#humans are much worse than demons and ghouls or whatever but demons and ghouls scare me more

[call-me-maggie13]

Me, going to bed after listening to a horribly graphic true crime podcast: “god I hope everyone’s okay now… anyways… zzzzzzz…”

Me, going to bed after listening to a completely fictional horror story: *pocket knife clutched in my white knuckled grip* “what if the booglyboo tries to eat me while I sleep?”

[dear-yandere]

[ mirror, mirror ]

yandere! demon! johnny joestar x ghost-hunter! reader. modern au. headcanons and scenario inspired by buzzfeed unsolved.

› collab with: @lafirmament​. › warnings: religious and anti-religious themes, demons and supernatural shenanigans, possession. › art credit: 4156948.

— Such a pretty little thing, face scrunched in fear and screams echoing through the haunted buildings you insist on dragging him to. A renowned ghost hunter despite your renown as a scaredy cat, and yet you’re one of the bravest humans he’s ever laid eyes on. You’ll wander the halls with the eyes of a priest who’s been told their God is far from real, and yet, you’ll utter prayers and carry holy water as a last resort. Your naivete is the only thing keeping him from offing you for his own pleasure, really. What an interesting little human you are, what an interesting little pet.

— Your forays into haunted areas is a silly endeavor considering the greatest threat to your life is right beside you, masquerading as a best friend rather than a predator. Initially, he’d been meaning to have you as a snack — feed off your life force, as you’d once explained demons are capable of doing — but you make for a good play thing. It’s not often he finds a human who makes him chuckle with delight at every twist and turn, especially one so enamored by the supernatural that they’d venture into the very thing they hate most.

— As a human, it’s no secret he was crippled. A fact he hates to remember more than anything, he refuses to allow himself the same fate in the afterlife. Who the hell would be scared of a crippled demon anyway? When he takes trips to the human realm, he’s more than happy to possess some random asshole he finds on the street. Of course, when he met you, he more or less doomed himself to forever possess the body you met him in. Thankfully, glamour is a thing and he can make you and others see him as whatever he views fit. He wasn’t terrible looking when he was mortal, so he’s fine with making this body more or less look like him.

— He likes listening to you speak. Your voice is pretty when you get excited, high-pitched with stars in your eyes. You’re so keen on telling him all these interesting stories about spirits and ghouls and... demons. Your tales are amusing considering some are so far-fetched he can’t help but laugh. Perhaps you’re simply biased, because for reasons beyond him, you hate demons in particular. The thought of being terrorized by one is one of your greatest fears, he’s come to learn, though it would wound him if he didn’t like that about you in the first place. He wonders how you’ll react when he reveals his true nature to you, if you don’t die of a heart attack by then. Will you scream just how he likes it? Pass out? Bring out that phony holy water and shoddy cross as if they’ll protect you from anything? The curiosity all but kills him all over again, but he likes you too much to cut the fun short so soon.

— Those sounds you swore you heard, or that breeze or tap you swore you felt? He takes pride in these little pranks of his if only to see you cuddle into yourself and shriek for the entire building to hear. Luckily, there’s no one else besides you two. Your screams are fairly useless, but he doesn’t plan to do anything sketchy yet. It’s why he scares off the poltergeists who want to hurt you when you bring out that funny little... spirit box of yours. Of all Seven Hells, he hates that thing with a passion. It has a sound frequency that seems to draw spirits in and demons away; he’d rather you get rid of the thing entirely, but you keep it around because it’s ‘top of the line technology’ and you always ‘hear spirits talking to you through it’, even if it’s only when johnny isn’t accompanying you.

— And funnily enough, it is because you attract them — through your evident fear and pleasant screams, that is what they are naturally drawn to out of pure curiosity. You don’t realize this urgent fact, simply because Johnny makes sure you don’t catch onto it lest you don’t go feigning bursts of confidence. He loves it when you’re terrified shitless, and if you weren’t such amusing company, he’d terrorize you far worse than your wildest fears. It’s easy to pick your worst fears apart from the things you can tolerate — you’re awfully open with him. He shouldn’t be surprised, you did say he’s your best friend.

— His true intentions are unclear. What he feels for you is far from love, borderline obsession and curiosity above all else. Your companionship is nothing short of amusing and your reactions all the more alluring; he could easily off you, but you’re his for the taking. Demons are awfully possessive with their prey, completely incapable of mercy, sympathy, or love. If he senses any dangers from other spirits, he wards them off, the task easy enough given how highly he ranks in the Underworld. He’s a force to be reckoned with, a force that the lower-level spirits you encounter have no chance again. It’s fun watching them play around with you, sure, but he’s always close-by, watching, protecting what’s his.

“J-Johnny!”

He rolls his eyes, feeling your timid hands clutch his jacket — as if he’d save you. At this point, you should know how much joy he elicits from seeing you nearly piss yourself and scream at what he calls “nothing”. Seeing you now, he wonders what you’d do if he told you ghosts and demons really do exist. Coming from him of all people, you’d be shocked, but you’re so gullible and trusting that you’d believe his words in a heartbeat. The incessant teasing he’d have to endure afterwards is the only thing stopping him, though.

“There’s nothin’ there, pussy.” He snorts, glaring into the abyssal darkness of the hallway you just rushed from. Shadows flicker a few meters away as if scared by his presence. “I don’t see anythin’,” he snickers, enjoying the power he has over those shit-brained lesser demons. No one would dare touch you when he’s around. As animalistic as humans view demons, the system is more like a hierarchy ruled by position and fear. He’s by no means a hotshot in the demon realm, but he’s well-known enough to not attract unwanted attention from weaker spirits. That courtesy extends to you, for better or worse.

“There was!” You scan the darkness as if expecting to see something, balking when nothing shifts as it just had. The sudden silence  has you feeling like you’re being mocked. “I-I’m certain of it! I t-thought I heard a voice, so I used the spirit box and...” teeth dig into your bottom lip, a habit to stop you from screaming too much. “I think someone’s trying to talk to me, Johnny!” The prospect both excites and terrifies you, he can tell that much.

“Yea, and? What could they possibly got to say to you?” He shoots a glare down the hall, daring whatever cocky spirit  you’re talking about to man up and approach you again. “’Save me’? Some shit like that? As if they ain’t already dead. Yer the last person I’d ask, anyway.”

You scoff and push him away, furious that your first instinct was to cling to him of all people. Considering how he gets a good laugh outta your fear, you’d sooner cling to a random mannequin in the halls than this asshole. “It wouldn’t kill you to be nice to me sometimes, Johnny.”

A laugh sputters past his mouth. “Yeah guess you’re right.” Can’t kill what’s already dead, so you ain’t wrong. Unfortunately, a lot of his witty one-liners would blow his cover, especially since you already joke about him being a demon in disguise. “Still ain’t gonna do it, though.”

“Asshole.”

“Pussy.” He returns your scowl with a shit-eating grin and a light push against your back. “Well? Git goin’, you came back before the timer went off y’know. Or are you too much of a wimp?”

There’s that habit of yours again, chewing your lip when you’re nervous. He knows you’d rather cling to the title of ‘wimp’ or ‘pussy’ at this point, but your pride is far too big for that little mortal body of yours. You won’t back down, not after you came running all the way back here just to cling to him.

“F-fine!”

You’re already off down the hall before he can tease you some more. S’alright though, no one’s gonna bother you this time. No one but him, anyway. He’ll make sure of it.

dear-yandere 2019-2020, all rights reserved.

[jay-and-dean]

I don’t need you  Chapter 6 : Wild cat

Dean x reader

Summary : She’s a warrior, she’s a loner. Nothing can stop her, nothing ever had. She doesn’t need Dean, does she ?

