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angelamajiki · 3 years

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[ study date - part two ]

PARING: Bully! Yandere! Hawks x Reader x Bully! Yandere! Dabi

CW: quirkless college au, yandere, noncon/dubcon, mindbreak, dacryphilia, boot licking, boot humping, humiliation, degradation, cum eating, spanking, physical abuse, verbal abuse, scumbag dabihawks

AN: finally part two is here!! sorry about the long wait. mind the tags and enjoy!!

PART ONE

The situation was all too suspicious. You couldn't put your finger on it, but you knew the two of them had something to do with it. They always have something conniving up their sleeves, inventing new ways to torment you.

Not less than a day ago did you receive that dreaded phone call, and of course, the pair of them were there to witness your breakdown because of it. Because of your failing grade in chemistry, your scholarship was revoked which meant that you lost your housing privileges for the campus. And those two seemed all too happy to watch you crumble and sob in front of them like a child.

“Sounds like you're down on your luck, princess. What's a girl to do?”

Touya was all too pleased about the situation, the smug bastard. A warm hand made a place for itself on your lower back as it rubbed circles of faux sympathy. Sobs dribbled from your mouth as his hands moved lower to grip your hips from behind.

“Now, now, Touya. Don't tease her like that.” Keigo tutted, leaning against the wall next to the two of you. “Perhaps we coulda let our girlfriend come stay with us.” He sighed dramatically, quirking his brow at you before looking away.

So that was it. They wanted you to grovel at their feet and beg for mercy if you wanted their help, just like last time.

“Too bad we don't have one, doll. Ya made yourself pretty clear that you just aren't interested in us. Such a shame, we coulda been a real big help, ya know.”

Touya patted you on the back before walking off down the hall with Keigo, leaving your tear-stricken face all alone.

“W...Wait!” It came out more desperate than you could have hoped. The two of them stopped but refused to turn to look at you. The silence was deafening. “I’ll go out with the both of you. I'll be your girlfriend.”

Admission alone should have been good enough for them, but your constant denial had left them greedy for more.

“And just how do we know you're not looking to mooch off us, babe?”

Rats, they were right. You had no way to prove you wouldn't just use them, abuse them, and lose them.

“Touya, I thought I said to stop teasing princess.” Keigo chuckled, turning to look at you with narrowed eyes. “Of course, we’ll go out with you; nothing would make us happier to call you our girl.”

Taking your hand, he helped you up off the bench and swiped the tears from your eyes. Humiliation flushed your face as you struggled to look anywhere but his hawk-like eyes.

“C’mon, doll. Let’s go clean out your dorm and head back to our place.”

»»————-　　————-««

Back in your apartment, the boys made quick of boxing up your things and loading them into Keigo’s pick-up. The poor distraught thing you were, the bathroom is where you holed yourself up and cried your heart out. The fact that you had to stoop as low as to live with your bullies to survive? And you thought you couldn't be more humiliated than the last time they offered helo. It’ll be temporary; you tried to convince yourself. You'll stay with them a few weeks and be on your merry way, finding someone else to stay with. Hell, you’ll couch surf if you have to. Anything was better than staying with those demons.

“Hey, doll!” Touya rapped his fingers on the door thrice before opening up to your crying form. “Hey, hey, hey. No need for tears. Your boyfriends are here to help.” His wolfish grin said otherwise.

“Bird brain and I finished packing your shit. Let's hit the road.”

A rough hand yanked you up from the floor, tugging you along. A yelp flew from your mouth before you could stop it as you pushed up against the sink, pinned in by Touya’s hips on yours.

“On second thought, I can't let my pretty girl feel so down, now can I? Let me give you something that’ll cheer ya up.”

A hard tent nestled its way up your skirt as he ground his hips against you.

“Let your man take care of you, huh? I’ll give you something good to cry about.”

Keigo was content to watch from the doorway as his partner continued to make you squirm under him.

“Besides, we haven't discussed payment. Rent ain’t free, princess.”

God, were these men cruel to you. You can't really expect any less from the men who were content to bully you in the first place.

“All my money was from the scholarship; I don’t-”

A hearty laugh came from the blonde, eyes narrowing in on your pinned form.

“Who said anything about money?” He quipped, sauntering over to you and took your chin in his hand. “You can pay us back with your obedience. We want a well-behaved slut that we can come home to, not some brat we have to take kicking and screaming.”

What choice did you have? They had you pinned in a corner, like a mouse caught by two feral cats who were just a bit too hungry to have any kind of patience to play games.

“I-I understand.” You swallowed, nodding in Keigo’s palm.

“Really now.” Touya drawled out, taking Keigo’s spot in the doorway. It was apparent they didn't want you to bolt on them. “I’m not convinced. You gotta prove yourself to us first, little girl.”

The bare mattress creaked under his weight as he took a seat in your room, legs spread as he motioned you towards him with his finger. Keigo, although reluctantly, let go of your face and locked both doors as he took a seat in the corner, seemingly content to watch the display.

A throaty chuckle left the man as you stood in front of him.

“Strip.”

The command left you shivering under his predatory gaze, a low whistle coming from his mouth as he fucked you with his eyes.

“Kei, put on some music.”

“Yes, sir.” He purred, using his phone for tunes and snatching yours from your purse before pocketing it in his jacket. Girls, Girls, Girls by Mötley Crüe filled the walls of your dorm, both men gratified by watching your little dance for them.

First went your shirt, tossed off onto the floor as your face flushed with shame. Tears welled in your eyes before you screwed them shut while swaying to the music.

“Hey! Eyes open and on me, little girl.” Touya snapped, spanking the side of your ass as punishment. You hiccuped, sucking in a breath to hold back the tears. The stress of the situation weighed you down, bursting you at the seams as you openly sobbed while removing your bra. Music blaring and laughs all around from Touya; you looked to Keigo for help; he always seemed to be on your side. Head thrown back against the wall, he jerked himself to the sound of your cries, winking and whistling as you looked back at him.

“Hurry it up; you're not very good at dancing, doll. You're stiff as a board.”

“She’s not the only one who's stiff.”

Cackles and guffaws filled the room, piercing your ears to the point where you thought you would go deaf at the next sound of their voices. Mindlessly, your clothes were haphazardly thrown off before you crumpled into a ball on the floor, shaking and sobbing.

“Aww, is baby having a bad day? Come to daddy.”

Touya helped you up off the floor before placing your bare cunt atop his left boot. “Why don't you relieve some stress, huh?”

The boot jerked under you, pressing up against your clit as you yelped. Getting the memo, you started to grind your hips down against his boot. Your cries quelled as you rocked your hips into a steady rhythm, biting your lip when you felt pleasure began to pool in your gut. How depraved were you? Getting off on your bully's boot while the other one got off to watching you. It was enough to make you sick, forcing you to cling to Touya’s thigh and rest your forehead there. A collection of moans and classic rock music blared in your room, bouncing off the walls so loudly that it made you even hazier.

As much as you wanted to deny it, the man had a point. You might as well submit and let yourself feel good; there's no getting out of it. Gasps and moans left your drooling mouth as you ground your hips on the tip of his boot with enthusiasm, letting yourself get lost in the pleasure slowly crescendoing in your core.

“Atta, girl.” Touya growled, gripping your hair from the scalp as he made eye contact with you. “Look at when you cum.”

Incoherent responses left your lips as you began to cry again, only that it was from pleasure this time. He continued to sustain eye contact as he fisted his cock, letting go of your hair in lieu of sticking his fingers in your mouth and choking you with them. Warbled cries fell onto his fingers as your hips increased in speed, thighs sputtering and shaking as you came close to creaming yourself on his boot.

“Cum on my boot, slut.”

His cock was aimed at your open mouth as you grunted and moaned, eyes cloudy as they rolled back into your bed. You came with a cry, squirting all over his patent-leather boot as your body shook with the sheer force of your orgasm.

Touya was not too far behind you, moaning your name as he shot his seed into your waiting mouth, covering your nose after finishing.

Like the obedient whore they needed you to be, you swallowed. His foot kicked up into you, knocking you off his leg.

“Disgusting. Clean up your mess, bitch.”

Nodding, a small whimper left your mouth as you began to lick your juices off his boot. Kitten licks and long strokes alike made their way around the leather, whining when he would shove his foot roughly in your face at times.

“Y’know, I’m still not convinced, sweetheart,” Keigo called out from behind you, taking a fist full of hair in his clutch as he pulled you up from the floor. “Beg for my forgiveness, and I’ll know you’re not trying to run a game on us.”

With a still tight reign on your hair, he threw you to the bed face down, ass up while discarding his own clothes. A harsh spank thwacked on your ass as he gripped the reddening flesh right after.

“Damn this ass is gonna be the death of me. Ain't that right, Touya?”

“Sure is; it's all she's good for.”

Neither of them really meant those nasty things they spewed at you, but it just felt too good at the moment to pass up seeing you cry. The sooner you learn that submission is the way to their hearts, the easier you'll have it. Sure, you were a whore, but you were their whore.

“Hope this pussy’s ready for a pounding cause Daddy is coming in.” He chuckled, groaning as he sank his length into your tight, unprepared vice. Whimpering and squirming beneath him, you attempted to grip the bare mattress for purchase as you felt the sting and stretch of his cock thrusting inside you. The pain wasn't terrible, but it was still there. You wiggled your hips, hoping to get some friction before another spank was administered.

“I haven't heard any begging yet.”

“P-Please fuck me, Keigo.”

“That’s not what I’m looking for, sweetheart.”

Oh? Oh.

“Please let me be your girlfriend! Please, I need to be yours; I need you!”

A slew of curses flew out of him as he pinned your hips down, thrusting deep and slow inside you. The pace was agonizingly slow as you tried to move your hips.

“Please, please, please!” you babbled. “Keigo, Touya. Let me be your girlfriend; let me be your obedient whore. I need to be yours!”

Humiliation hardly fazed you anymore as you let yourself, babbling and crying out begs and pleas for your two bullies.

Keigo happily increased his thrusts, pounding into you as a man possessed. Growls and snarls spat from his mouth as he savored the way your tight pussy fluttered around his painfully hard cock.

“Such a good girl for us, good girl.” The blonde moaned, pressing a sloppy kiss to the back of your neck. He lapped at the sweat there, leaving bite marks and blood for you to find later.

Your moans and cries were music to their ears, the most hypnotic melody they had ever heard. Touya stroked himself off in the corner, pleased with your earlier performance and giving his partner space to hit the nail into the coffin.

You, on the other hand, were being fucked out of your mind as Keigo dicked you down good. Good enough to make you forget your worries, your troubles, your life ripping apart at the seams for even just a moment. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled your senses as you felt the pleasure come at you full speed.

“T-Tell me you love me, that you love us.”

“Oh, someone’s feeling bold, birdie.”

Strings of “I love you”s flowed freely from your mouth as you chased your high, wanting to feel pure and utter relief, albeit it is just for a moment.

You came with a cry, spasming on his cock as he came deep inside you. A bright, white sensation filled your senses as you grasped onto your clarity for as long as you, not wanting to come down from your high.

Toned arms rested on either side of you before enveloping you in a warm hug.

“Good job, princess.”

A sweet whisper filled your ears before a kiss was placed on your cheek. Silence fell over the room, save for all of your panting and breathing. In your post-orgasm clarity, you couldn't help but realize something.

Wasn't Touya’s father dean of the school?

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uhhhhyandere · 3 years

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halloween special!

hi everyone!!!!

for halloween this year, inspiration struck and i decided to craft this halloween special demon/angel light au! i had so so much fun writing this and hope yall enjoy it!!!

no matter where you are in the world, if you celebrate halloween or not, i hope you all are doing amazing and know that you are so so loved (by me) and thank you all for the love and support you give! i love every single one of y’all and let’s finish out the year the best we can!!!!

word count: 7.2k

And He will bring hell with him.

The grass will gray, and the trees will blanket with ash as all life is left withered, limp, and colorless in his wake. He takes, and takes, and takes with the full red moon on his back and the stars glittering on his lips in golden lies. Should his, Kira's eyes, red with ire from his unattained vision, seek you out, you are bound to the pits of hell itself for eternity.

"Well, that's what the tale says," Misa said. "If you believe in that kinda stuff." She flipped the book over to display the illustrations. You leaned over to get a closer look. "They really have to make evil people this beautiful, huh?" You looked at her incredulously. "What? You're thinking the same thing! I just said it…" Her eyes trailed down to the pages again.

"He was a mortal once?" Misa nodded her head and adjusted herself on the sofa for you to scootch closer. Her red manicured nails slipped the page over to the next.

"Who tried to be a god." You squinted down at the new page and pointed.

"She kinda looks like you." She laughed.

"Just wait," Misa replied. "Anyway, he was young, a few years below us, when he came across the power to make him a god. He was not chosen nor special. The power was left to be picked up by any traveler. It just so handed to be dropped outside of his family's farm, and he just so happened to be who he was. An ambitious genius with the same hunger for power the poor have for food. He used this power to rise above all others and to kill any who dared step in his way." Tragic art painted the pages as Misa continued to flip through them.

"How?" Misa shook her head.

"They don't know. We don't know. A creature crueler than Kira. A bored god looking to stir trouble. A blessing that was used as a curse. Perhaps all. Perhaps none." She giggled. "Exciting, isn't it?" You scoffed.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep going."

"But he had enemies. No mortal man should wield what Kira wielded. Those who wanted to strip him of his power and deliver justice to those he had ridden of, not grasp the power, the golden throne, he sought. They played games with one another. Cruel, cunning games of who would outsmart the other. He who was supposed to condemn his power and he who had it used the same means to win.

"Us. Regular people used and thrown away to further their game. There was one," she pointed at the girl who resembled herself, "who picked up the same power as he. It was her who tried to love him, that bent at his word, that carried out his will." Misa swallowed, "but he had lost his ability to love, or that's what was thought until..." Misa cut herself off.

"Kira and his nemesis continued to use, to manipulate the very ground the other walked on. All until he finally stood at the foot of the throne of the world he thirsted for. Pristine and shining, it stood above the clouds themselves. This is where he was slain, where his blood stained the stone, the rug, the throne, infecting and cursing them. The throne cracked, contorted, twisted, and fell. Down, down it fell until he and the now blackened throne were in hell.

"One day, when the full moon shines on the bleeding night, he will rise, and he will bring hell with him. He will claim what he has lost to reign over the world of men. The grass will gray, and the trees will blanket with ash as all life is left withered, limp, and—,"

"I know that much," you interrupted, "but I'm confused. Did you leave a part out? Where you cut yourself off, I mean." White teeth dragged across her lip.

"After," she started to rapidly flip the pages, "after he was banished to hell, they found…" Her flipping stopped at the very last page, "this."

On the page was a cage with gnarled black metal and a large gash across the bars. A human whose arms crosses on their chest in an 'X.' Their feet were bound together and tied with rope to the middle's central support pole. Blood trickled down their face, torso, and legs. Beautiful, broken, ripped wings crumpled at their back. "He had stolen an angel. Broken them. Claimed them. Upon their back, scars from where he had failed to rip them off their back." She hummed. "Kinda looks like you."

You laughed nervously then scoffed, trying to get the haunted picture out of your brain. "Should his eyes, red with ire from his unattained vision, seek you out, you are bound to the pits of hell itself for eternity because you are who he has lost, and he will not fail again.

"But that's just how it goes!" Misa laughed good-naturedly and shut the book harshly. "Pretty scary, right?" You shook your head.

"Absolutely not. First, it's actually pretty disturbing. Secondly, it's so vague! No details on how he died, if the other guy killed him. You'd think after eons of repetition, they'd make stuff up." Misa shook her head.

"Yeah, if you ask a bard, but do you really want to hear a romanticization of it in a song where they talk about how he loved whom he locked away and claimed? They do not sing about the reality, for it is far too gruesome for even documentation, much less for song. At least, that's what Rem told me. Being vague is the only option to make it tolerable, but I think she actually knows the truth and won't spill." You laughed and rose from the library's sofa. "So? It's my favorite story."

"That's because that girl looks like you."

"And?" You clicked your tongue.

"I dunno. I did say it was disturbing, but you don't really believe in this kinda stuff, right?" You scratched the back of your head.

"Of course, I do!" She giggled. "Ever since Rem took me in and taught me to read, it's been my favorite book." How could you forget what an oddball Misa was? You sighed.

"Alright, believe what you want. Halloween is the day after tomorrow, after all. Be as spooky as you want." Misa rose and slipped the leather-bound book back into her bag. "Are you stealing that?" You harshly whispered. She shook her head.

"Nope! It's Rem's." Oh, gee.

"I'd rather steal from the library—which has free books—a concept I just remembered for some reason than Rem. Do you have a death wish? Nevermind, don't answer that. Why did you make me come to the library again?"

"Isn't this where people read?

"...You're right. I got nothing. Come on. I need to get back to the market. I promised my parents I would pick up the pumpkins Mello grew and carved. Apparently, people are putting lights in them to make the faces glow at night."

Your village was reasonably large, set on the misty hillside of the mountain. Though the nearest city where the Earl of the region lived was a few miles down the path and knights on horses frequented here on their patrols, your village felt world's away from society. It was also relatively famous for the chapel, so travelers often stopped to visit, especially with the holiday season.

It rested closest to where the cliff dropped into nothingness. Flowers surrounded it, and moss grew up its stone walls. Vivid glass windows decorated all sides and around the wooden doors. A tower ascended from the front to where a millennial old bell sat still for just as long, for it was only to ring when the world was set to end.

Within, pews lined the plush red rug. The rug ran straight to the golden altar, where a large statue stood behind. The stained glass filtered color light upon its flawless, stone complexion. Water poured from the few holes in the body down into the small pond around it.

"Are we going to meet on Halloween?" Misa asked. "You know it's my favorite holiday! Everyone will be on the square dancing and dressed up!" You smiled.

"Of course. You know my parents would not miss a party. We can meet on my porch since it's closer?" She nodded enthusiastically,

"Yes! That sounds perfect! See you then!" The blonde blew you a kiss and skipped in the direction of her house. You smiled before turning on your heel and approaching the square.

Of course, the market would be busy with both locals and travelers. It was mid-day, and each stand had its unique, limited-time holiday goods. You had to squeeze your way to make it to Mello's stand. The blonde grimaced as you approached. Ah. He's in a good mood!

"Afternoon, Mello."

"Y/N," he regarded you. "You're really going to buy a pumpkin with a scary face? Would it really go with your garden?" You scoffed.

"It's my parents, actually, and yes! I can be scary and festive! Not as good as you, Mello. I heard that you carved lots of pumpkins for the village." He hummed and motioned to those on the wooden stand.

"Not for the village," he replied. "You still have to pay, got it?" You rose your hands.

"Of course, of course." You began to browse the selection. "Will you be attending the festivities night of?" He scoffed.

"No. Now pick your poison or leave." You smiled and reached for one with a broad crooked smile. "Terrible taste." You furrowed your brows.

"...But you're the one who made it?" Mello's eyes widened for a second before narrowing once more.

"It's one of my worse ones. I guess it'll go well with you, then." You laughed and rubbed the carved circle around the stem with your hand.

"Yep! Sounds good, Mello." You reached into your pockets and dropped a few coins in front of him. "Keep the change. Happy Halloween!" Mello snatched the coins from the table and shooed you off. You morphed back into the crowd, maneuvering your way through the group back to your house.

An abrupt, intense headache wracked your skull, causing you to suddenly stop amid the crowd and wince, nearly dropping the pumpkin under your arm. With your free hand, you grasped your forehead, but the pain only escalated and pulsed down your body. Two particularly intense strands of pain erupted on your back.

Peeking up, the crowd blurred around you, but your eyes on a figure at the corner of the inn. He was too far to make out the intimate details besides his lithe frame and brown hair. For moments you locked eyes before he disappeared behind the inn.

The pain stopped as if it was an illusion. You snapped back into reality, chest heaving in relief. A few eyes looked at you in concern, but no one stopped to ask. Thankfully so. You wouldn't know what to tell them if they asked what happened.

Shaking your head, you safely made it to your small house hidden behind a large oak tree.

"Oh! You got the pumpkin! How was Mello?"

"Charming as ever, of course. I was just with Misa at the library before that. She told me the story about Kira and his fall to hell." Your mom nodded her head and took the pumpkin from your arm.

"Ah, that's an old one. I guess she's always been the type to be into that stuff. It freaks me out, personally." You followed your mom to the kitchen.

"Yeah, me too. I try to remind myself it's not real, but there's also the small tick in the back of my brain that tells me it may be, you know?" She nodded again.

"Oh, I like this carving! Nice choice, Y/N, but yes, I do that too. Especially since Halloween, this year, is on the full blood moon. An ill omen in all tales. Luckily the town's party rids my mind of such horrors, as should yours. Anything else happen today?" You paused.

"N-no. Nothing comes to mind. I think I'm going to go find father then wash up before dinner. Is he still in the forest?" Your mom nodded.

"Yep. He's been hunting that same deer for weeks now. Apparently, it has a rack of the like he has never seen before. Something of beauty. I think he doesn't even want to kill it as much as he wants to see it again." Your dad was somewhat of a conundrum. As much as he awed and loved nature, he was a hunter who made income on the sale of its pelts and horns. "I'm sure he hasn't found it yet. Maybe you can help."

