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shallowrambles · 2 months

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I love the view that Dean figured out his deeper feelings for Cas in 6 & 7, and the majority of 8 was Dean arcing out of his hero-worship and people-should-never-let-me-down neuroses.

And then.

Post-perceived rejection… (Remember: Cas threw OFF Dean’s hand in Purgatory, and cut OFF cupid’s hand when it was aimed at him.)

So. Late Seasons 8 to mid-12 are Dean actively trying to get over Cas. In s9, he’s off-key paralleled with Josie Sands and Abaddon. (When it’s actually Hannah who’s “the Josie.”) Then he transitions into a reversal-power arc, towards being force-fit into the cartoonish, dare I say ham-fisted Cain role and its parallels. (They spell out the parallel in a distinctly odd way, esp for SPN. Too on the nose. Prescriptive. That’s because it’s actually mirroring Dean’s power fantasy according to Dean’s deepest, least charitable, nihilistic wishes.)

In s10, Dean still appears hung up on Cas, trusting him with the blade and begging him to help kill him if he becomes disinhibited/loses his free will again. Also, “I’m glad you’re here, man,” and Cas’s awkward reply, “Another time. There’s a female waiting in the car.” In a way, Dean’s feelings and fantasies serve to taunt him. The Cain parallel itself feels like a taunt.

Dean may realize Cas “admires” him but it’s definitely not the way Dean wants, that is: not like a secret admirer. Dean is mad for the unbalanced power dynamics re:Cas in the past. Now in Dean’s power reversal: Cas gets the wife treatment and Dean gets paralleled with the powerful Cain figure. He gets to beat Cas just as Cas beat him.

And it’s no accident the Dean’s power reversal arc culminates in a reverse-crypt. Because that’s what Dean’s bitter about. (“That’s not gonna be a problem = You can’t hurt me anymore, not like you did.”) It’s rooted in the bitterness of perceived rejection. That’s why Cas bears the brunt of Dean’s anger here.

Afterwards, Dean feels soooo guilty for being angry.

Later…

At various points, he tries to reassure Cas he’s okay with and appreciates how things are: a best friend, a comrade, a brother. Acceptance!

Dean spent season 10 dealing with his baggage and hoping hopelessly, then in season 11, I think he resolved to accept things. He may have toed the water with sexual tension and short shorts at times, but overall he was trying to live with Cas and let Cas off the hook.

He also encouraged Amara to deal with her own baggage the way he’d worked through his. Season 10 was his reversal arc: him in power for once, with Cas getting the wife treatment and Sam’s corruption being highlighted for once. And in season 11 he was spirited away, dealing with being powerless once more.

After that was done, he tried to swallow his feelings and let go of Cas, the way he encouraged Amara to let go of him.

He may perceive season 11 as his letting go of irrationally wanting Cas. The car scene may represent him giving Cas an out. Even releasing him from any perceived obligations.

So when Cas shows interest in season 12, I do think that threw him! Made him so nervous that he started hoping again, getting all tentative with his little mixtape.

Then Cas returns the damn mixtape. (Burned again!) But instead of getting bitter, Dean says to keep it, it’s a gift. Then he mumbles another “we’re all stronger together,” lil spill to cover his embarrassment.

Because now, he’s fully accepted that he loves Cas. Dean’s feelings haven’t faded so he has resolved to live with them as they are. No matter how many times he gets his hopes up and disappointed.

But now, Dean’s more scared. In season 8 he was ready to tell Cas “I love you.” He spent four years trying to navigate those unrequited feelings and convert them into familial camaraderie.

It’s much scarier in s12 with cosmic consequences on their heads, and Dean with everything he’s ever wanted just at his fingertips.

My fave thing about it all is that Dean and Cas are ready for each other at wildly different points and hardly ever sync up in between all the disasters.

#josie abaddon dean amara and the false parallels by the #abaddon demon dean amara #false parallels #josie sands hannah #josie sands #amara #i am def dehydrated delirious plz ignore meee #josie sands dean parallels #dean and the reversal power arc

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her-satanic-wiles · 6 months

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October 23rd

Deepthroating & Facesitting, Mary Goore x Reader

Masterlist

Words: 2.9k

Warnings: Deepthroating; skull fucking; face sitting; public; exhibitionism; sex in a cemetery; cunnilingus; fingering; fellatio; vaginal sex; piv; unprotected sex; fear play; biting; elements of dubcon but not really dubcon; rough sex; praise kink; degradation kink (you know the drill by now); hair pulling; watersports;

Taglist: @sodoswitchimage @enchantedbunny @bitchywitchygardener @thew0man @sodomiser @the-did-i-ask @copias-sewer-rat @gehrmansbignaturals @deetz-ghuleh @onlyhereforghost @zombiesnips-blog

🔞 MDNI 🔞

As this is dark fiction, I'm choosing to rate it 21+. Please respect my rating. Thank you.

In the quiet, serene, and solemn embrace of the mist-laden morning, you walked hand in hand with Mary and ventured into the ancient, moss-covered graveyard - a morning tradition that spun the entire length of October. The misty air shrouded the weathered, weather-beaten tombstones, creating an eerie, mystical atmosphere. Tall, gnarled trees with their twisted, skeletal branches cast long, haunting shadows on the hallowed ground below. Your steps echo softly on the cobblestone path, leading you deeper into the melancholic, hauntingly beautiful cemetery.

