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the-consortium · 1 year ago

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Time still hangs around them like a discarded cloak. Still only the occasional flash of light hitting a glacially slow-moving eyeball shows that time exists and that its hard grip has loosened only for a moment to create this island of silence and betrayal on which Erebus is building his kingdom of lies.

Fabius rolls his aching shoulders in a far too elegant motion. No one believes a son of Fulgrim's injury and decay. Not even if it stares them in the face with bloodshot eyes.

His upper lip curls and he searches Erebus' smooth face for any remnants of truth that might have been caught in the elaborate tattoos and expensive make-up.

The chirurgeon twitches, the scorpion's stingers ready to bore into Erebus. But its master allows the Dark Apostle to touch him. Do not flinch, for the Lieutenant Commander of the Emperor's Children shows no weakness.

Only after a small eternity does he turn slightly to the side, withdrawing with casual grace. "You call it peace and want to make me your poisonsmith. The first time you're hesitating to draw a dagger yourself, eh? And didn't I tell you not to take me for a fool?"

The Chief Apothecary spreads his arms, embracing the chaos of the room in an imperious gesture, from Ramos' bared teeth to Saqqara's congealed blood.

"You're looking for a scapegoat to unleash your hordes on once the work is done. Then you can weep crocodile tears for your mentor and colleague, felled far too soon by a cruel hand, while your brothers howl like wolves on my doorstep."

A shake of the head and a wave of the hand. "You are not trustworthy and you know it. Your tools have the unfortunate tendency to break very quickly after their usefulness has ended. For the greater glory of your honoured monsters, of course. We are all liars, here. That makes negotiations difficult. You offer no certainty, only promises. I can appreciate the simple, uncomplicated slickness of a good threat." He gestures to Saqqara. "You're putting a blade to the neck of one of my employees. That's very binary and honest. But your construct, offering me to break free from Abaddon and Eidolon's long, childish shadow only to stumble into your sphere of influence? No, that's absurd."

The threads of history twist together. The distaff of fate dances through the air and twists possibilities into certainties. Veilwalker feels the breath of her god and knows that too many branches are dying on the tree right now. The laughter of Cegorach rises from her and with an effortless pirouette she frees herself from Erebus' amber. Honey-yellow facets splinter through the air and the Aeldari lands on the altar, touching Saqqara very briefly and hissing as she feels the sticky grip of the gods narrowly miss her ankle.

She moves on with ease, darting between Fabius and the Dark Apostle. Never standing still, so as not to give the words of iron and blood a chance to strike. "The shadow of the wings, the blood on the blades! Seduction and the death of possibilities. No, you can't have him. The snake is more likely to get you." A fan of daggers with colourful ribbons appears in her hands.

In the perfumed valleys of flesh, in the courts of music and crystal, in the mirror of a long dead city, the winged serpent stirs and bares his beautiful teeth.

Link to the previous episodes of Wayward Son.

@the-consortium

Kolos Undil was a simple man, as he himself admitted. His only wish was to serve his master in the best ways possible. That's why Erebus appreciated him. That’s why Sergeant Kolos Undil has remained the leader of Erebus’ cadre of bodyguards for the past ten thousand years.

Ten thousand years is a long time. How come he didn’t make a career, some of his more foolish brothers dared to ask Sergeant Undil? If you made it through the Heresy and Siege and were the First Chaplain's favorite, you definitely could rise up in the Legion. He could easily claim the title of Dark Apostle! So why wasn't he even a captain yet?

His wiser brothers, however, didn’t pester him with questions. They knew that Sergeant Undil wasn’t ambitious. He was more than content with the other, more personal favors Erebus bestowed upon him.

Kolos Undil was a simple man, but a fool he wasn’t. While his blessed brothers broke into the temple, he remained outside. He heard the horrifying scream, the outcry of utter despair and suffering, yet he stayed unmoved. He heard his Secondborn brothers dying, but he stood still, waiting for the right moment.

And when the moment came, at the peak of the turmoil, he slipped into the sanctum with his inherent silent grace, unseen.

His eyes widened in astonishment and anger as he watched at what was happening. He saw the temple desecrated, its once beautiful columns, made of flesh willingly sacrificed, now shattered by sheer brutality. He saw his blessed brothers, all teeth and claws, as they fruitlessly pursued a fleeting piece of vibrant cloth and died one after another, roaring in a blind, raging frenzy. He saw his master, and it was the worst thing to see.

Unarmed, Erebus stood his ground as the massive World Eater charged towards him, brandishing two swords. His bare, tattooed scalp was piteously injured and bleeding, and blood bubbled on his lips. Kolos gasped, as if he could sense his master’s pain. Like a sharp arrow, guilt shot through his heart when he realized the consequences of his delay - he could have saved Erebus from pain and shouldered it himself.

But, as it is known, everything that Astartes are is a weapon. His guilt was also a weapon.

Without hesitation, he snatched a power maul from the armor rack and bellowed his master's name.

Gods know, Erebus was always devoted to Chaos. For millennia, he dedicated his life to serving and worshiping it, finding purpose in its presence. But now, when chaos seized his own sanctuary, he hated it.

The bodyguard's call caught his attention, and he quickly spotted Kolos's familiar figure. Their eyes met in mutual understanding, a second - and his power maul was up in a rising and falling arc, spinning in the air and flashing with a reflected sunlight. Erebus caught it neatly, just in time to parry the World Eater’s furious attack.

The Nails gave the World Eater strength but stole his finesse. Erebus moved with precision, blocking and weaving with almost automatic reflexes, all while his mind worked tirelessly, analyzing, calculating, and evaluating the best course of action.

He saw his dark brethren, who, after a moment of disorientation, unleashed their full ferocity in the battle. Hunting the huntress, their twisted forms moved with an unearthly swiftness, and sometimes they seemed to vanish from reality for the split second. Erebus knew it truly was what it seemed. Here, they surrounded her, like a lynx cornered by a pack of wolves, poised to shred a slender figure to bloody ribbons. In a mere instant, she leaped, climbing one of them like a lynx climbing a tree, and drove a blade deep into his eye lens. Liberation was hers - this time. Erebus was well aware that the blessed ones wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

He saw the Noise Marine, the infamous Bull of the Eighth, letting out one deafening scream after another; the first sound attack pinned poor Kolos against the writhing column, and the following ones trapped him further.

He saw Fabius Bile lift his needle pistol with a disdainful grin, taking aim at the Keeper. The shot didn’t seem to carry significant force, and still Kanathara stumbled and stopped, struck with terror as it watched a patch of smooth, pale purple skin dissolve into nothingness. Two more shots followed, causing one of the Keeper’s knees to evaporate; the daemon sank to its other knee, attempting to maintain its balance. For some reason, it turned its head towards Erebus, and the Word Bearer saw the desperate plea in its black, doe-like eyes.

He couldn’t allow this havoc to go on, but what could he do to stop it - bring down the walls, collapse the temple and kill both himself and his enemies, like the mythical hero of the Old Earth?

No. He already knew what he had to do. He knew it in his gut, and all he needed was to convince himself that it was the only way. To swallow his pride, as he had done countless times before. To put on a mask of humility.

Erebus spoke.

The word flowed out of his mouth lazily, making the tip of his tongue numb. Just as slowly, its impact spread through the hall. First, the World Eater froze, his swords held high above his head. Only his hands slightly trembled, and his bloodshot eyes darted around. Then the curse caught up to others; it was as if a tableau vivant had come to life - a wiry figure in colorful rags arching in the unthinkable pirouette, demon-like figures grotesquely looming around her, Kolos and the Bull locked in the midst of a fight…

Erebus stood over what’s left of Kanathara, clicking his tongue disapprovingly and shaking his head.

“The boy won’t thank you for killing his favorite pet, cousin.”

He let himself enjoy the sight of Fabius' angry face, savoring the moment before the apothecary regained his ability to speak.

“His name is Saqqara Ur-Damak Thresh, you haughty bastard,” Fabius spat, his voice dripping with contempt. “And it’s high time for you to stop treating him as a child.”

“You’ve got some guts, correcting me at a time like this,” Erebus chuckled, amused.

“Don’t you be so confident in your victory, cousin,” Fabius hissed. “Help is coming, and it won’t be just ordinary Astartes or illusions from the empyrean. Fulgrim is aware of your insolence, and he's on his way!”

Erebus laughed sincerely. “Oh, Fulgrim! Indeed, my respect for my reptilian uncle knows no bounds. But, sadly, I heard he pays even less attention to his sons than even my own exalted father, which is saying something! Sorry, but I don’t think we’ll see Fulgrim in my humble abode today.”

“So, what are you waiting for?” Fabius asked, obviously interested. “Let’s say - just hypothetically! - that we are within your power. Why haven't you killed us yet?”

“Why, I never meant to kill you, cousin!” Erebus put his hands to his hearts. “I must confess, I underestimated you. I never thought that you could follow me through the warp. But you did it and, let me tell you, made quite a stir!”

“You were always good at talking without really saying anything, Erebus,” Fabius said with a sneer.

“And thus I realised I need you as an ally,” Erebus concluded.

“Ally? Me?” Fabius's eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. “Ally in what? What makes you think I'll get involved in your slimy plots? And what do I get out of it?”

“Your life and the lives of your minions, of course. An opportunity to heal the boy. My brother. Saqqara,” he corrected himself reluctantly. “And... I'm feeling generous today... when he wakes up, I'll let him decide which side he wants to be on.”

“That’s not enough, and you know it,” Fabius said. “And yet, you didn’t tell me what you’re dragging us into.”

“Oh, it’s very simple.” Erebus smiled casually. “I’m planning to kill Kor Phaeron.”

#warhammer #fabius bile #the consortium

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antigonewinchester · 3 years ago

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The Mark & Hell, part 2

(Previous posts: Intro post; Dean & Hell, season 4; the Mark & Hell, part 1; Dean & Hell redux.)

Now, back to the actual Mark of Cain arc proper.

Broadly, I see the MoC arc as a plot about the destructive nature of revenge, both for oneself and for others, in a similar vein to John in seasons 1 – 2 and Sam in seasons 1 and 4. For John, his primary focus was hunting down the YED, and if people got hurt or even killed in the process, that was just the price he had to pay. It was only after Dean’s near death that John decided to choose family over his revenge quest, sacrificing the Colt and his own life to save Dean. After Jess’s death, Sam became similarly obsessed with revenge, but eventually chose family over revenge in not killing John / the YED in 1x22. In season 4, however, Sam couldn’t forget Lilith murdering Dean and his own failure to save Dean from going to Hell, even after Dean had been resurrected, which led him down a path of bad choices that ended with him killing Lilith and uncaging Lucifer. In season 9, Dean loses faith in his ability to help people, deciding instead to focus on the “hunting things” side of the family motto, taking on the Mark to get the power to kill Abaddon. That choice, however, takes him down a spiral of increasingly brutal and eventually revenge-driven violence over the rest of the arc.