This is a request by @magssteenkamp​ that I decided to turn to a serie, see the original request on the serie Masterlist.

Serie Warnings : Swearing (duh). Mention of death. Smut, probably all kind from rough to fluffy, I’ll precise in the chapters if there are specific warnings. Fluff. Angst of course.

Chapter warnings :  Swearing. SMUT, a hint of Dom!Dean, kinda Brat/brat tamer vibe. Unprotected sex (You’re smarter than this). Horny Dean. Violence with a hint of cruelty. Mention of past murder and abuse.

Words : 3.2 k

Note : I’ll try to stick to the 3k rule, like for Rescue You

If everything goes as planned, you’ll get one chapter every wednesday (Thanks to @magssteenkamp, I call it WednesJay, lol. Sorry okay, I shut up).

***Want to read more ? => MASTERLIST***

*** I don’t need you MASTERLIST***

_________________________________

6.     WILD CAT

 Dean’s Pov

             Living with a woman…

           Living with Y/n.

           No one warned me. Living with a girl, and a girl you want. I never knew that.

           In my life, I lived with Sam, with my dad, I “lived” in Hell and Purgatory. And in my car for months. I have shared rooms with Cas, and occasionally with other hunter friends during hunts before Sam came back. And for one year, I lived with Lisa, but it was different. It was her house, she was my girlfriend and I was… depressed. And Lisa, she… She was not Y/n, she didn’t have that effect on me.

           Now is very different. The bunker is my home for real, and Y/n… I have no idea why this woman makes me loose my mind like that. I want her. I crave her. And since I had her, it’s way worse, it’s unbearable... And now she’ everywhere.

           She’s not invasive, not at all, she’s even discreet, and like I expected, very independent. Like a cat you only see when she needs to eat or walks in the same room as you… A cat you can’t touch because you can feel she’s still totally wild and has claws.

But she’s here. And every little thing brings me to the memory of her strong thighs crushing my hips in ecstasy.

           The bedroom we gave her smells like her, and when I walk to mine, I hear her music on the way, muffled behind her door. That third toothbrush in the bathroom, and the smell of wax. The books she reads all day, eager to devour all bunker’s knowledge, and she forgets everywhere she goes.

Maybe the worst is hearing her sorry voice saying she will hurry when I find the bathroom door closed ; imagining her behind the door, maybe naked, maybe brushing her wet hair or whatever…

           I really should focus on our researches to find a way to get rid of that vampire mafia, but I can’t really focus on anything lately. The contacts we have, the leads… It goes nowhere for now and I should work harder.

           I walk to the kitchen and find her there, she’s wearing that sweatpants she took off to straddle me. Her back is on me, her head is low, she’s reading something, and my eyes fall on the curve between her lower back and her butt.

           Was it bad ? Sex with me ? Was it disappointing ?

Don’t be so ridiculous Dean. Overthinking everything like a stupid teen. Do you think because a woman had sex with you, she would want more ? Why would she ? Not because you are obsessed with her, she would want anything to do with you…

Look at her. She doesn’t need a man, she doesn’t need anyone.

           I haven’t had my first coffee yet, and I’m already losing my freaking mind. She’s there, she’s right there, and I know how she feels around me now...

“Hey” I greet her, trying to sound casual.

“Hi Dean” she turns around, a book in one hand as usual, a cup of coffee in the other. “I made coffee.”

I take a mug and pour some of that extremely strong coffee she makes every morning. Strong like her, black like that leather corset she wears in the battle field. That freaking corset that was drying on the bathroom the other day, that tight… Black… piece of clothing..

“I may have found a job, lame job but still. At the gas station” she says putting the book about demonic possession on the table.

“A job ?”

Why would she want a job ?

“Yeah, so I can pay my… you know my stuff, food and all” she shrugs. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t mean I’m settling in.”

I wouldn’t mind.

“I told you we had fake credit cards. If you need anything, just take the one I gave you.”

“Dean…” she smiles kindly, taking a sip of her coffee and I realize I just love my name on her lips. “Fake credit cards are a privilege for hunters, because you can’t risk your life at the other end of the country and have a job, you protect civilians… I’m not even a hunter. I’m a freaking vampire slayer.”

“Well, Buffy, Sam found a case, would you come with us ? Or do you really want to work at that gas station ?” I smile wide, showing teeth, trying to stop looking at her naked thigh sticking out of the table.

“What kind of case ?” she asks nonchalantly.

           Looking at her innocent expression, I can’t help but think of what happened. She… She freaking straddled me and took me right there… Since then… Nothing.

           It’s like nothing ever happened between us, like I never came deep inside of her, like I didn’t want her. She knows I wanted her, she felt it, and I felt her need, I heard her pleas on the phone and I saw her beautiful orgasm on her face... Now nothing. Except I’m going crazy.

           She seems to think hard, and finally answers.

“Okay. Let’s hunt with the legendary Winchesters” she chuckles. “When do we leave ?”

“As soon as you’re ready, Sweetheart” I state, using that nickname on purpose.

 Reader’s Pov

             Eyeliner.

Those dark eyes look back at me in the mirror, their black line making them harder, colder, and those stern pupils I was so used to. I tighten the cords of my corset, strangely loving the strong feeling of being held so strong, and the pressure on my spine.

I remember the first time I dressed like this. I was way too young, sixteen maybe or even less, and I needed to infiltrate that club. A really shady club...

I couldn’t afford clothes, I could barely afford food ; so I borrowed a corset from that prostitute that gave me food once or twice, Silvia. She hid me from her pimp several times, and told me to never take free drugs and to stay away from men in general… She was nice with me, and she’s probably one of the reasons (with the Supernatural books) I never gave up to selling myself when fear and hunger were unbearable.

I had never worn anything else than that dirty hoodie I slept and lived in for years, and it was the first time I could actually dress up and look in a mirror, hurrying in her bathroom while Silvia wasn’t home. I used her makeup too…

I felt so strong when I left her shitty apartment, for once I had made a choice, for once I was in charge… I killed two vampires that night.

And Silvia was found dead before I gave her the corset back, one of her “client” decided rough wasn’t enough, he decided the bruises and the humiliations would be more pleasant if those fucking rapes ended up in murder…

I found him. I killed that son of a bitch.

But the time after she died was the worst of my life. Not just because no one gave food to me through the window, because after discovering monsters are real the hard way… I was discovering the worst monsters are human. And those monsters, there was no Winchesters to burn them. I was too young and I lost all hope…

But I had that corset and a sharp knife. So I decided, as long as I had that, I will make their blood flow… And I did.

A wave of sadness goes through me thinking that corset burned in my apartment, the original one, Silvia’s memory.

That is what Dean doesn’t know about me. That is the reason I can’t let go to that desire I feel for him. Not only I have to stay away from this naivety that made the child inside me crush on him, because naivety is weakness and weakness is death…

But also, he wants to see me as a hunter… And what I am is a killer.

 I get out of the bathroom and walk to the war room with the bag they gave me to pack my things. I don’t have much, but I really don’t need a lot, the only thing is…

“Could one of you lend me a jacket ?” I say, putting my bag on the table. “My coat burnt and...”

Dean jumps from his sit, nodding, and walks pass me.

“Won’t be as fitted as your clothes though” he states, eyeing my cleavage for a second.

“That really doesn’t matter” I assure him.

           When he comes back, he hands me that beautiful dark blue jacket he wears a lot. And I feel like a freaking cliché when our fingers touch, and even more when I wrap myself in that jacket of his. The little scared teen in me screaming in my head.

           But that teen is dead a long time ago, and I intend that she stays dead.

 Dean’s Pov

             Y/n is fierce against vampires, but she’s just as much against any other monster.

