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#supernatural prompt
5sospenguinqueen · 2 days
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Lucifer: I've decided that I'm an atheist.
Y/N: Your dad is literally God.
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lab-trash · 8 months
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The idea that after Michael is able to make his own vessel, he still sometimes joins Adam in his. It's like the ultimate cuddle.
And the best part is, sometimes Michael's empty ass vessel will just fall. It'll just faceplant on the floor because Michael and Adam wanted some together time.
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Prompt #664
“Get out of my friend's body!” [Hero] demanded, pointing their weapon at [Other Hero], who only shook their head sadly in response.
“You aren’t listening, I am your friend,” they tried- or rather the thing inside their body tried to explain.
“Bull shit!” [Hero] yelled, “You can’t trick me, I know you’re in there! You crawled inside them-”
“-Over fifteen years ago,” [Other Hero] cut them off. “I crawled inside the body of this brain dead person over fifteen years ago. That’s what I mean when I say I am your friend, not this body.” [Other Hero] willed them to understand.
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heli0s-writes · 1 year
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crawl til dawn
a/n: reader @steve: “if bucky’s your babygirl why’s he covered in my blood” aka 3k words of enemies to something. Happy October! Reader is vampire adjacent. Reader/Stucky if you squint and are into that kind of dynamic.
warnings: vampy stuff. cussing. steve picking a fight because he doesn’t know how to express his feelings.
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Bucky’s curse is starting to turn him blue. After years of living with Wanda, Steve’s learned when to stop questioning the unknown variables of the supernatural, but that doesn’t mean he’s able to stop his skin from crawling in the presence of it.
Bucky’s stumbling on carpet like it’s moving beneath his feet. He’s trying to give Steve a reassuring smile and only getting across a grimace.
“I’m alright, Stevie,” he attempts. His teeth are chattering.
“Yeah, I know you are, Buck,” Steve replies, holding his arm tighter as they take it one step at a time, half-dragging him as they get to the end of the hall.
At the last room on the left, a dim light is squeezed out of the bottom in a slant, an undulating sense of dread creeping out when his shoes point toward it.
The force rushes him like a tidal wave upon entering. It’s just a sensation, a chilling gust his body can’t feel but his soul can, and he notices two people in the back corner.
There’s a flickering outline against the wall, one second here, the next, gone like some kind of trick, he thinks. Some kind of magic.
The longer he stares, the more solid they appear. One quivering doe-eyed agent whose nametag flops pathetically against his tie.
And you.
Your eyes slice up, shimmery in the dark like how headlights reflect off nocturnal animals before you dip back down. A small grunt and the shoulders of the mostly immobile man in front of you slouch a fraction further, his head tilting like he’s about to roll it back and pass out.
Steve realizes with a jolt of nausea that you’re feeding.
Bucky, too gone to notice anything, only gasps soundlessly for air.
“He’s in bad shape,” Steve calls, a certain firmness to his voice that he hopes means business.
“Yeah, aren’t we all.” You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and the agent takes his wrist to his chest, shuddering. “Thanks.” You flick at the man’s ID badge, which makes him jump.
He shoots to his feet and then the poor bastard can’t get out of there soon enough, nearly ramming himself into every surface on the way.
Steve’s got questions he knows aren’t going to be answered. His hackles are way up on high alert. If there was any other help that could be summoned in the next ten minutes, he’d drop everything to conjure it. But there’s not. There’s only you, sitting easy and wide, glowing with fresh blood in your veins, eyeing Buck slumped into the wooden chair like he’s your next meal.
You tongue the inside of your cheek, reading his face like an open book. “Settle down, Rogers. I’m into consent.”
Steve nods to the door, which has now been shut. “Did he consent?”
“He sure thought so.”
“What does that mean?”
You squat down in front of Bucky’s fluttering lashes, pulling his eyelids up one and then the other to inspect him. “It’s not my fault if humans think every blood-drinker is a vampire. Or that vampires look like Angelina Jolie.”
Condescension drips from your words like they’re children dipping their toes in a world they can’t begin to wrap their heads around. And Steve hasn’t felt like that since he was pulled from the ice— and he’s since sworn never to feel like that again.
He narrows his eyes, feels despair immolate into fury. “And you’re not one?”
“Don’t mind him,” Bucky wheezes, winking out the dryness when you let go, less troubled despite his current state. “He gets defensive.” As if that’s something Steve can help when Bucky’s stiff with rigor and clawing at his thighs to keep himself conscious.
