#nephilim Press

[deanbrainrotwritings]

—  DESIRE (THE WANTON SONG)

SUMMARY : dean looks delicious in a suit, that’s it.

PAIRING : dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : castiel, jack kline 

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), fluff, p in v, unprotected sex (21 years of prison), car sex, smut, teasing, funnies (but maybe that’s the coffee talking) 

WORD COUNT : 2.8k

A/N : led zeppelin song title. y’all… YALL! Dean’s so hot and I actually had coffee and so that’s why I’m… you know, imagine that this is really, really quickly spoken in your head :D XXXXXX

Was anyone really going to lie or hide the truth about how absolutely ravishing Dean looked in suits?

One thing Y/n knew was that she wouldn't be making that mistake. The only problem with that was that Cas and Jack decided to join them while Sam stayed at the Bunker recovering from a stomach bug with Eileen at his side. 

Should she feel bad for how turned on she was? 

He was just… existing.  

Still, he must know what he’s doing. Placing his hand on her thigh, mindlessly brushing his fingers along the inside as he drove. And he sang. He was singing, playfully. Making her laugh. 

And every time she laughed, he’d squeeze her thigh, and grin at her boyishly. She’d bite her lip, unable to resist his happiness. When they stopped at a red light or a stop sign, he’d lean over, and kiss her cheek, then he’d murmur something sweet into her ear. Her heart would flutter, her breath would hitch, and then he'd press one soft kiss to her lips.

If Cas and Jack hadn’t been in the back seat, she would have grabbed Dean by his tie and pulled him on top of her. That would be dangerous—considering that he’s driving—but, hey, it’s just a daydream. 

She just wanted him, everywhere, like… all over her body. His lips and his hands. His body above hers and his skin moving against hers. God… it was worse than normal, her desire for him. 

He was just so… irresistible. Not just because of how insanely attractive he is. It’s a combination of everything that makes him who he is. Adorable. Kind. Selfless. Brave. Funny. Smart. The list was endless, but every little thing was there, blooming deep in her heart, weaved intricately into her soul, growing hot like a star. At the end of it all, at the farthest edge of everything that she was, it was love built entirely of Dean. 

Her mind was elsewhere. She started to lag behind as they walked into the police station and Dean weaved his fingers through hers to keep her in pace with him. She subtly checked Dean out from behind, broad shoulders, firm ass, hot… all over. She had to resist slapping his ass and grinned to herself at the thought. 

Cas went ahead and started to talk to one of the detectives on the case while Jack looked around aimlessly. Dean pulled her hand to stop her from joining the angel and nephilim. He leaned forward, his nose brushing against her cheek, his lips ghosting over her earlobe, warm breath hitting her neck. 

“You okay?” He asked, pulling away slightly, and looked into her eyes. He held her jaw tenderly and his thumb brushed along her bottom lip, causing her to inhale sharply. A spark from his hand on her mouth made heat rise up her face, but she nodded anyway. “You sure? You’ve been quiet, spacey,” he murmured, leaning forward to brush his lips against her. 

“I’m okay,” she whispered against his mouth. Dean placed a chaste kiss on her lips and kissed her cheek afterwards. 

“Okay,” he conceded hesitantly, circling his arm around her waist. Dean lead the way to where Cas and Jack were waiting patiently, having quiet conversation with each other. Jack looked confused at whatever Cas was trying to explain to him while Cas looked adorably exasperated. “Let’s go,” Dean smiled at the two of them, walking to where the officers placed the woman they’d just arrested. 

“Actually,” Cas stopped Dean with a hand on his chest. Dean lifted a brow and glanced down at Cas’ hand. “This would be a great opportunity for Jack to learn how to properly interrogate witnesses on cases. You two should take a look at the footage from the mini-mart,” Cas suggested firmly, but he waited for Dean’s approval anyway. 

Dean’s lips parted, he looked down her before looking back at Cas. He crossed his arms over his chest and it was oddly arousing. “You sure it’s not ‘cause you suck at using technology,” Dean teased with a smirk. 

The deadpan expression on Cas’ face made it funnier, somehow. He sighed and stepped closer to Dean, looking down at both their shiny black shoes. “I’m being serious, Dean,” Cas muttered, but Dean had a smug smile on his face that she knew Cas wouldn’t let slide when he looked up into green eyes. “Besides, you couldn’t figure out how to get Netflix to play on the television, Y/n had to do it.” 

Dean might have actually gotten offended. He shut his mouth, a firm line of his lips made those adorable little dimples of his to appear at the upper corners of his mouth. She stifled a laugh, and looked down at her heels, but Dean noticed anyway. Jack was the only one looking away, his gaze fixed across the room where the vending machine was. 

“Agents,” one of the detectives called from the interrogation room, staring at the four of them.

“Whatever,” Dean murmured, turning away from them. He left her there with their friends. She grinned up at Cas and he failed to resist a smile. Blue eyes looked down while she patted his chest as a goodbye before she jogged to catch up with Dean. 

“So,” she tried breaking the ice, hooking her arm around his as they walked to the room where they could watch the footage, “wanna place a bet?” Dean grunted in response, to which she took as a yes. “100 bucks, it’s a shifter,” she offered, letting go of his arm when he opened the door for her to enter first. 

“If it’s anything but a shifter… I get to call the shots on everything we do together for six months,” he said distractedly, beelining to the nearest computer. 

“Uh, no,” she laughed, “one month.” Dean glanced at her, it wasn’t anger, but there was something fiery in those forest greens of his that made her pussy clench around nothing. Her breath hitched, but she hid it with a sniffle. 

“Four months.” There was a finality to his words that made her shiver. She couldn’t disagree, and anyway, Dean’s ideas were never awful. Dean leaned over the table, and started to type away skillfully at the keyboard, giving her time to consider his compromise, before he pulled the video footage up. 

Had he not been waiting for the deal to be sealed with her agreement, she would have dwelled on the wave of arousal flooding between her legs at the sight of him proving Cas wrong about his ability to understand technology. 

She stepped closer to Dean, sitting on the table—very close to him.“Cheater,” she smiled playfully, he knew she’d never fold. Dean looked up at her, one hand on the keyboard, the other on the mouse. “Deal,” she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his. 

Dean immediately let go of the keyboard and mouse to step between her legs and kiss her hard. He wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her to the edge of the table, and tangled his fingers in her hair. She moaned into his mouth, lewdly brushing her tongue against his when he pushed into her mouth. With a final, hot, firm suck of her tongue, he pulled away breathlessly with a rosy tint on his cheeks. 

She blinked the daze of his hearty lips away, and smiled dreamily, swinging her feet, her heels slipping off her feet slightly as she watched him work. She needed to fuck him, but she forced herself to look away from the pinched concentration of his brows, and the way he chewed on his lip. 

She analysed the video with Dean a few times before switching to other cameras around and within the mini-mart. A few people came in and out, no one remotely suspicious or dangerous, nothing supernatural about them either. 

“I don’t see anything,” Dean muttered, replaying the last video of the inside of the store. He watched it again for good measure. It showed the woman the detectives arrested serving herself a blue raspberry slushie from the machine with a woman standing next to her, asking for a taste.

She leaned the cup over to her lover, or friend, or whatever she was meant to be. She took a sip and they walked together to the register, the man barely paid any attention to them as they spoke. 

“Right there, look,” she told him, Dean raised a brow and rewinded the video. She mischievously ducked under his arms, and placed her hand over his on the mouse, bending over the desk like he was doing so her ass brushed against his crotch. Dean grunted softly, moving away slightly with his hands on her hips. 

“You’re not wearing any underwear,” he whispered, squeezing her hip. She tried to remain composed, as much as she wanted to keep teasing and possibly do more, she genuinely found something.

Ignoring the throb in her clit, she teasingly asked, “uh, hello?” Dean’s hands flexed on her hip and then he pressed himself against her ass, to see what she saw. “You win the bet, it’s a siren,” she pointed out, pausing on the reflection of the monster’s terrifying face.

“Okay,” Dean whispered, letting her stand straight. “At least if it gets to me or you, it’s toxin won’t work,” he reassured her, kissing the top of her head. 

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve always been perfect to me, the one person I could lean on, the one person I knew would never lie to me, or do what Sam did… you’re-”

“Reliable, boring,” she finished for him, crossing her arms insecurely. 

“Kind, trustworthy, and good,” he corrected firmly, “you still are, there’s nothing I’m keeping inside, nothing… bad… because you’ve never failed me.” She turned to face him, stomach fluttering, flustered by his steadfast reasonings. 

“I can be stubborn and repetitive,” she reminded him, they’ve been angry at each other a few times in the past. Frustrated is the more correct word for it than angry. She didn’t want him to be wrong, or to end up making him feel bad if it worked on either of them. 

“Caring and empathetic,” he corrected again, his hands sliding into the pockets of his black slacks. He stepped close to her and narrowed his eyes at her self-deprecating words. Oh, wow, she felt small, and hot, and wet. “Stop arguing with me, I’m older than you. That makes me always right,” he tried to lighten the mood, she smiled softly at him, and laughed. 

“You’re right, I don’t think it’s toxin will work,” she agreed despite her doubts. Dean smiled, but tilted his head inquisitively. “You trusted it… or whatever… because it gave you the one thing you wanted most, a family, but now, you’ve got most of what you wanted back then, Sam’s not doin-” 

“I don’t pay for therapy sessions, sweetheart,” he dismissed bashfully, slipping his hands out of his slacks to reach out for her hips and tug her towards him. 

“Uh, well… there’s always sex,” she suggested seductively, locking her fingers together behind his neck. Dean leaned forward, his nose brushed against hers, and her eyes fluttered shut. 

“Sex is pleasure, not business, sweetheart,” he murmured. She felt one of his hands fall from her hip, then she felt a rough, arousing spank on her ass. She yelped while he laughed and lifted her back up on the table. “I love you, you know that?” He asked softly, pressing kisses along her jawline. 

“Yes,” she whispered, hooking her fingers on his belt loops to tug him closer between her legs. She wiggled around and got the pencil skirt high enough to let her spread her legs wider for him. Dean finally kissed her, his fingers slowly ghosting along the inside of her thighs, moving higher. 

She moaned against his mouth, impatiently waiting for him to touch her where she needed him most. Dean’s kiss became steamier, he pressed closer into her mouth, tongue slowly gliding over hers. 

“Can you feel how wet I am for you?” She mumbled when he panted for breath against her mouth. His fingers finally grazed her wet heat and he groaned, roughly burying a hand in her hair. He tugged at the soft locks of her hair and drew circles around her entrance before sliding his fingers up to her clit. 

“We need to ditch Cas and Jack,” Dean murmured desperately, pulling his hand out from between her legs much to her dismay. Dean kissed her forehead softly. 

“That’s mean,” she pouted jokingly, leaning back with her hands flat on the table. 

“Okay, maybe I won’t ditch them, but… I’ll drop them off at the motel, there’s a place on the way,” he informed her, then sucked his fingers clean of her wetness.

“God, you look fuckable,” she giggled, gazing at him flirtatiously. 

He flushed red—well, redder. “What?”

“It’s not a secret.” She shrugged casually, playing with his bright red tie. It only made him look hotter. Wickedly so. 

“What isn’t?”

“That you look hot in suits,” she laughed, pulling his tie to bring him down for a quick kiss to emphasise her feelings.

“Really? You think so?” He laughed softly against her lips.

“Everyone knows that.” 

“I don’t care about everyone, I’m asking about you.” He bit his lip, amused, and squeezed her thighs. 

“Yes.” 

“I’m ditching them, they’ve got wings,” Dean gave in. He took her hand, pulling her off the table. She quickly fixed her heels and skirt, following him as a zap of excitement coiled up her spine. 

“Let me text them first!”

“Seriously? Here?” She laughed, unbuttoning her shirt as fast as she could while Dean fumbled and removed his belt. Dean stared up at her, smiling from ear to ear, and she rolled her eyes at him halfheartedly. 

“It’s an abandoned mall’s parking lot,” he reasoned, lifting his hips up to shove his boxers and slacks down all at once. “No one’s finding us here,” he reassured her, hands impatiently roaming up her thighs to lift the tight pencil skirt.  

“Like you care,” she teased him, moving forward on her knees.  The cotton blanket he placed covered the leather booth-seat, silencing the typical squeak of leather beneath them. Dean spluttered and shrugged indifferently, pulling her shirt out of her skirt to shove his hands inside her bra, and pulled down so her breasts spilled out. She held the door of the Impala, squeezing hard beside his head, and started to lower herself down on him with her fingers curled around his cock.  

Dean’s mouth fell open, and he closed his eyes, moaning her name softly. Her pussy clenched around him as she gazed down at his face, her heart stuttering in her chest. His eyes fluttered open, and he bit his plump lip, smirking at her—like he knew exactly what he was doing. 

“Fuck,” she shuddered. Dean brought her closer, depositing wet kisses along her sternum and cleavage, all the while he gazed up at her from beneath his lashes. She could feel herself get wet around him, getting tighter, her breath hitching as she sank down lower and lower, taking every inch of him. 