It was always silent this early in the morning, even the birds were still asleep as your footsteps tracked through the frost-bitten grass and chilly gravel beneath you. Every snap of a twig in the distance had your heart pounding with worry and Mary’s throat to come alive with a chuckle. This was the perfect scene for a horror movie: two lovers exploring a place they shouldn’t be getting picked off individually by a mysterious stranger using the mist as a cloak. Mary would be the first to go; and you’d find him battered and bruised but alive, only to watch him suffer and perish at the hands of a monster.

A crypt sat in one of the corners of the cemetery, proud yet ominous with its intimidating Gothic arched door and stone walls. The glass windows were dirty with decades - if not centuries - of dirt, and the heavy, mahogany door, weather-damaged and rotting, was locked tightly shut by a rusted chain and lock. The crypt once belonged to the town’s founding father, the wealthiest family in the cemetery. For as long as you’d known him, Mary had been desperate to get inside to piss on the richest coffin around but he’d always been unsuccessful. Today, though, he wanted to try again.

You watched him rattle the door, hands wrapped firmly around the rusted handles and tug on it, trying to shift it even a little but to no avail. “I’m gonna go check the back,” he announced, “wait right here.”

“Mary, can’t we just carry on and enjoy the place while we still have it?”

“Babe, if we can get in there, just think of what I could do to you.” He winked and placed a kiss to your forehead. “Stay here. I’ll come back and get you.”

You don’t know why you did as he asked you to. You weren’t scared per se, the silence of the cemetery filled you with nothing but peace and you felt safe in the knowledge that most of the surrounding residents were still tucked up in bed as the sun was beginning to rise. But you were still exceptionally cautious, knowing that it was all the normal people who were in bed. The crazies were up and wandering as you stood there: the drug addicts, the dunkards, the criminals who operated under the shadow of the night were also out and about, making their way home after a night of who-knows-what. Ghosts didn’t scare you. The dead didn’t make you afraid - but the living did.

You tried to peak into the crypt, wiping some of the dirt with your index finger but realising it was pointless when you saw the layer that had swiped off onto your hand. You weren’t even sure what you were trying to see, perhaps you were just looking for something to do. But your concentration turned out to be a detriment to you, and the reason why what happened next occurred.

All you heard were two heavy footsteps thumping quickly on the dead leaves surrounding the crypt before hands came and gripped your body, the force of it causing you to drop your bag to the floor. A weight pushed you further into the stone walls and pinning you against them, one of those hands gripped onto your hip, the other came up to your mouth to silence you. A whimper escaped you, muffled by the cold hand of the person behind you - a whimper of fear, certainly, but there was an element of arousal in it too.

“You looked so delicious standing there alone and scared.” Mary’s voice sounded in your ear, so low it was almost a growl. “You looked so fuckin’ vulnerable. Easy pickings.” He pressed his body further into yours and you could feel his cock, rock solid but restrained in his jeans. “I can’t wait until we get home, baby girl. I’m taking you now whether you like it or not.”

His hand that was on your hip began groping whatever body part it could find. At first, he grasped hold of your ass cheek and firmly held it, but then he moved higher and higher until he was groping your breast, rough with his touches and squeezing you as he pleased. His mouth, now silent, moved closer to your ear and trapped the sensitive appendage between his teeth, nibbling and biting a little harder than usual. He released your mouth from his hand knowing that you wouldn’t let out an unwanted scream, and used that hand to fiddle with your clothes, pulling your skirt up to give him access to your panties. “Thank fuck you’re wearing a skirt today, baby.” He commented as he rutted himself into you, seeking desperate pleasure from your body.

Your panties were quite literally ripped off your hips - the sound of the fabric tearing filling up the surrounding cemetery and making you gasp at the force he’d used. Once you were bare for him, he gripped onto your shoulders, turned you round and pushed you to your knees. His hands came to work at his jeans, undoing them and freeing himself from them. “When you need to tap out, what do you do?”

“Tap you three times.”

“Good fucking girl. Now, open up for me.”

You braced yourself for impact, knowing that the mood he was in meant you were in for a rough but exciting ride; and of course you were right. He fed you his cock, inch by inch, ignoring your gag reflex and any uncomfortabilities you may have had and forced his way down your throat, groaning at the sensation of your tight, wet heat enveloping him. His hand flew to your head, fingers tangling in your hair as his mouth opened and he exhaled slowly, the subsequent intake sounding like a hiss. The first few thrusts were merciful, gentle, kind, tentative, enough to get you used to feeling his sizable length stuffed down your windpipe. But after that he became demonic.

His thrusts were nearly violent with how sharply he moved. His hand held your head as still as it possibly could be, trapping you where you knelt and using your face like his own personal fucktoy. It was his hand doing most of the guiding, pulling your head back and forth by your hair. He tipped his head back and let his mouth fall wide open. “Oh, fuck!” He growled. Every time you gagged around him, he chuckled at you. He found it amusing to hear you struggling to take him every time he shoved himself down your throat, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t commit those sounds to his memory and used them when you weren’t around.

