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arminsumi · 1 year

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🕯️♱🕯️~ 𝔦'𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔰𝔞𝔠𝔯𝔦𝔣𝔦𝔠𝔦𝔞𝔩 𝔳𝔦𝔯𝔤𝔦𝔫

GETO すぐる x fem reader

he's a cult leader. you're a virgin. and he's gotta "sacrifice" you. but not for the purpose of purifying something else... no, it's to purify you. 'cause you're a "filthy monkey", whatever that means...?

1.6k = 5 - 10 min. read

note : wellwellwell! first kinda spooky post for october. i hope i delivered. this is the very anticipated cult leader geto suguru post... but HAH!! there's actually... more in the drafts that i'm working on 😈💗 oh also... requests are open!! lmk if you want more cult leader geto or anything else :)

content : smut, cult leader Geto Suguru, virginity loss, collegeboy Sugu (but yk... he's secretly a cult leader lol)

warnings : 🔞 minors do not read/interact, cult themes, dripping hot wax on body (brief), sex on an altar, light corruption kink, some praise, slightly toxic dynamic, mean!Geto + soft!geto, dom!Geto, sub!reader, virginity loss, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, dirty talk, names (good girl, baby, angel), begging, playing with your breasts, +++

🎃 ~ more from jay : geto content // jjk content // library

hot wax drips onto your bare skin. there's symmetrically aligned candles dimly lighting around you in a circle, it's oddly symbolic of how geto suguru has entrapped you in this moment.

he'd laid you down on a stone-cold altar, right underneath a glowering statue, with an odd gentleness and carefulness; as if he were a lover laying his woman in bed.

how the hell did you get into this situation? being some cult leader's sacrificial virgin? that's some crazy shit. real fucked up shit. even more so because you consented to it.

he said;

"you know, baby, i could love you if you were ...pure.."

with a sensual, sadistic smile, mind you.

so you replied;

"i'll be your sacrificial virgin, so purify me."

with dumb, lovesick hearts in your eyes and a humorous tone of voice.

he loved how you could joke like that. maybe it was because you didn't wholly believe he was a cult leader.

after all, you'd known him as the heart throb mystery boy at college for a long time now. he used to eye you out, a beady eye staring at you with a bang curtaining it, with a fascination he thought was strange for him to have.

you were a monkey, after all, and why should you catch his eye? as if you were deserving of his love... you were filthy.

and he said;

"alright, i'll purify you."

with a deep voice. deep. very deep. it chilled you, with just how damn deep and erotic those words were. they teased a hidden meaning.

what meaning?

he just wanted to fuck your brains out. that was what he meant.

the ritual makes your stomach knotty. he smirks down at you.

he comments;

"you're shaking."

you let out a raspy moan as his cold hands trace up your forearm.

"you always secretly knew, didn't you?"

he looks you in the eyes, hand continuing to slowly caress your body.

you squeaked when he suddenly squeezed your breast. his eyes became lidded with infatuation at the sight and sensation of your plush flesh molding under his big manly hands

did he mean... that he knows you always knew he was a cult leader? no. damn his enigmatic words, you thought.

he continued;

"... you always knew that i wanted to touch you like this... and have your body all to myself. right?"

he's watching your body tense up with your growing arousal. it delights him. he's hovering over your body — then he's disrobing himself and letting his kimono sloppily slip off his shoulders not bothering to fully take it off. he wants you to see just a teasing strip of his toned physique, a glimpse of his muscular torso, a hint of his subtly curving dipping abs and...

he smirks;

"it's rude to stare."

"...sorry, suguru."

he clutches your jaw.

"what did you call me?"

he asks with a sweet tone that sends shivers down your spine.

"...i-i said i'm sorry, suguru."

"using my first name as if we're in college, huh? that won't do. that won't do at all, sweet baby. when we're in this sacred place of mine, you will refer to me as geto."

you're staying still, and that pleases him. but he knows when he slips his cock inside you, then you'll start squirming.

his hands squeeze and knead your breasts harder, rougher, he pinches and plays with your nipples and then lowers his lips on them to suckle and nip his teeth at the sensitive nub. he smirks when he feels your goosebumps on his warm lips.

one hand slides down your body, grazing your shivering skin so lightly that it makes you shiver even worse, and he dips a finger into your pussy's entrance.

he smirks and lowers his face to yours, noses touching, abyssal black eyes searing you.

he taunts;

"you're so wet... you really are a virgin, huh? i'll change that. now... angel baby... look at me... yes, look at me like that, cute little lamb expression i like that. let me hear you give me permission again. let me hear it."

and it's besides the obvious reason he's asking you for consent; he just wants to hear it from you. hear your voice say it. hear that permission come out of your mouth and no one else's. not ever.

"t-touch me, please, geto."

"mmm...?"

he hums to encourage you to say more. so you scramble your brain.

"...pleasure me, geto."

that makes his heart beat harder, makes his blood rush around his body at higher pressure.

"that's what i wanted to hear..."

he says before sliding his fingers past your entrance.

your ring of muscle contracts around him tight, but there's hardly resistance to his fingers entering you because you're dripping with juices.

he teases;

"so fucking wet... but i bet you'll still have difficulty taking my cock, huh? you're just a pretty tight little virgin, after all."

he's murmuring, lips hovering over your lips and just daring to kiss you. but he refrains. because you're still impure.

his fingers pump quick, hard. they hit your sweet spots, deep spots, gummy spots. he's mapping out your body with his hand, absorbing its reactions to his touch. he smiles when you moan for the first time. it sounds so purely erotic.

"enjoying this? need me to go faster, don't you? oh... beg for it."

"please! pleasepleaseplease! g-go faster..."

"not good enough. come on, you're not that innocent, are you?" "i-i don't know what you want me to say..."

he hums in mock contemplation. then he orders;

"tell me you want me to fucking ruin you... corrupt you... can you be that dirty for me?"

"i-i-i — ahhh~ i want you to ruin me, geto. c-corrupt me."

you repeat back for him.

he can feel his pulse in his dick at your pathetic dirty talk.

"you want my cock, don't you? say it."

"i want your cock, geto!"

"yeah? you want me to fuck you good, right here on a fucking altar? say it, say it. be a slutty little virgin for me."

"i-i want you to fuck me right here, geto!"

he's fingering faster and faster each time you obediently speak back, the base of his palm rubs up against your clit and his big hand engulfs your tiny pussy.

"now that's a good fuckin' girl... obedient, just how i like."

he pulls his fingers out with a languid drag, making sure you miss the friction when it's gone. he looks at how his fingers are glistening with your juices as he brings them to his lips. and he begins sucking your slick right off his fingers, because he wants to. it's dirty. you're dirty. but his care slips for a second.

he takes himself so seriously, fulfilling the cult leader role to his best ability, but it's funny how when he sinks his cock inside you he becomes a typical sex-thirsted college boy for a moment. he groans. loses his composition. throws his head back, rolls it to the side. he feels your pussy choking his dick.

"fuck that's... good. don't squirm, baby, don't squirm... does it hurt?"

"a little bit..."

you whimper cutely, innocent eyes batting at him.

"i'm sorry... i'm a little big. don't worry. it'll feel better soon... just trust me. hold my hand. and trust me."

so you hold his hand — or more like he pins your hand in a romantic clutch. nasty squelching sounds come from the place you two connect, and a pungent scent of yours and his arousal wafts up. he inhales deeply.

you moan. and he speaks again.

"oh, there we go... now it feels good, doesn't it?"

you nod and close your thighs around him tightly.

"that's a good girl... just give into pleasure... let me purify you. isn't that what you want?"

you nod again, moaning.

"my girl's so good for me... you really are different, aren't you? i could tell ever since we first met... i'm so glad — you — ahhh fuck — you're letting me purify you. now we can be together forever after this. you won't be all filthy like those other monkeys anymore. my cock's gonna purify that lil' pussy... don't worry."

you've never heard him use the term monkey before, and by now you're too blissed out on his dick to notice its usage. your head's so full, there's just pure electric pleasure running through your body as he pounds into you.

"gonna cum? that's okay. cum all you need. moan all you need. let it out."

he purposefully angles his cock so that it beats into a better sweet spot, and he relishes in your reaction.

"there... cum, cum for me just like that."

he rubs at your clit, helping you cum. watching your body shake and freak out makes him let out a low chuckle.

feeling your contractions and pulsations around his cock brings him closer.

"fuck... 'm gonna cum."

and that's his idea of "purifying" you; cumming inside your tiny pussy.

so he lets out a long, chesty groan and cums deep inside, there's a primal shift in his demeanor when he orgasms and it just makes you cum again.

"oh... that's it... hah, look at you... you're glowing. you did so good for me, angel."

his voice is so saccharine, his eyes sparkle with more affection for you.

"took it all like a goddess..."

he admires your body for a moment, observing the glistening sweat. his eyes trail down between your thighs, where his cock is nuzzled deep inside and his shaft is messy with his cream and your cream.

and he kisses you for the first time, because now you're "pure" enough to deserve his lips.

Do not plagiarize / repost / translate / copy layouts / etc.

Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

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mayaflowerxs · 2 years

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JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY

Synopsis: San can’t already stand your best friend, especially when all she does is fill your head with negativity about him. But his breaking point may just be when she suggests you to start using a toy over him.

Warning: Smut / Fluff / Slight Angst . Swear word usage, jealousy, Best friend is an instigator, tension and use of sex toys. Sadism, creampie, pregnancy kink, + more.

Pairing: San x fem reader

San is a very caring person. He’s sweet, patient, a literal definition of a sweetheart. An art created by women, but he does have one little tick. And that’s not being able to stand your best friend. In most relationships it’s an either or situation.

Either the boyfriend and partner’s best friend get along great. Siblings from different parents even, jokes are made, slight bickers erupt. But for the most part, their main concern is trying to prove to the other they love their partner/best friend more.

Then there are those who absolutely can’t stand each other. The smiles sucked out of them as soon as one of them enters the room. The scowls and the irritated huffs. The possessiveness and the slight competition to try and prove their care for their partner/best friend. A constant fight to see who gets to one up the other. The literal thought of them sends goosebumps and that’s exactly where San finds himself to be. He tries, really he does. Especially when your pouty face begs him to get along with your best friend. He tries to bury the hatchet but it’s the little remarks, the constant instigating, always pinning him to look bad. “Huh.” She begins as once again she’s crashing into yours and his place. “What?” “I’m just wondering, for your anniversary. Didn’t you buy him a Rolex?” “Yeah? Why was that too much?” San hears your voice lower. The door to your bedroom open and just across from his gaming room. The small insecurity rises in your tone which only has him wanting to get off his chair and defend your present. He loves it, he’s never taken it off and never wasted a second to show it off to his best friends.

“No but I’d expected he at least try to do something as sophisticated as well. I mean what did he do again? Buy you a purse not even half the prize of the Rolex?”

You’ve got to be kidding me. San thinks.

Your friend is a hater. Simple as that, nothing he does is ever good enough for her. Either the jewels on the 5k necklace he bought you are too small. The dinner wasn’t all that, the chores he did aren’t too impressive. He knows he shouldn’t care what she thinks. Overall, it’s not like he’s seeking for her validation. No, he seeks yours which is why she bugs the hell out of him. Never not does she whisper crap into your ears. Plaguing you of the little things San could do better at.

The bubbly smile on his face immediately curls into a scowl the second he walks into your shared suite. Finding her with a glass of wine in hand for the umpteenth time. “Baby! You’re home!” He hears your angelic voice chirp. “About time.” He ignores the murmuring from her. Walking over to you, he glares daggers at your best friend before changing his expression. A soft loving gaze evident on his face the second he meets your. His white sleeves rolled up which made his muscles on his arms more prominent. Resting his hand on the table, a clear view to your best friend of the wedding band that rests on his finger. Using his other hand to curl a finger under your chin and pull you into a deep loving kiss. Suck on that. He feels smug, a slight smirk on his face as he continues to kiss your soft cherry flavored lips. Your giggling is what unfortunately has the two of you separating. A clear distaste on your best friends face but covers it before you notice.

“How was your day my love?” San asks, lifting your hand that bares the bright shiny Diamond ring that symbolizes his love for you. A soft kiss placed on top of it, Making sure the ring falls under the light in the kitchen, the sparkle reflecting itself in the eyes of your friend. Wincing as she has to blink back a clear view. “Great! We were just having a girls chat.” “Again?” Tilting her head, she settles the wine glass down. “Problem Choi?” “I don’t know, just seems you’ve been coming a lot more often than usual. Boyfriend dumped you again?”

“San!” He feels you smack his bicep but he doesn’t break eye contact from her. Biting the inside of her cheek, she scoffs. “Don’t you got an office to lock yourself in to get to?” “Don’t you got a bar to get drunk off your ass to get to?” “Alright enough! Both of you behave. Sannie go shower, the sweat makes you hot but the stink doesn’t. We’re about ready to finish up anyway.” Nodding , he presses a kiss on your forehead before walking off.

“Seriously y/n, I don’t know how you deal with it.” Snorting, you pick up the wine glasses and proceed to set them into the sink. “Him hun, not it.” “Yeah I’m not too sure. I mean he’s so…robotic.” Scrunching your brows you give her a puzzled look as you clean up the table. “Robotic? How so?” “Well I mean San is just always doing the same thing. Like he’s programmed to do and say the exact thing over and over again. Like when was the last time you two went out on a proper adventure together?” “Well he does have a job and I have my internship.” You shrug. “Exactly, what kind of a husband spends most of their time writing their lives off on work and not their social life? You know, marriage, wife, relationship? That is what comes with having said social life?” Shaking your head you chuckle. “He’s doing the best that he can. Just two nights ago he risked being late to a meeting just so he can bring me lunch.”

“All I’m saying is, once he gets into a habit of living the same routine over and over, he may get bored and start feeling rash.” “Rash?” “All men do that, first it’s ‘oh I love you, please marry me, be with me’ then as soon as they begin to feel just a little bit of stress and boredom, boom ten years of a relationship down the drain.” Widening your eyes, you freeze in your spot. “You’re not saying San is cheating?” “Of course not dear, because if he was. I would have killed him by now.” The worry begins to form on your face as she continues to ramble on. “Tell me, when was the last time you two had sex?” Taken aback by the question you feel your cheeks begin to grow hot. “I-uh…um-wow okay, I don’t…I don’t know.” “My point exactly.”

“So what exactly is wrong? Is San getting bored of me? Is he seeing someone? Oh my god, there’s someone else right?!-“ “Shh! Relax, from what I know nothing. All I’m saying is San is getting a bit, blah.” “Blah?” “Yeah, and given he’s not being so caring like a caring husband should be. I think you should start caring for yourself.” “But, I am. I mean I do get manicures when I can and go to a spa every once and a while. I just got a facial just last week-“ Interrupted by her laugh, you watch her stand up and begin to reach for her purse. “Oh my poor y/n, that’s not what I was referring to.” “No?” You raise a brow at her. “If San isn’t doing a fine job satisfying you, then you should be finding yourself a distraction. A toy per say.”

Completely taken by surprise, you don’t get to ask any further questions as she had already made her way out the door. You never expected to have such a conversation, in fact you don’t really understand why you had. San isn’t blah? At least not to you. Yeah it sucks that with his job, you only see him in the mornings briefly as he gets ready, a kiss to your lips as he leaves for work. A text here and there and then by night, he’s home for a shower, a dinner and then bed. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss the random late night talks, the 3 am errands to the grocery store and the trips across towns. Even more, the sex. You two haven’t slept with each other in a while and when you did, it was brief and lazy. Both too tired for anything rowdy. “Babe?” You hear San call out for you. “Coming!” Your best friend didn’t know what she was talking about. San isn’t blah, your marriage is perfect and no way do you need a toy to satisfy you.

If San didn’t like your best friend then, now he despises her.

“What the hell is this?” San glares at the device in its package. A smirk on the damn woman’s face as she sits on your couch. A shy smile on your face, cheeks a rosy tint of red as you look at him. “Just thought to change things up?” “What do you mean baby?” Setting his suit case down, he cups your face. He knows you didn’t come up with this idea. No way you woke up one day and decided to buy yourself a dildo on a random Tuesday night. “What did she say now?”He adds a harsh tone to she, not a single glance over to her as he keeps his focus on you. “She did your wife a favor.” She spoke up, standing she walks over and picks up the box. “Made sure she got it extra large, you know just to make sure it’ll do a better job.” Smirking she grabs her jacket and gives you a goodbye hug. “What the hell is that suppose to mean?” His question going unanswered as you begin to walk your friend out.

As soon as the door closed, he’s about ready to bombard you with questions but is stopped when you wrap your arms around him. “I know works been a pain, it’s why I got it. Don’t want to bother you, now I’m situated.” Sending him a smile, you grab the box and head on over to your bedroom. At loss for words, San stands their bewildered. What the hell happened?