Through this lens, it’s fitting that Dean’s revenge arc would then draw on his time in Hell, given how he talks about torturing in 4x11, with its intersection of enjoyment, violence, and revenge (“Me? I did it for the sheer pleasure…. I enjoyed it, Sam. They took me off the rack, and I tortured souls, and I liked it. All those years, all that pain. Finally getting to deal some out yourself. I didn't care who they put in front of me. Because that pain I felt, it just slipped away.”). Over the MoC arc, there’s again an intersection of these threads. One aspect that also makes Dean’s revenge arc a bit different as compared to Sam’s is how it draws on the idea of Dean as a soldier, with Dean’s dark descent paralleling not just other fictional warriors but also real-life soldiers affected by the trauma of war.

In 9x11, Cain compares himself to Dean, with the narrative framing them both as killers and that quality making Dean worthy of taking on the Mark. I’ve written previously about how I wasn’t quite sure how to approach this “Dean as a killer” theme – why does Dean get labeled as such but not Sam or Cas, who’ve also killed? What I’ve settled on in my read is this idea stands in for Dean as a soldier, a prominent theme that manifests through the series in many ways.

CAIN The mark can be transferred to someone who's worthy. DEAN You mean a killer like you? CAIN Yes. DEAN Can I use it to kill that bitch? CAIN Yes. But you have to know with the mark comes a great burden. Some would call it a great cost. DEAN Yeah, well, spare me the warning label. You had me at "kill the bitch". CAIN Good luck, Dean. You're gonna to need it.

First, there’s John treating hunting like a war and Dean like a soldier under his command, becoming his “drill sergeant” and training him as a hunter from an incredibly young age. While both Sam and Dean were made to hunt by John, contrast Dean and Sam at about 9 years old: John was giving Dean a loaded gun and telling him to protect Sam, while Sam was just learning the supernatural was real. Even when Sam was made to participate in hunts, he was often put into a non-combat, research role, as compared to Dean accompanying John in the actual hunting and killing of ghosts, werewolves and other supernatural creatures.

Next, Dean compares his time in Hell to serving in a war in early season 5:

DEAN You know your way around a gun at all? [AUSTIN expertly disassembles the gun.] Hm. Where'd you serve? AUSTIN Fallujah. Two tours. Got back a little over a year ago. Takes one to know one. Where'd you serve? DEAN Hell. AUSTIN [AUSTIN snorts, amused.] No, seriously. DEAN Seriously. Hell.

When Cain was turned into a demon by the Mark, he specifically became a Knight of Hell. Knights were a class of medieval soldier who often served a lord or retainer, offering their military services in a time before national armies. Dean similarly becomes a Knight when he’s turned into a demon at the end of season 9.

Finally, Dean’s time in Purgatory is framed as a combat experience, including him having symptoms of acute PTSD on his return to earth, a not uncommon experience for soldiers returning from war.

In 8x01, Dean specifically describing his last year as being like warfare: “[It was] bloody. Messy. 31 flavors of bottom-dwelling nasties. Hell, most days felt like 360-degree combat.” In their article PTSD Basics, the National Center for PTSD lists 4 major symptom categories, all of which Dean experiences to some degree over season 8 (and can be similarly seen after his return from Hell in season 4):

Reliving the event (also called re-experiencing symptoms);

Avoiding things that [reminds someone] of the event;

Having more negative thoughts and feelings than before the event; and

Feeling on edge or keyed up (also called hyperarousal).

In terms of “reliving the event,” Dean re-experiences his time in Purgatory through memories and flashbacks. His first memory of Purgatory in 8x01 actually draws on war movie imagery, with “Dean [standing] transfixed in front of a vending machine, and two boys run past pretending to shoot each other, [being] a reference to the final scenes in the movie The Hurt Locker, where a bomb disposal expert finds it hard to adjust to civilian life after coming home from Iraq.” (Trivia & References). In 8x02, Dean has a direct flashback while interrogating a suspect on earth, reliving his experience torturing a monster for information in Purgatory and confusing that with his current situation. In 8x07, despite knowing that Cas is gone, Dean hallucinates seeing Cas on earth looking like he did in Purgatory.

In “avoiding things that reminds [him] of the event,” Dean’s intense leap back into hunting and drive to close up the Gates of Hell, particularly given his relative disillusionment with hunting in season 7, can be seen as a way for him to avoid thinking about his past year in Purgatory.

Fitting with this avoidance, Dean keeps his space from Benny when they first arrive back on earth, telling him during their phone call at the end of 8x01 that “maybe until [they] both adjust, it's best [they] don't talk for a while”. He also doesn’t want to talk about Cas when Sam prods him as to why Cas isn’t with him. There’s also Dean misremembering / forgetting exactly what happened in Purgatory: Cas deliberately letting go of his hand instead of by accident. Under “having more negative thoughts and feelings…” category, the article expands on it and mentions that “[someone] may forget about parts of the traumatic event or not be able to talk about them.” This detail could fit both Dean’s false memory of what happened to Cas and his reticence to talk about it.

Finally, in terms of “feeling on edge,” Dean definitely comes back with an emotional intensity after Purgatory, fitting with how the article describes this category of symptoms: feeling “jittery, or always alert and on the lookout for danger… [and being suddenly] angry or irritable.”

While part of the fun of Dean and Benny’s relationship is definitely in its gay subtext, their relationship can also be read as reflecting the incredibly strong bonds soldiers form with each other during combat and war, willing to risk life and limb to help each other survive. Dean and Cas’s relationship in Purgatory fits into this type of relationship as well, particularly considering Cas’s own past as a soldier of Heaven, with Dean’s insistence on staying in Purgatory until they can find Cas being somewhat reminiscent of a “no soldier gets left behind” mentality.

My interpretation of what Cain means when he describes the affect of the Mark, it’s “great burden,” maybe even “a great cost,” is also influenced by the ‘Dean as a soldier’ idea. The cost that Cain is talking about is, I think, the Mark’s power sending its wielder into a berserker state. I’ll be expanding up on this idea later on, so for now I’ll just say that a soldier going berserk, or entering a state of hyperviolence unconstrained from usual morality, usually occurs after intense combat trauma, and has been depicted in stories about fictional warriors as well as something that happens to soldiers in real life wars.

Sources

“4.11 Family Remains (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 21 Nov 2012.

“5.02 Good God, Y’all (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 28 Mar 2014.

“8.01 We Need to Talk About Kevin.” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 19 Sept 2019.

“8.01 We Need to Talk About Kevin (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 3 Jan 2013.

“9.11 First Born (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 3 Apr 2021.

“PTSD Basics.” U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, 30 August 2022.

#meta #meta personal #dean & the mark #dean #as i thought i would i'm actually finding a lot of things to like abt the MoC arc #putting aside fandom opinions and finding a way to talk abt this arc that *i* find engaging has been very satisfying #even if i find certain strains of fandom discourse around dean & narrative patterns w/in the show that much more frustrating now ha #you win some. you lose some. and that's supernatural baby

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cherrywoes · 4 years ago

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— five

— abaddon

THE JOSTLING OF THE crowd did little to ease your nerves. You were constantly worried that someone would reach into your bag and steal your wallet—the participants looked that seedy to you—or push you so far to the back of the crowd that you’d sustain injuries in the process. You almost regretted standing so close to the fencing when people started throwing confetti and what looked like bras and underwear down into the arena. That was a UTI melting pot just waiting to happen.

A man sidled up to you after a timer started on the tiny bars lining the fence. You would have ignored him, except his features were striking and his hair was one of the more bizarre styles you’d seen—tufts of spikes, each one seemingly held there by gravity alone—and narrowed eyes that were fixed on his phone screen. His name was written on the sleeve of his jacket, but you couldn’t make it out because of the giant wrinkles in the elbow. He didn’t even seem to notice how close he was to you so you subtly edged away, clutching your bag and looking back at the timer which was slowly counting down from ten.

The closer it got to one, the more rowdy the crowd became. You cringed at the loud screams echoing in your ears and the booming music that had started up, likely to drown out the crowd itself for the fighters, and tried to focus on the opening doors in the center of the arena on either side.

An announcer, hidden somewhere in a back room, coughed and tapped a microphone. The speakers squealed and all of the music cut off abruptly, as did the cheering of the crowd, proving your theory about drowning them out wrong.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, devils and angels,” the announcer said after a moment. “How are we doing tonight?”

The resounding responses were loud enough that you almost jumped out of your skin.

“Good, good! As you all know, the betting pool for tonight’s next match is unusually high; but so is the matchup—if you have not placed bets, I would suggest you do so before the end of the three rounds so you can rake in the rewards.” A sly laugh. “Anyway, we have our first contender: Yuriel Bane! Give it up for the human!”

You watched as a man stepped out of the right door. He wore only shorts embroidered with the company name of his sponsor and waved to the crowd cheerfully. You clapped with the rest of them to be polite, but looking around you could tell that no one was rooting for the man—humans never fared well in Eden, you’d heard, at least in places like this.

“What a polite applause,” the announcer noted, a thread of amusement in his voice. “I almost feel bad for him. What do you all think?”

Like you thought, everyone agreed.

“I thought so. Well, of course, he is fighting a devil—a notorious one at that. I’m sure you all know him, or why would you even be here?”

You had no clue who it was but the crowd did. Their shouts and screams were enough to rattle the fence—or maybe that was you just shaking from nerves—and consequently your bones. You’d have a pounding headache after this, you were dead certain.

“Wow, you guys are really excited huh?” The announcer snickered. “Well, there’s no reason to delay the inevitable. Ladies, gentlemen, devils and angels, I give you Abaddon, the destroyer!”

The door opened—but no one was there.

Faster than you could blink, the human man was already on the floor, hit hard enough that he was reeling from the hit. In a few moments he was up and fighting with the seemingly invisible figure—he was hard to keep up with with human vision—and you watched as the man reached back in his pocket and throw a silvery substance in the other fighter’s, Abaddon’s, face. It sparkled in the light as it fluttered to the ground, but the effect it had on him was surprising; he stopped dead in the middle of the ring, right before the human man.