Defensive is putting it extremely lightly. Steve’s one more abracadabra away from barreling headfirst down a warpath to exterminate the lot of them. His limbs are restless and keyed up, at the ready to go after the witch who cursed Bucky into this state—and if she doesn’t survive him, maybe he won’t be too torn up about it. What she’s done to Bucky will be nothing compared to what Steve’s going to do to her.
The existence of this twilight world is revealing itself more and more each day. Ghouls and ghosts and the kind of phenomena that challenges his concept of reality. The times he’s crossed its path are all times he avoids recalling. Instances too violent, too wrong in an inhuman way. Science made him, man made him, but something else entirely made them— and you. And his Catholic upbringing tries to tell him it knows exactly what.
They are appearing more and more lately. A couple of years ago, it was just one or two hauntings—for fuck’s sake—phantoms right out of those gothic literature books he’s never enjoyed reading. Then it was skin-walkers and blood-drinkers and once, even something he assumed was a banshee with the way it screeched. He’d never thought true evil existed until now.
And he’s seen you out there, terrifyingly calm, gutting left and right like it was a simple pastime.  
He glares at how you thumb Buck’s mouth, hooking a finger beneath his upper lip to examine his gums.
When you hum thoughtfully, Bucky gives a grin so fucking dismal it makes Steve frown. He’s gray and freezing and chirps, “If ya wanted to see my tongue, all you had to do was ask.”
Your hold softens and you caress his cheek, lean in sweet towards him. “You’re cute, Barnes. Are you being told that enough?”
Steve clears his throat and Bucky tries again before anyone starts throwing punches over him, “What’s my prognosis, doc?”
You look up at Steve with bad news written in the fine lines of your face and it’s starting to hit him now that the marks all over Bucky after the mission—the marks Wanda couldn’t decipher, the marks that rose like his veins were trying to tear out of his skin—didn’t look too much like glyphs.
“You’re not cursed, baby. You’re bloodsick.” You trace a 3-day old welt near the underside of Bucky’s bicep, the skin around it bruised near to black, dance your digits to another one up his neck. “That hurt you feel in your marrow? That’s the vampire turning you inside out.”
The thrumming air from earlier is dead still, Steve’s chest ice-cold as he tries to grasp an appropriate response.
“You tellin’ me,” Buck wheezes, “I’m gonna look like Angelina Jolie soon?”
You chuckle wryly, ambling to your feet, and brush a lock of his tangled hair. He leans into it, lips parting and closing.
You say, “Sit tight,” and gesture Steve into the hallway.
-
He’s pacing so heavily you’re sure the lower 5 floors can feel it.
“I have an idea,” you say and he skids to a halt, whipping around.
“An idea?”
“Yeah,” you snap as he rears up. “I’ve never seen a super go vamp, so I have an idea. And it’ll probably work.”
His eyes narrow, “I need better than probably.”
“I can’t scry out the damn future, Rogers. I’m not a seer.”
“And not a vampire?”
“Jesus, this fucking guy,” you mutter under your breath. Then louder, “Okay. How’s this for better: you either stake him before he eats someone, or you give him to me. Take your pick.”
Rogers crosses his arms, shifts his weight to one leg and says try that again without saying anything.
It’s been ages since you’ve had a headache, but you feel one coming on. You forget how much of an absolute pain he can be. If you never see his face again it’ll still be too soon.
When he’s not in your way, he’s trying to set you straight—and even when their witch calls in a favor for him, he’s all—you take a long, withering glance—wide shoulders, squared hips, a frown so deep it challenges the Mariana trench—all this. Big mister man. Bitchy and argumentative. Out of time and way fucking out of his depth.
He might have punched dictators and fascists and even gods but those were corporeal things, meat and bone. He’s got no idea what’s out there-- what’s been there the entire time.
But he doesn’t listen to anything. Thinks he’s got seniority just because he lived through an era. A blink.
“Kid,” you sigh, stretching what tiny little patience you have left after centuries of dealing with contrary humans. “Vampires are vermin. They steal children and drain them for fun.” You jab a thumb toward the door, lowering your volume. “He was the fun part for them, and if you keep trying to wait it out and he turns first, it’ll be a real goddamn party for every vamp in a 50-mile radius. He’ll be theirs.”
What you don’t say is that Barnes will be a fucking horror show. He’ll be insane on vamp juice because new bats are feral, and you weren’t lying when you said you’d never encountered a super getting turned yet—and you don’t want to. Considering how strong he is now, if he goes on a killing spree, he’ll wipe out a small town overnight. Might tear your head off for trying to wrangle him in and that’s going to really piss you off.