“I can’t fucking stand her.” San slams the shot glass on the table. An amused look on Yeosang and Wooyoung as they watch their favorite continuously chug down shot after shot. “San, this woman has been driving you nuts. Why can’t you just tell y/n how much she bothers you.” Wooyoung takes the bottle away from his grip. Shaking his head, he runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “They’ve been best friends since first grade, I could never tell her how much I despise her. It’ll crush her.” “Well it’s not like you’ve been keeping your hatred for her a secret.” Yeosang shrugs. “And worst of all, she had her buy a sex toy.”

“Sex toy huh? Getting kinky is she?” Wooyoung grins. “She got it so I wouldn’t have to have sex with her.” “What?” “She didn’t want to bother me, so instead of focusing on fucking me, she’ll be using that damn vibrator.” Snorting, Wooyoung can’t help but chuckle. “Never thought to live the day in which Choi San would have to be competing with a vibrator over his wife.” “Shut up Wooyoung.” He rolls his eyes, okay so maybe he’s jealous. Why wouldn’t he be? He misses you, it’s no secret the man craves sex. But he’s been holding back because he thought you weren’t up for it. Your internship has been so demanding of you. Every day he notices your nails getting shorter and shorter by how much you bite them. Legs bouncing much more rapid by how easily the stress builds in you. The eye bags only growing and all he wishes is to draw you a nice bath and fuck the stress out of you.

But he holds back, in case you weren’t up for it. He respects your wishes, and he wouldn’t dare to ever do anything you were uncomfortable with. But ever since the spawn of satan introduced you into the worlds of sex toys it’s like he no longer exists. He’s not one to oppose sex toys if it means he’s getting in on the action but this, no this was a sex repellent on him. Worse when your best friend constantly smirks victoriously at him. “It works wonders.” He hears you say one night over the phone. In the drawer, he opens and sees there it lies. Scoffing, he grabs it and tosses it on the bed. Walking over to where you sat, he picks you up abruptly. “San!” Tossing you on the bed, he rips the phone out of your grasp.

“Hang up or listen, either way I’m about to fuck my wife.” He tells your best friend as he throws the phone on the pillow before pulling your legs closer to him. “Sannie?” Jaw clenched, he rips your pajama shorts off you along with your panties. Spreading your legs as he settles in between them. “Don’t need a fucking dildo to be satisfied.” A gasp rips out of you as he takes a long lick up your cunt. “Can that toy of yours do this to you?” Hands gripping your thighs back as he begins to eat you out. Spitting and licking figure eights on your clit. Bringing two fingers up to your mouth, you oblige and take them into your mouth. He feels rumbling as you moan on his fingers. Soft doe eyes vanished and instead replaced with lust and hunger. San seems almost animalistic as he sucks, your essence only building the longer he eats you. Removing his fingers, he watches as a strip of salive fall out of your mouth. Not wasting a second in shoving them in. “San!” Throwing your head back, forcing yourself to keep wide for him. “That dildo can never be as good as me. Look how caring I am? Always making sure my princess gets nothing but mind blowing orgasms. Can it lick your pretty pussy lips like I do huh? Can it play with your clit until you shake with ecstasy?”

Whining, your hands go down to grip on his hair. A loud slap is heard as he looks at you sternly. “Answer me princess.” “No Sannie! It can’t! Fuck I’m close!” Picking up in speed, he fucks you with his fingers. Loving the view of you squirming, chest rising as your stomach clenched each time his fingers hit a particular spot. Lowering his tongue back on your pussy, as if it was his last meal. He doesn’t stop even after he brought you to a toe curling climax. “Baby!” You try to push his face but you don’t budge. Instead he pins your legs down and continue to suck. Squelching noises are echoed throughout the room along with your moans. Getting louder and louder you’re glad no one else lives on the same floor as you two. The large view of the city shown out of your window. Anyone can see at any second and it only turned you on more. You’d love for someone to see how well your man knows how to pleasure you. To see how lucky you are to have found such a gem. San wasn’t bothered, if anything the only thing bothering him is that damn vibrator. It’s lying there right by you. Almost mocking him given it’s had a few rounds with his wife. So as he detached himself from your cunt, he flips you over.

“Look at it,” Tilting your head to look at the device, he pushes your upper body down on the bed. Face right next to it. “If you think for a fucking second this damn thing can bring you pleasure then you’re fucking wrong. Only I can.” He felt pathetic, just how bothered this object made him feel. But he had to make a statement, he needed for you to know you didn’t need any object to bring your pleasure. You have him, he’s yours to love, to play with, to fuck. He’s your personal fuck toy so why the fuck did you let your stupid fucking friend talk you into buying it? “Fuck!” Your eyes roll back as he shoves his dick inside you. Hands gripping your waist as he begins to plunge into you. The creaking of the bed increases in volume the harder he fucks you on the bed. Not letting you move an inch from him. “So sensitive!” You whine as you grip the sheets.

“Take it, be a good girl and take my cock.” He huffs, strands of hair beginning to fall on his face as he focuses on making you come as many times as possible. Looking down and seeing the connection between you two. How your essence glimmered his cock, it’s own personal lube. Never do you need much preparation, always ready to take him anytime and anywhere. “God I missed this cunt.” He grunts as he thrusts harder into you. “Missed your cock!” You breathe out. Leaning down, he grips your face and smashes his lips on yours. Forcing his tongue in as he keeps thrusting without relenting.

It’s crazy just how much stamina the man had. Maybe it was the lack of sex for the last few weeks. Maybe it’s the hatred for your best friend constantly meddling in your marriage or the jealousy over the toy. Hell, maybe it’s all three. It’s why no matter how much his body begs to release, he refuses and holds it in. Orgasm after orgasm and he still doesn’t detach himself from you. Tears running, hair disheveled, lips bruises and titties covered in hickies, sheets drenched as you lie on the bed pretty and fucked out for him. “Sannie no more!” You hiccup, had just squirted all over him. Pulling away, he turns the both of you around. “One more princess. Don’t you wanna help your husband come? Mhm?” Wiping the tears off your face, you nod and climb on top of him. “Good, now sit.” The both of you moan at the intrusion again. Beginning to feel your head get fuzzy, San holds you up. ��Don’t fall asleep baby, so close.”

“Yes Sannie.” Setting a pace before bouncing yourself up and down on him, the claps louder than ever. Swear on both of your foreheads as his biceps flex his muscles the tighter he holds you. Helping you bounce on him, slapping your ass to encourage you to go faster. “Just like that, fuuuck.” Throwing back his head when you begin to squeeze him. Warm walls engulfing all of him, “Shit! Keep doing that and I might fuck a baby in you.” He grunts, noticing your movements suddenly got faster. You squeezed him again as a loud whine came from you. “Oh? I see.” Wrapping his arms around you, he pulls you down to rest on top of his chest. “It’s what you want don’t you?” Stopping momentarily and then a louder moan emits from your mouth when he proceeds to fuck deep and slow in you. “Tell me, want me to get you pregnant huh?”

Mouth wide open but no words come out as the feeling his cock raw and throbbing in you is all your head can process. “Want me to make you a mama? Get your belly all round and big for me yeah?” Nodding vigorously, you cup his face. “Please San! God I want it all!” You plead him. “M’gonna give you all my babies. M’yours y/n, not that fucking device. Need someone to fuck you, come to me. Hell, come to my office and I’ll gladly fuck you stupid right in front of everyone.” Quickening his thrusts, you hold him tightly as you feel yourself begin to shake.

“Fuck I’m coming!” San grunts as he sucks on your neck. Hitting your g spot, the both of you come on the spot. Loud mewls from the both of you, heavy breathing and hearts racing. You were currently fighting to stay awake but San’s warm body made it impossible. Too fucked out to care about anything else. Caressing your hair, he lulls you to sleep. Grabbing your phone and noticing the call hadn’t ended at all and that your very sad pathetic friend had heard it all.

Typical.

“Sorry, y/n will no longer be having depressing wine drinking sessions anymore. She’ll be too busy carrying my children.”

And like that, he hangs up on her.

That’ll teach her to fuck with him.

#ateez san #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez smut #ateez san imagines #choi san imagines #choi san #choi san smut #choi san oneshot #ateez yeosang #ateez jongho #ateez wooyoung #ateez hongjoong #ateez seonghwa #ateez yunho

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rainbowmothed · 7 months

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╰ ⋯ ➢ GOOD GIRL ; CHAGGIE SMUT...

✿ sorry not sorry for this one guys... by the way, it fades to black!! so moreso suggestive than fully smut-ty? header art by sethdomain!

Charlie blinked as she felt the hands on her shoulders, palms meeting the mattress of the bed, feeling the muzzle wrap around her face, restricting her razor sharp teeth from the world. It wasn't suffocating or hurtful by any means– in fact, the darkly-hued hands that wrapped it around her face were soft and gentle, caressing her pale face as they moved, tracing the heavy coat of blush on her face as their hands moved.

“Vaggie,” Charlie huffed out, chewing the inside of her mouth. She felt the primal urge to latch onto something rise up in her chest. Her girlfriend simply hummed in response, fastening the muzzle tightly around her face. Charlie blushed heavily, huffing under heavy breaths. It was restricting, but damn, did it feel good.

“Hold still, hon.” Vaggie replied to her whimpers coolly, pulling her hands away. The loss of contact was aggravating for Charlie, but it was soon replaced as the collar was wrapped around her neck. Vaggie tugged gently, causing Charlie to move backwards compliantly. “Is that comfortable?” Vaggie inquiried, tone sultry.

“Uh-huh.” Charlie responded breathlessly, feeling her pale skin heat up, a burning feeling rising in her chest. Vaggie smirked, placing a kiss to her temple, gently latching her teeth onto Charlie's neck for a moment, digging her sharp canines in gently. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a mark. That was usually Charlie's thing. She loved leaving symbols of herself on Vaggie; whether that be through a bite mark, a kiss that left her black lipstick smeared behind, or her claws raking against her girlfriend's perfect skin. It was all good to her. Charlie loved the sight of seeing the golden blood of her girlfriend dripping down her neck, dripping down her collarbone–

Charlie was snapped out of her less than appropriate thoughts with another tug on the leash, Vaggie pushing her down onto the mattress, back pressed against it as her head met the headboard. Usually, Charlie was the one in control, so this was a nice change of pace. “You're so pretty, Vaggie.” Charlie whispered, enamored by the sight of her girlfriend in all of her glory.

Vaggie smirked. “Likewise, cariño.” The denizen replied to the compliments sweetly, like she wasn't pinning Charlie down to the bed. It was amusing, actually. Her Spanish accent slipped into her words, constricting them like a snake, coiling around them and slithering their way into Vaggie's sentences. And damn, was it hot. Or at least, Charlie thought so.

Vaggie pulled the leash closer, hand traveling up to wrap around Charlie's now prominent horn, tracing it with her fingertip. “You know,” Vaggie softly began, tone low and gravelly. “I hear people talking on the street, occasionally. As we pass. They say they could make love to you better than I ever could, some lousy sinner.” Vaggie grinned, pearly whites prominent as ever. Gorgeous as ever. Every part of the fallen angel was perfect, beautiful– every compliment in the book to Charlie.

“Do you think that's true, mi cielo?” Vaggie demanded, tone more commanding, but still holding onto those faint undertones of love and comfort. Charlie shook her head, but it was difficult with how Vaggie was restraining her. Hey– she wasn't complaining. It was sexy. More than, even. “Of course not. You're better than they ever could be, Vaggie.” Charlie retorted.

“Buena niña.” Vaggie chuckled, words gravelly, coiling the leash of the collar around her index finger and pulling it slightly. She liked seeing Charlie strain and comply as she pulled on the little string. Not in the painful way– the thought of seeing Charlie in pain wasn't remotely attractive to her. It scared her, even. But just seeing her underneath her, safe, as close as possible? That was the raw appeal behind it.

Vaggie's wings rustled slightly as she felt Charlie's hand touch her thigh, scratching against her skin. “I said not to touch,” she gently reminded, slightly disappointed as her girlfriend pulled away. But that wasn't the goal right now– the goal was to make Charlie feel good. Vaggie smirked, slipping her head between Charlie's thighs in a swift movement, knee pressing against the mattress as she hooked her index fingers around the waistband of Charlie's pants…

. . .

Charlie breathed heavily as she finished, not being able to touch her girlfriend, bite, anything– driving her crazy. Completely under her mercy. Vaggie slithered back upwards, licking her lips, swiping away remnants of Charlie away from her features. The denizen unclipped the muzzle from around the princess’ face, tracing her hand across the pale skin, and circular rosy cheeks.

Vaggie leaned forward, pressing her lips to Charlie's. Charlie could feel the taste of herself on Vaggie's tongue, which was quite… interesting? Charlie arched a brow as she slithered her serpent-like tongue into her girlfriend's mouth, finally settling her hands on Vaggie's shoulders. Thankfully, she wasn't met with being pushed away.

Vaggie slowly pulled away, admittedly hesitantly, as she unhooked the leash and unclipped the leash from around her girlfriend's neck. “Did I hurt you?” Charlie laughed in response to Vaggie's sudden worries, shaking her head. “I'm fine, babe! Truly!”

Vaggie softly smiled, less heated up and mischievous than earlier. Moreso delicate and welcoming, like a loving embrace in itself. “Let's get you cleaned up, then.” Charlie nodded, pressing a quick kiss to the angel's forehead, horns and tail retreating as she cooled down, resorting back into a more humane form.

Vaggie pulled herself off the bed, willing herself off the bed as she looked down at her shoulder, suddenly aware of the bite mark. “I don't even know how you managed that in the split second that you had the muzzle off, but okay.” Charlie shrugged innocently, winking. “A magician never reveals her secrets!”

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kingdomhate · 6 months

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They're Jealous Scenarios!

Han Solo: Maybe he was mistaken. He could've sworn he could see you speaking to one of the Resistance Pilots, a little smile cropped onto your gorgeous face. The same smile that you give him when he retorts with a snarky comment or a sardonic (playful) insult. And if that was correct, and he is 99.9% sure it is, why is it projected toward this bum?

With an adrenaline rush, he strides over to the pair of you, cutting your stupid conversation in two. Han's arm finds it's way to your upper back as he inserts himself into the interaction. He glares at the guy, his gaze too intense to match with that goofy grin on his face, which seems so out of place "I'm sure this is a lovely conversation, but we gotta go, bigger fish to fry. Don't we, sweetheart?" Then, he's tugging you away before you can reply. He wraps his arm around your shoulder, keeping you close to him.

The feeling that shot through him at the sight of you, so close to someone else, when you really did not need to be, it made his blood boil. "What kinda business do ya got with a guy like that, anyway?" Han's tone was firm, he really wanted to hear your answer. "None! I know that, it was just a conversation, Han." He scoffed and threw up his arms, almost defensively. "You just said it, none! You got no business talking to a bum like that! Come on, you're so much more than what you make yourself out to be, love." You frown but hug him anyways, sighing heavily.

Anakin Skywalker: He knew the feeling of jealousy well, too well. One might even call them friends and lovers. You, were his light, his angel, his sweetness. But he knew what was not what other guys saw in you, of course not, they saw you as something too low, a mere object. You were so much more, you had value, you had brightness, you shine, like the sun.

So when he could clearly see you being flirted with, flattered and random men in your vicinity, too close, and the clearly uncomfortable body language of yours, his mind went into husband mode, protectiveness, instinct to make you smile again, he moved over to the men. His gaze was like daggers, and threatening, those blue eyes that were the symbols of love, adoration, devotion and unspeakable, unwavering commitment to you, replaced by threats, searing jealousy and protection. He asked the men a simple question, "What do you think you're doing? Can't you see they are uncomfortable? Huh?" The men scrambled and spoke overlapping about their reasonings but Anakin couldn't hear more than, "We just wanted to show them a good time."

Within those few seconds, rage. All he could see was red. He used the force to send them flying back with ferocity. Once they hit a wall, he bent his fingers ever so slightly, force-choking them. But once you protested, he stopped. The men scurried off like mice. He turned back to you, seeing your face, no longer tainted by uncomfortability and now happiness, happiness because the guys were gone. "Thank you, Ani." He smiles, those pearly blue eyes melting into soft orbs of adorability. Oh, how, he loved you and it showed.

Kylo Ren: Supreme Leader Kylo Ren had faults. Flaws. Everyone knew that. To name a few: Anger issues, possessiveness and protection-issues and jealousy. He trained himself, he had such discipline and a higher goal to be like Vader that he always found himself being told off by you to slow down. Not work too hard.

You resemble to him, his mother. You carried such qualities of determination, hope, gentleness but a tendency to become firm if need be, and you always remained honest to him. Always.

However, that did not mean that everyone saw this in you. Frequently a group of women or men would hit on you, and it always ended in a fight. Because someone said something biting to him or you, and Kylo lost it. He always promised to you that he couldn't help it, and you knew this. The situation now with one of your higher ranking officials was getting out of hand and you were solving it, your own way. And you knew if Kylo had seen, it would become worse and violent.

