter forest, the soft crack of a branch was enough to send a nest of birds fleeing towards the skies. And apparently in a Night Court library a gentle whisper in her ear was just as effective in setting every winged creature in her stomach into motion.

“As the most handsome High Lord,” he continued, fortunately oblivious to those millions of flapping wings, “I need to make sure that the skills of my Inner Circle are properly honed.”

“Well, I just read it,” she said indignantly. And maybe some of that hostility was directed towards herself. More than she’d like to admit. “So consider it honed.”

“Ah, but I’ve been thinking.”

“—well it sounds like that was your first mistake—”

He pressed a long, elegant finger to her lips, but was otherwise unphased by her interruption. Still smiling with an arrogance that only a High Lord could possess.“You may read just fine in the comforts of my home. But, then, that was never the issue, was it? Cauldron forbid you’re ever put into another stressful situation. Where you need to read quickly. And with accuracy.”

Dread boiled in her stomach. In her mind, she saw those stone tablets and levers. Could still remember how the smooth surface had felt against her palm, how she might as well have been wrapping her fingers around Lucien’s neck, for the way she held his fate in her hands.

“So my question is, Feyre, would you still be able to read these sentences if you were distracted?” He raised a brow, leaning in so close so could taste the mint of the tea leaves he’d been drinking just moments before. “Would you be willing to bet someone’s life on it?”

Feyre glared at that parchment, at the stupid ink scrawled over its surface, and tried to think about anything other than how those spikes had felt descending towards her. How the proximity of the scorching metal had burned her face.

“Just tell me what you want from me,” she said finally, refusing to look into his eye.

Rhysand wasn’t having it. His fingers found her chin and pulled, turning her face until his eyes were boring into her own. She hated when he looked at her like this. Feyre knew her shields were up, and yet he was staring at her like he could see straight through to her soul.

“I want you to answer my question. Would you bet someone’s life on it?”

“No,” she snarled, pushing her face closer. Baring her teeth like a wild animal. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Yes,” he said, releasing her. “It means you need to practice.”

“And, what?” He was walking back around her chair now, but she kept her glare trained on his back. Hoping his peaked ears would start burning from the contempt she wished he could feel. “You’re going to chain me up and put me beneath metal spikes?”

Rhys was frowning when he turned around. “We’re going to play a game. A simple one.” He pressed a firm finger to the top of that page, directing her attention back towards the text. “If you can read this page quickly and without stuttering, you’ll get a reward. And if you mess up…” He grinned. “You’ll see what happens.”

“And what’s my reward? Getting to look at your face for five minutes?”

The grin grew wider. More dangerous. “I was thinking I would have you look at something else.”

She swallowed. Tried to pretend that suggestion got lodged in her throat, instead of slipping past like warm silk until it pooled in her stomach. “That sounds more like a punishment.”

“Thanks for the idea,” he crooned, slipping between her chair and the table. “And if that’s your punishment, what would you like your reward to be, hmm?” Rhysand leaned forward, bracing his hands against either arm of her chair. She could smell the wind on him, from wherever he’d been flying that morning. Over the sea, she thought, picking up a hint of salt.

“Would you like to see me on my knees again?” His eyes were burning, and if she stared at them any longer her face would be, too. So she fixed her head towards the corner of the table. A mistake, because a moment later she could feel his lips against her earlobe. “Do you want to know how I’d lick you, Feyre?”

She said nothing. What could she say, that wouldn’t be an outright lie?

Rhys dropped to the floor before her, so tall he still fell level with her breasts. Feyre didn’t miss the way his eyes wavered there, before flickering up to her face, entirely unashamed.

“Go ahead, Feyre.” He placed a warm hand on her knee. If it was meant to urge her, it was having the opposite effect. “Read the page.”

What would he do, she wondered, if she lit the parchment on fire and refused to participate? His fingers burned her skin, even through the fabric of her loose Night Court trousers. Rhys wouldn’t really make her do anything she didn’t want to do. Not when he had spent so many years under that gods forsaken mountain.

So why was she reaching towards the page? And why were her fingers shaking, like she believed there was actually punishment waiting if she messed up?

… Like she was hoping there would be.

“Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord,” she repeated.

His hand slid further up her thigh. “Good girl.”

That was nearly enough to make her falter. But she knew his games well enough. She knew that hand was trying to throw her off, especially as he began stroking his thumb against her inner thigh in long, deliberate sweeps.

“So handsome, in fact, that any female should feel Cauldron blessed to be in his presence. And it is only because he is so ma-m-mag—”

The fingers stilled for a moment. Then they dug, just enough to pull her attention back to the male watching her. So she could see the triumph painting his lips as he purred, “I believe the word you’re looking for, Feyre darling, is magnanimous.”

“Prick,” she hissed, throwing the paper down. “You put that in there on purpose!”

“Oh?” The chair scraped over the wooden floor as Rhys pulled it closer, until Feyre was forced to spread her legs wider to accommodate for the large body wedged between them. “And I assume if you ever need to, say, read from a spellbook, its authors will have ensured the words are easy to pronounce?”

“Then teach me spell words,” she growled. “Teach me the Old Language. All you’re trying to do here is—”

The words died on her tongue, shriveling like fruit left too long in the sun. Something had slithered over her ankle, then up, shimming beneath her trousers until it was at the seam of her inner thigh. Not Rhysand’s hands, or any other part of his body. It was just denser than air, and cold. A wisp of darkness, of his magic, snaking beneath her underthings.

“Tell me again what I’m here to do, darling?” His brows were raised, and she might have fallen for his indifference if she didn’t notice the way he was studying her face. Even pulling at the bond of their bargain, like he might uncover a reproach deeper than the mask she wore.