Unlikely, but you liked to explore the misty pines surrounding your village. They were too safe and had a few secret spots where hollowed logs led to hidden clear ponds. Wishing your mom farewell, you entered the pines and inhaled their thick scent.

Your dad's job was handy in that you knew the backwoods like the back of your hand. He taught you the ways to track and navigate through the seemingly identical trunks.

He also unknowingly taught you to sense when something was off with the forest. After ten minutes of traversing, you finally had the feeling of dread. The mist was inches too low, the grass droplets too wet, and the temperature degrees too low. You held your breath and glanced at your surroundings.

A silhouette. A deer's head with a rack so vertically high you thought your eyesight was failing you. Except, as you stepped closer, this deer had the body of a man standing upon his two legs. Large hollow eyes oozed mist.

"..." something was whispered into the air. You continued to hold your breath. "...—/N." The deer-man gave no indication of moving, and you could not bring your feet to even wiggle the frost from your toes. "Y/N."

Your name. Crystal clear. Your breath hitched. His hand with long, natural claws extended forwards towards you. "Y/N," it repeated. "You mus—....—ere. No t—." You could not make out his words.

"Y/N!" Another yell. This time you recognized it as your father. Eyes blown open, you wretched your eyes from the deer-man and sprinted towards the voice of your father.

"I'm...sorry."

…

"You're not telling us everything." Your father accused. After you ran head-first into your father, petrified and stumbling over every word, he urged you home and waited for you to take the bath you begged them to allow you to have before sitting you in the sitting room, the fire roaring under the holiday wreath behind you.

'It just scared me. I've never seen a bear of its size." Why are you lying? You had no idea. As soon as your mom asked the first questions, lies flowed out of your mouth like the truth. Stories you naturally never could have conjured on the spot. Stories you would never because you did not lie, which is why your parents, despite their dubious expressions, did believe you. "I swear. I just got freaked out. I think it's because of the story Misa told me today."

"That girl," your dad muttered.

"She told them the story of the man who fell to hell. Kira." Your dad nodded and rubbed his chin with his hand.

"Ah, I see. That would do it. Y/N, I know the full blood moon is coming, but there's no need to fret. Stories are just stories, alright? Leave your candlelight on tonight should you be scared of the dark, alright? Me and your mom are in the room over, alright?" You nodded. "Good. Now, what's for dinner?"

…

You lit the candle that night. In your nightwear, you sat on the edge of the bed. Muffled moonlight streamed through the frosted window and reflected off the full-length mirror in the corner. You inhaled deeply through your nose and exhaled through your mouth.

"They're just stories. Just stories." Like a mantra, you repeated this under your breath as you ducked under the covers. Opening your eyes, though, you were met with a flash of shadow in the mirror. You jumped and stared at it with eyes open enough to feel the cold air. You waited for something in the still room to move, for it to flash again, but nothing did. Thankfully.

Still, you threw the blanket off of yourself and approached to assure yourself that yes, it was nothing, and yes, there was nothing: just your reflection and the room behind you.

Until you blinked.

For a second, blood poured down your body and wetted down your clothes against your figure—wings broken and limp behind your back.

You screamed and smashed the mirror with your fist on impulse. Along with the shards, your body fell to the ground, and actual bloodied hands kept you from collapsing entirely. However, the features in the fragments were not yours. The man, the one from the square, stared back, but at this closer view, you can see his eyes.

Red.

You threw yourself back against the wall and screamed. Your door busted open, and your parents barged in. Your mother ran to your side and took your hand in hers while your father took in the big picture around him.

"I-I thought I saw something in the mirror. Misa told me once the m-mirror is the passage to the other world. I-I know it's stupid for me to react like this, but I just… I don't know. Do you think it's the blood moon?" Your parents were quiet.

'It could be," your mother said. "The blood moon is supposed to come with magic. It enables beings to crossover from other worlds, from other planes. It is the ill omen, but crossing over is all they can do. They can't touch you or hurt you. That, I promise." You nodded.

Your parents stayed with you, and, for the first time since you were literally a toddler, you slept in their room, blankets wrapped around you on their floor. Relief flooded your system when sunlight broke through the window. Though your sleep was haunted by vague images and muddled whispers, you slept through the night after the incident.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Your dad asked. "You can skip your daily chores if you don't want to do them. Tomorrow too. Aren't I generous?" You laughed but shook your head no.

"That's alright. I think if I stay home, I'll just keep thinking about it. I need to get my mind off of it. Doing chores will put my mind at ease. Some normalcy, I think." Your dad nodded, though you can tell your parents weren't eager to just forget the events of last night.

You knew someone, though, that would be eager to learn about them.

"Misa, can you keep a secret?" She bit into an apple.

"No," she replied simply. "I tell Rem everything, but that's it. I don't really talk to many other people here besides you and her, so no one else to tell, but I know Rem will mind her business. She talks to fewer people than I do." That was true. You could count the number of times you talked to Rem on a single hand, and Misa said she liked you.

"Okay, don't freak out, but…"

She freaked out.

"And they were red?" You nodded.

"Glowing. A sinister smirk on his face. His hands in the reflection, touching my own through the glass. It was the same as the one I saw in the square right after we met." Misa's eyes widened in enthusiasm and jubilation.

"It's him! It has to be! Kira!" You shook your head.

"No, my mom explained it to me. It's a spirit from the other plane playing a joke on me. She told me that after I stopped crying and fled to their room before I passed out. That story isn't real. It… can't be." Misa shook her head and leaned forward.

"It is! It's not that you don't believe it's real; it's that you don't want to believe it's real! Y/N, you have to believe me." You grimaced and backed away to create some breathing room.

"Why would I want it to be real?" You whispered solemnly. "Why would I want that to happen to me? I can't believe it's real. It can't be real. I'm terrified if it is real, okay? If my parents think it's real because I do, they'll tell the church, and if the church finds out? You know how they deal with spiritual trespassers and those they possess. I'd basically be dead. My soul stripped from my being to ensure I do not bring harm to anyone else. I would be a hollow body, Misa! Don't you get that!?" You inhaled a ragged breath.

"...Has anything happened today?" You shook your head. "It's already almost sunset, so that's a good sign, at least. Sorry, I got too excited. Your feelings and safety are important. Okay, I promise I won't tell a soul about this." You breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you. I just… don't know what to do."

"Have you gone to the chapel? The water from the statue is supposed to cure any possession." You shook your head. "Okay! I think I know your next steps, then. Come on!" She stood abruptly from the bench and held out her hands. "Let's go!"

She dragged you across the diameter of town until your footsteps echoed across the chamber. A few holy people greeted you as they did their duties. Some travelers prayed at the pews for good luck and well-being. A single man stood next to the pond where the statue stood.

"Greetings," he welcomed. "I recognize you two from town, but I don't believe we've met. My name is Soichiro. Are you here to drink from the spring?" Misa nudged you forward.

"Y-yes. Oh, I'm Y/N." He nodded.

"I see. Does the blood moon have you nervous? Don't worry. Lots of people come to do the same before a blood moon. Come and cup your hands and drink the water. Any disease in your soul shall be healed." You lowered yourself down to your knees and cupped the crisp water between your palms. You lowered yourself to sip, and you swallowed.

But it would not go down.

You began to cough, and your body convulsed with coughs. Liquid did come from your mouth, but the drops upon the ground were not clear, but a vicious red. Soichiro yelled for the other holy people as your body shook and twisted. Ropes bound your wrists, and hands steadied your head—arms wrapped around your waist to keep you as still as possible. A man placed his palm on your forehead and whispered incomprehensible words. When he finished, he ripped his hand away, and your breath was restored. You were unable to fall with the tight grip they still had on you.

"W-what happened?" You asked, feeling the tears on your cheeks continuing to inch down and the blood drying on your chin. "I-I don't know. I'm sorry."

"Take them to the purification chamber."

"No! Please, no! Help me! Someone, please help!" It was a joint effort between numerous holy people to lift your struggling form from the ground. "Misa! Mom! Dad!" you called out for, yet, in the chapel, none of them were there. However, your screaming did not stop for them until you were placed on a large chair and gagged. Your legs were bound to the bottom of the chair, and arms rebound to the arms. Holy people circled around you.

The chair you were in was much less a chair and more so a throne. Pure white metal was attached directly to the ground. Red cushioning provided comfort to your rear and back. With ragged breaths, you looked waited until one of them spoke or did anything besides watch you. It was the man who sentenced you here that approached.

"Soichiro," someone called, but he ignored them and angled his head down towards you.

"I am going to undo your gag. Do not scream. I just want you to tell us the truth if you know anything. Sometimes… they do things without signaling a mortal." Large calloused hands undid the gag, and you inhaled greedily. "Now, tell us."

"A-are you going to take my soul?"

"Speak first. I cannot make promises I do not know if I can keep." You swallowed and explained what you could to them. Your eyes were focused on the ground. The terror you would feel if his reaction was bad was too grand for you to meet his eyes. The silence after you ended your experience was deafening. "I see." He looked to a holy person nearby. "We need twenty-four-hours to prepare for the ritual. It leaves us with little room before the blood moon rises. If we do not store their soul… go now. It is much worse than any of us could have imagined." Your heart plummeted.

"W-what? No! Please! Tell me what's going on! D-don't take my soul, please! I-I want to live! I'll run away! You'll never see me again!" Soichiro stared at you with what you hoped was empathy. The bags under his eyes spoke of his wisdom and his exhaustion. He motioned for the rest of the holy people to leave, so it was just him standing over you.

"I'm sorry, child." He spoke softly, knuckles wiping the tears flowing down your face. "No matter how far you run, no matter how fast, no matter how well you hide, no matter how you continue on: alive or dead, he will come for you. The moment you locked eyes in the mirror, you were bound to him, just as you always have been." You shook your head, vehemently.

"It's not true, is it? Kira... is he…?" Soichiro smiled sadly. "It can't be… it can't be me. It's impossible." You sobbed. "How? Please, at least tell me before… before…" You couldn't even make the words out.

"My son," he began, "was always destined for greatness, but then greatness found him, and he became too great. The power he found was a single, black notebook. Write someone's name, and they would pass. It originally is from a Shinigami, a god of death, that possessed him while he owned it, but… there are forces more potent than Shinigami in the universe. He and his opponent, the one who sought to bring the mysterious killer Kira, my son, that plagued the land to justice, who we called L, always were at a battle of wits, of plans, but, in the end, my son won.

"But this victory angered others. It was they who killed him at the throne of the world. It was they who watched him plummet to hell. It was they who built the statue in this chapel and sealed him in hell so he could never return, but they have long passed. Their magic fading in time. I could do nothing in all this time except pray to angels to keep my son at bay." He paused and looked up solemnly. "You must be wondering how I am alive," He looked down at his pale hands.

"The notebook is gone now. The Shinigami that dropped it fled back to his world when Lig- Kira, was cast down to hell. I, too, touched the notebook. A scheme my son created to get ahead. The curse of it never went away, and I am now stuck to live eternity until my son ends it." He clenched his fist. "I did not know you were so close. I did not know it was you. If I did… I would have taken your soul long before you could have known life without it." You shook your head.

"I don't understand. What is my part? The book… the book only showed a cage with… someone in it. The story has no word of them. Just the girl… the weapon that served him." Soichiro sighed.

"Back then, the plane between the mortal realm and other words was thinner when angels and spirits would roam mortal lands. You were an angel. A new one. Young. Wide-eyed and drawing silver linings wherever you walked. Someone he set to ruin. Someone with a soul so pure that he can take and twist to his own liking. No one should see you except him, so he locked you away and bound his soul to yours and your soul to his. As long as he lived, whether here or hell, you would too.

"But just your soul. Unlike me, whose mortal body is stuck, it is solely your soul that has been recycled for eons. His part, the part of his soul within you, could only be awakened should your eyes meet his. Then, with his entire soul active and with the power of the red blood moon, he will be able to break the barrier that seals him tomorrow night. We must lock away part of his power, so he cannot walk this land again.

"Should he, then he will seek to claim all that was taken from him. The mortal world will fall as we know it. Those he inevitably tricked in hell to follow him will breakthrough behind him. What the world deserves for not seeing him as the god he sees himself as." Tears pooled in Soichiro's eyes. "I still love my son. The bright-eyed boy, but he cannot love. What he feels for you is something far darker, something twisted. I do not know what he will do if he finds you. You will be better off soulless." You sobbed.

"B-but the deer-man in the woods. Do you - I mean…" He furrowed his brows and shook his head.

"I don't know, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry my son came upon you. No one deserves this fate." You wretched in your bindings, ragged breaths, and eery whines escaping your mouth. "Some will be around to feed you later, and someone… someone will explain everything to your parents.

"Let me see them!" You yelled out. "Please! One last time! They don't know anything! I just want to… please, I… I get it. Why you have to do this, but please let me say goodbye. Please. I just," you bit your bottom lip to prevent another wail, "please." Soichiro shook his head. The man could no longer maintain eye contact with you.

"I can't. We cannot risk you talking to anyone lest risk his jealousy. As far as we are concerned, you are not you. You are his." You pulled against the ropes once more. "I'm… so sorry. It is best for everyone that he does not see you with others while he is powerful enough to watch this world. I hope you never forgive me." Crestfallen, he turned his back and approached the door.

"No! Come back! Please! Don't leave me alone here! P-please! S-Soichiro!" Only the slam and locking of the door met your calls.

You don't know how long you howled and wailed, how many times it echoed back in the circular chamber to your ear. There came the point where your body could make no more tears, so you were left with pathetic dry heaves. It was then that a voice whispered in your head.

"Y/N…" It was different than the voice in the woods. It was sinister, deep, evil. You focused on anything, the floor's intricate patterns, the ceiling, the running water behind the chair, the plants around the circumference of the room, anything to not acknowledge it. "Oh, aren't you a gift wrapped up for me? Clearly my father's work. Don't ignore me, Y/N. I know your every move. I know you can hear my every word"

"F-fuck you!" You cried, and he laughed. Then, he clicked his tongue.

"Such dirty words. You're not the angel I remember, fresh out of the clouds. Ah, but there wasn't much angel left, from what I can recall. Do you feel it, Y/N? It shouldn't be long now…" For a long time, nothing happened, then, like two knives down your back, you screamed. "Ah, there it is. Those screams, I do remember. I don't care if it hurts." Blood soaked the cushion behind you and flowed down to your rear. "You brought this on yourself. This is what you deserve."

"I didn't do anything!" You writhed.

"Is that what my father told you? Is that what the story says? Oh, they couldn't be more wrong, love. You denied me what I deserve. You could have fallen to hell right with me, where you can be where you belong, but you stayed. I couldn't have you running back to the angels to live your days without me. I wouldn't allow it. If I hadn't had Mikami lock you in that cage, if I hadn't bound our souls, your grave would be in the flower fields above the clouds, but you got conceited.

"Let me remind you of something, love. You are mine. Your body, your mind, your heart, your soul, what's between your legs, it's all mine. We are bound for eternity, Y/N. There is nothing you can do about it." He got quiet just as the immediate pain receded, leaving you with intense throbs.

"You… won't get the chance," you spoke through tears. "Big talk for someone who isn't even going to breach this plane." A flash of pain sparked in your skull. He chuckled.

"Oh, Y/N. Perhaps you are just as green as you were when we met. I can't wait to feel you again. To have you watch me burn the world." Silence.

Despite your exhaustion, you could not sleep. You might as well have melted into the chair in how your body did not move a single inch, too scared to bother your wounds, and have the pain come back that is still aching. You did not want to spend your last hours unconscious. No one came to feed you.

"They're coming," he said. "They'd better be quick, then. The moon is almost up out there, after all." He groaned, and you jolted at the feeling of a cold hand on your neck.

Soichiro and a train of holy people entered the room and surrounded you. He approached your limp body and undid your bounds. You did not miss him tense, and his eyes widen at the pool of blood in the seat from your back.

'We must hurry. Any minute he will come through." Soichiro enlisted others to help him carry you back up the stairs to the altar. "Twenty four hours in the chamber has amplified their soul. It explains the marks on their back from their past life. Quick, on the altar!" The cloth was smooth against your skin as they placed you.

Movement flurried around you as different scents were sprayed, various objects were placed on the ground and on the altar around you, and foreign words were spoken around you. Fatigue racked your body. There was not a single inch of your body that you could to move.

Soichiro stood over your body. Your eyes, dead and clouded, stared up at him. In his hand was a singular, transparent, glass object. Quickly, he lifted his hand, ready to plunge it down.

A loud bang resounded in the chapel, and the glass fell with a splatter of blood. You rolled your head to the side and watched two bodies approach from the entrance. All of the holy people around you were blown limply against the walls around you. It was only when they were right above you that you recognize it was Misa and Rem.

"Rem, can you carry them? Do you still have your strength?"

"Do not worry, Misa," she replied. Long arms lifted you while Misa skipped ahead and smiled reassuringly back at you. Music filled the crisp air. Lights hanging from the trees and other ornaments swept by your visual field. You groaned and lulled your head to face Misa.

"M-Misa, no." You groaned. "He's coming." She giggled and turned around. Skipping backward, her smile widened. Behind her, the crowd gathered in the village square. Their vivid garments stuck out under the lights.

"Of course I know, silly! Rem is a Shinigami just as the one who gave Kira his power. Just like he had a notebook, I had Rem's, but it was destroyed eons ago. Still, it binds me to live eternally, just like Soichiro. Luckily, Rem's cloaking magic covered me when I've met him, or he would have spoiled it all for us!

"When I saw you, I knew it was you. No matter how you may physically change, your heart and soul are always the same. Now, he's going to return to us. He's going to spearhead the new world." She twirled her hair around her finger. "Isn't that exciting?"

You had no strength to fight in Rem's hold. Even if you did, you were unsure if you would be able to beat a Shinigami.

Eyes were drawn to you as your bloodied and weak form was carried by an almost unidentifiable figure. Gasps echoed across the crowd, the music stopping as you presumably reached the square.

"They watch helplessly," he spoke. "They know you are not theirs to touch. Soon, they will all know my power. They will all know who you belong to. Keep your eyes open, love."

"Y/N! Y/N! Move! That's our child! Move! Y/N! The desperate calls of your parents broke through the crowd, but Rem presumably pushed them far back just the holy people, scaring the public to still and part for your funeral march. You heard the sick smack of bodies against a surface. Misa hummed to herself in front of you. Your head rolling back, you met Mello's wide and helpless eyes as he stood in the crowd.

Misa led you away from the crowd and stopped at the flagpole at the village's entrance gates with the group following. Rem retied you to the base of the flagpole; your arms crossed over your chest in a familiar 'X,' legs and waist bound to the pole. Misa's settled herself next to you.

"All!" She called. "Watch as the blood moon rises behind the chapel! He who fell to hell is rising again to take what is rightfully his!" She pointed to the moon as it brilliantly glowed crimson above the chapel. Murmurs rose from the crowd, suspicious and fearful. "Watch as our god returns to the mortal realm!"

The church bell rang. Its deathly reverberations echoing in your ear. The crowd fell to silence.

"Have you missed me, love?" He spoke. "Because I have missed you."

A red beam of light erupted from the chapel, followed quickly by multiple explosions. The statue, the roof, the infrastructure all crumbling by the expanding beam of light that touched the sky, screams erupted from the crowd, and they began to scramble. You pulled with what little strength you had left, but the pole against your back seized you in pain to cease your movements.

A silhouette could be made out of the beam. Large black wings spread from his back, sharp and jagged. Hands rose above his head before he dropped down in front of the chapel submerged in flames. His shadow enraptured you, and though his shadow was mostly unclear from a distance, you could make out his eyes even from here. Slowly, he took his first step forwards.

Every needle and leaf in the trees around him fell. The grass withered all around him. Ash from the sky and littered the ground. With each step, the radius expanded until more and more life died around him. Your eyes trailed to the unconscious bodies of your parents against a tree. His zone of death stretched farther than them.

"Eyes on me."

"You're going to kill them!" You screeched. "Stop this madness at once!" You shook in your bonds. Misa was frozen next to you, eyes wide in anticipation as he approached.

"Ordering me around? Perhaps you still are conceited. I think killing them will remind you of your place, hm?" Unfortunate humans were reduced to ash in his radius. The wind blew the ashes all around him, gently lifting his brown tufts of hair. "These mortals are nothing compared to you and I. Accept me as your mate. Accept the part of your soul that is my own, and the pain will all go away. You'll be dragged down to hell, and I'll bring you right back up."

Your parent's ashes were a different color than the rest.

"You know, it's been an eternity since I've heard you call my name. Do you even remember it?" You shook your head and squeezed your eyes shut. The thick scent of smoke, of ash, of death, permeated the air. "Eyes on me." He was almost here. Arms extended to the side, he approached from the other side of the square now.

"Misa, we need to leave."

"No! He's here! He's finally here, Rem!"

"His aura will kill you, Misa."

"No, I won't! He won't!" Rem, at lightning speed, grabbed Misa and flew in the other direction. "No! Put me down! I'll never forgive you! Stop!" Her voice echoed until it was out of range. Your head lashed back and forth, looking for any sign of life, but there was none: just ash, dying grass, and gnarled, graying trees.

Dressed in all black, eyes blazing, teeth sharp, wings stretched, he now stood before you with the moon on his back. You pushed yourself against the pole despite the shock of pain. The grass around you died, the bugs vanishing, but you remained fine. You stared at his feet.