You couldn’t see much or make out a whole lot since his tattooed back was to you, but you could just barely see the blood dripping to the floor so quickly that it was almost like a running faucet.

“Penalty!” the announcer shrieked, panic overtaking his normal voice. “The opponent has used angel dust!”

Angel dust; you knew the name. It was a particularly harmful substance to devils, used to exorcise the weaker ones from the human world and potentially fatally wound a higher ranked one either in Eden or on Earth. Judging by the nosebleed this Abaddon had, you judged he had to be pretty powerful.

Beside you, the man mumbled,”Oh, shit,” but not for the reason you suspected.

“The medic has requested the match to be paused,” the announcer said after a moment. The crowd was so silent you could have heard a pin drop. “Please wait a moment.”

A man in scrubs appeared from the right door and escorted Abaddon to a folding bench in the corner that you hadn’t noticed before. He stepped in front of the devil before you could get a good look at his nose, swiping what looked like an alcohol wipe over the blood to clean it up and examine his nostrils. Whatever he saw clearly wasn’t cutting it and he made exaggerated movements while he was speaking, pointing harshly to the human man and then seemingly getting angry at the devil when he didn’t respond.

After a few tense minutes, the medic packed up and gave the crowd a thumb’s up, indicating that everything was okay. No one said a word.

You watched the medic leave and then looked back to the bench, curious to see what the angel dust had done exactly, when your body rapidly caught up with what your eyes were seeing—your heart dropped to your stomach so fast that nausea hit you square in the gut.

You knew this devil—except he hadn’t been a devil. Had he? Or… was he one all along?

Oikawa Tooru.

Your eyes were fixed upon him like spears of unholy fascination. He sat upon the medic's bench as if it were his throne, legs bent and spread lazily to make room for the growing puddle of blood at his feet. The muscles in his arms flexed, ropes of black ink and skin and brands moving with the sleek subtlety of a panther ready to strike.

He was agitated. Angry. Pissed off.

You could see the smoke curling up from his shoulders and billowing from his nose and mouth. It was a stark contrast to the pale gray of the fog machine, a brilliant white and rolling into the air. You could feel the nervousness and anxiety coming off of the man beside you in waves, his concern trained on the man in the ring.

"Fuck this shit." You could read his mouth from where you stood twenty feet above behind a steel cage. "If he wants to toss the rules, I can toss the goddamn rules."

He was up and off the bench before the medic could finish sewing up the gash on his cheek. His opponent wasn't expecting it--not the blatant disregard for rules or the superhuman strength behind Oikawa's punch.

You heard the crack of a neck snapping before you saw it. His head lolled back and followed his body in a swift motion, hitting the concrete with a solid thump. Blood wept from a wound at the back of his head, creating a horrific halo around his corpse.

Oikawa Tooru emerged the victor.

But when he turned, ready to raise his arms for the victory cheer, he caught your eye. You hadn't wanted him to, had meant to leave before he ever turned around and caught a glimpse of your coat.

His nose flared, muscles bunching tight like live wire. He could smell you now, over the throng of people tossing money into the pit and the blood streamlining down his cheek, and your blood heated in your veins, responding to a painfully familiar call.

You were caught.

Your first instinct was to run. To run far, and fast, and away from this man, who you had no idea was a devil, or even a man who could kill someone so easily. You couldn’t even focus on the dead body in the middle of the ring; your eyes were pulled to Oikawa’s—or Abaddon’s— like magnets, surprised at the familiar color and the unfamiliar emotions in them.

You had no chance to escape.

He was scaling the fence before you could even blink, faster than a bolt of lightning, and was in front of you within a breath, breathing hard and streaked with blood droplets across his chest and neck. You instinctively looked up at his face, red with blood and his own nosebleed, and felt two hands creep up the sides of your neck and face—gentle, soft, as if they hadn’t just battered the life out of a man just seconds before. You felt blood, warm and wet still, smear down your skin with the movements of his fingers against your skin.

It almost felt like those days back at the orphanage.

And then, shattering your innocent thoughts of your past together as children, Oikawa pulled you into a bruising, soul shattering kiss.

MASTERLIST.

< PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER >

taglist: @lucyrocks86 @dancing-in-the-rain54 @earphonekiyouka @lerawynnn (let me know if you want to be added.)

#oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa tooru #oikawa toru #oikawa x reader #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyū!!

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cainiine-a · 2 years ago

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@zealctry asked: “Abaddon, babe. Do you ever wear T-shirts!? Have you ever worn one in your life??” / unprompted.

He can feel Hidan’s eyes cascading over the planes of his muscles, even as his back is turned to his body still leisurely sprawled over the bed. Devouring each piece of skin he is still granted to see until he puts on his dress shirt and covers up the composition of red, purple and bite marks in between. But the other’s appetite is satisfied it seems; it is not hunger he is met with but curiosity and a hint of bemusement, enough to make him chuckle and turn, despite not having closed all of his buttons. “ Why, babe, does the suit not fit your taste anymore? “ A hand reaches out to place itself next to Hidan’s head, allowing him to bend over his frame with the illusion of an intended kiss but instead he merely grabs for the tie tossed by his side. “ A demon has to look sharp for business, wouldn’t you agree? “ A wink, his voice dropping. “ And for his lover. “

#zealctry #(( aba tries to cover it with flirting but a T-SHIRT??? ew ))#( side thread: abaddon. );;#( the call of mephistopheles. );; -- replied.#( v; headhunter. );; -- present.

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theholycovenantrpg · 4 years ago

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In the beginning was DAMIEN WARD, a HALF DEMON loyal to the cause of the DEMONS. He is said to be IMMORTAL and uses HE/HIM pronouns. In this New Testament he serves as the LEADER of the VICES. Blessed be his name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

Damien Ward’s advent had been wrought long before he had entered the world. A slice of carnage, the Antichrist would be spat out into the earth, falsely draping himself over God’s ethereal throne; though he would never quite fulfil this prevision, he is a force feared nonetheless. The Son of Lucifer was tucked away in Hell’s mouth when he was only a child—there, his providence burgeoned beneath Judas’s watchful gaze. Since razing his father, Damien has served as the self-anointed Vice of Wrath and Leader of the Vices, positions counterpoised not merely by his birthright but also the throes of fidelity he is capable of stirring. Woven by sublime beauty and lurid horror, he is able to enchant most to his wicked will, a sense of torment and unease washing over all those who dare venture close, and as he moves, a hollow cold moves with him. One seems to understand him as a creature cut from calamity. His touch causes things to rot by subjecting it to an expeditious ageing process: anything his fingers brush over is reduced to ash. Just as God had forged the world, pulling his Creation from his rib, Damien is its ruination, the ability to rend apart God’s cosmos his own. Angels are immune to his touch, fashioned as they are from divinity, though this does not diminish his power. The prodigiousness of his abilities often wander beyond his command, and thus he has resolved to wearing protective gloves, forged from crushed angel’s wings collected in the first wars on earth, to maintain control of his skill. Unlike his hordes of beasts, Damien wears no wings, but instead has the red mark of Ouroboros branded into his neck: a symbol of rebirth and death, marking out what might once have been his world to come.

THE HISTORY.

DROWNING TW, GORE TW

Monstrosity is a necessary ingredient in beauty. So the woman who would be his mother had always believed. Everything beautiful was also dreadful, because it was twisted and full of fear. Wild from violence, it demanded your horror; it needed you to be afraid. This was what had brought her before the dais of the Morning Star: though there was something crooked in the angel, there was also sublimity, that filial breath of God still curled timelessly around his rib. She mouthed a prayer, not for the beast entombed in Hell, but the changeling, half-angelic, his ancient wings spread so wide that they swallowed up the sun. The worship of Lucifer was hardly extraordinary, dipping hands into black rivers and coming up with gold, but falling onto your knees for the Light Bearer was a marvel. As if by some numinous draw, God’s dwindled torch tore his way up through the earth, she was that much of a wonder to him. The woman understood him; when she gawped into his eyes, she appeared to seize something masked in him; she seemed to know precisely who and what he was, far before that secret had betrayed itself to him. His ambition hooked itself around her worship, and though she hoped he would stay with her, he refused. Instead, he parted from her with a gift. From their courtship grew something entirely unexpected: a child. Lucifer cradled the boy in his arms, a creature that should not exist, but nevertheless did. Such was Lucifer’s power. Yet, a prophecy girdled itself around him. The portent held him captive. The Son of Lucifer will eat the world, the soothsayer foresaw. He will put his mouth to the earth, skies, and ravines deep below. He will chew up and spit out all things, even the Morning Star. Though he could not bring himself to kill the child, a seed of strife spread like sickness in Lucifer’s chest. He fled uneasily back to his caves, leaving mother and child behind. He hoped never to see them again.

Though Damien seemed to be an enchantment of his own, his mother conceded she found him, at times, quite strange—yet that, she supposed, also made him beautiful. That was what she had come to love in the Morning Star, no? Beauty, like a breath of winter that climbs your spine. But when she held Damien in her arms, tickling his feet or cupping his cheek, he would not laugh, he would not blink, and the feeling dug deeper. When they walked together in the forest, his cold hand in hers, savage beasts and ferocious animals seemed not merely allayed by his presence but, by some odd providence, drawn to him. Slowly, the woman began to imagine the rot that spread from the centre of her child’s heart. She saw how he had inherited his father’s blasphemy, which before she had refused to see, and she watched as the final morsel of divinity ebbed, wave-like, away from him. She winced as it buried itself beneath the soil. She could not escape his unblinking gaze, the muscles in his face refusing to jerk upwards, even when the child had cause to smile. Damien Ward looked always like a cold creature who never changed. His parentage hung above his mother like a dark blanket, and after eight years of contrite motherhood she finally found herself at the end of her thread, the yarn red as blood. Fog wound itself around the trees, and when the mist had cleared a scene of terror washed over her: there lay a body lying limply in the moss; she watched as the wolves walked meekly to join Damien at his side, their bloodied mouths licking gently at his fingers. Something evil had revealed itself to her that day and, unable to bear the plague she’d wrought, she stepped into the river and felt its waves wash over her.