He pulled your head off of him completely and let you catch your breath, laughing a little at you gasping for air and refilling your lungs as much as you could before his second onslaught. You also took this opportunity to fill your mouth with as much saliva as you could, knowing that Mary preferred a sloppier feel. He loved it when you got filthy, when your own spit would drip down your face and hang off your chin like a cheesy porno. You took this opportunity to use your hands and jerk him off a little, but eventually he grew tired and slapped your hand away. You took him back in your mouth and readied yourself for round two.

This time, he gathered all your hair into a ponytail and used that to pull you back and forth, slamming himself down your throat despite the gags and groans you made. Your nose repeatedly hit his well-groomed pubic mound, kept nice and neat for this very purpose. “That’s it.” He praised through gritted teeth. “Take it all down your fucking throat. Such a slut. Letting yourself get face-fucked in the middle of a fuckin’ cemetery. Fucking hell. Your throat is incredible. I don’t do this enough. Shit!” He bit his lip and groaned when you looked up at him, tears in your eyes from the exertion. The doe-eyed look you often gave him drove him insane, his own corruption kink coming to the forefront and losing himself in the thought of soiling something so pristine as you. Of course, you were just as filthy as he was, but you certainly didn’t look it.

“What’s this?” He asked, his eyes now fixated on your hands. While he’d been fucking your throat, you decided that it was too much to bear and dipped your hands under the hem of your skirt giving yourself the sweet relief you’d been craving since he pinned you against the walls of the crypt. “The little whore likes being face-fucked in a cemetery?” He tugged you off his cock and you stopped playing with yourself. “No, keep going! Don’t let me stop you slutting yourself out in public. You want my mouth, baby girl?”

You nodded.

He jerked your head back again by your hair. “Ah, ah. Tell me.”

“Yes! I want your mouth!”

“Aw,” he cooed, “desperate little slut. On your back for me.”

He guided you to lie on your back, and lifted your skirt, staring at your cunt that was now glistening from the slick of your arousal. You could feel the wet, morning dew from the grass seeping through into your clothes as you lay there, but that just turned you on even more to know he had you lying on the cold ground so he could take what he wanted from you. You wanted him just as badly as he wanted you. He stared down his nose at you, a somewhat evil grin on his face. He was about to make you suffer and you were so excited for it.

He moved to your head and lowered himself down so he was hovering above your mouth. “Open wide again, baby.” He told you. When you obeyed, he fed himself into your throat once more, but this time he’d leaned forward and took your cunt into his mouth, too, his cock brutally riding your face and taking his own pleasure from you.

Your hips bucked as much as they could from being pinned down by Mary’s entire weight on top of you as his lips quickly encircled your clit and started sucking as hard as they could. The tip of his tongue moved wildly, working different parts of your clit in different directions while he kept his mouth shut around you. His ministrations were intense and rough as he worked to get you to orgasm as quickly as he could, moving his head in all directions and sucking on your tender bud to keep the onslaught going. He was everywhere all at once - you could feel him everywhere. Mind clouded with nothing but him, scent, sight, taste. even his grunts and groans filled your ears more than the wind rustling the trees in the distance.

He continued in this manner constantly, ruthlessly pushing you ever-closer to the edge. Until his unrelenting motions caused your nails to dig into his bare ass as a warning you were about to cum. And so, reluctantly, he pulled himself out of your throat and continued his ministrations until you were cumming, loudly, around his tongue. Your eyes were screwed tightly shut as you came, teeth digging into your bottom lip to curb some of that volume as you screamed out for him. Your nails continued to grip onto his flesh as the entire world went black for just a brief moment, and eventually, when it was fine for him to do so, he released you from his mouth and climbed off you.

He seemed just as out of breath as you were, but he hadn’t cum yet, and therefore he certainly wasn’t finished with you. “Hands and knees,” he ordered, “ass in the air.”

Your back was hit with a wall of cold air as the damp cloth was exposed to the autumnal morning breeze. You spread yourself out for him, elbows to the ground and ass in the air, ready to receive whatever he would give you next.

He didn’t wait for your cunt to get used to his size; instead, he grabbed your hips and thrust all the way to the end. “Take that fucking cock.”

He started working right away, snapping his hips against yours quickly and hitting your cervix which made you scream every time. “Fuck, Mary!” You yelled.

Mary always felt wonderful inside of you because he was long and slender, stretching you out beautifully. By the time he was finished with you, you were typically a shaking, aching mess on the bed, unable to even think or breathe.

Your ass jiggled more than usual as you arched your back for him once more and moved your hips to meet his thrusts. He let out a string of profanities, each one reminding you of how much of a whore you were to him and how tight your pussy felt around him, how you got tighter every time a branch snapped in the distance or a solitary car drove by. How you got off knowing that someone could catch you getting fucked by your partner in one of the most wildly inappropriate places to ever exist.

He reached forward and grabbed your hair, pulling it once more by the roots to gain leverage and allow himself to bury deep inside of you over and over again.

Your hand reached down to play with your clit once more, fervently rubbing yourself in time with his rough thrusts to try and tip you over the edge.