           Since we left home, we have solved one case after another, without any break like Sam and I did some times, mostly when one of us needed to unwind for some reason.

           This time, all of us do need relief, for different reasons. And we make the best team… ever.

           Everything is perfect, her sharp mind completes Sam’s brain, and her formidable fighting skills make our trio almost invulnerable.

           And after the job is done, drinking a glass of whiskey with her really feels like hanging out with my best friends.

           Y/n fights like this ghost, like this ghoul, like this shapeshifter was precisely the one who killed her parents. She is an efficient killer, if she decides that you’re dead, your head hits the floor before you realize it. It’s a freaking execution.

And watching her using those moves, both smooth and sharp to end the worst creatures of the universe makes me all dizzy every time.

           She’s graceful in her ferocity and hunting with her adds something Sam and I never had, not even with Cas or Jack or anyone : an action movie vibe or something like that ; I think I never enjoyed hunting that much.

And I have to admit none of it helps with my obsession. I didn’t know I could be hard as steel while burning a corpse…

But as efficient as she is, able to kill without more than one stroke, she can also enjoy it… cruelly.

She’s like a cat that could end that mouse with a single bite, but plays with it a little.

She’s fucking scary.

Right now, the mouse is a 240lbs werewolf with a special taste for captivity and young hearts. He and his friend made their own little reserve in his basement, but it took us less than six hours to find who they were.

She broke his knee, stabbed him in the back, and watches him try to crawl to the forest now. She’s smiling wide, her face covered in red dots from the throat she cut just before.

“Crawl, crawl little bad wolf” she hums, turning around him like a shark.

“Dean” Sam tries to get me out of fascination, I know he things we should end the beast but I’m not giving her orders… It’s her pray.

My eyes are on her and I can’t really move, fascinated by her every move.

This woman is not like anybody else, and that monster massacre we’re on for a few weeks, it got me high on blood and on her. My body is filled with adrenaline, I’m horny and hungry constantly, my few hours of sleep are so deep I feel like dying every night…

“Y/n !” Sam calls her and she turns toward us.

I know my pupils dilate when her burning eyes find mine.

“Kill him” my brother almost whines.

She sighs, walking toward the car behind us, she hands me the gun when she walks pass me. It doesn’t entertain her anymore.

           I take three quick steps to him and put a bullet in the werewolf’s head. Sam puts three little drops of that magic oil she taught him to do, says the incantation, and the body catches fire. That fire that wont spread, but that won’t stop until nothing is left of his target. This thing changed our life…

             Tonight, Y/n has a room of her own.

When we can, we try to give her some privacy, and I have to sleep in a room so boring… a room that doesn’t have her in it.

“Y/n is really good” my brother says, putting his bag on his bed, but I know something bothers him. “And… I mean, with her we save twice more people.”

“But ?” I ask sternly, grabbing a beer in the fridge.

“She really likes to kill, Dean.”

“I do to, Sammy” I state honesty, able to admit it without a flinch now.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong” Sam ignores me. “I know she’s a good person and she proved a thousand times already that saving people was the real goal for her too. But she’s… I don’t know, wild ?”

When he says that, my heart misses a beat. She’s wild, yes, and she awakens something in me that I didn’t know.

“I feel like hunting with a time bomb sometimes” he sighs.

“I’ll talk to her” I say, ignoring the confused look on his face.

Of course, that was not what he was expecting, like you could just tell someone they’re a time bomb… But Y/n and I, we have a special relationship, and I really feel like I can tell her anything.

             I knock and she opens with her gun in her hand, smiling when she comes face to face with me.

“You need something ?” she asks, letting me in.

“Just talking” I state.

“Okay” she frowns. “I’ll take my shower, after. Whiskey ?”

I nod and she takes a big sip directly the bottle, handing it to me.

“Sam thinks you’re a time bomb” I declare with no introduction, drinking way too much from that bottle.

She freezes, chuckling a little with her eyebrows raised.

“Sammy’s afraid of me now ?”

“He’s not afraid” I grunt, feeling the alcohol increase my desire for her. “He thinks you’re wild.”

“Wild, huh ?” she laughs, a mocking expression in her voice and on the corner of her lips.

I want to make it disappear from her pretty face, I need to see this grin turn into that ecstasy face that looks like a slight pain. I lick my lips.

“Well Sweetheart, you are” my voice is suddenly lower and she starts searching my face.

“And is that a bad thing ?” she shrugs.

I get up, and come near her, feeling my blood boil in a feeling between an inexplicable anger and a raging desire.

“Are you untamable, tigress ?” I groan, my eyes going from her bloody cleavage to her amused face. “Do you think it’s funny ?”

“A little, yes” she chuckles when I make her walk back. “What do you think you’re doing, Caveman ?”

           I lose control of my hands and grip her waist, my nails digging in the black leather of that damn corset, crushing her body with mine against the wall.

           When I try to kiss her lips, she turns her head slightly, offering me her jaw to bite instead, and I do. She doesn’t want kisses, she doesn’t want anything tender. I would love to give her more than sex, but so be it…

           My hand finds her neck, taking it to keep her still and she groans.

           Her hands fly to the thigh holster she’s still wearing and grab her gun. In a split second, the barrel is pressed against my temple, but I don’t flinch.

“I could kill you just like that, Winchester” she groans and I still don’t move.

“Go ahead, tigress. Kill me.”

She smiles hand I start nibbling at her naked shoulders with that gun still on my head, rubbing myself on her like a freaking dog in heat, groaning in her ear, my thumb spreading the mix of blood and sweat on the side of her burning neck.

           When I let go of her neck to start undoing her pants, she bends and bites my shoulder, hard enough to make me scream in pain and wrap my hands around her throat again.

“Freaking cat” I grunt, struggling with her belt with only one hand.

           When I finally manage to open it, I slip my finger in it and she lets the gun fall loudly on the floor. My hand finds her folds, and a grin appears on my face.

“You’re soaked, how surprising is that ?” I let out in a growl, slipping my middle finger through her folds, teasing her clit and entrance.

“Fuck you, hunter” she groans, but a desperate moan escapes her lips and my cock twitches so hard it hurts. So I let go of her delicious pussy, the smell of her arousal coming out of her panties along with my fingers.

           With my shaking free hand, I almost rip my pants open and push it down, not realizing I’m squeezing her neck a little harder in my eagerness.

           Her face is red and her mouth agape, she licks her lips and another insolent smile appears on her beautiful face. I know I can’t let go of her or she will attack me or run away.

“Take your pants off” I command unable to do it myself, and she lets her head go back. “DO IT WILD CAT !”

           She pushes her jeans and panties down enough so I can take it off with my foot. And without losing another minute, I grab her thighs, spreading them for me, and carrying her.

“GRAH” she cries out when I enter her without any foreplay, burying myself between her throbbing walls in a sharp thrust.

           I could come right now, the tension accumulated in me for weeks making me as feral as she is in battle.

“Yes, fuck yes !” I moan is her neck, as I start to thrust toughly, banging her hips on the wall each time.

           She grabs my hair and tug at it hard, but I ignore the pain and keep chasing that ecstasy only her can give me so good.

“D-Dean…” she suddenly almost pleads, vulnerable.

I look up and notice she is struggling to breath.

“C-Corset” she whines.

Without withdrawing, I grab the knife on the table and brutally cut the lace caging her. The second I free her, she gasps and grabs my belt on the middle of my ass, encouraging me to take her harder.

           And I do.

           She can’t open her eyes now, her head back on the wall, her mouth open, and it’s too much for me to finally win that from her.

I reach my high so violently that I almost make the two of us fall, her hungry walls milking me strongly right away, her thighs shaking around me while her hands desperately try to push me.