Her death seemed to stir something powerful below the ground and, its summon extending a dark, claw-like hand beneath the soil, Judas answered its call. Something primal began to knot itself together then: if Damien could run with wolves and bend them to his will, emerging high above them, then perhaps he could also do the same in Hell. Lucifer’s progeny was a source of wicked admiration to him, but he was also, he remembered, his ruin, and thus the impassible ravine grew between them. Damien let his father drape his dark divinity over him, all while his stare burned through bone to reach the throne. After all, Lucifer hadn’t carved his crown to create a legacy. He’d carved it to rule. Damien wouldn’t find a father in the Morning Star, but he found the mite of one in his Right Hand, Judas. He guided him like a beast untethered through the orbit of Hell, ingratiating themselves with all the spectres they might one day cup in their palms. Judas taught Damien how to whittle a lie with his tongue and when to loosen the knot; how to inspire conjoined loyalty and how to galvanise a legacy of fear. Ruinous, the demons flocked to him and, mantled from Lucifer beneath their shadowy veil, the Antichrist began to steal carvings of his father’s kingdom. After an epoch of collusion, the soothsayer’s words attached themselves to Damien like marionette strings and, feeling their strange movement, he felt compelled to follow them. Razing his father from his throne, Judas’s cadaverous hand behind him, hordes of beasts gnawed hungrily at his split kingdom—chewing his father up in his maw, he spat him out, an umbral crown resting on his brow. At Judas’s own encouragement, the Antichrist shaped his infernal army and, curse-spun, a score of ghosts turned their teeth to earth.

Their scourge lasted what must have felt like a millennia: Damien took the world in his teeth and shook it violently, chewing until he reached bone, while Judas built. Always, as he was tearing and grinding, spoiling and shattering slices of the world, there was Judas lingering, wraith-like, behind him—sculpting the wreckage. The Son of Lucifer stood vanward at the front of a legion of terrible monsters, turning their blades and claws on those who had once been God’s heavenly servants; loss or victory, Damien made relics of them, towed by his coven of beasts. He ate away at cities, pulled down what remained of civilisations, making ruins of things that once held fast—before long, the torrid Southern Lands were firmly clamped within his grip. When the demons were done carving their kingdom from the ground, the threat of the Heretics was stiffly dissolved, and Damien Ward settled himself in an invisible throne, a mass of angelic vestiges displayed deliberately around him. As his father had done once. At last pleased with the empire, which was his in all but name, he sighed; the Antichrist yawned out a new age. And yet, the shadows around him have begun to stir. Black-mouthed, they threaten to gorge themselves on pieces of him. After all, what are you to do when your divine purpose is stolen from you, when your reason for existence is, at last, fulfilled? Are teeth not made to chew? What remains for the howling stomach to sate itself on except a dull sliver? Though Damien continues to be feared as much as he is revered, the needle-prick of his claw begins to lose its hold. Stomachs churning with something dark and vicious, a listless hum starts to burn through his kingdom—and at its centre, something new begins to sprout.

THE CONNECTIONS.

ABADDON, AZAZEL & JUDAS: Dynasty. He was not made to be loved, but he is anyway. On earth, the Antichrist had run with a pack of wolves, far more attuned to their monstrous mores than that of humanity, and in Hell he was no different—all devils, they love each other like animals. While the demons were bent on tearing their king from his throne, they seemed happy to bow reverently to another monarchy which naturally grew in its stead; though Hell had cast out its crown, it seemed to return, ghost-like, to settle itself on each of their brows—and Damien felt he was above them all. He spoils Azazel wildly; though they fight as often as they show affection, he has no scruples about answering her every whim. Though there are times he finds her almost too spoiled to bear, he recognises his share of blame in that. Thick as thieves, it is practically impossible to tell her no. In Abaddon, he finds a strangely distant sort of maternal figure capable of embracing the parts of him that his biological mother never had been. Though she tends to abstain from passing comment, he often feels her cold, tender judgement on him. As for Judas, their relationship is infinitely more complicated: he is at once the closest thing he has ever had to family and his severest enemy. Everything he is flows directly from Judas; peeled behind his dark eyes waits every shred of advice he has ever been offered, every word of comfort, every strategy, suggestion, scheme. It is due to Judas that Damien can settle himself over their kingdom and silently call himself king—yet, is Judas not king too?

RAUM: Vassal. He doesn’t always have such personal relationships with those who promise to serve diligently under him, but Raum, he is willing to admit, is the exception that proves the rule. Damien had given something to each of his Vices: a common enemy to sink their fangs into, a kingdom to take up the cudgels for—yet he had offered Raum something more. He had offered her a purpose. The two have spoken at length over her hope to repossess that lost flake of her past, and while he’d first sympathised with her hollowing plight, he offered an alternative. Instead of searching for your history, why not cut out your future? Like stars, he plucked her dreams from the sky and offered them to her, turning them over in his infernal palms; ever since, her loyalty has hardened like alloy. It is to Raum that Damien most often turns for advice, feeling the heavy ambition of his Right Hand eat like plague at the room; having put her energy into the future they might sculpt rather than the fragments of the past she could never know, they make a decidedly visionary pair. Though whispers of dissent begin to girdle around his leadership, Damien knows well that this is a fealty that cannot be broken. Raum, after all, has made a home of his shadow.

ESTIENNE WICKEN: Little Echo. Estienne is unimpeachable evidence to the world that those who are exactly alike do not always get along. Sometimes, a likeness shared is often the cause of intense dislike. With a huff of insolence, Damien acknowledges that the tale of the Antichrist is well-known, whispers of the dark and ruinous monster that chews on pieces of the world, and thus he supposes that the emergence of an imitator is only natural. An imitator, after all, is all they are: an impressionist, an echo, a morsel of his wicked self. Estienne thinks of themself as something like a god; both beastly and beautiful, they arrange a thousand mirrors around themself and drink up their image. Full of malice, this only causes Damien’s lip to curl. At the Antichrist’s fingers waits the power to eliminate all life, taking what is gold and turning it to putrid rot, but Estienne is only the dulled shadow of a shadow—and there were already plenty of those in Hell when he’d left it. Damien tells himself that they’re hardly worth his time, that once you ignore a pest it inevitably fades from view, but Estienne draws his hatred nonetheless. He may think of them as nothing more than a splinter of the profanity long settled into his bones, but there is evidently something in them that causes him to recoil. Rotten, he makes sure Estienne knows of his disdain.

NERISSA: Agenda. It is to Judas that he has always turned to for schemes, but Damien delights in the fact that this is a plot he has hatched entirely of his own accord. Like cadaverous, wandering ghosts, the Horseman are a deep pool of limitless potential: like dipping a hand into an unfathomable milky void, it is possible to touch them and still learn nothing new about them. They are entirely without definition. In Nerissa, however, he has identified a point of recognition; they are a beast, and they feed on it. She gives way to aggression and wrath in a way similar to himself—while his is a cold outrage, like the breath of winter, theirs is hot as coals. There’s camaraderie amongst monsters, and while they have yet to coax out all of each other’s secrets, they have decided that they must stick together; after all, in times of peace, monsters are so few. What Damien hopes to gain from the relationship is less clear, though—a bloodied ribbon binds them together, but since the fall of Lucifer, Damien has found himself reneging on his promises of desolation and wastage. Nerissa, on the other hand, was wrought from calamity; perdition follows their every step. Though there is much they share, there is also much that sets them apart.

Damien is portrayed by Woo Do-hwan and was written by CAS. He is currently TAKEN by MAL.

#original rp #angel rp #fantasy rp #rpg #biblical rp #m #d #damien ward #c #cm

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carnagebled-a · 5 years ago

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A LIST OF THREADS FROM MY OLD BLOG THAT I WANT

hunger games!au

hazel being stabbed instead of eddie au

an affiliated poly coven that has s/ex with each other constantly

a fem!reddie inspired ship

can you imagine Lilly as Barry’s handler

more cops x lilly ships

Barry and Lilly during the events of ronnie/lily

caroline and alicia and seraphine and hope twin/doppelgänger aus !!

Michael!Millie

au where everything’s the same in IT chapter two except Hazel’s dead and she’s the witch that torments Bev

a michael x abaddon ship

alicia vs legacies!clarke (or a ship)

a c.laire n.ovak x seraphine ship

an ideal s.pn ending would be jack and seraphine killing c.huck and a.mara and being the new light and darkness

demon!blood eileen

mark of cain!seraphine

l.egacies!hope to trigger her vamp side and I need lizzie to be a heretic sired to her

a ship like James and Alyssa from teotfw

a nerd/goth affiliated ship

a cop/detective friendship with lilly like doug judy and jake in b99

fbi agents fall in love while undercover au

affliated oc twins where one’s a cop and one’s a killer and they both don’t know their profession

tWILIGHT AUS

#ι'll gιve yoυ мy ғιrѕт вorn ғor тнιѕ ( plot wishlist )#мy wordѕ ѕoυnd вeттer coмιng ғroм мy нand тнan мy мoυтн ► out of blood ◄#long post tw

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stusbunker · 6 years ago

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Known: Case of the Weak, Part C

A Supernatural DARK Fan-fiction

Featuring: Dean x Demon!Reader, Dean x Female Vessel OC, Sam, Alan OMC, Crowley, Abaddon

Summary: The Winchesters do what they do, Chloe is still a bit occupied, our reader waits for the bus and Abaddon meets her match. Not anything worth warning you about, unless you haven’t watched season 9. And if you haven’t what are you doing here?! xoxo Stu

Series Masterlist

Still in Rock Springs, WY

April 12, 2014

“Exorcizamus te-,” Sam’s voice rang out behind you, Dean’s face smugly twisting with vindication.

“Omnis immundus spiritus,” you continued, whispering in disbelief beneath your breath. That made Sam stutter briefly as your eyes went black against the chant. You reached out to stroke Dean’s face, but he ducked out of your reach, swatting your new vessel’s hairy arm away.

“omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii,” Sam spoke louder as he stepped closer.

“Figures.” You sighed dramatically before squaring your feet, preparing for another vacancy. “Good luck and take care of our girl,” you said directly to Dean’s stunned face, ignoring Sam’s looming sneer. You jumped from Alan’s body and out through the bathroom window out to the limitless night sky.

*^*

“What the hell was that about?!” Dean shuttered against the uncomfortableness, catching the guy in front of him before he hit his head on small table. Alan’s eyes blazed open, panic and confusion escaping in gulps and off-putting moans. “Hey, man it’s going to be okay. We gotcha, just breathe.” Though still visibly annoyed Dean’s tone seemed to soothe the recently unpossessed man to functionally acceptable levels.

“What the hell, who was she?!” Alan glared at Dean like he had kicked a puppy.

“That was a demon,” Sam sat on the table top and began to give the spiel.

“Why was she was obsessed with you?! Her mind was filled with you doing all sorts of awful things, man.” Alan started to get scared again as he tried to reason with the memories of his possessor and the reality in front of him.