“Fucking shit, always so tight for me.” He saw your pussy cream accumulating at the base of his cock and let out another growl. You felt so fucking good, and you were getting tighter and tighter by the second. “Baby,” he said, “I know we couldn’t get in there for me to piss on his coffin, but there’s another monument I could.”

You raised your eyebrows, and he didn’t miss the way your hand sped up at the thought. “O-on me?” You asked.

“Can I?”

“Fuck. Mary, do it.”

“Yeah? Move that fucking hand so I can piss on that filthy cunt of yours.”

You did as you were told and shuddered at the feeling of Mary pulling out of you, your hole twitching at the sudden emptiness and screaming for stimulation. You couldn’t see what Mary was doing behind you, but oh fuck did you feel it. It was a slow trickle at first but when the stream built up, and was angled right, it hit your clit perfectly just like the head of your shower did. The constant stream, however short it actually lasted, felt like it went on forever as it continuously hit that perfect spot, making your eyes roll back into your head. It took just a little more time and suddenly you were diving headfirst into another orgasm, the sensitivity of your first and the violent pounding of Mary’s cock beforehand leading you into a powerful second one. Mary’s fingers replaced his piss to finish you off, rubbing roughly to keep you frozen and cumming as hard as possible.

He could barely wait until you’d stopped convulsing, and shoved himself back inside you as soon as he could. “Filthy slut,” he chastised, hands gripping onto your hips as he pushed you flush to the ground and took what he wanted. His left hand was still wet from his piss and your cum, and you could feel it on your skin. “Can’t believe you just came from me pissing on you. What a depraved, cock-hungry little whore - so desperate to cum she’ll let me do anything to her.” Your hands dug into the hallowed soil, gripping tightly to ground you as he got rougher and rougher, slamming against your cervix each time and forcing you to cry out. “I’ll piss in your mouth next time. You want that, hm?”

“Yes! Fucking hell! Mary!” You didn’t care how loud you were, and neither did he.

“Or maybe I’ll piss inside your cunt next time, and punish you if any slips out - oh fuck - c-cumming!”

He let out a deep and gutteral groan as he came inside you, hips stilling to a halt and emptying his balls as deep as he possibly could. All his weight was on you, trapping you between him and the graveyard’s soil. Your own pubic mound resting in the puddle of piss that had formed underneath you both the more he pushed you down and held you still. He thrust tentatively, making sure you took every last drop of him. He let himself fall forward, and kissed your shoulder tenderly as if he hadn’t just beat up your pussy and abused you like a madman.

“Fucking hell that was the hottest thing we’ve ever done.” You said as you both were catching your breaths.

He grunted in agreement, still kissing your clothed shoulder and moving up to nibble and lick at your ear. “We’d better get you in the shower, eh?”

“Check my bag, there should be some tissues in there.”

He pulled out of you, both of you wincing at the loss again, and when he returned, he made sure to gently clean you as best as he could. But he’d make sure he’d clean you up properly when you both took a shower at home.

Previous Day ⛧ Next Day

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larkandkatydid · 7 months

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Horror About the American West

(definitions of all nouns in that description are flexible)

Angela Carter, American Ghosts and Old World Wonders. This is a UK only release, but in the 21st century, anyone can get ahold of it. Every story is great, but John Ford's 'Tis Pity She's a Whore was life-changing.

Victor LaVelle, Lone Women. Beautiful, hautning imagery of the vast Montanta wildnerness but alos just the perfect scary story set-up: A woman shows up with a trunk that's securely locked and that she won't allow anyone to open....

Alma Katsu, The Hunger. A mildy trashy fictionalization of the Donner Party but has some great creepy scenes.

Claire Vaye Watkins, Battleborn. Is this collection of literary short stories technically horror? Probably not, but Claire Vay Watkisn herself is an icornic horror archetype that shows up in Scream V, Nightmare on Elm Street VI and specifically the semi-obscure Harlan Ellison novella, The Resurgance of Miss Ankle-Strap Wedge, so everything she does counts as horror. But most importantly, the cosmic horror of all these stories is the Nevada desert, which will kill you impersonally.

V. Castro, Queen of the Cicadas/La Reina de Las Chicharras: What if a novel had the balls-to-the-wall gruesome energy of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre? Wouldn't that aboslutely rule?

Tananarive Due, The Good House. This book takes place in the far west coast of Washington State, which is a different, wetter kind of "west" than everything else on this list, but I just adore this book. Due is the closet thing we have to a new Stephen King or Stephen Spielberg in terms of her ability to create these richly realized characters who feel like they have full lives off the page. This books gave me the same feelings of love and catharthis that I felt reading The Shining for the very first time.

Stephen Graham Jones, Growing Up Dead in Texas: This is one of Jones' experimental books that are less fun and accessible than his big hits, but it's one that I think of often. It's a critique of a particular kind of true cime memoir, a refusal to turn one's marginalized childhood into a digestible story for the This American Life crowd. It's an ambitious, post-modern work.

Stephen King, 1922: An underrated King novella that hit all his best notes of grim misogyny, rural isolation and Tales From the Crypt gross-outs.

Gillian Flynn, Dark Places. Not as literary as Sharp Objects, not as tight as Gone Girl, but special and beloved to me. This is a tale of the Farm Aid/ Satanic Panic 1980s and really wallows in the isolation and misery of the great plains, .