The officer of yours seemed to not be getting the hint from your calm and collected words and you felt the anger boil in your blood and the officer said something insensitive and in a blinding flash, something black soared past you and knocked down the officer to the floor like a bowling ball hitting pins. It happened so fast, the officer couldn't even let out a scream, or a yelp. And when the moment past and your mind caught up to the situation, it was Kylo. You were frozen, and did not react immediately but when you did, Kylo was heaving, the officer's face was like something a scene from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but you scrambled to take Kylo away before the officer was dead. You called a medic and ran away. You did not even have to ask him what the hell that was, he was already talking.

"I can't believe the disrespect and vulgar language you get. They are tools, but they think that they are have potential to be more. My love, you're no object, you know? Not for anyone's pathetic usage, you're a person, and you're mine. My love, my beauty and my life. Always." He says before capturing your lips in a fierce kiss, with an underlying tenderness.

#star wars #fluff #han solo #han solo x you #anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker x reader #kylo ren #kylo ren x you #my scenarios!#thoughts #hope you enjoy #originally supposed to be possessive scenarios #guess that's next then

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waynes-multiverse · 5 months

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Plastic Hearts – Part 25

Pairing: Director!Dean Winchester x Actress!Reader

Series Summary: Los Angeles, 1985. Y/N’s a young actress without any success, hopping from one failed audition to the next until one desperate mistake brings her to her breaking point. Dean Winchester, on the other hand, is a grade A asshole and washed-up director at the end of his career, known for his godawful slasher movies in the 70s and his love for blow, booze, and women. Lost in the toxic Hollywood life, their paths cross when one hopeless little wrestling show changes their trajectory.

Chapter Warnings: +18, a tinge of angst, FLUFF

Word Count: 5.7k

A/N: I'm not sad... 🥲 Honestly, I don't have words beyond gratitude and cliché goodbyes, so let's end this journey together 🤍

<< 24 || Spotify Playlist || Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

25. Dare

“Ugh, I can’t believe you convinced everyone to come out here,” Jo groans and raises her flat palm to her brows, shielding her eyes from the scalding desert sun. “What the fuck is wrong with Palm Springs, huh?”

“C’mon, we’ve always wanted to go to Joshua Tree together since we moved to LA. This is like the perfect time,” Y/N argues cheerfully and nudges her friend with her elbow. “Look! It’s so peaceful.”

“There’s a dead carcass over there. Looks like a symbol of my marriage,” Jo deadpans.

Y/N purses her lips before compelling another positive smile to her face. “We can get rid of that. The girls really needed this after the whole Crowley debacle.”

The group left straight after the network meeting in Dean’s office this morning, which didn’t go as planned, to say the least. While several executives were surely interested, Crowley and H-ELLTV put an abrupt end to it. Apparently, they sold their fucking souls by signing a contract with the devil. Crowley’s words still rang in her ears on repeat.

“Hate to be the bearer of bad news, ladies, but H-ELLTV owns your characters, which means you can’t sell them to another network. You all signed a contract and made a deal. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, fucking asshole…” Jo huffs her agreement but then throws her friend a suspicious sideways look. “What’s up with you, though? Why are you so chipper and cheerful like a fucking Disney princess? I thought you of all people would be fucking depressed and devastated about the stupid show ending.”

Y/N shrugs. “I am. I’m just trying to make the best of our last weekend together. Can’t I be happy?”

“Fuck no.” Jo shakes her head. “Something’s up with you. Usually, when you’re like this, it’s overcompensation ‘cause you’ve fucked something up. If I were still married, I’d think you’ve fucked my husband all over again. So, what did you do?”

Y/N shrugs once more and keeps her eyes trained on the sprawling desert landscape in front of her. “Nothing.”

“Dean also was a bigger asshole than usual this morning. So, I’m asking again, what shit did you fuck up now?”

“Nothing, okay? Dean’s always an asshole,” Y/N deflects defensively. Although, even she has to admit – those were some spectacularly icy green eyes this morning. Not that he ever looked directly at her or spoke with her even once. She probably would’ve turned to stone if he did.

“Fine, don’t tell. God knows I don’t fucking care,” Jo says indifferently and joins the other women as they set up their tents on the campground.

Y/N lets out a small sigh as she stares at the bluest sky she’s ever seen while the hot desert sun beams down on her. She watches the girls for a while, her heart slightly cracking at the thought this might be the last time they all hang out together. This year has been the best one she’s ever had.

But then, her heart stings even more when she thinks about the one person who isn’t here, wondering what he’s doing right now. If anything, she owes it all to him.

Dean nurses his beer with a sigh, his green eyes barely paying attention to the half-naked girl who’s winding herself up and down a silver pole in front of him. This used to bring him joy – day-drinking at a strip club and watching tits bounce. But now all he thinks about is how that girl looks nothing like Y/N. None of them do.

“Hey, son. Startin’ early today,” Bobby notes with a chuckle as he sits down next to him.

“Yeah, they canceled the show.” And while that’s certainly true, it’s not the reason why Dean’s sulking at a titty bar.

“Too damn bad. I loved the show!” Bobby tells him enthusiastically. “It was insane. Good insane. It had everything – comedy, drama, heartache, tits, violence, a fucking wedding? There’s something for everyone there.”

“Well, uh, thanks, Bobby. Really appreciate it,” Dean tells him politely. He likes the guy, but he’s not in the mood for chitchat. He’s barely in the mood for naked women, for crying out loud. This is a deep fucking depression.

There are only two promises he’s made to himself: One, he won’t slump like he did after his last divorce. There will be no excessive drinking, which leads to excessively pathetic crying, which leads to a myriad of bad choices out of sheer desperation. Remember that awful dating videotape he made? Yes, there will be no more of that. And then there’s of course two, no drugs – no matter how much he tells himself he wants or fucking needs them. A tiny dot of hope seems to be still dormant in his plastic heart, reminding him that she might come back, and he doesn’t want to risk disappointing her once she does.

Dean has worked fucking hard to be the best version he can be – a version she doesn’t seem to give a shit about. But even he has to admit: He likes himself a lot better now, so he refuses to turn back to old comforts, albeit it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

“You guys interested in doing a floor show?”

Bobby’s words pull him from his reverie. Dean arches a brow at him, straightening a bit in his seat. “What? Here?”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “No, idjit. My wife Ellen has some stakes in a club on the Vegas Strip. She manages the hotel there, too. They’re looking for a new headliner. Just do the exact same show, night after night, 300 miles east. Vegas is where the money is. Headliners make at least 25 grand a week. You think that gym is big? We have to fill 1,100 seats.”

Dean stumps and blinks at the old man a bit baffled. “Well, uh… I’ll think about it. Talk to my partner, the girls…”

Bobby smiles and pats his shoulder as he gets up. “You do that. I’ll call you tomorrow. Now, how about a lap dance? On the house. Can pick any girl that fancies your heartache. You ain’t foolin’ an old man like me.”

Dean chuckles. “Nah, I’m good. But thanks. Think I’m gonna head home and drink myself into a coma there.”

“It’s getting dark soon. How much longer?” Jo’s brown eyes dart to Y/N as she drags her feet over a rocky path. The sun stings less than it did when they started their little hike, but her skin feels perfectly tanned by now and the water is running low.

“Uh, I think it’s supposed to be just up ahead that hill,” Y/N muses and swirls her head around the formation of rocks that all look the same, squinting her eyes into the distance.

Jo sighs, and her stare intensifies. “You’ve been saying that for over an hour. Are we lost?”

“Noooo…” Y/N doesn’t sound convincing and surely doesn’t fool Jo with her reply.

“Alright, gimme the map.”

“I don’t have the map. I gave it to Meg.”

Jo groans and rolls her eyes, throwing her arms up in exasperation.

“What? Meg’s the trail leader. Trail leader gets the map,” Y/N defends her faux pas with reason.

“Great! So we’re fucking lost in the desert,” the blonde huffs.

Y/N chuckles lightly, mostly out of uncomfortableness and panic she tries to hide behind it. “No, there’s a trail marker right over there,” she says, pointing to a pile of rocks. “That looks manmade.”

Jo quirks her brow. “You mean like that pile of rocks? Or that one over there?”

Y/N follows her friend’s gaze, only to realize that there are lots of piles of rock that all look too fucking similar. She purses her lips and scratches her head before resting her arms on her squared-off hips. “I think we’re lost.”

“Yeah.” With an exhaustive sigh, Jo plops down on another pile of rocks and watches as the orange sun dips behind the horizon, shadows of blue slowly crawling across the desert floor and swallowing the light.

Y/N clumsily lowers herself down next to the blonde. Her leg hurts like a bitch, and the desert sand that has wound its way into her cast itches a good deal. Her hands and arms hurt as well from clinging to her crutches all afternoon. Maybe Dean was right, and this was a bad idea, after all. Why does he always have to be fucking right about everything? How can one person be so annoying and frustrating all at once?

“Well, you finally get your wish,” Jo deadpans. “We’re gonna die together.”

“I’m sorry,” Y/N says ruefully and looks at the first stars appearing in the night sky. “Maybe the stars will guide us home.”

Jo just looks at her, unamused and unsurprised. “You’ve never been camping, have you?”

Y/N twitches her shoulders apologetically. “It was only supposed to be a three-mile moderate beginner’s trail to a beautiful vista. It’s what the guidebook said.”

Jo shakes her head and blows a raspberry, hugging her knees. “Joanna Wesson, 27, found dead near a random cluster of rocks that might have looked like a trail marker. She was best known for playing Beth Crowne on the soap opera Paradise Bay before trying to revive her career on an unsuccessful wrestling show. She is survived by her son, Sammy, and her bitter ex-husband Sam with his secretary Jessica.”

“Well, at least you get an obituary,” Y/N quips. “Mine would just read: Soap Star Found Dead Next to Unidentified Woman in National Park.”

Jo even snorts at that. “Well, I’m sure Dean would cut and edit an adorable video tribute with a bunch of B-roll about you at your funeral.”

“Yeah, maybe…” Y/N pensively licks her lips, her heart doing those painful twinges again whenever she thinks of him. “You know yet what you’re gonna do next?”

“No, I-… I think I wanna produce,” Jo announces with determination in her hazel eyes. “I don’t wanna ask permission. I’m so tired of it all. For once, I wanna boss people around and tell ‘em what to do. You know, you were right.”

Baffled, Y/N raises a brow. “About what?”

“Men,” Jo says simply and then spits with fire, “I fucking hate them all. The Crowleys and the Dicks and the Cases and the Sams and the Deans… They make the choices. They dictate the terms… I’m sick of it all. I just hate asking them for anything.”

“Dean’s not so bad,” Y/N says quietly but doesn’t look at Jo. Her heart stings for the millionth time. “I got that role for the Sondheim musical. They called this morning.”

Jo’s lips curve into a soft smile that reaches her eyes. “Congrats. I’m not surprised. You were really fucking good.”

Y/N’s heart flutters a little at the compliment. Tears begin to sting her eyes. She can’t remember the last time Jo was nice to her. “Thank you.”

“You don’t seem happy about it,” Jo notes attentively.

“No, I am,” Y/N manages to choke out, but the sniffling betrays her intentions.

“But?”

Y/N bobs her head, swallowing. “I think I’m ready to talk about it now.”

“Fucking finally,” Jo huffs and rubs her cold and goosebump-littered arms as the heat disappears, the nightly air bringing a fresh breeze.

“Dean told me he loves me,” Y/N confesses. “He’s in love with me.”

“Yeah, no shit. Kinda obvious,” Jo says without a twitch of surprise. “Don’t feel bad for not loving him back. That’s what they want… For us to feel bad about every single fucking thing.”

“That’s just it. I don’t think that’s how I feel,” Y/N replies and lets out a jittery sigh.

Jo’s head turns to her, eyeing her friend up and down. “And how do we feel about that? I can’t tell. It’s too dark to see your face.”

“I-, uh, I don’t exactly know,” Y/N says, which is partially true. She might know how she feels about the green-eyed director, but not how she feels about the situation overall.

Jo purses her lips and nods. “Alright, here’s a couple of options: happy, excited, scared, or… repulsed?”

“Well, uhm… scared,” Y/N admits slowly and gulps. “And excited… happy.”

Jo throws her arms up, shaking her head at the stars. “Jesus fuck! Then what the fuck are we doing here?! Is that why you dragged me all the way to the fucking desert? Because you’re running from your feelings?”

“Kinda. I thought the peaceful quiet and beautiful nature would bring me some much-needed clarity,” Y/N explains.

Jo lifts a brow but tries not to seem too annoyed. She’s accustomed to her friend’s theatrics, after all. “And? Did it?”

“The hike didn’t, but facing death kinda does,” Y/N jokes and begins to laugh a little, Jo soon joining her. When their laughter dies down and the desert sounds of chirping crickets and screeching eagles remain, Y/N exhales a shaky breath. “I’m in love with him, too. He makes me really fucking happy. But… I finally feel like I’m on the right track with my career. I am where I’m supposed to be, you know? I don’t wanna throw that away for a guy.”

“Who says you should?”

“I don’t know… Isn’t that how it goes? You did it,” Y/N argues.

Jo licks her lips and clicks her tongue. “Yeah, ‘cause I chose the wrong fucking guy. Sam made me give up everything I ever loved and told me what to love instead. If you pick the right guy, he won’t make you do that.”

“How do I know it’s the right guy, though?”

Jo smiles softly. “Look, I’m not Dean’s biggest fan, but he’s yours. You know that, right? He’d never hold you back. He adores the ground you walk on. Yes, he’s an asshole with so many fucking issues, and he’s goddamn annoying most of the time, but he’s always had your back, even when he pretended that he didn’t. The guy would probably sell every limb and his fucking soul to see you get everything you ever wanted, Y/N. He wouldn’t be a mistake. You know what would be a mistake? Not trying because you’re too scared of making one. Don’t be fucking stupid.”

Thoughtfully, Y/N nods in agreement and grabs her crutches, rising from her rocky seat. “I need to see him. We have to head back to the city.”

“Finally! Thank fucking God.” With a grunt, Jo jumps to her feet and helps Y/N to steady hers. “Maybe the girls made a fire bright enough, so we can find our way back.”

“Shit.”

“What? They have matches, don’t they? I’m sure these bitches can manage a simple fire, right?” Jo then notices Y/N’s hand curling around her bicep, her grip tightening. And then, Jo glances in the direction of Y/N’s eyes and sees the same damn thing. Her brown eyes widen.

“Mountain lion.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” the blonde hisses and holds on to her friend as well. Both women freeze on the spot. “What-, uh, what should we do?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we should throw a stick?”

“A stick?” Jo arches her brow. The big cat snarls and stalks a little closer, making the two women jump back. Their hearts are thumping in their throats at this point. “It’s not a fucking dog, Y/N. It won’t play fetch with you.”

“I know that. How about you come up with a better idea, then?” Y/N snaps through gritted teeth. The lion hisses again, causing the women to tremble down to their bones and hug each other tighter. “I think I should jump it.”

“Are you nuts? No!”

“Look, while it eats me, you can flee. I can’t run with my cast anyways. This is the best option,” Y/N insists, but Jo vehemently shakes her head.

“Fuck no! You’re not sacrificing yourself. We die together. You’re not leaving me behind,” Jo maintains. “I always knew my death would be your fault. Don’t ask me how, but I knew you’d get me killed somehow.”

The wild cat takes another step forward and lowers to the ground as if to get ready to jump its prey – them. But then a few tumbling rocks and breaking twigs draw its attention behind the women. Is there an even bigger cat here?

And suddenly, Meg leaps forward from above them with a loud howl and snarls at the cat, which hastily tucks its tail between its legs and flees down the hill into the dark night. Y/N and Jo expel a big breath of relief and a shaky laugh as they find Meg.

“Meg, what the fuck? Did you just scare away a mountain lion?” Y/N gapes at her friend in utter disbelief.

Meg only shrugs her shoulders. ��I hate cats. What are you guys doing out here so long?”

“We got lost. Couldn’t find our way back to camp,” Y/N explains.

Meg furrows her brow and thumbs behind her. “It’s just over there. You guys have been hiking around the same hill for five hours.”

Jo shoots Y/N a small glare of annoyance and blows some loose strands of blonde hair out of her face. “Of course we did…” she mutters.

“We have to get back to LA!” Y/N declares eagerly, trying to climb the small rocky hill with her crutches, foregoing the more suitable pathway.

“Right now? It’s probably 3am when we get to Burbank. Can’t this wait till tomorrow?” Jo says as she attempts to climb after her friend.

“No! I almost died! Twice… Dean needs to know how I feel before I get bit by a rattlesnake, too,” Y/N reiterates passionately.

“It’s probably for the best,” Meg chimes in. “We kinda forgot to pack food. I was about to hunt something for us when I ran into you guys. We have tons of drugs and booze, though.”

Y/N’s knuckles thunder persistently on Dean’s door and conjure up a storm. She has jumped out of Ruby’s limo so fast, the girls are still scrambling out and flooding Dean’s front lawn one by one. They’re loud and obnoxious, but the ringing in her ears makes their chatter barely noticeable.