Dean cocked his head and met the accusations with a rueful squint. “Forget about that bitch, demons mess with your mind. Make you see things and worse. I think it’s time you go home, maybe get drunk and sleep this whole night off, like a nightmare, mhmm?”

Alan left on shaky feet, the world wider and darker than he had ever imagined. Meanwhile, Sam and Dean carefully moved CC back to their room, playing drunk themselves as to why they were carrying an unconscious woman into their hotel room. After securing the doors and windows, they were able to think about their next steps.

“Where’d you think it went?” Sam was watching Dean carefully, unsure of how much it was run-of-the-mill demonic manipulation and how much of the bravado was sincere.

“How the hell should I know? Did you see that, man, it tried to put the moves on me,” Dean scrunched his face before stepping back to let Sam check on CC himself.

“Yeah, pretty clingy, for a demon,” Sam acknowledged offhandedly as he checked CC’s eyes, not sure what he was looking for beyond reaction to light, which he hoped was normal. She was breathing and her heartbeat was steady. “Think Cas can swing a visit or are we really going to send you back in?”

Dean stared at Sam like he had something on his face. “What?”

“Yeah, that came out wrong.”

^*^

The road was endless and smooth, the slight breeze swaying the massive vehicle enough to keep up the illusion. The trucker played a slightly staticky station, humming along at random. She knew he would have had a GPS or the CB going if he was real, but he was just another ferryman. If everything was so obvious, why couldn’t she work out what decision she had to make? Chloe huffed, shifting against the seat belt as the heat waves rose before them in wilted warning.

“You know you ought to have just stayed home, don’t ya?”

She closed her eyes against the accusation, however gentle. “Nothing back there has to do with what’s happening to me now.”

“Well, there’s nothing out here for you that’s gonna help until you know the question.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you could just tell me and save the return trip?” CC didn’t want to be rude, it was a free ride and he had been nothing but kind. Even if he kept changing faces, Bobby, Rufus, Roger, Reynolds, Ellen, and now it was Pastor Jim. It was the faces that didn’t turn up that made her uneasy, her mother, the other elders, John even. The one face she had never seen that she longed for above all others.

“Can’t tell you something you already know.”

“If I wanted to answer a riddle, I would have found a bridge,” CC grumbled, rolling the heavy crank in the door, needing to stick her head in a wind tunnel for the sheer mindless pleasure for a few minutes. She let her eyes tear and her hair trail behind her to inevitable knots. The sun was warm, and the air dried the trails of saline as fast as they formed. The hiss of brakes and the sudden pull of gravity broke through her revelry. She fell suddenly against her chest strap. Confused, she looked back to see the driver’s side door hanging open. An ear-piercing screech followed by a jarring thud forced her to see what her guide was up to. The entire trailer had been unhinged, whatever load left precariously angled against the blacktop.

“What’d you do that for?!”

Geoff’s mischievous smile greeted her, his eyebrows waggling conspiratorially. He swung back into the seat and started the engine, spinning the unweighted cab deftly on its remaining ten wheels. “Better?”

“We’ll see.” Chloe held onto the handle above her head, a hopeful glimmer spread through her.

^*^

Dean didn’t know what he had expected, but the potion still tasted like the wrong end of a junkyard dog. He sucked it back as Sam watched with a look of sheer disgust on his dumb face. Dean inhaled the musty motel room air and coughed, the taste burned, spreading through his chest. He didn’t know why exactly, but he dropped down beside CC’s body, and threaded his hand through her cool fingers. Before he could finish listening to Sam’s instructions, Dean drifted away.

He awoke in the passenger seat of the Impala, parked at an awkward angle in a forgotten, yet familiar driveway.

He knew he was younger, by the easy roll of his shoulders and the old leather jacket stuck with sweat to his face, while bunched against the window. The Mark blatantly missing from his forearm as he brushed down his sleep-ruffled hair, he checked his face in the sideview mirror. For a second, he thought he saw a gangly Sam in the backseat, but as soon as he turned around, he realized he was alone. Good, Sammy should be watching out for them in case the demon returned, not jumping headfirst into CC’s head. He felt bad enough about doing it without her knowledge, even if invading privacy was par for the course of desperate times.

Dean climbed out of the car, closing the door with a resounding clunk. He walked up to the old cast iron framed porch. The inside door swung open before Dean could knock, his hand held precariously in the air as he breathed out his greeting, “Uh, hi.”

“Go home, Dean.” Old Man Collins was exactly like he was the last time Dean saw him, in a word, dead. The entire right side of his face was peeled off, he remembered the chunks the wendigo had slashed from the ancient hunter before they had found him. Luckily for the situation at hand, his clothing was obscuring the more grotesque wounds. “This isn’t about you, boy.”

“Sir, I, uh,” Dean opened the screen door and met Chloe’s grandfather’s deep-set eyes. “Look, I need to find her, she got possessed on my watch and I need to make sure she is okay. I fucked up, bad and its on me to fix it.”

“Save your guilty sob story, son. That thing had its sights on you before CC showed up, but it’s not why Chloe’s gone. Not really.”

Dean’s mouth froze open, brow pinched in confusion. “Okay? But I need to know that CC is going to wake up.”

“She’ll live.”

“Forgive me, but that’s not too reassuring.”

The old man walked away, back into the house and settled in the recliner near the half wall between the living room and the kitchen. Dean followed, looking around as if someone else would appear at any moment. “Sit down, since you can’t bother to listen to reason, at least relax.”

The television was on, but the sound was off, an outdoor channel with fly fishing tips flickered on the old console set. They sat in uncomfortable silence before Dean stood suddenly. “Do you know when she’ll be back or, do I need to hop in the car and track her down?”

“She’s on her way now, but you’re going to leave before she gets here. She has enough things she needs to answer to without you mucking it up.”

“But I can help.”

The old Cheyenne man stood to size up the spunky upstart hunter. “You really can’t. You know I’m not Old Man Collins, right?”

Dean paused, nodding slowly. “You’re part of Chloe’s subconscious.”

“Yeah, the logical, bullshit free part. So, take that shiny black car and get. Before I start listing the reasons why you are no longer welcome in my home.”

“But, Cease and me–,” Dean gestured awkwardly then fumbled for words, the more he thought and spoke, the more he realized the apparition before him was right. Amused acknowledgement sparkled in the man’s dark eyes as Dean’s sheepishness stilled his tongue. “Is she going to wake up?

“That’s up to her, but she’ll live, neither Hell nor Holy water can snuff her out so easily.”

The walls shook and the sun set in a blaze as if in time-lapse, the dark room groaned as Dean caught himself on a lamp stand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not for you to know. Now, go. She can’t face what’s in the woods until you’re gone.” Dean felt lightheaded, he struggled to hold himself upright. Old Man Collins approached him, patting him firmly on the back. “Goodbye, Dean.”

“No, wait, Mr. Collins, please–,” Dean sat up, wrenching CC’s arm up as he turned to face the dream in which he was no longer welcome.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice and face were suddenly close as Dean squinted into the dim morning light.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Dean groaned, untangling CC’s hand from his before kicking his legs off the side of the bed.

“What happened?”

“I got kicked out. Couldn’t even get to her.”

“By whom?”

“Her grandad.” Dean shrugged. “Well, the stubborn ass part of her brain that showed itself as her grandad.”

“Huh.” Sam chewed on the information.

“Yeah, well, good news? She’s fine, physically, apparently. So, what’d you say we head home? Get her set up in safety while we wait for her to come to?”

Sam nodded, watching Dean’s disappointment bury itself behind action and planning. They carefully laid her in the backseat, consequently, it was still early enough for them not to draw any concern from other guests. Sam paid for both rooms, while Dean stopped to gas up her truck. Simple, easy tasks, busy work to be done as the Mark made its renewed presence known, tingling along his skin.

^*^

Denver, CO

Slipping back into your dissipated form was overwhelming, especially as you traveled farther away. You tested your limits, spiraling as fast as you could go, paying little mind to direction or destination. Experiencing the world as a raging cloud of damnation meant you sensed emotions and actions instead of seeing them. You bee-lined toward a city, with vessels to spare and fear and anger pulling you from your own thoughts. Thoughts of the ultimate rejection, and the look on Dean’s face as he let Sam’s words sweep you into the dust bin. Like you were nothing, or nothing more than the kill of the week.

If you had a gut, it would have rolled with your swift descent.

In the formlessness, with the vast sea of humans littered beneath you, every molecule of your being seemed to hum. Emotions and justifications rushing through your thoughts as you streaked against the heavy spring air. You were bombarded with their feelings like sound vibrations, rattling from an untested speaker system. When you found a corner where a pair of people sat, drenched in fear and lust, you landed at last.

The man was buzzed, but you weren’t sure if it was the gin or the pain killers for his back that were making everything fuzzy. They were on a bench, waiting for a bus. The African American woman sitting on the furthest edge away from the portly white man, who had clearly been making her uncomfortable. Once you got your bearings, you turned to her and smiled. “Don’t worry, Miss, he’s going to be out of commission for a while.”

She muffled a shriek and called on her savior as you stood and sauntered down the street.

*^*

May 6, 2014

Humboldt Hotel

Cleveland, OH

Dean’s body pulsed with purpose, defined by the certainty of his mission and its now tangible completion. If he could just keep Sam from getting in the way; it would be clean and quick. God help him, Dean’s brother always questioned direct orders; Dean tried to come off as practical, cautious. Meanwhile he was jonesing for the fight. The elevator seemed to take forever, the Penthouse unrestricted to even the likes of him, which set his hunter’s logic from four to twelve in the time it took for him to breach the top floor.

Crowley was scared, but he wasn’t stupid. The minion went down easy, almost too fast for him to enjoy it. Before Dean could continue his search, she was there. The Ginger Bitch herself, red lipped and gloating. He couldn’t wait to finish this, and the tug of a not-so-distant strand of memory told him that even this demon couldn’t hold him for long. The lethal combination of the Mark and the Blade only increased his confidence. The Knight that would be Queen was his to finish, if he could just get his ass off of this wall.

Abaddon wasn’t fucking around either, she knew he was her biggest threat despite her haughty sass. She didn’t even hesitate to throw everything she had at him. As the First Blade slipped through his fingers, Dean’s resolve stuttered, but the pull from the Mark centered him, honing the rage and blood lust to draw the weapon back into his grasp. At the moment of reconnection, Dean knew she had reached the bottom of the barrel, her powers no longer strong enough to contain him.

