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spacebarbarianweird · 16 days

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Deep Reverie

Meanwhile I am writing a bday fic for @asterordinary, here is another dadstarion piece!

And there is also a snippet into the distant future just in case you want to see Astarion's granddaughter

Summary: Astarion has a very uncomfortable reverie only to be woken up by his 2-year-old daughter.

Pairing: Astarion x OC (Tiriel)

Tags: hurt/comfort, fluff, dadstarion, snippet of the future

Thanks @themadlu for beta-reading!

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

Astarion falls on the floor. The pieces of the rat he was forced to eat are stuck between his teeth but he doesn’t bother to take them out.

A night of “passion”. An innocent young woman, only eighteen years old. She didn’t want to sleep on their first date, but he persuaded her.

And ended her life by bringing her to Cazador.

As a reward, he was offered a choice. A filthy rat or a razor. For some reason, Astarion decided to fight back. Refused to devour the rat. Besides, the girl was so pure and pretty, didn’t he deserve a treat once in a while?

For that, his skin was flayed.

Long strings of flash were falling to the floor and the wounds immediately healed only to be cut open again.

And again.

Astarion begged. Cried. He was ready to eat the rat only to be spared from another series of tortures.

The master was in a good mood.

He allowed him to correct his mistake.

Now, Astarion lies in the corner on the stone floor. It’s cold. The dungeon is cold, and the autumn winds wander the mansion. The walls are covered in mold. His own body is dead and he has no warmth to preserve.

Astarion weeps mourning his own fate.

It will never end, he knows that.

Something touches his bare shoulder. Small fingers – and Astarion thinks it’s his gnome brother who came to him.

No, it's much smaller.

And warmer.

Astarion turns around and sees no one. But the touches become more intense – small hands shake his shoulder to make him pay attention.

And they are outworldly. They don't belong to this dungeon, to this mansion. They are on another plane of reality.

Astarion sits up. He is still in a dungeon, a cold and damp place. Godey follows his every movement. Someone screams from upstairs – one of his siblings is violently beaten.

Or assaulted.

Probably both.

Another touch, now more like a slap, but the hand is too small, it doesn't cause any unpleasant sensation.

Is he in a reverie?

Most of the time Astarion is aware that what he sees is a memory. But sometimes it’s such a deep reverie he is sure it’s real.

Astarion tries to concentrate on his body and feels like he is floating. Yes, yes! It was a reverie! A memory! A woman pleading for help, beatings, the dead rat. Everything.

But if it’s reverie, what is real?

Is he going to wake up in the same place? In the same dungeons?

Is he…

Astarion’s reverie ends.

He blinks.

His memories are an absolute mess and he tries to re-arrange his thoughts.

First of all, he is on the floor, but instead of cold stones, it’s a wooden floor.

Second, the place is unbelievably warm. He lies in front of the fireplace and the pleasant flame casts orange light on his face.

Third, he isn't naked. He wears soft fabric – a shirt, trousers, fur socks.

His head lies on a pillow.

And he doesn’t feel this horrible hunger. Well, he wouldn't mind blood, but he definitely can feel fine without it.

He notices a half-open book beside him.

Small feet echo through the room.

A two-year-old girl enters the room carrying a blankie. She approaches Astarion and then puts the blanket on his shoulders. The fabric is warm but very small and covers only the upper half of his torso.

He feels tears pricking his eyes.

Alethaine.

His baby daughter.

“Daddy sleep,” she pronounces, showing her fangs.

“I am not, princess," he answers. I am not. He sits up still holding the piece of fabric to himself.

Suddenly Alethaine’s lower lip quivers and the dhampir starts crying. She presses her tiny palms against his chest, helplessly pushing him back to the floor.

Astarion is confused for a few seconds and then laughs wholeheartedly.

“Whatever you say, princess,” Astarion lies back, adjusting his head on the pillow.

Alethaine sniffs and then lies beside him pressing her nose to his shoulder.

Her body warmth is a bit lower than it is supposed to be. She also doesn’t breathe, but her heart beats, she grows, and she has warm blood, though for Astarion it has a bitter smell and he knows even a drop of it would make him sick.

The girl in his reverie had silver hair too.

He doesn't remember her exact race or facial features but she was young, very young. And once she was a baby just like Alethaine. Maybe she insisted that her father sleep under a kid’s blankets, too.

And then Astarion found her. Seduced her. Dragged to bed even though she was clearly uncomofortable with sleeping on the first date.

He ruined her. And then Cazador destroyed her.

Astarion gives himself a promise that Alethaine will be able to protect herself. If a handsome stranger approaches her with sweet words she needs to stab him in the eye. She needs to bear her fangs and threaten to call her vampire father for help. Or murder them herself.

At least she is a dhampir. Her blood makes vampires sick. Even if a spawn makes a mistake, a vampire lord won’t dare to touch a dhampir.

For they are their parents’ demise.

Tiriel often mentions that sometimes, when her mind is sleepy, she is scared that there is a monster in her bed. Nothing changes the fact that Astarion is a vampire. Nothing.

Astarion sometimes has this chilly feeling that there is something dangerous in the house. Something that can end him. Something faster, something deadlier.

A two-year-old toddler with two pointy fangs who demands to be held by either of her parents and gets very upset if they are busy.

She is probably the only one in the house who isn’t afraid of no one. Her mortal mother. Her vampire father. The dhampir wants them both and loves them both.

Trusts.

“Oh, what a sight,” he hears Tiriel’s voice. “Alethaine, it’s time for a bath!” The half-elf leans into them, kisses Astarion, and then takes Alethaine.

“I wouldn’t mind a bath either,” he chuckles. “As long as you are present.”

“We can go there once she is asleep. I will gladly let you wash my hair,” Tiriel smiles softly and leaves the room.

Astarion finally makes himself get up and follows Tiriel to the bathroom. She’s already undressed Alethaine and put her in the small wooden tub. The girl splashes the water and giggles.

In the dim light it’s clear Alethaine has very pale skin.

Tiril splashes water on her long hair and starts washing it.

“Tiriel.”

“Hm?”

“Can I? Please?”

“Of course but I thought, you…”

“Tiriel. She is growing up. Look at her, she is two! How much time do we have to see her like that? To take care of her like that? It will be three years, four at best, and it will be inappropriate for me to see her undressed, to see her like that. You will have more years, of course, but soon she won't let you do all this. I have less time, but neither of us has much.”

“I see,” she kisses Astarion’s cheek. “Do it. You know, you are better at this anyway.”

“Am I?” Astarion chuckles, using soap to wash the girl’s hair.

“You are more tender. I sometimes make rough movements, she doesn’t like it.”

Astarion can’t imagine Tiril being rough or rude to their child but nods.

Suddenly Alethaine looks up and her ears twitch. “It’s night,” she declares. Then she makes a clicking sound with her teeth as if to bite something invisible.

Astarion concentrates on his vampiric senses and realizes that, yes, it’s already sunset.

And he can go outside.

“Yes, princess, it’s already night,” he smiles.

“I want to go outside.”

“Kitten, you can’t go outside after a bath. You will catch a cold,” Tiriel finds a toothbrush and kneels beside the small tub.

“I want outside. It’s night!” Alethaine insists. Astarion feels her muscles tense. She protrudes her jaw a bit.

Like the predator she is.

“We can go later,” Astarion splashes more water on her, washing the soap away.

“I want now! It’s calling me!”

Astarion sees terror in Tiriel’s eyes. Well, a little child insisting that something outside is calling for her is definitely creepy.

“And it can wait.”

“What is she talking about?” Tiriel asks, brushing Alethaine’s fangs.

“We are predators, darling. Night predators. It calls for the hunt. She feels it and wants to go.”