That tendril crept closer. A challenge. A dare.

“You’re here to make my life miserable,” she said.

Soft as breath fogging up a glass, she felt that magic brush over the folds of the most intimate part of her body, continuing its ascent up until it swirled around her clit. Her lips parted, and it was an effort to keep from gasping. Rhysand’s eyes never left her face, marking every exhale that spilled from her lungs.

Then he leaned his face closer, until those perfect lips nearly disappeared between her thighs. She told herself she widened them only so she could keep an eye on Rhys as he took an exaggerated inhale. “You don’t smell miserable, Feyre.”

Pain screamed into her nails as she dug them into the wooden armrests, anything in attempt to distract from the pleasure licking up her spine. Rhysand’s magic continued in slow circles, rubbing just enough to make her squirm.

“You smell like you’re enjoying yourself,” he said, smug enough that her cheeks burned with loathing. For him, but quite possibly for herself, as well. “Which is rather magnanimous of me, considering I should be punishing you for messing up.”

“Then punish me.” Those words felt raw as she scraped them out. Maybe it was more anguish than she wanted him to see, and certainly more desperation than she’d ever admit to. Because if it was punishment—if he forced her to enjoy it—then it would be easier for her to pretend she didn’t want this. Want him.

“Start over,” he said instead. His magic pressed down more firmly. She whimpered, and she swore he shivered at the sound. But the authority in his voice didn’t waver. “Pick up that page and read from the beginning.”

She could have been running out that door, back to her rooms. He would have left her alone, pretended this all had never happened.

And still she reached for that paper and started reading, “Rhysand is the mo-oh!”

If she thought he would play fair, the face buried in her lap was a stark reminder that Rhysand never played fair. And why should he? When she was already melting beneath the heat of his mouth, licking her through her clothes.

Her fingers flew to his hair, tangling in the dark locks. She couldn’t even tell if she was trying to push or pull, but she was able to gasp, “I thought you were supposed to be punishing me.”

“I am,” he said, and then he was tugging at the waistband on her trousers. And maybe she was lifting her hips to help him slide them off. “Unless you mean to say you want this, Feyre?”

The air felt so heavy in that moment, as their eyes met and held. She knew what he was doing, what he was offering her. To have what she wanted, without the stain on her soul of admitting it.

It made her a wretch, and a liar, and a traitor. But the coward in her shook her head.

Rhysand’s eyes went dark, even as his grin widened. “Then remember this—you don’t get to come until you beg for it.”

He yanked her by the thighs, hoisting her practically out of the seat as he buried his face into her cunt, licking up her center with no preamble. Feyre couldn’t resist the moan that escaped, and was grateful it was masked by the sound of Rhysand’s own. He delved his tongue inside her, thrusting like he meant to taste every inch. And meanwhile that tendril of night returned to her clit, just gentle enough to make her ache.

Feyre slung her arm over her mouth so she could bite down, trying to smother every obscene sound for the sake of pretense.

Not that Rhys seemed to notice, for the way his eyes had fluttered shut. He licked her the way she’d seen people lick honey, like it was something sweet he wanted to savor on his tongue. But when he thrust at just the right spot, she couldn’t resist the way her hips bucked upwards. Body begging for more, more, more even when she couldn’t bring her lips to say it.

Rhysand’s eyes snapped open. So vividly purple against the haze of desire. He pulled his face away, and she tried not to notice the string of saliva that followed, practically begging to keep them connected.

“Does it still feel like a punishment?” His voice was nearly as rough as the caluses on his hands, scraping along her thighs. He chased away the tendril so he could replace it with his thumb, and fixed her with a cool look as he began to apply more pressure. “Because it doesn’t have to, Feyre. It’s not too late to be good for your High Lord.”

Her toes curled as the pleasure built, until it was nearly unbearable to keep it all contained. Her legs were already shaking from the effort to do so.

“If you want mercy, Feyre, say ‘please let me come, High Lord’.”

“Prick,” she said, though it lost its sting when it tapered off into a whimper.

“Ah.” Rhys flicked his fingers against that hooded bundle of nerves, triggering a burst of razor-edged bliss that had her seeing stars. “Don’t be naughty now, Feyre. I might stop being so… what was the word again?”

Bastard, she thought.

“Go on,” he purred, rubbing her oh so perfectly. “Say it.”

She was so close.

“Magn-ma-ah.”

He pulled his fingers away, cutting off that cresting pleasure before she could fall over the edge. “What was that?”

“Rhys,” she gasped, feeling tears spring to her eyes.

“You know what to say,” he murmured, ducking his face back between her thighs.

He licked her again, slow and merciless. Feyre keened, and he used his free hand to keep her still.

“Please,” she gasped. “Please, High Lord.”

“Good girl,” he breathed, before plunging his tongue back inside her.

The edge came faster this time, spurred by Rhysand’s fingers and tongue working in tandem. Feyre dug her fingers so hard into his scalp she was certain she must have hurt him, but all she could feel was that blinding pleasure as it peaked.

And like pulling the curtains from a room, light came bursting in, haloing her skin as she came around Rhysand’s tongue. He was groaning, and from the look of reverence that crossed his features, and how he knelt on the ground with his eyes shut, she might have thought he was giving prayer.

When he pulled away, they were both gasping.

And he smiled. “Shall we practice this again tomorrow?”