Rogers works his jaw, probably still caught up with the fact that you outdate him because you haven’t met someone who takes that in stride yet. Or caught up in the fact that you’ve just casually mentioned his friend—or whatever they are—is so close to rabid he’s practically foaming at the mouth.
“And you’re not a vampire,” he spits, because he’s at the end of his rope, desperate and cornered, trying to hurt something that isn’t himself. “You’re just some kind of monster.”
You tuck your canines under your lip because he’s angling for you to bare them. If he sees them, he’ll get to say I knew it.
“I think it’d be better if you waited outside, mostly because you’re annoying.”
Suddenly it comes out rushed, panicked. “Not a chance. I haven’t been there for him too many times. I need to be there.”
This is what makes you pause. The simple human grief that overpowers him entirely.
The dead giveaway is so sad and obvious, it takes the wind out of your sails. This hilariously noble superman shaved down so small in the face of loss. In the face of his many, many losses when involving Bucky Barnes. The thought of antagonizing him any more than you already have is kicking up acid guilt in your mouth; it’ll be bad enough for him in a couple of minutes, no reason for you to keep pulling his pigtails.
You sigh deeply, punch down the part of you that wants to shout at him for being just a stupid fucking kid, before motioning him back in.
“If he decapitates me,” you warn, “I’m going to kill you.”
-
Bucky’s head tips back as you ease him to the floor in a way that’s too intimate for Steve’s comfort, but things are moving top speed now and there might not be any comfort for a long while.
It’s horrifying. Steve’s feels ripped to pieces at the way Bucky screams and thrashes, arching his back in attempts to throw you off his chest. Your open hand is splayed over his face, craning his head back for more access to his throat, and it’s wildly incongruous that all of Bucky’s inhuman strength is nothing compared to yours.
There’s heavy, angry pain inside of Steve. Agonized cinderblocks that keep dropping into the bottom of his stomach. He realizes that he’s panting through an anxiety attack, that his bottom lip’s been sucked between his teeth, and that he’s chewed through it.
“You’re distracting us,” you say, veins rippling beneath your skin toward your hairline.
Steve covers his mouth, and it only takes a second but Bucky catches scent of it, spins on his side and goddamn howls.
You curse when his arm knocks into your jaw, the shifting plates whirring as he steadies his fist for another blow. Steve’s on him in a heartbeat, pulling him into his lap and locking his legs around Buck’s waist, vice-grips him as he twists Bucky’s own behind his back. The thrashing minimizes, and Bucky’s almost immobile when you straddle him, peeling his face back again until he’s writhing and hissing against Steve’s shoulder.
You sink your teeth into his throat and the spray is a breaking dam of super soldier that you swallow over and over until Steve realizes he’s shaking at how Bucky’s gone slack and whimpery, all the strength ripped out of him and into your belly.
“Oh, god,” he says quietly and buries his face into Bucky’s hair. “Oh god,” like there’s any kind of god present other than you.
By the time it’s over, Bucky resembles a corpse. He’s frigid and he doesn’t breathe or move, and Steve has never felt so sick in his life. Above him, you’re a living nightmare. A truly cursed thing come to kill the both of them, crushing your wrist into Bucky’s mouth, choking him on blood.
You grunt when Bucky clamps down on instinct, gurgling and draining your arm. “He’s got to drink—fuck, that hurts, sweetheart.” You smack his cheek but it’s like hitting a wall and he doesn’t even register it—he just keeps splitting you apart, opening up muscle and artery and groaning low and pleased.
“What,” Steve stutters, at a loss for words. “What--”
“Blood rewrites blood,” you wince. “After this, I’m taking a very, very long nap. And no one is going to summon me back to this shithole for at least a century.”
Century.
Steve gulps.
Bucky’s teeth disengage, and he drops back onto the floor, slick all over his face and falls asleep in a puddle of red like a violent crown. You sway on your knees, the former brightness of your skin and eyes dulled to extinguishing.
Another precarious attempt on getting up and you pitch forward, pawing at the floor, and heave up what looks like a tank of petroleum. Your shoulder blades shift beneath your shirt as you writhe, fingertips pressed so tightly until they look smashed into the carpet. You hack and hack, and every time Steve thinks it’ll be over—he’s standing there so pathetically, bewildered and fucking scared—you cough up another sizzling clot.
A low wheeze signals the end. You rub black ink carelessly onto the sleeve of your shirt and finally gather enough of your senses to scan the room for him.
“Kay,” you blink lazily, almost drugged.