“You’re hot, too,” he whispered, “in heels, or naked, or in my bed, or… in my car, especially on my dick.” Dean grinned playfully, and cupped her breast, squeezing gently, his calloused palm created delicious friction against her nipple. “You make sexy faces, like the one I just made-”

“Oh, shut up,” she laughed, circling her hips once she’d sunk all the way down on his cock, his blunt fingernails digging into the flesh of her thigh. 

“Really?” He teased breathlessly, bringing his two hands to her ass to squeeze and then slap roughly. She gasped and dropped her forehead on his, circling her hips excruciatingly slow. “I thought you liked it when I told you dirty stuff when we have sex. You know… like how badly I wanna cum when I see you every morning? It’s true, by the way,” he teased quietly, kissing her jaw, and bucked up into her pussy when she pushed herself up with her hands pressed against the window of the Impala. 

“Drives you crazy, doesn’t it?” He asked, brushing her hair away from her face lovingly. “Sure drives me crazy. Ya know… your hot face, the… pretty sounds you make—all of you. The way you taste… all of you. The smell of your skin and your hair. All the dirty things you say.” She moaned softly, and Dean scooted up slightly, panting against her lips as she started to lift herself up and down again on his lap. “You have no idea how much I love you,” he whispered, his hands travelling along her sides. 

“You have no idea how much I love you, Dean,” she laughed softly, cupping his cheeks. She tilted his head up and kissed him long, lips pressed firmly against his to pour every ounce of tenderness and love that flowered inside her heart, connecting the strands of her soul to his, and fusing her burning adoration for him like two colliding stars.

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[cherubispunk]

NEPHILIM: BAMBI - Jackson-era!Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

summary: when does a human stop being regarded as a human…and, instead, seen as something different entirely?

a note from Lucy: No smut? Huh? Someone check my temperature please. I liked writing Nephilim so much that I decided to do a small Drabble of the exact moment Bambi got her name. Think of it as a prequel of sorts. Takes place soon after Bambi recovers from sepsis. Enjoy!

playlist | moodboard

wc: 1563

Warnings: 18+ MDNI! no use of y/n but reader is referred to as ‘Bambi’, no physical description of reader apart from ‘long lashes’, brief descriptions of injury and blood, religious imagery, use of guns/ being taught to shoot, me not remembering how to shoot even though I was taught how to so there may be inaccuracies lolsies, Joel is a little bit of a dick but it’s only because he cares!

series masterlist | m.list

Psalm 18:33 He maketh my feet like hinds' feet, and setteth me upon my high places.

When does the man become the monster? Is it his first kill? Or maybe his first thought of pulling the trigger? It might be the moment he picks up the gun. When the metal is cold in calloused palm. A human would find it heavy and unwelcoming. A monster might find it a comforting thing though. To know he is protected at his own hand. Are they even entirely separate? A person may be both at once. Monster. Human. Who is the righteous one, the wise one, who draws the line. Is it God? The people? And how thin of a line is it?

Joel could be both. In the Venn Diagram, the spectrum of Monster and Man, he resided in the very middle. That’s what they told you anyway. You took it with a pinch of salt. Thought it a rather hypocritical comment to make for no one in this world was truly pure of sin. Even the lamb grazes the grass that the foal could have. Though Joel thought you came damn close to purity. He now associated the colour of your eyes with innocence. Conditioned to the thought whenever he saw it in nature, or in a person's clothing. Slaved away to keep it. Protect it. Was a man that protected truly a monster? Because the things he did, the sin he committed, the blood on his hands, was all in the name of protection in one way or another.

He quite liked being alone before. But the more time he spent engaging in the odd conversation with you, the more he realised how dull it was to talk to himself. He and himself were only acquaintances. You felt more like a friend. His first real friend since Tess.

So maybe the question is this; When does a human stop being regarded as a human…and, instead, seen as something different entirely?

—

“I can’t do it.” You huffed, looking back at him and dropping your arms. In your hands was Joel’s rifle. The weight of it foreign and uncomfortable. The trigger cold, and your fingertip not calloused enough for it to feel like it belonged. The metal bit back. It said ‘you don’t belong here’. It commanded you: ‘Give me back’. The weight of it was unsettling. In your hand was the weight of a life taken. Or a life spared. And yet he stood behind you with his arms crossed, his brow set in stone, furrowed together in a frown akin to the busts of Caracalla. Narrowed hawk eye on your poor form. Unsteady on your feet and uncertain with your trigger finger.

“You can.” He replied, voice clipped and snippy. Not giving you a choice. “And you will.” He spoke in such a grating edge it seemed he was frustrated merely through your apprehension. “Eject the cartridge.” So you sighed, abiding his words, pressing the butt of the rifle into the crook of your shoulder and staring down the barrel at the tree you hadn’t landed even a graze on once. “Feet shoulder width apart, girl.” He reprimanded. Joel had repeated that one point about five times now in the past hour. And each time you’d forgotten. Something as simple as the planting of your feet on the snow blanketed ground. Your mind was in disarray and a disconnect with your body.You looked down at your feet and shuffled them wider apart.

You felt his strict grip find temporary and telling purchase on your hips, jerking you side on so the foot the side of your non-trigger hand pointed towards the target. Even through layers of winter clothing his touch made you shiver far more than any biting winter wind could. “Like this.” That tone again. It was windburn on your cheeks. It was pins and needles in your feet. Unpleasant, painful, and long enduring.

“Sorry.” You mumbled.

“Don’t be sorry. Be better.” And he stepped back to observe once more.

He didn’t do it to be mean. He didn’t say it to be curt, and rude. He did it for your benefit. Because one day your loose tongue would very well find you without it entirely. Still, it hurt. To know he was so willing with criticism and so restrained with compliments. He must bite his tongue so often that it grows back sharp. It felt like lashes from the cat of nine tails upon your back; Your skin now lacerated and tender from each blow. Regardless, you swallowed the lump in your throat whole. It could suffer and scorn and burn in your churning stomach. You inhaled, and on the exhale you pulled the trigger.

Miss.

You huffed again, utterly defeated. Your heart seemed to sink lower when you looked at him. His face still set with the same Caracalla frown.

“Again.”

“What’s the point, Joel?” You protested for the second time. Desperate to go back to town and wallow. To not have to face that grimace. You felt like a child, waiting for that fateful ‘I’m not angry, just disappointed’ speech. “I’m not a violent person. I’m not like you. I’m not—“ the words faltered as you tried to find them. You stopped yourself before you could blurt the first that came to mind. But he knew. Joel always knew. He didn’t need to say anything for you to admit it. Merely raise a brow and dare you, urge you further.

“Y’should think before y’speak.” You nodded at his words, eyes trained on his boots. “Again.”

Too ashamed to fight any further, already treading on thin ice and skidding miserable on wobbly doe legs. Too soon would you thud to the floor and plunge into the icy waters below. You must find your footing again.

It was in this very shame you obeyed, picking up the weapon again with bated breath and aiming. But your mind was elsewhere. It scattered like the spray of a shotgun's fire. Your form was off. You’d lost that stance from before. And you were too busy in your own head to even think about paying attention to the tree trunk down the other end of the barrel. You fired without the inhale before as well as the beat of your exhale. The recoil was strong, the butt of the rifle ricocheting into your shoulder causing an ache to dissolve through flesh and sink to bone. The sound was jarring, it rang in your ears, rattled in your head. And you lost your footing, stumbling back with the force towards the snow.

Joel saw it coming. He expected you to right your footwork. To breathe in and fire on the exhale. But the sound of the bullet leaving the chamber came before any of the aforementioned. A simple stride in haste and he was behind you, stopping you before you fell to the floor.

“Jesus, Bambi!” Joel gritted through his teeth when you collided. The sound was becoming less jarring. But the name. The name was new. It was fresh. And ripe. A fruit that would never rot. Be eternally sweet. He had thought about it before; You had these wide eyes that looked up at him through thick lashes. You were tentative with your footing. And uneasy on your feet when it was cold. He remembered when he found you in the snow; Curled up on your side with the flesh wound under your trembling palm, bleeding through your shirt and gaps between frail fingers. He thought of a doe just born. Fresh and pure. So vulnerable it ached to not reach out and nurture it. When he looked into those eyes, the eyes of the woman in his arms, he saw it all again. A picture that was printed on the backs of his eyelids when he slept. Or where he blinked for that matter. In waking and in sleep, it haunted him. Whispered in his ear with a warm breath that paralleled the alive and beating. He felt a sharp sting in his heart. He didn't know it then, but it was Eros’ arrow. He would know soon enough.

You shared the time between the words and the writhing of your feet. Shared it with a stare in imperturbable silence. A simmering, deep stare. It wasn’t deep in the sense of a gaping void. More like a watering hole. Something that promised plentiful supply and the chance of survival. The satiation of the unquenchable.

You would learn one day that his love for you can quench any thirst, satiate any hunger and rest any fatigue. All this and he would still be left thirsty, starving and exhausted. Accept him for what he is. Heavy handed, colossal, brutal. Loving, nurturing, tender. Just a man. Give him on chance — one meagre, single moment in time — and he’d decay at the swipe of his tongue across the bottom of your lip alone; Finding a homage for him between them. A feeling he would wish to indulge in selfishly cradling his beating chest. And maybe, just this once, he will let himself be selfish with something that wasn't just for the purpose of survival.

So I beg of you, contemplate: if a man deemed a monster can still love, if a man named the devil can see innocence, grace, beauty, and nurture it— is the man still a monster? Something else entirely? Or is he just human?

[only-goose]

More than Nougat

Synopsis: You taught Jack about hickies and now he’s obsessed

Warnings: none really, just a whole lotta fluff

Nothing! There was absolutely nothing! No beer, no bacon, no nothing! And who would’ve eaten all the food and not replace it? The two black holes for humans you live with. The Winchesters, those boys with their bottomless stomachs drove you crazy sometimes. You’re half tempted to throw Jack into the accusation but he’s still figuring the foods he likes.

“I’m going on a supply run!” You shout through the halls. All you hear is a couple grunts of acknowledgement, until a voice behind you says “can I come?” You nearly jump out of your skin, not expecting to see Jack behind you. “You scared the shit outta be dude, but yeah, of course you can come” you answered him. “Sorry for scaring you y/n” he apologises.

You chuckle his apology off, trying not to let your heart run wild. Even though Jack was only, technically, a few years old, he resembled someone of your own age. This very quickly led you to falling for him, his newborn innocence, childish humour and clinginess (you loved though, let’s be real).

“Alrighty Jack, let’s go” you say as you lead him up the stairs, to the garage. You unlock your ‘64 Pontiac and hope in, turning on some background music before peeling out of the bunker.

“Can we have a movie night tonight, y/n?” The nephilim asks. “Absolutely” you reply “what do you wanna watch?” He sits there and has a hard think about it, “I don’t know, I’ll look up movies when we get to the bunker. Can we get snacks now though?” He asks. You nod your head as you park. You pull out a trolley and give it to Jack to push, while you wander around and get enough food to supposedly last a few weeks (you knew better than the expect it would last a few days).

Jack absolutely piles the junk food into the trolley, which gives you a good laugh, still enamoured with his childishness. He gives you a massive grin and keeps walking, always making sure to look behind him and make sure you’re still there. You head to the checkout and pay for the mountain of food you bought, Jack standing shoulder to shoulder with you the entire time, watching you interact with the register guy. Jack means his head on your shoulder after you pay and keep making small talk, even though you’ve finished all you need to do. Jack links his hand to yours to try and push his point, he doesn’t wanna be near anyone but you anymore.

After you get home, Jack wizzes off to the computer to search for a movie while you pack away the food, keeping out the snack for movie night. Jack comes bounding in a few minutes later, a dvd in hand, and says “I wanna watch this one” he hold it up for you to see. You look at him and asks if he’s sure, “I’ve never seen it so I really wanna try” he replies. You hold on your giggles as you make your way towards the dean-cave (you think it’s a silly name but whatever).

You press play on the movie as you and Jack get comfortable next to each other on the couch, sitting leg to leg so you can both reach the junk food. Sandy and Danny start singing on your tv screen and it has Jack laughing, you don’t know what at, but you don’t care. Getting to see Jack make you laugh makes your day a little brighter.

You get to the point in the movie when Rizzo appears with hickies from Kenickie. “Y/n?” Jack gets your attention as he taps your shoulder. You pause the movie as you turn to Jack, “what’s wrong?” Jack points at Rizzo and says “what’s wrong with her neck, who has hands small enough to punch her like that?” He ponders “or did she get bitten my a vampire? Some vampire bites look like that, don’t they?”

Jack looks at you concerned as you bust out laughing. “Oh Jack, those are called hickies” you tell him. He raises his eyebrow, almost like he want to ask something, so you continue. “When two people like each other a lot, some like marking their partner. It’s kind of like a possession thing” you can see the cogs turning in his head, trying to make sense of what you said.

“I like you a lot, and I don’t like when you talk to people that aren’t me, so do I put hickies on you?” Jack admits, a big grin adorning his plush lips. You feel a bit conflicted, maybe you didn’t make it clear enough that it was an ‘in love’ type of like, not a ‘just friends’ type of like and so you told him. “I don’t think you get it, it’s for people who love each other. Like want to get married and have a family, kind of love. Not the kind of love you have for friends”

His grin doesn’t falter, “I know what you meant, y/n, and I mean what I said. I like you a lot, the ‘love’ type of like. I wanna hold your hand, and kiss you, and I want you to give me hickies and I want to give you some too” if you were a cartoon, you knew you’d have hearts in your eyes and heart would be thumping out of your chest at Jacks brazen confession.