#Rhysweek2022 #Rhysand #Feyre Archeron #Feysand #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction #feysand smut #Rhys x Feyre #Feyre x Rhys #Feyre x Rhysand #Rhysand x Feyre

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hersterical · 1 year

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Buffy’s, Angel’s, Spike’s and Faith’s realizing of and coming to terms with their bisexuality can be split into two categories: “eh, that makes sense” and “W H A T”

“eh, that makes sense”

-Spike: Even before becoming a vampire he considered himself an “appreciator of beauty in all its forms”. After becoming a vampire he and Angelus had a bit of a “that’s just how bros are with each other” kind of relationship even though that is definitely not how bros are with each other. This goes on for about ten years (a pretty short amount of time by vampire standards) before someone finally explains to him that no, not everyone is like this. Spike immediately accepts this seeing as he’s not like most people in every other way so why not when it comes to relationships? He doesn’t even consider thinking about labels until he’s trying to explain it to the Scoobys or the Fang Gang or someone and somebody else provides him with the label. He figures that it fits well enough and the term seems to help other people be less confused around the subject so he just goes along with it. Spike finds ways to “casually” drop his newfound label into conversation whenever he can until a little after everyone becomes sick of it. He’s always a little disappointed in people’s lack of reactions. The one person who he didn’t expect a reaction from, Angel, had the biggest reaction. Like, Angel, did you just forget about 75 years of our friendship? How could you possibly be surprised by this?

-Faith: She’s always known but never had a word for it. Faith’s always had celebrity crushes on women just the same as men and day dreamed about girls just the same as about boys. Around the third or fourth time she kisses a girl she begins referring to herself as “half-gay” in her head. Out loud she says things like “I’m not gay but…” then proceeds to say one of the gayest things to ever be said. Other than that…we’ve all seen how she is with Buffy. You get it. At first she does purposefully keep it a secret due to her crippling fear of rejection. It’s only when she’s in prison she finally learns the term “bisexual” and subconsciously accepts that label into her view of herself. After season 7 of Buffy she’s no longer keeping her sexuality a secret but also doesn’t go out of her way to tell people and just assumes that people would immediately be able to spot the differences in her behavior. She grossly underestimates her absolute lack of subtly when she was younger. Every once in a while somebody is shocked to discover that Faith is bi and Faith is shocked to discover that they didn’t already know. Somehow Xander was the first one to find out. This phenomenon only holds true to those who knew her from before she was arrested, everyone else just kind of knows. The only person she ever sits down and has a conversation about her sexuality with is Angel. And eventually Buffy once Buffy begins going through her crisis. That conversation is somehow even more awkward than the one she had with Angel.

“W H A T”

Angel: He never suspected a thing before he was a vampire. After he was turned, Angelus immediately accepted and was willing to act on these newfound desires. Once he got his soul back Angel figured his attraction to men probably came from his lack of soul. Probably. Something about that never seemed to quite fit though. He tossed this into his rapidly growing pile of existential crisis’ and only ever thought about it when he needed a break from his all-consuming guilt. But then if Angel ever spent more than five minutes thinking about it he would become confused and go back to the simpler matter of punishing himself. It’s only when he begins to rejoin society and do a bunch of research on prophecies, demons, and so on in order to help Buffy that he learns that the lack of soul makes one more likely to act on homosexual desires, but the sexuality and the body is a package deal, with or without the soul. This gives him a lot to think about…for another time because Buffy! Then Angel Investigations, Cordy, his son, the end of the world, etc. (he totally isn’t avoiding the issue, shut up) At some point Spike says or does something that Angel finds incredibly attractive, causing Angel to groan loudly and exclaim “Really!? Him!?” He quickly has to explain himself to Spike who laughs and is incredulous that Angel didn’t already know given their history. Angel never tells anyone unless it comes up naturally in conversation, usually including a lot of mumbling and shuffling of feet. Faith teases him ruthlessly and they eventually develop several inside jokes based on their shared sexuality and differing ways of handling it. Angel doesn’t come out to Buffy until Buffy comes out to him. This is an even more awkward conversation than the one between Buffy and Faith. Lorne always knew Angel was bi but knew he wasn’t ready to realize it/wanted to see how long it would take this over 200 year old idiot to figure it out.

Buffy: Oh Buffy. She always knew girls were pretty. Everyone thinks about kissing them sometimes, right? Wanting to kiss a girl and thinking she’s pretty doesn’t make you gay. Besides, Buffy is definitely attracted to men and their manly masculinity and all that. Women are just nice to look at sometimes. This goes on until well after season 7 when she and Willow are having a movie night. Buffy says something about how soft the lead actress’s lips look and Willow says “Yeah, I know right? Hey wait a second, I do know.” This leads to a very long and eye opening conversation. Buffy finally asserts that she’s not gay because she likes guys. Willow responds “Hello, does bisexuality ring any bells? Maybe the names Faith and Spike?” No it doesn’t ring any bells and what do Faith and Spike have to do with anything? It turns out that Buffy really didn’t know it was possible to like more than just one gender, hadn’t spoken to Spike since he discovered his new favorite word, and hadn’t thought anything of the occasional woman that Faith brings back home or her aggressive flirting. “I just figured they were friends and the flirting was just Faith being Faith. Plus you know how weird the whole situation with me, Spike, and Angel is.” Buffy isn’t sold on the idea that she isn’t straight so she spends months thinking about it very deeply while staring at women to figure out if she’s attracted to them or not. Faith finally snaps one day after twenty minutes of Buffy making unbroken eye contact with the side of her face and demands to know what’s going on. Buffy doesn’t explain anything and instead asks her weirdly specific and personal questions about Faith’s love life. Faith leaves that conversation even more confused than entering it. Buffy finally comes to Willow and says that this uncertainty is killing her, so Willow does what any best friend would do and takes Buffy to a gay bar. While there Buffy has a brief make out session with a woman before making a quick exit to take time to accept that she is bi. For the next few weeks Buffy is even more trapped in her head than in the time leading up to this realization before asking Willow to help her gather all the members of the inner circle. She has an announcement to make. Everyone takes it as well as can be expected. Giles says something about loving and supporting her, Dawn says something littler-sisterly, and Xander is a little weird but much more mature than she expected. Other than welcoming her to “the club” Faith is uncharacteristically quiet. The next time they team up with the Fang Gang, Buffy finds a moment to have a private word with Angel where they come out to each other. Now Faith, Buffy, Spike, and the rest of Angel Investigations know about Angel and that’s really everyone Angel wants to know and is neutral to everyone else knowing. Later, Spike drops the fact that he’s bi into the conversation and Buffy responds with “same”. They share an understanding smile and that’s that. From then on Buffy gets a nervous, but happy smile whenever she gets to come out to someone new.