The lock clicks and the door opens. Dean stands in front of her with weary green eyes, heavy with sleep, tousled bed-head, and a furiously scrunched brow. He half yawns and half grumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Once he feels clearer, minus the soft buzz of whiskey remnants in his bloodstream, he blinks at the young actress in front of him and then tilts his head at the circus show behind her.

God, between his punk rock daughter and this, his neighbors must really hate him.

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you guys supposed to be camping in fucking Joshua Tree?” His voice is a gravelly bark. He doesn’t mean to sound so harsh, especially when he just woke from a dream about her, but he’s not as masochistic as he used to be. He’s not a fan of torturing himself with the image of her any longer.

Y/N’s heart somersaults as soon as she sees him, even though his apprehension hurts a bit. “Look, I almost died tonight. We got lost in the desert and then a mountain lion almost fucking ate us.”

Dean licks his lips, nodding. “Yeah, I’m not fucking surprised. Told you Palm Springs is the better option. So, did anyone fucking die? What’s the head count?”

“No one died.”

“Huh. Then why the fuck are you here in the middle of the night, Y/N?” Dean bites, his brow creasing in anger. He can’t even fucking look at her for a second without his heart being on the brink of an explosion. Even saying her goddamn name hurts like needle pricks in an abused vein.

“I–” Y/N swallows thickly. Her drumming heart is stuck in her airway along with her words.

“She’s here to tell you she loves you!” Ruby hollers behind her before several girls tackle her and clasp her mouth shut.

Dean’s heart twists upon the sick joke, his frown deepening. But then he glances at Y/N and thinks he can spot the truth in her eyes. He thought that once before, though, and was terribly wrong.

Y/N gives a shrug of one shoulder with tears brimming in her eyes. A small smile forms on her lips. “What she said.”

Dean nods and drags a hand over his freckled face, feeling the tears well in his eyes, too. Fucking whiskey. Always renders him goddamn sentimental. “Look, uhm, you kinda gotta tell me this yourself. Otherwise, I won’t believe it, okay?”

Upon his request, Y/N takes a deep breath and looks him into his eyes. “I’m in fucking love with you.” As soon as the words are out, she starts crying and the tears fall down her cheeks. Meanwhile, Dean’s heart tumbles into free fall, and he’s sure not even a parachute can stop it. “I’ve never said that to anyone in my life. Is-, is it too late?”

Dean snorts and shakes his head, grinning brighter than the California sun on the longest day of the year. “Fuck no. Even if it had taken you thirty years, I still would’ve taken you back. That’s kinda how once-in-a-lifetime love works, sweetheart.”

“Okay. Sounds like a good movie,” Y/N jokes between her tears, her fingers tingling to touch him.

“Yeah, best one there is.”

His hands grab hold of her and pull her into his embrace. He claims her lips, Y/N eagerly parting her mouth as his tongue slips between. The kiss is rushed and fervent and perfectly desperate. They’re both so gone they can’t even hear the girls cheering and applauding them in the background.

“You’re gonna come inside?” Dean asks in a murmur against her lips, barely letting her breath.

“Uhm…”

“Hey, Lothario, you got space for us, too?” Cassie shouts with a wide smirk.

“Yeah, we’re fucking starving,” Ruby adds with an impatiently arched brow.

“We, uh, forgot to pack food,” Y/N explains with a chuckle.

Dean sighs and smiles knowingly. “Of course you did.” He then turns to the women waiting on his lawn. “Alright, get in. I’ll order some pizzas.”

The women then proceed to brush past the couple and filter into Dean’s house. Missouri pinches his cheeks, Ruby pats his head, Cassie fist-bumps him and sends Y/N a flirty wink, Meg tousles his hair, Charlie shrugs apologetically, and Jo offers an annoyed eye roll.

“I’m never gonna get rid of them, am I?” Dean looks down at her and tightens his jaw, even when a grin is visible.

“No, I’m afraid not. It’s like you’ve adopted twelve strays. One of which actually turned out to be your long-lost puppy. They’re gonna be here until you die and then eat your corpse,” Y/N quips.

“Funny.” Dean clicks his tongue, his dimples itching to form a grin.

“Oooo! Let’s call the guys!” he hears Ruby exclaim from inside his living room. “It’s a fucking wrap party at the boss’ house!”

“No! No party! Guys, c’mon!” Dean storms inside after them, leaving Y/N giggling on his doorstep.

“Let’s call Garth, Kevin, and Benny!” Donna suggests, ignoring his protests. It’s like they can’t fucking hear him.

“I’ll call my husband, too!” Bela adds and eagerly dials Cas’ number on his landline.

“Oh, right, Cas…” Dean mutters with an eye roll as he remembers the impromptu wedding. “No fucking Benny!”

Y/N joins his side and rubs his back in comfort as he watches his house sink into female doom. “You okay?”

The deep trenches in his brow flatten into soft valleys as his green eyes lock on her. He dips his head and pulls her to his lips, kissing her slow and reverently. “Better.” He smirks. “Just gonna have to sage the whole house tomorrow.”

That earns him a playful slap on his chest. He laughs and pulls her closer with an arm around her waist.

“Hey, uh, speaking of party…” Dean mumbles before he addresses the whole room, grabbing their attention with an authoritative clear of his throat. He’s still got it. “You guys wanna do shows in Vegas?”

“What?!”

Dean’s eyes find Y/N’s gaping face. He chuckles a little. “Yeah, uh, Bobby offered me a deal. There’s nothing in the network contract about live shows. I already went over it with Cas this afternoon. It pays well, too. You guys interested? It’s not like any of you have actual jobs lined up, right?”

Y/N closes her mouth. “I got that Sondheim musical in San Diego. It’s a workshop production, but if it goes well, it could go all the way to Broadway. I could end up in New York.”

“Good,” Dean says and smirks. “You’re fucking fired.”

“WHAT?!” Y/N’s mouth falls open again. “You said you’d never fire me!”

“Yeah, well, this is for your own good,” Dean reasons. “You think I’m gonna let you quit Sondheim for some stupid wrestling show in Vegas? You gotta be fucking nuts! This is what you fucking wanted. Don’t make me kick your stupid ass onto that stage. It’s gonna look embarrassing for you again…”

Y/N bites her lips to conceal her grin. Her eyes meet Jo’s, who mouths ‘I told you so’ at her. “Thank you,” she tells Dean and kisses his cheek. He furrows his brow at her in suspicion. “But rehearsals don’t start until June. Still gonna need a job till then.”

“Oh.” Dean’s brow shoots up in realization. “The June in nine months?”

“Yeah, the June in nine months,” Y/N confirms with a laugh.

“Whoops. Well, consider yourself rehired till June, then,” Dean relents.

“So, if I ever have to work in New York–”

“Then we’ll go to New York. Big fucking whoop-dee-doo. You know I hate LA.”

Y/N giggles, nodding. “What would you do in New York?”

“Same I do here, just on a little balcony instead of a backyard. I sit with my typewriter by a table and smoke and drink,” Dean retorts. “I’ve actually been working on a new script. I’m moving away from horror and into Western.”

“Got inspired by the motel’s wallpaper, huh?” Y/N teases. “What’s it about?”

“Father-daughter storyline. Thought I’d give that a shot…”

1990, 5 years later…

“Dean! We’re gonna be late!” Y/N reminds him and holds the blindfold in place over her eyes as he drags her somewhere by the hand. Her heels can barely keep up with his fast pace. “You know, check-in at LAX is the worst. Our flight departs in two hours. I’m nominated, Dean! I can’t reschedule! The girls are all flying in, too…”

“I know! I’m fucking hurrying, okay?” Dean assures. However, she can hear the stress and tension in his gravelly voice. He then suddenly halts and positions her into place by her shoulders before carefully taking off the blindfold. “Alright, here we are.”

Y/N blinks her eyes open and recognizes blurry shapes of purple and gold. She lifts an eyebrow as ornaments on the walls and a big stage come into view as well. “The Aztec porno theater?”

“Mayan,” Dean corrects her and wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he gets down in front of her on one knee and tries to fumble out the too-big ring box from his too-tiny suit jacket pocket. “Son of a bitch!”

“Dean, wait!” Y/N stops his endeavor with raised palms, her eyebrows meeting her hairline when she realizes what he’s about to do.

“Oh, c’mon, Y/N!” Dean frowns in frustration and rises to his feet with a huff and a shaking head. “I know you’re against marriage and the patriarchy and all that bullshit, but c’mon… We’ve been dating for five years. We have a good thing going, right?”

After spending a whole year in beautiful Las Vegas – the Paris of Nevada – the two of them moved to New York. Dean sold his house in Burbank and opted for a Brooklyn apartment instead. Claire also studied film at NYU before she graduated last Spring. But every few months, the couple finds themselves back in LA – for interviews, for business, for friends.

“Dean–”

“No! You know me. I’d make a great fucking husband. You love it when I make reporters laugh on the red carpet. I’m an awesome trophy husband, okay?”

“DEAN!”

“WHAT?!”

Why the fuck is she angry now? He should be the one that’s angry. She’s turning down the best opportunity of her life. She should consider herself lucky he wants to spend the rest of his life with her. He even had an amazing speech prepared to knock her right off her feet, but does he get to say it now? How he wanted to grow fucking old together and support each other? How he wanted to marry her all those years ago when she told him she was pregnant? Nope...

“I’m fucking pregnant!”

Dean blinks at her in confusion before his eyes begin to wander around the familiar theater. Did he take something? Drink too much? Did he actually travel through time or is this a weird fever dream on his deathbed?

“What’s it with you and this theater? And why do you always yell that?”

“Because you never listen.” Y/N giggles and bites her lower lip. “And I’ll gladly marry you if that’s what you were going for. I just figured I’d tell you before in case you wanna change your mind and bail.”

“Why the fuck would I bail?” Dean’s brows knit together, close to offense.

She shrugs and holds up her palms in surrender. “I don’t know! I didn’t want you to feel trapped.”

“Why? Isn’t it mine?”

Y/N rolls her eyes, a grin twitching on her pink lips as she slaps his arm. “Yes, of course it’s yours.”

“And you’re keeping it? You sure?” Dean throws her a quizzical look.

Her brow furrows. “Why, you aren’t?”

“No, I am!” he assures her swiftly, realizing how it sounded. “Hell yeah, I want another kid! You know I always wanted to make up for missing out on Claire so much! I finally get to change a diaper, go to the park, or the fucking zoo while my wife works… It’ll be so fun!”

Y/N tries to stifle her laugh. He seems happy, judging by the joyful glint in his green eyes. They resemble sparkling emeralds.

“But are you sure, y' know?” Dean checks with a deep look into her eyes. “I mean, I do what I can to support you and keep the thing alive in your absence, but you know you’re still gonna be benched for a couple of months, right? I’m not a fucking seahorse.”

Y/N laughs a little at that. “I know. I’m fine with sitting on the bench for a little while. I’m kinda exhausted. I did two Broadway musicals almost back to back, three off-Broadway shows, all the workshops and the rehearsals and Matinees and the dancing and the singing… Not to mention I’m nominated for a fucking Tony tonight,” she says and is close to out of breath by the time she finishes her list of accomplishments.

“Which you’re gonna win,” Dean reassures her persistently. He’s been telling her since the nominations were announced (and even before that when he first saw her in the role on the first night).

“We’ll see,” she brushes him off, although her blushed cheeks betray her words. In her heart, she hopes so as well. “Anyways, I could use the break,” she admits and takes his hands in hers, interlacing their fingers. She places a loving kiss on his lips. “Right time, right guy, right baby,” she says, smiling.

Dean squeezes her hand happily and pulls her to his lips for a searing kiss. “So, where did we land on that whole marriage thing?”

“See? You’re never listening,” she teases, laughing. “Yes, I’ll marry you. Under one condition…”

Dean smirks. “I've had the same exact thought – Vegas. It’s perfect!”

“What, no! I don’t wanna get married in filthy Vegas, you dork!” Y/N frowns playfully, shaking her head. “I wanna get married in Nebraska. I want my dad to marry us."

Dean’s brow creases. He chuckles in amusement. “What, like a shotgun wedding? Could be fun… Pastor marries pregnant daughter to older man. Is this gonna make headlines in the townie paper?”

Y/N snorts, shaking her head at him. “No, it’s a shotgun wedding. It’s very common,” she deadpans.

“I’ve never met your parents,” Dean realizes then. “Why have I never met your parents? It’s weird they never come visit you,” he ponders.

“Oh no, they do,” Y/N tells him, pursing her lips as she twirls her hair around her finger. “They’ve seen me both in Into The Woods and Gypsy.”

“Really, when?” Dean narrows his eyes at her.

“Whenever you were in LA, visiting Claire,” Y/N admits ruefully. She never told them she was dating the director, not sure if they’d approve – not that she gives a shit, but she wanted to spare herself all the sermons and the exploring of the Sunday school dating pool. Whenever they asked who owned the men’s clothes in her apartment, she lied and said she had a gay-but-in-the-closet roommate. “But you can meet them now,” she promises with a reassuring smile on her lips. Thank God she’s an excellent, Tony-nominated actress. “I’m sure they learn to love you just like I did.”

“Learn to?”

“I love you.” Y/N smiles mischievously and shuts up any further comments by kissing him.

Dean grins and relents with a blissful sigh. “I love you, too.”

THE END 🌅

Thank you all so much for reading and making me laugh with your comments and screams throughout! 🤍

Are we done with these two for good? Probably not. I've left gaps and doors open on purpose, so I'm sure they'll make an appearance again at some point in the future 😉

TAGS:

Everything Jensen: @alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@mxltifxnd0m @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444

@syrma-sensei @perpetualabsurdity @deans-baby-momma @yoobusgoobus @jessjad

@hunter-or-the-hunted @k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways

@muhahaha303 @ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70

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anemonepalustris · 4 months

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so the new episode, huh? having read a few of the things people smarter than i have said about the episode brings me to an interesting thought: whenever the doctor isn’t there the companion is not there either, not in doctor who; having a whole episode from the exclusive pov of the companion, the doctor marking the beginning and the end of the episode, both moments being the same with minor changes.

the one episode that was doctor-lite that i kept thinking about was ‘Don’t Blink’. one of the more prominent, cult episodes not involving the main actors due to budget and scheduling reasons constraining it to what it was.

throughout the episode we get the pre-recorded, one-sided conversation from the doctor in the past arguing with one of the main characters in the present, the bumping of the doctor and martha into one of the people who will be taken by the angels and martha receiving the script written by one of the main characters for the aforementioned convo. martha is never on her own for long, and neither is the doctor; they’re in a sort of symbiosis, where one goes the other can be inferred.

73 yards is all about ruby getting constantly abandoned because of the thing that follows her at exactly 73 yards distance, with a lot of very clever piecing of details together, from 2049, to Mad Jack, the welsh, the fairy circle, all coming together to form a coherent narrative, even though there was none.

in the same way the doctor likes to sprinkle in facts from their various off-screen adventures, fifteen mentions the prime minister. the mad jack bit was all about the locals taking what ruby read and adding it to their fucking with her, wherein factor in the welsh and the fairy circle. all of these tidbits that are on their own isolated incidents get linked together, by ruby, who is our pov character for the episode with the doctor… gone.

the episode nudges the idea that the doctor is hiding out in the tardis, having ran from ruby in the same way we see happen later on in the episode, but we don’t necessarily get confirmation. the part that is most interesting to me is the tardis staying there, instead of it going away. it’s the ‘time and relative dimension in space’ box, so why not leave? sure, it’s symbolic, symbols are reserved for fairytales and fiction, doctor who admittedly is that, but without the knowledge of what happened to the doctor, the leap from ‘the tardis is locked, where is the doctor?’ to ‘of course the doctor abandoned me and changed the locks’ seems a bit extreme.

the doctor would not leave their tardis just getting eaten away at by moss there if they where inside, so where is the doctor? one user pointed out that ‘the lack of an intro’ seemed wrong, like the doctor simply got plucked out of the reality in which him and ruby where in wales and now 73 yards is almost… not an episode? of course it is, we all watched it, but without the doctor, with ruby aging and getting abandoned, with the clear supernatural element that never gets explained away in a very tenth era ‘but it was aliens all along!’; the switch to something other slowly seeping in until the whole thing is over. it’s all alright now, and then the intro comes in. except it’s the outro. we’re done. tune in next week for a fresh serving of— hey, what was that all about?

another user on here pointed out that there is a ‘bad dream logic’ about the episode, which is reminiscent of the concept of bad luck machinery and the language of knots in the ‘Church on Ruby Road’, except there is no doctor to have studied ruby and figured out what happens. ruby has to make it work.

the way the doctor is forcibly removed from the premises of wales, so the story can happen in the way it does, is so jarring: it’s doctor who, where’s the doctor? we don’t know. on my first watch, i slotted the tardis staying there into one of those ‘oh, the tardis doesn’t work this episode, so the main conflict can’t be solved in 0.2 seconds’ and waited for the doctor to come in and explain all that. to the audience surrogate. who’s stranded there, without answers, making up her own as she goes along from all of the things that seem relevant. kind of like fan theories, now that i think about it. no doctor, no tardis, unresolved conflict.

we know how this goes: locals help out, like in ‘The Fires of Pompeii’— no, wait a second, they’re really unhelpful. alright, then the parents/friends help out, like mickey in the ‘Aliens of London’, wherever and however they can; see! carol is about to confront the woman following ruby and— cold, hateful eyes look back at ruby from her mother’s face, forcing ruby out of her life. ah, UNIT, surely…well, fuck, we’re really in it now.

sure, ruby saves the world, becoming the doctor in a sort of clara oswald way, only to then… age. aging, in a show all about a virtually immortal alien running about, is daunting. seeing ruby next to the tardis, having lived an unremarkable enough life, a lonely life, changed so fully from who she was at the beginning of the episode, next to an aged tardis is horrible; in the way that death is horrible, with grief and longing as the coating of the feeling of something being wrong.

an episode that comes to mind in a world where the doctor dies is ‘Turn Left’, but it’s incomparable. we knew what happened, why it happened and who benefitted from all of it. here it’s just… it’s nothing like doctor who. all of these episodes i mentioned are cornerstones of the first RTD run of the show, when doctor who was at a peak, arguably the most recognisable era of the show: when all they taught us is turned on its head in such a manner, doctor who indeed feels wrong because all of our data tells us it is.

this season is making very deliberate, fourth-wall breaking jabs at the audience, and this is by far one of the most elaborate ones yet: ‘we know you know our tricks, but we’ve got more things in store’. it’s an episode that is packed full of subversion of expectations and is less sci-fi and more magic, barely doctor who, or rather a new kind.