“Y/N FUCK !” I yell, lost in both our orgasms mixing together.

             Panting in her neck, I dread the moment she will push me away. So I enjoy every single second against her skin like it was the last… It probably is anyway.

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[quillsareswords]

Crooked Grin

Damian Wayne

Your smile shouldn't look like that.

[Reader lives with John Constantine, and is similarly a demonologist and magic user. About 16-18.]

Prompt List // Masterlist (in bio)

"Are you ready to go?"

You turn away from the book on the table, and face him. "Sorry?"

"Are you ready to leave?" he repeats. He leans against the doorjam, arms crossed, clad in black, much like yourself. He doesn't look impatient, but he does look a little anxious.

You cock an eyebrow and shoot him a lopsided grin. "Nervous, Birdy?"

He rolls his eyes as you snap a leather bound journal shut. "Please, I've assisted you before."

You set the book on your dresser. You shoulder a messenger bag on your way to meet him at the door. "Sure, but you already know what I'm up against this time."

"I didn't see it," he argues.

"But you felt it."

He doesn't answer you. Turns away before you can get a proper reaction.

You shut the door behind you, and enter the Wayne Manor. If anyone were to open the door again, it would be an empty closet.

Ah, how you loved your little door trick.

It was fairly simple magic, something you learned quickly. You could simply replace doors—switch one with another, if you will. With a rune and a mumbled phrase, you can make any door lead to any room that has a door you've marked with the same rune.

"Tim's the one who saw it on CCTV."

You stopped in front if the bookcase in Bruce's office, allowing Damian the grand honor of pulling the right book and pulling the hidden door open. "Video footage isn't exactly trustworthy when it comes to paranormal—haven't I told you this before?"

"Probably," he answers, throwing you comical wink.

Now you're the one rolling your eyes. "One if these days, you're gonna wish you listened," you sing, beginning your decent down the metal grate stairs.

He starts down after you. "No I won't." He slows his pace when he's next to you, "Because you'll be there to remind me." Then off he goes, taunting you to chase him clear down to the cave, through the secret hideout, and clear over to the vehicle bay.

You've never liked riding on Damian's bike. Or Robin's bike, rather. You much preferred his Lincoln, all leather seats and metal walls. Though he insisted it would be faster tonight, so you relented. The bike felt less secure, gave you less of a chance if anything were to happen.

Don't misunderstand; Damian is a fantastic driver. You'd rather him behind the wheel than yourself any day. It's more the people in the city he calls home you don't trust.

You've always had a love-hate relationship with Gotham City. You love the dreary atmosphere, the rainy days. You adore the old buildings and even older libraries. You live for the underground, more-than-human clubs and shops peppered throughout the streets.

You hate the crazed clowns, killer plants, and murderous penguins. You despise the snobby people and jacked up prices. You detest the crumbling ruins left to decay alone. Most of all, you abhor the other side of the coin.

Gotham has no shortage of darkness. In its people, under its streets, below the waters, above the rooftops. Though it sends a shockwave of thrill through you, the danger only you seem to be aware of is forever just around the corner. From ghouls to vampires to demons to dark witches, Gotham is crawling with things darker than its skies.

You, if course, stay in your lane unless absolutely necessary. Demons, ghosts, angels. That's your specialty, after all.

You're who the Bat Gang calls when things get a little too weird. Your father figure isn't one to drop and run at anybody's beck and call (except, perhaps, yours), so you're the one who gets the call first. You don't conplain—you enjoy the practice.

Damian slows and steers the bike off the backstreet, into the tiny parking lot of a little abandoned church. Little, meaning most likely one big room, and maybe a backroom and a bathroom at the end of the building.

He twists the key and silences the engine, one foot anchored on the asphalt, then removes his helmet.

You unwind your arms from his torso, lifting off your helmet as you slide off the machine behind him. You stare up at the stark white building and the wide brown mounted to the front of it. "How long has it been empty?" you inquire.

He dismounts the motorcycle and pockets his keys. His eyes find the same spot yours have: the busted glass of the front door. "Three weeks."

You turn to him, incredious. "Three weeks? Really?" You face the building again, studying the sprawling vines and waist-high grass by the playground, the chipping paint and the grimy windows.

In the light if dusk, it wasn't a place you'd want to find yourself on any Sunday morning.

"Three weeks," you breathe. You steal another minute or so to run through your mental database. What causes such decay so quickly? What was powerful enough to take residency in a church?

You head up to the doors, treading over busted asphalt and shattered glass and dry leaves on your way. Damian follows you closely, peering around at the surrounding buildings and streets.

The streetlights flicker on behind you, but you're too busy trying to get a good look at the inside before opening the doors to notice.

You try the handles first. It doesn't budge. You don't want to risk irritating whatever is inside before you're ready, so you duck down and carefully slip through the bottom pane of the left door, which had been shattered. Outwardly, you note. Whatever broke the glass came from inside, leaving the shards of glass scattered on the sidewalk.

Damian hesitates before he follows you. His muscles tighten the moment he crosses the threshold.

Beyond a short hallway consisting of three flimsy doors, you find the sanctuary. It's laden with over turned or broken pews, stained red carpet, and papers and pamphlets scattered all around.

Damian joins you in the middle of the isle a moment after your entrance, footsteps muffled by the thick red carpet. "The two doors on the end of the hall are bathrooms. I didn't see much there, besides some blood splatter in one of the sinks."

You nod, gaze shifting around the alter. "What about the far end? Have you been in that one yet?"

"No," he answers, "but if the other two were bathroom, it's most likely an office or a kitchenette."

You point to the far end of the sanctuary, at a door looming in the corner. "That's the office, I bet." You turn to face the entrance doors. "Let's check the door in the hall first, that one over there's giving me a bad vibe."

He follows you to hall, but you make him wait by the sanctuary doors.

When you nudge open the ajar door with the toe of your boot, Damian's suspicions are confirmed. A slim white refrigerator, four feet of vinal counter top, and a shallow sink. The only thing out-of-the-ordinary is the rancid stench and the cock-eyed chair by the window.

You dig out a maglight from your messenger bag and click it on. Light floods the dim room as you wave it around, gliding over counter tops and in open cubords. "Nothing in here," you report absently, fingers hooking around the refrigerator handle. You yank it open, just as a precaution.

You gasp suddenly, more out of shock than fright. You puff out your cheeks with the excess air, staring down the red and white mess caught in your flashlight beam with high eyebrows. "Found what's making that smell."

"What?" Damian stalks into the room, posture tense and guarded.

You press the door closed to save him the scaring image of three dead, mutilated chickens and a severed cat head. "Some sacrifices, apparently. Looks like they've been in here for a few days, maybe. A week, at the most."

He tries to look again, but you slam the door too quick and push him out of the room.

You know he's seen far worse, and frankly so have you, but one less thing to pop up in nightmares could make all the difference.

The pair of you make your way back through the hall and down the sanctuary aisle, to the flimsy wooden door at the very back, behind the podium and the alter.

However, your gait hitches a few feet yards away. You stick out your arm to stop Damian.

He looks to you for an explanation, but you don't hear his question.

You're too busy skimming the room with your eyes. The air seems to cool around you, raising the hairs on the back of your neck. You mentally recite the hand motions and spell for a barrier rune, just in case.

The streetlight outside flickers six times exactly, before it goes out completely.

The room is considerably darker now, leaving shadows to dance upon every wall, to whisper in your ears, to nip at your ankles.

Your growing paranoia gets the better of you, and you jump closer to Damian as your light darts in the direction of quiet crunch, eyes narrowed.

A gray cat scurries out of the way of your light, skinny and panicky.