"Oh, love," soft fingers reached down and tilted your head up. "You're as beautiful as I remember." Black wings encircled you, so you could only see him. "Do you remember my name?" You shook your head, and he gripped your chin harder. "Do not lie to me. Say my name, Y/N. Sew the wounds of your forsaken wings and accept your place with me." His voice resounded in you. "You feel it. I know you do. I feel your pain. Your fear. I've felt every emotion your reincarnations have ever felt. Say my name." He leaned in close.

"Kira." He clicked his tongue.

"Stop resisting," he hissed. "Say my name, Y/N." His breath glided against your cheek. His hand moved to cup your jaw, and the other trailed down your waist.

"Light." It came off your lips quickly, easily, and he smiled, eyes widening with pleasure. Immediately, relief filled your physical body, your back's pain dissolving. Your head tilted back in bliss.

"Y/N," he whispered against your neck. "Finally." He inhaled your scent deeply, hand tilting your head to give him more access. He placed a small kiss against your skin. His kisses trailed upwards, along your jaw, frantic against your cheeks, nose, until he captured your lips and stole your breath.

"Oh, Y/N," he whispered against your lips. "I love you."

#light yagami x reader #light yagami x you #yandere light yagami x reader #Light Yagami #yandere death note #yandere light yagami #death note fic #x reader #reader insert #yandere reader insert #halloween special #happy halloween everyone!

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zmediaoutlet · 3 years

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(read on AO3)

It starts as dreams, the night after they lose Ava. They drove straight from Lafayette to Peoria and after Peoria they move one town over so as not to be newcomers in a town that just had a homicide, and they work all through that day, in Bloomington, calling contacts and putting out feelers, trying to see what might've happened to a short sweet dark-haired girl, a secretary, who'd never done a thing to deserve this. Sam couldn't stop thinking that, no matter how stupid it was. How Ava, how all the rest, hadn't done a single thing to merit this kind of punishment.

He falls asleep though he didn't think he would. Dean's reading at the table with the lamp turning the backs of his ears, his neck, pure white, and Sam's looking at him and thinking about Ava's face shocked-white in the neon from the motel, and then he's asleep, and he's dreaming but it doesn't feel like dreaming. It doesn't feel like a vision, either, how that vicious sharp reality climbs down his throat. In the dream he knows he's dreaming, and he isn't really there, and not even the vague protagonist-body that's usually in his dreams, when he dreams he forgot to study for an exam, or is standing in a rotting house with an empty gun and ghosts slipping through the walls, or smiling at a clever girl with her blouse unbuttoned just right. Instead this dream is—feeling. A wash of dark, and water lapping at the edges of a boat he can't seem to see beyond. Dean, sitting in the stern, his head in his hands, and because Sam isn't really here he can't yell or act or splash the dark water into Dean's face, but—as soon as Sam thinks that, about splashing the water, the surge of fear is so overwhelming that the world turns black. Dean's fingers curl against the side of his head, his ring flashing, and his lips are parted and wet and something unknown flashes through Sam's gut and when he wakes up, dragging in air like he's been running a mile, the room is dark and Dean's a curled lump on the other bed and Sam carries that strange, fearful feeling with him all through the next day, like a fresh-broken bone, throbbing.

Dean frowns at him when he's snappish at lunch, but doesn't call him on it. Dean's being careful with him, which Sam—hates, is grateful for. So Sam maybe didn't have the best reaction to finding out their dad's last words, and maybe the thing with Gordon was—a lot. Gordon was a lot. Ava, poor Scott Carey, Andy and Ansem, Max. It's all been a lot. Dean maybe has been struggling with the secret he was carrying but Sam's struggling with how his mouth tastes like metal all the time, thinking of yellow eyes looming up out of the dark, and so he'll take some concessions, maybe even a little pity, if it makes Dean focus on what they really need to focus on. Dean's letting him direct, not looking for other hunts, staying right here in Illinois and keeping his nose to the ground for Ava or for any hint of another 1983 kid with unexplained powers, and Sam doesn't need anything else, beyond that, not right now. They'll work out the rest later.

Trouble is: Sam's focus is split. He spends the day casing details of Ava's life, job and fiancé and family history and any single second where her life might have brushed against the dark, and at night his dreams are a flood. Black water, rising. Dean, terrified, and his skin that kind of white that comes from a flare of too much exposure, and his eyes dark hollows, and the bones standing out in his hands, clutching at his head. On the fourth night of everything the same choking claustrophobia Dean turns his face and Sam sees that he's bleeding, from the ears and from the corner of his mouth, and the blood is so dark it looks black, too, and Dean covers his mouth with one hand and then though the surrounding water is the same endless expanse the boat becomes that cabin where Azazel rode their dad's body, the shift seamless and unexplained in the way of dreams, and Dean's got a hole in his stomach, the blood flooding out onto the dry wood of the boat/cabin floor, and he puts lax fingers against it that don't stop the bleeding at all, and Sam wakes up that time and has to scramble for the bathroom, retching, although when he clutches the sides of the sink nothing comes up and his mouth just tastes like—saltwater.

That day Dean brings him coffee in the morning and tries to be circumspect. He's bad at it. "Starting to smell like a dorm room in here, man," Dean says, mouth quirked. "Laundry stank and BO and, uh, making like the Lone Ranger?" He makes a vague gesture around his lap, but his heart's not in it. "Gotta air it out, dude. See some sunlight for twenty minutes."

"I'm working," Sam says, but to be honest he's not. He's sitting there with Ellen's half-remembered list of demon sightings in the last six months and instead of working the map he's been staring at the closed curtains for the whole time Dean's been gone. He drags his good hand over his face and lets his heavy casted arm thump down over the notebook. Dean raises his eyebrows, letting a glance over the empty map make his point for him, and Sam sighs. "Making like the Lone Ranger?" he says.

Dean's smile gets more real. "Unless you've got a pretty little Tonto around here, somewhere—" he starts, and Sam rolls his eyes and flicks a crumpled ball of wasted notes at Dean's face, and while he's sputtering Sam says, suddenly desperate for it, "Yeah, okay, we could use some air. Laundromat around here?"

"Hey," Dean says, sitting up, "I don't think I heard myself volunteer for laundry duty—" and then, twenty minutes later, they're installed at a laundromat, empty at nine on a Tuesday morning, Dean bitching still about whose turn it is to fold the whites but looking decently happy, stretched out in one of the shitty plastic chairs with coffee resting on his belly and a morning talkshow on the crackling TV mounted in one corner of the ceiling, and Sam feels it.

Sam feels it. There's a chair between him and Dean, piled with a box of donuts and the police folder Dean went out and stole yesterday, and Sam grips the armrest on the side Dean can't see and squeezes so hard the metal edges hurt his hand, and it's welling up in him. A grey clouded day with a shaft of sunlight slipping through and warming a patch of cold dirt—that's what it feels like, Dean's happiness. Sam licks his lips and breathes shallowly, controlled. When he glances over Dean's watching the show—some sponsored segment about a special vacuum for pet hair, in which he seems completed absorbed—and he's relaxed, in that way that Sam's only ever seen Dean relaxed when they're alone. Completely in his body, unselfconscious of how he's taking up space, boots kicked out on the grimy floor, his eyes clear. A fleck of pink donut frosting on his top lip. There are shadows under his eyes because he doesn't sleep enough and there's a bruise at his temple where Gordon hit him, but he's okay, for this moment. Sam can feel it, in a completely distinct way to how he feels his own body, his own aches and tiredness and worry, and he sits there in ringing panic until the washer buzzes. Dean blinks, the spell of the daytime anchors suspended, and frowns at him, and says, "Hey, earth to egghead, I am here in a strictly supervisory capacity," and Sam has to roll his eyes again and stand up and deal with the laundry, and there's Dean, again, the happiness muted and rolled under—a dragging pull at the chest, an ache long-held and familiar. Worry, concern. Annoyance, too, and then as Sam's dumping their load of jeans and jackets into one of the rolling baskets that twinge of annoyance slips away into guilt, and he has to brace his hands on the sides of the basket and breathe again, slowly, trying not to crawl out of his skin with the violation of it.

"What?" Dean says, while Sam's silent over the wet clothes. "Did I leave gum in my pocket or something?"

He knows Dean. He has known Dean, from when he was little and running around after him thinking his big brother was the coolest smartest person in the world to when he was a sad kid thinking his brother didn't actually like him that much to when he was an angry teenager wishing his brother would take his side in anything, ever, for fucking once. Dean was always a known quantity, no matter what. No surprises. Sam knew when he was cheerful and angry and hurt and he knew how to deal with every version. This is—more than that.

No signs, still, of Ava. They move outward. Day trips, stretching out into different towns, different precincts. They split up, Sam renting a car, and on the state highways with the radio silent Sam tries to think, with Dean not around with his thoughts filling up the air between them.

He catches hints, with other people. A sheriff who's not sure why some U.S. Marshal is asking questions, and he's clearly annoyed but there's an undercurrent Sam catches, a sapping weariness and sorrow that Sam blinks over before he excuses himself, wondering. A search: a wife, recently dead at forty. Sam chews the inside of his cheek raw on the drive back to Bloomington, and Dean texts and says dinner? back in thirty and Sam replies I'll pick up pizza and he waits in the lobby of the pizza place with his knee jogging and a waitress smiles at him, professional, and Sam takes a deep breath and looks at her, taking in her sneakers worn around the edges and her muscular legs and the greys pulled back into her ponytail and she says, "Can I get you a Coke or anything while you wait, hon?" and a swirl of heat curls into Sam's stomach, slants down queerly low, and he sits up straight and watches her eyes flick over him, his chest and lower, and he blurts out, "No," and then, too late, "thank you," and she frowns and the heat fizzles out into disappointment and he thinks, fuck. Fuck. What now?

With Dean the feelings bloom raw and real and present. Sam doesn't have to look. A day of frustration and no leads but Dean doesn't actually feel the frustration, not really, because he's humoring Sam's obsession over finding this girl Dean never even met—and there's a little satisfaction there, too, something that makes Sam set his beer down a little too hard on the table when he recognizes it, because they're spinning their wheels here, Dean thinks, and that means that Sam's being kept here, safe, away from demons and whatever plans there might be, so he's getting what he wanted, after all. The second Apes movie is on the motel TV and Dean's watching that, scratching his belly idly after too much pizza, and Sam goes into the bathroom and sits on the closed toilet and presses his fingers into his ears so hard he can't hear anything but the beating rush of his own heart, and even through a closed door and quiet and dark behind Sam's eyes he can feel it: his brother, content to be here with Sam, on a night where nothing's yet gone wrong. Little does he know.

Is this some new shift, in Sam's visions? Not only to see the future but to see—what? He doesn't know how to define this. He's seen in movies when people read minds, like that terrible Mel Gibson thing that Dean loved even if he pretended it was shitty—it's always narrated dialogue, someone's thoughts piped directly into the psychic's head. What Sam's getting isn't as useful as that. Emotion, shifting sensation, the ebb and flood and draining drag of how people move through the difficult world. Guilt, misery. Contentment. Fury, brief and shocking, enough to make Sam snap the pencil he's holding, and he looks up to find Dean leafing through Dad's journal, his face a calm mask, and Sam thinks, jesus, he has to tell Dean. He has to, and yet: what can he possibly say?

The dreams are still bad. Sam comes awake like out of a sucking bog and he breathes slow, eyes on the ceiling. Dean's small snores in the next bed. The fear's a pool, lapping against Sam's skin, and he turns his head and says, very quietly, "Dean." There's no answer because of course Dean's deep asleep, of course he's dreaming, and Sam rolls over, watches the slow rise of Dean's chest, concentrates. The dark rises thick, miserable, but Sam already knows that part.

He gets up, keeping quiet, and takes the step between their beds. The room isn't all that dark, the parking lot lights seeping bright behind the curtains, so it's easy to see the gilded line of Dean's cheekbone, his lips parted in sleep, his eyes closed and still. His face tipped toward Sam's bed. Sam wants to touch it so abruptly that his fingers are already reaching out but he stops himself. He leans over, instead, bracing a hand on the headboard, and tries to focus, tries to pin down the amorphous shifting haze of Dean's thrumming head. When he closes his eyes he doesn't see the black lake, the creaking boat, but the fear slips, slides, lapping against him. Against them both. Sam can't grasp it. He's not Andy, to push thoughts into someone else, and he doesn't see how he could get control of this—to ease the fear, or tell Dean somehow that it's going to be okay even if, really, Sam's not sure that's true. He stands up and turns away, goes to the window to look out at the silent parking lot and breathe, waiting it out. The dream swells and subsides, around him, and maybe that's Dean slipping down into a different REM cycle or something but it's a relief. Sam presses his forehead against the cool glass. Visions, and now this. His pointless, stupid powers, that don't let him do anything except see shit he can barely hope to change. Whatever powers the yellow-eyed demon was after them for, Sam hopes he won't be disappointed that Sam's in particular are completely impotent.

By the time two weeks have gone by Sam's—used to it is maybe not the phrase, but he can deal. Still in Bloomington, still searching. Waiting around, now, mostly, for Ellen's contacts to get back to them, for Ash to come up with anything on a scrape of, as far as Dean could relate, the entire internet. If Sam's honest with himself he thinks they're never going to find Ava, and if they do certainly not alive, but they're looking anyway. Dean doesn't suggest they move on, doesn't argue for anything else. He keeps them fed and caffeinated, finds new badly bowdlerized action movies to watch on the room's TV, follows Sam's leads when Sam suggests a new avenue of searching. His dreams are a little calmer, maybe just from the fact that they're stalled in place—a vacation, of a sort, like Dean asked for even if they're doing nothing remotely fun—and during the day Sam sits surrounded by his thoughts and it's… comforting. Sort of.

Happy isn't the word, Sam realizes, for that thin sunlight feeling. Contentment, maybe. Dean has it when they're quiet together, when they're doing stupid chores like laundry or taking a break in research to make some salt rounds, when they're arguing over Stallone versus Van Damme for the tenth time. When they're working Sam's gut tightens without his say-so in random spikes of anxiety, of worry. His heart clenches and he actually puts a hand over it, and he's just reading the police blotter in the paper, so when he looks up and Dean's got his half open to the obits, Sam frowns and says, "What?"

Dean jerks, like he was caught at something. "I didn't say anything," he says, and his face is calm but his hand's spread over some thin column, some family's sadness, and when he gets up to piss Sam pulls the paper around and sees it's an obituary for someone's father, dead a little too early, and Sam sits back and puts his knuckles into his eyes and breathes out, trying to shake the lingering ache of it.

Coming out of the shower that night, Sam wraps a towel around his waist and steps out into the bedroom. "What's for dinner?" he says, thinking he'll argue for Chinese whatever Dean says, and thinking that he might try searching up more information about Ansem's family, in particular, to see if there were any patterns there they could use, and he's in his own head enough that it takes him a minute to feel how the room has shifted around him. He pauses, leaning over his duffle bag, trying to pinpoint.

"There's that cheesesteak place over on 15th," Dean says, easy, but he's not at ease. Sam's feeling that same unexpected swoop in his gut, that low achy pull, and this time it's not from a woman but from a guy and so it's a tightness in his nuts, his blood heating. Sam grips his t-shirt in both hands, tight enough that his broken wrist aches. His cheeks have flooded hot and he stands up, shrugs his shoulders and feels the cold air on the water still on his skin, and the—the lust, because that's what it is, this thick wanting that's pulsing up through his stomach—it swoops low, shifts, and the flooding rise of guilt and fear that follows is so fast that Sam coughs, shocked.

"Yo, Marlee Matlin," Dean says. "Cheesesteak?"

"Yeah," Sam says, not turning around. He doesn't want to see what face goes with this feeling. "No onions on mine."

Dean snorts. "Heathen," he says, and there's a rattle of the keys being dragged off the table and Dean swinging into his leather coat, and he says, "Have clothes on by the time I get back, you exhibitionist," and the tangled mix of wanting and terror and shame is so thick that Sam can still feel it when the door's slammed behind him, when the car's rumbling on, fading only when the sound of the engine does, and Sam turns around then finally and looks at the empty room and thinks—nothing. His brain doesn't know what to do with this.

The cheesesteaks are decent. They watch the local news for any blood-and-guts, and then Frasier reruns. Dean's content has been blasted away by what happened earlier but he's acting fine and Sam's wondering, now, how often he's been fine when something raw and bizarre was rearing up in him. How long it's been in him. "You okay?" Dean asks, at some point, light but careful, really asking, and Sam dredges up a half-smile from somewhere and shrugs, says, "Just thinking," and Dean rolls his eyes and says, "Oh, god help us all," and Sam throws a balled napkin at him, and Dean grins and swings into the bathroom and Sam hears the sink go on but when he closes his eyes his head is full of Dean's head, and he can almost see it: Dean braced over the sink, his head hung between his shoulders, his cheeks hot and his hands clenched and him saying to himself something like stop.

Sam blinks, back in the room. He did hear that. Stop, Dean says, inside his own head, loud and deliberate, but his thoughts swirl somewhere else and he's imagining—there's Sam's back, broad and damp and golden in the light, and the low line of the towel around his waist, and the wet curl of his hair around his ear, and how Dean wanted to put his mouth there, so badly he could almost taste the water—and then the harsh wave of recrimination floods the image out and Dean looks up into the mirror and thinks to himself, in clear words that he doesn't say out loud, you pathetic fucking freak, and Sam has to get up off the bed and slam out of the room and stand in the parking lot with freezing air on his bare arms and he holds his hand over his mouth so he doesn't curse out loud and he thinks jesus, bad enough that one of them is thinking it—the self-hatred that's tightening up his chest is hardly easing, from getting some distance, and soon he'll have to go back into the room because Dean will wonder what the hell he's doing, standing outside in his socks like a weirdo, and Sam has to say—he has to—this isn't fair, to either of them—but how can he say it without Dean knowing exactly what Sam must have overheard—overfelt—and Sam knows his brother, always has, and he knows what'll follow. A freakout, to say the least. Recrimination, reflected blame, anger and then fear—always the fear—that Sam's slipping further away, or worse that Dean will have pushed him further away—and Sam can't do this, he can't live like this, without Dean. He can't handle this stupid, terrible year, not without his brother on his side.

He takes a deep breath, cold in his lungs. Jesus, is that what he's going to do? Just live with it, because—

"Dude, what the hell?" comes Dean's voice, behind him. Sam turns and finds Dean, yes, standing in the open doorway, his hair a little damp at the edges like he splashed his face, his eyebrows high because here's his little brother being a weirdo like always. Except that he's more worried than his face lets on, and there's a rising tide of is something happening, is this something about the demon, the tang of fear that fills every night.

"Thought I heard something," Sam says, trying to interrupt it before it gets too bad. "By the car. I think it was just a dog or something."

He's a better liar than Dean gives him credit for; already it's working, the fear sliding into warm exasperation. That thin, frail beam of sunlight. "Freaking out Fido, now?" Dean says, while Sam walks wincing back across the parking lot, scattered gravel poking through his socks. "New low, bro."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam says, brushing past where Dean's holding the door open, and there's a thrill—in his chest, in Dean's—that he clamps down on, ignores, but he can't ignore the misery around it. That's a problem.

Sam stays awake that night, waiting for Dean to sleep. The black lake, the blood. Sam turns on his side and watches Dean's face and closes his eyes slowly, thinking of that moment just before the guilt, the shame—the clear, unadulterated want—and when he dreams they're in the cabin, again, and Dean's bleeding with his unconcerned hand holding nothing inside, and the water surges hard against the sides of the boat, floods the floorboards, and Sam opens his eyes and slides off his bed onto the floor and lays his hand onto Dean's stomach where in the dream he's dying, and he presses his forehead against the mattress and shudders, aching with how much it hurts, and the dream—shifts.

He breathes in, still halfway in sleep himself. Dean's hand covered in blood and his shoulders hunched up, but his face turns up and he sees Sam, standing there in the doorway watching him. He says something but Sam, the real Sam, can't hear it; the Sam-of-the-dream comes closer, looms. He looks a foot taller than Dean, broader. Monstrous almost. Sam catches his breath and the dream-Sam puts his hand over Dean's hand, holds it tighter against the wound, and Dean tips his head back and murmurs something and the Sam of the dream presses their hands tighter, hard enough that it should hurt except in the way of dreams there's no real pain but only the knowledge of being torn open—and then the Sam of the dream leans in and presses his mouth to Dean's, a chaste strange kiss, like kissing marble—and their hands sink into Dean's stomach, tearing—and when the kiss ends Sam lifts up and Dean opens his eyes and Sam's eyes are yellow, from edge to edge, and Sam shoves away from the bed, scrambling so fast he slams his shoulder into the frame of his own, and by some fucking miracle Dean doesn't wake up so Sam's left panting, alone on the carpet in the dark, a remembered warmth against his lips and his hand feeling an echoed-ghost slickness of black, dripping blood.

He puts on his sneakers, a hoodie, sticks his phone in his pocket but turns it off. He goes for a run. Three a.m. is silent around here and he needs that, needs no people. He runs hard enough and long enough that it's hard to think beyond the burning in his thighs, his lungs. His hurting shoulder where he's going to have a bruise.

When he gets back Dean comes awake at the door opening. "Where were you?" he says, bleary, and Sam says, "Out for a run, go back to sleep," and Dean's tired enough that he blinks at Sam heavily and mumbles, "Okay, freak," and subsides, turning over and hugging the pillow close. Sam stands with his back to the door, his hands fisted around the knob, watching as Dean slips back down into sleep, and it's deep, dreamless, a relief.