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faithdeans · 7 months

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oh god thinking about dean and his relation to his body, especially after hell, and how he intrinsically trusts cas with it. EVEN in the crypt scene when dean is being beaten by him. he trusts cas to stop.

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monstermoviedean · 2 years

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do you think cas and dean ever kissed and cas erased dean's memory of it. or dean erased his own memory of it. or cas' lobotomies made him forget.

#crypt scene cas heals dean with a kiss and gets lobotomized for it. bc cas never talks about it dean thinks cas is ashamed and rewrites his #own memory of it #with the first option i'm imagining the alley scene. cas is so furious he loses control for a second and kisses dean hard as he slams him up #against the wall. and dean freezes like a deer in headlights which cas takes as a rejection and just as dean starts to explain cas wipes him #i think neither of them ever knew what the other felt for them but i got to thinking. what if it wasn't because they hadn't tried?#but because they had tried and they just didn't remember?#spn

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t0ast-ghost · 1 month

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Episode 17 (The Galileo Seven):

- I’ve heard good things about this one… (edit: understatement of the fuckin year)

- pretty green space thing

- oh so the shuttlecraft is called Galileo.. lemme guess there’s gonna be seven people on board

- NEW PARIS??? Someone made it again? Does it have the crypts? Does it have someone to hate the Eiffel Tower like Guy de Maupassant? Does it even have an Effiel tower?

- oh that’s fuckin neat. I love the shuttlecraft lifting out of the ship

- I love the carpet flooring on the shuttlecraft

- “Doctor McCoy a reading on the atmosphere, please” HE TOUCHES HIS SHOULDER OMG

- say what you will, that shuttlecraft door opening and closing is cool as fuck

- A Bones sitting normally in chairs compilation would be extremely short

- WhY ARE THEY BICKERING RiGHt NOw?!! STOP FLIRTING

- "we'll have to lighten our load by three hundred pounds" "approximately three men" t'would be a shame if something were to... happen...

- “if any minor damage was overlooked it was when they put his head together.” “Not his head, Mr. Boma. His heart… His heart” this is said with such longing and sadness like, what.

- THAT is a comically large spear

- one down… two to go..

- “Mr. Spock, something’s happening outside” Spock immediately goes to help, he cares in his own way

- being reminded how immaculate Spock and McCoy’s eyebrows are

- “Yes, I know, but fortunately I’m giving the orders” Spock is so real for this

- “and just where are you going?”(I’m worried what you’re going to go do without your phaser)“I have a certain scientific curiosity about what’s happened of Mr. Gaetano. Return to the ship please.” (I need to find out if Gaetano is alive. Please stay safe back at the ship)

- aww he’s taking the body back because he knows it’s important to the crew (he cares in his own way… again!)

- NOW IS NOT THE TIME TO BE CONFUSED YOU ARE BEING ATTACKED “a little less analysis and a little more action” McCoy is RIGHT

- “Mr. Spock, remind me to tell you that I’m sick and tired of your logic.” “That is a most illogical attitude.” They love each other. They love each other so much.

- no but seriously, McCoy thinks it’s stupid that Spock’s logic would dictate that he would have to leave Spock behind. Where Spock would rather they have a better chance at getting back and thinks leaving him was the most logical

- “Did I [say that]? I must have been mistaken.” “Well at least I’ll live long enough to hear that.” Not the time nor place gentlemen

- “it may be the last action you’ll ever take, Mr. Spock… but it was all human.” “Totally illogical.” “That’s what I mean.” In what could have been his last moments Bones decides to antagonize/reassure Spock

- WHAT IS BONES WHISPERING IN JIM’S EAR

- I- this scene, right here

- Kirk leans in while smiling and says, “Mr. Spock, you’re a stubborn man.” “Yes, sir”

New favourite episode.

Master list link

#guy de maupassant mentioned #Star Trek #star trek the original series #star trek tos #star trek kirk #tos kirk #captain james kirk #star trek spock #tos spock #spock #star trek bones #star trek mccoy #tos bones #leonard bones mccoy

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handyowlet · 3 months

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The definitive (as best as I could do after transcribing all of S2 myself) list of when Crowley calls Aziraphale by his name versus calling him Angel.

Aziraphale

- [ ] S1E1- 2007- phone booth, we need to talk about apocalypse

- [ ] S1E3- 3004 BC- Noah’s ark (crowd)

- [ ] S1E5- 2018- Soho, bookshop fire, calling out to him to find him

- [ ] S1E5- 2018- Bar, confirming it’s Aziraphale’s spirit after discorporation (background patrons)

- [ ] S1E5- 2018- Air Force base, greeting Aziraphale when he is possessing Madame Tracy (Shadwell, guard)

- [ ] S1E6- 2018- Walking in to AF base, lick/kick butt line (Tracy, Shadwell)

- [ ] S1E6- 2018- AF base, telling him to shoot Adam (Them, Tracy, Shadwell)

- [ ] S2E1- present day- in Bentley after Beelzebub tells him about extreme sanctions, talking to himself

- [ ] S2E3- 1827- Edinburgh, in the crypt to get Aziraphale’s attention when he’s babbling about saving Wee Morag (technically Elspeth is there but not paying attention to them)