#dw #doctor who #fifteenth doctor #ruby sunday #73 yards #rtd2 era #rtd2

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hoverboards-and-dragons · 8 months

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Angel of Light, Herald of creation, The Morningstar

Angels are never children, however, before they are adults, they spend some time being Creatures

in the garden of Eden you'd look up at a tree and sometimes this thing will just be there, crouched over designing a squirrel or something

Originally my only intention with the halo was to make it look like the eight pointed star, a symbol of the morningstar, and then a familiar silhouette just kinda emerged and I went "huh, what if thats why he wears the top hat"

He's a bit redder than the rest of Heaven, just barely enough to stick out, he always had a little of that in him

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lucifer #hellaverse #hazbin hotel fanart #hazbin art #hazbin hotel headcanons

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c-rose2081 · 28 days

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AGDUSHFUEBDHDHD YOUR RECENT FIC WAS SO FUCKING GOOD LIKE AGHHHHHH

Bridget being such a sweet and caring liek cutie pie. Thinking Chloe might have a fear of blood or something is so adorable. And honestly now I’m just chucking every available fear or weakness Headcanon onto Chloe like she’s shopping cart of angst. Cause yeah Chloe def would have a fear of blood despite her ironic love of swords and shields.

God I knew it all along but somehow it wasn’t even fucking hitting me that Chloe in the movie migrates to her mom not only cause it’s her mom, but it’s her MOM. Her mom who’s DEAD. She’s seeing her mom ALIVE in some way and that must be so fucking conflicting to her and for Ella to have been so cold to her must have been mind breakingly painful. Cause fuck. I totally get the morally gray Ella vibes but Ella’s attitude towards Chloe the whole time was honestly just rude. Like saying that she doesn’t deserve her shoes just cause it was a good thing? Like no that’s not the point at all. The point should have been thag rewards like that are a privilege. And that assuming others have that isn’t good. Not that being rewarded for good behavior WITHOUT EXPECTING IT somehow makes you some prissy uptight monster. Like ugh I could rant about that forever I think they handled that HORRIBLY. Like they’re really trying to make Chloe look like she worked for nothing and just expects lavish gifts. Like NO?! She’s getting straight As. Working herself to the bone for swords and shields. And yes we should all just normally strive to it, but being a good person takes fucking work. Being nice and honorable and kind to all has so much strength! These are all amazing things and it’s not a bad thing at all Chloe was rewarded for it. She worked hard for all of it. It’s the assumption that everyone else’s life is similar and that their is no grey area that’s the bad part. That’s what I wish they focused on.

Anywhoooo. Chloe being rejected AND seeing the blood on her hand must have been so fucking painful. I mean it’s nearly like a graphic symbol of her mom being so brutally decapitated. And Ella with that mother line like GOD. Chloe must feel so damn alone. And I definitely think they overlooked how emotional she should be. Like they needed to incorporate the breakdown you just wrote.

and lordy it must be so fucking painful cause in a cruel twist of irony, the person who decapitated her mom is the one comforting her. The one soothing her and hugging her and taking care of her. Acting so motherly in her own way it must make Chloe miss her own mom even MORE. And any comfort from Bridget must be so damn conflicting cause she’s the enemy. But no one else is comforting her so she’ll take it. Ugh beautiful masterpiece.

LOL and of course I’m a die hard bridgella fan so it’s so fun to see more Bridget and Ella interacting. Like YES Ella stops as soon as she realized she snapped at her precious angel Bridget. YES Bridget is the only one able to get through to Ella when she’s going through something. Yes after Ella apologizes Bridget gives her a kiss and they go snuggle together. Wait huh-

anyway. Adored this fic entirely. I’m vaguely curious to see Ella’s apology now honestly. And I’m also wondering where tf red went. Like girly just disappeared without checking on Chloe 😭

Thank you for reading I’m so glad you enjoyed! I love writing angst so much, especially around Chloe and the lack of grief from Chloe’s end really bugged me in the film.

I’m not sure if I’ll actually write Ella’s apology or not? And as for Red, I actually have an idea about that. She probably goes to break down herself somewhere, cause naturally RED knows fully well how painful it is for Chloe to get rejected by her own mother, because it’s partly her fault Cinderella’s dead. She doesn’t go to comfort Chloe cause I imagine this happens right after they arrive? Like, they hardly know one another yet so they aren’t actually ‘friends’ yet.

Anyway, thanks so much for this! I always love hearing what you have to say 😊

#disney descendants #rise of red #chloe charming #princess bridget #writing #answered asks

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bestworstcase · 9 months

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i guess there is always the question of to what extent the fractal-ozlem pattern will hold true for every endgame romantic pairing and the secondary question of whether the tension between salem and ozpin in jaune's character will eventuate as a return to form (salem) or as transformation (ozma).

but for what it's worth

<- i find this a lot more persuasive than the weiss developments in V9

it's a bit thorny all around. by design. i think he's probably intended to be puzzling. the simplest answer is jaune ecloses as the hero and saves cinder but that coexists uneasily with what's going on with cinder and salem, to say the least. not to mention the thematic treatment of fairytale heroism.

he did save neo, so there's that.

rolls over

jeanne d'arc heard the voices of saints and angels guiding her way. i suppose there's an argument to be made for the recording pyrrha left him, but given the importance of salem's piety and apostasy, jaune's distinct lack of religiosity or… belief in anything greater than himself is worth reconsidering maybe. why is he here? he cheated his way into beacon just to prove to his family that he was worth something. now he's just here for his friends. what becomes of salem if she's faithless? if she's cynical?

salem is not a cynic. she's a shattered idealist. there will be no victory in strength. mankind is strong, wise, and resourceful, born into an unforgiving world and yet even the smallest spark of hope is enough to ignite change. passion and ingenuity and resourcefulness. hope breathes fire into the hearts of the weary. hope is mankind's greatest strength. your faith in mankind was not misplaced. it's important not to lose sight of what drives us: love, justice, reverence… and so we must press on.

take all that away from her. what is left?

even cinder believes in something, in destiny as a monster to fight. "i refuse to starve."

she poses a thematic challenge to jaune's cynicism in that she puts a spear through weiss schnee, her own personal symbol of everything she's fighting against, in direct response to jaune telling her nothing matters to him except that his friends live. and then he manifests his semblance. and then cinder murders penny and he can't save her and it's his sword covered in her blood. and now he has to live with that forever.

snaps fingers

the tree is the tower. the lovable idiot stuck in the tree. that tree is death. the reason jaune is so narratively weird is he's anti-theme salem. in cheating his way into beacon he put himself in her tower.

hhh

jeanne d'arc was instrumental in charles vii's campaign to push the british out of france. vacuo just had a short-lived civil war instigated by isolationist monarchists claiming descent from vacuo's royal line, one of whom was top of her class at shade and "would have been a fantastic huntress" if she hadn't dropped out. and her semblance is the inverse of jaune's and she mirrors him in a lot of ways. she might be the summer maiden.

i am so far out on a limb here but

…huh.

the anti-theme salem's ozma ii would be the maiden of destruction.

#i did not expect to end up here.

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wtftarot · 1 year

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Pac Reading: The Star

The Star is another one of my favorites. Shining right after the Tower, this card brings messages of hope, healing, and inspiration. What messages do you need from the Star? Let's fuck around and find out.

As always this reading is meant for entertainment purposes only and is not a substitute for professional advice in any way. Remember to use common sense and don't be a dumbass.

Pick the Star, the Water, or the lil Bird and head to your reading.

The Star

The first card I pulled for y'all was The Star, so I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that y'all are seeing a shit ton of signs and syncs. That or y'all are missing a lot of signs and syncs and keep asking for more. I mean, y'all came to a reading on The Star card, picked the Star group AND the first card that came out was THE STAR. If y'all are looking for signs you got em. If you're not someone who sees signs/syncs then you're probably needing a LOT of reassurance about something. Sweetheart, it's like you get a sign/ receive reassurance, think: awesome, great, got it! Then immediately start looking again, and if you find nothing, you're disappointed and start to doubt EVERYTHING. Listen, wanting some reassurance isn't a bad thing, but you're not looking at the root of why you need constant reassurance and the why is a big steaming shit pile of doubt. Not to be harsh but y'all doubt yourself like most people breathe air. Y'all want to be confident, and you have a lot of awesome qualities. But you keep thinking "I'll be confident when..." and you look at every 'flaw' you have that you think needs fixing. You only ever focus on the competition, on everything you're not. Let me tell you something, babe. Someone else being good or even better at something you do, does not somehow make you bad at it. It doesn't. That's just not how it works. There is not a limited amount of talent in the world. Deep down you know that, just like deep down you know you have potential, otherwise you wouldn't have started would you? The message for y'all today is simple (and I'm hearing may annoy some of y'all, sorry) : celebrate your accomplishments. Yeah, we hear it all the time but it's fucking important. You need to let yourself be proud of yourself! Fuck humility! YOU GOT THIS FAR! YOU DID THAT! LOOK AT HOW GOOD YOU ARE AT THIS! I know y'all feel like your accomplishments may be small, for some of you getting out of bed may be an accomplishment (hell yeah it fucking is, I'm proud of you, babe) Celebrating them isn't always about the size of the accomplishment, sometimes it's that you did something that was hard for you. Besides if you don't celebrate the 'little' wins, what makes you think you'll celebrate the 'big' ones? Oh, because they're the big ones, huh? Mmk, sooo you don't think that this habit you have of downplaying your accomplishments will just keep going? That it will just magically disappear when you reach the next goal? And you won't just set the bar even higher for yourself?? You don't think that will happen? Even though..... it already has? Okay, then. I hate to end the reading on that really snarky note, but that's it. That's the end. I think it came out that way cause your guides are sick of you shitting on yourself

There's a secondary message here for those of you who see a lot of signs/syncs and I mean A FUCK TON. You're missing the huge ass messages cause you're so damn focused on the little, more tangible signs I'm hearing. It's like y'all are looking for little outside signs, like maybe an animal or angel numbers or something. You're looking and looking for those lil confirmations and yet missing the bigger picture that is you, babe. You are the biggest sign. Your intuition. That has more meaning, more clarity and is more easily understood than any outside symbol.

random ass messages: 4242, birds, punk music, constellations, teeth? ladybugs.

The Water

Y'all are talking yourself out of things that make you happy and that's just unacceptable. There's something y'all wanna do but you're talking yourself out of it because what will people think or it's impractical or it's 'weird'. (Now, if it's not safe to express yourself authentically wherever you're at, I don't think this reading is for you. This reading is for those who are really critical of themselves and it's holding them back. Stay safe above all else. If you can find a safe space to express yourself do that. ) I feel like I need to tell y'all that you can go after something even if the only purpose is to make you happy. Like, it doesn't have to make money or be productive. You can just do things because you enjoy them. Hell, you don't even have to be GOOD at them. You can even do things that serve no other purpose than your own ease and comfort. HAPPINESS, EASE, AND COMFORT ARE WORTH PURSUING IN THEIR OWN RIGHT. Some of y'all feel like you have to reach a certain level of discomfort to "earn" doing something about it. HONEY NO. Just no. ANY tiny bit of discomfort is enough to want to fix it. Happiness and comfort are not something you can earn. You are human. You are alive. SO YOU DESERVE TO BE HAPPY AND COMFORTABLE IT'S THAT FUCKING SIMPLE. You are so damn hard on yourself for absofuckinlutly no reason. What good does judging yourself this hard even do? It's only stopping YOU from being happy. Being incredibly critical of yourself doesn't do a damn thing for the people around you, and it ain't even gonna stop assholes from trying to tear you down. It just makes life harder and less enjoyable for you. Sweetheart, I've been there and let me tell you life is so much more fun when you let yourself go after what makes you happy. I mean duh going after fun shit means you do more fun shit so yeah life is more fun. But nine times outta ten no one else gives a shit if you do the thing. Seriously, barring true assholes no one is going to care. And you don't even have to let anyone know about it if you don't want to.

random ass vibes: Florida, raccoons, 88, white flowers, art.

The lil Bird

Ngl y'all, this reading was a tough one. I think y'all may have mixed feelings or simply do not want to hear this. One word: Emotions. I know, but it's a good message. Y'all are going to be able to stop hiding them and are going to be able to express yourselves in an authentic way. Maybe the reason this was such a tough thing to read is that some of y'all are hiding them super fucking well? Maybe y'all feel/were taught by a shitty society that emotions are weak or maybe you just felt like you couldn't fully express yourself in the environment that you're in. Whatever the reason it's coming to an end and it's going to feel so damn good for y'all! The way it came through, y'all maybe don't realize how much you were hiding who you are as a person when you hid how you were feeling. Now, don't worry this doesn't mean you'll be crying 24/ fucking 7, some of you may cry more, and some of you will actually cry less. When you allow yourself to feel and express in the moment it won't build up and you'll actually feel more solid and grounded in yourself because you're not always fighting yourself. This also doesn't even mean you'll be talking about emotions a lot more, could be that you're expressing yourself in a creative way or singing along to a song that you feel connected to alone in the shower. It simply means allowing yourself to feel and honor your emotions in an authentic way. It's like y'all have been going through life hiding every genuine emotion, every genuine impulse you have, and honey that's no way to live. It's no fucking wonder you feel like you don't know who you are or you feel disconnected from yourself! You haven't let yourself connect to yourself. In fact, you've been fighting yourself, I'm hearing for years. If you're in a situation where it is unsafe to express yourself, there is a message here that soon you will be finding a space where you can safely express yourself. The last card in you're reading was the World. It talks about harmony in all things, the end of something to begin anew. That is where y'all are headed, harmony in yourself.

random ass vibes: midnight mass, tom and jerry, tigers, sunglasses

#tarot readings #pac reading #pick a card reading #pick a card #tarot #divination #the star tarot #wtftarot #tarot reading #tarot community #tarot cards

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justarandomlambblog · 5 months

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Just doodling something related to this post and ofc there's narilamb in the au who do you think I am

Narinder's kits all turn out to be daughters. Aym and Baal are his only sons and I love that for them, but anyway. Lemme ramble about them bc I /gen love them?

Ari is the eldest of Narinder's kits. She was ~9 (I think in the post I originally quoted 15 years but I'm changing it to ~10 bc it's a nice solid number) when their village was attacked and her second dad died, and she looks sweet but is a total troublemaker. She loves pranks, looks for loopholes to exploit so often weasels her way out of trouble, and is the de facto leader of the siblings. Total extrovert. She's the one who goes "oh father said we can't go to the Old Faith lands but he said nothing about inviting their people to dinner :)"

Elloi is the second eldest, and was ~6 when their village was attacked. She looks a bit like a rebel but is actually the most well behaved of the three eldest kits, not because she wants to be but just because she's super chill and laid back and honestly, acting out and causing trouble is more energy than it's worth. She isn't a natural born leader like her older sister, but she is a great listener and a great source of advice. Definitely an introvert. She does not trust the Bishops and Lamb when they come to the village; her trust is hard won.