You exhaled slowly, light beam passing through the room one more time before you turned back around.

Damian knows better to comment on it. Not that he would have—he just thanks his lucky stars you jumped, too.

You hook your index finger with his before you move forward, beam still highlighting all areas within close proximity to the door.

Shielding rune and defensive spells fresh in your mind, you waste no time in opening the door. You bypass the formality of the knob this time, and decide instead to kick it wide open.

The handle crashes against the wall, thundering echo bouncing trough both rooms. You search the ceiling thuroughly before entering, sure to hit every inch of the textured surface with the beam of your light.

When you are confident there's nothing hiding there, you move past the threshold cautiously. As you tightly swing your light around the room, a story unfolds.

This room, that appears to an office with cheap bookshelves of holy literature and a desk right out of an Ikea magazine, more closely resembled a warzone. Books strung throughout the room, some flipped over, some split open, some with pages in taters, and some with their covers ripped clean off.

The windows on the north and west side are so thick with spiderwebbing fractures, neither of you are able to see through them properly. The carpeting is shredded in random places, as if wild cats had been set loose to ruin it. You look back to the windows, at the curtains, and wonder if that could possibly exactly what's happened here. But with a spotlight on the paintings and pictures on the wall, you decide that cats have nothing to do with it.

You approach one of the paintings slowly, light focused on the face of what you guess is Mother Mary. Your mental check has you listening to Damian's boots crunching on discarded pages as you observe the hollow place where her face should be.

"Look at this."

You turn away from the image at Damian's call. You find him in you beam, crouched in the middle of the room, hunched over an open book, his micro light poised between his thumb and his index finger.

"What is it?" you inquire, crossing the room to lean over his shoulder.

"There are words written in this one." He points to the red, black, and blue circles highlighting specific words.

"It was very swift?" You squint at the page. "Why would you use three different pens for that?"

He shakes his head. "We're investigating a possible demon and you're questioning why somebody would use different pens in a book?"

You roll your eyes once again. "Firstly, you should always assume poltergeist before demon, and secondly, who do you know that would make any kind of mark on a book in a church?"

"Point taken." He stands, waving his light around by the wall you'd come in by. "Closet."

You turn again to find where his light is pointed. "Awesome," you heave, stalking toward the feeble sliding door. You motion Damian away from its direct path, positioning yourself on the opposite side.

In one swift motion, you jerk it open.

"Shit!" You jump away as a man falls out, his head hitting the floor with an awful thud.

"I really hate closets," you hiss, pulling the high neck of your shirt up over your mouth and nose, the stench tumbling out with him.

With his shirt fitting the way it does, Damian is left only with a sneer and his hand.

You narrow your eyes and refocus your beam on the mystery man. With your boot, you roll him over.

Black button down, white collar, brass belt.

"Preacher," you announce. You take a closer look at his face. Bald head, strangely proportioned features. "A weird one, though. Looks more like he belongs in a trenchcoat at a playground."

Damian nods, fearing that if he opened his mouth, he'd have to taste the smell of rotting skin.

"What exactly were you doing here, buddy?" you ask aloud, half expecting an answer. When none comes, you look to Damian again. "I would say it was just straight up murder—maybe a robbery-gone-wrong—but this guy doesn't have any marks.

A look passes over your face, as if you've just reminded yourself of something. "Get me a pencil off the desk."

Damian creeps the short distance back through books and scattered paper in the now pitch black room, relying heavily on his tiny (yet impressively bright) flashlight to keep him from tripping on anything.

At the desk, he reaches across it for a pencil from a plain white cup, but stops short when his gaze snags on a book spread open there.

Thick black lines scrawling across thick, yellowing paper that alarmingly resembled dried skin, thin and black red letters in a language he only vaguely recognized. He could only guess a few words; that one could be blood, this one might be chicken, over there could be human. He knows better than to touch the book at all.

He returns to you quickly, though you're already looking at him. He holds a sharpened No. 2 pencil out to you. "When you're finished with him, there's something you should look at."

You accept the pencil, flipping it in your hand so you were using the eraser for whatever you were planning to do with it. "What is it?"

He watches you gently press the eraser to the preacher's eyelid. His brows furrow, but he doesn't ask. "It's a book. The pages don't look like paper, and I don't recognize the language. It's partly Latin." He grimances as you carefully push one eyelid open. There is no eye, only a round black, coal-like stone. "And some runes, or something alike."

You turned to look over your shoulder at him. "Really?" You look back down at was once an eyeball. You're quiet during your examination, poking your way all around the poor man's face.

Damian stands at the preacher's opposite shoulder, watching from above. He doesn't ask what you're looking for. As whip smart as he is and as quickly as he learns, he gets lost in the centuries-old homemade terms and lack of scientific logic.

Finally, you stand. "He's been possessed," you concur. "The skin's gone cold, so it's been a least a week. And the rot in his mouth is pretty progressed, so it's probably been a little over that." You meet his eyes in the dark, as if you're expecting something.

"I don't have any intent to ask, beloved."

You bob your head with a little smile. "Fair enough. Desk, then?"

"Desk."

You follow him back across the room again. You lean over the surface, pointing the wide beam down on the old book. You kept attentive to how close you were to the edge of the desk, as well as how far your many necklaces and bracelets hung above the miscellaneous items and papers strung about the flat wood.

"This is an old language, one of the original ones the first demonologists and occult studiers used to record everything and communicate with each other—"

"Why did they need a separate language?"

You kept your gaze focused on the open page. "Most serious demonology—outside of Bible stuff—and focused paranormal study started around the same time people were called witches for curing sicknesses, Dame."

"Ah."

"Anyway, I'll stop boring you with the history lesson. It's basically a mashup of Latin, Greek, and little freestyling."

"Can you read it?"

"Yeah, I read stuff like this in the House Of Magic's library pretty often. It's similar to what is used in modern day demonology."

You squint down at the page, scrutinizing the dull lettered lines. Damian noted that you weren't blinking.

"It's . . . It's labeled as an invocation, but it's a summoning." Your eyebrows gather above your nose. "Which is pretty obvious, considering–"

"(Y/N), as much as I adore hearing you talk about the things that interest you, what exactly does it summon?"

You fall silent, eyes darting further down the page, to the two intricate symbols scribed there. Finally, you announce, "Crossroads demon—for making deals. But it doesn't make sense, because crossroads demons don't need this much, uh, drama."

"What does that mean?" A creak echos from the sanctuary. He moves quickly and quietly, back to the door to see what's caused it.

You speak a little louder to be sure he can hear you. "Well, a crossroads ritual is so much simpler than this, and you don't need any kind of rune, symbol, or anything, really. As basically as I can put it, you put a box in the dirt and beg for it to work." You grab your longest necklace in your hand and pull it away from the desk, allowing you to lean closer to the book without the programed stone touching the desk. "And this right here would mean–"

You eyebrows unfurrow immediately. That would mean I summon thee to take my soul. Your eyes dart wildly across the page, rereading and rechecking every letter of the old text.

That isn't the right center for a crossroads demon.

You mentally run through everything but of information you'd compiled since last night, when Tim had shown you the footage.

You bounded down the stairs, Damian on your heels, as you chattered on about Constantine's rotten habits and The House's typical invasions of privacy.

"Speak of the devil." Tim throws you a cocky, yet oh-so-tired grin.

You jump the last three grate steps, landing with a hard thump on the cement. "Close, but not quite," you laughed, sauntering over to join him at the massive blue screen. "What can I do for ya, Trombone?"

His eyebrows slant together in annoyance at the aged nickname. You try to play a trombone one time—one time. "Found this yesterday," he grits. His pinky tags the tab button, just as Damian joins you.