“Is it only about blood?” Tiriel asks.

“Maybe not,” Astarion gives his daughter a glass of water. “Alethaine, princess, what exactly do you want to do outside if we go out?”

“I want… I want … I want to go to the woods! To walk!”

“We can do it,” Astarion smiles. “But a bit later, all right, baby?”

“I want mum to go, too!” Alethaine casts a glance at Tiriel. “We go to the woods!”

Tiriel brings a towel, takes the girl from the bathtub, and wraps the fabric around her. “Alright, kitten, we all go together to see the night. But only once you are fully dry!”

Thanks to their dark vision, the little family sees everything perfectly. Tiriel sits on the grass, holding Astarion’s hand as if not to let him fall into the abyss of his own thoughts.

He is grateful for that. He is grateful for many things Tiriel has done for him, so natural for others, so distant for a creature like him.

Alethaine happily runs around.

“Will she remember that? This… night?” Tiriel asks.

“I don't know. Even if she learns how to reverie, such early years are beyond her reach.”

Suddenly Alethaine stands still and then jumps on something in the grass.

The next moment she shows her parents a scared-to-death mouse.

The mouse fights back for dear life, sensing the presence of two undead creatures.

“Princess, let it go,” Astarion says.

“I want it!” Alethakne insists on trying to hold the mouse still.

“Kitten, it’s scared,” Tiriel says.

“It is not!”

Astarion takes Alethaine’s tiny hand.

“Please, Alethaine. No one wants to be held against their will. It is bad.”

“Why?”

Astarion hesitates. It is difficult to explain to the child why imprisoning creatures are bad.

“Because it has a family that is waiting for it”, Tiriel says. “Imagine a giant catching you and dragging you to its lair. And how much we will miss you.”

Alethaine sits on the grass and lets the animal go.

“I would kill the giant," she suddenly says. “I am stronger.”

“And that's also not a good reason to kill anyone.”

“Unless they want to hurt you, then you are free to do anything," Astarion adds.

Alethaine sits between them, and Astarion brushes his fingers along her hair.

“I will remember that,” Astarion murmurs.

A little elf wanders through the clearance. She is only two and barely understands what is going on in the world around her. She knows that her mother calls her Little Fire because the toddler’s hair is the color of a flame. She also knows that her real name is Tiri and she is named after her grandmother who died centuries ago.

The world fascinates her and even though it’s dark she perfectly sees the tall grass flowers that grow abundant on the elven island which is her home. The toddler sees stars up in the skies and hears dozens of sounds with her pointy ears.

“Little Fire, don’t wander too far,” she hears a soft but stern voice.

Her mother stands a few feet away. Her long silver hair waves in the wind and her dress is as dark as night. Tiri is young, but she already understands her mother is different from other elves.

There is something different about her – she never goes to the druidic groves and often spends days in her dungeons where she performs something that Tiri’s father calls “necromancy”. She also has fangs she bares when she is angry.

And she can walk on ceilings.

Tiri returns to her mother and stretches her arms demanding to be taken in arms. Alethaine lifts Tiri up.

Her mother’s skin is cold but comfortable. Tiri’s vocabulary is still very small but she knows that her mother is a dhampir. But what exactly this word means, she doesn’t yet apprehend.

“You know, Little Fire,” she suddenly says. Tiri leans closer – her mother’s voice is soothing and something is enchanting about it. “I remember walking like that through the night clearance. I caught a tiny mouse, but your grandpa told me to let it go.”

“Mouse,” Tiri repeats.

“Yes, I caught a mouse. It was scared – and I was told to let it go. Weird, I am not supposed to remember such things, but I still do. You know, Tiri, my mum had the same freckles on her face. She would have loved you.”

Tiri senses sadness and buries her nose in her mother’s chest.

“Are you tired, Little Fire?” Alethaine asks, rubbing her daughter’s ear. The little elf nods and yawns. “Then, let’s you to bed.”

By the time they leave the clearance, Tiri is already fast asleep.

Alethaine hears her steady heartbeat and soft breath. Her baby is so alive she can’t believe Tiri came out of her half-dead body.

Did her father feel something similar when he was lulling Alethaine to sleep? Holding something that was part of him but much more alive and normal?

She was born with one foot in the grave her father had crawled from.

And what about her own mother, Tiriel? Tiriel died 170 years ago, her face is something Alethaine desperately tries to grasp, but it fades away. It’s a blurry image from the distant past when the dhampir was young and much more stubborn than she is now.

What did the half-elf feel when she held her dhampir child? The child who didn’t need to breathe and was cold as dead? Who tried to run away from her up to the ceiling and also had a pair of fangs?

Was she ever afraid? Did she ever feel sorry she married a vampire?

Alethaine knows the answer is “no”.

Her parents loved each other. Her father’s undead heart was shattered in pieces when Tiriel died and, even though he’s lived his undead life fully, they both know some things can’t be compensated.

Tiriel was never afraid. She wasn’t afraid of her husband, she wasn’t afraid of her daughter. She loved her with all the passion and warmth she was capable of.

Alethaine looks back.

The night calls to her like it has been doing for three centuries, ever since Alethaine was born. It sings, making the dhampir’s body stir and her fangs itch.

“I will come back,” Alethaine whispers into the dark. “But first I need to put my Little Fire to bed.”

Tag list @tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati @lynnlovesthestars @marina-and-the-memes @waking-eyes @ayselluna @connorsui @asterordinary @darkarchangel96 @locallegume @brainfullofhotsauce @coffeeanddonutscafe @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen @queenofthespacesquids @ednaaa-04 @dajeong @herdarkestnightelegance

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orionali · 3 years

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I know it's been 7 years since the game's release, but damn, Inner Dracul(a) has always been and will remain peak character design to me.

Its appearance, the lore, and Robert chewing the absolute hell out of the scenery, it all makes Inner effing G R E A T.

#aliya's musings #it's a good floating and flayed torso #kind of remember how placid and understanding it is in my AU #turns out when Gabe isn't actively trying to off himself #it can be quite a conversationalist #los

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gallickingun · 3 years

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Mirio telling you, “you take me so well sunshine.” While he pounds into you.

tw: overstimulation; size kink; dumbification; d/s dynamic;

ps, reminder that ~drabble requests~ are open! currently accepting for bnha, haikyuu, jujutsu kaisen, a:tla, & dragon ball!

You’ve been here for hours, it would seem, bracing your body for each agonizing inch of the heavy thickness that is settled between the apex of his hips. It is the pleasurable sort of pain, the kind that bares your soul and brings stardust to cloud your vision, when you feel like you’ve been split in two but there is nothing but starshine leaking from your heart.

“God, you’re pretty,” his voice is still that familiar kind lilt that he always bears, but now it is a few octaves lower, his head ducked into your neck so he can hide the way his brow bunches with a mixture of effort and frustration.

Mirio kisses your jugular and you swear your pulse pounds loudly in your ear, drowning out the sound of his guttural moan when you buck your hips up to try and drown yourself in the length of his cock, until he’s suffocating in your tight, wet heat. He grits his teeth and leans back on his haunches, thigh muscles rippling under the pressure of this new position, “I’m so proud of you, you know? My little sunbeam.”

Your hands reach for him, all bulging biceps and a smile, and your fingernails latch into his shoulders like tiny spears, barbed wire clutching his muscled back desperately. Mirio never once waivers, never once winces as if you were putting him in pain. His body is sturdy, a density that you can only figure out in your wildest of dreams.

“Y-Yeah, T-Toga,” you manage to whimper, your thighs trembling under the strain of his cock sheathed in your plush walls. You gulp and the start of a sniffle makes your chin wobble, “W-Wanna be good, please! I’ll-I’ll take it all!”