Minuit is the third oldest/middle child, and was still just a baby when the village was attacked. So that thing about Nari protecting the kits (and a good portion of the village) during the attack? Yeah he did that while holding a literal baby. Papa bear mode ACTIVATED fr fr. She's still young and is in that stage of life where she's discovering she can actually just choose to disobey her dad, and the worst thing he will do is ground her. And, as a baby introvert/ambivert, this is just fine for her. She loves to read. Stories are her bread and butter, and she LOVES songs that tell a story. Absolutely adores it. Btw her name I said fuck it, I can name a kit Minuit if I want. She will one day be, magically, the strongest between her, Elloi and Ari. (Mercy and Hope will be stronger but ya know)

The three kits above, being the kits of an ex-god, are demi-gods but have no idea. All they know is their magic is just quite a bit stronger than the other villagers' and assume (correctly) that it's bc of Narinder. Now, what each of their magic is I am undecided. I am thinking about it......

Now for the twins- Mercy and Hope (named by Lamb). They're shittens :) But they look very much like sheep (with floofy cat-like tails and Mercy has cat ears) so ye. They... don't exist at the point in the AU discussed in that post, but they exist in the future (more likely than not after Minuit is an adult, possibly far enough in the future that she's already stopped aging). They both inherit Narinder's third eye, unlike the older three, bc they're baby gods rather than just demigods and Narinder's third eye was a result of his godhood. Mercy is a few minutes older than Hope, definitely no symbolism there ofc, and they're super sweet. Absolute angels. Please ignore the fact that they will 100% sacrifice you to the shadows if given a reason. The first three kits of Nari's have pretty much nothing to do with the Lamb's cult beyond visiting their father (and eventually younger siblings) and step-parent and aunt and uncles and... idk what the gender neutral term is but Shamura, and maybe cousins after Narinder returns to the cult, but Mercy and Hope are raised inside the cult with all the trimmings that come with it <3

Oh, and have this random doodle. What's he so sad about? Idk maybe the fact he lost his partner a good ~60 years earlier than he expected to but ya know-

Anyway damn Nari you're all leg huh, lucky Lamb eventually /J /J but maybe....

#cult of the lamb #cotl au #narilamb #fankids #ig??#What is this AU called idk #the 'Narinder has a lot of kits' au??#bc technically he also has Aym and Baal tho they're adopted (magically speaking)#but anyway #I had fun with this #I will color them one day but it is yet again 230 am and sleep is calling me #Justa arts #sketches

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mochinek0 · 2 years

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Daminette December 2022: 12-Feather

It had been five years since Marinette had been back in Paris. So much had changed since she took that scholarship in Gotham. Many of the class had called her a 'deserter' or a 'traitor' for leaving them, others had been happy to get rid of a 'bully'.

Marinette had found happiness in Gotham. She had loved the art program. She had found many people loved her designs and her business took off. Marinette quickly gained a following for her ballgowns. Moving to Gotham had been the best thing she had ever done.

Marinette knew no one would probably recognize her. She had cut her hair into a pixie cut. She had long since ditched the pink and gravitated more towards lavender and black. The thought of Juleka coming to her for designs 'cause of their similar tastes made her giggle. Her clothes had gotten darker, sleeker, and worthy of Jagged Stone. She had gotten a couple tattoos, but her favorite tattoo was the red feather on her forearm.

"Marinette!" a voice shouted.

She turned and saw someone she hadn't seen in a long time: Alya.

"It is you!" she shouted, "Are you back, in Paris, to ask out Adrien?"

"Huh?" Marinette questioned, confused.

Alya pointed at the tattoo on her arm.

"The competitions you won!" Alya exclaimed, "The hat you made and he wore! It's so cute!"

"That's not-" Marinette began to explain.

"He wanted to see you, too!" Alya declared.

" But the tattoo-" Mari interrupted.

Alya smiled, gleefully, "I already texted him and he's on his way! Just hide it, if you don't want him to see it! I can't wait to see you together! What do you think will be your first date?"

Marinette sighed.

'How in the world does Alya think I came back to Paris for Adrien? It seems like she's grasping at straws for us to be together. Adrien's hat had been a pigeon feather; it definelty wasn't red. Alya hasn't changed one bit. She's still stubborn and gets blinders on when she's set on something.'

She rolled her eyes and pulled out her phone.

Angel: SOS

Angel: Come rescue me from idiots of my past

Demon: Where are you?

Angel: Park by my parents. Got stopped. Trying to set me up w/ my old crush.

Demon: Be there soon.

Adrien smiled, happily, as he entered the park. He waved at them, making sure they noticed him.

"Hi!" he called out.

Alya smiled, "Hey."

"So, you wanted to see me?" Adrien asked.

"Nope." Mari answered, "Alya told me that you wanted to see me, though."

Alya looked at her shocked. She hadn't expected Marinette to act that way.

'Where was the shy Marinette? She hadn't even stuttered.'

"What?" Adrien questioned.

"Look, I don't know what Alya texted you, but she started freaking out when she saw my tattoo. Alya said it was 'our symbol'." Mari explained.

"Tattoo?" the Agreste heir asked.

Marinette held up her arm and showed off her red feather.

Adrien frowned, "Why would a feather represent us?"

"The bowler hat." the brunette answered.

"Yeah, that Marinette had to change because I'm allergic to feathers." Adrien declared, "Also, it was a pigeon feather, not a red one."

Alya blushed, under her own assumption.

Adrien turned to Marinette, "Although, I don't think I'd be allergic to you; Why a feather?"

Marinette smiled, "This is only one of my tattoos. I have about seven of them. My favorite vigilante inspired this one. He saved me and changed my life."

"How did they save you?" Adrien asked.

"You met a hero!" Alya exclaimed.

"Oh, he introduced me to my husband." she answered, ignoring Alya's question.

"Husband?" the two shouted.

"You summoned me, Habibiti?" Damian spoke, announcing his presence.

Marinette turned and kissed him. Alya looked on in confusion. The guy Mari was kissing looked nothing like Adrien. He was dressed in all black and hardened eyes. Alya couldn't help but wonder what she had seen in him. Now that she looked over Marinette, she looked nothing like the girl who had left Paris.

Mari smiled, "I was just telling them how my favorite hero introduced us and we got together." showing Damian her arm.

"Ah, yes." Damian spoke, "Robin."

"From Gotham?" Adrien questioned.

Marinette nodded in response.

"Uh, how long have you been married?" Alya asked.

"Two years." Damian spoke.

"And you didn't invite me?" Alya cried, "Girl, we-"

"Will you stop?" Marinette sighed, "It's annoying how you think we're still friends ever since Lila ditched you. I would have told you your idea was stupid, but you never let me speak."

Alya shut her mouth so fast. It almost looked like she had swallowed her tongue.

"We stopped being friends almost ten years ago. When I moved, I never gave you a second thought. You're still the same stubborn person, who think they know what is best." Marinette continued, "Anyone who tries to tell you otherwise, is wrong in your eyes and you just talk louder to drawn them out. You don't like hearing you ae wrong, that you waisted time, or that you made a fool of yourself."

Mari turned to Adrien, "Adrien, you were called over here because Alya thought that this permanent tattoo somehow meant I still had a crush on you, since I was thirteen. That's why Lila was such a bitch, by the way. She was threatened that I had a crush on you and she wanted you all for herself. Alya thought that I waited ten years to hear how I might not be 'just a friend' anymore."

Adrien couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I happily moved on with my life, a long time ago. We're not in junior high anymore and it's sad to see you still act like we are." Mari stated, "Adrien, tell your father that I will see him at our business meeting tomorrow at two."

"If you both don't mind, " Damian interrupted, seeing how frustrated his wife was getting, "my wife wanted to relax, before we have dinner with her parents."

Damian grabbed her hand and turned to leave. Marinette was lashing out and that was never a good thing. She likely was still jet-lagged and he knew she had been busy with commission before the visit. That wasn't a good combination when she had enemies here.

"Wait!" Adrien shouted.

Marinette and Damian turned to look at him. Damian glared at the Agreste heir.

"I'm glad." Adrien stated, "I'm glad you didn't wait for me. I was a pretty big idiot back then."

Marinette giggled, "I'll say. Just about the whole school knew about my crush on you."

Adrien's cheeks turned red and his jaw dropped. Damian smirked, realizing how much of an idiot the Agreste heir had been in the past.

"I-" Adrien began.

'I have no words.'

"You saw me as a friend." Marinette smiled, "I know."

'I did say that a lot.'

"Um, right now I can see I messed up 'cause you're amazing." Adrien continued, "You've always been amazing, but wow! Thirteen year old me was dumb."

Marinette laughed. Adrien turned to Damian.

"Don't lose her." the Agreste heir stated.

"I don't plan to." the Wayne heir answered.

"Maybe, we can catch up tomorrow, after you are done talking to Father?" Adrien asked, "Your husband is welcomed to join, as well."

Marinette looked at Damian, "Perhaps, if our schedule allows it. We'll be here for a month, only."

Alya shifted uncomfortably under Adrien's stare.

"Start listening to other people, Alya." he spoke, turning away, "It's why Nino broke up with you in the first place. You never listned to him."

TAG LIST: @maribat-calendar-events @animeweebgirl @a-star-with-a-human-name @meme991001 @vixen-uchiha @abrx2002 @alysrose-starchild @fandom-trapped-03 @dood-space @moonlightstar64 @saltymiraculer @marveldcedits20 @09shell-sea09 @icerosecrystal @animegirlweeb @insane-fangirl-of-everything @blueblossombliss @nickristus-dreamer @megawhitleycalderonpaganus

#daminette december 2022 #daminette december #marinette dupain cheng #marinette wayne #alya cesaire #alya salt #adrien agreste #adrienette #damian wayne #damian x marinette #marinette x damian #daminette #feather #robin damian #tattoos #married life #mochinek0

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synesindri · 1 year

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lucifer gender symbolism essay masterpost

have you ever gone “huh that’s interesting” about lucifer supernatural appearing as a woman in white a lot of the time? have you ever been watching endverse and gotten A Vibe? have you noticed people referring to lucifer by she/her pronouns for no apparent reason? do you want to spectate while someone online acts deranged about some niche old shit? well do i have the post for you!

this is my thesis on fem!lucifer aka she/her lucifer aka “the devil wears nighties: a supernatural phenomenon” aka whatever else you want to call it. a long fucking essay exploring why i have been so hung up on this concept forever. it won’t be totally comprehensive, but all the sections together are like 13k words long, so it’s uhhh comprehensive enough to be annoying.

the sections are:

mostly non-spn background, context, & caveats

gender in supernatural

the dead nun

women in white

white women

mothers vs fathers

daughters vs sons

jarpad and mark p’s acting styles

sexual connotations of “vessels,” stabbing, and holes

villain gender in supernatural, comparisons

villain gender in supernatural, effects

they are mostly stand-alone, so if you want to skip some parts or skip around, the individual sections should be easy enough to follow.

the full essay is also on ao3 here

notes

my view on spn angels is that they are essentially non-gendered, or gendered in a way that has no resemblance to how humans are gendered. i am not attempting to argue that lucifer IS a woman, or that lucifer is meaningfully feminine. this is all about frames of analysis, that are difficult to avoid due to the non-human characters all being played by human actors who present and are most readily interpreted, typically, in a (binary) gendered way. i don't approach lucifer or any of the other angels as being intrinsically gendered, but as symbolically gendered.

i am focusing on a fem reading of lucifer because the masc reading seems to be more widespread in the fandom. since the more fem interpretation is not the default but is (imo) just as viable, it feels worthwhile to address it directly like this, since it also adds something to how the character comes across/how lucifer reads as a character and an antagonist.

i will sometimes rely on gendered (and sometimes cissexist) symbolism established in spn and modern culture more broadly, and some historical sexist tropes. i have done my best to address these topics with care, but i have sometimes chosen succinctness over thoroughness in being critical of the underlying misogyny and cissexism inherent to some of the symbolism.

there will also be some discussion of other sensitive topics. i have put content warning notes around the major ones so you can skip those sections if you would prefer.

this whole thing has a heavy emphasis on kripke era. it is what it is.

pronoun usage for lucifer is going to fluctuate kind of randomly between he and she. i don’t THINK there are any “It” uses thrown in here, but you never know.

i hope that it is abundantly clear throughout this essay that this is not terf shit, but i'm saying it up front anyway.

#spnluciferweek #lucifer #meta #spn thots #spn

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rel124c41 · 7 months

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MASS ANESTHESIA. vaggie

You cannot leave her to die. Down one eye, down two wings, defenseless. She spared your nephew’s life. Her blood smells divine.

tags: developing relationship, angelic lore, moral dilemmas, cannibalism, sad with a happy ending, masturbation, phantom wounds, eye trauma, fruit symbolism, the erotism of tasting the divine

word count: 8,335

IF an exorcist angel does not kill you, you will do the job yourself.

How could you have been so careless? Despite hearing the sound of glass breaking, you just assumed that it did not affect the matchbox home you had hidden yourself and your nephew in. You knew that boy got scared of loud noises, Satan, glass breaking? You should have been smart enough to know he would run out of fear. Now you rush out in streets of discord, looking for a boy not even up to your hip yet in height. Yes, you will definitely end yourself after all is said and done.

You are fortunate to be hellborn. Your nephew is not. And if only your fucking dead, deluded sister did not fall in love with a Sinner man who already had a child! Pushing a scrambling Sinner out of your way and into the waiting spear of an exorcist, you continue rushing through the current of chaos and feverishly search for him.

The world is so horribly vast. You never ventured out of Cannibal Town. Planning to keep yourself in one place, you and your relatives would be safe until you all died of old age.

You fucked it all up as always.

Pentagram City is alien – the reflective surfaces of VoxTek technology so foreign to you who lived in a place paused in the earliest part of the twentieth century, 1910s. Even cars are a cultural whiplash to you. Though, you are a quarter-worth certain that functioning automobiles are not typically upturned on their bellies, distorting with the fire that burns out of them, glass shattered.

You do not know where to even begin searching for him. Somewhere quiet is where he would mouse himself away but the earth tonight until dawn will be a cacophony of screams and cries. You book it down a left corner, calling out your nephew’s name.

Then, you catch the sight of him. Him running down the street, tearful, as an angel whips around the corner, hot on his tail and a few feet off the ground. Then he bolts in a dead-end alley. NO! You rip into the scene desperately, jumping sidewalk to sidewalk. Curses on your tongue and legs burning with effort, you follow after them.

The wings of an angel, front or back, are always an odious image. Known for their speed, there is something horrible that rises up inside you upon seeing them, unfurled and blocking your nephew from your view. You prepare yourself, readying to latch onto her back and feast down to her spine, to buy him time to escape. Surely you would die in your effort but –

“Go. Run, now.”

You freeze, staring at the back of the angel in disbelief. Huh? Your nephew is in more of an active state, taking his opportunity and rushing past the opening. His eyes find you and he jumps into your arms. You waste no time. Picking him up, you run just as another presence takes over your spot.

It is a ten second exchange. It happens in the blinks of an eye.

You can feel the heartbeat and presence of something ranking higher in piety than the angel who spared your nephew life, two heartbeats, puissant pulses.

As you book it down the street, you hear a woman scream, her cry of pain billowing out of her and from the same alley you just stood in the mouth of.

The world tonight until dawn will be a cacophony of screams and cries, you have no reason to check upon one woman when you hold your only living family member in your trembling grip.

CHARLOTTE Morningstar sends up bursts of fireworks just as you finish puking. An hour ago, you tucked your nephew into bed and left, ruminating in your mind. Your head is a cauldron of rotten and soured ingredients. You take one look at indigestible contents of your mind and stomach spilled on the ground and peel yourself from the scene.

Out of Cannibal Town, you have no direction of where to go so you wander purposeless. You thought you could clear yourself of this weight. Vomiting and walking until you reach the edge of the Pride Ring. If you reach the bottom of the earth, can you finally be free of this heavy, hanging weight?

Then, you smell it. Something that washes out all the putrescence sitting in the bowl of your stomach, cleanses it with soap and sponge, and makes you feel better again. Forgetting the bottom of the earth, you trail after that scent.

Pitching your nose up like a bloodhound, you let the aroma guide your feet in stumbling steps.

Thump!

Saliva fills your mouth, eager. You know the sound of a meal before you even set your eyes upon it. Turning the corner, you watch the injured person slip down the dumpster they had just thump-ed into. Exhausted, not going to put up much of a fight. Honestly, after this Extermination day, you thought your appetite would evermore remain a water soaked log, unable to spark into a flame again. How pleasurable to find that is not the case, you think, licking your lips.

The demon is panting feverishly, body quivering against the chilled dumpster’s surface. It twitches and murmurs. You never knew that Sinner smelt this good before. Then, your eyes land on the armored clothes thrown carelessly into a garbage can. Because that is what smells so divine – the blood laying on the clothes and the metal sides of the bin.

That stricken sensation returns to your stomach and your whet appetite quiets down. Your humane intelligence returns to you, reminding you of factors such as emotion and logic. You take in the sight of the body at a much slower pace.

A woman is panting feverishly, body quivering against the chilled dumpster’s surface. That uniform peeking out the garbage can is all the confirmation you need. You can connect the two linking smells coming from there, then from her. This is not something you should concern yourself with but –

You cannot leave her to die. Down one eye, down two wings, defenseless. She spared your nephew’s life. Her blood smells divine.