He didn’t register Sam’s entrance, or Crowley’s astonishment, he narrowed his eyes and stalked toward his prey. It was almost sad how easy it was now, the mangled bone slicing into her voluptuous vessel, impossibly smooth and satisfying. Once he had a taste, he needed more. Abaddon’s cries a siren’s call. Dean hacked into the demon, even as the flashes of her essence faded. The blood smattering his face and the floor, it’s warmth delicious, but the hunger never abated. It was only Sam’s voice breaking through the fog that got Dean to look beyond the corpse before him and his need to destroy.

The tunnel vision righted, and Dean was himself, or the new version of himself, the marked and armed version. Letting Crowley talk his way out of their demands, Dean knew that his list of potential kills held few as deserving as the King of Hell. But a Winchester didn’t back out on a deal and Crowley had done right by them, until CC’s face floated through his thoughts. He never even asked whose stooge had made a vegetable of her. Unfounded retaliation sounded perfectly acceptable now. The calm returned, because Dean would find the demon and he would take his time.

Tags: @mogaruke @dontshootmespence @mrswhozeewhatsis@smi727@sassykayla255@supernaturalboi@dumbthotticus@eve05glee@veroinnumera@spn-dean-and-sam-winchester@fanfictionrecommendations-com@soullesscollection-world

Next Chapter: Angels are Assholes

#moc!dean #dean winchester x reader #demon!reader #dean fanfic #spn fanfic #dean winchester #spn dark fic series #dark fic #moc!dean x demon!reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x female vessel oc #dean x cc #dean winchester x female oc #known series #abaddon #s9 #the king of the damned

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alleiradayne · 6 years ago

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Killer Queen

Summary: Abaddon has a really shitty day and Ruby takes care of her. Square Filled: Ruby/Abaddon Warnings/Tags: Heavy BDSM, rough sex, oral, blood, demons, Dom!Ruby, Sub!Abaddon Characters/Pairings: Ruby/Abaddon Word Count: 4010 A/N: For @spnkinkbingo, this fills the square Ruby/Abaddon, and fits so wonderfully well in Femslash February. A giant thank you to @chiisana-sukima for beta reading and ensuring my BDSM wasn’t too far fetched. Song: Killer Queen by Queen

“Ruby, darling? Be a doll and fetch the harness?” Abaddon chimed as she strolled into the bedroom.

From her chair, Ruby regarded Abaddon. Wisps of her long, red waves strayed from her typically perfect coiffure, and her shoulders hunched as she neared the bed. Ruby stood from her chair and met her there. “Are you alright?”

Abaddon looked to her with a tired smile. “I will be. Once you get the harness. Might as well grab the whole box while you’re at it.”

Shit.

“Is that a good—”

“Ruby, dear, I love you, and I’ll do whatever you want once the collar’s on, but when it’s not, you will do as I say. Am I not your queen?” Abaddon demanded.

Ruby bowed as she rushed from the bed for the closet. Inside sat a large wooden chest, too heavy for her to lift by hand, but with a flick of her wrist, the box slid across the smooth cement floor to the foot of the bed.

“Candles too, please, love,” Abaddon said. “I’m in a mood.”

A mood, indeed. With a snap of her fingers, Ruby plunged them into darkness, and the next ignited an array of candies spread throughout the room. “Better, my queen?” she asked

A pleased hum sang through her nose. “Yes, sweetheart. Now, the collar first, then the harness. We’ll see how things go from there. But definitely leave the box open.”

Fuck. A long night of hard work lay ahead of her. Not that she wasn’t up for it. Ruby had hoped Abaddon might be interested in a little stress relief that evening but she had not anticipated this. Abaddon lay sprawled out on the four-poster bed like a corpse, limbs at odd angles and eyes staring at the ceiling, empty and unmoving but for their slow lids.

Ruby stared at the box, planning her each and every move. Her expertise in torture and lust had earned her this responsibility. And she was more than up to the task. After all, she had seduced and pleasured Lucifer’s prime vessel. Why not a Knight of Hell?

When Abaddon had picked her, Ruby considered herself honored. Apparently, she had come recommended. It seemed her reputation as the demon that fucked Sam Winchester and lived to tell the tale had enticed Abaddon, intrigued her. Ruby thanked whatever power that had granted her the opportunity to serve her queen in the most intimate capacity possible. Call her what you will; a whore, an abuser, a manipulator. If you asked Abaddon, she’d give you the simplest answer.

“The collar, love. Now.”

Her wandering thoughts vanished in a haze of smoke. Ruby approached the foot of the bed and flicked her wrist, the chest opening with a loud groan. Wide as the bed, it contained layer after layer of leather; straps and belts and restraints, all neatly organized, the collar front and center. With great reverence, Ruby lifted the collar from its mount and rounded the bed to sit beside Abaddon, who yet lay motionless atop the plush pillows. Ruby slipped her hand under her neck and lifted her head. She smoothed her red waves aside as she slipped the collar around her thin, pale neck. And after she fastened the buckle, Ruby examined it. Ancient sigils etched into the leather ran the length of the strap surrounded in a language from another millennium. The bloodred dye—Abaddon’s actual blood—had never faded over the centuries, its crimson sheen still red as the day the collar had been crafted. Once around her neck, Abaddon was as helpless as the vessel she possessed, her demonic powers bound as her body. Only she and Ruby knew of the collar and it was paramount that it stayed hidden.

Satisfied with the collar’s placement, Ruby leaned into her ear and whispered, “On your feet. Now.”

Lazily, Abaddon slipped from the bed and stood, her head lolling to one side as though bored. Insolent, then. Fine. Ruby knew how to handle moody lovers.

A snap of her fingers cracked like a whip in the cool dungeon air. Abaddon screamed in shock, her cry cut off as she bit her bottom lip. Ruby smiled her sickening sweet smile as she asked, “Do I have your attention?”

“Yes, my queen.”

“Good,” Ruby mused as she neared her. “Did you have a bad day?” she asked as she teased at the neckline of Abaddon’s shirt.

Abaddon nodded. “I did, my queen.”

The tearing of fabric rent the air as Ruby ripped her fingers through her shirt and bra. Try as she might to hide it, Ruby caught the hint of a smile on Abaddon’s lips. Might have to teach her the rules again. “Do you want me to make you feel better?”

Again, Abaddon nodded. Another snap of her fingers struck the invisible lash across the backs of her thighs, and Abaddon shrieked.

“When I ask you a question…”

“Yes, my queen. I wish you to make me feel better,” Abaddon finished.

“Good,” Ruby stated as she motioned to the chest with an open hand. The harness lifted from the box, a gaudy thing of straps and buckles and all manner of delectable restraints, and floated to her outstretched hand. “Strip.”

Abaddon responded with haste, her ruined garment dropped to the floor, boots kicked aside, and her pants discarded. She stood bare but for her underwear, a thong that she might as well have not bothered wearing.

Ruby grasped the fabric with her free hand and jerked Abaddon flush to her chest. Control, the height of responsibility as Abaddon’s domme, slipped from her fingers with her lover so close, bare breasts pressing against hers and her full red lips gaping with want. But she gathered her willpower with one deep breath and repeated herself as sweetly as ever. “I said strip.”

Abaddon whimpered as the fabric of her thong bit into her flesh and tore, Ruby wrenching it in her fist. She discarded it, tossed aside and forgotten. Abaddon remained still as stone, completely bare; ready, waiting.

But Ruby, ever the patient taskmaster, enjoyed toying with her playmates. She waited, eyes boring into the blue of Abaddon’s until she positively hummed with anticipation. And then she struck, two fingers shoved between her thighs and into her cunt to find her soaking wet.

“Naughty girl,” Ruby whispered as she stroked. “Is my little pet eager?”

“No, my queen,” Abaddon answered with a breathless mewl.

Ruby cocked an eyebrow at that. “Really?”

A flicker of lust flashed in her soft blue eyes. “Maybe, my queen.”

“Thank you for your honesty,” Ruby cooed as she snatched her hand back. A thin layer of Abaddon’s arousal coated her fingers, examined in the flickering candlelight. Her eyes snapped back to Abaddon’s, and then she said, “Open.”

Red lips parted with another twitch of a smile that Ruby forced herself to ignore. Abaddon would make this difficult. Swift as a cat, Ruby shoved her fingers into her open mouth, and Abaddon sealed her lips around them far too eagerly. That deserved another lesson, one she would not forget. Ruby dragged her fingers from her mouth, red lipstick smeared down her chin, then backhanded her across the face. The split in her lip leaked a drop of blood as Abaddon forced down her wicked grin, not a trace of it found on her face. Reward good behavior, Ruby had always preached, and so, she grasped Abaddon by the chin and licked. The salt of her blood lingered as Ruby then pressed her lips upon hers for a rough kiss. Connected so, she released a trickle of her power into Abaddon, the cut in her lip healing as if it had never been.

Parted, Ruby licked her lips clean of Abaddon’s fluids, then spoke. “Now, then. Step in.” She righted the harness and held it before her.

Abaddon did as ordered, slipping the leather straps up her long pale legs and over her hips. She took the harness in hand and slipped it over her arms and across her shoulders, then returned to attention. Loose, the straps dangled from her lithe frame, and so Ruby twirled her hand. Abaddon obeyed, turning about-face for her.

The groin straps tightened with a rough jerk, as did the buckles at her shoulders and underbust. At the waist cincher, Ruby took her time, a slow pull that forced the air from Abaddon’s lungs. Once completely fastened Ruby summoned additional restraints from the box with a wave of her hand, wrist cuffs and elbow bindings floating with ease. “Onto the bed.”

Abaddon crawled onto the bed and faced the headboard, then froze on her knees. Ruby followed and knelt behind her. She drank Abaddon in from head to toe, red leather biting into the delicate white flesh, the swell of her ass begging for her touch. But Ruby gathered her willpower as she issued another order. “Arms.”

Elbows and wrists met behind her back as Abaddon arched, stretched. As Ruby fastened the cuffs, she asked, “How bad was your day, sweetheart?”

“Dreadful,” Abaddon groaned.

“Aw,” Ruby sighed as she threaded the straps between her elbows. “Demons not playing nice?”

“Do they ever, my queen?”

Ruby laughed as she said, “Hardly, if ever.” Another gesture of her hand summoned the final restraints, a set of thick ankle cuffs. “Spread your legs, sweetheart.”

As ordered, Abaddon shifted on the bed, her knees wide. Ruby wrapped her delicate ankles in the leather, cinched tight. Pain might be a part of their game, but decidedly not chafing. Fuck chafing.