He watches you patiently as you lean over and peck his lips, testing to water. “I like you a lot too, Jack” you say as you make deep eye contact. Jack kisses you back grinning. “Can you give me a hickie y/n?” He asks shyly. “It’s kind of something you have to build up to. You have to start with marking out before you move to hickies” Jack smashes his lips onto yours as soon as you finish your sentence.

After showing Jack how to make out, you pull away which causes a small whine to rise from Jacks throat. “I’m gonna give you a hickie now, ok?” You say as Jack vigorously nods his head. You got back to kissing his lips, then start trailing them towards his neck. You spend a couple seconds looking around for his weak spot, knowing you’ve found it when he moans and bursts a light bulb.

You look up and see his eyes glowing gold “sorry” he says sheepishly. You kiss his lips, then go back to his neck. You suck and nip at the supple skin, causing all sorts of noises to come out of Jack. You pull back “that should give you a nice purple one in the morning” you say. Jack nods as you both lie down, his head on your chest as you doze off.

You wake up to Jack shaking you, “look, it’s here!” He bounces around, clearly happy to the new addition on marks on his skin when he says, “I think I like this more than nougat”

[mi-i-zori]

When Her Blood Burns

CoD - Krueger x Fem!Medic!OC/Reader (Callsign : Nephilim)

SYNOPSIS : What I think Nephilim and Krueger’s relationship would be like.

WARNINGS : NSFW. Mentions of wounds, violence, blood, death and torture, smut, switch!Krueger and OC/Reader, mention of kinks. Kind of religious metaphors, though they do not indicate any of the character’s beliefs.

I do not give permission to re-publish, re-use and/or translate my work, be it here or on any other platform.

Based on his Reaper skin, as well as other similar attires of his, it’s obvious Krueger doesn’t mind going on a battlefield without any kind of protection for his torso and arms. Just him, and his massive balls I guess.

So my headcanon is that he could be at least a little bit masochistic, and definitely a sadist sometimes. Addicted to the adrenaline flowing from the idea of being injured, in a dangerous environment or in the middle of a certain type of stimulation.

On that note, I also don’t think he would mind his carnal adventures being a little risky too.

So I’m gonna throw him into Nephilim’s life like a goddamn feral raccoon. Always up to no good, enjoying being scolded when the pretty medic patches him up after inevitably getting injured in one way or another. Focusing on her soft, steady whispers as she comforts the injured soldiers and civilians who end up in her care ; coming up with fascinating stories whenever she needs to soothe the minds of the terrified children she holds in her arms after saving them from the wicked hands of the terrorists she and her group are trying to destroy. He is shameless when it comes to flirting, drinking up the tiniest reactions that slip through her tough façade. Loving the way she sometimes allows herself to actually be shy in front of him.

He takes the time to slowly unravel the web she hides behind as he holds her flushed skin against his. He drinks every noise flying past her lips, hands holding her hips and breasts in a bruising grip - grunting and growling as he pounds into her. The feeling of his teeth sinking into her shoulders sends her over the edge, pleasured tears dripping down her face and nails tearing through his arms. Waves of scorching heat never fail to rise from every touch they share, burning flesh and mind as their climax drips between them like lava flooding an endless valley, filled with their most primal wilderness.

As he watches her struggle to catch her breath afterwards, pressing corrosive kisses down her spine and slowly descending from his own high, Krueger thinks he could not have found a prettiest angel.

Yet those thoughts come to a screeching halt once he actually witnesses first-hand the real reason behind her callsign. When he sees her fly through the ruins littering the battlefield, all bloodied and bruised, leaving a trail of utter destruction in her wake. Her curses rise like a storm as she tries to maintain everyone in one piece, the emergency medical supplies working flawlessly in her dexterous hands. She doesn’t hesitate when it comes to dragging the enemy soldiers’ names and faces in the dirt, tearing their own supplies from their soon-to-be cold carcasses whenever she can.

Krueger shivers madly when he sees her bring the most cold-hearted war veteran to shame during an interrogation, making her targets whimper and beg before filling their very souls with lead. The burning wisps of her cigarettes light her blood-soaked fingers with each drag, a cold breeze whisking the smoke away from her lips as soon as they part, frozen eyes staring into the night before meeting his.

An Angel and a Demon live in harmony behind the humanity of her mesmerising features. Should any of the Sacred Texts hold even the slightest ounce of truth, he might indeed be the only man to taste the flesh of a Nephilim, at least since the first Divine Purge. The first mortal to savour this rare kind of danger multiple times and come out of it as unscathed as one can be.

It makes him wish he was in her enemies’ place as he watches her with a new kind of interest, lust rippling through every single one of his muscles.

And he does ends up being in their place, in a way, once she really gets more confident with him and their relationship. He realises the façade was not always a fluke when she forces him to kneel, not budging under his touches - for she’s in a bad mood tonight, and it’s finally time she let go of her own chains. He acts like a brat when she digs her nails into his skin into a series of scorching touches while restraining his hands, smirking and not uttering a single sound. Until he can’t take it anymore. Her scent is too tempting behind the blindfold, her touches too mesmerising, her voice too hypnotising.

She takes advantage of his heightened senses, turning his own little tricks against him. Whispering honeyed threats in his ears, pressing her bare self against his back, hands wandering up and down his body without ever going where he wants them to be.

He’s never been so hard.

And he cracks, savouring her coos as he pleads and begs, fighting against his restraints. Whimpering when she finally goes down on him, only to deny him his release. Stimulating him far beyond his limits like he has done countless times to her, biting his lips until blood floods from under his teeth. She licks it up, the flavours of his skin, sweat and blood mixing with the taste of her lips as she kisses him, riding him feverishly until there nothing left of them but groans, moans and pants - whimpers, cries and thundering heartbeats. Rendering them both as brainless as one can be.

After this, Krueger realises that, as dominant as he likes to be, he may or may not have a huge mommy kink.

[alexanderlightweight]

Magnus gets swapped with his future+alternate universe self pre-canon and gets to meet an Alec who has been married to 'him' for years. When he gets back home he immediately sets out to change the future to avoid the war and make Alexander his as soon as possible.

kaejbfkahbe once again you hit me with the really intense ones

ily and hope you enjoy

<3 lumine

-

lost treasure of the universe

The first proof that something is wrong is that Magnus wakes feeling safe and warm and protected.

More than that, he feels loved. As if there is a physical aura of adoration and care in the very room surrounding him.

Whatever thoughts he might have disappear as a firm body presses closer to his own and Magnus becomes aware that he’s holding tightly on to someone, their head pillowed on his chest.

As if listening to his heartbeat as they slept.

It’s both a torment to tangle himself free from the embrace and a relief to get some space as he tries to understand just what happened.

And then he recognizes that dark swirls for the angelic runes they are and magic crackles through his fingers.

In response the very magic of the room he’s in warns him not to act against the nephilim in the bed. It’s confusing but still pointedly clear and Magnus barely manages to stumble away from the bed — never turning his back — and a web of magic weaves itself into place around the shadowhunter. Magnus doesn’t even bother trying to decipher the magic, he’s trying desperately to understand and recognize where he is and how he got here.

There was a ritual — Magnus knows there was one thought what it was for he can’t remember — and now he can’t quite puzzle out what it was for over the ache in his skull.

“Magnus?” Is asked from the bed and he ignores that the nephilim knows his name to look around until he finally see something he recognizes.

It’s not a box he remembers having but some of the jewelry displayed are pieces that he recognizes and knows he would never get rid of. Further evidence that this is some version of himself, are the pictures alone the vanity and dresser. The most prominent one — the one that causes Magnus to ache — is a picture of what can only be an older version of himself… and the shadowhunter on the bed.

Magnus can hear more words being spoken and while he takes note that it’s a lovely voice, his attention is fully caught by the expressions of the two in the picture. They’re staring at each other with such fierce adoration and Magnus drinks it in.

He’s completely unglamoured in the picture and his shadowhunter — because he has to be Magnus’ in order for him to be looked at that way and to be found in Magnus bed — is staring at Magnus with such an adoring look of love that Magnus has to make sure he isn’t dreaming. That someone could be so devoted to him — with all of himself bared no less — is something that has always been denied him.

“Magnus—” he’s called to again and this time he turns. The shadowhunter is stunning and Magnus swallows, aching a little at the look of concern being offered him. “Are you okay? Why did the wards react?” It’s clear from the way he stays on the mattress that he’s been told how to handle this kind of situation.

“I’m not from this time—” Magnus admits because lies won’t help him hear but he lets down his glamour. There is a little gasp but it’s one of pleased surprise and relief and the wariness on the nephilim’s face leaves. Left behind is tender sympathy and despite Magnus’ alternates magick clinging to the shadowhunter in protest, he leaves the bed.

Strong, large hands are offered carefully and Magnus takes them with a speed that he is sure would be considered greedy by anyone not staring at him with such sweetness.

“I’m Alec—” is offered and when the wards pulse around them, there is a deep chuckle. “Well, to you it’s always been Alexander, but whatever you’re comfortable with. Is it alright to call you Magnus still?”

“Alexander—” rolls off his tongue before Alec can finish and there a surprised smile crosses his face. It makes him look bashful and young and Magnus wonders what time it is, what his beloveds name is. Anything so that he can make sure he has this, “Magnus is fine, darling.” The endearment slips out and from the fond smile sent his way, it’s nothing truly new.

“Are you okay, were you in danger before you arrived?”

“Only danger of my heart withering.”

Now typically when Magnus jokes like this, Cat and Ragnor are the only two who can guess at the truth behind his levity. Alexander however frowns and then tugs one of his large hands free and cups Magnus’ face with calloused fingers.

“I’d say that’s pretty important.” Magnus is told with the sincerity of a mountain standing strong in the face of a storm. “Let me put on some water for tea, okay? You can borrow a robe, put away your tiger stripes for a little bit and take a breath. Maybe talk to me about it? Or you can ask about things from this time, okay?”

“What?” Magnus asks as Alexander’s fingers slip away from him. “You aren’t worried for wherever this world’s Magnus has gone?” Even thought he knows it’s the truth, Magnus can bear to voice that Alexander belongs to someone else, even if it is another version of himself.

“My husband will be fine.” Magnus is told with a small smile as if Alexander’s declaration isn’t a stab of hope almost too sharp to accept. “As his consort I can feel him even across dimensions and time. He will find his way back to me no worse the wear and I will stay here, as his anchor and compass. Rest your magic, there’s robes that will fit in the closet.”

“You’re not the least bit worried that I’d hurt you, are you.” It’s an observation not a question and as Alexander opens the door to what must be the hallway, the shadowhunter turns and gives a playful smile.

“Magnus’ magick encompasses the entirety of our home. I have nothing to fear from anyone in any place that Magnus claims as his own.”

The sheer faith stuns Magnus almost as much as the realization that it’s true. He cautiously reaches out to touch the wards and protective arrays that echo with the similar vein of his own magic. It’s different. Somehow.

It’s more than his own and stronger. It both recognizes him as similar and also identifies that he’s different. There is no loophole for him to slip into, no way for him to twist these wards to his own needs and the complexity of them both awe and please Magnus.

Clearly there is a lot Magnus will need to learn before he slips back through space and time.

First, how to secure himself a gorgeous and clearly besotted nephilim consort and the second… well, Magnus isn’t going to be taking any risks. If that means cheating and devouring the knowledge created and discovered by another version of himself, than Magnus will do so. He will cheat and lie and scheme and murder and memorize Alexander’s entire family tree to ensure that his birth is secure.

Magnus will not risk the changes he makes rendering Alexander’s existence obsolete.

The robe fits just like Alec said it would and it smells of the shampoo that Magnus just figured out how to make the week before. It’s with glee that Magnus ties it around his waist and follows the feel of Alexander until he finds him.

The opulence of his lair and the wonder of new inventions aren’t enough to sway Magnus from his target. He will have time enough to study them later. For now he stops in the doorway and stares, want flooding him as he watches the shadowhunter who will be his set out a tray of what Magnus can already smell is his favorite blend.

It’s been his favorite for a century already and it doesn’t surprise him in the least that even centuries later it still remains a comforting flavor.

There are little snacks, small things to wet an appetite or to at least sustain until rest has been had and hunger restored. Magnus can’t remember the last time a partner went out of their way to truly care for him like this and he’s not even Alexander’s bonded, not truly.

Magnus is going to make fate dance for him to ensure that he gets his own.

-

Alec to himself: oh no he's sad. a version of magnus is upset. i have to fix this NOW

Magnus: i need his genealogy going back at least a century past my time so i can make sure he is born in my world because he's mine

[imagine-darksiders]

Do you remember that one short fic you did with Draven trying to court y/n and asking Death for permission? The fic ends with Draven fantasizing about y/n and jerking off. I was curious, what does Samael fantasize about y/n? Like, what are his more explicit interests about y/n that he only thinks about in the privacy of his room?

Ah, why not. I have to admit Samael is growing on me so here's a little drabble I dashed out this afternoon.

Nsfw, suggestive content under the cut. Short. CW for Samael's imagination.