Making up your mind, you move forward, incredibly hungry and incredibly nauseous.

Before you even make a plan, you find yourself kneeling down in front of her. Kneeling, what an evangelical act to bend yourself and your strength down. Your blood races warm in your veins. The angel blinks disoriented and moves her cheek off the dumpster. Her mouth is open in tiny pants. And oh dear — when she turns to look at you, she only looks with one eye. Her left eye is a concave hole of pink tissue muscle which thuds with her veins which thuds with her heartbeat. You only catch a glimpse of it before she reels back, pressing herself into the dumpster.

“Wait, please,” you startle, showing her your empty hands. Displaying all the claws that could tear her apart.

What to do? You walked over to her with absolutely no plan. You do not have any medicinal supplies or bandages. And there is sincere doubt that an angel is going to waltz to a second location with a hellborn. What do you do —

Your stomach growls. The angel stares.

Without second hesitation, you take your hands and grip onto your skirt. The thick fabric weeps in your hands. Scrunching up your nose, you tear a long strip off your dead mother’s dress and turn motivated back to the angel.

“Please, let me.”

She flinches but stays still as you wrap the fabric in a mediocre tourniquet around the left side of her face. Best to avoid infection from alien viruses.

Neither of you smile at each other. She still looks ready to run. You still feel an unwavering hunger in you.

“If — If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name? You let my nephew live, um. I just would like to know your name.”

That seems to calm her down, shoulders relaxing, and she even gives you her name. “Vaggie.”

“(Name).” You can feel sweat run down from the crook of your arm to your inner elbow. Nervous that this is working. You haven’t fucked up yet. “My name is (Name).”

“COUCH. My bedroom. Kitchen. Bathroom. Off limits.” You point at each designated spot or room with a clawed finger. You deposit the blankets on the first item you pointed out, the couch.

For some reason, you feel uncomfortable at home. Bones and flesh too big for the apartment you have always lived in. You called it your matchbox apartment because of how little space it had, as much space as a matchbox to hold only matches, any other invader too large and ill-fitting. Now, you are trying to squeeze someone in and find yourself feeling unshapely.

You sniff when Vaggie sits on the couch, wary and small. Her single eye is unfocused as if she is trying to squint at everything through a sandstorm. You had to pull her from tripping over the limbs in the street four times.

“I serve lunch at 12 and dinner at 6.”

“Your nephew … is he?” She looks around the matchbox apartment, searching.

“Lunch at 12 and dinner at 6.”

TODAY, you take on a simple task. Cushion all the sharp corners in your home with bubble-wrap.

Vaggie watches you from her designated corner, single eye wide and full of caution. Ignoring her, you smooth the foam block onto the corner of your coffee table. The duct-tape croaks as you tear off a stripe. Let her look with all the abhorrence in her soul, it would not change that you needed to do this, if not for her safety then the safety of your furniture.

You doubt she noticed that you noticed. When she moved, she moved as if her Achilles tendons were sliced open. She had little coordination. You were tired of hearing pained groans accompanied by the wail of wood against the floor. It was bothersome.

“There,” you remark absentmindedly, standing up. With the living room and bathroom done, all that was left was the kitchen. You glance at where the angel is curled up, shivering. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

You know she will not eat any meat you serve. She must recognize Cannibal Town from past flights and recognize what your appearance means. You do not blame her for moving into the corners of rooms when you enter. It has only been two days with her in your home.

“Okay.”

You march into the kitchen to finish your task.

ONE random night, you stand above the angel in your living room. Dead light filled your windows and slept onto all your furniture. It is a calculated move on your part, making sure that the angel is in such a deep sleep that even the moon itself sleeps with her, translucent beams dull and tired.

Standing over the angel, you huff and puff like a wolf. Your chest billows in quick bursts, heart and lungs both erratic. You are like a starved animal whose metal leash is just a foot short of allowing you a meal. A rope of drool falls from your mouth, gelatinous and slippery.

The angel sleeps with her most vulnerable parts exposed like a puppy wanting belly-scratches. Neck. Stomach. Chest. Wrist and ankle. All part of her unarmored.

The second time drool pools over your quivering, snarling bottom lip, you take heed to wipe it with your wrist so it does not land on the angel and wake her up. You know rationally that one bite will lead to a gluttonous and greedy feast. As soon as you get to taste an angel, you doubt that you will ever want to eat anything else. All of your previous foods will lose color and taste, extinguishing your taste-buds in the presence of such delicious piety. Still, that alluring smell washes out a majority of your worry that other meals would be dull in comparison. Getting to taste Heaven just once … your mouth salivates at the thought.

Then, Vaggie rolls onto her side and snuggles into the duvet. A content smile on her face, happy that the duvet is warm.

Your mouth dries; you pull back physically and mentally, pulling back up your more merciful façade, sheep skin pulled over a mongrel mouth, blanketing yourself in your fake humanitarianism. You return to bed with an empty stomach.

OUT of nowhere, some arbitrary day, Vaggie aims a question at you like aiming a crossbow at a bird. The day was silent otherwise until she pierced it and ripped it apart. Her voice is soft and winsome, almost making you wish she indulged more in conversation with you. “Did the boy live?”

You freeze, body disconnecting from your raging mind. The knife in your hand stills, a centimeter of the way inside the lady apple you were slicing up for the roast. You can see the mountains of goosebumps rise on your foreheads, sleeves rolled up when cooking.

“No.”

No. His body laid in the off limits room, headless and torn at.

The squelch of the apple and bang of your knife meeting the cutting board is a horrid sound. You position your knife for the next cut.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

You do not think you can keep cooking. Trembling, you grip the countertop and hunch over your work. You do not know how you can survive with an angel in your vicinity especially when she says words like that, kind words that burn you.

Forcing a steady voice, you say, “It’s okay. You did more for my nephew than I did.” You continue cutting, even though your measured, straight apple slices turn unsymmetrical.

IT is a begrudging stay but it is a stay nonetheless. You can tell by looking at her that she does not want to be here but has no place else to go. She would much rather be picked up by someone kind that bleeding-heart princess, Charlotte Morningstar, or anyone in Cannibal Town without your issues. A lone woman grieving her nephew in a shitty matchbox apartment. A host less monstrous than you.

“HERE.” You place down the apple and knife. “Pick it up,” you instruct, sitting criss-cross across from Vaggie.

She grabs the knife and ignores the apple.

You deflate a tiny bit at that, then remind yourself that she is at least halfway there. Conceding, you turn to your own apple and knife. Precisely, you start to cut at your fruit, lecturing. “Your coordination is poor. You can barely walk around my house. You need to learn to live with a single eye now; so, start out small and learn basic life skills like how to cut an apple. Cut it into wedges, that isn’t so hard.”

To be frank, a small part of you did expect that your explanation would usher her into picking up the apple. Instead, she holds her newly acquired weapon to her breast. You mourn that you will likely never get that knife back.

Down, your eyes and attention shift to the apple slices in hand. What to do? What to do?

You do not want to work with her like she is some animal in your barn that you are trying to coax out, but how can you gain her trust besides in medicating steps like those? Your knife works slowly to make the bunny ears on the apple slice, skinning off a long triangle. Nature 101 says you allow animals to approach you in their own time.

“You must know this, that everything started with an apple. You and me, hellborn and heavenborn. Sinners and winners. All one tiny piece of fruit: knowledge, temptation, mortality.” You start plate-ing your army of rabbits, whittling with the fourth one to perfect his ears. “Our entire existence bloomed from one bite. This entire situation, from one woman’s hunger.”

Vaggie’s one eye flickers from your face to the apple on the ground, cautious. With your best efforts, you try to appear as timid as the animal you are craving from the fruit of life. It is a considerable task with your teeth and your claws. Hopefully, she reads well-meaningness in your pitch black eyes.

You keep the grin off your face when she picks up the apple, testing her visual perception and cutting wobbly wedges from fruit, because you know your teeth are not the best encouragement for her right now.

KNEELING, you try to repent.

The open maw of your refrigerator casts an evangelical light upon you. Holy light undulates on you in hypnotic heartbeat lines like underwater shadows. In the mouth of the refrigerator lies only one item: a single, air-sealed container of red meat.

Tired hand clasped around the handle, it shakes with violent tremors. You had attempted to submerge the volume of your cries but were fruitless. Out of your own mouth grief spills from. It is a wrecked, horrid sound. You gasp out a little speech around your heavy cries – tears and drool cascading down onto your knees – but all that comes out are broken vowels and smashed consonants. What comes out of you is the unknown torment of a mother losing their child. The image of Extermination night walks back into your mind and you wail louder.

You know you have to eat it. You know you have to swallow it. But the only taste you are able to plate is the bile rising in the back of your throat.

Eventually, your noise calls and beckons out your guest in the dead of the night. Vaggie stands in the kitchen doorway, watching you collapse into yourself underneath the pious glow of fluorescent bulbs. She cradles a fist up to her chest, running through all her options.

You are knocked out of your crying when you feel a hand on your shoulder. Mouth drying, you turn wide eyed to meet a sympathetic ivory eye, slanted down. Incredulous, you start to bristle away from her touch but stop when she starts to rub circles in your back.

Like an autumn leaf that puts up a valiant effort to stay tethered to its branch, you tremble wildly in her caring, angelic gesture. Then, you curl into her shoulder, sobbing anew.

It takes a while for you to come back to the house of your mind, sit back in the loveseat and understand what is happening. Thick webs of snot make a horrid noise as you sniffle. Your flustered cheeks are warm to the touch. Water has flooded your face, reaching down to your chin and neck. Vaggie’s hand on your back has still not stopped, circling and circling. The weight of her hand feels good on your spine – selfishly, you wish she would never stop.

Into her shoulder, you say with a damp voice, “As a cannibal, the tradition is that when a loved one dies, you prepare them into your favorite meals and eat them. So they stay with you forever.”

You are relieved that Vaggie neither flinches or stops in her motions. Saying something so monstrous like that, how careless of you. But needing to get the weight off your chest –

“When my parents died, my sister and I ate them. When my brother-in-law died in an Extermination six years ago, my sister and nephew ate him. When my sister committed suicide, her son and I ate. Now, it’s just me. He wasn’t supposed to—.” You choke on your words. I don't want to do this alone.

“You don’t want to do this alone?”

You tremble at how easily you are seen through. The intent in your flesh picked apart by a vulture’s beak. Shivering, you lean deeper into Vaggie’s hold and nod listless. You reel back when she asks: “Do you want me to join you?”

“I could never ask that of you!”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering.”

“No.” You stare up into your fridge. There are multiple times in it, not solely the air-sealed container of red meat, but that one has the most hold over you. Hugging tiny arms and hands around your waist. So you stare at it in the pit of clerical light. You have to do this alone –

You do not realize you are crying again until Vaggie brings a hand up to your face, wiping tears.

“Tomorrow. You don’t have to tell me if you put it in the dinner. Just tomorrow.”

YOU stand outside of your apartment like you are a waiting guest. In your tight grip is a single box, wrapped in black and red bows. Walking down the street, you fought twice with the temptation to throw the box into an open dumpster.

This isn’t crossing a line right?

Lines are being crossed and cut already.

You stare once more at your apartment door, hard contemplation on your face. Keying it open, you walk in. And there is always the living room trash-can.

She needs an eyepatch.

“I like to make myself useful.”

You suppose anyone is like that, seeking a purpose to make themselves less bored. Vaggie has not done much besides sit on your couch, staring out at the street until the dead of the night, and flipping through books she does not read.

You did catch her one morning using the architrave of your kitchen door to do pull-ups. She dropped flustered to the ground at your gaze and hid in the bathroom, which you had crawled out of bed to use. So that is how calluses came to be on her fingertips instead of palms.

“Yeah, but –” You send a glance to all the ingredients on your countertop. Cooking was sacred to you, a realm entirely your own. Maybe you should buy plants for Vaggie so she can find something else to occupy herself with.

“Please.”

You wilt at her sad look, only half as good as anyone else’s but surprisingly more effective than anyone else’s. Maybe you can trust her with cutting the garlic cloves but nothing more. The knife you raise is the only answer you give.

“WHY do birds suddenly appear

Every time you are near?

Just like me, they long to be close to you”

Radios were very popular in Cannibal Town. Popular synonymous with mandatory in this special case. Rosie made acquaintances with a young, upstart gentleman around 1940, his name spoken by either amorous voices calling “Alastor” or spoken by recreant voices calling “Radio Demon”. Since then, radios popped up in every house in Cannibal Town like weeds in a garden. You still remember the lovelier days where your older sister sat blushing by the radio’s warm glow, giggling happily when voodoo sigils floated up from the wires, and swooning over the rare moments when Alastor sang in his transatlantic timbre. She was wholly mournful when you did not share her enthusiasm like the ladies down the streets. You admitted that he had a decent voice once then went back to cooking your father.

After the Radio Demon’s disappearance four years ago, there was little left to listen to on the radios besides a stray music station. You cannot find yourself to part with the relic. It is one of the only items in your matchbox apartment that resurrects eroded blithe emotions.

Today, at dinnertime, the radio plays Close to You by The Carpenters. Trying to remain with some antiquity despite the fact it was the twentieth-first century. You appreciate it though: a soft, tranquil melody so antonymous with how life is down below.

Plus, you love pianos. They were so romantic.

What you prepare is called lomo saltado. Your culinary skills are really being tested by having to cook tofu saltado, as tofu is a medium you are unfamiliar with. The challenge is enjoyable though. Under the circumstances that your life two months ago had not changed so extremely on Extermination night, you would have never glanced in the direction of tofu when grocery shopping.

Now you dip tofu into a mixture of cornstarch and salt, listening to a radio play a love song, as the angelic guest in your matchbox apartment finishes her last set of military push-ups before she joins you to help cut produce.

“On the day you were born the angels got together

And decided to create a dream come true

So they sprinkled moon dust in your hair of gold and starlight in your eyes of blue.”

You are arm deep into a cabinet when you hear Vaggie walk in. Grabbing the cutting board, you praise, “perfect timing.” and move to allow her space to work. Her coordination has improved vastly in the time you spent together. You no longer eat one paper thin strip of tomato only to go for another and almost choke on the enormous size of it.

“Sorry for the delay, I wanted to –” Vaggie stops upon seeing your face. She forgets that you do not really like apologies. Playfully, she takes her fingers and zips her lips.

“Beat any personal records,” you ask, just trying to make conversation.

“Added an extra fifty pullups.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, can’t you tell?” She impressively flexes her arm. You laugh happily, handing her the kitchen knife. She picks up the parsley first and sets it down on the cutting board.

“I don’t know, you have a pretty lithe frame. Makes me doubt.”

“We can arm wrestle again if you need a third reminder.”

You fluster and tap her knee with your foot. “No, thank you. I thought I wasn’t going to be able to cook after the first incident. You acted like you wanted to be down a chef, left hungry and miserable.”

“Hey, I could cook if I ever needed to.”

“Yes, and you would just have to choke on it.”

This time she taps your knee with her foot. You two laugh as she adds the parsley in the bowl of ingredients. Fondly, you think of how much you enjoy how easily your conversations come when cooking and eating together, nothing like how it was not too long ago.

“That is why all the girls in town

Follow you all around

Just like me, they long to be

Close to you.”

It is nearing the end of that certain song, but you cannot stop yourself from asking: “Do you know how to dance?”

“Uh … I.” Vaggie stutters. Her Roman nose turns away from your peripheral, glancing around your kitchen as if you locked up her answer in a cupboard. “I.”

“It would be a good test for your coordination.” You point your own knife down at the cutting board when she has begun to cut the tomatoes. “Which could still use some work.” Still cutting a bit unevenly.

Vaggie is quite beautiful, hiding behind the silver overarching bang she is growing out. Her voice is winsome and she is something you do not deserve to keep. On the radio, a melody you have not had the pleasure of hearing before starts to fill the space of your kitchen. Unburdened by the evil of the probably dead Radio Demon, a woman sings: “So many cars, queuing in line. Such a sight just fills my heart with awe. Silent sadness fills my heart.”

“Do they dance in Heaven? They must, it is Heaven.”

“They do.”

“What about you? Do you like dancing?”

“As an … as an exorcist, I was not really allowed the time to learn anything about dancing. I just trained.”

Vaggie always waits for you to get hateful or vengeful at the mention of her being an exorcist. You should be, she thinks, risking a glance beyond her hairdo. Yet, you never shy away from her or the mention of Heaven. It is inane of you.

“Well, let’s train your body to dance. For your coordination of course.” Then you push her hands off the tomatoes and knife, dragging her into the center of your kitchen.

“Who should call us off?

Such a sight just fills my heart with awe

It’s some mysterious mass anesthesia.”

It is a learning process. Vaggie tries to follow your lead but you have no plan when dancing. She tries to take up the helm but finds herself nervous and backs off. So, you two just clash together, unexpectedly dancing a pretty dance despite your various differences.