He doesn’t have the heart to tell you that he’s only halfway into you and you’ve already started crying, your sweet little body shaking under the threat of his bulking form and everything that comes as a result of his size. Mirio leans down to kiss your nose, calloused palm pushing any stray hair away from your face and then settling on your neck. His thumb seeks your jugular, hot and pulsing against his fingerprint, and he smiles, “I know you will, sunshine, you’re already doing so good. We don’t want to overwhelm you now, though, do we? Gotta take it slow.”

“No!” your cry is childish, borderline infantile in nature, but he knows it comes from a place of frustration and not malice. Your pretty irises glaze over with tears, shining pupils blinking up at him as you try to formulate a full sentence. He snickers at your effort, the barely-there bite of your nails into his skin, your knees bobbing against his torso in an attempt to get him to push deeper, and your adorable snarl that tells him you can take whatever he’s willing to give you, if he’d just try.

“No?” Mirio’s question makes your mouth shutter closed, molars grinding against one another as his hips meet your ass, cock withdrawing from your gummy walls only to press further in when he snaps himself closer to you on the follow through. You cry out but it is a euphoric sound, the whites of your eyes the only visible thing as your voice dithers to a whimper.

You clutch onto him as if you might be the one to fly through the wall as he increases his pace, still never forcing himself fully into you, but far enough that the salacious stretch brings tears to your eyes. It is a burn that fuels the fire in your belly, the knowledge that he’s got you flayed open on his cock, and even when you beg him for all of it he’ll never fully be able to meet you at the hilt, makes your mind burn. Your hands press to his pectorals when he pushes too far, the heels of your palms dug into the plush muscle and skin, watching as his tanned flesh gives way to your shoving.

“Be a good girl for me, starshine,” Mirio kisses your wrist and it draws your attention from the conjunction of your hips to his face, to watch the movements of his lips as he speaks, “If you push me away again, I’m gonna think you want to be done. Do you wanna be done?”

Mirio pauses the assault of his hips against your thighs, large palms wrapped around the supple skin of your legs to hold you in place against the mattress. You blink up at him dumbly as you shake your head, a new welling of tears blurring your vision, “P-Please, no, please fuck me, p-please, wanna feel y-your cock, want you to come in me. I wann-ah!”

The strings of wanton words that leave your lips have his cock hardening again, the head throbbing against your entrance, stretching you even further than before. Your nails scrape down the length of his torso, leaving angry red lines behind to accent the various scars that pucker his body. As his body stings, he drops his head down so his cerulean eyes are hidden from you, lower lip tugged between the bite of his teeth so he can channel some of the pressure building up in his lower belly.

“You think you can do it?” his voice is quiet, words warm against your chest as he exhales. His head is tilted just slightly, almost enough for you to make out his features down to his jawline. You feel the heels of his hands pushing on the bottoms of your thighs closest to your backside, and it guides your knees upward until your cunt is wide open, slickened with translucent white arousal and clenching around whatever length of his cock he’ll gift you.

Instantly, you are nodding your head, promises and oaths falling from your lips in excess. Your hands find his face to cup his cheeks, fingers slipping between blonde locks as you beg him for every last iota of resolve he has left. You want it to slip away like a balloon, forgotten at a carnival. You want him to forego any hesitancy, any thought that you cannot take his cock. All you want is to feel each squelching inch as it pressures the cavern of your insides until you think you might burst open and bare your soul to the world.

“I-I can,” your lower lip wobbles and then juts out just slightly, “I can! I-I will!”

The gentlest of smiles overtakes his features, and you want to kiss him until you can feel the warmth of his spirit invading your space. So, you tug against his jaw with your most free palm, begging him quietly to silence your mewls with the heat of his mouth. Mirio is quick to oblige, the bow of his lips seeking out your own, searching for the plush of your mouth until he’s swallowing your spirit whole. The wet muscle between his teeth searches your gums and laps against your teeth, all the while his palms have folded you backward so he can better loiter over you. His cock twitches in begging, the desire to be encapsulated by your gushing folds and soft innermost parts only servicing to enlarge the shaft of him even more so than before.

“All right, honey,” Mirio digs his fingers into your skin until you know there will be bruises, and then he begins to maneuver his hips backward and forward at a gentle pace. Your tongue peeks from your teeth to swipe against your bottom lip, and Mirio capitalizes on the moment to suck the muscle into his own mouth, tasting your fruit tea from earlier and the flavor makes him hum.

Your thighs burn already, but you know if you fall slack then Mirio will hold you steady, so you let the tension relax and you turn into a ragdoll in his grip. You feel the shaft of his cock drag along your walls, and your eyelids flutter shut so you can immerse yourself in the pleasurable sensation. Even though you cannot see his smile, it is still there, never wavering, and it stirs him to kiss both of your ankles, laving his tongue over the bone for a short moment before continuing to volley attention between both legs.

He is near ready to bottom out when you open your eyelids to show glazed pupils, and Mirio grunts out a laugh, “Have I fucked you stupid, starshine? Are you silly for my cock?”

Your hands roam the planes of his chest and shoulders, thumbs and middle fingers digging into his skin to feel how his muscles ripple with each thrust forward. Mirio plants another kiss between your brows, stationary until your skin relaxes and he’s sure you’re not uncomfortable. He sighs against your cheek, administering another kiss before he leans back to admire you in full, “Can’t do anything without me, can you sweetheart?” And when you don’t answer in full sentences, he knows that you have fallen off of the precipice of subservient and begun to drown yourself in something much deeper. He sighs, kissing your left ankle one last time, “Let me help you, then.”

And now your body is truly on fire.

His cock stretches as he snaps his hips upward at a relentless pace that has the wooden stands of the large bed creaking under both his ferocity and your combined weight. Mirio rests a hand beside your neck, his thumb grazing your collarbone to give himself some sort of anchor to the moment, and you keen, licking your tongue all around until he presses the pad of his thumb against the middle of your mouth. His knuckles are large and his hands are proportionate, meaty and calloused from years of battle and growth.

You know there will be bruises along your ass tomorrow, but you cannot be bothered, not when that saccharine sweet voice comes floating through the night air with a reassuring, “You take me so well, sunshine,” and then it’s like he’s given you permission to take flight.

#mirio x reader #mirio smut #mirio togata x reader #bnha x reader #bnha smut #mirio togata smut #my writing #morgan writes bnha #anonymous

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aion-rsa · 4 years

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Rick and Morty’s Most Gruesome Deaths

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The super-slick, super-sick Rick and Morty brand is known for many things: the warped, borderline-abusive dynamic between its titular characters, its deliciously dark humour, the gleefulness it takes in capsizing the conventions of a thousand genre tropes. Then there are the catch-phrases, and the colourful cast of supporting characters – everything from fatally-depressed Mr Meseeks to embedded family friends like Mr Poopybutthole. What really characterises it though, is death. That it’s not the first association you make with the show is possibly a by-product of there being so damn much of it that it stops registering.

There are long deaths, slow deaths, good deaths, bad deaths, sad deaths, funky deaths, perfunctory deaths, ironic deaths, iconic deaths, horrid deaths, hilarious deaths and hectares of borderline disturbing deaths.

Here are the most gruesome, in all their gory glory, season by season. (It’s a testament to Rick and Morty’s perpetually heavy ante that a little girl having her head sliced off by a Freddy Krueger substitute doesn’t even make it onto the list.)

I hope you haven’t eaten yet.

S1, E3 ‘Anatomy Park’ Come Flay With Me

Morty fails to save a fellow miniaturised man when things go south in ‘Anatomy Park’, a themed pleasure experience situated inside the body of a chronically unwell homeless man. The poor soul is sucked through the dying tramp’s windpipe and out through his mouth, the skin and flesh being stripped from his bones in the process, leaving him a peeled human spit-ball.