“Half suspension tonight, my dear,” Ruby sang. “Sounds like you need at least that much.”

Abaddon responded with practiced control. “I abide by your wisdom, my queen.”

“Wonderful,” Ruby chimed as she grasped a chain from one footpost. The metal dragged through the wood with a heavy thud until she reached one ankle and connected the clasp. She repeated the motion for her other leg, and, with both ankles fastened, pulled the master chain taut. Abaddon’s knees slipped another inch apart on the silken sheets, thighs spread wide and flexed as she struggled for balance. Perfectly prepped for Ruby.

From the foot of the bed, she observed Abaddon, so still as she waited for the next order. But Ruby remained silent as she shifted closer, directly behind her. The pale white of her skin contrasted with the leather, a deep red to mask any blood she might—would—draw. Across her ass, bright pink lash marks had begun to fade. She traced those lines with the tips of her fingers, enthralled by the sight. With that thought, Ruby snapped her fingers and the invisible lash struck Abaddon across the supple flesh of her ass, marked with a thin line of broken skin.

A delectable shriek filled the room as Abaddon startled. She bit her bottom lip as her thighs quivered, struggling for balance, for leverage. “Well done, darling,” Ruby moaned as she thumbed the broken skin, blood smeared beneath her touch. “Are you ready?”

“Please, my queen,” Abaddon sighed. “I need you.”

Ruby moaned deep in her chest, the sight of her wanting and the sounds of her begging more than enough to arouse her. Overhead, she grasped the suspension chains and attached them to the harness, then hauled down on the hoist. Pulled up and towards the foot of the bed, Abaddon lifted from her knees barely an inch. That subtle shift of weight from her knees to her shoulders and waist forced her to bow at the hip. Once suspended, Ruby anchored the hoist with a three-overlap lock. Despite their demonic souls and ability to heal, nothing destroyed a session of restraint faster than a failed suspension. Satisfied, Ruby returned to Abaddon, connecting the final clasps to the overhead hoist, lifting her elbows and wrists away from her back.

Finished at last, Ruby admired her work, Abaddon partially suspended, her red hair dangling to the bed. Between her legs, Ruby crawled to the head of the bed and lay beneath her, face to face, to fully enjoy the sight of her craft. The tight straps bit into her flesh, thighs and breasts bulging from their restraints. Though eager to get to work, Ruby reached with a delicate touch to cup one of her breasts, teasing the nipple with a pinch. “You look positively radiant,” she sighed. “So many things I want to do to you. But first…”

With a wave of her hand, Ruby disrobed, her clothing transformed into her own set of straps and buckles and bindings. When the transformation completed, she looked to Abaddon and found her staring at her breasts. “Do you like it?”

Abaddon nodded, as she said, “I do. You look absolutely ravishing, my queen.”

“Oh?” Ruby asked. “Would you like to ravish me?”

Eyes wide, Abaddon whispered her response. “If you would allow it, my queen.”

From the bed, Ruby lowered the suspension hoist, Abaddon bending at the waist until their lips met. Brief, the kiss lasted a mere second before Ruby grasped Abaddon by the jaw and wrenched her aside. “Did I say you could kiss me?”

Abaddon, a mask of calm disguising her lust, said, “No, my queen. I only wished to pleasure you.”

Another lash across her backside extracted a whimper from Abaddon. “Then you will do as I say,” Ruby demanded as she shifted. Reclined on the pillows at the head of the bed, she lowered Abaddon another three inches, her head between Ruby’s thighs as her knees parted. She gathered her hair in a fist at the back of her head as she looked Abaddon in the eye and said, “Then pleasure me.”

The warmth of Abaddon’s tongue as it slipped between her sopping folds earned her Ruby’s most wanton moan. Her hips rolled, grinding her cunt against her face with demand for more. And Abaddon obliged without needing orders. Her lips sealed around her clit and sucked, her tongue working small, slow circles as Ruby held her fast to her flesh.

“Make me come, sweetheart,” Ruby gasped, “I’m… so close.” Truly, Ruby had never taken another mate quite as capable with their tongue as Abaddon. The woman ate pussy better than anyone she had ever met. The heat of her climax boiled over in a sudden rush of arousal, Abaddon working her flesh to perfection. Ruby gripped her hair tight as her thighs flexed, her entire body taut as the chains that held Abaddon aloft. In a blinding flash of release, her orgasm raged like wildfire through her veins, unrepentant and violent. Her demonic shriek filled the room as Abaddon, relentless, sucked her clean of her cum. Aftershocks of her orgasm echoed across her body, each shuddering flex drawn by Abaddon’s continued assault until Ruby wrenched her head back by her hair. Arousal dripped from her chin, bright red lipstick smeared with it, a pretty mess so deserving of a reward.

Ruby shifted beneath her, face to face once more, and kissed Abaddon deep, tongue laving over hers. She swallowed Abaddon’s moans as Ruby reached between her thighs to tease her clit. She had half a mind to leave her there then, but as Abaddon writhed in her restraints, whimpering, she couldn’t resist pleasuring her thoroughly.

Between her legs, Ruby crawled behind Abaddon and froze a moment to drink in the sight of her ass poised so perfectly for her. Arousal dripped from her flesh, slicked her thighs that quivered with palpable need. A need that Ruby knew precisely how to sate. A delicate nail infused with her power dragged a tendril of hellfire along the supple curve of one cheek, blood oozing from the broken flesh. Abaddon’s cry softened into a mewling moan, music to her ears, as Ruby soothed the sting with her tongue. Against her pale skin, the smear of Abaddon’s crimson blood streaked as if made by a painter’s brush. In a way, Ruby thought, it had been. Abaddon considered Ruby an artist in the craft of pleasure and pain, so often she used her body like a canvas. With the other cheek blank, it called to Ruby, begged for her hand, and so, she obliged.

All five nails clawed into the meat of her muscle, power poured into her grasp as Ruby raked her skin. Abaddon howled in pain, her head thrown back and body convulsing against her restraints. For that, she earned a reminder, and so, with a snap of her fingers, Ruby cracked the invisible lash against her thighs. Deep cuts drew blood that ran to the sheets as Abaddon silenced herself, body stilled but for the shake of her shoulders as she struggled to contain her euphoria.

Ruby sought the solution in the chest, a wave of her hand summoning the gag she thought she might not need. But apparently, Abaddon’s day had been a truly righteous mess and she needed the entire routine. So, bending over her, Ruby stuffed the gag into her mouth and fastened the strap behind her head. “There. Scream all you want now.”

Abaddon moaned as she nodded, relieved for the outlet. Ruby might be a ruthless mistress, but she was far from cruel.

With her attention returned to Abaddon’s sex, Ruby found blood smeared across her skin and along her own body. The lash across her thighs yet bled, and so, Ruby sealed it with a swift touch. She had so much more in store for Abaddon, she didn’t need her vessel bleeding out before she was through. “Better, my darling? Nod for me, please.”

A vigorous shake of her head responded. Perfect. That deserved more than a simple reward. “You’ve done well, love,” Ruby cooed as she dragged another trail of fire along her ass. Abaddon moaned into the gag as her thighs quivered, so near to her end already. “Would you like to come?”

Another nod responded with her whimper, and so, Ruby obliged. With both hands, she grasped Abaddon’s cheeks, spread her wide, then began her feast. Blood and arousal fused for a taste so distinctly Abaddon’s, Ruby moaned into her flesh. Fuck, she was close. The walls of her cunt flexed wildly, tight around her tongue as Ruby penetrated her. Mere seconds of her attention split Abaddon at the seams, her wailing moan muted against the gag as she came. A sluice of arousal rushed over Ruby’s lips, ran down her chin as she pushed Abaddon as far she could stand it, until she whimpered for her to stop.

Ruby withdrew, lips licked clean, and Abaddon slumped into her restraints. Her shoulders heaved with breath sucked through her nose, soft sighs and softer whimpers riding out her high. Pleased, Ruby soothed the lashes and cuts, healing them each with a gentle touch. “That was delicious, sweetheart,” Ruby sighed as she smoothed the pristine skin of her ass. “Are you ready for your final binding?”

Abaddon continued her labored breathing, hesitating but a moment before she nodded, eager once more. “Excellent,” Ruby sang. “I admit, I’ve been looking forward to this part the entire evening.”

One last wave of Ruby’s hand transformed the belt of her own harness, shifting into a holster in which was mounted a long, thick dildo fashioned after that of a hellhound. Deep red, it matched their leather, and Ruby wasted no time in teasing Abaddon with the pointed tip. A shudder of shock coursed through Abaddon at the sudden contact. “Oh, you want it, don’t you? You want my cock buried in your pussy so bad, you ache. I can see it in your thighs, how you hum with need,” Ruby said with a moan. A flick of her fingers unfastened the gag, and it fell from Abaddon’s mouth. “Beg, my dear. Beg for my cock like my good little whore.”

“My queen, please,” Abaddon wailed, “I need it! Please, fuck me, I need you. I need your big cock inside me.”

Ruby teased her a moment longer before grasping Abaddon’s hips, then pressed, the narrow tip gliding between her flesh with ease. With each inch, she spread, the cock wider and wider with ridges and bumps and a spine of rounded spikes that teased her clit as they passed. Abaddon gaped with a silent scream as the dildo filled her, stretched to her limit. When Ruby’s pelvis met Abaddon’s ass, she asked, “And how does that feel, my love?”

Abaddon merely moaned, nonsense falling from her lips. She begged for more, for movement, for friction, anything but Ruby sitting there completely still. Ruby, ever the giving type, obliged with a snap of her hips, violently withdrawing from her, then slamming her hips into her ass, the dildo pummeling her cunt. Another wailing scream rent the still dungeon air as Abaddon’s entire body jolted at the sudden impact, and Ruby moaned her own delighted response. “So needy,” she started as she rolled her hips again, watching the ridges stroking her cunt as she fucked. “So desperate. My little whore needs to be fucked, doesn’t she?”

“Please,” Abaddon begged, “I need more, I need you to fuck me harder.”

Ruby grasped her hair at the back of her head and shoved her face into the mattress. “Like this?” she demanded as she pumped her hips in Abaddon’s ass, the slap of leather on skin echoing through the room. Harder and faster, she pounded into Abaddon, her flesh so pliant in her restraints and her mind so willing. “Answer me, whore. Do you like it when I fuck you like this?”