When she rests her head on your shoulder, closing her single eye and thus ending the purpose of following coordination with her eye, you do not chide her on it.

IN the dead of the night, a scream floods your matchbox apartment. The waves of it crash into your bedroom, soaking your pillows and chilling the soles of your feet. Graceless, you push against it and catch just the last droplets of Vaggie’s piercing cry as she falls off the couch to the ground.

“What’s wrong!” Your mind flies to a hungry cannibal intruder who smelt an angel or perhaps one of those exorcists has flown down to finish the job. Your hand slams up the light switch. “Vaggie!”

Electric lighting in the 1910s is still spotty. Rosie has not found another decade she is fond of, thus leaving her town underneath the belt of many technological upgrades. It takes a few coughing flickers of dark and light before you can see clearly. Inside that momentary spasm, you think you catch the silhouette of someone standing over Vaggie.

“Hey! Leave her ALONE!” Your teeth flash solicitous in the light.

You blink in surprise to find no one but Vaggie in the living room; your anxiety birthing a figure who was never there. Your stupor is broken when Vaggie screams again, loud and pained, in a fetal position on the carpet. Falling to your knees, your eyes fly across her body. No visible injuries.

“Vaggie – Vaggie, what’s wr–”

“Para, duele!” She cries at the ground, panting, between her belts of agony. “Mis alas!”

“What? – I don’t – Vaggie!” Unequipped with bilingualism, you can only tell she is pleading with you about something painful. But there are no visible wounds and you do not smell blood! You cry her name again, grabbing her hands when she starts to dig them into her back. “Vag –” You wince as you get an elbow to the face. “Vaggie!” She twists volatile in your grip. “Vag–,” this time she misses her mark, “cut it–!” You hug her tightly in your grip as she starts kicking, forceful limbs punching your couch’s side. “Stop that! Please!”

“Mi – my wings!” Vaggie cries in your hold, still trying to twist out your grasp. Those words chill you down to the marrowbone; she takes the chance to explode out your arms. She curls back up on the ground and squeezes herself into the carpet, sobbing. She makes a mad grab for her own bare spine.

Her wings? Huh? You watch bewildered as she stabs her nails into the meat of her trapezius, gray muscles straining under her iron grip. Her hair has grown an inch longer than her bob. Wisps of it just barely brush against her shoulders yet you see the tension of her fingers digging into her muscular back … no … do not draw blood. I can’t –

Panicking, you seize her wrist as her openly vulnerable scream turns into something rageful. Vaggie twists in your grasp, trying to get her autonomy back. You slap her, praying she will not bite her tongue or cheek.

“Huh? What?”

You allow her to say that much before you drag her back into your hugging, bruising embrace. Taking your hand, you run it up and down vertically across the ridges and grooves of her muscles, feeling the protruding bones of where her wings were severed, two sliced mountains on her back. You keep rubbing, delirious and feeling out of body. To be honest, you have no tact when comforting anyone so your pressure on her back is too harsh like you are trying to scrub out a stain. Wincing in shame, you gently put your face onto the top of Vaggie’s head and just continue circling your hand on her spine.

She falls placated after a few moments. Previous rapid breathes even out second by second. Her hands lying down on your carpet slowly rise up to your shoulders and she folds herself into your ribcage.

“It’s okay. I got you. I got you.” You slowly lose your harsh pressure, trying to mimic what Vaggie did before. “It’s okay. You’re here. I got you.” Delirious, you keep whispering, worrying you are fucking it all up despite that way Vaggie relaxes in your hold.

FRANKLIN and Rosie’s Emporium is especially busy today. A part of you judges that is why you chose today instead of yesterday or tomorrow to attend one of her welfare/check-up sessions she hosts. They were always crowded when Love Doctor Rosie came down from her tower like Hell’s own Mother Teresa – but today is especially crowded.

Leaves you with the hope that Rosie will run out of time before the line burns down to the wick, leaving you and her standing face to face. Hoping she will send away the line before she reaches you.

You remember bitterly how your older sister stood like how you are once upon a time. She was worrying herself to the bone about marrying a Sinner man. Complications of him having a son, getting them to change Cannibal Town’s rigid appearance, the funds for even fostering a relationship. She had eaten her nails and even the top layer of flesh on her finger, truthfully worrying herself down to the bone. Your older sister had so many questions for Rosie, but you only had two:

What do you do when you want to devour the one you love?

And what do you do when you know this act of courting would not be appreciated but shunned?

You are a fuck-up. You know that you are a bite made of ingredients on the shelf past expirations. Nothing you have planned has gone the way it is supposed. The fact that you are even considering – feet shuffling closer and closer to the front desk – trying to foster a relationship is testament to how much you are fucking it up. Vaggie deserved better.

How do you even breach this topic of conversation with her! “I want to send you away. Yes, I know others might try to eat up and kill you, but those are infinitely better options than staying with me, Vaggie. So go. I set you free.” You wince visibly, trying to disappear into your handheld fan. Is she really going to be stuck with you … she must have ambitions of her own … why do you not ask her?

Because if she went, I’d waste away. I’m the one without ambitions. I lived only to keep my nephew safe. I failed there. Now I live fleetingly like a fly. You shuffle up in the line.

What to do? What to do?

When the distance between you and Rosie is only four people, you peel out of the line, unnoticed and hiding behind your fan.

WARM hand on your cold navel, you lie supine in bed and imagine a fake dream. The fake dream goes like this:

“Granulated sugar, not cane sugar, and black pepper in a fine grind, not a coarse grind.” You correct Vaggie, pointing at your shared grocery shopping list.

“What is even is the difference” Vaggie murmurs. When she is confused, she always gets a bit hotheaded. Her anger defrosts slightly at the sight of you smiling. “Not cane, granulate,” she sighs, “got it.” She turns her head to lightly peck you on the lips.

“Not coarse, fine,” you tease before she wanders out of your hold to venture down the produce section.

She is still adapting to your more sophisticated, specific tastes for food. Nowhere near ready to shop on her lonesome, you and her take your shopping trips together. You do not mind, you think with a candied smile. The domesticity of harvesting food together means a lot to you. Sharing food was a love language of yours, nurturing the one you love with the meals you slaved over. How your skin shivers watching her tongue wrap around the end of a fork.

While I cannot trust her with most of those items, she has an excellent eye for ripe produce, better than my own, you celebrate, watching lovingly as Vaggie stands by the slanted wall of apples. She is like an angel … Why … She is an angel.

Her evening dress stops at her ankles, elegant and only contemplating its wearer. Three little black bows line up at her waist, a fetching characteristic of the outfit, and match with her black lace eyepatch. Her fingers dance over luminous surfaces of red and green apples. She has adopted the aesthetic Rosie forces on Cannibal Town excellently and adapted to this domesticity too.

You return to browsing rack upon rack of celery. In your mornings, you have been licking the tantalizing taste of osso buco off your lips when you wake, chasing after something you can never fully sink your teeth into. They say the more expensive and elusive, the better it tastes. It hounds at you, tempting and delicious. You can almost smell it in the air.

Heavenly, osso buco smells heavenly. Picking up your celery, you go to ask the maitresse of produce her opinions on the selection when your eyes widen considerably. Gold ichor is spilled over the surface of a handful of apples, filling the air with the smell of evangelical blood. Your heart stops.

“(Name)?”

Vaggie’s single eye stares at you, nebulous and shining in her skull. Your name bleeds over her lips as she holds her arm, closing up this mysterious injury with pressure. “I can’t stop the bleeding.”

You should expect it but it still catches you by surprise when some other cannibal grabs your girlfriend. She shrieks, spun around by unknown arms. You launch into the rescue. Fist connecting with a jaw, you bare your teeth at the random attacker. As they stumble, you grab their neck and throw them. An apple avalanche rolls onto the ground. Mouth open with a hundred pin-sharp teeth, you unhinge your own jaw and feast.

It takes a few good bites. Twisting and drilling your attacking teeth down, you chop into a fighting nervous system. You spit out the thick chunks that you collect, disgusted by the taste. Red honey floods over your face and – finally the body stops moving.

Rising up, you pant like a dog. The blood on your face is sticky warm, slathered generously on your cheeks and neck like vinegar oil. Shaking with spent energy, you run a hand over your mouth and search for Vaggie. You blink in surprise when she holds out her arm to you, golden blood racing down her wrist, and she opens her pretty mouth to say –

You cum with a firm press of your fingers. Panting like a dog, you muffle your whiny, high-pitched moan by clamping your teeth into your bottom lip. Two droplets of red tremble down your chin as your inflamed body shakes with your strong orgasm, legs shaking.

“A-Ah,” you murmur. “Agh – fuuuck.”

Needy gasps billow out. Your forehead touches the silk pillowcase and you feel your own blood fill your mouth. When your chest eventually stops pounding up and down and rises up and down naturally, you nurse on the blood you have drawn. The emptiness of removing your fingers is not such a great loss when you taste blood.

You hoped you were not too loud, fingers thrusting in and out of slick. Vaggie was in the next room over. Your stomach rolls pleasantly and nauseated at the thought.

Always so fucking monstrous. You cannot stop your tears, shame from masturbating hitting you like a truck. You only know how to love like a monster.

EVENTUALLY, you knew this would happen. You could only hold out so long. Eventually, the inevitable would happen and it would collapse on you. Vaggie had gotten sick and it was only inevitable. Alien viruses from a completely new environment were no joke for heavenborn or hellborn.

You balance the bowl of ice water on your right knee, wringing a towel carefully in your hand. The coffee table supports your weight as you watch Vaggie. She is not sneezing or coughing, rather shivering and trembling with heat.

In quite a similar state as the time you picked her up from that dumpster.

Towel finally the right degree of wet, you lean over and start to dab it against her face. She tenses up with a gasp, blind to the sight of you. She quickly turns her head towards you to stare at you with her right eye. Strangely calming down at the sight of you.

“Eggs or a banana?”

Vaggie’s bottom lip pouts childishly. When she turns away from you, you lean further off the coffee table so you can keep the cloth on her forehead. You scold her, “you need to eat something today. I let you fast yesterday. Today, you are eating.”

“Not hungry. I never get hungry when I’m sick.”

“Unfortunate. Eggs or a banana?”

She is still turned away from you. You have learned that she hates being looked at when vulnerable, hiding away when she feels powerless to any sort of attack. So you rest your cheek on your shoulder, staring at your radio in the open kitchen door.

“Apple. I want an apple.”

That sounds good. Full of antioxidants. You smile and leave her with the cloth. Just as you touch the door’s edge, she murmurs into the duvet she has cocooned herself into like moth wings, “you’re surprisingly gentle for a hellborn.”

“And you’re surprisingly gruff for a heavenborn.” Yet you say this smiling.

SCHEDULE is Vaggie’s raison d’etre. It is that soldierly engravement of her constructed soul. Her fierce protectiveness and gruffness was knitted together by heavenly threads and her clay was hardened by evangelical fire.

These parts of her you really liked. You never expected that they would eventually come back to bite you.

It is partly your fault for breaking the schedule. You should have been home five hours ago, dinner should have been on plates four hours ago, and you should have been in bed thirty minutes ago. Walking into your little matchbox, moments before it explodes into flames, you cannot find yourself to care.

The laughter of a young cannibal boy about seven years old in the streets, after four months, it gives you pause.

You tried to trudge home, body trembling and mind spinning. Then, kicked out of your mind, you gorge on the bodies on the streets, puke them back up, and repeat until the pentagram in the sky glows a calmer, lighter crimson to signal night.

The blood drenching your front gives Vaggie pause.

There must be something honest and honestly evil in your void eyes because she bristles away with a single look. She glares at your nose and questions you, “Are you going to explain?”

“Hungry.”

“That’s not much of a good explanation.”

“Did you eat?”

“For Heaven sake, (Name) —!”

“I’ll cook you something.”

“Hey.” Vaggie squeezes her hand around the wrist of your outfit, fabric wet. “Mierda. What happened? What do you mean hungry?”

“I got hungry. You must be too. I’ll cook.”

“I’m not! I ate! Why are you acting like this!”

Laughter … sweet … unburdened … alive and — You never were angry at Vaggie for who she was before until the thought passes over you like a stray breeze, coming from an unforeseen place. You remember the Extermination night where an angelic spear appeared out of nowhere, slicing off his head. Laughter … sweet … unburdened —

Before you can stop yourself, you turn violently in Vaggie’s grip and bite at her.

She is a soldier; her reflexes are excellent even when recuperating from horrid injuries. You miss her Roman nose by just a whisker of space. She must see that something still present in your eyes, honest, evil, and hellish.

She turns tail just as you strike out again, teeth meeting air.

HUNGER. HUNGER IS THE WORST FEELING IN THE WORLD.

It is a hole that always returns no matter how much you subdue it. A prickling sensation that rolls on the skin. It pulls all the logic of the mind like flowing sand vacuumed back up into the ocean. Never quelled, always returning.

You scream as you are thrown over your coffee table, shoulders colliding with the rough ground.

Starvation is beyond hunger. Starvation is a zenith of what hunger can accumulate into. The prickling sensation eclipses and —

Vaggie cries angrily as you grip her hair, spinning her onto the ground and baring your teeth.

Vaggie is a temptation. Her lithe body nuzzled on an out of reach tree branch, hissing out winsome songs to you, beckoning with her finger. Your Garden of Eden, your matchbox apartment, has been poisoned long ago by you and you alone. Nothing grows and nothing stays.

The smell of rich, golden ichor floods your senses as your fist connects with her cheek. Shimmering blood hits your carpet. It zaps in your attention with a succulent shine. Body pausing, you are suddenly spun around. Vaggie pins you, finality in her military motions.

It is over. You fucked it up. You do not blame her if you kills you, you will kill yourself if she does not.

Her mouth moves in a fierce, loud shout. A string of gold goes from bottom lip to chin.

“Why are you hungry!”

You stare at Vaggie as if she has grown two heads. Where did that question even come, why would she concern herself with the thought? But, anger rising back up, you bite back up verbally.

“Because I’m in love with you!”

Now, you really fucked it up.

Chest convulsing, you blink back the scorpion sting in your eyes and grit your predator teeth. “I—“ Vaggie stares at you patiently. “I eat the things I love. But I could never ask that from you.” You swallow and then concede, whimpering, “I’ve been feeling starved of you since we met.”

Vaggie’s hair has not grown much but she can still use it to hide. Peeking through the curtains of silver, she stares down at you with her sole, squinting eye. The muscles in her forehead are crinkled like abused paper. She takes her cheek and rubs it against her shoulder to smudge out the trail of blood on her lip.

“Why wait for it to happen like this?”

“I didn’t want it to ever happen. I’ve been trying to find a way to get you somewhere else to go, a charity or I don’t know—“

You fall silent, shameful. The blood on your face is still warm; the blood coating you like body wash is still warm. You should have never let yourself show her how monstrous you could be.

“I’m sorry,” you amend.

Shocked, Vaggie blinks and stares hard at you. Her grip on your blood drenched wrists eases up slightly. Her breath smells heavenly, ichor in her mouth, “yeah, I’m sorry too.”

This is the part where she leaves, so you brace yourself for just that.

What you do not brace yourself for is her running a thumb to gather up the blood on her chin, then pressing it down to your lips.

“No. Wait.”

“You’ve taken care of my needs. I need to —“

“Not like this you don’t! Vaggie.”

“You cooked all my meals for four months. Please, if you’re truly starved, you’ll accept this.”

Gradually, you stop moving your head back and forth in defiance of your hunger. Her thumb hover over your deep red lips. The smell is everything you have been craving. You are positive Vaggie feels your stomach churning like a cat’s loving purr underneath her. You still resist a glance up at her. In her ivory and pink mixed eyes is something honest and good. Tongue darting out of your mouth, you lick her thumb.

Nothing you have tasted or will taste can compare. The thought leaves you yearning yet satiated. It is otherworldly, an unknown cosmos of flavors on your pallet. One single tiny lick is not enough. Before you realize, you bite with your shark teeth, piercing the fingerprint side of your thumb like it is an apple's skin.

“Stop me before it’s too late,” you whimper, high off the taste of her, leaning in to kiss her thumb.

Generously, Vaggie does not stop you at all.

You could never describe or replicate this taste. You were like the average Joe being asked what are the fragrance notes in a certain complex perfume, clueless about where to start. It tastes heavenly and unreal.

Perhaps you are too lewd in your feast because suddenly, Vaggie moves her hands to pinch against the bloodied sides of your face. You stare, mournful of her taking away her thumb out your mouth. You stare, shocked when she pulls you in for a kiss.

Your hands find themselves back into her hair, increasingly more gentle than before.

Vaggie tilts her head to the left, pressing down into you with all her weight. Her blood from her bitten cheek causes you to push up into her with all your weight. When she moans, wanton in your mouth, you grip her hair in your claws and squeeze her down.

You will say I love you later; perhaps two to three months from now, you two will have another physical fight to breach such a heavy topic. For now? You two collide in a kiss of juxtapositions and blood.

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