#you can pry faith and angel as siblings out of my cold dead hands #spike btvs #faith lehane #angel btvs #buffy summers #buffy the vampire slayer #btvs #angel the series #bisexual #this ended up being way longer than I thought it’d be

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wetcatspellcaster · 4 months

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First of all, thank you so much for all you do! Your work has gotten me through a really rough few weeks dealing with the first anniversary of my mom's death. I'm so excited every time I get an ao3 notification for one of your stories. ❤️

Also I'm a huge Buffy fan and your Ascended Astarion has such presouled-but-in-love-with-buffy Spike vibes I love it. Especially his not understanding why his super romantic gestures of murder and abduction are not working on the object of his affections. I love how frustrated and baffled Astarion is by Rose's refusals. "These things are the *height* of vampire wooing? how's she not swooning?? She must be playing hard to get."

Also every time they get into a physical altercation, it absolutely feels like it may end in building destroying sex. 😏

I did have a question about Astarion's expectations about Rose (which feel free not to answer if its spoilers or you dont feel like it). I know he dumped her after she wouldn't be turned by him post ritual but it seems like he's definitely spent years getting things ready to have her living with him since then with the custom bedrooms and the rose gardens. Did he expect her to come back on her own since then? even after telling her he basically wanted nothing to do with her?

Anyway this was long 😅 but thanks again for sharing your talent and imagination with us. good luck with your surgery! ❤️

Hello anon, thank you so much for messaging me. I use fic writing as a mental health lifeline (and guess what! I have also bereaved a parent in my time!) so I'm glad I can pay that comfort forward to you and anyone else, in some small form. I hope the anniversary and any related feelings that come up pass smoothly.

(also, Ascendent/Spike parallels are such a call out at the particular moment I am in drafting. I think my approach to souls in D&D is very coloured by what meaning they hold in BtVS).

To your question! I'll try to answer as best I can.

The initial reaction and break up is obvious dictated a little by canon, but in my version of events, it's also coloured by the violent/traumatic nature of the Ascendent's 'birth'. On the one hand, Ascended!Astarion is drunk on power and his first real sense of freedom, but on the other, it has come at a dramatic and awful cost that everyone around him witnessed and cannot deny. Also, not to spoil, but I have aligned my reading of the events with the fanon interpretation that a romanced Astarion justifies his desire for Ascendency through Tav, or fear of losing that relationship. So Rose's initial rejection causes a lot of anger and deliberate cruelty, because of the confusion and pain behind it: he did the Rite, partly for her, Rosalie watched him do the Rite and didn't stop him, and now? she's suddenly having second thoughts? When it's irreversible? When he's stuck here, now? And she refuses keep him company?

The anger and pain around that was real, I believe, and causes him to lash out. Hence, the break-up. Much with the way I write the Ascendent in all guises, he does an extremely stupid thing, then commits to the bit and doubles down. Oh, he's dumped her now? He kind of didn't mean to do that, but now he can't be desperate and take it back, so he has to lean in and pretend that was what intended to do all along, etc.

Then she leaves for real? Well, fuck her. He didn't need her anyway - that's why he dumped her, after all. Nothing to do with the trauma, or his mistakes. So then, he commits to the bit, twicefold. He leans in further. Starts to perform the exact life he'd said he'd have without her. Gets new friends, new lovers, an underground network of power, etc. That takes a few years.

Oh. Wait. Why does none of this feel good? Why does it all feel awful???Must be because his girlfriend, the one he did this all for, isn't here (and who's fault was that again? by this point, he's forgotten).

But pride is still a major factor in the way the Ascendent conducts himself, and he can't go to her - he can't look desperate, or unhappy, or like he regrets his decisions. I've used this in a justification of why he never sought her out in places he couldn't pretend he found her by chance, even though he can smell her blood and knows she goes to Waterdeep - he can't be the one to go to her. And she must be miserable, right? He is. So he starts to engineer things for her return, because she'll be the one to cave first, and besides, he's got eternity anyway. He's so patient (lol).

And then, inevitably, when Rosalie continues living her life avoiding him, he's like "welp. I can't go to her (pride), and she isn't coming to me. Time to make her come to me (murderous intent)" and that's how he kills a ballroom full of people. He genuinely thinks what's keeping them apart is the distance, not the element of choice (because. um. we've seen what he thinks of free will). He believes that once they're in the same room together, it'll be impossible for her to resist. He can charm her. He did it once before. And he's not sad or conflicted about it this time. And he's the same person, right?