Sam showers and takes his time about it. He's not getting back to bed today. He washes his hair and his face, not bothering to be careful about keeping his cast dry anymore—it's almost time for it to come off, anyway—and his brain won't empty, won't let him forget. He can't get the image of his own eyes out of his head. Glinting gold. The version of him in the dream wasn't cruel, because it wasn't human. Peeling Dean open and giving him what he wanted and killing him, all at once. It's not hard to interpret.

He washes the rest, streaking soap. Takes his limp dick in hand, running his thumb under the foreskin, and then holds himself, his cast braced against the tile wall. He hasn't jerked off in—he can't even remember, the last time. It could clear his head. He squeezes, sliding wet up to the head, but what he imagines is—Dean's mouth, in the dark, barely parted. His own shoulders, gleaming inside Dean's head. He lets go of his dick and wipes his hand over his lips, trying to get the sensation out, and shuts off the water. It can't go on like this. Not like this.

He dries off in a half-assed way and tugs on boxers and nothing else. Out in the room Dean's still asleep and dawn's not yet rising. Sam shuts off the bathroom light and in the mostly-dark goes over to Dean's bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, and puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck. A blurring shift, coming on like a slow dimmer switch, as he rises up out of whatever dreamless space he was in. "Dean," Sam says, very quietly, and Dean's eye slits open, gleaming. He turns his head, rolls back a little, and Sam's hand drags along to his shoulder, fitting there on the smooth warm round of it. Dean blinks and is still almost entirely offline, the fog of his thoughts nothing but grey sleep, and Sam leans down and kisses him, then, catches his mouth a little off-center with his lips dry, his breath sour, his body warm and loose and unable to stop him.

No reaction for a few seconds, either in his body or his head. Sam opens his mouth and presses Dean's lips wider and gets the morning-taste of him, thick and strange, soft. He touches Dean's chin, the damp edge of his cast dragging against his skin, and it's that which seems to wake Dean up—his body going stiff, his mind flooding with—god, Sam can't untangle it all. "What," Dean says, against Sam's mouth, pulling back, but Sam grips his shoulder and presses him flat against the bed, leaning over him, keeping him here. Flicker of his eyelashes in the dark and his mouth's shining now, too, from Sam's mouth. Sam's stomach turns over to see it.

Sam doesn't say anything. Dean's breathing hard, looking up at him. Fear, pooling around the bed, flooding the room like the bed's the boat and the room's the lake, and Sam maybe doesn't get it entirely—he thinks of his eyes, yellow in Dean's mind, and his hand clenches hard enough on Dean's shoulder that Dean cringes away, grips Sam's wrist. "Sam," Dean says, uncertain—wondering if he's still dreaming—and Sam leans down and kisses him again, ignores Dean's stiff scared lips and licks inside, knocking him open, his cast heavy on Dean's chest, his wet hair dripping cold. He feels it, of course, when it starts to wake in Dean—the sensation of his body, his mouth, the warmth rising south, the shock of getting this—the confusion—and he pulls away, enough that he can look into Dean's eyes, says, "Feel this," and breaks Dean's grip on his wrist and slides his hand down under the blanket and past Dean's flinching belly to his dick, heavy in his underwear, swelling. Dean takes a shuddering shocked breath and the rise of want is so thick that it chokes out the fear, the guilt, his mind going full and focused at getting his dick held by someone he wants as badly as he wants Sam. God. To know that.

The want is so intense that Sam knows it won't matter that he's never done this before. A dick is a dick, though, he figures, and he slips his fingers inside the waistband, finds the pole of it—thick, the skin unexpectedly soft—and Dean's body arches under his, his breath hot and fast already. Sam doesn't want this, not in the same way, but it hardly matters when Dean's desire roars high between them. "Touch me," Sam says, and Dean goes for Sam's chest, his shoulders, grasping in fumbled shock, while Sam gets a better grip, pumps, finding a rhythm. Awkward with his left hand but clearly doing the job, from how Dean's already shaking, his thighs spreading for it under the blanket, his fingers tight in Sam's skin. Sam leans down, finds Dean's mouth again, and Dean opens for him easy, letting Sam inside, his hands finding Sam's jaw. His fingers careful, uncertain—sliding up into Sam's damp hair, holding—and his hips jerk—and Sam licks into Dean's mouth and pumps him faster, his shoulder sore and aching, his fingers getting slick—jesus, Sam runs his thumb over the head and feels the wet leaking—and Dean jerks under him like touching a live wire and comes just like that, hips shoving up into Sam's grip, wet heat that spills over Sam's hand and against his wrist. Sam gentles his grip and Dean jerks into his palm, getting the last of it out. His chest is heaving, under Sam's cast. Sam kisses him, again, and Dean's teeth drag against his lip, and Sam slides his hand up out of Dean's shorts and presses his palm firm against his bare belly, heedless of the mess.

When he lifts up Dean's staring at him, fixed. The room's inundated with his thoughts, a whitewater crush. Sam's mouth tastes like metal. Dean's fingers reach up, white, and touch his cheek, and Sam drags in air and lets himself be touched, and Dean doesn't know what to do with this. He wants to tackle Sam back to the bed and he wants to crawl under something and he wants to be not who he is because who he is has ruined—

"Stop," Sam says, pressing his palm harder against Dean's belly. "Stop thinking."

Dean licks his lips, looks back and forth between Sam's eyes. Distracted from the misery but just as bewildered, and worse. "What are you thinking?" he says, after a few seconds. Scrape of voice, thick and unsure.

"I'm thinking I want you," Sam says, and Dean blinks and this terrible curl of hope goes through him, another kind of light like a brush of rose-fingered dawn at the edge of a dark landscape, and Sam hasn't felt that, hasn't come close to that, this whole awful time. Sam bites his lips and hopes Dean doesn't hear the next part as qualification: "I want you here. With me. Not—freaking out. Not worried about—whatever it is you're always worrying about."

Dean swallows. His face turns away a little. "Me, worry," he says, breath of a scoff, and there's that rawness again, the shame pulling at his gut. Afraid of this and afraid of Sam in equal measure.

Sam can't stand it. He won't have it. "Don't," he says, and Dean's eyes flick at him sidelong, his mouth turning to some unhappy shape, and Sam pushes in and spreads out over the top of him and kisses him again, his wet gross hand sliding up Dean's side, his mouth crushed hard against Dean's mouth. Dean kisses back this time, for real, and he's—softer, tenderer, than Sam would have ever imagined Dean would kiss, if he had ever imagined it.

It's Sam who breaks the kiss—every part of Dean, body and mind, is full of the feeling that he would never, ever stop unless the room was on fire, and maybe not even then—and when they're breathing against each other Dean's hand worms up out of the blanket and finds Sam's side, over his ribs. Squeezes there, very lightly, his heart thrilling terrified at the presumption. "Sammy," he says, one word a complicated snarl of a question, and Sam shakes his head, can't answer. He moves his right arm, bracing the cast instead by Dean's head, and Dean's chest rises under the release of the weight. A release, all over, and that dawn keeps rising, though the lake's still black and its depths are impossible to see.

Sam tucks his head down, his face in Dean's throat, like they're hugging, like something familiar at least, and Dean's arm goes around his back, holding him. "Sam," he whispers, against Sam's hair. Sam closes his eyes and feels the surge of it: tender, violent, aching. A glut that presses against the back of his teeth with all he wants to say and won't.

He doesn't know if that feeling is his, or Dean's. Behind his eyes it's black and dawn's still not here. On a lake, in the dark, there's a boat creaking, the water surging high but not yet spilling over the side.

#ffcc #wincest #pining!dean #psychic sam #mildly dubious consent #my writing

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thebigqueer · 3 years

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BILCO FANFIC - “The VSCO Demon”

Summary: Will is possessed with a VSCO demon that will turn him into the one and only Billiam Thabdrew Sksksolace, a VSCO girl.

Word Count: 3513

Note: This is my first writing on Tumblr so everyone sing happy birthday! also its terrible! also I GREATLY APPRECIATE FEEDBACK (but please give it to me gently cuz im a Sensitive Bitch TM) (if you even sound a little mean ill start crying)

ALSO: Credits to my online bff for Nico’s pet hyena, Bambi. (HI I LOVE YOU)

Nico knew something was wrong with Will.

He could tell that there was something always bothering him, hidden deep beneath that sunshiny facade he always seemed to use in front of other people. He was hiding something, and it seemed to be eating at him like a parasite.

Nico’s suspicions began when he first noticed Will’s slight speech slipup. Will and Kayla were discussing the new demigods that were to move in soon, and Kayla let loose the fact that she was a little iffy about one of them. Will’s eyes had widened, showing off the blue of his eyes, and he said, “Anna oop-”

He clamped a hand over his mouth, but it was too late. He’d already said it. Nico didn’t know what it meant, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t nervous. (Was it some kind of prophetic power? Did Will just spew some words from a prophecy in a totally different language? Maybe Nico would ask Rachel later.) When Nico confronted him afterwards, Will just turned his head away and said he was going to head to sleep.

It wasn’t only his foreign phrases - it was also the stuff he bought. On their dates to New York City, Will would slink him and Nico away to a store and buy something. Sometimes it would be an oversized T-shirt, other times it would be scrunchies, and one time he even bought a gigantic water bottle. (“It’s called a Hydroflask,” Will told him.)

Will was scary in those moments. His eyes would get big as he eyed all his new items, and his hands would tap furiously on the wooden counters while he waited. Nico wasn’t sure what this meant, but it seemed that Will was going through something. Something terrible.

And the moment they got back, Will would start immediately sobbing. Nico would literally have to hold him from falling face down on the ground because of how hard he would be weeping. He’d cry, “It’s not happening, it’s not happening! I can’t become VSCO!”

All Nico was able to do was watch his golden boyfriend sob in his arms, unable to help, unable to understand.

It wasn’t until a late day in November when Nico found out what his boyfriend was hiding from him. Will had been antsy all breakfast, avoiding Nico’s eyes like it was the coronavirus; Nico knew that he wasn’t the only one who noticed - Kayla and Austin had given him furtive, sympathetic glances. Nico’s heart pounded in his chest, anxiety spiking his pulse and chilling him down to the bone.

Nico couldn’t help but to wonder, Is he going to break up with me?

Safe to say, his breakfast was ruined, and he pulled just a little away from Will. He didn’t miss the awkward looks he got from Kayla and Austin, nor did he miss Will’s slight flinch at the loss of contact between the boys.

After a silent breakfast, when everyone had left to start their daily activities, Nico stood to go. If Will didn’t want to talk to him, then fine. He’d manage that.

But a warm hand clamped on his wrist, begging him to stay. Nico turned his face to Will’s, absorbing his golden features and the heavy vulnerability in those blue eyes. It hit Nico that whatever Will wanted from him, it wasn’t going to be good.

Nico sat back down carefully. Will’s pink lips were turned at the corners and, having a closer look at his face, Nico realized his eyes were puffy and red like he’d been crying.

Upon seeing his boyfriend’s expression, Nico reached out and touched Will’s tan face gingerly, brushing his own pale fingers through his golden locks. “Will,” he whispered, “what’s wrong? You’ve been so… so closed off from me. Is everything okay? And don’t lie this time, please. I’m serious.”

Will opened and closed his mouth, then unlatched his eyes from Nico’s and closed them. He took a deep, shaky breath, as if gearing up for a long and tiring mission. Nico squeezed Will’s right hand - His baby hands, Nico thought ridiculously, all small and cute - and laced them together, squeezing lightly. A “Hey, I’m here for you” squeeze.

Will turned his focus back on Nico, a small smile lacing the corners of his mouth, but not quite eradicating his internalized pain.

“Nico,” he began, “I… I have an issue.” Will’s freckled cheeks bloomed with bright red blotches and he sheepishly looked away again.

Anticipation and anxiety gripped Nico like a vice and his breath hitched. “What’s wrong?” he asked, trying to tamper down his growing unease. He didn’t want to make Will feel more nervous than he already did.

Will swallowed, as if he was trying to keep down the words from ever appearing. Nico brushed his pale thumb over Will’s, hoping it would calm him a bit. A beat passed, and Will said, “I have this… demon inside me. It’s a terrible demon. I was possessed as a kid.”

“What?” asked Nico. “A demon? What do you mean?”

Will sighed shakily, his eyes focused on the floor. “It’s called a VSCO demon.”

“Will…” Nico started, but he wasn’t sure what he would say. I’m sorry? That didn’t seem right, not at this moment. It seemed like Will wasn’t quite looking for pity. Instead, Nico opted to inquire more about this demon: “What exactly does the demon do? How much is it going to impact your life?”

“Well… actually, it’s going to impact my life a lot. Essentially, it’ sgoing to make me a VSCO girl. You know what that is, right? I explained it to you.”

Nico nodded.

Will continued. “First, it’ll start off with more subtle things, like specific hand spasms.” Will demonstrated what he meant by bringing his right hand to his face and then turning to the side, then frowned. “There’s also some expressions that I might repeat a lot. Like… ‘anna oop-’, or ‘oooh, tea, sis!’ or ‘sksksksk.’”

Nico watched Will’s expression as he said each phrase and his heart felt like it was being squished. Will looked like he was trying very hard not to let it take over him, let those stupid terms make him into a new person, but he was so exhausted. Nico touched his boyfriend’s face again. “I’m… sorry, Will. That’s terrible.”

Will nodded, but he didn’t seem to hear Nico. “When it gets worse, you’ll start noticing. I’ll be wearing oversized T-shirts, I think… scrunchies on my wrist, maybe.” He sighed again, but this time a small sob escaped from his lips too. When he looked up, Nico saw he had fresh tears glassing over his eyes. “I’m going to be carrying that stupid Hydro Flask with me forever, Nico. Forever.”

That seemed to do it. In a matter of seconds, the floodgates of Will’s emotions had opened up and he was spilling everywhere. Nico pulled him close, despite not being much of a hugger, and drew small circles on his back. He felt Will’s tears soak through his T-shirt, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he felt so heartbroken by Will’s emotions, he wanted to start crying himself.

But he had to keep it strong, for Will. Nico bit his lip to keep himself from letting out a few tears himself.

After several moments, Will seemed to calm down enough to pull away from Nico, even though tears still ribboned down his cheeks like liquified crystals. He pulled a tissue from his sweatshirt pocket and blew his nose, honking like he was the goosiest of all geese.

“Anyway,” Will continued, sighing heavily. “I have to tell you something else.” He threw the snot-saturated tissue over his shoulder, where some poor sucker would have to pick it up themself and throw it out. Taking a deep breath (Nico swore he was just trying to steal all the oxygen out of the air now, probably trying to photosynthesize or something), Will pulled Nico’s hands to his chest. “When the demon takes over me, Nico, my alter ego will come out. I will not be able to control it. His name… is Billiam Thabdrew Sksksolace.”

Will paused dramatically, letting that name sink in.

“Oh, Will,” Nico said quietly, throwing his arms around his boyfriend. “Is there a cure to this? Can you fix it?”

Will rested his head in the space between Nico’s neck and shoulder. “No,” he answered, his voice muffled. “There isn’t. I just have to live with being a VSCO girl from now on.” Pulling away so that he was mere inches from Nico’s face, he asked: “Would you still love me, Nico? Even after I become… become Billiam?”

“Of course,” Nico exclaimed, not a moment of hesitation. “Of course! You are more than your stupid demon. You can be as much of a VSCO girl as you become, and I will always love you.”

Will’s face crumpled again and he pulled Nico tighter, so close Nico could almost swear his ribs were going to break.