There are moments, in Samael's unending existence, that seem to be coming more and more frequently of late, moments that he's been growing less inclined to ignore as the days and weeks go by without a solution to a problem he never would have thought he'd be facing, not in ten thousand millennia...

The problem in question shares the name of a particular little human. Just one. Just one in eight billion that, by pure chance, happened to turn the head of a Prince of Hell.

It should be humiliating. It should be mortifying.

A demon of his stature, his power and age and wisdom, so preoccupied by a member of the Third Kingdom. Nothing but chance had made your path cross with his.

You were with that Horseman, Death, when Samael first laid eyes on you. He learned your name. He learned how you came to be the Nephilim's little companion in the quest to save your species. It had amused him, at the time, to imagine how furious Lilith would be when she discovered you were passively turning the Horseman's mind away from thoughts of resurrecting her beloved Nephilim. You likely didn't even realise the sway you held – and still hold – over the Council's terrible enforcers. You're powerful, and you have no idea, nor any apparent desire to exert that power. Samael has never been one to fixate on an individual, but over and over again, he started to find his head wandering back to thoughts of you – the valiant, little human who stumbled clumsily across the universe in Death's shadow and, against all odds, came out the other side in one piece.

A happy ending...

And then... Well, to put an Earth spin on it, everything had promptly snow-balled from there.

Nights like tonight are a regular occurrence. Blissfully alone, the demon prince, lounges with his forearms propped against satin pillows in his private chambers as one of his colossal, clawed hands delves beneath the sheets to seek out that private part of himself that only the very lucky few have ever laid eyes upon.

Sadly, in Samael's opinion, you have yet to become one of those lucky few.

He can nearly see you now, as vivid as a painting in his mind's eye, laying prone and tiny at the centre of his bed in a dress so white that he could swear you shine against the rich, scarlet sheets.

Oh, if you only knew how well a demon like Samael could take care of you. You would want for nothing. He'd give you riches beyond anything another human could dream of. Diamonds, pearls, emeralds, whatever your little heart desires.

Sometimes, in the privacy of his own thoughts, the demon prince finds himself wondering what a little gentleness might be like. Despite appearances, he's not a masochist – not like she is.

What if, instead of raking claws and needle-like teeth marring his scaly flesh, you instead introduce him to soft fingertips that could stroke soothing lines down the column of his throat as he presses his muzzle into your hair?

He'd swallow against the palm of your hand and feel it rise and fall in an undulating wave, perhaps even catch a shudder from you when you register the raw power that lies behind even that small, insignificant action. Would you be afraid? Maybe, in the beginning. But Samael would forgive you a little trepidation. After all, how could you have any idea the lengths he'd go to prove that he isn't a clumsy, callous brute incapable of controlling himself during that most primal of indulgences? He wants you to trust him. He wouldn't do a thing if you asked him not to. Humans have words they use, don't they? Words that shut down a situation if things are getting a bit too... much behind closed doors? Words of safety...

Samael would go to great lengths to ensure you never even come close to uttering your preferred words. He'd stop, over and over again, and each time, a little piece of your trepidation would chip away until any last, lingering seeds of doubt are utterly purged from your mind.

Samael knows you'd be so gentle with him too, even without trying to be. He's too large, and you're far too small and fragile to wound him when your hands scrabble for purchase on his twisting horns as he dips his colossal face into the sacred space between your legs. Humans are meticulous beasts in habit, and it would be a delectable change to nudge his nose in close and inhale the scent of a clean, tender area that not even your precious Horsemen have been privy to.

Once, he'd been lucky enough to arrive outside your bedroom where his senses were promptly soothed by the hot, rolling waves of steam that wafted out through the open window and into his flaring nostrils. Enraptured, he'd watched on in silence as you emerged like a vision from that tiny room you use for bathing, wearing little else but a fluffy, red towel that hangs scandalously low on your chest, and rises in a daring tease to a spot just above the centre of your thighs.

The steam followed after you, drifting across the bedroom and out to the demon waiting just beyond the foggy glass. He caught the scent of fruit, something Earthen in origin, unknown to his palette but recognisably delicious all the same.

It wasn't long before his rough, pointed tongue slipped out and lapped at the warm sweat gathering above his lip. He might've imagined that's what your skin would taste of, if you'd ever let him near enough to savour a lick.

In the lonely silence of his own bedchambers, those tantalising memories of your soaps and shampoos on the air are the closest thing he has to a reference. He calls upon them unashamedly as he squeezes his eyes shut, sinks his fangs into his bottom lip and grunts, his tongue undulating against the back of his teeth in the same, coaxing licks he plans on using someday to ease your trembling legs apart.

The demon's chest rumbles soothingly to the empty air, a sound borne of instinct to comfort a lover who isn't there...

[moodymisty]

Was trying to doodle something, but it didn't come out right. So here, have it in writing form instead. Forgib any spelling mistakes or whatnot, it's quick and dirty.

No warnings, just comforting fluff with War.

Strife paces around three or so meters from War, watching intently as the youngest horsemen sits firmly idle. He's been getting quite sick of Strife's incessant pacing, and looks at at him with a heavy set glare when he comes closer again. Strife is talking a bluestreak within moments.

"Come on man, I promise I won't even wake her up you just gotta m-"

After what has felt like hours to Strife, War finally speaks up in a hushed tone. His brow is even more furrowed than usual.

"Cease your incessant yaping," He hisses the rest of his sentence. "You will wake her."

Strife clenches his hands and resists the urge to groan dramatically. Meanwhile you adjust in War's lap, slotted comfortable against his chest as you sleep. They don't quite know if something had upset you, or hurt you in some way, but for now, you seemed to have calmed enough to fall asleep.

And much to Strife's dismay, you'd done so on his younger brother and not him; Despite War being the stuffy no nonsense, no emotion Horsemen. Why you'd want anything to do with Horsemen of no fun allowed is beyond him.

Though War has apparently taken his new duty as massive Nephilim heater and bed combination quite seriously, if his cape being wrapped firmly around your shoulders has any indicator. His right hand rests on your upper back, as your head lays against his chest. His chin just barely brushes against the top of your head. Your hands gently grip him, long strands of white hair weaving between your small fingers.

He has a small- at least compared to him- human on his lap snuggling him, and the Nephilim still has the same stern, grumpy face he always does.

"Find something else to entertain yourself." Strife glares at the red rider.

"Weren't you the one who was all 'why are you wasting your time with humans' not long ago?"

War slowly pulls one arm away from you, and begins reaching for Chaoseater, which is laid centimeters away against the wall. Strife backs up and raises his hands.

"Fine fine! I'll go."

Finally having managed to chase the gunslinger away, War looks down at you to confirm you are indeed still asleep.

Not a peep from you. Just the gentle whistling of your breaths.

His hand gently rests back on your shoulderblades, and you shift a little bit into him.

War's never been good at emotions. So when you wake up, he'll be hard pressed to say more than a few words about this. If someone hurt you? He can just threaten them, that's easy. Anything else, not so much. But if this helps you, he doesn't mind being weighed down for a bit.

[colormepurplex2]

Did It Hurt? | Prologue: The Fall

↳ FallenAngel!Taehyung x LostSoul!f.Reader ⤜ Fallen Angel AU, Strangers to Lovers ⤜ Rating: MA 🔞 ⤜ WC: 880 ⚠️ Violence, injury, judgement and punishment

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Taehyung, Sometime around the end of the 20th century, in the Divine Chamber of Justice, Heaven

“Why are we even bothering with this trial?” Phanuel asks, crossing his arms and giving his Brother a pitying look. “Is it fair to hold ourselves to a higher standard than the ones we protect?”

Amitiel harrumphs softly. “Of course we are to hold ourselves to a higher standard. We are Divine Protectors of the Heavens, pointedly above those we protect.”

“I think what Phanuel is trying to say,” comments Mitzrael, “is that there is nothing in the Doctrine about what Brother Taehyung did being unforgivable. If those we protect can be forgiven through Grace, shouldn’t we afford our Brother that same Grace?”

“I say we hand him over to our Fallen Brothers in Hell,” mutters Kushiel, ever the rigid purveyor of punishment.

Gabriel shifts where he sits at the pinnacle of the Judgement dias. “The spilling of one’s Holy Seed is different from that of a mortal’s seed. We all are aware of this. The creation of Nephilim has been strictly forbidden since the fall of Lucifer. Therefore, the act that can potentially create such a monstrosity should be punished to the fullest extent. After all, Taehyung may not have created a Nephilim, but to even act in pleasures of the flesh where that is a possibility is worthy enough of our ire. Imagine the destruction he would have wrought, untold devastation.”

There is a quiet murmur around the chamber, soft echoes of fear and agreement, Sarathiel loudest of them all.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Brother Taehyung?” Zadkiel asks, speaking over the hushed clamor.

Taehyung prostrates himself before his gathered Brothers, pressing his forehead to the smooth surface of the floor, wings splayed out behind him. Holding the position for a few precious moments, he gathers his thoughts before looking up and meeting all their gazes one by one until he’s focused on Gabriel. His Brother might not be the Angel of Judgement, but he’s the Leader of all Angels, which Taehyung knows holds far more sway over all the others than anyone else; he’s a leader for a reason.

“Brothers,” he begins, “I would not ask for forgiveness for such an unforgivable act. As Brother Gabriel has stated, what I did was careless, not just to myself but to all others. I endangered all that we hold Divine and Holy here. I endangered our home. But I would ask for your leniency, your guidance and deliverance. Treat me as one of the flock. Let me seek righteousness and serve a penance for my disgrace. Do not cast me into oblivion. Let me prove myself worthy.”

“We shall take that into consideration.” Sarathiel eyes Taehyung with a cold appraisal. Fear and pain burn hot in Taehyung’s chest. The few stolen moments he sought with–he can’t even think of their name without wanting to wail in mourning–have proven to be what might be his downfall; literally.

The Counsel gathers, cloistering themselves behind a hazy wall of silence. All Taehyung can do is watch them, trying to discern what words lips are forming and what the emotions flashing across his Brothers’ faces mean. Gabriel and Sarathiel seem to be leading the conversation. He can only hope they both remember their love for him in their hearts.

It could be hours, or just minutes, before the shield falls and noise eases back into the chamber, sounding far too loud after the silence. Taehyung thinks he might sickup on the floor if that’s even something Angels can do; he’s seemingly forgotten how to function at all.

The Angel of Justice, his Brother, Raquel, steps forward and gives Taehyung a sad, soft smile before beginning, “It is with heavy hearts that we, the Council of Grace and Purity, hereby sentence you, Brother Taehyung, to one hundred years of exile for breaking your Oath of Holy Divinity by seeking pleasures of the flesh and spilling Holy Seed. At the end of your one hundred years, if and only if you have found a soul seeking absolution and deliver them unto a path of justice and redemption, will you be granted back within the sanctity of this Kingdom and your wings restored. If you fail in your penance, you will feel the wrath of Divine Smite. May the Lord have mercy on your everlasting soul.”

Always so regal and poised, Michael steps forward, the tip of his great sword trailing just a breath above the floor. Taehyung couldn’t bear to look his brother in the eye for fear of seeing the disappointment there.

“Let it be known,” Michael whispers over Taehyung’s bowed head, “I take no pleasure in this, Brother.” With one felling sweep of Michael’s blade, Taehyung is rendered incomplete, severed from his proper form. White feathers fill the air, softening the cry that rips itself from Taehyung’s throat.

His Brothers watch as he plummets from the Heavens, entering a fiery free fall into an existence none of them envy. If only he had the Grace to keep his hands to himself. Though not all Angels are meant for the Heavens, that much is clear. They can only hope Taehyung finds his way once again, or Lucifer damn him, they’ll lose another to the darkness.

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[faejilly]

it can be a fic or meta, but if you're feeling inclined i would love to know more about your opinions for how alec's family gifts in your headcanon would present with even more eldritch elements to it?

oh, I have so many feelings, thank you lovely. Pls enjoy my version of bb!Alec (who is still much too old for his age because he's Alec)

Alec hasn’t even been Marked, still technically a fledgling rather than a Shadowhunter, when he learns that most nephilim can’t hear their weapons sing.

There’s a man come to see his parents, an important man, a dangerous man. But not just in the way nephilim are supposed to be dangerous, though the rhythm of his steps make it clear he can fight as well as any other Shadowhunter Alec knows. There’s something else though, something beyond his skill, something that’s not explained away by the way everyone in the Institute all bow their heads to his titles, Consul and Warrior and Sir.

Alec can hear him, something humming under the man's skin almost like a seraph blade dreaming in its hilt but off-key, a discordant whine that makes Alec want to cover his ears but he knows that wouldn't help; the noise isn’t really a noise, he can feel it in his blood, between his bones, not in his ears at all.

He doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t know what he should say, or to who, but he can’t let it go, it pushes in the back of his throat and it has to be let out.

He thinks if he tries to speak and it doesn’t work, the pushing will get worse, will hurt, will perhaps not let him stop, not ever again.

If that’s true, (it is true, he doesn’t know why or how, but it is, he knows, knowledge deeper even than the laws and runes he’s memorized from the Grey Book, the ones that make the power under his skin flicker and flare, waiting for the first Mark to settle it), he can’t do what his father would prefer, and tell his parents in private. He can't risk them choosing not to listen.

If he can’t be discreet, he has to go far enough the other way that he’s inevitable.