S1, E3 ‘Anatomy Park’ Space Guts

Things aren’t any less gruesome when the bloated corpse of the tramp is made giant by science. It ends up floating in space – because of course it does – whereupon it’s blown to smithereens, sending bone and guts spiralling into the void.

S1, E5 ‘Meeseeks and Destroy’ Who You Gonna Kill?

Morty not only finds himself preyed upon by parasite zombie versions of his family, but also has to watch as they’re trapped, burned, squished, melted and pulled into a piece of trapping technology that Rick clearly ripped from Egon’s ghost-busting manual.

S1, E5 ‘Meeseeks and Destroy’ Fairytale Ending

A fairytale giant – in the ‘Fe Fi Fo Fum’ mould – slips in his kitchen and slams his skull on a table-top. He bleeds out, a look of mystified shock frozen in his eyes, convulsing as his life-force ebbs away. RIP childhood.

S1, E6 ‘Rick Potion #9’ RIP and Mortal

In a sequence as chilling as it is gruesome, Rick mishandles some super-dangerous piece of kit and blows himself and Morty to Kingdom Come. Their crumpled remains, spattered with blood, smash against the wall; Rick’s eye pops out. Our own – thankfully unscathed – Rick and Mortys arrive from a doomed neighbouring dimension to bury them and take their place.

S1, E8 ‘Rixty Minutes’ Lepre-gone

You should never watch Inter-dimensional TV on a full stomach. In this advert, a cereal-hocking leprechaun – the mascot of this universe’s favourite breakfast cereal, Strawberry Smiggles – is pinned down on a tree stump by a little boy and girl, who proceed to slit open his abdomen and feast on his spilled-out innards; even squeezing out cereal shapes from his intestines and gobbling them like Pez sweets.

S2, E4 ‘Total Rickall’ Memory Massacre

Morty and family encounter shape-shifting alien parasites that reproduce through implanting false memories in a host’s brain. Their pus-fountained death throes – as their bodies wither, wilt, and burst in a screaming fanfare of tentacles – is pretty gruesome to behold, but thankfully you become desensitised to it pretty quickly.

S2, E7 ‘Big Trouble in Little Sanchez’ Rick Kills Himselves

At least Rick is an equal opportunities murderer. Even another version of himself isn’t exempt from his nihilistic rage. Here he gleefully smashes, drop-kicks and hacks up his own glass-encased surrogates, leaving a pile of bloodied parts strewn across the floor.

Rick and Morty: A Guide to Every Voice Actor

By Alec Bojalad

Rick and Morty Season 5 Debuts First Look Teaser

By Alec Bojalad

S2, E8 ‘Interdimensional Cable 2: Tempting Fate’ Man vs Car

Another Interdimensional TV segment, another stomach churner. Literally this time. A punkish strongman is crushed to death under the wheels of a car he’d hoped to repel, his blood and body parts thrown from the fast-spinning tyres like fireworks from a Catherine Wheel.

S2, E8 ‘Interdimensional Cable 2: Tempting Fate’ Jerrymurdering

Jerry is violently shot to death, leaving his face a drooping, lacerated, blood-dripping husk. Thankfully he’s in a technologically sophisticated futuristic hospital that presumably offers socialised healthcare.

S2, E9 ‘Look Who’s Purging Now’ Mashes to Mashes

When Rick and Morty don robo-suits and enter the Purge, expect blood. When Rick hoists a purgee off the ground and pops his head off like it was a bottle-top, sending a fountain of blood arcing into the air, it’s pretty damn disgusting – and admittedly also a bit cool – but for gruesomeness you can’t beat the sight of two people having their heads slammed together leaving a mess of pink-hued, brain-flavoured mashed potato.

S3, E1 ‘The Rickshank Rickdemption’ Pop Goes the Weasel

In the midst of some inter-dimensional Rick and Morty-based carnage, a poor Morty is crushed to death with one swift trample, as if he were nothing more than a tube of toothpaste. His dead body lies on the ground like a stuffed tiger rug, his hollow eye sockets and melon-mouth aflame with blood.

S3, E2 ‘Rickmancing the Stone’ Bad Beth

Summer flips a Mad Max-style baddy’s death-machine, maiming him horribly. He drags his torso towards her from the wreck, on a slime of entrails, pleading with her to put him out of his misery. ‘OK,’ she says, ‘But not because you told me to.’

S3, E2 ‘Rickmancing the Stone’ Give Him a Big Hand

For maximum yuk, you really can’t beat Morty smashing skulls to a pulp in a Thunderdome-inspired death arena with his beefy, vengeful and murderously sentient replacement arm.

S3, E3 ‘Pickle Rick’ Rat-a-tat-splat

I’m going to condense multiple deaths into one here, all perpetrated by that mighty, vegetable-based superhero, Pickle Rick. First, he slices off a rat’s head with a trap and harvests its bones and sinew to add limbs to his pickle body. Next, he proceeds to dispatch a whole army of rats with his makeshift power-tools in a variety of brutal and ghastly ways: pummelling brains; suspending bleeding corpses from the ceiling; cutting them into strips, and even cleaving them in two. Riotously disgusting.

S3, E3 ‘Pickle Rick’ Laser Tag

Pickle Rick’s human opponents fall just as easily – and horrifically. The best, and messiest, kill is when Pickle Rick bores a laser-shot through the heads of three of his enemies, and then proceeds to stare cockily through the tunnelled lens of charred goo like some pickle-based James Bond.

S3, E4 ‘Vindicators 3: The Return of Worldender’ Falling Down

Speaking of Superheroes, let’s say hello and goodbye to Morty’s favourite team, The Vindicators, most of whom met a particularly savage end. First there’s Vince Maximus, who flies into a ceiling vent, and is shot to death in such a spirit of Rambo-esque overkill that his disembodied legs drop to the ground like a downed plane.

S3, E4 ‘Vindicators 3: The Return of Worldender’ See You Later Alligator (In a Pile, Crocodile)

Then there’s Croc-u-bot, splatted into a green pulp by a springing trap.

New Rick and Morty Anime Short is Very Fun and Very Anime

By Joe Matar

When Will Rick and Morty Season 5 Happen?

By Alec Bojalad

S3, E5 ‘Vindicators 3: The Return of Worldender’ Ants in His Pants

And the perpetually angry Alan Rails, whose gullet is invaded by the shifting, morphing body of Million Ants, who first inflates him then detonates him in a riot of guts.

S3, E5 ‘The Whirly Dirly Conspiracy’ Game Over

This one if possibly the most viscerally gruesome death in the entire show. A little girl is shot through the head by her giggling boy pal just as Rick deactivates the invincibility shield protecting everyone inside the dome from death.

S3, E5 ‘The Whirly Dirly Conspiracy’ A Bug’s Death

Another death that’s psychologically, rather than physically, gruesome. Three little bug-people sit toasting each other’s health and happiness. ‘Let’s just relax and enjoy our retirement,’ says one, as he’s snatched by a bird of prey and carried to his doom. The last thing we see of him as he’s ferried to his horrible off-screen death is the open portal of his screaming mouth.

S3, E6 ‘Rest and Ricklaxation’ Party Poopers

A furry party-entertainer and a bunch of happy young kids are engulfed in a toxicity field. An angry exchange ensues, which culminates in the brutal beating, beheading and evisceration of the entertainer. They’re also available for weddings and Bar Mitzvahs.

S3, E7 ‘The Ricklantis Mixup’ Morty’s Flush

Thousands of dead Rick and Mortys float eerily through space having been tossed from the airlock by a homicidal Morty.