- [ ] S6E6- present day- Bookshop, when angels and demons are talking about war because of the halo thing (Michael, Uriel, Saraqael, Muriel, Dagon, Shax, Furfur, Maggie, Nina)

3 private, 7 public, 2 in public but likely not overheard (so his name appears to be the more public option)

Angel

- [ ] S1E2-2018- Tadfield, dropping Anathema off at home (Anathema)

- [ ] S1E3- 1793- Bastille, time is frozen

- [ ] S1E3- 1862- St. James Park, holy water scene (background park-goers but they’re kind of whispering)

- [ ] S1E4- 2018- Soho outside bookshop, run away with me argument (background pedestrians)

- [ ] S2E1- present day- outside coffee shop after hearing Maggie call him an Angel (technically background pedestrians, Maggie has walked away by then)

- [ ] S2E1- present day- back room of bookshop trying to convince Aziraphale to abandon Gabriel

- [ ] S2E2- 2500 BC- Job’s palace, saying Aziraphale sounds jealous about having choice

- [ ] S2E2- 2600 BC- Job’s palace, asking if Aziraphale is sure he won’t kill the kids (Ennon, Keziah, Jemima)

- [ ] S2E2- 2500 BC- Uz, seeing God talking to Job (Job and God are there but not aware of A & C)

- [ ] S2E2- 2500 BC- Uz, when Aziraphale thinks he’s going to Hell

- [ ] S2E3- present day- In bookshop, pulling Aziraphale away from Muriel (Muriel)

- [ ] S2E3- present day, talking to Aziraphale through Bentley radio

- [ ] S2E3- 1827- Edinburgh, telling Aziraphale to give his money to Elspeth (Elspeth)

- [ ] S2E5- present day- Bookshop, during the ball, saying people will get hurt (technically the shopkeepers are in the background but they’re whispering)

- [ ] S6E6- present day- Bookshop, final 15, you’re better than that

6 private, 5 public, 4 in public but likely not overheard (so Angel seems to be the more private option)

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens 3 #ineffable husbands #neil gaiman #crowley #ineffable idiots #aziraphale #aziracrow #ineffable spouses

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esther-dot · 6 months

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That's a Pretty Name 1k @greenhikingboots

While dancing, Jon receives a lecture from Sansa on the importance of complimenting ladies when he meets them.

Courtesies 4k @softvniverse

Jon Snow is in love and Sansa is there to help him.

Memories 1k

“Gilly, he called me. For the gillyflower.” “That’s pretty.” He remembered Sansa telling him once that he should say that whenever a lady told him her name. Jon remembers a simpler and happier time with Sansa.

Dance With Me ficlet

"I told you that I can't dance!" he snapped. He didn't even know why he had agreed to this in the first place. Or Sansa's interest in his behaviour towards women. But ever sense she had seen him talking to the serving girl with a fierce blush and shy stammer she had taken it upon herself to teach him how to talk to girls. And how to dance with them apparently. "Nonsense," Sansa chirped, standing. She beckoned him forward. "Dance with me."

We Can Brave the Dark 2k by @thatgirlnevershutsup

When Arya dares Sansa to spend the night in the crypts, it’s Jon who comes to her rescue.

Nightmares ficlet

Sansa can't sleep, and normally she'd crawl into bed with Father or Robb, but they're not here. Jon is though, and he's even better with a sword than Robb, he can protect her from the monsters.

Games ficlet by @emberalchemist

Mother never likes it when Sansa talks to him, even though Sansa hardly ever talks to him.

First Dances, Feasts, and Other Fights 4k by @castaliareed

Winterfell has visitors from the Vale and Sansa couldn't be more excited. Her half-brother Jon is less enthralled.

Maybe in another lifetime ficlet by @ladywolfmd

Moments before they were to leave Winterfell, Ned goes up the battlements for a moment when he caught sight of a scene that always brought him sadness and yes, guilt. And sometimes with the same longing of things that could've been. But maybe in another lifetime.

Playing Pretend 1k

Robb never wanted to play Knights and Maidens with Sansa anymore - until Sansa asked Jon to be her knight instead.

Before She Knew Better 20k

Sansa Stark wasn't always so distant and cold to Jon Snow.

the half doesn't negate the brother by @thewolvescalledmehome

Jon learned early on in his life what bastard meant. He thought he was five years of age the first time he’d been told he was one. He couldn’t remember who it had been who called him that, but he remembered the heat and anger he’d felt, even though he didn’t actually know what it had meant. He just knew it was meant to hurt and hurt it did.

a moonsbreath from your side 3k by @simply-kelp

Jon has spent nights and days thinking what it would be like to crown Sansa the Queen of Love and Beauty himself, thinking of the kiss she’d given Robb and wondering what it might feel like if she pressed a kiss to Jon’s cheek.

Nipped in the Bud ficlet

Little Sansa feels sorry for her half-brother Jon Snow… Until she finds the perfect solution for his problem!

Maiden in the Tower 2k by @greenhikingboots

While playing a game in the godswood, Sansa decides to teach Theon in a lesson in humility by choosing Jon to bestow with her maiden’s kiss. A story inspired by pre-canon theories.