[author laughs in REDACTED]

So basically, his expectation of Rose was that she would be the one to break first. They both love each other, and she's a nice person. She's the bleeding heart. She's the one who was seduced the first time round.

When none of that happens, he decides to engineer the same set of circumstances in a lab, assuming that forcing her into returning will have the same outcome as her choosing to return (you may notice a pattern of behaviour emerging). So once the Ascendent has created forced proximity and given himself the chance to seduce Tav all over again, he's certain he'll win, because he knows the playbook, and it worked on them, and since he Ascended he's had proof it works on everyone else.

But unfortunately, a successful romance in this scenario relies on Ascended!Astarion not being awful, for 5 minutes which... um.... he hasn't achieved once in this fic, not once.

#asks #anons #lovely words from lovely people #wip: pieces still stuck in your teeth #what is Ascension if not committing to the bit? discuss.#a long ask gets a long answer anon!

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randofics · 8 months

Text

Teeth

Horror/thriller/soft romance

Tony Stark x supernatural creature reader

Warnings- suggestive

Happy Halloween yall! Figured I'd give yall a special Halloween fic to celebrate. 👻🎃

PS- I accidentally posted this before Halloween.🤦‍♀️ ugh sorry yall!

*******************

Working with the Avengers had its perks. You got to help Tony and Bruce in the lab, and they even let you do your own expiraments under their observation. They were all none the wiser to your other side.

A blood moon was coming tonight, which made it harder to keep up your human form. If nothing set you off, you'd be fine, but fate had no remorse.

You were alone working with Tony on one of his suits when a wrench fell off the rolling toolbox across the room. It had been haphazardly thrown on top and slowly slipped off the edge. You went to get it when you knocked off your full coffee cup spilling it across the floor. You didn't see the live cable touching the puddle of coffee and received a large surge of electricity throwing you to the ground.

Tony heard the commotion and turned only to see you on the floor, writhing in pain. The lights violently flickered and whent out for a moment before flickering some more. Where you used to be was a giant black mass.

It moved standing on all fours like an animal. A maw full of sharp, uneven teeth grinned at him, and eyes glowing in the flickering light bore into his soul. Wings spread from its back, and a long tail thrashed around, its razer sharp spikes threatening to pierce everything around it.

It ran at him in a flash of suffocatingly black smoke, making him backpedal into a lab table. It moved with no sound, making his heart beat with terror. The lights still flickered above, and Jarvis had been eerily silent.

The creatures giant paws caged him in, and its tongue licked over the jagged black teeth, puffs of black smoke billowed from its nose and mouth as it breathed. When it looked him in the eyes, his vision went blurry for just a moment, and his head felt like it was struck by lightning.

A distorted yet somehow familiar voice spoke in his head. "I'm sorry you had to find out this way, Tony." The voice was cold and without emotion. It left him dizzy, his world swaying like a ship in a storm.

"I apologize for the terror my true form gives you. There isn't anything that can be done about it, unfortunately." It's scaly snout moved closer and he closed his eyes as it sniffed his neck. He sucked in a breath when a long slimy tongue licked over his throat and jugular.

"Worry not. I will do you no harm." It backed away and he slid down to the floor eyes wide with fear. It turned and walked back to the puddle of coffee taking the cup into its forepaw. That long dark-burgundy tongue lapping the inside of the cup clean.

"I assume you do not recognize me." He stood ready to run at the first sign of danger. "No." It looked back at him. "It's y/n your assistant." He swallowed and looked away from your gaze. "Yo-You're y/n?" You nodded sitting on your haunches. "How...HOW!? This isn't possible!"

"It is me. I've always been this creature of terror. But I don't mean or want to scare... to terrorize... This blood moon makes it harder to keep hold of my human form. If you wish of me to leave and never return then I shall." He stays silent for a minute trying to take all this information in. "NO! I-I mean... you don't have to leave. You're a great assistant and I still need another set of hands to help around here."

"Very well then as you wish." Smoke overtook your true body and you transformed back into the human he was so accustomed to. The lights stopped flickering and you fell to the floor. No longer could he feel that oppressing terror almost like it had been sealed into a bottle.

He helped you to your feet and you shook your head to clear it. "Ugh I hate transforming. Are you ok Tony?" He only nodded slightly pale from shock. "So that really was you?" You looked away giving him a quiet "yes" in response.

He brought a hand up to his neck feeling the lingering saliva on his skin. Spotting his hand on his neck you blushed bright red hiding your face in your hands. "I am SO sorry about your neck my instincts take over in that form and I just couldn't help myself!"

Your personality in either forms was like the two faces of a coin. One side unsettling and domineering the other shy and sweet. You gave him whiplash.

He nearly choked at the realization that you had wanted to lick his neck you just didn't have the guts to do it in this form. You'd blush and stutter at the smallest flirtatious comment he threw your way. It was crazy to think that such a shy woman would really be so terrifying when she let her walls down.

"It's fine... um... it wasn't so bad now that I think about it. Of course it was terrifying but the whole neck thing was ok." You slid down the side of the table to the floor pulling your knees up to your chest. "Aside from the whole terror thing I wouldn't mind you doing that again." He chuckled scratching his head. What was he saying! At this point his mouth had a mind of its own!

"Please don't tease me like that Tony." Oh god that look you were giving him. All pouty and embarrassed. It made his heart race for a different reason. He knealt down next to you placing his hand on yours. "I'm not teasing I really do mean that. It was very... raw." He brought your hand up to his lips kissing your palm.

His eyes were truthful and another mad blush came over you. An embarrassing noise escapes your throat as you looked at him wide eyed. "Wh-what now?"

"Now we just take it slow." He moved closer tilting your chin up and kissed you softly.