S4, E1 ‘Edge of Tomorty: Rick Die Rickpeat’ Crystal Death Addiction

When Morty first gazes upon the death crystal we see a shimmering smorgasbord of possible deaths. If you’ve got a fast pausing-hand, or the eyes of a spider, you’ll see such memorably brutal deaths as: Morty being sucked through a spacecraft toilet and ejected into the cold, airless void of space; dropped into a nest of giant baby birds and torn asunder; decapitated by an elevator door; and even falling from a skyscraper and being whisked to death by helicopter blades.

S4, E1 ‘Edge of Tomorty: Rick Die Rickpeat’ Rick’s Crystal Maze

Rick carks it in some hellishly grizzly ways, too. He’s torn in half by Squanch, is eaten by a giant spider, has his head splattered open like a melon by a swinging log, and – in perhaps the most horrific segment – has his body churned through a rectangular aperture in a giant Play Doh maker.

S4, E1 ‘Edge of Tomorty: Rick Die Rickpeat’ Clunk, click. Dead Rick.

Rick soon after dies for real (but not forever) in a spacecraft crash following some death-crystal-related shenanigans, smashing through the windscreen and impaling himself on a spike.

S4, E1 ‘Edge of Tomorty: Rick Die Rickpeat’ The Wasp Factory

Extra points for top tier body-horror gruesomeness with this one. Wasp Rick lays eggs in giant Rick’s eye, causing fast-hatching grubs to spill out from his massive mouth. Seconds later, a horde of Rick-wasps hatches en masse from his face, splitting it open like an overboiled hot-dog. Yuk!

S4, E3 ‘One Crew Over the Crewcoo’s Morty’ Treachery Will Tear Us Apart

Heist artist Miles Knightley is torn apart like a chicken dinner by a medley of bizarre alien creatures – a cross between the ghosts from The Real Ghostbusters intro sequence and something that fell out of Clive Barker’s nightmares – whose piece de resistance is yanking the skin from his wet skull like it’s a bad mask.

Are there any particularly gruesome deaths you’d like to add to the list? Or would you like to weigh in on which of these fatalities repulsed or horrified you the most?

The post Rick and Morty’s Most Gruesome Deaths appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3bCWI0f

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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cuorepietoso · 4 years

Text

Things you said that made me feel real

requested by and ft. @ivanrahal

There’s something funny going on with the lights. Battista isn’t sure if he’d just had a little bit too much ecstasy the night before, or if Ivan has managed to well and truly wring all the good sense from him, if he’s taken him apart achingly slowly on this lazy Sunday morning and put him back together in not-quite-right pieces, but whenever he glances at the sunlight pooling over the dark ink that covers Ivan’s shoulders it seems like the vast array of negative space might flow off his skin and swallow the both of them while, pitch darkness and something like peace. Peace, or whatever approximation Ivan is able to bow his neck to, the little he can tolerate in his poorly managed quest for freedom. Poorly managed, but gloriously lived.

He watches Ivan’s hand creep up his thigh, his fingers hot like brands, and his thumb settling across his hipbone and tracing the line of it back and forth. There’s a white snake there on his hand that almost seems to come alive and slither with the slow stroke of his thumb, the shift of tendon and bone that he knows so well by now. His cheek is pressed to Battista’s other hip, and when he shifts his gaze to meet with pale eyes that eat just as much light as the dark tattoos, Ivan licks his lips with an indescribably smug air, and gives him a smirk that he can’t help but return in kind.

That he answers the expression with a mirror of it emboldens Ivan, and he slides up his torso with a delicious stretch of skin and sinew, nearly languorous in its execution, until his lips are pressed to his collarbone, and then his Cheshire grin with all his perfect teeth is centimeters from Battista’s bare throat. Neither of them move for a moment, and then Ivan opens his mouth, and Battista already knows that he’s in a lot of trouble.

“Do you love me?” The question is almost self-satisfied, sing-song. Ivan thinks he’s playing a game, and he thinks he’s playing to win, so he whispers it against Battista’s throat like it’s an opening serve in a game of tennis. His spider-like fingers trail up Battista’s side as if to punctuate the question. Surely, he imagines he’s joking-- if he didn’t think he was joking, it would have fallen out of his mouth like an accusation.

Battista doesn’t hit it back. Do you love me? Ivan asks, like the answer should be easy. It’s a yes or no question, but neither of those could ever be good enough. Every ounce of humor drains from him, and his fingers that had been trailing up Ivan’s spine stop cold right between his shoulder blades, as he stares down at the impish smile spread across plush lips. Do you love me?

The right answer, Battista knows, the right answer would be a clever little line, a brush off to ignite Ivan’s temper that he can smooth with another kiss to the corner of his mouth, or by tangling his fingers in Ivan’s hair and pulling. The truth, if he were to let that fall, would be a simple yes. It would be a yes, and he wouldn’t have to elaborate but he could anyway. He could talk about how much he loves to listen to Ivan mutter to himself as he clicks away on his laptop, and he could tell him how much he loves to watch him wake in the mornings, cranky as all hell, and he could tell him how much he loves to spar with him. He could tell him he loves the color of his eyes, and the sound of his voice, and the way that his hands always feel warm when they press against his cheek, or the nape of his neck, or the last floating rib at his side. His adoration for the flare of his temper, the silk of his seduction, the fierceness of his rare passions. The truth, he knows, could never be good enough.

It’s with an almost docile stillness that he cools his tone, and presses a cold hand to the nape of Ivan’s neck, and he lies to him. “No,” he says simply, knowing damn well that Ivan wanted to open up his eyes and let himself see the truth and flay him with his tongue, he easily could. Battista Tahan is not a man of bold faced lies, and he’s never been able to pull one off with Ivan.

Confusion darts across the younger man’s face, like he can’t quite believe Battista would be so abrupt in shutting down his little game. He raises a brow, and then leans closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his jaw, and then the corner of his mouth, and then to his lower lip, soft little things he’s picked up from Battista. Tricks, as if he were a dog. They set his nerves alight and his heart pounds in his throat, because he knows that’s Ivan’s way of asking: are you sure? Look at these things that you have taught me, the tender way we touch and let ourselves be touched. Are you sure?

He gives him another chance to play, to brush this off. Ivan opens up his pretty little mouth and lets the words slip out like the fall of silk against skin, brushing against his mouth. “Will you ever love me?” He asks, like he hasn’t just hammered another nail into the coffin of one Battista Tahan.

It’s another chance to play. Battista could rib him, he could brush him off. He can’t make himself squeeze out the words, because he isn’t a creature that was made to joke about these kinds of things. He could tell him the truth, he could whisper ‘always’ and watch Ivan reel back as if he’d been struck, and then turn his venom back to Battista because he’s afraid of whatever he thinks that truth implies. He opens his mouth to do just that, but a sliver of restraint takes hold in his throat and what comes out instead is a long, steady sigh, and a soft, “No.”

With every inch of their skin pressed close, Battista can feel him tense like he’s getting ready to roll off of him, or start swinging. Their faces are still chin to chin, lips brushing with every movement, and his eyes are narrowed as he watches Battista flat out lie to him. And he can see the spark of realization in his eyes, when he catches him in that lie. When he thinks about it and he notices every little tell that Battista has, the minute flicker in his eyes that are soft and brown and tired in the early morning light, despite how frigid he’d made his voice. He watches as Ivan grits his teeth and swallows and leans away, and he holds his breath.

A myriad of expressions cross his face, confusion to disgust to fear, anger thrumming beneath them all. He can recognize this truth, at last: when Battista had said he doesn’t love him, and would never, he’d been lying. Battista knows he won’t want to examine that any further, lest he dig down to the bottom and realize that this game isn’t a fucking game at all. They both know enough to know this: once the game is over, there’s no reason to stay. So Ivan just sits up and glares down at him, hands pressed against Battista’s chest and his knees on either side of his waist, and he hisses, “Well that’s one less thing to worry about, isn’t it?” because he’s never known how to lose gracefully, and he won’t start now.