“Thank you, Nico. Thank you.”

~~~

It was only a few weeks until the real changes started showing up.

When Nico went into the Apollo cabin in the mornings, sometimes he’d see Will in an oversized T-shirt, waving around a metal straw with his baby hands, exclaiming, “OOOH THAT’S TEA!” whenever one of his siblings said something, or referring to himself as Bill Sksksolace when someone called him Will.

Those spells wouldn’t last long, but it was still discerning.

As the days progressed, it got worse. The spells wouldn’t last in just the morning - they’d appear in the afternoon, in the night time, and at nine in the afternoon. Nico would walk in on a conversation Will was having with another camper, and just when things seemed like they were going smoothly, Will would mutter: “SKSKSKSKSKSKSKSKSKSKSKS.” The camper would look at Will strangely, laugh a little, then leave.

Nico would have to sit with Will and tell him that it was alright, that it’s just part of the course. He’ll be alright.

Despite the fact that things were getting worse, it didn’t bother Nico too much. He already knew it would happen sooner or later, so there was no point anticipating and being scared over it.

And yet, nothing would prepare him for the gut punch of when it really did happen.

It was a morning like any other. The sun shone above the camp in brilliant golden rays, and the wind was windy (as wind is) and just perfect for a November day. Nico was hopeful today; maybe they’d go out to New York City, like old times. Try to get Will’s mind off his doomed fate.

Nico had an inkling something was wrong the moment he knocked on the cabin door. Maybe it was the shift in the wind, maybe it was anxiety, or maybe it was the fact that he heard people shouting, “PUT THAT METAL STRAW DOWN, WILL!” that made him nervous. Nevertheless, he waited outside.

Kayla was the one to open the door. She looked exhausted, like she’d been running after someone all morning. When she realized it was Nico, her expression told Nico everything he needed to know.

Nico stepped in tentatively, nervous about what he would find.

And boy did he have every right to be nervous. Nothing could prepare him for what he was about to find.

Will had transformed. Like, completely transformed.

Gone were his golden curls. In place of them was a messy bun at the top of his head, wrapped with a purple scrunchie. If one scrunchie wasn’t enough, he had literal sleeves of them over his arms, all the way up to his elbow, of all kinds of nauseating and headache-inducing colors. On top of that, a knee-length T-shirt covered him from the shoulders to his thighs, and in his small baby hands was a Hydro Flask with a metal straw sticking out of it, which was currently sticking between his teeth.

Upon seeing Nico, his eyes widened and he offered him a bright smile. “Sksksksk!” Will exclaimed. “Oh my gods, it’s literally Nico!” He rushed towards his boyfriend with his arms wide, and just when Nico thought he was about to get a crushing bear hug, Will surprised him last minute by shoving twenty scrunchies into his hands as well as a metal straw.

Nico looked at the treasure in his hands - Where the everloving fuck did he get so many? thought Nico - then back at Will, and again back at his treasure. Tears pricked at his eyes and his chest constricted, making it harder to breathe. “Will-” he began.

Will looked genuinely confused. “Who’s Will? I’m Billiam Sksksolace. And that’s the tea here today.”

“Right. Billiam.” Even saying the new name hurt him in ways Nico didn’t even think were imaginable. He placed a hand on Will’s - No, Bill’s, Nico reminded himself - cheek, tracing his lover’s freckles. “How are you feeling?”

“Anna oop-” Billiam said. “I feel fine, sksksk. Why?” He raised his eyebrows and leaned in, tilting his head for a second. “Is there tea?”

Nico sobbed, his heart wrenching. Where was Will? “No, not at all.” He kissed Bill’s face. “Not at all.”

20 YEARS LATER…

Nico had successfully gone crazy.

He and Billiam had three kids. Each one blond. Each one young.

Each one just as VSCO as their dad.

It was an endless cycle of “SKSKSKS” and “ANNA OOP-” and they had about fifty thousand metal straws strewn around their house. Their kids didn’t even wear pants anymore, just oversized T-shirts. They didn’t even have the demon - it was a Monkey See, Monkey Do situation.

And Nico was done. He’d even developed a twitch in his eye. From the moment he got up in the morning to the moment he fell asleep at night, his mind swirled with unwanted expressions and metal straws in his eyes and Hydro Flasks on the table and oversized T-shirts strewn across the bed and he was positively done.

There was only one thing left to do.

Nico grabbed the knife from the kitchen drawer. Then he turned to the onions on the cutting board and started chopping with rage. (It was his turn to make dinner tonight, and he hated every moment of it.)

But he had something to look forward to, and he had everything ready.

Bill was home from work now, sitting in the living room and scrolling through Instagram. Nico watched him, thinking about that fatal day several years ago at Camp Half-Blood when everything had gone wrong for him.

Well, Nico would fix that today.

“Bill,” Nico called, gritting his teeth. Calling his beloved William “Bill” still stung him, despite it having been years later. “It’s time for dinner. Call the kids.”

Bill stood from the couch and fixed his messy bun, then called, “Billiam, Jr.! Litpollo! Percy, Jr.! Time for dinner! Sksksk.”

Nico made his way down the hall and opened the garage door, crying out to his pet hyena: “BAMBI! Come on, boy. Time for your yummy chinken dinner.”

Bambi growled and bounded into the building, turning towards the kids that had now come into the dining room. Bill eyed the oversized cat with scrutiny. “Bae, I think we need to tame that thing.”

Nico turned his head to look at his hyena. He shrugged. “Seems fine to me.”

“He’s gnawing on our child’s head.”

Nico eyed his kitty, who had its jaws around their child Litpollo’s head. “No he isn't,” Nico decided. “It’s just licking Litpollo's head. Litpollo just has a really tiny head.”

Bill opened his mouth to protest, but Nico clapped his hands and exclaimed: “Time for dinner!” He offered Bill a dazzling smile. “And I have a surprise for you.”

Bill’s eyes widened and a smile of his own flashed across his face. “Sksksk. I’m excited. Yass queen.”

Nico’s eye twitched. “Yes, time for dinner.”

The family of five (including Bambi the Hyena, it was six) sat at the dinner table. (Yes, Bambi sat at a dinner table. Nico considered that quite domestic of Bambi).

“Now, before we start, I have a little something for Bill.” Nico stood again and pulled out something from his pocket. Bill leaned in to look at it, and realization dawned on him. He hissed and jumped up from his chair.

“Skskskskskkssksksksk!” he exclaimed. “That’s a cross. Why do you have that?” Just being in the presence of it seemed to make him antsy.

Nico offered him a dangerous smile. “Well, you see, Billiam, I became a priest online. I have a certificate and everything.” He tilted his head innocently and, with that smile still plastered onto his face, said, “I am here to eradicate the Demon of VSCO.”

“No,” Bill said shakily, but his voice had changed. It was rougher, scratchier, a voice he wouldn’t have on any other normal day. “No, you can’t. You’ve been going behind my back this entire time? How dare you.”

“I’m here to save you, Bill. Or should I say… William.”

“NO!” Bill screeched, picking up Litpollo and shielding his face with the child. “I REFUSE! SKSKSK!”

Nico only smiled wider, his dark eyes shining with fearsome mirth. Suddenly, the lights flickered on and off and a harsh wind blew across the room. Outside, clouds started gathering like they were ready for a shitshow to happen. Nico rose from the floor, the wind carrying his weight like he was lighter than paper. He held out the cross in front of him, showing it to Bill’s VSCO demon. Bill hissed, and his eyes starting glowing bright yellow, clearly aggravated by the cross. He dropped the child, who squeaked and ran off to eat his dry chinken dinner.

Nico’s own eyes had started glowing, but his were a bright red flash like he was about to shoot lasers. “BY THE POWER VESTED IN ME,” Nico exclaimed, his voice projecting outward and all around the house, “I PRONOUNCE THEE, VSCO DEMON, GONE.”

Nico slammed the cross against Bill’s chest, making steam circle and sizzle around Bill’s chest. The blond cried out in pain, but Nico ignored him.

“BEGONE, THOT!” Nico thundered.

A big bang resonated between them, and Nico and Bill were both thrown across the room. Their children screamed, but all Nico could think about was Bill and whether or not he was back. Despite being disoriented, he sat upright and looked across the room. Billiam was thrown to the kitchen, and his messy bun had come undone. The scrunchies on his wrists were hissing and smoking, but otherwise he looked fine.

Nico stood up slowly, keeping his hand on the wall for balance. “Will?” he said quietly. It was strange using that name after so many years, but it felt good. It felt comfortable.

Bill didn’t answer. Nico’s heart started racing.

He rushed to Bill’s side, checking his pulse and touching his face, making sure was alive. When he decided that he was alright, Nico let out a breath of relief. He shook Bill gently. “Will? Will, please, wake up. Tell me you’re okay.”

For a moment, all was silent. Nico’s children had even stopped screaming, but Nico wasn’t sure where they were or what they were doing. Right now, it was only about Billiam.

Suddenly, Bill started coughing. He sat up a little straighter and coughed into his arm, and Nico patted is back in means of helping his partner. Bill stopped after a few moments, but his focus was only on the kitchen tiles.

Nico’s heart pounded in anticipation. Was Billiam gone? Was Will back? Goosebumps prickled his skin.

“Will?” Nico asked. “Are you okay?”

Bill started laughing. Nico wanted to take this as a good sign, but the laughter seemed eerie. He took Bill’s baby hand in his.

Bill turned to face him, a wide grin on his face. “YOU FOOL!” he exclaimed. “YOU ABSOLUTE BUFFOON! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU JUST DID?”

Nico gasped and threw himself away from Bill, shaking his head. “No,” he whispered. “No. It should have worked! I went onto Wikipedia for the instructions!”

Bill only laughed harder. “YOU DIPSHIT! YOU MULTIPLIED ME!” His eyes danced with his laughter.

“Multiplied?” Nico exclaimed. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN?” He frowned. “Also, no swearing in front of the kids. Watch your fucking language, asshole.”

“HAHAHAHAHAHA!” Bill exclaimed. “MY CHILDREN,” he called, turning his face away from Nico’s. “COME!”

From the dining room, the children’s small feet pitter-pattered across the floor. Rage filled Nico’s chest, and he tackled Bill to the ground. “VSCO DEMON!” he cried. “What did you do to them? If you hurt them-”

“I did no such thing,” Bill said. “I would never hurt them.”

“Then what did you do?”

In creepy unison, all his kids exclaimed: “SKSKSK! I’VE GIVEN THEM ALL A PIECE OF ME! NOW I EXIST IN ALL OF YOUR FAMILY AND LOVED ONES!”

“NOOOOO!” Nico cried. “WHY?”

“Children,” Bill said, “what do we say to Nico?”

“SAVE THE TURTLES!” And they all took off their oversized T-shirts and threw them in his face.

The end. Nico sobbed forever.

#Bilco revolution #bill solace revolution #bill solace #nico di angelo #bilco #AHHAHAHA IM LITERALLY SCREAMING

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princesses-and-bitchcraft · 3 years

Text

I don’t have anything for Jenny Calendar day because like. Both deadlines and plans alike have absolutely no effect on me. But I bring to the table a scene from a ridiculous crossover I’ve been working on, where Jenny gets to bully the Doctor, so that’s gotta be..... something, right? Somehow this is over a thousand words just on it’s own so I guess it’s not the worst thing I could deliver.

“Does this look like a parking lot to you? Watch where you’re leaving that thing!”

“Right. And you would be-”

“Don’t think you’re getting off that easily, Doctor. I’m going to need to know what you’re doing here first. Is something big about to happen?”

“Sorry but... have we met?”

“Oh! No. But I’ve heard of you, Doctor, you’re famous in certain parts of the Internet. Rupert will be so mad when I tell him I actually met you! Well, let’s go! I’m Jenny, technopagan, and I know my way around the local vampire population. What can I help you with tonight?”

The Doctor shook his head at the spitfire in front of him. “Oh no,” he muttered, “not this again.” He didn’t come halfway across the world to deal with starstruck fans. Although. “Wait a minute, did you say ‘local vampires’?”

“I assumed that’s what you were here for? Don’t tell me you’re on holiday!”

“Trust me when I say this would not be my preferred vacationing spot. There’s certainly something weird going on here that I’m looking into, but vampires? Come on, be serious!”

“So you’re an alien who doesn’t believe in vampires? They’re everywhere around here! You don’t think I’m being serious, just follow me!” She walked off into the nearby graveyard, pausing at the gate to make sure he was following. “It should be about time for- shit!” She stopped abruptly as she saw the vampire in front of them, already biting down for a meal. She reached into her jacket for a stake and took another step forward, but the Doctor grabbed her by the arm, holding her back.

“Wait! Look.” They watched as the victim’s skin seemed to almost deflate and crumple inward. “Is this what normally happens?” he asked, Jenny immediately shaking her head. They watched as a green creature expanded out of the human skin that fell to puddle around its feet.

“Oh, that’s new,” Jenny commented before being abruptly shushed by the Doctor. The poor vampire looked about as confused as she felt, as its victim seemed rapidly to be becoming the aggressor. The creature brought its face down towards the vampire’s and breathed out a stream of gas. When that seemed to have no effect, the creature went in with a more physical approach, raking its claws across the vampire’s chest. Jenny and the Doctor both stood in place, observing something neither had been expecting to see and not yet sure how to proceed. That is, until the Doctor’s phone suddenly started ringing. Jenny turned to look at him as he pulled it out of his pocket.

“Not now, Clara,” he muttered in exasperation as he silenced the phone. Then he turned his attention back to creature and saw that it had also turned its attention on them. “Run!” he shouted, taking Jenny by the arm again and making for the TARDIS. He shoved her awkwardly inside and pulled the doors closed behind them.

Once they were inside, Jenny didn’t waste a second. “What was that?” she demanded. “I’ve never seen a demon-”

“Alien,” the Doctor corrected. “Slitheen, actually. Haven’t run into them in a while, what are they doing here? Oh, but that still wouldn’t explain the readings. What are they after?” There was a banging at the door, but the Doctor ignored it. Instead, he was pacing around the console erratically, poking at this instrument or glancing at that other one. “What am I missing here? Vampires? Obviously the Slitheen aren’t after vampires.”

The banging outside became more insistent. “Doctor,” Jenny started, trying to reel him back to the present moment. He blew her off. The banging continued. She inserted herself between him and the nearest display, getting right into his face. “Doctor! Shouldn’t we be doing something about them? Something immediate?” She may not have been the strongest of fighters, but she wasn’t about to just sit around in here waiting.

“Right, let’s see what’s going on out there.” The Doctor pulled another monitor towards them, this one showing the situation directly outside the door where not one but three of the Slitheen were banging on the doors. “Okay, not great. Where are they coming from?” He turned back to Jenny. “So you said you haven’t seen them around before?”

“I’ve seen some messed up stuff in this town, but never anything like that. Normally I’d check online but you seem like you’ve got experience. Slitheen, was it?”

“Slitheen, yes. Very dangerous, and they tend to show up in groups to infiltrate their target area. I have no way of knowing how many more there are in town.” He paused. “Hold on, check online? What, do you think there’s just handy alien directories on the Internet, waiting for you?”

“And why not? There are for demons, if you know where to look. So, are we going to kill them or-?”

The banging had stopped, but at that point it was replaced with a rattling, and a sensation almost like an earthquake. A look at the screen showed their would-be assailants seemingly trying to knock over the ship. As unlikely an outcome as that may have been, it was very disquieting. “I’d really prefer to find out what it is they’re after, but we’re in a rather unfavourable position right now. Hold on to something Jenny, we’re going into the vortex!” He hit a couple of buttons, pulled a lever, and the rattling immediately got worse. Jenny managed to grab onto something before the turbulence knocked her to the ground, and even the Doctor seemed at risk of losing his footing from the ship’s rough motion. He took another look at the display that showed outside the doors and shook his head. There were still two of the Slitheen visible, hanging on for dear life. “We’re in for a rough ride! She’s going to try and shake them off!” Jenny braced herself.

The TARDIS eventually stabilized again and Jenny started to relax. “Are we rid of them?”

“Well, we’re rid of those ones. They won’t survive out there.” He patted the ship’s console proudly. “Good job!” Jenny shook her head at that. Men and their cars, apparently a universal constant.

“So where’ve you brought us, outer space? What about to Sunnydale?”

“We’re not really anywhere right now. Sort of an in-between place, actually. As for your town, it’s probably in for a bit of a shock about now. The Slitheen we left behind, and who knows however many of its family along with it, probably know by now that those two are dead and they aren’t going to be happy about it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to return a phone call. Find out what Clara’s learned, and warn her about the Slitheen.”

“What do you mean, ‘if you’ll excuse me’? You can’t make a phone call here! Bring us back!”

“Of course I can.” He pulled out a cell phone. “Special phone, calls anywhere in the universe. So if you don’t mind-”

“I do mind. Just because you have a phone doesn’t mean you can make a call, you know. You can’t possibly have cell service if we’re ‘not really anywhere’! How can you have a ship like this but have a worse understanding of cell phones than my husband?”

The Doctor made a point of ignoring Jenny’s withering glare as he dialed Clara’s number and waited. He silently put the phone back in his pocket and turned sheepishly back towards the TARDIS controls when Clara didn’t answer.

“Well?” Jenny asked, arms crossed. “How’s Clara?” There was a hint of mockery to her voice.

The Doctor briefly considered ignoring the question, but thought better of it. “She must be busy,” he finally mumbled.

“I told you, you crazy old man!”

#jenny calendar day #jenny calendar #that's the extent of the tagging im doing im not maintagging my nonsense lol #midori's word vomit

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wwwafflewrites · 4 years

Text

Never Fear (The Winchesters Are Here)

Stars in Your Eyes

"Sam, I don't have a good feeling about this."

Sam waved his flashlight around the porch of the house. "Neither do I. But this is our only chance to gank this shapeshifter before it moves to the next town."

"I just have a gut feeling." You met eyes. In the shadows, they were a deep, compassionate brown.

"You don't have to come if you don't want to."

Well, that wasn’t happening. "Forget it," you huffed, nervously stepping into the front yard.

"I mean it. If you aren’t comfortable, then I can do this myself. I'll understand."

"Don’t be stupid. I’m coming with."

Sam's eyes lingered on you before nodding slowly and turning away, keeping the flashlight pointed at the door as he approached it. When the door handle didn't turn, he fished his pockets for his lock pick.

Meanwhile, you stayed on guard, anxiously looking into the dark street like you expected a jump scare. You hugged yourself as the icy breeze bit through your jacket, saying, "I hate this."

"My offer still stands."

"Your offer still sucks."

He shut up, leaving you some time to ponder about the case.

One who was oblivious to the supernatural might believe the MacDonalds—and, yes, Dean had a blast poking fun at their surname—were just an unfortunate family. It was a small home—or were small homes now, you supposed—containing two divorced parents and their only child.

Knowing that the shapeshifter would strike tonight, you had to split between the two households. Dean took to the father, meanwhile, you and Sam took the mother, knowing that the entire family went for a therapy session.

Dean's little parody, 'Old McDonald had a therapist' played into your head. At most annoying, if a little pitchy.

The break-in, you suspected, was exactly where the shapeshifter was getting all his DNA to shift.

Most people didn't realize the trauma that came with a theft, and you had the misfortune of experiencing it. You once lost trust in the lock of door—lost trust that it would hold or that you could sleep in peace knowing that you were alone. All because a werewolf-witch hybrid decided he wanted your heart, and not in a sexy way. But that was another story.

Thankfully, now, you felt more at ease with the Winchesters—though that didn't mean you couldn't relate with the poor family. Break-ins were terrifying.

And not only had there been one break-in, but two. The shifter had been in both homes, which put an even larger strain on the family's relationship. They quickly turned against each other, throwing accusations and lawsuits to feel more powerful. When really, they were both victims.

It was really an unfortunate situation for everyone involved.

You shook your head. "I can't even imagine what that kid went through. I wouldn't doubt they were trying to get him to take sides. Just imagine your parents doing that to you. I could never."

Sam gave you a funny look. "Can't really imagine. Both of my parents are dead."

Oh, damn. You should have known. "I'm so sorry—"

Sam shrugged. "It's fine—you didn't know. Anyway, it was… years ago." He looked uncomfortable. "Can we focus?"

"Yeah."

Sam jiggled the thing in the lock, and when it clicked, he straightened, slowly pushing the door open, slightly wincing as it creaked. He crept forward, entering the home and shining his flashlight on possible hiding spots in the shadows, wary of anyone that could be inside.

You followed close behind, unwilling to split up like people do in horror movies. Thankfully, Sam didn't mention it. Perhaps he felt the same.

"This is so creepy." The house was giving you the heebie-jeebies. There was a narrow staircase which slowly disappeared into the darkness of the upstairs, and none of the lights would turn on with the flipped switch.

"Huh," Sam said, bouncing the flashlight in his hand. "Guess this will have to do."

"You got a second one? Not a big fan of the dark."

You could nearly see the gears turning in his head. It was no secret you were afraid of the dark. Ever since, well, multiple unpleasant experiences.

You probably needed a therapist more than the MacDonalds—but Dean had rubbed off on you, always talking negatively about those 'shrinks'.

Anyway, what was the point of a therapist when you always had to lie to them? It wasn't like you could ever tell them the whole truth—you'd be sent to an insane asylum.

Even PTSD wasn't worth that.

Sam hummed, patting his pockets. "Nah, Dean took it. We'll have to share." Then, to your surprise, he handed you the flashlight.

You blinked. "Thanks."

He took a lighter from his breast pocket and shrugged. "No problem."

You stepped further into the house, feeling bolder with the flashlight in your hands. The light fell over a cabinet, and with it, two framed photos alongside a small lamp.

Sam was your shadow, peering over your shoulder at the cabinet. He reached a hand, tracing over the dust of the family photo. The eyes of the child were flashing gold.

You stared. And stared some more. "Well, that’s…" you trailed off.

"...yeah," Sam agreed.

"His eyes are..."

"...yeah."

You both briefly took in that information. "So the kid was…"

Sam's mind was on the same track. "I'll call Dean," he said, walking to the kitchen and using his lighter to see the buttons on his flip phone.

You scanned the room, waving the flashlight until it illuminated a thin gooey membrane on the bathroom floor, which trailed out into the hallway. "Oh, god, no," you said. You inched closer, shining the light down on the mound of slimy shapeshifter skin on the tile.

"Sam!" you called, running back to the main of the house where you nearly crashed into him.

"We need to go," you both said simultaneously.

Sam pointed to the foggy window where red and blue lights had replaced the black abyss of the night. "Save your I-told-you-so's. We need to get out of here. Now," Sam said.

As you made it for the backdoor, he grabbed your arm. "No," he pointed to the kitchen. "Window."

The kitchen window was a decent sized opening. He climbed through easily, and you tumbled out after him, terrified to your core.

The lights were almost blinding.

An officer shouted, his silhouette darting out from the shadows. You hauled yourself over the tall wooden fence, just a hair behind Sam, right as the officer caught up.

A gloved hand grabbed your arm.

Like a deer in a bear trap, you fought as they tried to secure your wrist. "Help me, help, help, help," was all you could cry as Sam ran back. You struggled to wrench your hand out of the tight grip; punching at it, but it was like iron. You could see more officers were nearing.

Sam set fire to the officer's hand with his lighter, but it still didn't let go. Smoke rose and you finally stabbed the hand with your silver knife.

The officer shouted and released you.

You and Sam sprinted down the grass to the sidewalk, feet rapid, aiming for the line of trees on the horizon. The forest would provide enough cover for the police to lose sight of you.

It had turned into a footrace.