#fanfic #avengers fic #horror fiction #happy halloweeeeeeen #halloween #tony stark x reader #monster reader #suggestive

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zalrb · 1 year

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hi, can i join the buffy S7 hate? i could write ESSAYS but i can’t rant at my sister who loves this show and spike, lol. imo, the most annoying thing about spike/spuffy is how the show manipulates the viewer (and buffy) to feel sorry for him. before S6 buffy’s feelings for spike were hate, contempt and pity, and her more positive feelings were basically her ”rewarding” him./1

and buffy-obsessed spike is basically like the trio of incels in S6 but spike’s behaviour is played for laughs or brushed aside or the show blames *buffy*. like, at the start of S7 spike makes a mocking comment about the rape attempt. then buffy finds out he has a soul and *she* has to rehabilitate him and *she* apologises when she understandably gets startled when spike unexpectedly touches her and then the whole ”you were just using me” when buffy tolerated and gave spike way more than he ever deserved. or her speech about how she wasn’t emotionally available even for spike when it’s like, no girl, spike was stalking and abusing and trying to rape you, you didn’t owe him anything. spike/buffy was all-around insulting. or the ”he’s the only one who has my back” when i’m sorry, was i watching the wrong show, because all i saw in S7 was spike being a useless dude in distress. the show increasingly woobified spike because it was easier than him earning things. i mean, just contrast angel/spike in S3/S7: angel more or less rehabilitated himself, unlike spike who put the onus on buffy. when angel was harassed by the first, he was ready to kill himself so he wouldn’t hurt anyone and he was ready to do it *alone*, without telling anyone. unlike spike who *did* kill people and then tried make *buffy* kill him, again leaving the onus on her. and p.s. spike had a lot better chemistry and more interesting interactions and potential with basically every character who wasn’t buffy so i don’t get why they wasted time on that. (and i'm so sorry, it did turn into an essay lol)"

well, that's the thing. buffy just becomes spike's caretaker and his apologist

feeling bad about him feeling bad about hurting her

and he doesn't actually do anything for her except bring up again and again how he got a soul for her, as if that's supposed to mean anything,

and it's not any different from when he was soulless and just told her he loved her like he was supposed to get a prize

so when she tells him that she's not ready for him to go, i'm like WHY, he hasn't done anything! he hasn't even been a comfort to you, in "conversations with dead people" a random vampire is the person you talk to about the things you don't want to admit to your friends

spike's just there like

or like this

or he's not there and it's like

so what does he actually do for you except be the one to tell off your friends when they act OOC and kick you out of the house just so he can say something people can point to to be like, omg he understands her better than anyone!

and this is why i have problems with storylines in which loving a "heroic" or "good" character is treated as a heroic act in of itself (or loving a morally grey character is treated as a dark act in it of itself) because that's not a redemptive quality on its own. and spike isn't redemptive.

people like to bring up his attachment to dawn as an example of him doing good or being good even when he's soulless but that attachment is directly linked to buffy rather than it being about dawn herself

which is why they don't have any scenes together or why he doesn't even ask about her the minute he and buffy become sexual. even when he gets a soul, there's no relationship there because it's not about actually caring about other people, it's about buffy.

AnGeL wAs JuSt GiVeN a sOuL - but like you said, he earns his redemption, the whole point is that he chooses to do good for the sake of good, buffy is a source of inspiration for him absolutely

but she doesn't determine whether or not he does something good.

and i just prefer that.

#bangel #angel x buffy #buffy x angel #buffy the vampire slayer #BTVS

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animeloverskylarmoon · 11 months

Text

Kenpachi Zaraki (Bleach) Chapter 1

There always seems to be a price that comes with getting involved in matters that have nothing to do with you.

Being a reaper was a task you'd decided to do for the free meals and perks. Nothing more.

Before you were here you were a lowly soul in the Rukongai and the reapers that you'd met over the hundred years of living there all seemed to have their own aspirations. You could care less. Your philosophy was nothing more than ensuring your own survival.

That's why you didn't understand it.

Everyone was panicking about hollows getting close to the squad barracks, but you weren't worried. This is literally what they trained you for. As long as you steered clear, you could probably lay low and catch a nap somewhere without engaging in useless battles. That was the plan at least.

The yell of a reaper ahead stopped you.

Your expectation was that it could have been a minor hollow just running around breaking stuff. But the sound of heavy steps crashing down drew your attention as you looked up.

"Great, a menos. No way am I getting in a fight with that. "

One of the captains could handle it.

You wanted a nap.

"Someone please help!"

The cries continued, and you turned your back, walking away. You recognized that voice. It was a medical reaper.

Hanataro Yamada.

The guy was a weakling, so you weren't even shocked that he was crying for help.

"Don't you worry Fuka-chan I-I'll protect you!!"

It didn't even sound like he believed his own words. For some reason, the statement made you stop. You glanced at them. Sure enough, Hanataro stood protectively in front of the girl at his side. She was clearly terrified, but his eyes looked resolute as he held out his blade.

"I won't let anything happen to you."

The determination displayed made your eyes widened, and when you saw the red charge of his blade, the blast he struck was impressive. It hit the menos right in its neck. Enough to cause a minor bruise. Hanataro stood his ground, and when you saw the menos about to charge a cero, your feet moved on their own.

"Bankai."

It was said so calmly.