“Yes!” Abaddon cried, a string of ancient curses in her demon’s tongue following. As Ruby thrust, Abaddon slipped between human tongues and ancient verses that, were her powers unbound, would have destroyed them both. Long minutes stretched, time distorted for them both, Ruby in complete control and Abaddon at her mercy, of which Ruby had none. Relentlessly, she thrust, pounding the massive cock into Abaddon until she begged her to stop, begged for release, for permission to come again and again and again. When the babbling nonsense fell to helpless whimpers, defeated cries of please, my queen, let me come for you, fuck, you feel so good, please, I need to come, I can’t hold on any longer, please, Ruby poured every ounce of her power into her fingers and drove it straight into Abaddon’s cunt.

The wail of a demon in the throes of death paled in comparison to the sound of Abaddon coming after hours of denial. That demonic scream rattled the chains that bound her as Abaddon’s orgasm ravaged her vessel. Ruby never eased, her violent thrusts pounding through her release as the gush of cum spurted onto her stomach and ran down her thighs. Several minutes passed as wave after wave of climax coursed through Abaddon, each with its own wailing moan. When Ruby withdrew, a flow of thin cum streamed down Abaddon’s thighs to soak the sheets, and at long last, she slumped once more in her restraints, vessel exhausted.

Ruby acted with haste then, her harness and straps vanishing with a wave of her hand and leaving her bare. She lowered Abaddon to the bed by the hoist, unfastened all her restraints in quick succession and returned them to the box. Returned to the bed, Ruby flicked her wrist to turn down the sheets—and in the process, cleaned them of all their bodily fluids—then crawled in beside Abaddon, a heap of useless flesh.

With the sheets pulled to her neck, Ruby cradled Abaddon in her lap, righted her hair once more, and smoothed her lipstick with her thumb. “How do you feel, my queen?” she asked.

Abaddon sighed a long, easy breath. “Like a million bucks. Thank you, Ruby.”

Ruby grinned at that, far too pleased with herself. “Glad I could help. Do you need anything before—”

The sounds of a sleeping dragon held nothing on Abaddon’s snoring. Another pleased grin spread across her lips as Ruby wiggled further beneath the sheets, eager to join her queen in their world of nightmares.

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ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN KINK BINGO MASTER LIST

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN MASTER LIST

#spnkinkbingo #ruby x abaddon #spn fanfic #femslash february #AlleiraDayne writes

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antigonewinchester · 3 years ago

Text

The Mark & Hell, part 3

(Previous posts: Intro post; Dean & Hell, season 4; the Mark & Hell part 1; Dean & Hell redux; the Mark & Hell, part 2.)

9x11 is also the episode that explicitly continues the thread of Dean enjoying violence and using that violence to externalize his own pain, particularly with violence as revenge, a prominent aspect of his time torturing in Hell as well as in hunting generally.

Before giving him the Mark, Cain tests Dean to see how strong he is, letting several of Abaddon’s demon lackeys into the room:

DEAN So, this is your play?! Corn?! What am I not getting here? I mean, it's not like you're a coward. CAIN Since when does the great Dean Winchester ask for help? Well, that doesn't sound like the man I've read about on demon bathroom walls. Maybe you've lost a step. Let's find out. [He snaps his fingers and the door (and the fridge in front of it) fly open and STALKER DEMON and a GIRL DEMON rush in. CAIN snaps his fingers again and the door slams shut in front of the others outside.] CAIN [to the demons] Oh, don't mind me. [motions to DEAN] Enjoy yourself.

Dean then fights and kills the demons when they attack him, proving his prowess as a warrior to Cain.

In 9x19, “Alex Annie Alexis Ann,” Sam and Dean help rescue Alex, a teenager who was kidnapped by vampires as a child and then raised by them without being turned. Alex and her story loosely parallel not just aspects of Dean and his upbringing, with both of them helping their families on hunts, but also Dean’s time in Hell, with both Alex and Dean held captive and becoming the focus of an abusive faux-parental figure (the Mama vamp for Alex, Alastair for Dean).

Both Dean and Alex are framed as enjoying violence and hurting others in this ep. For Dean, there’s first when he confronts the vampire Dale:

DEAN You don't want to talk. No skin off my back. 'Cause you see, a blood-sucking, body-chipping vamp – that's bad enough, but vamps… that kidnap kids… Well, I'm going to enjoy putting you down. DALE Of course. Oh, I knew this was about Alexis. I warned mama that girl would screw everything up for us one day.

Near the end of the episode, Dean is attacked by the vampire Connor and fights back, killing him. Afterward, he and Sam talk about it:

SAM Nice work back there. "Look at me, bitch"? DEAN Well, hey, you got another snappy one-liner, I'm all ears. SAM What I'm saying is – it looked to me like you were enjoying it. Maybe too much. DEAN And? Well, sorry for not putting on a hair shirt. Killing things that need killing is kind of our job. Last I checked, taking pleasure in that is not a crime. SAM Right, but...

Dean is all in on hunting here, and particularly the killing side of it. If he’s not good enough to be a savior anymore, then he can at least take some satisfaction in still knowing how to kill, and killing vamps that have kidnapped kids in the bargain. There’s also a quasi-revenge element to Dean’s violence, not only for the vampires having hurt children and kidnapped Alex, but for Dean himself. When Connor attacks Dean, he pins Dean against the wall and goes for his throat, with Dean then getting out of his hold, pinning Connor against the wall, and cutting off his head, killing him in a similar way to how Connor was going to kill Dean moments ago. Dean’s line before he kills him – to “Look at [him], bitch” – also has connotations around humiliation, domination and control. It sounds, perhaps, like something demons could have said to Dean while he was being tortured in Hell, or that Dean himself could have said to one of his own victims.

For Alex, Dale is the one to frame her using this language:

[*FLASHBACK* There is a small flashback to ALEX in a bar getting hit on by a creepy man. She smiles at him and they leave the bar together. Then they are in the house and the man starts to make his move] MAN Come on, sweetie. Aren't you gonna give me a name? ALEX It's... Ann. MAN Mm. Sweet Ann. You got any idea what I'm about to do to you? ALEX Yeah. I do. Nothing. MAN What the… Is this a party? [ALEX'S brothers all walk in and they start to feed on the creepy man *END FLASHBACK*] DEAN She's your lure. DALE Best a vamp could ask for. And you better believe you don't get that good at it unless you enjoy it. In her own sweet way… Girl's as bloodthirsty as any vampire.

While one can be skeptical of Dale here, considering he was Alex’s captor, Alex perhaps enjoying aspects of these hunts and her shame around that feeling would then parallel Dean’s enjoyment of hunting / torturing and his subsequent guilt and moral injury. What that enjoyment could mean is quite complicated – finding a satisfaction in helping to kill creepy old men who would go after young girls? taking an indirect revenge on someone who wanted to rape her? just the experience of telling men No and then being able to enforce that boundary through their deaths? – but I don’t think it does Alex any favors to minimize the complexities of her feelings, her experiences as a captive, and how she lived through it. Later on, Alex describes what sounds like a moral injury when talking about hunting to her vampire Mama:

ALEX I love you, mama. I do. I just – I couldn't take it anymore. The blood and the death, the sounds of their screams. I just… I can't do it anymore. And the way I feel afterwards, the guilt… I'd rather die than feel that way again.

She similarly expresses shame about her actions and what she was forced to do to survive when talking to Jody in the final scene:

ALEX No, I'll just throw it up. But, uh, thank you. I want you to know that… When mama offered, I just… I couldn't disappoint her again. I had enough to be ashamed of as it is. Jody, I-I've done things.

Alex not wanting to “disappoint” her Mama also calls to mind how Alastair tried to use his approval of or disappointment in Dean to manipulate him during season 4. The first time is in 4x10:

DEAN hits ALASTAIR with a crowbar. ALASTAIR Dean, Dean, Dean… I am so disappointed. You had such promise. ALASTAIR attacks DEAN and SAM.

and the second is in 4x16:

DEAN Now answer the question. ALASTAIR Or what? You'll work me over? But then, maybe you don't want to. Maybe you're, ah, scared to. DEAN I'm here, aren't I? ALASTAIR Not entirely. You left part of yourself back in the Pit. Let's see if we can get the two of you back together again, shall we? DEAN You're gonna be disappointed. [DEAN walks over to the cart.] ALASTAIR You have not disappointed me so far. Come on. You gotta want a little payback for everything I did to you. For all the pokes and prods. Hm? [DEAN is impassive.] No? Um… how about for all the things I did to your daddy? [DEAN's head comes up.]

Finally, there are some uncomfortable sexual undercurrents to Alex and Dean’s hunting experiences, as both of them weren’t only used as lures but as specifically sexualized bait. I’m going to put a pin in this theme now and return to it later on (because frankly I’m still sorting out my thoughts here).

When Dean is under the Mark’s influence in 9x22 and 9x23, he can’t let go of his desire for revenge on Gadreel for killing Kevin and kidnapping Sam, attacking Gadreel when he comes to make amends and help them take down Metatron. Unlike previously over the season, Sam isn’t able to call Dean back from the Mark’s power, and Sam and Cas have to lock Dean up to prevent him from hurting Gadreel or anyone else. However, Dean is able to escape with Crowley’s help, and the two of them work to track down Metatron until Dean and Sam reconnect mid-way thru 9x23. They seemingly go to face Metatron together, but Dean knocks Sam out and then attempts to take on Metatron alone. Unfortunately, even the Mark and the Blade aren’t enough to defeat the angel. Dean loses the fight, with Sam reaching him just as Metatron stabs Dean in the chest. Before Dean dies, he tells Sam, “it's better this way...” because the Mark was “making [him] into something [he doesn’t] want to be,” an echo of what Alex said about how she’d rather die than feel the guilt that came with helping her family hunt and kill people again. But (of course) Dean’s death isn’t the end, as Crowley then uses the Blade and the Mark to resurrect him as a Knight of Hell.

Sources

“4.10 Heaven and Hell (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 13 Nov 2018.

“4.16 On the Head of a Pin (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 11 Feb 2021.

“9.11 First Born (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 3 Apr 2021.

“9.19 Alex Annie Alexis Ann (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 19 Feb 2018.

“9.23 Do You Believe in Miracles? (transcript).” Supernatural Wiki: A Supernatural Canon & Fanon Resource. 4 Oct 2017.

femmedeanna. “Untitled” (Dean & Alex playing bait for monsters and humans, respectively). Tumblr, 2016.

#meta #meta personal #dean #dean & the mark #dean & hell #season 9 #there's seriously so much going on in 9x19 #queue

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