This disappoints Steve, for some reason. You even shudder, yawn a little, which seems too gentle—too human. Which makes him feel even stranger.
You get to your feet after a few tries, waving a limp hand behind your back as you make your way to the door. “He’s gonna be weak for a couple of days an’—nngg—hungry when he’s up, so just giv’m fluids an’ food and ’m fucking off. Don’t bother me.”
Steve thinks about the way you were glowing and strong when the agent stumbled out. He thinks about blood rewrites blood, and how you siphoned all the disease out of Bucky’s veins, let it rage inside of your body, purified it the only way you could. The only way nobody else in the goddamn world can, as far as he knows, and it might have very well killed you to do this.
He chews a crude, blunt-teethed wound on himself, right in the middle of the meat of his palm and offers it up.
“Hurry, it’ll close.”
It’s only a second before you become too fast for him track. All he feels is something wet and slick and unexpectedly restrained.
You take his hand to your mouth and drink deeply, cold lips warming the longer you pull. Each time his body tries to stitch itself back together, you drag another inch down, open him back up, and he’s losing his footing but he’s not scared. The room doesn’t so much spin off, but blurs out like a gauzy veil falling, blotting out the edges of his brain. And the way your tongue is licking his lifeline, the way you repeatedly lap at him is making his chest flutter.
You gasp. Slurp and curse and moan.
He stifles a noise trying to break free from his throat. His wrist throbs, the pleasure of being drank from crawling up his arm and he feels himself kneeling into it, displaying both hands like Jesus before Thomas. And how will you judge him—how will you press into the pulse of his wrists and deem him worthy?
He inhales shakily, scrabbling for common sense to clutch but can’t seem to utter a damn thing. His tongue is too big for his mouth, euphoria crawling into the creases of his brain. You’re going to drain him, and he might even thank you afterwards. You’re going to wring him dry and what is all that super-soldier blood going to do in your unstoppable body? What’s an immortal to do with two extra sets of infinity?
And then, everything slows down, one heartbeat at a time.
You give Steve his arm back, pressing it to his chest to counteract gravity’s pull. “Thanks,” you say, different than when you’d waved off the junior agent, shaking your head like a dog casting water from its fur.
You stare at him, brows knitting together curiously.
“What is it?”
“Oh,” you laugh, licking your lips, working your bottom one experimentally. It pulls back full and shiny, deep red and plump like a polished apple. “I feel high.” You curl one hand around the back of your neck, run the other over a patch of dry carpet, enamored with the sensation. “Rogers,” you purr, “tell me there are more of you walking the earth. I could drink you every night.”
Yeah, Steve thinks, still woozy and buzzing himself. He’d probably let you. His blood fixed you right up, made you roar back to life tenfold, radiant the way divinities are—like all the light in the world emanates out of your skin. Radiant the way firestorms are, mesmerizing and deadly and if he got too close—
But he keeps his cool, just barely, and asks, “How do you kill a vampire?”
You stretch, cracking your spine and neck and reach toward the ceiling. It reveals a sweep between your shirt and waistband, destroyed by mass of scars. He wonders how far up they climb—what carnage painted them onto your body.
“You decapitate them. But they come in covens, and if you don’t burn the whole thing down, they’ll scent you and hunt you.”
He deliberates this new information. It doesn’t take long.
“So, we hunt them first.”
You bark a laugh, offended and charmed. “Is it we now?”
He looks at the newly pink skin like a starburst in his hand before finding the cuts beneath your shirt. Leftover traces from each hellish entity you’ve encountered. He looks to your maimed arms, healing with his blood. His.
“Yes,” he says without hesitation.
He watches the lines in your face settle, all that twisted dark stilling beneath a baby-smooth layer of skin. He thinks about tearing an entire coven’s heads off, about burning the nest to ash. Thinks about how it’d feel like power washing off a stain from the side of a building. A mindless, satisfying chore he wouldn’t blink twice over.
He looks at Bucky, finally warm and flushed with color for the first time in a week.
You start to yawn again.
Steve lets you slump against him, your breath coppery and hot at his neck.
“Know what, sweetheart? I am a monster.” Your nails graze his collar before you cup his chin in your hand, tilting his head down to meet your stare. “I think you’re a little something of a monster, too.”
He preens under your gaze, and for once in his life, Steve can’t find it in him to argue.
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creweemmaeec11 · 2 years
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"WHY ARE YOU BLEEDING!?" The vampire practically screeched as they frantically ran into the bathroom, "I SMELL BLOOD!"