The black and white CCTV clip is taken from a security camera, focused on the building across the street. Nothing seems to be happening.

You lean closer to the screen. Maybe you're missing something? You doubt it's a prank, considering the last time they tried to jumpscare you. Your gaze bounces around to all the windows and the doors, the dark corners and the shadowed strips.

Then, out of the blue, the three streetlights bordering the parking lot and accompanying sidestreet flicker off. Then on again, then off.

You blink. Squint. "Rewind it."

The footage speeds backward a few seconds, then takes proper motion again. You focus on the windows. A shadow moves just inside the door. "Right there," you point at the glass entry doors. "Go back and watch the edge of the left door."

The accelerated decay of the property.

The dead animals in the kitchen.

The intact cross.

The flickering streetlight.

Possessed priest.

This is for something far stronger.

You pull away from the table and shoot forward, nearly tripping over an outstretched arm. "Damian!" you bellow, stumbling out into the sanctuary.

He's halfway down the isle, flashlight swinging to face you in surprise. "What?"

You run through the room to close the gap between you, beam of light cutting through pitch black empty space, peeling back inky air from the ruined room. Paranoia swells in your chest, knowing something was looming in the shadows so close to him.

He subconsciously reaches out and grasps your arm. "What's wrong?"

You're still steadily searching the room with your light. "It isn't a crossroads demon, it's worse, it's bigger, it's meaner. We should go back to The House, regroup, get some tougher stuff."

"What do you mean?" Now he's skimming the room with his light. "What is it?"

You shake your head. "That's the bad part, it wasn't specific, so I don't know for sure."

"For sure. What do you guess it is?"

"Educated guess?" You flick your light behind you. "Fourth ring—bad news."

"Aren't all demons bad news?"

"Not the ones you can reason with."

You both spin on your heels to face the crashing commotion by the entrance. Your light caught it just in time to see pages settle on the ground around a newly over turned pew.

"We're leaving," you state firmly, pushing against Damian, a silent order to move your ass.

His light must have hit every edge of the room as he creeps forward, step by step, toward the entrance of the sanctuary. You walk backward behind him, keeping your eyes from settling on one thing for too long.

When the pannel doors slam shut with enough force to knock the remaining photographs and painting off the wall, you feel the pressure of Damian not only stopping, but jerking back a step against your back.

Your beam settles on the office doors. "The doors shut?"

"Yes."

"Did you hear the lock?"

"Watched it."

"Fuck."

"Shit."

You move your beam to the podium. Then the fractured statue of Jesus nailed to a cross on the furthest wall. The head and arms had been broken off, laying sadly at his sides.

"Damian?"

"Yes?"

"We're going back to the office."

"Obviously." He spins around to stand at your side. "I'm far more comfortable with the remains of the living than the presence of the dead."

"Not really the dead, but I know what you mean."

You lead the way down the main isle, light skimming and skipping through the room as you went. You listen intently, for any sound that might tip you off to intentions or locations. Demons lower (or higher, depending on how you looked at it) than a Sixth Circle require a body to walk the living plane. If you're right, there must be a form of some kind around here some place. A physical body.

You reach out absently, hooking your index finger around his pinky. You've had people and things snatched away in silence before, and you weren't about to let it happen to Damian.

He doesn't say anything. No typical snide remarks or well thought jabs. The first few times he'd accompanied you to an exorcism or a hunt, he'd been just as cocky and arrogant as the day you met him. He'd laughed when you whipped out a canister of table salt.

The third time, though, he'd been pinned to a wall by something he couldn't see or feel. He couldn't fight it, couldn't intimidate it, couldn't distract it.

He never mocked a thing about your practice after that.

Another crash echoes from the left side of the room, drawing both of your attention. Your light finds the broken crucifix, now toppled over and laying across the podium it knocked over on it's way down. Your light lingers.

"Go ahead into the room," you poke a thumb in the direction of the open door. "Set Carl back up in the closet, if you don't mind."

"Carl?" Damian edges his way back to the open door, using your favorite tactic of keeping an eye on him. If he was still talking to you, odds are, he's just fine.

"Yeah, I named the poor guy. Didn't want to offend him with that dead dude on the floor." You creep closer to the crucifix.

"And you chose Carl because. . ?" he pushes the door the rest of the way open, the creak bouncing off the walls, throwing the sound in every direction.

You kick a shredded Bible out of the way. "Just what came off the top of my head," you answered honestly. You shift your gaze from the broken religious symbol to the surrounding area, just to make sure.

"What about Davis?" He sets his little flashlight between his teeth to free his hands. He hesitates, but hooks his hands under the dead man's shoulders, grips his shirt, and lifts him back to a near-standing position.

"No way, look at the stubble of his chin. No Davis would let it get that bad."

He stuffs the body back into the closet with as much grace and pride as he can manage. He shoves the door shut double checks the latch to make sure it doesn't swing open with the added weight. "Mark?"

"No way." You nudge the wooden cross with the toe if your boot. It must weight at least seventy pounds, and it from the six inch industrial screws on the back of it, it was bolted to the wall. "Not with hair that thin."

He shakes his head. What to talk about now? "Find anything out there?"

"Not yet." You crouch, running a hand over the carved robe.

He sweeps the room with his light again. But this time, it catches on the farthest corner from the door.

His heart leaps. His spine stiffens, his blood runs cold.

It's staring right at him.

His mind reels, grappling for something—anything—you've mentioned about dealing with a demon face to face.

He's panicking. Why is he panicking? He works well under pressure, one might even say best. Why now? He feels terror grip his heart, and his breath is coming and going in short, silent bursts. Terror floods his mind—but why?

Why, why, why?

He was raised for this sort of thing, groomed for it even. He's never reacted this way before–

It's a demon, he reminds himself, through muddied thoughts of escape plans and defensive manuevers.

It's got to be messing with him. He remembers you mentioning things like this, both in idle conversation and over sparring.

He does his best to push it away, keep the blood rushing in his ears at a manageable level.

What does he do?

Does he yell for you? Will that startle it, or push it to action? Should he make a break for it? Is there even a chance he could get to you before it gets to him?

What if he takes you from the equation entirely? What can he do? Can he hit it? He can see it now, mostly, at least. What about shielding himself?

"Damian?" Your voice sounds like church bells ringing on a dark and foggy morning.

There's his out, if all else fails. You'll be coming to check on him in a few seconds if he doesn't answer, and he's finding speaking more difficult than usual anyway.

He tears his eyes from the piercing red and orange globes hanging in font of a foggy face. An old, dogeared bible lays on the floor. Surely that would do something.

"Hey, Dame. Everything good?" He doesn't hear anymore movement from you. You sound more focused. "Damian?"

He holds his breath. Counts to five. Releases. Counts to five. Another breath.

"Damian, I swear if you're just too focused to listen to me. . ." Your warning trails off as you draw closer. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you moving around the corner, coming through the doorway, and then you stop.

He doesn't look away from the thing in the corner. He knows you're looking at it. He knows, because you haven't called his name again.

He nearly jumps and your voice, cold and level. "You nasty bastard."

The thing's glittering orange irises slide slowly to you. The rest if it doesn't move.

He takes the diverted attention to get a better look at it.

It looks like a man—all the pieces are there, the arms, the legs, the hands, the feet—but it just looks wrong. Like. Poorly designed animated character that was meant to resemble a real person, but was just off enough to be nearly unrecognizable.

And the face. It was distorted in an indescribable way. He could almost pick out the details—a nose, a mouth, even eyebrows—but it was like they were just out of sight. Like looking through a foggy mirror, but the air was perfectly clear.

"What brought you to Gotham, then?" you question.