Battista’s hands slip from Ivan’s back as he sits up and they settle on his bare thighs. One less thing to worry about-- nothing to worry about at all, Rahal, if you still really think this is just a game. His chest feels like a great empty cavern, with that steady, maddening drip-drip-drip that he can never find the source of. He can never stop the running. His voice sounds soft when he murmurs back, “Yeah, it is,” and that’s the end of their conversation.

Ivan rolls off of his bed like he’d lit a fire under him, and he stalks off to the shower, and tries to scrub away every little mark of love Battista had left on him.

II.

Evenings like this, he’s absolutely frantic. His blood feels like it’s boiling, and his legs are restless, and Ivan is watching him pace a hole into the floor in his living room with some mixture of bored, concerned fascination. It’s most likely that the boredom is affected, or maybe it’s most likely that the concern is affected-- Battista can hardly tell, when he’s like this, when his mind won’t let him settle. He’s too busy planning, worrying, it’s making the hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end and he needs to remember, needs to remember.

He needs to remember: the only person he can depend on is himself.

Battista sits, finally, and Ivan takes that as an invitation to press himself close, hip to hip and thigh to thigh, and he settles his hand high up on Battista’s thigh and squeezes, just a little, and then takes the way his legs fall open as a further invitation to lean forward as if he were going to kiss him.

But no, no. That’s not right-- Battista needs to remind himself, he needs to remember that the only person he can depend on is Battista Tahan. His own plans, his own cold heart. He needs to remember that anyone else would sooner slit his belly and feast on his entrails than give him any kind of help, and he needs to remember that Ivan himself is the most likely candidate for backstabber of the year. Ivan Rahal, he needs to remember, is the only man alive that can get him to roll over and show his belly, and he’s just as likely to rip out his throat as he is to lean down and kiss him tenderly, the way he’s about to do right now.

Battista puts two fingers to his chin that stop him just a few centimeters from planting a kiss on his throat that he knows will make him forget about every problem he’s ever had, for a little while. He knows that’s what will happen because that’s what’s always happened before. Ivan stops with the lightest bit of pressure, and leans away when he continues to apply it, watching him carefully. “Do you love me?” He can hear, in his voice, that he sounds almost… lost. Lost in his own thoughts, or lost in Ivan’s thoughts, distant, a little confused.

A long pause, where Ivan eyes him and considers his answer. Battista knows what it’s going to be long before he says it because he knew the answer before he asked it, and he knows what’s going to come out of his mouth is going to be a lie. When Ivan’s quiet “No,” rends the air between them, Battista has already pegged it for an untruth in his head, and he’s watching for the way the corner of his eye twitches, and the faintest grimace in the edges of his mouth. After all, Ivan had just watched him pace and worry and quietly lose his mind with all the patience of a saint ( with a lover; Battista doesn’t believe in saints ), and he hadn’t opened his mouth once to needle him or try and tear him open. And when Battista had sat down, Ivan had leaned close like he was going to try and take his mind off of things in the only way he knew how. If that wasn’t love, if that isn’t love, then what is?

But they have to keep up the fucking charade, don’t they?

Still, he presses on, because he needs to remember. He tilts his head to watch Ivan’s face out of the corner of his eye, and he echoes a conversation past. “Will you ever love me?” He asks, his voice sounding almost amused, the most color it’s had all night, now that he can make himself focus on just one thing. Just one thing. Even if that one thing is just tearing a hole in the both of them. Will you ever love me, he asks, instead of have you always loved me, because he knows the answer to both and neither and he needs Ivan to lie to him and prove him right.

Ivan’s nostrils flare briefly, and his temper flashes hot in his eyes before he shutters every ounce of that familiar heat and he turns his voice positively glacial, the raging inferno quieted to something cold and harsh and punishing in its entirety when he bares his teeth and he drawls “No” all over again.

That’s good. That’s the right thing to say. Battista knows it’s a lie but he needs it not to be, right now, so he chooses to believe him the same way that Ivan chose to believe the words the last time, because he needs to use that to cut himself open and bleed all over the both of them, and he needs to remember that he can never trust the snake he brought to bed with him. Ivan doesn’t love him, and he never will. Battista doesn’t love him, and he never will. They’re considered truths because they need to be, in order for this to work.

He’s not quite sure he has Ivan convinced, because behind that frosted expression he can see him thinking too damn hard, and now that he’s managed to stop his own brain he needs to think of a way to hammer the lesson home for Ivan, too. After all, Battista Tahan is a wounded dog, and all they ever know how to do is bite.

He takes Ivan’s face in his palms and he leans close, eyes falling to half mast as they settle on the thin line of his pursed lips. His jaw is clenched so hard that they’re bloodless, because he knows what’s coming next. Battista’s voice rolls out of him softly, almost inaudible if it weren’t for the scant distance between them. “Good,” he says. Good, because that’s the way it has to be. “One less thing to worry about.”

Ivan jerks away from him then, slapping his hands away from his face and rocketing to his feet. Battista watches him with that same placid blankness he always gets when he’s like this, and he continues to bleed all over Ivan’s couch, spilling gore where he’s torn the both of them to shreds with that tender-sweet touch and that careful tone. It’s Ivan’s turn to carry all the restless energy, as he shakes with white-hot rage and something ice-cold that fills him to the brim until it spills out of his eyes and his nose and mouth, without a sound. No sound but the faintest tremor in his voice, the one he only ever gets when he’s begging, and he says, “Get out.”

Somehow, that cuts deeper than all the rest of it. Absently, as Battista stands and turns his back on him, he thinks he recognizes that particular blade in his chest as guilt.

#/ / DRABBLES .#2500 words of deeply unhealthy bullshit for your reading (dis)pleasure #tw self harm imagery #kinda??? genuinely am at a loss on how to tag this #tw drug mention

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atlanticcocean · 3 years

Text

My Mental Health as of 5 months ago.

In the middle of the ocean is a torrential hurricane. Waves the size of tsunamis and my boat has long since capsized. With each breath I take it feels like a new wave crashing down on me, forcing my head deeper into the water whenever I try to reach the surface. My lungs are out of air- the waves pushed it all out; so I can't allow myself to just float to the surface. I have to kick and claw desperately at the water to try and rise. The water is cold and weighs on my limbs like lead; wrapping icily around my limbs, turning them to rusted iron that creaks as they move, and the fog at the edge of my vision is closing in more and more as the oxygen starvation kicks in. Just as my head breaks the surface I gasp for air and choke on salt water and rain that swarms the ocean's surface. Just as I can grab that one half-gulp of air, another wave crashes on top of my head and pulls me back under, and the struggle begins again. There is no rest, no break, no salvation; just fighting or drowning.

My body bleeds into the water around me as I quietly exist. My silhouette feels like a suggestion, and the slightest shift in the water will turn me into a swirl of a shape. It means when I move I feel my arms dissipate and reappear every second, as I see them, real and solid before my eyes. My chest feels like it's being crushed by a thousand weights- right on my sternum. It constrics my chest and makes the world feel smaller around me. My lungs feel like they're so overused and full of air that they risk tearing themselves in order to relieve some of the pressure. This feeling rises up into my throat and slices razor cuts up my oesophagus and scores my tongue, splitting it into a serpentine fork.