Luckily, the hum from the man is just enough that his seraph blade doesn’t like it either, hissing to itself in the hilt when it ought to be asleep, and Alec knows he can tell them about that. He’s worked with the Weapons Master, with his father, his favorite chore is tending to the adamas in the Institute's care.

So he waits outside the armory, plants himself in the middle of the hall when the man and his parents approach, makes sure the door to the armory is cracked so Master Amira will hear him too, might even come out and back Alec up, if he’s lucky.

He waits, and he doesn’t step back against the wall, and his mother is lifting a brow and his father’s mouth is too tight, neither of them impressed that he’s just there in the way like a mundane too stupid to move.

Before either of them can do anything, Alec falls forward, prostrating himself before the man, arms spread and forehead pressed to the tile, because there’s no way to say what he’s going to say without it being an insult, and this is the only way he’ll get the whole thing out before he’s in too much trouble to be allowed to continue.

The man’s footsteps don’t slow, and Alec realizes he’s going to just walk right past him, and he’s offended enough his chest burns, and he almost can’t feel the pressure in his throat anymore.

How dare he ignore a sign of supplication like that? He’s got worse manners than Izzy and no excuse for them at all.

“Consul.” He hears his mother’s voice, low but steady, and the footsteps stop.

She’s as offended as he is, Alec can tell, he can taste it in her voice, but no one else can ever taste her moods like he can, so he’s sure no one else knows. Yet.

But he does, and it’s enough. If she knew what he knew, she’d speak, and they’d listen, they’d have to.

So he’ll have to do as well as she would.

“Begging your forgiveness, sir.” Alec projects his voice as well as he can, for all he’s talking to the floor. He can’t raise his head, not even an inch.

The Consul doesn’t say anything, but neither does he move.

“Why do you not care for your blade, sir?”

There’s a shocked silence, and Alec can hear the weapons in the armory startle awake as his father reaches, and he can feel Master Amira’s axe-blades as she joins them in the hallway.

“What seems to be the trouble, sirs?” Master Amira’s voice is smooth and clean and Alec reminds himself to breathe.

“The Lightwoods are about to lose their heir,” the Consul answers, his voice tight and the hum beneath his skin twisting down a half a pitch, sharp and unpleasant, “unless they explain his behavior very quickly, and very well.”

“I do not think so.” His mother’s voice rises, as pure a tone as any Alec has ever heard from adamas and he realizes he has lifted his head to look at her, that everyone is looking at her, the pair of clerks who follow the Consul everywhere, someone in every doorway down the hall, a silhouette behind Master Amira he can’t quite identify; even in the glimpse he can get of the corner of Ops behind his parents, everyone has turned toward the sound of her voice. “You should answer him, Consul.”

The Consul’s eyes widen, and his shoulders go back, and that feeling of danger rises, rises, and then it’s cut off, a sharp clean silence as Alec’s father takes one, single, step, letting the heel of his boot hit the tile just so. “My son is a Lightwood.”

“Recognized and sworn before an Iron Sister, sir.” Amira adds, and Alec blinks, aware now of what the odd visit last year had meant, the woman in white who had laughed as if she wasn’t dressed for mourning, who had shown him her throwing daggers and grinned when he’d hit the target with them, and given him two pure slivers of adamas to keep, one for each boot.

The Consul has gone still, and his expression is unimpressed, but the hum changes pitch again, and his clerks look nervous, eyes moving too quickly for all they’ve kept their bodies still.

“Sir.” Robert speaks into the silence, and his voice is like nothing Alec has heard from him before. He’s still quiet, still deferential and polite in tone, but it’s sharp somehow, the glint of a knife as it is slowly pulled from a sheath, the light of a seraph blade the instant before it materializes. He’s not really asking a question. “Your answer.”

“My blade has been cared for by four generations of the Dieudonné line, his question is an insult to my bloodline that has earned no answer beyond contempt.”

“Then why is it crying?” Alec doesn’t lower his head this time, for all his neck aches from the angle required to look up at the adults surrounding him. “It is awake, sir, and in pain, and you are not soothing it.”

Master Amira makes an odd choked-off noise he’s never heard before, but the rest of the hall is silent, and the silence grows, deeper and thicker, until Alec realizes he’s looking at his mother again, that they’re all looking at his mother again.

“His words are True.” Maryse’s voice is a hiss, barely louder than the blade, yet it carries. Her voice fills the hallway, perhaps through to Ops as well, perhaps beyond; it feels to Alec like the whole Institute can hear it, this one soft note of revelation whispering between them all. Her voice still rings like a bell against something inside him, something he has no name for but recognizes as the weight behind that pressure in his throat, the balance in his blood that hears better than his ears. “You will answer, or you will be foresworn.”

“You cannot-” one of the clerks attempts to speak, but Master Amira snorts and they give up.

“My parents were very traditional.” His mother’s voice sounds normal now, calm and conversational. But it still tastes like copper to Alec, like blood, and the tension in the hallway doesn’t ease. He eases himself back and up until he’s kneeling. Until he’s ready. “When my brother was forsaken, they dedicated me to the Mortal Sword as the new Trueblood heir.” Maryse smiles, and Alec can feel everyone except his father move back, trying to get away from it. “I absolutely can.”

The Consul looks contrite, bows his head in apology, enough that Alec can feel the other adults relax, just a little.

But the hum beneath Dieudonné’s skin has turned into a scream, his seraph blade wails in grief and fury, and Alec is moving before he realizes it, one hand in each boot, a flick of each wrist, and two slivers of adamas go through the Consul’s throat before he can speak.

Shock holds them all still, the scream rises into a shriek, twists and throbs and fades, at last, though Alec can’t hold in the shudder while it lingers. The Consul’s eyes are still open, but darker than they were, than they should be, and blood is dripping from them as well as his throat, and his ears, and his nose.

He stays standing for too long, still and stiff, and then a drop of blood hits the floor, one, then another, and finally he sways, and falls. His mouth opens as he hits the ground, and a dark cloud rises from it, smelling of sulfur and steel and something green that Alec will recognize five years later the first time he handles angelbane.

The former Consul jerks, his joints moving wrong in his death-throws, something too sharp to each convulsion, something other.

“Fuck,” someone Alec doesn’t know breaks the silence two long heartbeats after the body stops moving. It’s only then that he sees the rune that has now appeared, a Circle just like Hodge’s, broken by twin spears of adamas piercing through it, one on each side.

No one moves for yet another heartbeat, and Alec can’t look away from the man on the ground, the man who clearly wasn’t just a nephilim, not anymore, not like the rest of them. The man he’d killed. He’d killed the Consul of the Clave, in front of witnesses, in the middle of the Institute, before his parents…

He can feel a shared look over his head more than he can see it, and then his mother’s hand is on his shoulder and his father is calling out orders and she’s leading him away and his footsteps are running to Ops and an alert alarm is sounding, one Alec can’t hear properly through the blood rushing through his ears, and he’s relieved when his mother takes them both to his room, and tucks him into bed, and shields his door with her personal rune as well as every warding rune he’s ever seen. He smiles at her in thanks, and lets himself go.

She’s there again when he wakes, and at first he can’t remember anything. He starts to move, and feels the tug of an IV, the rattle of the stand next to his bed shifting with his movement. He blinks, and his mother sighs. It sounds like relief, and he blinks again even as she moves close, reaches out and brushes his hair off his forehead.

“It’s been a long time since an heir manifested two blood gifts at once, especially before receiving his first Mark.”

Alec had opened his mouth to… he wasn’t sure, probably apologize for being lazy after committing murder and then not even cleaning the ensuing mess up himself, but that stops him. He shuts his mouth, swallows, blinks for a third time, trying to get his thoughts to line up into something more coherent than what?

“Is that what I did?”

His mother smiles, and it’s as far as possible from her expression in the hallway, warm and soothing and grateful. “That’s what you did.”

“Oh.”

He lets that sink in, lets the implications and conclusions and possibilities trickle their way through his thoughts. “Does that mean I’m not gonna be buried at a crossroads for killing the Consul?”

His mother winces, leans forward until her forehead rests against his, and he feels dizzy and lightheaded with something almost like joy as he recognizes what she’s doing as comforting, for both of them. “Oh baby, no.”

He closes his eyes and lets himself feel the weight of his mother being his mother before anything and everything else, and doesn’t even fight it when he feels his eyes getting wet and his skin flushing with relief and confusion and love and who knows what else.

“You will never be in trouble for what you did to Malachi.” That chime was back in his mother’s voice as she whispered against his skin, and it soothed him in a way nothing else could, resonating against his worries until they faded. “You saved the entire Clave from whatever he would have done in the Circle’s name, whatever he could have done to our Institute with the Curse Valentine had put in him when he was discovered. The Inquisitor is going through the entire Council, soul by soul, to make sure she finds them all, and it’s only because of you that she has the power to do it.”

Oh.

Eventually she lifts her head, and her eyes are damp too, he can see it when she blinks. “But you will have to go to the City of Bones and meet a Silent Brother and the Soul-Sword.” Her smile quirks, and he realizes there’s pride there in her expression, on top of a complex mix of emotions that don’t make any more sense than his own. “Though that might be less scary for you than it was for me at your age, if you can hear the Soul-Sword as well as you hear seraph blades.”

“I can hear all the weapons in the armory.” Alec corrects before he can think about it. “You can’t?”

His mother laughs, short and damp and beautiful. “Even your father can’t, and he’s the only Lightwood left who can call his weapons to him. You’ve got a stronger Blood-Gift than he does.”

“I do?”

His mother nods. “Your father asked me to tell you he’s sorry he didn’t tell you so earlier. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, either.”

What.

This entire conversation is so far outside of anything he’s ever felt before, and his bones feel too light-weight under his skin and he doesn’t understand. “Why?”

“Did you consider telling me or your father about what you heard from Malachi’s blade?”

Alec frowns, and his mother lifts a hand, palm facing him, stopping him before he can protest the change of topic. “I promise I’m answering your question, please.”

His parents apologized, and his mother said please to him, like she meant it.

He shook his head from side-to-side. “I knew you’d want me to, but.” He stops. He doesn’t know how to explain that feeling, that pressure that he still suspected would have broken him if he’d tried to speak the truth and been told to keep quiet. His mother’s fingers brush against the line of his throat, and his eyes widen as he stares up at her, as he sees a tear overflow and slowly slide down her cheek as she nods, just a little, and he realizes she knows exactly what he’s not saying.

“We taught you we couldn’t be trusted, so you had to act alone.” There’s that chime again, and another tear falling. “But that’s all going to change now.”

It’s a promise, he knows, he can feel it. “What is that?”

“That is the Trueblood gift. My father could make any vow magically binding just by witnessing it, and his father could tell when someone stated something untrue, even if they believed it themselves.” Her mouth quirked. “He called it tasting lies.”

“Can you do that?”

“No.” She closes her eyes, too slowly to be just a blink, and this time when she sighs he can feel the weight behind it. “I can hear Truth sometimes, ride it, verify it, make sure everyone else believes it.”

She opens her eyes, and there’s guilt now, and grief, dark and deep and endless. “Valentine recruited your father and I personally, and I believed everything he told me about what he was doing, and why, and because I believed him, because there was a Trueblood supporting him, a lot of people who wouldn’t otherwise have let him be… let him get away with, well. Everything.”

Alec goes still. He can tell she’s telling the Truth still, and he doesn’t want to know that, doesn’t want to feel it, but he can, he does, and he’s never ever going to be able to forget what this feels like, this truth that turned his whole life into a lie that he’d never known he was telling.

He swallows down the nausea, the outrage, and waits.

“But when your father told me what he learned about what Valentine was really like, I couldn’t believe the lies any more. We turned ourselves into the Clave, and they only let us back because I rode the Truth when I vowed that we would be loyal to the Council, when I vowed on my bloodline, back to my parents and.” Her voice drops, lower and softer. “And down to my son, who is a Trueblood too.”

“And then you lied to me about it.”

“The Council forbid anyone from talking about the Circle.”

He gives her the look that line deserves.

She’s almost trembling, her hands held too tightly by her sides. “We didn’t want you to have to bear the weight of our mistakes.”

“But I do.” He looks at her, really looks at her, in the same way he looks at the weapons in the armory, and the hilts strapped to the side of visiting nephilim, and the way he’d listened to Malachi and heard Valentine’s Curse in his blood.

Alec can almost see the pattern of the fragile scaffolding of his mother’s emotions, suppressed down under her skin, forced to only exist between the fine lines of her plans, of her will and desire and ambition and pain, all constraining her gift into something so much smaller than it could have been. The foundation of that scaffolding seems shaken, it feels fragile. But it hasn’t moved, hasn’t fallen. She regrets how he feels, sincerely means to change, but she hasn’t, not yet. It’s all still there.

“Every single one of them has been put on my shoulders, and because you hid them from me I thought all that weight was mine, was me, that I deserved every harsh word and mistrustful look, and every single one of them was about you.”

Maryse rears back, but they both hear the Truth in his voice, the sound that resonates between his bones, that builds and forces its way out, that refuses to be silenced. That he is never ever going to try and silence. “You can go.”

She opens her mouth. He lifts his chin, and she concedes. “Amira will take my place with you until the next medic visit.”