You tried to match your steps with Sam, but his legs were longer and stronger than yours. You weren't a poor runner by any means, but he surpassed your endurance by a long shot.

So did the officers, apparently, as they were gaining ground on you.

You were just a step behind Sam (who was hardly breaking a sweat), struggling to keep your distance between you and the advancing officers.

Your breath was hot, your lungs already burned, and you lost your pace. Sam noticed and grunted, glancing at you from his peripheral. It was just a little noise, but it brought the strength and energy back into your step.

The trees were a few blocks away. Just a little further, and you could catch your breath in the shadows.

You let out a strangled yell as your nervous system completely frizzed, seizing and crumpling to the ground in a breathless heap.

Sam shouted your name.

You blinked up, dazed and confused. What… what was… was I shot? What...

The officer was ordering you to put your hands behind your back, waving a yellow device at your chest.

A taser. One prong dug into your chest, while the other was deep in your leg.

And the officer was at liberty to light it up again.

You complied, slowly bringing your stiff arms back, so they could cuff them. And from the scuffling to your right, Sam was doing the same.

You could take on monsters any day, but three officers with loaded guns and tasers? It wasn’t a fair fight.

This officer was seemingly much more pleased with himself in comparison to his partners. He lugged you up beside a planted tree, not to be confused with the woods, which was standing ten feet away. How irritating.

His eyes flashed golden, and you tensed under his hold.

"You’re the shapeshifter," you breathed.

"Must you spoil the surprise?" All at once, he raised his gun and killed the other officers with two resounding bangs.

You screamed.

Sam stumbled in his handcuffs, which had him secured to the chain link fence to your left. His eyes were like saucers as the officer arresting him dropped dead at his feet. "What… why… why did you..." he asked, stunned. “You’re the…”

You bit back another scream as the monster put a knife to your throat. The blade’s edge was cold, just enough to be painful against your skin.

Sam's hazel eyes were dark. "What do you want?"

His cuffs were far too low for him to stand, so he had to awkwardly hunker down. It looked uncomfortable.

The maniac had the blade right against your jugular. All it would take is pissing this guy off, and it would be over—you'd be dead.

"You’re going to give me the demon knife," the monster demanded. His hand was dripping blood from where you'd stabbed him.

“How entitled," you said.

The knife pressed harder. “I don’t care what you have to say, girl. Sam Winchester has the demon knife, and I want it.”

"Well, good luck, chuckles." You spat, "Because Sam sure ain’t going to listen to you."

Sam’s brooding, however, didn’t waver.

The shifter trailed the knife along the veins of your neck. "It wouldn’t be hard for me to kill her.”

"He's bluffing," you said, and you fell on the wet dirt, choking back a scream as he lit up the taser.

He leaned in, his breath warm on your ear. "Not bluffing,” the shifter said. "I just have better things to do than pick fights with noble Winchesters." His eyes flashed. "My only exception is the knife. It’s the demon knife, or it's her. You choose."

"Sam…" you warned. " Sam don’t—" The shifter pulled the taser's trigger, and you keeled over into the dirt, trying not to cry. "Sam—" you tried in vain. You were met with another interval of several long, excruciating seconds.

Getting tased felt like a full-body charley horse. Pitchforks instead of prongs. Portable Hell.

Little tremors still ran through your arms. You wanted to tell Sam that you couldn’t let the knife get into the hands of this psycho, but from the look on his face, you could tell he was thinking the same.

It wasn't that the knife mattered to you (because it didn't, you had angel blades that worked just fine against demons) but it was that the knife would matter in the shifter's hands. This guy was clearly unhinged.

You were all for killing demons, but giving any kind of knife to this guy just put a bad feeling in your gut. If there was anything you'd learned today, it was that your gut had a pretty good intuition.

"This can go on..." he sighed. "Though, I'm not sure how long a human heart can take this."

“Enough.” Sam finally said, glaring. "We'll give you the knife."

"Oh, you're not giving me anything. You're going to tell me where it is, and I'm taking it."

You couldn't let Sam tell him where it was. "What do you want it for, anyway?" you snarled. "It can’t be of any use to you. You kill people, not demons."

"Sure, it’s of use to me. Demons are scum on the earth. They kidnapped and tortured my family, and the knife is just what I need to avenge them.”

“So that gives you the right to hurt the MacDonalds? What would you want with them anyway?”

The shifter laughed. “Oh, all that? That was just a case to reel you guys in. I knew you’d follow the little ‘omens’. And then you’d see the skin I left so clumsily by the dumpster, and you'd talk with the parents and find out that... oh, wow, their stories aren’t matching up about each other—how could I have been so messy? Silly, stupid shifter.”

He smiled, resting a hand on your shoulder and squeezing. “You know, it was funny watching you do the whole 'monster test' on the parents. It was cute. You’d never assume it was the child, would you?”

The photo on the cabinet had been from before the parents had divorced, so this guy must have planted himself for at least four months, doing whatever he pleased until the Winchesters got wind of his ‘mistakes’.

“Honestly,” he said. “I couldn’t care less about the MacDonalds; I was just biding my time until the infamous Winchesters showed.”

Sam’s lips were curled in disgust. “All this for a knife?”

You noticed a shadow twitch from behind Sam and in the line of trees. So small a movement that if you blinked, you would have missed it.

The shifter sneered. “Rather hypocritical, coming from someone who would do anything for their family. Would do anything to get the Colt to kill the devil.”

“That’s a lot different—” Sam argued.

Again, you saw something move in the woods.

The monster cried, “No! No, it’s not! These demons—they’re slaying my kin. They’ve ruined everything, and so have you! All you’ve ever—”

You intervened before it got out of hand. “You know what? Fine. I’ll tell you where it is,” you said. “After all, just a knife, right Sam?”

Sam’s expression became one of absolute bewilderment. “What? What are you...”

“Where is it?” The blade dragged down and dug a little harder at your collarbone.

You couldn’t help but smile. “You’ll find it in Hell.”

Dean Winchester took the shot.

The silver bullet hit its target on point. Right through the shifter’s heart, and the monster crumpled, its skin already peeling.

Dean ran over, shotgun slung over his shoulder. "You guys okay?!"

"Yeah. The crazy shifter wanted the demon knife.” Sam nodded. “Lockpick in my left pocket."

"Got one already," Dean said, waving his. "Why didn’t you just give the knife to him? You guys look like he beat the shit out of you." He worked on picking Sam's cuffs.

"I had a bad gut feeling," you grunted. "He would have killed us afterward." You were in a daze. Your muscles were rigid and they smarted like a bitch. Your skin was tingling.

Dean glanced your way, and when he saw your condition, left Sam the lockpick to do the rest himself. "Jesus—hey. Kid? Hey, hey, you gotta stay awake."

"M'fine," you groaned. "Just really sore."

"What happened?" His eyes flitted over you.

"Zzch zzch zzch," you mumbled, imitating the noise. "Taser. Not fun."

"How many times he get ya?"

"Too many."

Dean angrily worked the cuffs off your wrists. "That could have killed you."

You knew he was referring to your time with the werewitch, which left you with a few heart complications. You shrugged. "Didn't."

Sighing, Dean hauled you up. "All this for a gut feeling?"

"He would have actually killed us if we let him get his way," you said, leaning into him. "Could see it in his eyes."

Dean threw your arm over his shoulder. "You gonna recover?"

"Damn right, I will."

"That'a girl."

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firemblem-fics · 4 years

Text

parents? PT. 1 | claude

firstly this is the longest thing ive ever written yay

secondly, this is only a part one. this is kind of introducing it! the good stuff will happen in part two i promise just give me a bit! thank u

Warnings: cursing, death, angst, claudes an asshole but also so are you at times, Claude makes a jab at single parenting just for the sake of the story I’m sorry

— — —

The village was in ruins. Nobody was spared in the fire as three demonic beasts rampaged through the rubble. The Golden Deer house fought valiantly to save everybody, but oftentimes such a thing simply could not happen. The beasts were too strong, knocking out four of the team’s own fighters before they finally defeated them.

Many people, like Marianne, were visibly distraught at such a tremendous loss. She was being comforted by Lysithea, who only held a rather troubled look in her eyes. Ignatz seemed crestfallen as well, as did some others. You, on the other hand, were rather angry. You were furious at the destruction around you. The fires, the destroyed homes, the lost lives.

It was under Claude’s leadership that these people weren’t saved. The professor was dealing with other matters, so she couldn’t be there to lead. Mistakes were made and they cost people their lives. You’d never truly cared for the boy, finding his “schemes” and his cocky and nosy personality rather annoying, but this was the icing on the cake for you.

Bristling in anger, you marched over to said boy, pointing a harsh finger into his chest. “This is YOUR fault.”

“My fault?” Claude nearly laughed. “Yeah, sure, some things happened, but that's what happens in battle, Y/N. This was a collective failure.”

“Those things cost people their lives, Claude. I can’t believe you’re so inconsiderate.”

Claude’s eyes lit up a little in frustration. “I'm inconsiderate? As if I didn’t try my hardest to save everyone? I’m new at leading. I’m only 17, if you don’t fucking remember. It’s not like I knew this was going to happen-“

A loud wail interrupted him. You furrowed your brows, looking at Claude before turning and looking around.

“What’s that?”

Claude shrugged, “A survivor, I hope.”

You ignored him and ran in the direction of the noise, stopping at a charred house. The fire had stopped, but the crying hadn’t. As you walked inside the burnt skeleton of the house, you hoped that the fire didn’t seriously hurt someone. They’d have trouble making it back to the monastery to be healed.

Another cry sounded as you moved into another room of the house. There, underneath a small, wooden-framed bed, laid a child. He was no older than 6, tears making trails down his ash-covered face. You kneeled down, trying to make yourself less intimidating to coax him out.

“Hey buddy,” You reached a hand out, internally grimacing as the little boy flinched away, “We’re not here to hurt you. We need to get you somewhere safe.”

The little boy looked around. “Wh-where is everybody?”

Your heart broke and you looked back at Claude, who had followed you, your eyes pleading for help. He sighed and knelt down beside you. “They all had to leave. It was really, really dangerous so they had to keep you safe. We’re here now to keep you even safer.”

That seemed to have calmed the little boy down at least a little. He slowly and shakily walked towards you. You held out both arms, silently asking to pick him up. He obliged and nearly crawled into you and you wrapped yourself tightly around him, whispering reassurances as he sat on your hip. You looked at Claude next, your face asking, “What the hell do we do?”

Claude only shrugged and walked back to the rest of the team, leaving you to trail slowly behind. You’d take him back to the monastery and go from there. The orphanage was rather full- there was no way they’d be able to care for another one.

--- --- ---

“We can’t help him in the way that you’re asking, Y/N. I apologize.”

Your heart dropped. Rhea had asked you to talk to the lady at the orphanage anyways, hoping that she would be able to accept him. Unfortunately, she couldn’t.

“Then what’s the purpose of an orphanage?” You didn’t want to yell seeing as the boy- August, you’d learned- was sleeping on your hip. “Aren’t you supposed to take in kids? Help them? Raise them? He’s lost everything. And now he can’t even get a home?”

The lady only sighed. “I’m really sorry. He wouldn’t be getting the attention that you’re asking me to provide. I’ve got other children to tend to.” She went to walk away, but then stopped. “Just keep him to yourself if you’re that worried about him.” She huffed, slamming the door closed behind her.

Keeping him? You thought. I wouldn’t be opposed, but I’ve got class. And fighting. And I’m seventeen. Ah, fuck it. My parents would love him.

You walked away, careful not to wake August, and made your way to the audience chambers where Rhea was. You’d only hoped she’d let you take responsibility. But you’d never given her a reason not to trust you, right?

“Absolutely not.”

Wrong.

“What? Seteth, why not? I’m responsible.I can do it- August’s well behaved. And- and I’ve got my friends too. They can help a little. He’s not a helpless baby and he can do things on his own, he just trusts me a little more to help him.” You pleaded. At this point, you knew that nobody would take care of him. You couldn’t just leave him.

“You’re just a child yourself, Y/N. You know nothing about raising a child.” He argued back.

“Neither do new parents! What are you gonna do next, tell new parents that they can’t keep their first child? Please, I’m responsible. Lady Rhea, tell him I’m responsible.” You turned to the Archbishop, who was simply standing there.

“I believe this will be a good experience. Y/N has never given me any reason to distrust her.”

“Lady Rhea, this is absurd-”

“However, she has to find someone to assist her if the workload becomes too much to handle. I, on the other hand, will take a look into the orphanage to see what we can do. The only absurdity here is how they have turned away children.”

“Thank you, Lady Rhea. I won’t disappoint you.” With that, you left the chambers and walked through the yards, ignoring the strange looks that people gave you as you headed back to the Golden Deer Classroom. August stayed on your hip with his head resting against your shoulders, his small fingers twirling your hair around.

You stopped outside of the classroom and called the little boy’s name, waiting until he looked at you to continue. “We’re gonna go learn now, but you’ve gotta stay quiet. If you need to talk, whisper to me, okay?”

August nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

Hm, he has manners. That’s perfect.

You quietly opened the door, hoping that nobody would notice. Your hopes were in vain. Everyone turned around at the sound of the giant doors, their eyes moving from you to the little blonde boy on your hip. Reactions varied- Hilda practically cooed at him while Lorenz could only watch you take the only open seat with disgust. You were disgusted too, but it was because the only open seat was next to Claude. As Byleth resumed teaching, Claude slid a note over to you.

‘Was single parenting on your bucket list?’

You rolled your eyes, looking over at August to make sure he wasn’t watching you write before replying.

‘Fuck you. Rhea said that I need to have someone help me if I have trouble, and just for that comment I’ll ask for it to be you.’

Claude read the note and chuckled quietly, crumpling it up and putting it in his pocket. You assumed that the conversation was over, so you allowed August to crawl into your lap and lay against you to have a small nap. The poor kid had a long day, after all. This didn’t stop Claude from leaning over to you and whispering.

“So, does that mean you’ll call me daddy?”

You choked on your own spit suddenly, waking up August and making your other classmates look at you. Byleth turned around and gave you a look, but you could only wave them off as you kept coughing. You glared at Claude, who had a grin on his face. God, he loved watching you suffer, didn’t he?

He kept smirking at you, but lost it when you grew your own. If he was going to tease you about helping a kid, you were going to make sure he’d pay the price. As his eyebrows furrowed a little with worry, you asked, “Can you walk with me to see Lady Rhea after class?”

--- --- ---

“Lady Rhea, I told you she wasn’t responsible enough. Look, she comes back two hours later and already requests for assistance.”

First of all, Fuck you Seteth. Second of all, this was just revenge.

“Okay, listen, I don’t know why I’m here either-”

“I’d like to request assistance just in case. Say I have to take a shower or do something and August can’t be with me? I’d like to be able to have someone else help care for him when I might not be able to for a bit.” You interrupted Claude.

“What makes you think that Claude is a good candidate to help you? Why are you choosing him?” Seteth retorted.

Spite, you wanted to say. “He’s the leader of the Golden Deer. Heir to the Alliance. He’s been able to take care of us through battles and such, how much harder could it be to help take care of one child? Even then, I’ll only need his help for a few minutes at a time.” You said. Damn, you were good at acting like you actually tolerated him.

“Lady Rhea, Seteth, please, I don’t want-”

“Plus, would you really trust anyone else in the Golden Deer to help me?” You cut him off again.

Claude could only glare at you as Rhea weighed her decision. You smirked before turning to check on August, who had occupied himself by spinning in circles around a column. You whispered August’s name to get his attention, holding out your hand as he came towards you. He placed his smaller hand in yours and stood patiently in between you and Claude

Rhea’s face soon bloomed into a soft smile. “Whenever you need assistance, Claude will be there.”

You thanked her and bowed, following behind the Alliance heir as he nearly stormed out of the chambers. When you got outside, he whipped around to face you.

“What the hell was that?” He growled, “Revenge? For what, one simple comment? A little joke? And now I’m stuck waiting on you if you ‘ever need my assistance’, whatever that bullshit means.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, pulling August close to you. “First of all, watch your language. He’s only six. Secondly, I think your comment was insensitive. You were making fun of single parents and my bucket list- which you know is a big deal for me.”

“Alright, whatever. I’m sorry for saying something about single parenting, I shouldn’t have, but I think I have the right to have an opinion about your dumb little list.”

“Claude, you don’t even know why it’s important to me, you just want a reason to make me upset-”

“Well? You deserve to be upset. I’m upset too, because now I have to help a brat take care of a little brat. I didn’t ask for this shit.” Claude rolled his eyes and walked away.

You stood still for a bit, watching him leave with angry tears in your eyes. You snapped out of it when a tiny hand pulled at your shirt. You looked at August.

“Can we go ‘M sleepy.” He yawned.

“Of course. We can go to my room and you can sleep for the rest of the night.”

You made a mental note to grab dinner for the both of you once he was asleep and scooped him up, letting him doze off again against your shoulder as you walked back to your dorm room. The poor boy had a very rough day- and so did you. A nap sounded very nice.

#fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem x reader #fire emblem imagines #fire emblem three houses x reader #x reader #fire emblem three houses imagines #claude #claude x reader #claude von riegan imagines #claude von riegan #claude von riegan x reader

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charmed-and-alarmed · 5 years

Text

If you enjoyed my nonsense about Aziraphale loving grad students then look no further, I have something even better. That’s right, I have some ‘furiously doting Crowley’ shenanigans for you

- If you ask Crowley, he will say that he loves college kids because they’re an amazing source of bad ideas and poor decision making. They’re hormonal, stressed, and usually inebriated right at this pivotal moment in their lives - what more could a demon want? And best of all? It was programmed in humans at the very beginning. It was enough to make you wonder what a certain Someone was thinking when they made that decision.

- Aziraphale does not wonder. It’s part of the great Ineffable Plan. The reasoning will become clear to him… eventually. Hopefully.

- Many drunk students over the decades have stumbled out of a bar or party alone, miles away from their beds. They may notice a taxi cab idling just around the corner, light on, waiting for passengers. The window is open and the driver calls out to them as they pass by, offering them a ride home. When you wake up after a night of heavy drinking, you can’t expect to remember much of anything but you can’t help wondering how you paid or why the driver didn’t ask for their address. But with a massive hangover and some social damage control to do, it’s quickly forgotten

- Days or even weeks later, you will find a little business card tucked away in their bag or pocket is black with the words ‘Don’t Be An Idiot’ and the number of a cab company. This company will bring drunk young people home for free, thanks to charitable organization that funds the program. If pressed for details about this charity, the employee will offer to transfer you to the person in charge. You can listen to the tinny, musak cover of ‘Margaritaville’ as long as you want, it doesn’t matter. The call always drops.

- There are tiny slips of paper hidden all around the Fell & Co. bookshop. Between book pages, tucked underneath coasters, crumpled up at the back of a desk drawer. They are coupons, every one unique with its own uniquely hideous design. If you find one, you will be surprised to see that it’s 75%, 90%, off for college textbooks at your local (non-antiquarian) bookstore. It’s always your local bookstore, actually, regardless of where you live. [1]

- Crowley likes to remind everyone that he is a very mean, nasty demon who causes chaos and destruction wherever he goes. Aziraphale likes to remind him of that incident in the 1890s when a young theology student’s beau stormed into the store. He was shouting and threatening violence and shoving books onto the floor as he advanced on the poor, trembling student. It was obvious something had to be done but before Aziraphale could do anything, the awful man cried out in pain and started hopping on one foot, shouting about something biting him.

He still remembers the look on the students face (Jim? Or Jill, he can’t recall) when the brute screamed in terror as a long, black snake slithers across his chest and out behind his neck. There was a moment of shock before Jim or Jill burst out laughing. As the snake slithered down his arm to the shelf nearby, the whole store erupted in laughter. This snake avoided the human hands that tried to pet him, hissed at their cooing compliments and bared his fangs, but no one was afraid. Especially not when it took to napping on the table by the door and hissing at new customers.

- Crowley has no idea what the angel is talking about. On a completely unrelated note the student’s name was Meredith and they went on to teach a course on demonic symbolism in literature at Cambridge. Or so he heard.

- it’s not until the whole “Prepare to Die Fools you shall all peri-, psych! did you really think we were going to end the world? oh man, you should have seen your face” mess was over that Crowley spent any time in the bookshop when it was actually open. That is, not as a snake. It was only after they all didn’t die that Crowley came to the shop shaped like a person.

- those students that recognized the Bentley parked outside started to pack up. The man came inside, calling out ‘Angel’ and waving his hand vaguely in their direction. Suddenly, those students were very interested in staying for a while, maybe play games on their phone for a few minutes as a well deserved break. They returned to their work eventually, annoyed with themselves for procrastinating. Mugs of cocoa appeared, sloshing a little as they ‘thunk’ed onto their coasters. Mr. Fell had asked his friend to serve cocoa which he did as dramatically as possible, sneering at everyone and ‘thunk’ing mugs as loudly as possible. You might have been afraid of this angry man but you can see Mr. Fell in the background smiling fondly at his friend. That initial unease evaporates and you smile at the man. He makes a face and sticks out his tongue at you before turning away. If you noticed that tongue didn’t look normal, you decide it’s not important and go back to work.

1. Crowley invented coupons. The trick, he had explained to the brainless masses of hell during his bi-annual progress report, was the expiration date. You get the human’s hopes up, they think that they’re going to save a little money. Feel oh-so-clever until WHAM. It’s past the expiration date. Humans are so easily distracted. they forget all about it until it’s too late. And there’s that lovely moment of frustration when they find it at the bottom of their bag, reminding them it’s all their fault. It’s just like when one sidewalk segment is slightly taller than the other - a little nudge of anger and frustration ripples outwards all day, passing from one angry human to another. And they do it to themselves!

Hell had not appreciated Crowley’s idea about the sidewalk pavers, and considered the coupon-scheme too complicated to have any real affect. In protest, Crowley invented the manufacturers coupon but that went south quickly, arguments and fights breaking out faster than he predicted. Heaven quickly retaliated and invented the gift card. At this point, it is considered a draw with no points to either side.

#az fell & co #valued customers tag #bc students are the only costumers aziraphale wants in his shop #crowley misses the kids during holidays#but then they bring xmas gifts #crowley tries to make some scathing comment about commercialism and jesus' actual birthdate #but a bunch of them pooled their money together to buy crowley a nice big rock to sun on #err #not for crowley #for the snake #it's a snake gift #for snakes #who miss sunning out in the Garden# i'm not crying angel #you're crying #shut up