I can crack my head open in a hundred ways: the skull grows spikes that force their way out of the surface of my skin, protruding like stalactites as a way to fight back the harshness of the light and cold, or to stop my eyes from crawling out of their sockets again. Deep incisions underneath my jaw cut through my mouth and the adjacent cheek, sometimes with some kind of tool- a bar or a saw perhaps- sticking out of my face like some sort of sick piercing.

Sometimes my mouth is sewn shut, sometimes I don't have lips; just exposed teeth, and sometimes I don't have a mouth at all. It makes speaking seem like a delusion; successfully hiding the creature I'm becoming from the eyes that cannot see my true body.

My ears bleed or are shredded, torn off by my own fingernails. My tendons and ligaments are strung up on my wrist using fish hooks protruding from my forearms.

Claw marks, bullet holes, scratches, bite marks and holes pepper my torso. They trace my ribs and take up residence in the softest and most vulnerable places on me. Sometimes they're red and raw, sometimes they're old white scars carved so deeply into me it's as if I was a discarded clay plaything, long since dried out and cracked.

Sometimes my limbs go missing. Some fingers, a chunk of my throat, or most commonly, my left leg is missing, just up until under the knee joint. I walk on a real falsehood when this happens. When I write or draw and paint and then both my hands are hacked off, or my wrists slice open and the blood crawls up my arms, into my mouth and up my nose, into my sinuses and wrap around my eyes, blinding me with my own blood.

Sometimes large areas of my skin are flayed red and raw, leaving me even more naked to the watchers in the walls. They're looking at all of me- even the parts I shouldn't be able to and can't see. The watchers in the walls are eyeballs that always watch, never resting. Some perverted panoptic observer, dissecting my every move and thought. Sometimes the eyes turn into hundreds of CCTV cameras. Sometimes the eyes are on the inside of my skull, or underneath my blanket. Sometimes I'm under the impression that it's the watchers that split me apart. I feel like a sack of blood loosely stitched together and animated to walk. I don't feel human. I don't feel like a person. I love fiercely and trust with my whole heart, but all my perceptions of the world around me aren't really mine, they were taught to me. The words I use to describe my environment- what I like and dislike, what's good and bad was never decided by me, but was informed by what people often said TO me.

I don't understand what makes something beautiful. I can see and recognise beauty, but there are so many things in my life that I look at and recognise as beautiful and feel nothing. Does that mean I truly believe that? I learned through association, and it's only because of recent events that it occurred to me to question all that I knew about myself and how I thought. I was forced to challenge my beliefs in every aspect over and over again and I have been stripped down to my crudely scraped bones and dried up marrow.

I thought as I grew up I'd figure out how to be a human being but I'm more lost than ever. For the last decade all I have known is to try and break the surface of the ocean and tread water.

But recently a life preserver has been thrown my way by someone else who is in the middle of this storm. I'm hauled onto a raft that seems to be held together by nothing but kindness and spite and I am held in warm arms and another gargantuan wave looms overhead. But for the past decade all I have known is how not to drown. For this moment I'm no longer in the water. I no longer know what I am. I don't know what I am without the water in my lungs. I never had the opportunity to learn.

The cold water crept its way into my mouth and down my throat until I gagged. It tossed me back and forth as it pleased, and if I tried to resist I was met with icy riptides and despair. The water swarmed my arms and chest and robbed me of any sense of up or down. It snaked its way between my legs and tore me apart from the inside out, tearing away the warmth, comfort, security or confidence I had in myself. And every time i felt the brine in my sinus or the salt sting my eyes i just kept telling myself that “this is the nature of the sea. It cannot be helped, and it cannot be resisted. Save your strength for when the water calms”. I did not realise that patience and endurance were not the same. Patience yields focus, while endurance dulls the blade. It does not matter how strong people may see themselves; eventually even gods bleed.

And now I can feel steady hands and honest warmth. I do not know what to do with it, other than cling onto it with all my might. The dark grey-blue breaks and a ray of gold peeks through. I turn to my new companion and I see how long he has been trapped in this storm. His eyes blend in with the water and hold the same iron will as the storm trying to drown us. He pulls up a makeshift sail that pulls us full force towards the water mountain looming ahead of us. I grab onto the cracked mast of the HMS Determination and brace myself to see what crests first: us, or the wave.

The thrill is exhilarating and the maneuver is risky. Sailing is what got me in this mess in the first place- perhaps it would be best to continue to swim? If this stubborn little raft capsized, that's it. There's no reason to keep swimming. There aren't any other rescues around. I've put all of my life preservers in this one dingy, and i'm going to enjoy breathing air while i can. It’s our turn to be able to breathe. On this raft the eyes at the bottom of the sea cannot hunt me, and my crewmate can stitch me up when the threads come loose. I have no choice but to trust him, and to me that is a privilege.

We reach the top of the wave before it crests and in a moment of euphoria, I see land silhouetted against the flash of lightning a few miles east of us. I cry out in desperate joy as the Determination races dangerously down the other side of the wave, threatening to capsize as it goes. A small curl catches the corner of our raft and sends me toppling back into the waves; but before I hit the water, a strong grip around my waist.

“I've got you,” I hear as we tumble back into the centre of the raft. And I believe him. That's twice he has saved my life with no expectations in return.

I've got you.

The storm is still raging and we are far from shore as of yet, but the watchers are less prominent, and with him stitching me together I am dissolving a little less.

I've got you.

I am still cold and drenched in sea water. My blood mixes with the water on my skin and on my clothes and coats everything on me that I can see. But I have a direction and a purpose now. I cannot guarantee that I will get to shore, but I am confident now that I stand a better chance than before.

#writing #mental health #trauma #survival #personal #ptsd recovery

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luckynik · 7 years

Text

Raise Hell

A/N: This story has the potential to be full length i think, but i would really love some feedback before i go all out… especially since 1st person POV isn't my favorite. Just keep it constructive please.

Summary: Chaos in Hell threatens to spill topside as demons and gods war for Crowley’s empty throne. The young demon!reader comes to the boys for help and protection and, with her sudden arrival, Sam and Dean learn Crowley’s last dark secret. And there is more to her than meets the glowy-red eye.

Afterwards, to get his brother’s mind off the mysterious, hot demon girl, Sam finds them a case, and things spiral out of control—literally. Dean’s impulse control wasn’t great to start, but after a run-in with a strange woman in the woods, he starts to lose control of himself…again. Y/N and Sam try to rein him in before he loses it completely, but not before he does something he may not actually regret…

Pairing: Dean x Young Demon!Reader Characters: Dean, Reader, Sam - mentions of Crowley/Cass/Rowena

Word Count: 2700

Warnings: Set at the end of S12. Canon typical violence, age gap, young reader (but not underage), slow-ish burn, but eventually ALL the SMUT. Fighting. I’m sure there is more i should be including...

1. Heavy Metal / Dean

Eight Days Later…

Sam’s bulky frame sailed a good ten feet and slammed, shoulder first, into the opposite crumbling brick wall. A stifled curse broke from his mouth on the air pushing out of his lungs. His next breath seemed to choke, instead of sustain life. The demon blade fell to the ground with a loud plink and skittered across asphalt. I couldn't see it. The alley was dark, orangey streetlights flickered on the Main Street. Music thumped from the bar, undulating bass and treble. An intelligible chorus drowning out the ambient grunts and groans of the sudden fight.

My brother struggled against breathlessness as he pushed himself up the wall, fending off the snarling black-eyed biker dude as best he could without a weapon. Two other juiced up assholes advanced on me. Leather and chains from head to toe, a getup worthy of Judas Priest—Rob Halford would’ve been fucking proud.

The first guy had a wild colored Mohawk and wore a studded leather kutte with silver chains across the front and rows of unfriendly-looking spikes jutting off the shoulders. He rushed me and dropped back, as I grabbed the swinging chains and clocked him in the face with a hard left hook. I swung at the lanky asshole behind Mohawk. Strands of long, stringy blonde hair whipped as he dodged my fist and shoved me into the brick with a wave of the hand, immobilizing me.