Hanataro almost thought he imagined it. But the spikes that were now protruding from every part of the hollow's body alerted him that he was not hallucinating. It was real. When he caught your figure, you were striking the menos clean in half. Hanataro could only gape. He heard one finally cry from the monster, right as it dissipated in the air, and so did your body.

~~~

"We've managed to subdue all the hollows. Reinforcements will be sent to the Rukongai to conduct a patrol to protect the souls." Shinji informs.

Your captain was giving a brief, and you stood rarely listening to a word. When it was over, everyone seemed to disperse. As you're walking out you can hear some of them commending each other for their accomplishments in battle. You're walking down a path that connects with some other reapers from different squads.

"I bet you (L/N)-san just ran away again."

"Be quiet, she might be able to hear you."

"What, it's true. That's all she's good at!"

You didn't respond to the allegations. It made very little sense to try and defend your actions. They were just young and naive. Still believing that what they did would make some kind of cosmic difference.

"Ken-chan, I found her!!"

Everyone recognized that voice. You could practically see a path form. Even the jerks that were insulting you looked scared.

You clicked your tongue, about to step out of the way. Whioever they were chasing you knew it wouldn't end well. Just as you take a step to the right, you flinch. Your jaw clenched, and you caught the blade that appeared in front of you with your bare hands. The wind from the intended attack sent your hair tossing around. You could hear the gasps of astonishment in the space and you sent a glare directly at the man before you.

His grin was wide.

"Found you."

You released his blade, jumping backwards. You were pissed.

"He's picking a fight with coward (L/N)! He's gonna kill her."

You could hear the murmurs. Then it hit you, maybe you could save face. Everyone present still thought you were a coward. You could maintain your cover.

"Zaraki-taicho that's enough. " Jushiro was trying to de-escalate the situation, and Shinji just shook his head.

"Damn it, he's gonna ruin her day if this keeps up." Shinji spoke.

Kyouraku turned to the blond in question.

"What do you mean? Doesn't she run from battles, you should be there protecting your subordinate." Shinji shook his head.

"She's not as docile as you all seem to think."

"I give up, there's no way I can beat you Zaraki-taicho."

They all sweatdropped.

"More than meets the eye you said?" Toshiro asked. Jushiro rubbed his head awkwardly.

"Look at their faces, they completely lack faith in me, this could actually work!"

Kenpachi disappeared, and you tilted your head.

"All I have to do is not fight back, that's all. I'll be fine."

You expected him to appear right next to you. All you had to do was just barely defend and take the hit. Then you could actually salvage a nap. You don't expect him to go off course. Because his eyes are fixated on an unsuspecting victim.

"H-Hanataro watch out!!"

The scream from his friend startles you. Kenpachi is a distance away with his sword aimed in the medical reaper's direction.

"E-EH!! WHY ME!!"

Hanataro's yelp echoes and now you're pissed.

"Damn it!!"

Your feet leave the ground, you're in front of Hanataro in seconds. The crowd is stunned and Shinji merely girns when you draw your blade. The very second your blades connect, an onslaught of lightning that's generating has a gust of wind beating over the entire area.

A few of the reapers shield their faces. Kenpachi's clothing is getting wrecked by the bolts. Some of them connect to his skin, and you can see the slices that draw blood, but he merely laughs.

When it finally calms down, the audience can only stare. You straighten from your position, sheathing your blade.

Hanataro drops to the floor expressing his gratitude.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

You sigh heavily.

This entire day has gone to shit.

All because of that insufferable man.

#Kenpachi Zaraki #fights #soul reapers #swords #Hanataro Yamada #cute #humor #protectivereader #powerful #kenpachi x reader #hollows #souls

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voxofthevoid · 11 months

Text

Kidnapping Wednesday #7! The last one too. I'm on the penultimate chapter, and the word count is at 109k. I don't think I'll finish the fic before next Wednesday, but I'd say this segment marks the end of what I can post without spoiling the ending.

I might do something a little different next Wednesday. If what I have in mind proves too ambitious, I'll probably post something from one of my written-but-unposted fics.

Thanks to those of you who've been following along! It's been fun seeing your reactions each week 💗

Now, time for some Nanami PoV!

There are people inside Kento’s apartment.

This would be concerning, seeing as the spare keys to the place are firmly within his own possession, but the cursed energy signature burning like cold fire beyond his front door is unfortunately familiar. That’s still concerning in its own way because there’s no salvaging a scenario in which Kento comes home on a damp Tuesday night after a mission that had him working overtime—distressingly common these days, with the recent influx of suspiciously strong cursed spirits—to find that Gojou Satoru has broken into his apartment.

The second person’s cursed energy is unfamiliar, and typically, Kento would have dismissed them out of hand. All other problems have a way of fading into the background when Gojou’s involved, for better or for worse. But the stranger is blazing as bright as Gojou, his cursed energy a veritable maelstrom. It’s not Okkotsu’s soul-numbingly eerie power, and as far as Kento’s aware, that boy is the only sorcerer alive whose cursed energy is on par with Gojou’s in terms of sheer volume. It’s more, even. But volume isn’t why Kento’s rooted to the spot, seized by the burning certainty that the narrow corridor he’s in has become a prison. The longer he stands there, the stronger that feeling grows, until the cursed energy he first registered as a footnote to Gojou’s worrisome presence threatens to take over his senses.

It’s more curse than human, this power.

Kento waits patiently for the minute trembles in his hand to stop before turning the key, his other hand wrapped securely around the handle of his blade.