We're all just songs in the end, if we're lucky 2k by @myrish-lace-love

“Sing me another song, Jon.” Sansa curled up next to Jon’s side. She tucked her head under his chin as the thunder boomed. Jon’s chambers were smaller than hers, but as soon as he saw the first flash of lightning he knew Sansa would be off and running, on her way to him. Sansa was proud of being a little lady at four, but Winterfell’s storms terrified her. “What do you want to hear?” Jon stifled a yawn. Jon would stay up with her, as long as she needed. Robb would, too, of course, but Sansa had confided that Robb teased sometimes, about being afraid of the rain. “Florian and Jonquil.”

untitled ficlet by @allbrainsnosense

He tries not to get jealous—though at first Jon isn’t quite sure just what the knot in his stomach is when he watches Sansa bestow a gentle kiss to Robb’s cheek for saving her from the “ferocious dragon,” as portrayed by an energetic Bran. Sansa coos over Robb affectionately, keeping up her role as fair maiden, and Robb kneels before her like her noble knight. It’s a game the siblings had all played many times before—sans Arya, who refuses to be Robb’s “noble steed” as Sansa demands—and Jon has always found himself an onlooker to the merry play-acting that occurs in the godswood.

I've picked up the speed (to jump your palaces) 1k

Jon takes Sansa to the Godswood. She does a bit of thinking.

Blossoming Feelings 2k @hawkeyescoffee

Sansa studied Jon silently as he fell to his knees, particularly trying not to touch the blanket and smiling to Bran in front of him. It was a fond smile that stretched over his face and made his grey eyes sparkle in the sun. It was a smile that made Jon’s usually hard and sullen features soft and nice and handsome? Pretty even. Sansa pressed her lips harder together until they were just a bloodless line as she was biting the inside of her cheek. Did she just really think that?

In another perfect life 1k @captainbee89

Ned comes clean to cat and the rest of the family about Jon's true parentage and notice that things have changed between Jon and Sansa now that the truth is known.

I will ask you once. Please, will you give me my first kiss, Jon Snow? 2k @alczysz17

Sansa catches her cousin, Jon Snow kissing a girl and wonders what a kiss would be like. She can't get it out of her head so she mind as well go to the source!

kiss me on the mouth (and set me free) 5k

Sansa Stark hates her bastard half-brother. She hates his brooding stare, his dark, stranger’s eyes. She hates the way his very existence hurts her mother, that Robb and Arya love him all the same. And she hates that fire that sparks to life every time they argue. --- An AU of the secret, complicated relationship between Jon and Sansa pre-series.

WESTERN - FAIRYTALES - REGENCY - LITTLE WOMEN - HOLIDAY - SEASON 6 ANNE OF GREEN GABLES - THE GIRL IN GREY - FREE CITIES - FAIRYTALE PART II - POLITICAL MARRIAGE - SALTY TEENS - POST CANON

#jonsa #jonsa fic #pre canon #dot fic list

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venus-haze · 8 months

Text

Rip This Place Apart (Driller Killer x Reader)

Summary: He’s gonna rock your world, baby!

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. This is based on an anonymous request. I wrote this while I was dealing with a bout of insomnia, ironically. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Descriptions of blood and gore. Sexually explicit content. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

A man kept appearing in your dreams, and he wouldn’t go away. Leather-clad and oozing obnoxious amounts of sex appeal, he was the opposite of a problem, until your dreams started feeling a little too real. Maybe it was your subconscious’ way of telling you to get laid, but every time you had some kind of interest in a man, he clouded your mind until you either made a fool of yourself or retreated.

That night was going to be different, though. You and your friend Marcie had spotted a flyer for a funky looking local band called Shriek and the Spyders, a group of self-professed psychobilly hooligans who were known for their wild shows and over-the-top onstage antics. A bartender who’d overheard you and Marcie discussing the show the day before advised, “Wear something you won’t mind getting stained.” Your interest piqued, and you figured a skimpy black top and similarly black skirt would do.

The Crypt was a hole-in-the-wall joint that certainly lived up to its name. You could hardly see inside, save for a few red overhead lights, because of course they were red. The light fog that swathed the room was either from an effects machine or so many people chain smoking. When you approached the bar, you scanned the cocktail menu, all named after and inspired by classic monsters. You ordered a Frankenstein-themed drink, wondering if it were possible for a place to be too campy.

“C’mon, let’s try to get closer to the stage before they go on,” Marcie said once you both got your drinks.

About fifteen minutes later, the band strutted onstage, an abundance of leather and pompadours. Almost like—no, you weren’t supposed to be thinking about him. Not bothering with introductions, Shriek and the Spyders went right into an upbeat song that made the raucous crowd go wild. They didn’t let up, sweat dripping down Shriek’s face as he ran back and forth across the stage, microphone in hand.

In the middle of their third song, a spray of fake blood rained over the crowd, leading to cheers and screams nearly drowning out the music. Some of the effects looked a little too realistic for your comfort. The bass player’s “eye” popped out at one point, and the lead guitarist’s face seemed to literally melt during a solo a few songs later.

You and Marcie had been dancing along to the whole set, your drinks long since discarded, half spilled on each other as other concert-goers bumped into you. It was the most fun you’d had in a long time, but you couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that settled in your gut no matter how much you tried to focus on the show.