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #az fell & co #valued customers tag #bc students are the only costumers aziraphale wants in his shop #crowley misses the kids during holidays #but then they bring xmas gifts #crowley tries to make some scathing comment about commercialism and jesus' actual birthdate #but a bunch of them pooled their money together to buy crowley a nice big rock to sun on #err #not for crowley #for the snake #it's a snake gift #for snakes #who miss sunning out in the Garden #i'm not crying angel #you're crying #shut up

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pnf-lover98 · 4 years

Text

Ineffable Bureaucracy - Late Night

Beelzebub was alone in hers and Gabriel’s kitchen, aggressively rubbing a cloth on the table to clean its surface. The two of them just had dinner, and it was her turn to clean up. Gabriel appeared on the doorway, holding a pile of files and paper sheets in his hands. Beelzebub looked up from the table. “What izzz that?” the demon inquired, pointing to the papers.

“This week has been a f***ing chaos, up in Heaven’s offices,” the angel replied with no emotion. “I got…” Gabriel inhaled deeply. “I got behind with paperwork.” “And you bought it home?” Beelzebub asked surprised, shaking the cloth to let the crumbles fall on the floor. She could clearly feel the tiredness in her husband’s voice. “You come from an already tiring work day and an evening meeting!” “I know, but… Some of these are due tomorrow, and Michael has been pressing me all week for that report about the miracles…!” The demon prince’s face crumpled up in a pitiful expression. Gabriel sat down at the table, placing the files in front of himself. After a few seconds, Beelzebub sat down as well. “You’re keeping me company?” Gabriel’s eyes lit up with hope, a hint of a smile forming on his lips. The demon shrugged. “It is never a bad thing to get ahead with work, I guess”, she played her husband’s question off nonchalantly. But as their relationship grew, Gabriel had been enough attentive to learn not only her habits and the things she liked, but also most of her secret, subtle languages. The archangel’s smile widened, as he recognized the caring gesture behind his wife’s apparent distance. Beelzebub summoned her own pile of papers and dropped them on the table. Then, waving a hand, the woman dissolved the cover-up miracle on her skin, letting it turn back to her usual demonic look; miracles could be a little irritating, if worn for a long amount of time. Gabriel opened a slim folder and pulled a few sheets out of it; each of them was covered in a dense, rather small handwriting. The archangel frowned at the notes, then squinted trying to decipher the words. “Huh, Uriel…” Gabriel put the paper sheet back down, then reached for the pocket in his shirt; “How many times will I still have to tell her to write bigger?” he complained, unfolding the object he pulled out of it. Gabriel grabbed Uriel’s notes once again, but felt Beelzebub staring at him. “What?” the angel looked up at his wife. “You wear glasses!” the demon exclaimed, astonished. “Why did you never tell me, in all these years?” “I, uh…” But Beelzebub cut him off, reading the truth in his eyes: “You consider it as a flaw, do you? That’s why you hide it!” “I’m not…hiding it!” Gabriel replied, sounding offended, “It’s just…I use them only when it’s strictly necessary” the angel defended himself. “Anyway, I really need to start working on this stuff. Please!” “Zzzzorry.” The demon looked down to her files. For a few minutes Beelzebub faked reading a document, stealing glances toward Gabriel every once in a while. She couldn’t help but think about how good he looked with glasses. Hell! He looked good, period. Both creatures focused on their respective work, even though the prince of Hell’s was quite easier; most of the sheets in her pile were complaints and request forms that she couldn’t care less about. The prince went quickly through them rejecting most of her subjects’ propositions, stamping on the papers a big, red “Rejected”. “Mh. I could really use this!” Beelzebub thought somewhen, reading a suggestion that actually didn’t sound as a bad idea. The demon signed the authorization form with her seal, and put it aside. Gabriel was halfway through his work. A couple more lists to fill and Michael’s document to revision and then he should be over with those stupid files. The man sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. Beelzebub had a façade of the ‘though, careless demon’ to maintain all the time around people, and habit sometimes made her wear it even with Gabriel, the only person she could be her true self with. But seeing him that tired made said façade fade; “Hey… is everything ok?” the prince asked softly, running her hand up and down her husband’s arm. “Yeah, I’m just…tired. Neither of us got much sleep, last night, because of… our activities.” The woman couldn’t help a chuckle. “Yeah…”she commented with a smug grin. “Do you need a coffee?” “No, thanks.” The angel declined politely. “I think I’m having a headache…” he whined, almost talking to himself, as he went back to work on Heaven’s files. Not long after Beelzebub went back to her own files, the demon stumbled across a paper sheet that made her laugh. It surely wasn’t a complaint form; it was handwritten and much more informal than the average communication papers wrote by demons. It was a love letter written by a demon flirting with her! Beelzebub laughed at the content of the letter, sending it in flames with a gesture of her free hand. “What a b*tch!” the prince shook her head, directing the thought to Dagon. It was the duke who daily sorted royal mail, giving Beelzebub the files and forms addressed to her. Dagon had purposefully left that flirty letter among the prince of Hell’s mail, maybe hoping to see it cause some trouble. But there would be no trouble. Well, except for the poor demon who tried to hook up with the prince. “I’m done with my papers, for now!” Beelzebub announced not long after that. “I’m going to bed.” Gabriel looked up at her, his eyes asking an unspoken “Already?” “I’m really tired from my work day too”, the demon answered explaining. “Plus, tomorrow I have a council meeting with the other princes scheduled for the morning.” Beelzebub stood up from her seat and walked up to her husband. The woman placed her hand on the angel’s cheek, stroking it lightly with her thumb. Then, she leaned down to plant a soft, long kiss on his forehead. Gabriel closed his eyes, breathing out in relief as Beelzebub’s curative energy spread through his systems. The demon prince broke the kiss, her hand moving down to Gabriel’s shoulder. “Now, get on with those reports already!” the woman said to encourage him, giving him a light push. “I want my big spoon in bed with me!” As Beelzebub moved away, about to leave the room, the angel reached out for her, grabbing her arm. “Hey, Bee…!” The demon turned back toward him. “What?” “Thank you for your company,” Gabriel said smiling. “And for healing my headache.” Beelzebub replied with a soft smile, then left the kitchen. Gabriel turned again to the paperwork in front of him, a smile forming on his lips as warmth spread in his chest. Beelzebub was never one to openly show her love through her words; often she didn’t even show it through physical contact. But her actions revealed how much of a caring person the demon prince could be, and Gabriel felt just so lucky to have her.

#my ficts #ineffable bureaucracy #good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens beelzebub #good omens gabriel #gabriel x beelzebub

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necroarchy · 4 years

Text

Father’s Day

SUMMARY: In the wake of the Second Battle of Light’s Hope, the Lich King contemplates his Deathlord in a strange, rare moment of camaraderie. Except not really.

OR a conversation that doesn’t end with anyone dead for once, but just barely.

NOTE: Reposting 'cause we live that life around here and also it’s got lines I needed to find.

WARNING: This is from Arthas’ perspective, so it’s just all kinds of awful. Mental and emotional abuse, as well as references to past physical abuse. Manipulation, intimidation, victim-blaming, etc. etc.

“ What’re you doing, Lich King? ”

The unsettlement of air announced his Wraith just before her voice, the syllables carrying with them the distinctive sensations that made up the patchwork of her presence - the whisper of ice, of shadow, of wolf’s teeth and bottomless hunger. He did not turn to the child as she leaned irreverently against the balustrade that wrapped around the overlook they stood upon, the hollow thunk of saronite striking saronite muffled by the material of her coat. He had forgone his helm for a short while today, and she stood just at the edge of his peripheral vision if he focused on her. ( He didn’t. ) The wolf, cleverly, settled between Lord and King. While the barrier of fur and bone and blood would not be enough to make Arthas so much as hesitate should things edge towards violence, it would stop Zoen in her tracks.

Idly, he wondered why she was here.

“ Observing. ” Beneath them, knights-in-training battled furiously against one another while instructors waded fearlessly amidst the fray, shouting threats and criticisms. The din was almost pleasant, yet another form of background noise to join that of the endless clamor of murmuring souls that echoed through Arthas’ skull. “ You could benefit from doing the same. ”

He heard the shift of metal and leather as she turned to split her attention between him and the knights. “ They’re awful. ”

“ You were worse. ”

She scoffed in disdain, and he glanced at her just in time to catch her unconsciously raising a hand to rub at where her throat had been sawed open barely a week following her rebirth. He did not try to suppress his smirk. “ Inaccurate, and not the point. ”

“ Isn’t it? ” He tilted his attention further to her, both approving and condemning how she rocked back on her heels away from him.

Wariness of him was smart, was right in a knight of his, no matter their errancy - especially due to their errancy. The Ebon Blade yet had treasons to atone for, sins whose punishments he’d flay from their souls as soon as they had returned, properly, to the heavy fold of his sovereignty. Amusing though it was to watch Acherus’ children scurry around doing his bidding while stubbornly clinging to their delusion of independence, he ached for when they’d kneel in reverent, dutiful loyalty at the foot of his throne, minds reconnected to the grand nexus of the Scourge and the chains of their wills wound firmly around his wrist.

From beneath came an especially loud shout, followed by a gradual decrease of noise. Arthas looked down and saw a rough circle of acolytes forming around what appeared to be a newly-disarmed initiate who stood clenching his lone fist whilst an instructor shouted at him. At their feet lay a severed, leaking limb. The instructor roared for a few more moments before apparently dismissing the acolyte, who took the chance to snag his arm off the ground before stiffly making his way towards the doors that would lead him to the nearest necromancers’ hall. The clamor from before rose back up, knights fighting knights with renewed vigor.

“ See? ” Zoen murmured, tone edging irritatingly similar to smug. Was she closer than she’d been before? “ Awful. ”

“ If any of them surpass you, Deathlord, I’ll replace you. ”

“ If any of them surpass me, Lich King, I’ll deserve it. ” She twisted around to rest her back fully on the railing, dismissing the knights below with silent contempt. The consequence was that she now no longer had anything to really focus on save Arthas himself, which she seemed to only truly understand at the end of her little rotation. To his entertainment, she seemed incapable of regarding him for any protracted length of time, as though he were the sun and to look directly at him would burn her eyes. No, not the sun, he thought. A god, his divinity too darkly radiant for a creature of such profound imperfection as Zoen Mith to gaze upon without suffering vastly for it. The idea pleased him enough that he magnanimously declined to call out the weakness for what it was.

The moment extended awkwardly --- for the girl, of course, not Arthas, who really couldn’t care less about her dilemma except the ways it may compliment him --- wherein Zoen shuffled between gazing down at her dozing wolf and sending furtive, disturbed glances at the sculpted skull of his right pauldron. Her eyes dropped to her feet and her hands fell from the railing to inside her coat’s pockets. She pulled out what looked to be an old, brass pocket watch and frowned briefly at it before curling her fist tighter around it and jamming them both back into her coat.

They fell into silence, leaving one another to their distractions: Zoen her growing unease, Arthas his supervision of his knights’ training. Nothing so gruesomely inconvenient as dismemberment plagued any of the remaining acolytes, though such mercy could not be attributed to hesitancy or consideration on behalf of their brethren; indeed the tide of their ferocity and bloodlust seemed to rise higher in concurrence with the growing length of time that their mock battles stretched on. Except mock began to seem too trite a word, now that he thought about it, its connotations almost too passive for the crashing violence that swept across the floor below - as though it was not a legion of fallen, desecrated heroes pitted in a dozen vicious wars but a pack of squealing children artlessly swinging sticks at one another. Puerile, even - and of course thoughts of puerility inevitably drew his attention (and eyes) toward the child leaning artlessly against the balustrade at his side, one of her hands curling loosely around the hilt of her overhyped stick.

It dawned, suddenly, that he had never before shared any moment of remarkable length with this child of his that did not involve violence of either a physical or mental capacity. He would not call what they dwelled in currently peace, aware as he was of the literal and proverbial wolf slumbering between them, and the blades they both carried at their sides should the metaphorical beast awaken. But it was not violence, nor teeth-clenched toleration that would only last the very bare minimum of time until they could hastily part ways. It was, temporarily, a state of coexistence.

Arthas seized the opportunity to really, truly look at Zoen. His child was a mess of poor construction, avian bones wrapped up in lambskin with shark’s teeth jammed into a too-small mouth, her own weak jaw muzzling her better than any man-made contraption. Lordship had settled heavily on her shoulders, rounding them until he wondered for a moment if they had been wrenched from the sockets. He could see the tension in her neck, how the tendons were taut as bowstrings beneath the skin. The dark shadows that clung to her eyes spoke of an exhaustion she could not even experience anymore. Her cheekbone was splattered with the telltale discolorations of a nearly-healed bruise, and below her jaw, just above the line of her coat’s collar, a sloppy row of stitches ran diagonally down her throat.

“ You look atrocious. ”

Candid, but he had never been the liar between them. She grinned sardonically, and at the corner of her mouth he could just make out the faint, silvery line of where a blade had broken through the skin long ago, trailing from the edge of her lips to the swell of her chin. The scar was unnotable enough on its own, but compounded with his intimate knowledge of the mutilation that destroyed the other side of her face, its inconsequence was practically insulting. Arthas entertained the thought of taking a blade and digging through that pathetic blemish, turning it into another emblem of ruination. Another lesson.

Perhaps this time, she would learn it.

“ Do I? What a shame. ” Her voice was a desert. “ Somewhere between slaughtering demons and leading armies I suppose I let my skincare regimen fall to the wayside. ”

“ If you crumble, child --- ”

“ Yes, you said, ” she snapped, and he so dearly desired to reach forward and pluck out those teeth she dared turn against him. Petulance could be amusing, and spite had its charm, but little mitigated such outright disrespect. “ You’ll replace me with one of your pets. I’m very sure they’ll have better luck attacking the paladins than I did. ”

“ That would not be difficult. ” He rounded on her, paying no heed to the growl building up in the wolf’s chest as it scrabbled to its feet and backed up against his Wraith, its fangs bared uselessly at him. “ Your failure was a spectacular display of the incompetence characteristic of your Ebon Blade. ”

Below them, the din of battle lessened as distracted knights turn from their combatants to the storm quietly brewing on the overlook. Arthas lashed out at their minds in painful chastisement, disgusted at such a large-scale lapse on their part. He would not allow his loyal servants to succumb to the same weaknesses that crippled his traitors - crippled his daughter, who for all her snarling, sputtering outrage could inspire only a swell of disgust in the Lich King.

“ We aren’t --- ”

“ Maxwell Tyrosus and Liadrin were at your mercy, ” he spat viciously, “ and rather than bring them into --- ” my “ --- your fold, you chose to leave them crumpled on the ground, battered but alive. Tirion Fordring rests peacefully in his grave still, because you were too weak to claim him. Time and again, you are given chances to prove yourself, and time and again, you fall short of expectations. You disappoint me. ”

The effect was immediate; Zoen reeled back, face crumpling in a way that brought to mind Archimonde’s destruction of Dalaran; the experience of watching something vaunted be brought down by a power so totally beyond its scope that resistance was completely inconceivable. She built herself back up, brick by brick --- swept away her horror and dismay behind a curtain of rage and hatred, but he could still see it through the gossamer threads, he still knew how fragile the foundations of her construction were.

“ I disappoint you, ” she sneered, shaking her head, as though that might bolster the illusion enough that he couldn’t see through it. “ I disappoint you how, Lich King? ‘Cause I didn’t slaughter my way through Light’s Hope? ” And he could kill her for the ghost of guilt he saw cross her face. “ It only took me four knights and a handful of ghouls to reach their Sanctum. You sent ten thousand soldiers and you didn’t even get through the door! ”

“ Tread lightly, ” he warned softly, taking a step toward her. His Wraith almost tripped over herself in her attempt to not mirror him with a step back, and this was godhood, was sovereignty, was power, this ability to dominate with nothing more than a twitch and a breath. “ Mograine died for you, Deathlord. Don’t throw that sacrifice away out of petulance. ”

But godhood, sovereignty, power --- none would be nearly so gratifying if the whole world simply rolled over, quavering in fearful submission, meekly accepting his dominion without giving rebellion a fleeting thought. Zoen tilted her chin up, the line of stitches across her throat stretching, and Arthas delighted in the defiance as much as he loathed it. There was incredible satisfaction in possessing something that had once fought tooth and nail against being owned.

“ I’m right, though, ” she said coldly, hollowly. The lack of arrogance ensured that his loathing did not outweigh his delight for now. “ Other than bringing back Tirion, we’ve done everything right. Got the weapons, got the Horsemen, got a couple mountains’ worth of dead demons behind us, got a… glowy, floaty, singin’ thing hangin’ out in the corner of Acherus that I should probably throw back into the ocean or something ‘cause it’s giving everyone a headache and it clashes with everything and we’ve got a bloody aesthetic to maintain --- ”

The wolf chuffed, breaking the flow of Zoen’s ramble. She spared it a blank, indecipherable look before returning her gaze to Arthas.

“ So --- so you could kill me ‘cause I’m petulant, and replace me with one of those --- those unborn brats down there, and see how that goes. Or you could… not kill me, and not replace me, ‘cause so far that seems to be working out pretty well. ”

“ Is this a plea for mercy, Deathlord? ”

A laugh tore its way out of her throat. “ Mercy’s a sin. I’m asking you to be practical. ”

It was not pride that unfurled, sleepy and disoriented, beneath his rib cage, but its precursor. The acknowledgement that pride could exist within him, that one day it might settle in his bones, that looking at his Wraith would not inspire frustration and betrayal and and a sinking, clawing feeling that he could not name. And if she could scrabble her way towards such glory as the Death God’s approval, imagine what the rest of her brethren could accomplish, those whose only disappointments had been betrayal.

A crooked grin crossed the Lich King’s features, and that precursor must have bled through because Zoen lowered her chin, looking somewhat disturbed. “ Then consider yourself forgiven, Deathlord, ” he said with all proper magnanimity of a god. She wasn’t, really, wouldn’t be for a long while, but if she could offer candor, he could offer lies. “ I’d suggest returning to your knights before you need seek it again. ”

His Wraith, for all her faults, was not quite foolish enough to dare stay when a clean exit was offered; and thus with a short whistle to her wolf, she lurched away from the balustrade, hands raised and wreathed in shadow as she wrenched open a death gate. The wolf padded obediently through the portal, and she had nearly taken her first step through when:

“ Though I do wonder, Zoen, why you came here today at all. ”

With her back to him as she stood before her gate, Arthas could not see what sort of emotion might have twisted her features, but he knew enough from the stiffening of her shoulders, the way her hands curled into fists before she shoved them into her pockets, that it would have been interesting. And as the silence grew between them, festering like an infected wound, he began to consider reaching forward, yanking her around that he might find out.

“ It’s Father’s Day, ” she said at last, and that strange, sinking feeling clawed at his insides. “ Thought about just sending a card, but I’m pretty sure the postage would’ve bankrupted me. Suffer well, Arthas. ”

And then she was gone, the gate sealing neatly behind her, nothing left behind to indicate she had ever been there at all. Arthas found himself staring at the space she’d occupied for a moment too long before finally returning his eyes to the knights training below, clashing in their mock battles like a pack of children.

Father’s Day.

The claws sunk deeper.

He should have carved up her face again.

#﹙ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ ᴏғ ᴍʏ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ. ﹚ legion.#﹙ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ᴛᴏᴡɴ. ﹚ zoen mith.#﹙ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴀʀʀᴏɢᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴡʀᴏᴜɢʜᴛ. ﹚ knights of the ebon blade.#﹙ ꜱᴛɪʀʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛꜱ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ. ﹚ the scourge.#//#most fun thing about rereading this #is seeing how much i've changed about their dynamic #since i've actually started really developing them!

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eveningstarcatcher · 4 years

Text

Terrible Chances

Happy Valentine’s Day! <3

For @ineffably-good for the @goloveday art exchange Also on A03

Title from the song "Nevertheless I'm in Love With You" (Somehow, I know at a glance, the terrible chances I'm taking Fine at the start, then left with a heart that is breaking)

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice cut through the demon’s thoughts.

They were dining at the Ritz on a cold, grey Valentine’s Day afternoon. Aziraphale had been chattering on about something and Crowey, chin in hand, had drifted off, daydreaming of how it would feel to pull the angel close, to hold him, to be held by those sturdy arms. He wondered if he would smell different with his nose pressed against his skin, if he would feel soft or sturdy under his lips, how it would feel to be pressed up against his chest and feel his heartbeat and the rumble of his laughter.

“My dear, are you alright?” Azirphale’s brows were furrowed, his fork set across his dessert plate, his focus completely on the distracted demon.

“M’fine. Distracted, sorry. What were you saying?” Crowley brushed it off, scolding himself for letting his mind wander to the forbidden places he had sworn off for 6,000 years.

“Nothing important, I assure you,” Aziraphale smiled kindly across the table at him. “Would you like to share what’s on your mind?”

“S’really nothing,” Crowley poured them each more wine.

“You do know you can trust me, don’t you?” Aziraphale gazed at him with concern and apology etched into the lines on his face.

Crowley smiled fondly. “I know, angel.”

Azirphale shot him a suspicious look and lifted his fork to his mouth, savoring the deep flavors of the chocolate soufflé.

“But you’d rather not discuss it?” The angel said softly, his eyes on his plate, a strange look creeping over his features.

“There’s nothing to discuss!” Crowley insisted. “Really, absolutely nothing.”

“Isn’t there?” Aziraphale set his fork down with unnecessary force.

“No!” Crowley groaned, earning looks from nearby diners.

“Absolutely nothing you want to discuss with me today at this restaurant?” Aziraphale prodded, a blush spreading across his cheeks, his lips in a tight line.

“Nothing special, just the usual stuff.” Crowey knew he was missing something, but he didn’t know what it was. He felt like he was about to be submerged under a tidal wave, but he didn’t have the resources to save himself, so he was just treading water.

“Nothing special. I see,” Aziraphale pushed himself away from the table and stood, tossing his napkin to the table.

“You haven’t finished your dessert.” Crowley gestured, hoping to convince Aziraphale to sit back down.

“I’m not hungry,” he retorted and strode from the dining room.

“Angel, wait!” Crowley waved a hand to pay the bill and send the leftovers to the bookshop, then jogged after his companion, who was already out of the restaurant.