Damian tries to sneak a step backward. You're only a few feet away, and if he can get to you, you'll be able to tell him what to do. Give him something to hit with.

Unfortunately, the discarded papers and books scattered along the floor expel any and every chance of stealth he thought he had.

Orange irises flicker yellow and snap back his way, and he finds himself unable to look away. Panic is starting to rise again when you take two daring steps sideways.

"Hey, what the hell, man? We were having a conversation, you know. It's rude to look away when someone's talking to you." You're only a foot away from blocking him entirely.

It's eyes are back on yours now.

"As I was saying, what brought you 'round this side of town?" Damian sees your hand sliding into your back pocket. "Thought you'd be up in the skyscrapers, ya know, with the big dogs in fat ties with fatter checks." You slide on a pair of knuckles.

Damian shifts his weight. You're about to charge it, he can read it from your body language. As loudly as his instincts are screaming, he knows he'll only be in the way if he stays where he is. His best bet is to at least get out to the sanctuary, so you can get your job done without worrying about where he is.

You're both silent for exactly two seconds. Muscles curled tight, like wild animals waiting for the right time to strike.

Then, in barley a blink, you're leaping forward, words of a dead language flying off your tongue, bring orange shapes he doesn't register encasing your hands. He's swerving behind you, slipping on papers in his rush for the door.

He speeds around the first row of pews, and takes the farthest left right isle. He makes it to the double doors at the back of the room, before discovering that the doors are still very firmly locked. Thankfully, the doors were cheap and easily gave way to Damian's forceful convention.

He shoves one side the rest of the way open, and discovers exactly why such a task was so difficult in the first place.

The dining table from the kitchen had been lodged in the doorjam.

He blows out a breath when the leg catches on the wall of the hallway. It's not going to open without shattering that table leg, which he doesn't have time for.

You let out an angry shout, shoving forward the spinning, glowing sigil you're using to shield yourself from the demon's razor-like fingertips.

You thrust it through the doorway of the office, quickly pinning it down on an upright pew.

Damian swears under his breath and ducks past the doors, opting instead for a more stable place to hold his ground, should things get as bad as they were looking.

The room is nearly pitch black, both his and your flashlights abandoned in the office, providing the smallest amount of light to the most obvious parts of the room. The only other sources of light are your magic and your eyes, both a mesmerizing shade of dark orange, glowing fiercely in contrast to the stale dark air surrounding you.

There were times when those glowing irises were a calming, steadying presence; something to lean against to keep himself grounded.

This is not one of those times.

At the moment, he's hunkered down behind a church pew, waiting for you to tell him to do something, watching sparks of magic fly around the room as you battle against a demon you weren't entirely prepared for. The great room is filled with encantations in a language he doesn't care to understand and ungodly shrills and growls.

Then, he hears a pained shriek so deafening and strangely pitched, his hands involentarily fly up to cover his ears.

The room goes quiet and still, papers settling back on the cheap red carpet, dust finding it's way back down to the wooden surfaces.

He peers over the edge of the church pew once more, eyes flicking through the whole room in a near desperate search for that orange glow. It couldn't have been you that made that noise, could it?

Finally, he finds two tiny, bright orange circles flickering around the room as well. The palms of your hands still have a soft glow to them, in the fuzzy outlines of your veins.

"Damian, where'd you go?" Your voice is level—you aren't worried. You know he didn't go far enough that you couldn't be heard.

It always left him just a bit tender in the chest when you reminded him just how well you knew him. "Right here," he beckons, straightening out and picking his way back across the room to the doors, where the dim beams of the streetlights out side have away his outline.

You start up the isle immediately, eyes still piercing the darkness. "Do you want to go get your light?"

He doesn't answer you right away. "My–? No, I have more at home. What happened to the demon?"

"Killed it," you answer dryly. "Or mostly did, anyway. Either way, we better go before we find out."

He's about to follow you back up the rest of the way to the doors, but stops halfway. "Wait, I do need something from that office."

You turn to ask what is, but he's already running back down the main isle. Your grip tightens on the strap of your messenger bag, the same strap that had been sliced in two at some point during your little skirmish. Eyes dart around the great room. You raise your maglight again, and click it back on. You'd gotten yours from the office, but Damian's was too small for you to waste much time looking for it. You point it after him, and when he vanishes into the mostly dark room, you direct it to the darkest edges of the room. When you're satisfied, you pinch the light between your jaw and your shoulder, drop your bag, and set your hands to work with moving that blasted table out of the way.

You've just about got it completely clear when the sound of the office door reaches you. You turn halfway, just to check. And then, your heart drops along with your flashlight. It feels like the floor's given out from under you when your light catches him.

You start to shout, but the words get caught in your throat. Your hands twitch and suddenly the world seems like it's slipped into slow motion.

Then, your knees are bending and the rubber soles of your boots claw against the carpet. Your rushing toward him, but it doesn't feel fast enough.

Faster, faster, faster.

Your heart is palpitating and your mind is reeling already, and all you can hear is the premonition his screams.

You come to a near-screeching halt in the tiny space between your lover and the charging black mass, fully intending to push him clean to the exit, eyes hardly focused before it happens—

Something hits you, hard, fast, and cold. Your eyes roll back and ice shoots through your veins, you can feel it, and the pain is overwhelming as you stumble backwards with the world spinning around you and—

Damian feels it in his chest before he sees it. Heavy and tight. He spins around, though it takes a measure of courage and willpower, because he has a feeling he knows what's happened, but he doesn't want to see it.

You're a few feet away, crumpled, hunched in on yourself as you sit on your knees, between two intact pews. Your back heaves with every strangled breath. Your hands are out of view, pressed firmly against the rough red in front of you to anchor yourself.

"(Y/N)?" He braves a step or two forward. "What happened?"

You don't answer.

Chills rush over him in waves. The temperature in the air hadn't been in any way warm to begin with, but his breath billows out into the stream of light from the flashlight he'd managed to pick up on his way out of the office. He tries your name again, and this time, you side to your feet.

You don't stand, mind you, so much as levitate gently until your feet are beneath you. You turn very slowly, with jagged and barely controlled movements.

You grin widely at him, but it's crooked and too sharp at the ends. It reaches tour eyes, sure, but really wishes it didn't.

Part 2; but I can't link it because Tumblr is still being a bitch with links. I am so sorry. If you go to profile, it should be the first post until further notice. 🙄

because Tumblr apparently has a limit of 250 text blocks per post

[ughthatimagineblog]

sins of the earth

lucifer morningstar x reader | i

warnings; mentions of murder, death?, drinking, lots of drinking, weird past stuff, nothing too bad, if you’re able to watch the show without any triggers then you should be good

word count; 1735

prompt; your entire life you believed in the paranormal, you grew up christian but something pulled inside of you to believe there was more and for so long you wanted to find it. but when life hits you hard and you lose faith, you come to the conclusion that reality is as everyone said it was, boring and most things are a lie. and you believe this new ‘truth’ until a man claiming hes the devil comes into your life and threatens to make you relearn everything you thought you knew. again.

a/n; this is gonna be a series since i started watching lucifer and im not even into the second season and i already want tom ellis to impregnate me (if he happens to ever read that; i am sorry) anyways i literally shit this out on the first night of 2019. i just had a sentence in mind and then i ran with that and made a prompt out of it. that was my inspiration. a real life problem plus a sentence i thought i might say one day made this fic. anyways, i hope this is pretty good. it will get better. honestly im lowkey proud of this one tho. unedited but i think this has been some of my best writing. to those who have requested stuff i haven’t made: im sorry im depressed. 

Your fist slammed onto the bar harder than you were expecting, or wanting, it to. You mumbled your request for whatever number of drink this was for the night and immediately began to rub the soreness of your ulnar border away while the bartender went to work in making your drink.