He almost frowns, wondering what she means. “You burned through almost all your angelic energy.” She tilts her chin and he glances sideways at the IV bag, half full of something that isn’t just saline, judging by the color of the label. “And you’ve been asleep for almost three days.”

Three? he mouths, more to himself than her, but she sees it, understands it, nods.

There are circles under her eyes, and he can hear the exhaustion she'd been trying to hide when she speaks again. “Let us try and take care of you this time.”

He nods, accepting her peace offering for what it is, and she leaves.

He settles, waits until the door opens again to let Master Amira in.

Only then does he close his eyes, knowing he’s safe, knowing she’s there for him. He knows he’ll forgive his parents when they come back, knows that if they try at all he’ll let them be his parents again. But he’s not sure if they’ll ever earn back his trust.

But he can trust Master Amira, and he’ll make sure to tell Izzy the truth, make sure she knows exactly which consequences are hers, and which are not. He’ll do the same for Max once he’s old enough to talk, and they’ll never have to bear the weight of their parents’ mistakes the way he did, never be expected to fix everything the Clave and Circle broke just because they were offered the mercy of living.

He smiles to himself, pleased with that decision. He can hear Master Amira settling down into the chair next to his desk as he lets himself relax, can hear the soft sweet chime of his adamas slivers being returned, can feel the familiar low rhythm of her axes. He’s always thought they seem like contented cats, purring as they rest against their chosen partner, but today it’s like they’re purring for him, too, soothing him back to sleep.

[starfirewildheart]

Chapter 8

Summary: Some mysteries are revealed. Mentions of past abuse to Geralt and Naurel.

The Wolf and the Flame

Warnings: abuse history, injuries, hurt comfort, no one under 18 to be safe, will add when I need to 

Words: 2,274

Naurel sat on the small bed in the healing wing curled against Geralt’s side as he leaned against the headboard beside her. Jaskier had been treated with the herbs that she helped grow and Nennenke cleared the healing wing. It was now just the priestess, Geralt, Jaskier who was still asleep and her.

Nenneke looked at the redhead with expectant eyes but when she didn’t speak she pressed on. “How long have you known?”

“I..” how could she explain any of this? She didn’t know the answers herself so how could she tell them what they wanted to hear. Would Geralt leave her because she was a freak? Taking a moment to gather her courage she chose her words carefully. “I have known that my blood was different since I was a child. I got punished for breaking a dish and the master left me laying on the ground outside. When I stood up the grass was green where my blood had been. I thought it was just a trick of the eye, to be honest, but the more it happened the more I realized that I was,” she paused searching for the right word. “Evil?” It was the only word she could think of.

“Evil?” Geralt growled in question.

She nodded. “The master realized it was happening one day when he punished me for spilling his ale. He was a bit heavy-handed with the belt and my back had already been split from another lashing a few days earlier so the skin broke easier. I bled a lot that day and it caused some wildflowers to bloom. He kept calling me cursed and saying I was a child of the black sun so they took me to Queen Calanthe. Her healer did all sorts of tests on me,” she closed her eyes against the memories. “He told her I was too young to be a child of the black sun but then they started whispering and I couldn’t hear what they said. I know her eyes got really big and they kept looking over at me.” She hid her face against Geralt’s muscled arm as shame burned her skin. “After that, I was given to a new master and the healer sent a medication that they had to give me daily. Said it would stop the evil from growing in me. All my punishments after that were done inside and if I changed masters the queen chose who got me.”

Geralt looked over at Nenneke a moment before gently lifting Naurel’s chin so that she was looking at him. “If you had any evil in you my medallion would react to you, more than that I would feel it.”

She wanted to believe him but it didn’t make sense. “Maybe the medication hides it? The evil is still in my blood so it has to be true. You saw what it can do.”

“That is not an evil gift my child,” Nenneke shook her head. “That is a blessing from Melitele. Your blood is different but not all things that a different are bad. What’s happening with you,” she looked at Geralt then back to Naurel. “There is a legend as old as the convergence itself about beings that were sent here to protect those that protect the world from evil. They worked in unison with the first witchers boosting their strengths and mutations making them nearly unbeatable but it took its toll on their bodies. The first witchers were almost feral and only cared about the kill so they wouldn’t give their counterparts time to heal before using them again and they died out. Legend says that in a time of great need that Melitele would send them again.”

“Nephilim?” Geralt gasped. He’d heard the stories they grew up with them but he never believed. The first witchers were as brutal as the beasts they killed and wreaked havoc everywhere they went. They raped women, killed men for fun, and did whatever they wanted. Through the years they started to become tamer but even in Vesimer’s generation some of them were still brutal.” He remembered the tortures he and his fellow young witchers endured at their hands. Most of the things they did to the young boys were inhumane, to say the least, but they were mutants and no one cared what happened to them.

“It seems fate has spoken my dear witcher,” the priestess nodded. “Your specialness among the witchers, Ciri’s gifts, and now Naurel. You are all meant to be together, you’re a part of something big.”

“But if that were true then why wouldn’t I be able to do more? Why wouldn’t I be stronger?” Naurel didn’t believe it. There was no way she could be part angel. “I’m just a slave,” she insisted.

“The medication that the healer kept you on was to subdue your powers girl. Calanthe wanted it to be hidden just like she hid her own bloodline and kept Ciri in the dark. If people knew of your powers then they would begin to question things and everything she fought so long to hide would have come to light. Her family secrets would have been revealed and then she would have had to admit that she’d lied all those years. People would have come for Pavetta and if Ciri had even been born and they would have come for her too.”

Geralt hummed at her line of thinking knowing that she was probably right but what did it all mean. “We need to find out all the lore on this we can and find out how this ‘medication’ has affected Naurel long term.”

“I have a feeling that I know the answer to that,” Nenneke told him. “The blood sample Triss brought to me when Naurel first came to be with you, the blood had differences but the blood I took when she arrived here a few days ago? It is teeming with particles that are unlike any I have ever seen in other blood. The longer she goes without the medication the stronger she is going to get. I believe that the magic that we all feel on her is a binding spell as well to inhibit her from growing stronger and coming into her full powers.”

“Can you remove the magic?” Geralt asked.

“No,” Nenneke shook her head. “I have tried and I can’t but something tells me that Naurel will be able to break the magic’s hold herself when she is strong enough.” She paced in front of the bed for a moment, thinking. “There is much to learn still. As soon as Naurel is healed then you can start in my library but you know where you need to go for this sort of information. You are about the only one she will even see anymore.

Geralt nodded. They would indeed need to take a trip to see Finn. “We will go as soon as they are well enough to travel. I’m not going to leave Jaskier unprotected again either,” he looked over at his friend.

“I think some time spent at Kaer Morhen would do you all good before you go see Finn. Wait out the winter in the keep like witchers always do.”

“But is it safe to wait?” he argued.

“Safer than people seeing a witcher traveling with companions during the winter.”

He couldn’t argue that logic. It was true that most beasts hibernated in the cold so witchers used that time to heal and gather their energy until spring. It would be good to stay in one place for a while anyway. To just be able to spend some time together. “You know best my friend.”

“And it’s about time you admitted it,” she teased then left them.

Naurel was still trying to process everything that she’d heard. How was any of this even possible? Yeah, sure, she knew Geralt was special and even Ciri, but herself? Nope. No way. Not a chance. The only powerful part of her was that she’d learn to take a punch. How to survive on little to nothing and how to become invisible in a room full of people. She was lost in thought when she felt Geralt’s hand on her cheek. “Huh?”

“Are you alright?” he frowned. “I know that’s a lot to take in.”

“Are you alright?” she asked. “The girl you have feelings for is a freak whose blood can make plants grow and is some freakish offspring of an angel and a human who may or may not have great power and may or may not cause or help whatever great war is about to happen and oh, by the way, if she can’t get her shit together then you may be totally screwed because she’s supposed to be the one to help keep you safe but likely someone fucked up that bit because I mean, hello, it’s me” she gestured to herself, “and I always screw everything up and destroy everything I touch!” She was breathless when she finished because she’d said all that in one breath.

“You are not a freak.”

She sat up straighter and stared at him. “That’s all you got after all of that is that I’m not a freak?”

He chuckled and shrugged, “Destiny seemed to have gotten this one right. If you are so unsure of yourself then it’s a good thing I’m a witcher. You won’t hurt me while you are learning to deal with your powers and how to use them.”

She shook her head, “You are…” she couldn’t think of a word that would work to describe him.

“Wonderful? Amazing? Perfect?”

The smirk on his face had her fighting not to laugh. “Impossible.”

“Humm,” he leaned in and kissed her. Soft and gentle at first but soon his tongue was pressing against the seam of her petal-soft lips and he was pleasantly surprised when they parted allowing him access. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her so that she was half laying on top of him with one hand on her back and the other cupping the back of her head. Her small hand rested on his chest over his heart and he wanted nothing more than to flip her over and ravish her right there. He knew she still needed to heal before that could happen so he settled for lazily kissing and exploring what he could over her night gown.

Naurel finally pulled away from Geralt’s lips for no other reason than that she needed to breathe. Her eyes were glazed and her body tingled as she looked into his golden eyes longingly. His lips were red and kiss swollen and she knew hers must look the same and it left her feeling a bit debauched. It was a feeling she found she liked quite a bit but only because it was him that made her feel that way. She felt a rather large bulge pressed against her hip where her thigh rested between his and she pressed down ever so softly dragging across the bulge a bit. The soft gasp and almost unnoticeable buck of his hips was something she wanted to explore more. “Why witcher I think you’ve got a monster of your own there that needs to be tamed.”

“Be careful,” he smiled. “He’s been waiting to be set free for a long time now. He might not want to be put back in his confines once he’s out,” he teased her.

“He just needs lots of pets and kisses,” she smirked and pressed against him again causing his hips to buck. “And maybe a nice, warm, wet place to hide in for a bit.”

He growled low and deep as one big hand moved down to cup her ass under the sheet and he pressed their lips together in a kiss.

“I’m gonna puke,” a voice rasped from beside them.

“Jaskier?” They both sat up and moved to him. “How are you feeling?” Naurel asked as she took his hand.

“Not nearly as well as Geralt apparently,” he teased.

Geralt held a cup of water to his lips so he could wet his mouth then set it aside. “I'm so glad to see you awake,” he gripped Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Where are we?” he looked around trying to figure out exactly what had happened. “I remember seeing you and dwarves and catching a head,” he frowned.

“He rescued us and the dwarves brought us to the Temple of Nenneke,” Naurel explained. “We’ve been here nearly five days.”

“Five days?” He couldn’t believe he’d been asleep that long. “Yennefer,” he gasped trying to set up.

Geralt carefully pushed him back down. “She’s gone but harmless. Her magic has left her. She made a deal with the deathless mother but it backfired on her.”

“No, she got screwed over,” Jaskier said as he rubbed his thumb over the back of Naurel’s hand that was holding his own.

Naurel nodded, “The fire fucker who gave her the potions to open a portal told her that he was working with Voleth Meir. He was the one who wanted Ciri and knew at the very least if he had us that you would come looking. He told Yennefer that you would have Ciri with you because after her betrayal you wouldn’t trust anyone else with her. “

Geralt shook his head. “It’s a good thing he was wrong then. I trust my brothers. Eskel, Coen, and Lambert are on Ciri watch.”

“Poor witchers,” Jaskier teased and laughed, causing a coughing fit.

Wolf and flame tag list

@kneelforloki

@shellyshellshell

@warriormirkwood

@mollymal

[lawsofchaos1]

WIP Wednesday

(on a Saturday because who cares)

I have been tagged by the ever lovely @foodsies4me! And, speaking of Foodsies, if you aren't reading their two most recent WIPS - omg you are missing out. Their Daemon AU (Apollo: Blood Wars) is so twisty and delightful and full of foreshadowing for something I still can't figure out just yet, and I love that I'm still on the edge of my seat every chapter trying to guess what's coming next. Their Arranged Marriage AU (Bridges over Lakes of Salt) basically just went down my list of favorite tropes to check all of them off (Misunderstandings! Good Parabatai Jace Wayland! HoTI Alec!) and is incredible.

Anyways, a bit of of angst has been requested, so please have a little snippet from the final chapter of Laudanum:

The loft is bright, the windows flung wide to let in in the late afternoon sun, and the living room looks so completely normal that it takes Catarina three full heartbeats to turn her head towards the flung open doors to Magnus’ apothecary and understand what she’s seeing.  His heavy oak worktable has been hastily cleared, the several sheets of parchments underfoot and a shielded light-crystal wedged partly underneath the central bookcase speaking to the urgency in which it was done. Magnus sits askew, cross-legged, at the head of the table cradling Alec’s head in his lap. Alec himself is on his stomach, clearly hovering somewhere beneath full consciousness, eyes clenched shut in agony, his struggles weak and uncoordinated as small wordless noises of pain and confusion escape his mouth. Catarina catches only the barest glimpse of liquid gold eyes as Magnus bends over nearly in half, frantically trying to soothe the wounded nephilim. "Alexander-" the desperation in her best friend’s voice pierces her heart, “all shall be well, my love, I promise, just hold on, my darling, Catarina is coming - help is coming and all shall be well, I swear it, just hold on, my love, please,-" And Catarina jolts into action, berating herself already for even the momentary unforgivable pause. A bare two steps forward and she’s in the apothecary, pulling magic to her hands and taking an assessment of her patient.  Magnus doesn’t so much as look up, acknowledging her presence only with a slight change in the distressed jumble of promises and pleas as he promises Alec that help is here, he’ll be alright now, help is here. At the other side of the table is a second Shadowhunter, older than Alec - maybe in her early forties - with her hair pulled back in a complicated plait and lips pressed in a tight, white slash across her face.  The woman glances up to assess the new arrival, her muscles tensing in preparation to act until the meaning of the change in Magnus’ rambling words sinks in and she realizes precisely who Cat must be.  Twin trails run down both pale cheeks as she holds her Head’s hands to to the table, keeping him from injuring himself further. "Please," the woman begs, but Catarina has yet to stop moving.