In the middle of another song, Shriek broke into a howl as a giant drill emerged through his chest, spraying the crowd with blood again. Except, this time you weren’t so sure it was fake. No one else seemed to care. The carnage only electrified the people around you as they roared and cheered when Shriek collapsed near the microphone stand, his guts hanging off the stage. The floor beneath you shook at the crowd’s riotous stomping and jumping at the scene they’d just witnessed. When you looked up at the stage, you were horrified to see him. Gore hung from the end of his drill-tipped guitar, splattering the crowd as he revved it, keeping eye contact with you and grinning slyly at your disbelief.

He leaned into the mic, the corners of his lips curling into a cat-like grin as he announced with a swoon-worthy croon, “This is dedicated to the one I love.”

Then he pointed right at you.

The energy in the room shifted to a tangible malignancy, or maybe it was your own panic as you tried to push and shove your way out of the crowd. Instead, you only found yourself being forced closer to the stage, his romance-laced innuendos and skillful guitar strumming overwhelmed your senses and made your skin crawl. It felt like the whole crowd was in on his scheme to get you.

With each song you were shoved closer, and closer, until for the first time since he manifested in your dreams, you were able to reach out and touch him.

Was he even real?

You were dizzy by the time the show ended, hardly able to protest when you were manhandled and told something about wanting to be seen backstage.

“I want details!” Marcie shouted, oblivious to your plight as the rent-a-cop shuffled you away from her.

Backstage was a stretch. More like a narrow hallway with a utility closet and a small, graffiti-covered room that had been requisitioned by the bands. The door to the makeshift dressing room slammed behind you when you stumbled inside. He was waiting there for you, sitting on a grungy looking red velvet couch, his leather-clad legs spread wide open. His jacket was discarded in the corner of the room, revealing the sheen of sweat and blood that coated his body.

Your eyes drifted to his drill, large and intimidating, with a red tip that looked angry against its large shaft. You could’ve sworn you saw it twitch a bit, and recoiled at the thought of it penetrating you.

With a click of his tongue, he drew your attention back to him. Raising his hand, he beckoned you over to him with a curl of his index and middle fingers. You felt a jolt rush through your core at the motion. Almost involuntarily, you approached until the points of your kitten heels touched the tips of his steel-toed boots.

“How’d you like the show, baby?” he asked.

“It was…a lot.”

“It was all for you.”

“Yeah…” you trailed off, blatantly ogling the bulge straining against his tight pants.

He grinned, thrusting up toward your face. “Could use a little help, sugar,” he crooned, eyes dangerous as he palmed his crotch. “Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true.”

You let out a shaky breath in response, and proceeded to sit on his lap. He threw his head back, groaning at the sensation of your weight on him. Tangling your fingers in his slicked black hair, you pressed yourself closer to him, kissing his neck as you rolled your hips against his. You nipped at his throat when you felt his cock twitch against your pussy.

“Goddamn, baby,” he moaned. “Gimme more of that.”

Rolling your hips again, you let out a soft whimper at the friction from his pants on your clit. It was as if a switch flipped inside you, desperation flooding your senses as you chased your pleasure, grinding against him, almost embarrassed at the sounds your wet pussy was making as it rubbed against his hard cock.

Your breathing shallowed, muscles ached as you rutted against him, feeling yourself getting closer to orgasm. For a moment, it felt like he was only there for you to use, to get off with like some living, leather-wrapped sex toy. Maybe he was. You weren’t thinking clearly enough to question it.

“Wanna go all the way with you, baby,” he forced out. “Wanna make you mine.”

You moaned at that. “Yours.”

You swiftly shifted so you could pull off your panties, tossing them aside on the couch. He undid his pants, his leaking cock springing free from its leather confines. Your pussy involuntarily clenched at the size of him, and your eyes frantically met his smug face.

He reached between you, his fingers stroking your sensitive pussy. “Cat got your tongue?”

You kissed him again, more teeth and tongue than before as you lifted your hips, slowly lowering yourself onto his cock and whimpering into his mouth at how it stretched you mercilessly. You caught his bottom lip in your teeth, biting down a little too hard and drawing blood, but he took it in stride, licking it from his lips.

He sung your praises, his hands firmly on your hips as he guided you, your pussy taking all of him. His five o’clock shadow scratched at your sensitive skin as he pressed kisses to your neck and shoulders.

“Fuck!” you cried out as you bounced on his dick, your cervix pounded by his length. Your vision blurred with tears, thighs burning as you kept riding him. So close. “I—I’m gonna—“

“That’s it, sugar. Come for me.”

Your orgasm rolled through you, rocking your hips against his as you held onto his shoulders to steady yourself. Your pussy pulsed around his cock, and you could feel his hot cum fill you as your body milked his seed from him. He was vocal when he came, your name practically echoing throughout the room in a perverse melody.

Riding out your orgasm, you shuddered against him, feeling his soft, spent cock still buried inside you.

“That was…are you real?” you asked breathlessly.

“In dreams you’re mine, all the time,” he answered cryptically, kissing you with a disarming tenderness.

#driller killer x reader #slasher x reader #slumber party massacre 2 #slumber party massacre #spm2 #slasher fandom #slasher community

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