The door clicks open; Gojou’s never needed to do something as mundane as pick a lock to enter places he shouldn’t. The genkan has acquired two new pairs of shoes, Gojou’s customary black ones and a pair of red sneakers.

Curse-like cursed energy aside, Gojou’s companion clearly has human feet. Kento relaxes his grip on his weapon slightly.

The intruders are on his couch, and they’ve helped themselves to the lights and the fan. And whatever Kento was expecting in those long few seconds outside his own door, it’s not this—Gojou’s long-limbed frame sprawled along the length of the couch, his head resting on the lap of a young man with unfamiliar features.

It’s the hair Kento notices first. Candy-pink spikes that are incongruous with the corrosive cursed energy radiating from him in great, heaving waves. It makes the inside of Kento’s apartment feel tight and small, like the walls are closing in. There are seals along said walls, ones Kento certainly didn’t place. Gojou’s signature is all over them, and at least that explains why he didn’t sense these two well before he got to his front door.

Then the stranger looks up, fixing Kento with a shuttered gaze that would have been fairly typical if it didn’t involve a total of four eyes, two half-open slits set under a pair of normal eyes.

Curse, he wonders, or sorcerer?

“Gojou Satoru,” Kento says, “explain yourself.”

“Nanami!” Gojou chirps, obscenely cheerful. He doesn’t get up from the couch or even move his head from the other man’s lap. “You look a little winded. Tough mission?”

“Do not make conversation after invading my home.”

“Hey, that’s such a hurtful way to—”

“Satoru,” the stranger interrupts, and he must know Gojou well because there’s hand on his mouth quieting him, but Nanami’s too stunned to be grateful, mostly at Gojou allowing the touch. What’s visible of his face between the silencing hand and the thick blindfold indicates he’s still grinning like a fool. “C’mon, get up. You’re making me seem rude.”

The hand is removed. Gojou only huffs.

“Now he’s polite,” he says before launching himself up and right off the couch, the stranger standing up at a far more sedate pace. “Alright, introductions then. Yuuji, meet Nanami Kento, former salaryman and current grade-one sorcerer! One of the best even.”

“You’ve told me,” the stranger—Yuuji—replies, and before Kento can process that, he bows, sharp and perfunctory but polite enough. “Nice to meet you, Nanami-san. My name’s Itadori Yuuji.”

Kento is a sorcerer. It’s in his nature to notice details. His tendency to remember certain things far beyond any reasonable use is a personal folly.

“Nice to meet you,” Kento repeats mechanically. And then— “Itadori Yuuji.”

The way Gojou’s grin sharpens, he knows precisely what connection Kento has made.

Itadori blinks at him; the two extra ones are a millisecond slower than his normal ones.

The Ryomen Sukuna of legends was a four-eyed, four-armed demon. The twenty cursed fingers still staining this world testify to the number of arms. It stands to reason the records got the eyes right as well.

“Gojou-san,” Kento asks softly, “what did you do?”

Gojou’s grin has him bracing for a flippant response, but what he says is, “Only what I had to.”

It’s quiet, firm. A tone that leaves no room for doubting or questioning.

Kento remembers the carefully contained uproar around the apparent execution of Sukuna’s vessel. He had to sub in for Gojou for nearly a month because Fushiguro Megumi refused point-blank to work with Gojou, and Gojou refused to force the issue, instead cashing in on a favor Nanami owed him. It left him fumbling with an emotionally repressed teenager whose outward apathy did nothing to hide his pain or his fury, but it took Nanami weeks to learn enough of what happened to understand the guilt underlying all of that.

Gojou and Fushiguro patched things up eventually, but the whole event served to cement the name Itadori Yuuji in Kento’s mind.

A fifteen-year-old sacrifice. Not even a sorcerer.

Perhaps Kento was never in danger of forgetting, but even if he’d managed to write off a child’s murder as a necessary evil, Fushiguro’s stilted account of a boy who leaped in fearlessly to save his friends, to save the stranger Fushiguro must have been to him, would have robbed him of that luxury.

But Fushiguro himself confirmed that Itadori chose to die. He heard the conversation firsthand. His fury with Gojou was for complying with Itadori’s request; no, his fury was with himself for the perceived weakness that led to Itadori swallowing that finger.

The whole time, did Gojou really—

“There was a body,” Kento says.

Surprisingly, Itadori is the one who replies: “Wasn’t me.”

Obviously.

Kento bites back that snappish response. “This is not two fingers’ worth of power. I’ll ask again—what did you do, Gojou-san?”

“It’s a long story,” Gojou admits, unconcerned from the airy tone to the slumped posture. “Why don’t we talk about it over dinner?”

“If you think I’m feeding you after—”

“Yuuji hasn’t had anything since lunch, you know. He wouldn’t let me raid your kitchen either. You wouldn’t make him starve, would you, Nanami?”

“Don’t drag me into this,” Itadori says, sighing. “It’s fine, Nanami-san. I’m not that hungry.”

“Nonsense!” Kento snaps. “It’s nearly ten. You need to eat.”

“Uh.” Itadori looks wildly over at Gojou, who’s turned his blindfolded eyes to the ceiling. “Okay? Thanks?”

Four eyes, all wide and wild and wary, like Itadori’s the wounded gazelle and the stalking lion both. It’s deeply uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of that look, but Kento only pries his hand away from his blade and mutters a command for them to join him in the kitchen. But he finds he can’t give his back to Itadori, making the two of them head into the kitchen ahead of him instead. Gojou must know the reason, but he doesn’t protest, and if Itadori does, he neither says nor shows nothing.

Kento regrets it anyway the moment he sees Gojou’s hand settle on the small of Itadori’s back, a tension Kento subconsciously noticed draining out of the boy.

Boy because Itadori, declared dead well over two years ago, was only fifteen then and can’t be more than seventeen now.

#goyuu #goyu #fic: every version of the story #jjk snippets #wip wednesday #my fic

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