Tagging @arialerendeair, @spiritsflame, @alexanderlightweight, and @dr-lemurr (and yes I know you only do art, but art WIPs should totally be a thing too - it's so cool to see the process!)

[evilasiangenius]

The Nephilim

"Why don’t you tell me why you are considering disobeying?” Aziraphale said gently, and Crowley could not help but feel a little twinge of strange emotion at the kindness and warmth in the Prince of Hell’s voice.

“I...” Crowley gulped. “Er, uh, that is...I...”

“Yes?” Aziraphale’s expression was soft, and the way the sunlight gleamed upon those blue eyes, Crowley felt as if he were staring into the sun-dappled sea, and his breath caught at the beauty.

“Just don’t know if I can do it, that’s all,” Crowley muttered.

“Do what?”

“You know...er...eh...” Crowley waved his hands vaguely in the air. “That thing…the...”

“The begetting?”

“The begetting,” Crowley agreed, miserable.

“Perhaps you should ask an expert,” Aziraphale suggested. “Why don’t we call up Asmodeus and ask him? He is after all, a specialist in these matters.”

Crowley turned a few different and interesting shades, and it made Aziraphale take closer notice.

“What’s wrong? Why shouldn’t we ask the demon of lust what to do? It is his department, after all.”

“Um, er...just don’t want to trouble him?” Crowley said lamely, mentally scrambling for an excuse. “He is an important Prince of Hell after all.”

“Quite right. Whereas I am an unimportant Prince of Hell,” Aziraphale teased, amused at the angel’s embarrassment.

“Oh I’m sorry!” Mortified, Crowley stumbled over his words. “I didn’t mean it that way, it’s just that I um...uh, it’s fine if it’s you. I’d appreciate your input, because you are an important Prince of Hell and would... I mean, if you could give me some suggestions. Uh. We needn’t bother anyone else?”

“Well. It’s not so daunting, my dear, once you recall that all animals do it too,” Aziraphale explained in a reasonable manner, pleased by Crowley’s words. “And right now with a corporeal body, you are part animal as well. We all are, really. Just let the animal part take over, that’s easy to do.”

“...guh?” Crowley asked.

“And of course, we must not forget that the Almighty has given out the commandment to be fruitful and multiply.”

“Was that a commandment proper or-?”

“If it weren’t, I would think that the animals and humans would not be so fruitful and mutiplicitous.”

“Oh. Oh! You’re right.”

“Of course I am. But that’s not the problem is it?” Aziraphale intuited. “You’re...shy aren’t you?”

“Shy? Me? Naaaaah. Course not, I’m not shy, that’s ridiculous-”

“Here. I’ll show you something that can help get you started.” Aziraphale held out his hand, offering it to Crowley, and for the first time Crowley noticed the black crown of a ring that Aziraphale wore on the pinky of his right hand, twisting tentacles curved around a round finger.

Crowley glanced up and realized the Prince of Hell no longer wore his crown of meteoric iron on his head. It seemed strange to see Aziraphale uncrowned, and he realized that he had grown accustomed to Aziraphale, so much so that noticing a change in his appearance was unsettling.

Crowley reached out, letting the Prince of Hell take his hand.

“Humans need warming up. You can’t just go straight to begetting my dear, you must build up to it,” Aziraphale said. “May I?”

“Yes.”

And taking Crowley’s hand in both of his, Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Crowley’s palm that Crowley felt all the way down to the bottom of his feet.

“Ah…!”

“And then, you get closer.” Aziraphale kissed the tips of Crowley’s fingers, one at a time, before turning his hand so that the Prince of Hell could kiss the inside of his wrist, sending shivers sliding over all of his skin.

“Closer yet,” Aziraphale breathed, and a fiendishly strong arm wrapped around Crowley’s waist, pulling him close. Before he could panic, before he could pull away, soft lips pressed against his throat, and a strange sound came from deep inside him that Crowley had never heard before.

“And then you give them a kiss,” Aziraphale pressed his lips lightly to Crowley’s lips, a faint touch of flesh upon flesh that ended as quickly as it began.

Crowley’s lips parted with a breath, and for a moment he did not know where or when or even who he was, just that the sky was awfully blue but not the deep blue of the demon lord’s eyes.

x

[castielmydarling]

Suptober 2023-Day 15: Abstract (again)

Just for now 911 words on AO3 or below Summary: Cas has a heavy request for Dean. I know I already did one for today but I then I thought of this so yeah here's another lol

Cas took a deep breath. He stood outside the bedroom door, bracing himself for what he was about to do. He didn’t particularly want to do it but it was necessary. He opened the door to find Dean stretched out on the bed reading. He glanced up from his book, smiling when he saw him. 

Cas sat on the bed. “Dean.”

Dean put his book down and quickly sat up. “Cas, what’s wrong?”

Cas smiled sadly. He could sense Dean’s elevated heart rate, could feel his worry. He would miss that. “Nothings wrong, Dean. Well, not really.”

“Cas…” Dean said, anxious. Now he was really worried. 

Cas shook his head. “It’s ok, Dean, really. Just let me explain. I need you to do something for me.” He held up his angel blade and a small glass vial. “I need you to cut out my grace.”

Dean’s eyes widened in shock. His head was swimming with a million questions but he could see Cas didn’t want to be interrupted. 

Cas took a deep breath and continued. “As you know my grace has not been consistent for some time now. Some days I need to sleep and eat. Urinate.” He added, annoyed. “And other days I don’t. I’ve thought about this a lot. I’m tired of the inconsistency.” He said honestly. 

“Is it safe to cut it out?” Dean asked, concerned. “What about Jack? Could he help?”

“Perfectly safe.” Cas put the blade down to hold Dean’s hands in his. “I promise, Dean. I’ll be fine without it. As for Jack, no he can’t help. Not yet.”  He tried to smile reassuringly. 

“When I first got out of the Empty, Jack tried to replenish my grace but he could only manage a small amount. Separating from Amara left him weakened. He has most of his former nephilim power but replenishing grace, especially as much as I required, was too much for him. Given time he can do it but it might take years for him to reach that level.” He sighed.  

“I’ve never mentioned this before but Jack and I frequently communicate on our own angel radio channel. Although lately I can only manage it if he’s close by, another reason I’m doing this.” He looked down sadly thinking about all he was going to miss. “He can always sense me and I him. And you.” He added, sadly. “I had to make sure he was ok with losing that connection because I know from experience how hard it is to lose that.”

Dean squeezed his hand. He knew he was referring to the last  time he was human. Dean had many regrets about that period, knowing Cas lost his connection to him only makes it worse. But he doesn’t have time to dwell on that particular mistake. This is about Cas.

“I also had to think about my usefulness on hunts.” Dean is ready to interject but Cas stops him. “I know you don’t care, Dean, and that fact is one reason I’m doing this.” He reassures him. “It’s not only my strength I would be losing but my ability to heal you if you got hurt. I can barely manage it these days but knowing I could alleviate at least some of your pain was enough. I do this and I lose that ability.”

“I love you, Cas. I don’t care if you can’t heal some bumps and bruises, anything worse, that's what hospitals are for. Or Jack if he’s around.” He laughs, sadly. “I just want you to be ok. To be happy. If cutting out your grace can help with that, can stop the daily guessing game, then ok. Let’s do it.”

Cas hands him the blade. “It will.”

Dean takes the blade, leaning in. He pauses giving Cas a chance to call if off but instead he gives him a tiny nod to continue. He slowly brings the blade to his throat, slicing a small cut. He moves the vial underneath it to collect the beautiful, blue grace that trickles out. It doesn’t take long for the grace to stop flowing, replaced by blood. He closes the vial and presses a tissue to the cut.

Cas takes over, holding it in place as Dean goes to the desk for the small first aid kit he keeps in there. He sits back on the bed taking the tissue away. He cleans up the cut and places a band aid over it. 

“How do you feel?” He asked, trying to keep his voice even. To stay strong for him.

“I’m fine. At least I will be.” He said honestly. He leaned in towards Dean who was quick to wrap his arms around him. “It’s for the best.” He said voice breaking. “I couldn’t take the uncertainty anymore.”

Dean held him tight. “It’s ok, Cas, I got you.” He choked. “I love you and I’m here for you whatever you need.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Cas gave him a quick kiss, their faces both wet from the tears. “I love you.” He moved to lay down, Dean following him, not willing to let him go. 

As they laid there Cas realized it felt different. He could feel the bed and the sheets in a way he couldn’t before. Dean holding him felt different, he could feel more. He realized that while he was losing senses he would be gaining new ones. Maybe this temporary human thing wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

[bubblespalace]

The Accords (Reader Insert Version)

Chapter Four

“(Y/N)!”

Fuck you had to get up.

Nine-year-old you pressed your hand on the floor and tried to push yourself up, but the bloody slash on your stomach caused you to feel weak against your captor. “Watch your friend die and we'll make everything less painful, okay little one?” The man over you crooned.

You foolishly turned your head, capturing the eyes of the girl you had known since you were five, your oldest friend. Victoria was tied down to a hospital bed in the laboratory they had been stuck in, a machine attached to her, sucking out her blood. Her eyes cried out in pain and tears to her as she bled out, her life slowly being pulled out of her while she was still breathing. “(Y/N), please…” She wept, her normally cocky personality gone with the wind.

You looked up at the man keeping you pinned to the ground with pleading eyes. “She doesn't deserve this! Please! Take me instead!” You tasted your own blood in your mouth, a metal-like taste. The tears threatened to spill from your eyes.

The men in the room laughed, a horrible sound to your ears. “Oh, but we are taking the both of you. Your blood sells, Morganstern.”

“Don't call me Morganstern. My name is Wayland.” You grit your teeth, whimpering when you heard Victoria scream out in pain.

He leaned down and told you in a hushed voice. “Keep telling yourself that, Morganstern, you’ll always be related to him..”

Your gaze snapped to Victoria as she wailed out in pain once more before going limp on the bed, her blue eyes wide open and vacant. “Vic!” You screamed, in disbelief she was gone. Victoria didn't move, didn't spit out a witty remark, didn't blink.

It was all your fault.

The man pulled you up by her hair, and you obeyed, knowing the consequences if you didn't. “Now, ready for your treatment, Morganstern?”

The vampires around the room all smirked at you, baring their teeth.

☉

You awoke from your dream of your past in a gorgeous parlor room, you were laid down on the velvet blue couch, and a fire was roaring from the fireplace, warming the colder room. You whimpered, believing you were alone so you could show pain or discomfort, and slowly sat up straight.

“Nfu~ Bitch-chan number two is finally awake.” You softly gasped in surprise and turned your head toward the source of the voice. He was, of course, gorgeous, but now that you knew everyone here was probably a vampire, you knew why. Vampires had to be attractive to get their prey. 

He looked a lot like the man at the gas station, same emerald green eyes with only slightly lighter red hair. The eyes he had seemed more playful, however, while the others had seemed more demanding and bossy. You couldn't help but wonder if they were closely related. He was wearing a fedora with a red ribbon tied around it, and he had a small mole on the right side of his mouth that seemed to enhance his natural beauty. His school uniform had two buttons at the top undone, probably to show off his chest a bit, and his tie was loosely knotted. God, you couldn't help but think it sucked that Nephilim were unable to date vampires and other Downworlders. All of them were so attractive, especially these men, but The Accords outlawed it because The Clave wants Shadowhunter babies, not any other race. It was understandable since Shadowhunter's population was low, but it was horrible how you couldn't marry or date who you fell in love with.

This vampire man inched closer to you, a suggestive smirk on his face. “Does the new Bitch-Chan speak? Kanato told me you only understood English.” He had a very cruel tone when taunting that some might have mistaken for flirting.

You scooted back a bit, uncomfortable under his stare. You have always been attracted to eyes, it's one of the first features you noticed, but you felt oddly uncomfortable under the eyes of anyone but Nephilim and loved ones. “I don't only understand English, I speak some other languages, but I have a name, you know.”

The unnamed man chuckled, grinning widely and showing off his fangs. He had cute little dimples on either side of his mouth. “What is it, Bitch-Chan? Whatever it is, I'll keep calling you Bitch-Chan too.” He winked at you teasingly.

You scowled, staring into his eyes with your (E/C) ones. “It's (Y/N), and you'll use my name, bloodsucker.” You attempted to stand, straightening Yourself up before your legs collapsed underneath you. You started to fall to the carpeted floor with a yelp, but this man caught you in his arms.