      The club was pounding with noise and shaking with bodies and it was humorous to think it matched the pounding of your head. You knew you should stop. But it was your birthday and you were spending it alone, miles from home, and freshly heartbroken. You didn’t care you had a headache and the drinking would make it worse. In fact, you came to this nightclub in hopes that you would drink so much it would make it better.

     Drink until you couldn’t feel anything at all. You already made arrangements for a cab to pick you up at one a.m and instructed a female bartender to remind you, even tipping her generously to go as far as walk you out when it arrived.

     Her name started with an M. Or was it an N? You weren’t entirely sure and you groaned, beginning to stand up as the man behind the bar passed you your drink. In doing so, you felt the rush of your previous drinks all at once. The room was dizzy and you felt light and unstable but also very tired.

     Remembering the time when alcohol made you bubbly and carefree and happy made you horribly sad now. In actuality you were sad. Your entire life had been working towards a half assed dream you thought would make you happy. When you got the job of that half assed dream you packed your things and left everything you’d once known behind, including family. They don’t visit because they don’t have the money too. And thinking of family, you didn’t even pick a career you would have been fantastic in because you wanted a family yourself. You let children ruin your life before you even had any. Children or a life. The person you thought you’d marry turned out to be a complete asshole and you’d had enough. Dreams and spirit crushed, you, at this moment accepted your fate. Die alone. Be bitter.

     But that wasn’t it. There was a war going on inside you that told you to give up but another didn’t. A side that told you you weren’t strong enough but another that reminded you of how strong your mother was. A side that told you your past self would frown and cry at the sight of you now, but the other; that your past self would tell you it’s okay to get up and make the best of things.

     The thoughts that rushed your mind spilled onto your cheeks and you gulped down the drink you just ordered, hearing your grandmother’s voice in the back of your mind. “Remember to sip. Don’t gulp.” She would tell you when she was teaching you to ‘properly drink’. You scoffed out loud, giving the bartender enough money to last the night. He passed you the bottle. “Yeah well you’re not here, are you, grandma?” You muttered to yourself before taking a long swig.

     “I feel like if she would be, she’d have a heart attack in this bloody place.” A suave voice cut through the music and chatter. Surprised, you coughed, spilling a bit on your shirt. “Jesus Christ.” You managed to get out. “Quite the opposite actually,” You turned to find a man who embodied the phrase ‘tall, dark, and handsome’. His raven eyes raked you and your body shamelessly. “Lucifer Morningstar.”

     You openly rolled your eyes. It was a gut reaction but since you couldn’t feel your nose if you tried to itch it at this point in the night, you couldn't quite control your reactions at the moment. “You couldn’t have chosen a better name than that?” You asked, your face plastered with a look of disdain and disgust. Lucifer looked taken aback but nonetheless, didn’t drop the haughty facade.

      “I didn’t choose the name.” He stated, you laughed a little. “Oh yeah? Then who did? Nameberry dot com?” You took another swig of the bottle. “My father actually, though I would like to meet this Nameberry person.” He smiled and you peered up at him through narrowed eyes. You gave him a once over. A twice over. Then finally, “It’s a website, but no, really, who are you?” You asked. “I’m the devil. Lucifer Morningstar. If you don’t believe me I have ways of proving it.” You rolled your eyes at this.

     “Not my religion.”

“You’re not a believer?” He inquired. Understanding he meant the Christian kind, you shook your head. “Not anymore.”

     “So you don’t believe in hell?” He asked and it earned him an odd look. Such odd questions from a weirdly unique stranger.

     “If I did, that would juxtapose what I just said, wouldn’t it? I used to. Now I don’t really care where I go.” You were growing bored of this man. It was clear that he had an ego the size of Russia and based on the look of him that was because he hadn’t ever had a girl say ‘no’ to him before. This ‘Lucifer Morningstar’ was in for a rude awakening.

     Meanwhile, he was growing more and more interested in you. “Ah, no desire to end up anywhere in the afterlife? I’m sure you have some desires here, don’t you?” He asked, voice getting smoother, tone dropped just enough to ring some red alarms in your head. This time, you were able to hid the grin.

     You put on a dazed look, nonchalantly setting your bottle aside as you stepped closer to Lucifer. You ran a hand over his chest and watched as his damning smile grew in amusement. “Actually, my strongest desire. . .” You trailed off and gave him a once over once more. Lucifer could barely contain his excitement. “Is for you to stop asking me these weird fucking questions and leave me alone.” Your voice transitioned from sultry to bored so smoothly you thought your tongue was made of silk. Lucifer didn’t even realize what had happened until the fake smile dropped from your lips and you stepped away.

     “Wait, what?”

“You heard me, Lucifer Morningstar.” You mocked his name, turning from him fully and you began to walk away, grabbing your bottle on the way out. The conversation with him was both sobering and a great way to intensify your headache.

      Lucifer felt frozen where he stood as he watched you walk away. You had been playing him. His, well, charm didn’t work on you. It was all jarring and exciting and concerning and exhilarating for him. Finally, he snapped out of his daze as you mocked his name.

    “Wait!” He called after you, reaching for your arm and turning you around. You yanked free of his touch. “Don’t touch me, creep.” You spat back at him. That flicker of annoyance. If he were mortal, he realized, that would have hurt. This confused him more.

     “I’m not a creep, i’m the devil!” He exclaimed back at you. “Would you quit with that?” You nearly were yelling now. “You’re human! Just like that guy and just like me. If you’re so convinced you’re not, you need to see a shrink. There is no such thing as fairy tales.” You shoved a business card you had been digging around for into his chest.

    Lucifer scoffed as he felt the small weight of your hands against your chest again, if only for a moment. “But I’m not-“ He started but you glared at him.

     “I did not come here for this. It’s one in the morning, my taxi is here.” You noticed the girl you tipped earlier already on her way to come get you from across the room. “You wore off my drunk. I’ll be chugging this in the rest of the car, wishing I had went to a different bar for my birthday. Oh, and I won’t be coming back. Not if you’re here.” You huffed out right as the girl who’s name you forgot approached you and she began to lead you out as promised.

     You shocked yourself just then. You had promised yourself to be more honest and that was the first time you really had. You had spent most of your life, even adult life, thinking demons and fairies and ghosts and ghouls and goblins were real. But you got the help you needed and now you didn’t so when that guy began to talk about being Lucifer and Satan and the devil, it scared you. But you meant what you said. That guy was insane and if he went to that club, you weren’t coming back. You supposed some of his questions were casual, but something about him felt, off.

    Your birthday. Whoever you were. Lucifer was still clutching the business card in his hands, still hovering above where his heart would be as he watched you leave. You were different. You didn’t believe him. You didn’t care to. You thought he was clinically insane, like a murderer who thought he was God, or well, the devil. You didn’t say it but he saw it in your eyes. Not that you were afraid of him, but you knew he was different and you couldn’t tell what.

   But that’s the thing, if he thought about it, is that you knew what he was. And you weren’t afraid but instead your automatic response was to get him help. Not that you knew what he really was, but a part of you recognized it even without your conscious knowing. Your consciousness just didn’t want to know.

    It felt like hours before he pulled his hands from his chest and gazed down at the numbers on the paper. Tonight was a night, well morning, was a morning of firsts apparently, because for the first time, Lucifer called later that day and made an appointment with the shrink you recommended. You promised you wouldn’t come back to that club, but he wasn’t ready to let go of you just yet.

     He chuckled to himself at his plan. Yes, it did sound as though was was a murderer. Insane and obsessive. But he was in fact the devil, and there are no consequences for the sins of the Earth.