"I uh... nicked myself with the razor by accident..." the human replied, a mix of embarrased and annoyed.
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just-a-few-prompts · 2 years
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A support groups for couples where one of them has suddenly become supernatural (got turned into a werewolf, gained superpowers, discovered ancient magic, etc.)
But also it’s next door to a support group for people that just found out their S/O has ALWAYS been supernatural, but decided not to tell them.
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peachieprompts · 2 years
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Dialogue Prompt #207
“What’s wrong with that guy? He looks a little… off.”
“Pretty sure he’s possessed.”
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whygodohgodwhy · 1 year
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Conversation Prompt
“They had a psychic speak with him to see if she could communicate with any of his victims. Poor woman had to be sedated before her brain exploded.”
“So… ballpark figures? Like… seven, eight?”
“Hundreds, most likely. The man is single-handedly responsible for more murders than anyone alive today.”
“Wow… that’s like… three times more than me.”
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writers-block-dead · 1 year
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Supernatural Prompt
When you have a werewolf best friend and the villain eyes them after a bit of the fight goes on:
“When did you get a puppy?” Her tone was cocky and teasing. Person A and Person B were huffing, their team scattered. 
“Leave her alone,” Person A says wearily. She eyed person B who looked back at her.
The villain holds out a hand toward person B and casts a spell, “no I don’t think I will... I’ve always wanted a pet,” and Person B screams in agony. Their bone structure instantly changing as they fall to the ground. Person A screamed for them but after the transformation was done, all that was left was the wolf form of her friend. “Fetch,” and the team had to fight against one of their own.
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asassydork · 3 months
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I’m going to retry to upload my Dark Fantasy Winter Moodboard Scroll Through. 🙏🏻 It has been giving me issues but it’s beautiful.
So if you see it, just let me know. 🙏🏻
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ecwritingprompts · 8 months
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Prompt # 722
In a small town where the existence of Supernatural Sentients (such as werewolves, vampires, sirens, and the like) is an open secret, mysterious happenings begin, coinciding with the arrival/return of the new human (allegedly) bed and breakfast owner, whose family used to live in the area. These happenings are kick-started by the arrival of a 4 year old selkie in the town's only lake, whose lost her coat (lost, not stolen), and has begun attacking the town's inhabitants because she can't hunt properly on her own, stuck as she is between human and seal.
The owner of the B&B is the MC, and is descended from a line of former supernaturals cursed to be human as result of their own hubris - owner is the one who breaks the curse, returning to their supernatural form, but decides to stay in town and keep running the B&B because they enjoy the work and the people. Strange happenings may or may not be a result of them getting close to breaking their family's curse.
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5sospenguinqueen · 2 months
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Y/N: Whenever Dean is about to use the shower after me, I turn the temperature to scalding.
Sam: Why-why would you do that?
Y/N: To make him think I am capable of withstanding that pain. I take normal showers, but I want Dean to be a little scared of me.
Sam: (sighs) You’re both idiots.
Charlie: (in awe) That’s genius.
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lab-trash · 8 months
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Adam: Hey, Michael? Michael: Yes, Adam? Adam: What's your last name? Michael: I don't have a last name. Adam: Oh. Adam: Do you want to have mine?
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Prompt #661
This wasn’t supposed to happen, it wasn’t, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. That was the only thing [Whumper] could think of on an loop as they hide in their closet. They had been watching [Whumpee] for months, knew everything about them. Well, apparently not everything as they heard the floorboards creak in the hallway outside the room they hide in.
How were they suppose to know that Whumpee’s blood was a sickly green, how were they supposed to know that every slash they carved into their flesh would be an opening for whatever that thing was inside of them to crawl out from.
“[Whumper]?” the thing asked as it opened the door, “Why are you hiding from me? Isn’t it my turn to play?” it’s voice called out as the footsteps steadily approached the closet door.
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post finale : against his better judgement dean turns himself into a demon to save cas from the empty .
will demon-dean see it through?
what will cas think about that..??
uhuhuuuuuu
could be a really dark fanfic 😱
Thank you for the prompt!
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q-ueen-potato · 2 years
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Okay so I had that idea on my mind for a while and I decided to share just I'm case someone like and want to talk about or something....
Basically after Castiel take Jimmy as his vessel, Amelia( Jimmy's wife and Claire's mother) decided that she doesn't want her daughter anymore (like she did on canon) but Castiel just decided that he was going to take she with him them
Them somehow he end up raising Claire with Dean (because Dean would look at that child and would totally say "mine")
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