His grip felt very secure and safe, his arms wrapped around your waistline. You weren't used to being touched much, but you absolutely loved it when you had skin-to-skin contact. “I'm Laito, Bitch-Chan. The most attractive man here.” He smirked, which made you want to fawn over him for a second, but you knew better. No good came from Downworlders, you learned that at an early age.

“Such a liar, it's obvious it's Ore-sama.” You looked up at the owner of the voice, recognizing it.

“I should have guessed you were related.” You spat, pulling yourself out of Laito’s arms and onto the couch. “You both have that ‘egotistic’ quality.”

The man glared at her, his green eyes annoyed. “Oi! Shut up, Melons!”

You glared. "Don't call me melons, Christmas!"

“Be quiet… You're ruining my music…” You glanced at the blonde who was lying down on the other couch, his eyes were closed, probably sleeping. He, of course, was also good-looking, you just wished you could see what his eyes were like.

Kanato teleported into the room using his vampire powers, he was pretty beat up, but he would heal quickly. You had definitely done a number on him. You wondered if he was still pissed. “Look Teddy, the new doll is finally awake.”

You sighed, instinctively feeling your sheath for your Angel Blade while your eyes darted around the room, searching for exits. The white-haired and red-eyed man, who was leaning against a blank wall, scoffed. “ Tch, we aren't dumb, Nephilim. You don't have any more weapons on you. We confiscated them.”

You glared, putting the fury into your stare. “You aren't allowed to keep me here, it's against the Law.” You said, tapping your boot against the marble floor.

Laito smirked, sitting down next to you, although a little too close. “I'm sure The Clave will make an exception for us. Especially since it's illegal for you to be trespassing on Vampire's property in the first place.”

“You're fair game, Melons. Should have looked before you came to us.”

“I was hunting!” You retorted angrily. “I had direct orders from The Clave and there were no restricted places on my mission information, I wasn't informed there were vampires!”

The blonde groaned and pulled out an earphone and opened his eyes, giving you a death stare. Now that you had a better look at him, you saw just how gorgeous his eyes were, a beautiful ocean of calm. As blue as the sky. You were entranced for a moment. “Stop being so noisy. You broke the Law, so these are the consequences.” He closed his eyes again and put the earpods back in.

You felt speechless, like your life was being sold to yet another individual. “The Clave will come after you. I'm a top agent.”

“They have the guts to come after the Sakamaki's?” Ayato teased.

Your jaw went slack, a feeling of dread washed over you, you had known you had recognized their names. Kanato, Ayato, and Laito were the triplets of the Sakamaki family. Which meant the white-haired man and the blonde man were also their brothers. “No, no, no. There's no fucking way…”

Laito smirked, leaning in close to your face. “Surprise, Bitch-Chan.”

You quickly stood up, forcing your legs to be strong enough to hold your weight and backed away. “Holy shit…” You bumped into someone and quickly turned to face him. He was also a vampire, with those looks. Shiny magenta eyes that looked as though they could see through everything and also understand everything. He seemed very knowledgeable. He had such dark hair that you couldn't tell whether it was black or very dark blue.

“How unladylike, don't you know you should be aware of your movements? You aren't a very graceful woman, are you?” He said, there was something about his voice that gave him a commanding demeanor. You could tell he was intelligent and strict, and knowing this you knew you should apologize politely, but all you could do was freeze in terror. You had faced and killed many vampires before, but these were the sons of The Vampire King. Karlheinz was the only leader of Downworlders who had trouble agreeing with The Law, werewolves, faeries, and warlock were easily swayed to The Clave's side. The Clave knows not to piss off Karlheinz. He could, without a doubt, go up against Shadowhunter kind and win within a week. “It's customary to answer when someone talks to you, honestly.” 

You broke yourself out of your shocked state, stammering out a response.“Fuck, I'm sor-” 

“You curse too? Dear lord, I'm going to have to train so much out of you. The only good quality I see so far is in your bloodline.” The magenta-eyed man spat, disgusted.

Laito chuckled, his fangs peeking through his lips. “Her blood does smell delightful. May I have a bite, Bitch-Chan?” In a flash, the fedora-wearing man’s face was buried in the crook of your neck, you yelped and flinched back, attempting to push away Laito, but someone else did before you could.

“She's my doll! I saw her first, I get the first taste!” Kanato yelled at his younger brother, fury in his eyes. Laito chuckled, amused and not scared by his brother’s outburst. He stayed down where Kanato had pushed him, resting both of his arms under his head. “(Y/N), dolly, stay still,” Kanato spoke softly, it almost calmed you, his voice was just so hypnotizing. However, you knew what would happen if a vampire got a hold of your blood. As he leaned down, his teeth bared, to pierce your collarbone, you did something you would probably regret, you slapped him across the face. The room went completely silent, nobody said a single word, it was so very eerie. You didn't dare move a muscle, frozen from fear. Kanato slowly turned his head toward you again, a scowl on his face. “You really have to be put in your place, doll.” To your horror, Kanato wrapped his hand around your neck, squeezing lightly at first, seeming to test you. 

Your hand jumped to his wrist, in an attempt to get him to let go. “Kanato-” The vampire squeezed slightly tighter, probably restraining himself. “P-please…”

He glared down at you. “You have lost the right to beg for my mercy, Shadowhunter. Endure your punishment.” The purple-haired man tightened his grip even more, it took everything for you to not cry out in pain, your training never taught you what to do during a fight with one of the strongest pure-blood vampires to date.

Finally, You blacked out from oxygen deprivation, you did however spare your dignity as you didn't once scream. Kanato let go of your thin figure, blinking. “She's more fiery than the brides,” Ayato grumbled.

“Tch, she won't last a day here.” The white-haired man spoke from the other side of the room, his red eyes gleaming with curiosity and annoyance.

The youngest triplet chuckled. “Fufu~ She might surprise us. You never know.”

[alexanderlightweight]

So for your Writing Wednesday, would it be possible to get a different meeting for Male where Magnus sees Alex for the first time as he 'deals' with an out of line Shadowhunter from a different area. All of Alec's Shadowhunters just cluck their tongues about poorly prepared outsiders (or something like that). I love reading all your stuff!

Ah I love seeing your kudos pictures and cookie!

Ahaha I kind of went off with this prompt because when I started writing i couldn’t stop

—

Magnus barely manages to duck the blade that nearly gets his arm, his spell fading as he avoids adamas.

He spits out a curse and shoves the shadowhunter away from him.

And then the shadowhunter is down, a harsh yelp coming from his lips and an arrow from his shoulder. And Magnus watches as his attacker is being stepped on, a boot sharply pressing into his spine.

There is a new, aggressively dressed and nearly heavily armed group of shadowhunters.

The one stepping on Magnus’ would-be-murderer is an archer from the bow he wields and the arrow he launched. The red of its feathers match the ones in his quiver and Magnus watches as he looks down and grinds his heel into vertebrae.

Magnus’ attacker's face is pressed into the dirt, his cries of pain muffled by ichor soaked dirt as the archer pulls out his arrow.

The archer, a nephilim commander by the respect he’s shown, scoffs and wipes the bloodied arrowhead on the downed shadowhunters back.

Magnus has seen shadowhunter punishments.

He’s been across and on the same battlefield as nephilim warriors enough times to recognize its brutal efficiency.

But he’s never had it directed or doled out on his behalf.

And there’s every likelihood that this is only a tactical choice, seeing as Magnus is the only one on sight who is capable of closing the rift.

But Magnus still finds himself charmed.

As Cat would say, the bar is lower than Edom for shadowhunters.

“Someone get this disappointment of a hunter off of my battlefield!” The shadowhunter says voice deep and low and it rings across the small strip of sand and mud that Magnus has been desperately protecting while trying to close a colossal rift.

Dark eyes glance to him and widen and Magnus and several shadowhunters watch in shock as he misses a step, his booted heel crushing the man’s hand.

Magnus’ hunter looks down in consternation before he rolls his eyes. “Useless.” He mutters like it’s the man’s fault for being shot and having his fingers and spine tap-danced on. “Track what Institute they came from and tell them to stay out of my territory unless I ask for help. Idiots can’t be trusted not to fire on obvious allies.”

He walks towards Magnus carefully, bow out but unnotched and blade inactive at his thigh.

“Alec Lightwood, acting Commander and Head of the New York Institute.” And he’s younger than Magnus thought, with a still-healing nick through his eyebrow and blood at his jaw.

To anyone else he might look terrifying, with his dark scowl and the nearly feral way he’s assessing his surroundings.

To Magnus, he looks terrifyingly brilliant, like a comet that you’ll miss if you blink.

“Magnus Bane,” Magnus doesn’t add his titles because any decent commander, acting or otherwise should know him by name.

Alec’s eyes widen a bit, he definitely knows of Magnus then, but he seems more relieved than horrified.

“So if my hunters keep them clear of you, you can close the rift?”

Magnus nods, sharp and serious because this commander — Alec, perhaps Alexander — did take down another shadowhunter on Magnus' behalf.

“Protect the High Warlock of Brooklyn at every cost.” Alexander says, turning to his teams. There is a heavy emphasis on Magnus’ title and two of his gathered seven teams break off to surround Magnus.

They don’t hesitate, putting their backs to Magnus like it’s a natural occurrence, to have a furious and magically explosive warlock at their backs.

“I’ve wasted quite a bit of magical power.” Magnus admits, and his voice is cold because it’s a weakness he doesn’t want to share. But passing out unconscious in a group of admittedly, not-yet-terrible shadowhunters is not something Magnus wants to risk.

It’s unspoken that Magnus wasted that power because he was protecting himself from the demons and shadowhunters, while also still helping the shadowhunters.

Instead of being able to focus on the rift.

“Mirai.” Alexander is ordering and a woman with tight curls and sharp brown eyes steps away from the circle around Magnus. “We’ll switch positions. I’ll direct from the rear—“ he turns to Magnhs and steps closer, his hand held out. “You can take what you need, just leave me alert enough to direct my people. They’re competent enough to protect us until the rift is closed.”

There was a hint of threat in his tone and the shadowhunter he called Mirai is saying something into her earpiece.

“Of course sir, I’ll keep everyone in line. If we fall, you’ll fall last.” And Mirai gives a perfunctory nod and then takes off to create a larger and more secure perimeter.

It’s the first time Magnus has been able to catch his breath since he portaled in and he takes a moment to just inhale and exhale.

A flask is being pressed to his hands and Magnus is about to use magic to check it for poison when it’s taken back and he watches as Alexander unscrews it and sips, several deep gulps and Magnus can see the shine of water against his lips.

Magnus is suddenly a man dying of thirst.

He takes the flask when it’s passed over this time and doesn’t have to use any magic, just drinks the surprisingly cool water and feels it soothe his throat.

He finishes it and when he hands it back, he watches Alexander screw the lid back on and toss it to one of his hunters.

Alec holds out a large, calloused hand and Magnus takes it.

It’s dusty and dry and Magnus never wants to let go.

“Let me fall if I start to waver.” Alexander tells him as he stands next to Magnus, covering his back and side as best he can. “I won’t get a concussion with ground this soft and my hunters won’t break the perimeter to ease my muscles. Better to concentrate on the rift and any stragglers.”

Magnus laughs, a sharp bold thing that breaks across the screams of demons and the swears of shadowhunters.

“I’d have to let you go, for you to fall.” Magnus quips as he tightens his grip on Alexander's hand. And Magnus smiles, a soft thing that’s not fit for a battlefield but that spreads softly across his mouth. “And I don’t think I’m inclined to that.”

[imagine-darksiders]

What do you think Strife thinks about head pats and hugs.

Ooooh, thank you for this, Anon! Strife continues to be touch-starved in my mind.

------

The only kind of touch this Horsemen - or any of them for that matter - has known is the kind that leads to pain.

Even as young Nephilim, he and his kind were encouraged to fight one another, to be stronger, quicker and deadlier than your opponent, even if that opponent was one of your own kind.

Death was always considered unusual amongst the Nephilim, in that he wouldn't shy away from gentler handling where his younger brothers and sister were concerned. Some of the Nephilim would taunt him for being soft on the younglings. They would never come to call him soft again after he showed them the error of their judgement.

But Death's rare and subdued moments of tenderness don't hold a candle to the unsparing frequency of those given to Strife by his favourite human.

You took the Horseman wildly off guard the first time you stretched up onto the tips of your toes and reached out a hand to ruffle the spiny nest of hair that jutted from his skull, dislodging a cloud of dust that had been hiding comfortably among the strands.

"When was the last time you brushed your hair?" you'd teased, unwittingly scratching your fingernails over the skin of Strife's scalp and subsequently sending a shiver of delight racing up his spine.

'The Hell was that!?' he wondered, at the time, 'And how do I get it to happen again?'

Luckily for him, that wasn't the only time you subjected the Horseman to your avant-garde, human affection.

He wouldn't even try to pretend that he wasn't affected by your touches. You hugged him for the first time, and he couldn't keep his limbs from locking up in shock. It felt like you were unwittingly trying to keep all of Strife's broken pieces safe inside the circle of your arms.

You were holding him together, your body like porcelain pressed up against rough, unpolished quartz.

It... didn't hurt?

It didn't hurt.

It felt... good... Really good, in fact.

So good that he almost crushed your spine in his haste to throw his bulky arms around your back and squeeze you against him as if he was trying to bury you safely underneath his armour.