Crowley burst out of the doors, looking frantically for the familiar halo of pale curls. He found Aziraphale standing by the Bentley, hands wringing in front of his stomach, a pinched look on his face. The grey sky cast a shadow over his soft features, turning them harsh and cold.

“Please take me home.” His voice was as cold as the wind that blew, making Crowley shudder.

“Of course,” Crowley replied curtly.

The ride back to the bookshop was strained and silent. Aziraphale kept shifting uncomfortably in his seat, fidgeting. He adjusted his bow tie, wrung his hands, smoothed his waistcoat, unable to keep still. When they arrived at the shop muttered a quick “thank you” and hopped out of the car.

Crowley stared after him for a moment, unsure what to do, then jumped out and followed him into the shop. He had to fix this.

“Angel, what’s going on?” He immediately headed to the backroom, knowing that’s where he would find the disgruntled angel.

“What’s going on?” Aziraphale scoffed, pouring a glass of wine for himself. “You take me out to lunch at the Ritz, today of all days, and you act like it doesn’t mean anything!” He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in one go, bending over to refill it.

“Is it supposed to mean something?” Crowley was getting very hot here, the conversation veering in a direction he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to go in. This was uncharted territory.

“Isn’t it?” Aziraphale was edging on hysterical. “We’ve known each other for 6,000 years! We prevented the apocalypse together! I thought, well, I’d hoped that maybe…” his eyes focused on the dark red liquid in his glass. “Well, I thought things might be different now!”

“Different?” Crowley echoed dumbly.

“Things are different, aren’t they, my dear? I think we’ve gotten closer since the world didn’t end, or was I imagining it?” His blue eyes were laser focused on Crowley, who shook his head, unable to form words.

“I suppose I was hoping that… well, you obviously don’t feel the same. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” Azirpahale turned away from Crowley.

“Wait, what? What am I missing?” Crowley crossed the space between them, turning the angel around to face him.

“You still don’t see it? You can’t feel it?” Aziraphales eyes were puffy and wet.

“Feel what? Angel, I’m sorry, but I’m lost. What do you want to change?” His heart was pounding. Aziraphale’s eyes were boring holes into his soul, searching for something - was it love? Was that what the angel wanted? Was he asking for Crowley to open the gates and let the flood of emotion out? He didn’t know if he could refuse him, he had never been good at denying the angel, but he had to. He couldn’t tempt him that way.

“Crowley, I know you’re a demon, but you’re not an idiot. Can’t you feel it? It’s everywhere, all around us, don’t you sense it?” Azirphale had grabbed fistfuls of Crowley’s jacket, pulling him closer, pleading. “Crowley, don’t you know by now that I love you?”

“You what???” Crowley breathed out quickly, sounding harsher than he anticipated.

“You have to know. Don’t you know? I’ve loved you for so long, my dear, but I was too afraid to tell you, too afraid to love you and risk losing you. Too afraid to disobey Heaven and put you in danger. But we don’t have to worry about that anymore!” He smiled earnestly, pushing himself onto his tiptoes. “I love you, Crowley.”

He leaned into the demon, who was standing frozen, unable to process what was happening. He had dreamt of this for eternity. It was finally happening, but it couldn’t. He longed to give in, to wrap his arms around Aziraphale and kiss him, to find the answers to the questions he hated himself for asking - what does he feel like, what does he taste like, how soft are those beautiful lips?

Aziraphale brushed his lips lightly against Crowley’s cheek, sending shivers down both of their spines. Aziraphale repeated the action on the other cheek, then moved to center himself, hovering just a breath from Crowley’s lips. He waited, inviting Crowley to close the distance. He wanted to be kissed. He wanted Crowley.

The demon panicked and shoved Aziraphale away from him, sending them both stumbling backwards.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was small and weak, betrayed, hurt, heartbroken. He clutched at his chest, his tears spilling over.

“I-I can’t,” Crowley stuttered, moving backwards and bumping into everything in his path. He kicked books and knocked into the couch, steadying himself on anything he could reach.

“Why?” Aziraphale was folding in on himself.

“I- I just can’t.” Crowley couldn’t find the words to explain it all. How he couldn’t be the reason the angel falls, would never tempt him, would never hurt him.

He ran out of the bookshop, leaving Aziraphale to crumple to the floor, sobbing.

“Crowley, why?” he cried out.

“Stupid demon. Could have explained,” Crowley scolded himself. He had ended up at St. James Park, sitting at their usual bench, hunched over his knees, muttering. He threw bread at the ducks rather than to them, creating a frenzy of angry and confused wildlife. “Sure, just tell him ‘You know I’ve been in love with you since Eden and I’ve fantasized about kissing you a million times in a million ways, but no thanks. I don’t want to be responsible for you falling, so let’s just stay friends, shall we? No problem. Just another 6,000 years of repressed feelings, no big deal, right? Just tickety-boo!’”

He let out a deep scream and chucked the last of the bread at the ducks who had finally had enough of this behavior and fled, leaving behind chunks of bread.

Crowley stood and shoved his hands in his pockets, stomping down the path.

“What kind of jerk would just leave without a word? Reject him without explanation and leave? He might never want to see me again. Shouldn’t ever want to see me again. Would make things easier. No,” he slowed for a moment, “not easier. Safer, but not better. Definitely worse.” He resumed his quick pace through the park, heading back toward the Bentley. “Doesn’t matter. Selfish to run. You have to explain it.”

He drove back to the bookshop in record time and dashed to the door. His hand was on the knob, ready to throw it open, but stopped, recognizing the strange energy coming from inside. He pressed his ear to the door and heard voices, many voices. Aziraphale’s was higher than usual, distressed, the others were calm. Too calm.

“Angels,” Crowey hissed. He squatted down to peek through the window below the shade and saw four figures standing over a heap on the floor.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley cried and flung the doors open. “GET AWAY FROM HIM!” He bellowed.

“The demon Crowley, we wondered when you’d be arriving.” Gabriel turned to him, flashing his most polite smile. “We were just paying a little visit to former principality Aziraphale.” He gestured to the floor where the poor angel lay.

“Former?” Crowley faltered. Had he failed? Had he hurt the angel in vain, causing him to fall despite his best efforts? Had he let the angel go through the fall alone?

“Well, he doesn’t work for us anymore, doesn’t work for anyone,” Gabriel shrugged, hardly invested, yet inconvenienced by this.

“He hasn’t fallen, if that’s what you’re asking,” Uriel interjected matter-of-factly.

“I don’t think he will,” Michael added, looking down at Aziraphale, grimacing in disappointment. “Would have already done it if he was going to.”

“There are other ways to punish him,” Sandalphon was standing directly above Aziraphale, his teeth bared in a horrific smile, hands ready to strike the angel, though it was clear that he’d already done enough damage.

“And what does the demon have to say?” Gabriel’s focus was intense, but Crowley refused to shift under it, standing his ground, ready to defend the angel by any means necessary.

“I say get away from him.” Crowley growled between his teeth.

“Or what? You think you can take on four angels?” Gabriel laughed, quick and loud.

“You may have avoided execution in Hell, but you won’t fare so well here,” Michael sneered.

“Accept your fate,” Uriel advises. “Leave and he will be spared.”

“Spared?” It was Crowley’s turn to laugh. “Since when does Heaven spare anyone? You tried to destroy him with Hellfire!” He felt the rage flaming up inside him, a strange power coursing through his veins, hot and molten. “You think I’m going to just leave him with you? Just let you take him?”

“It would be best,” Uriel responded, looking once again at the heap of cream and tartan.

“You have no idea what’s best!” Crowley roared, widening his stance to steady himself, preparing to fight. “I won’t let you have him! He doesn’t belong to you anymore! Now, last chance: Get. Out.” He gestured to the door in offering.

Gabriel laughed in Crowley’s face. Sandalphon followed suit. Michael and Uriel exchanged uncomfortable glances.

“Fine. The hard way then,” Crowley’s face broke into a wide grin as he snapped fingers and felt the strange power surge and take control. He gave in to the tingling in his veins, feeling the heat seep into every cell, sweeping over him from the inside out. A faint orange glow was emanating from his limbs and his eyes were turning blood red. His night-black wings burst out with a flutter and a single, powerful beat, sending the angels staggering backwards. He snapped his fingers and held his hands out to reveal two spheres of Hellfire dancing in his palms. He grinned maniacally and scanned the room, taking in each terrified face before him.

“Sorry it had to be like this, Gabey, but I can’t have you bothering Aziraphale anymore.” He threw one ball of flame at Gabriel, who just barely ducked in time, falling to the floor and rolling away. “As for you, you’re not laying another finger on him, you basssstard!” He turned on Sandalphon and lunged forward, flinging fire at him. The flame caught Sandalphon’s shoulder and he screamed in pain, tearing off his overcoat, jumping to the side to cower behind Michael and Uriel.

“Can all demons do that?” Michael asked, eyes wide in fear and awe.

“Don’t know, don’t care.” Crowley snapped two more flames into his hands, intending to advance on Michael and Uriel, but he sensed a shift behind him. He spun around and caught Gabriel by the throat, holding him aloft and striding forward until the angel was trapped between a bookshelf and Crowley’s strong grip. Of course, the archangel didn’t need to breathe, but he was unaccustomed to a human corporation, so he sputtered and grabbed at Crowley’s arm, begging to be released.

“I’ll say it once more - get out. And if any of you come back here or contact Aziraphale in any way, I won’t hesitate to remove you permanently.” Crowley brought his free hand to Gabriel’s face, the heat from the Hellfire singeing the tips of his hair. “Do you accept my terms?”

Gabriel glared at him in response. Crowley tightened his grip and brought the fire closer to Gabriel’s eyes, earning him a frantic nod.

Crowley released him, shifting to grab at the collar of the crisp white shirt and throwing Gabriel to the floor at the other angels’ feet. “Go. Now!” He commanded and in a brief flash of blinding light they were gone.

Crowey stood, panting. His limbs suddenly felt very heavy. Where the Hellfire had flowed in power, he now felt leaden and exhausted. He dropped to his knees, one hand clutching at his head, which was pounding from the exertion, then he heard a small sound.

“Aziraphale!” He cried and clambered over to the angel, shifting him carefully to lay on the demon’s lap. “Are you okay?” Crowley’s hands supported Aziraphale’s neck and head as he lay it against his legs, then looked for injuries, fluttering over his chest, arms, stomach.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, his eyes growing wide with panic. “They’re here. The angels. Get out before they see you!” He was trying to push himself up, to hide Crowley. Even after the demon had deserted him, left him broken-hearted, he still cared for him, tried to protect him.

“It’s okay, angel. They’re gone,” Crowley soothed, pulling Aziraphale gently into his arms.

“Gone?” Azirpahale repeated, incredulously.

“Yeah, got rid of ‘em. Shouldn’t be bothering you anymore.” Crowley held him tight. At last, allowed to wrap his arms around Aziraphale and breathe him in.

“By yourself? There were four of them!” Azirpahale’s voice indicated shock, but he closed his eyes and relaxed into Crowley’s chest.

“Yeah. What did they do to you?”

“Well, I was in quite a bad way before they arrived. They told me that I deserved to be hurt, I deserved to be deserted, deserved to die for what I did, for my crimes against Heaven.” He shivered against Crowley. “They promised me forgiveness if I repented of my sins and returned to Heaven. Permanently. I refused and they hit me. Well, Sandalphon hit me. Gabriel didn’t want to get his hands dirty.” Azirphale frowned. “He made Michael and Uriel hold me so I couldn’t escape or fight back.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up, angel.” Crowey cooed, shifting out from under Aziraphale and snapping a bowl of warm water and a cloth into existence. He dipped the cloth into the water and twisted it, watching as the excess liquid fell back into the bowl.

He raised the cloth to Aziraphale’s forehead and dabbed lightly at the cut there. “S’not deep. Should be fine in no time.” He wiped the tear stains from his cheeks and set the cloth in the bowl. “I’m going to need to remove your shirt.” Crowley’s fingers hovered above the buttons until Aziraphale nodded his consent.

Crowley moved quickly, but cautiously, carefully helping the angel out of his waistcoat, then his shirt, laying them carefully over a stack of books that lay nearby.

There were bruises forming over his ribs and stomach, but no blood. He gently ran the cloth over the skin anyway, hoping the warm water would soothe the pain. There were scratches around Azirpahale’s wrists where Michael and Uriel’s nails had dug in to keep him still. He had struggled, fought back, while Crowley was moping in the park.

“Were they watching you? Us? Waiting for me to leave you alone?” Crowley inquired softly, pressing the cloth against one wrist.

“It’s very likely,” Aziraphale nodded.

“I’m sorry I left.”

“What happened? Please talk to me.” Azirpahale took Crowley’s chin in his hand and tiled his head up to face him. “I told you I love you and you ran away. If you don’t feel the same, you could have just said so. I’d understand.” His eyes were clear blue, sincere and forgiving.

“Oh, angel. It’s not that,” Crowley sagged under the weight of this confession. “I was afraid of losing you.”

“Losing me? I had just admitted my feelings for you!” Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up in amusement.

“I know. That’s what scared me. I thought… I thought that I’d tempted you. I thought you’d fall because of me.” Crowley could feel tears streaming down his cheeks, dropping his head to stare into his lap. “I thought that if I never told you, never let you know how I felt, that you’d be safe. Never thought you’d be the one to make the first move.” He chuckled sadly.

“Dear, I won’t fall.” Azirpahale took Crowley’s hands in his.

“How do you know?”

“How could a love this pure be a sin?” Aziraphale beamed at him and Crowley was overwhelmed by the waves of love crashing down over him. It was dizzying and disorienting and everything he had been longing for for 6,000 years. He felt torn apart and put together by this love, it was destruction and new life, it emptied him into the angel and was filled to overflowing in return.

“Are you sure?” He choked out, sobs rising in his chest.

“My dear Crowley, I’m very sure. Are you?” Azirpahale asked shyly.

“Oh, shit! I didn’t say it, did I? You know, don’t you? Since Eden! Oh, angel, since you told me you gave away your stupid sword. Aziraphale,” he stared into the eyes of the being he loved, “I love you, too!”

Aziraphale threw his arms around Crowley’s neck and squeezed. Crowley wrapped him in his arms and buried his head in the angel’s shoulder.

“I love you, angel. I never thought I’d be able to tell you. Never dreamed that you’d feel the same.”

“I love you, too, Crowley.” Aziraphale pulled back to caress Crowley’s cheek. “Will you kiss me now?” The blush was creeping back onto his cheeks.

“I’ll kiss you forever if you want, angel!” Crowley wrapped a hand around the back of Azirpahale’s neck and guided him in.

When their lips met it felt like lightning - uncontrollable and hot and beautiful. They moved slowly at first, unsure. This was unfamiliar, and yet it felt inevitable, like they’d been hurtling towards this moment for 6,000 years. Their hands roamed, exploring, finally able to touch the skin they’d been dreaming about for millennium. The sharp planes of Crowley’s shoulders, the soft skin of Aziraphale’s stomach, the long line of Crowley’s neck, the gentle curve of the small of Aziraphale’s back. It was intoxicating. It felt like jumping into a pool on a hot day - sudden and cool, but powerful and overwhelming at the same time. They broke apart, coming to the surface for air, panting and grinning like fools.

“My love,”’Aziraphale whispered, his forehead leaning against Crowley’s.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Crowley chuckled, diving back into the cool waters of Aziraphale’s kiss.

#my writing #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #goloveday #goloveday2020 #fic #go fic

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corneliahall · 4 years

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My dreams that night were more than enough to scare me. After sharing a silent, awkward dinner with my mother, I went straight to bed and let Cameron's silky fur comfort me through the disturbing images my brain was processing. Memories of my childhood oddities and, of course, the generated ones that I might encounter in the future. I woke up to the sound of my phone's alarm, reminding me that everything else around me was normal. Everything beyond my house did not change at all. I got up, showered, and did all the mundane things my body required. It felt weird to stare at the mirror after the strange talk with my teacher and Mr. Ryder last night. Still, my choppy, curly red hair was normal. My blue eyes were still normal. My skin, although rimmed with darkness around the eyes from last night's lack of sleep, was more or less normal with its impertinent pinkish glow and the rust-colored freckles. Goth ginger. Giselle the Goth ginger is what they called me because of my wardrobe consisting of dark-colored clothes. Mostly deep blues, purples, violets and tinges of neon. Purists at my school would argue I was not a proper one since I don't exactly follow the entire lifestyle. In truth, dark colors just make me feel safer. You would never guess my favorite color is white. My mom went out early due to the store's start-of-season sale. Her mini beauty store, the pompously-named Margaret's Beauty Choice, allowed me to have my own variety of lipsticks and eyeshadow palettes. We are both make-up junkies. While she used to do make-up for small-time models in New York, my earliest experience was putting on a Ruby Woo lipstick on my eight-year-old lips. I caught up to the school bus just right on time and decided to sit further back than usual. Alyssa's pretty face was still healing when I heard about it yesterday and she might appear today in school to get some counseling. Hah. Like she would ever listen to anyone. Just then I noticed something out of the ordinary. Someone. Normally, Lilly Saint-Louis was the one who took this seat of the school bus. Lilly was not there; a new kid was. I've studied at Sheffield since last year—the longest standing school since I was six and that's an achievement—and not once have I seen the guy. He looked like he was brooding over something, with his eyebrows knitted over his dark eyes. He was obviously of Asian descent; his eyes were single-lidded slanting towards the inner corners. He had black hair trimmed like those I read in Japanese comics. He was handsome but I would not give him the chance to see me acknowledging such a fact. My eyebrow arched up almost automatically but I just sat next to him. He acknowledged my presence once and went back to staring at the world outside the school bus. "So... new kid?" I could not help it. I wouldn't want an awkward start if he were a new student. He did not answer me and just looked at his phone while he was shuffling to find something in his pocket. Thankfully it was not a knife but a pair of earpods. I would have to praise him later for not misplacing that. "Nah. Just a stowaway. I snuck inside here last night. Typical rendezvous from the world, don't you think?" His accent was still evident. Though he must have been some kind of a rich kid since he knew big words that no normal American teen would use, unless in an essay. It was hard to tell if he was joking but from his deadpan face, he seemed pretty serious. "How did you get past the bus camera?" I was completely mystified. Sheffield had the best bus cameras in Minneapolis. Heck, I could not even sneak back inside to get my bag whenever I forgot it. He shuffled in his bag again to show me a dislocated pair of vehicle cameras. "I took it out. It's pretty easy to do if you have god-given talent as I have," he flashed his pearly whites briefly and then reverted to his brooding face. "We're going to Sheffield, right? Is it cool? You do know your school buses ain't parked in your own lot at night, right?" He must have snuck inside the school lot downtown. I shrugged. "Yeah, it's one of the weird things I do not understand at Sheffield but... I think it makes sense since we are a small school." Pfft. Wow. We. As if I was ever genuinely a part of this school. "What about life in Minnesota?" "Great. If you mean great as dead, boring winter nights. Plus, nothing is really that good here. We just have cool frozen lakes." He sighed and scratched his head, "New York and Cali never gave me a break so I guess I'd love a quiet place," he murmured and bent backward to stretch, the thinness of his lanky frame showing slightly. Underneath, he was wearing an orange shirt with weird markings too good for my poor reading skills. "New York, huh? Ever heard of a camp?" He frowned. "Camp? There are tons of camps in New York. Camp Crystal Lake. Yeah, Crystal Lake is a thing. Camp Eisenhower. Lazo Jersey Camp. A whole lot of camping sites upstate. Well, I was not really from New York but I camped a lot for some time. Pretty cool for hiking and canoeing, too." Hiking and canoeing seemed way better than staying at Walmart as a cashier. "Oh, if those things were boring, you might have been looking for more difficult challenges, huh?" "I'm looking for a quiet life. Away from the go—Goths. I mean, Goths." "Goths?" I almost snorted a laugh. "You don't look like a Goth to me, Miss Ginger." He looked at me up and down before he went back to staring at the crumpled love letter lodged in between our seats. Not one of us read it. I shuffled my ankles. "I am Giselle, by the way. Giselle Blair." "Too much information, Giselle. Can I call you Gee?" "That's a no." Though Mom does call me Gee sometimes. "You sound like the late Simon Cowell, bless his soul." I did not know who Simon was but it turned the light chat into a long, awkward silence. "Haruto," he said as the bus took a turn from the intersection. "What?" He looked around as if he was being watched before carefully placing his lips next to my ear. "Call me Haru. My name is... Haruto." A blush rose to my cheeks. "You know you could just tell me your name without getting too close, right?" Haruto chuckled. "Don't be such a priss. I don't like ginger girls anyway. I was just being—ahh... never mind me." He began to look again at the scenery outside. We were almost at Sheffield but this time, something strange happened. The moment we entered the tunnel leading to the school gates, the bus began to act up, as if it was being pulled in all directions. Dark liquid began to creep up our windows like anti-gravity crude oil and all of the students began to scream. Even the bus driver screamed curses at what was happening. Only Haruto seemed to know what was happening. He hissed but it was as if he knew this was going to happen. "Stupid me. They know I am here!" He growled, running towards the bus door and slamming it open. A scrawny kid knocking down pneumatic bus doors? That was fascinating... if we ignore the fact that we were not attacked by a giant shadow sludge. The bus driver tried to gather us all up at the back of the bus but I knew in me that it was wrong. Instincts drove me to the edge, letting me slash my way outside the bus. "Haruto!" I screamed around while the bus was slowly swallowed by the dark sludge. For a second I was about to be convinced Haruto was just an imaginary friend my mind created for the sake of coping from yesterday's mysteries. The shadows seemed to leave the bus alone, as they receded from the shuddering vehicle and unfortunately came at me. I knew I should have been a huge ginger slush right there at the gates of Sheffield if not for the spine-tingling explosion over me. The exploding rocks were about to shower down on me if not for Haruto, who suddenly rolled into the scene and led me out to safety. Son of Zeus! You still have not learned from your mistakes in Anaheim! A voice made from a thousand ones grittily scolded Haruto. It seemed that it was coming from the dark mass of shadows around us. Haruto just looked at the shadows with utmost distaste. "A dark shadow... attacking a school at 08:00 in the morning. Clearly, you guys are just desperate!" The swirling mass of shadows and fog seemed to solidify into a shape of a large, muscular man. Its eyes were as bright as the stars on a clear night. Though his intense stare at me made them look like headlights about to send a doe to deer heaven. Bah, you are not what I am here for. I will finish you before I get my hands on the girl! Haruto gave me a sideways glance but I was totally clueless at the moment. I was sure that maybe one of the girls in our school had summoned a shadow demon and the experiment went wrong. Now, the shadow demon wanted to seek vengeance and he probably mistook me as the one who summoned him. There were at least three people in school with red hair. Boy, was I all wrong.

Excerpt from The Night’s Call

#please read #read me #wattpad #percy jackson #percy jackson fanfic #pjo

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