The second—the Glenn Tipton of the three demons—advanced to take his shot, while keeping me pinned against the wall. His clenched fist flailed, shaking as his fingers squeezed tighter. My chest began to constrict and my heart kicked into an erratic pace. I gasped, unable to breathe. The strain on my ribs I could take, but not the lack of oxygen. Then, my back met the bricks full force. For half a minute I floundered like a fish, unable to draw air into my lungs.

“Not so tough now, eh, Winchester?” The Tipton-wannabe balled his fist a little tighter, glowy light began to seep out from between his clenched fingers. He wound up, drawing his arm back. “Can’t tell you how much I’m going to enjoy this, Dean-o.”

“Come at me, you ugly son of a bitch,” I bit out.

The demon’s jaw twitched, spittle oozing between his yellowed teeth and dripping from his lips. His glowing fist careened forward, into a wild hook, barreling toward my head.

I could take a hit. I’d take whatever this ugly asshole had and walk it off, and then come right back and gank his sorry ass. Then, I’d shove Mohawk’s head into the brick and kick the shit out of him, to give Sammy time to get the pig sticker and gank that other little bitch. I steeled myself for the impending blow...

But the hit never came.

The shaking fist stopped a millimeter away, a wisp from my stubbly jaw. He growled at me, jerking his hand, willing the limb to move, but was unable to follow through.

“I wouldn't, if I were you.” A female voice echoed through the filth.

Every one of us turned toward the sound. The Demon’s eyes yellowed and flicked to the space beside he and I.

A petite young woman stood absolutely still in the middle of the alleyway. The fabric of her gauzy white, almost knee-length dress floated around her on a gust of wind. Flawless makeup. Y/h/c hair coiled into an untamed cascade around her shoulders and back. There was something familiar about her doll-like face, but I couldn't pinpoint exactly what. Just that I recognized something about it…

Sam swung, limply, as the third demon ignored her warning. He yanked my brother up by the button strip of his flannel, preparing to body slam him into the bricks again. The young woman raised a hand and snapped her fingers, splattering bloody little chunks of the burley biker dude across Sam and the disintegrating brick wall.

Without easing his grip, yellow eyes locked on red ones.

She stood a good 15-feet away, but I could see every detail of her delicate face. The red eyes faded back to a vivid y/e/c, sparking even in the dim light of the alley. If I weren’t already out of breath, she would have stolen it then… Holding that gaze for too long would be dangerous. I forced my eyes away from her and glanced at Sam, shooting my younger brother a questioning look—you okay?

Sam returned a slight nod, shifting his focus back to the young woman, and lumbering to his feet. He hugged the wall as he slowly made his way toward me, collecting the demon knife from the ground as he went.

“You again,” snarled the greasy Judas Priest reject.

The girl said nothing, only held his gaze.

“Remember who you’re dealing with you fatherless, half-breed mut.”

She cleared her throat and released a hard breath. “Name calling already? Color me not shocked.”

The demon didn't move, or maybe he couldn't. She seemed to hold him there, pinned by her gaze. I couldn't move either. Despite his struggle with her, he somehow managed to keep me restrained against the brick wall. The girl was strong. Energy radiated off her. I could feel the surge. Pure power. Lots of it…

“This fight has nothing to do with you,” he spat.

“I beg to differ.”

“You uppity bitch. Just don't know when to stop, do ya?” He turned his head to me. “He has it comin’.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong.”

He growled and the roar of a thousand demonic voices reverberated off the dingy bricks around us—some kind of possessed monkey call. Streetlights flickered. Music from the bar skipped and stalled, and then continued on. But she didn't flinch, didn't retreat, or move a muscle. Not a twitch. Not a single hair out of place. Just calm. And, the calmness was terrifying in and of itself. No fear in her at all. Why should she be afraid? Heavy Metal over here must be low on the totem pole…

“You are disobeying a direct order. The boys are off limits to low-level, yeasty, pockmarked, death-tokens such as yourself.”

“Shakespearian,” I grunted.

Sam shot me an incredulous glance, which I translated into: dude, how the hell do you even know that?

“What?” I mouthed back. “I read.”

“Let him go.”

The demon gurgled, struggling to resist her hold. He garbled a “No.”

“Let. Him. Go.”

The light emanating from his clenched fist faded fast and his hand trembled violently. Black smoke began to seep from his body in soft waving tendrils. He wailed and roared, but she didn't stop.

A gentle tilt her head appeared to force more infernal smoke from the occupied body. The Tipton-wannabe fought against the pull, until a puff of black burst right through the middle of his chest.

“Demon control?” whispered Sam.

I lurched away from the wall as his hold finally released. Sam sidled up to me, an arm closing around my torso, keeping me on my feet for the moment. We both dropped back, to prepare for whatever came next.

“He can’t protect you anymore! You little bitch, this isn’t over.”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“I’ll be coming for you,” the demon snarled. “You can’t run and you can’t hide. The Winchester’s can’t save you—I will find you and flay the skin from your bones.”

“I’m sure you’ll try, Belial.” The corner of her pouty mouth lifted into a humorless smile, glints of red in her eyes. “But today is not that day.”

A rush of black smoke poured from him, melting into a puddle on the ground. It reminded me of the way Sam could rip demons out of people with his psychic hoodoo. The ground beneath us shook and flared orange, like roasting coals in a fire pit, and then quickly died out.

Mohawk took a step back and smoked out of his meatsuit, while he still had the chance. The dead body dropped to the ground with a hard, unceremonious thud.

As the foul smoke cleared, three bodies lay on the ground. Sam and I and the girl stood in the alley, in a kind of standoff, unsure what to make of each other. She had taken on three demons with fear, a snap of her fingers, and a tilt of her fucking head…to save us from this yellow-eyed douche? Why?

“Who are you?” “What do you want?” Sam and I spoke in unison.

“Crowley?”

Neither of us said another word. Tightness returned to my chest, a heaviness that I couldn't quite explain had formed. She deserved to know—needed to know. I wasn't sure why, but I knew she did. And why did I have to be the one tell her about Crowley’s sacrifice in the alt-world to close the portal? Would she even believe that it happened that way? As many times as I’d wished the King of Hell death, the way it had finally come was not as expected. It didn't feel how I thought it would either.

Her steely gaze landed on me, I felt it shift from me to my brother and back. Sam and I glanced at each other, and both of us turned our eyes toward the ground, avoiding answering her.

Sam usually took the lead in situations like this. Sam knew what to say and how to be compassionate with victims and the victim’s loved ones—even when they were monsters. But this time he didn't. Of all the times to keep his fucking trap shut… then he shot her the most pathetic puppy-dog eyes he could muster. I grumbled and shifted uncomfortably, gnawing at my bottom lip. Finally, bringing my gaze back to hers, I prepared to deliver some ‘sacrificed himself for the greater good, oh and bonus points for trapping Lucifer in another hellish dimension’ anti-hero-esque speech that I wasn't sure he deserved. Then, my eyes landed on her plush, glossy bottom lip…and it trembled, hard.

Words failed me. My mouth opened and closed more than once.

That was the only slip in her artfully arranged façade, and it was so fucking powerful that I couldn't tell her. The immediate urge to comfort the young woman welled up inside me, catching me off guard. After an extended moment of silence I realized that I didn't need to say a word. Because she knew…

Foreign emotions assaulted me, prickling across my skin and raising all the little hairs on my arms and neck. I felt a jumble of heat energy radiate off her. Each emotion swept over me, like a wave curling and breaking against the surf. It didn't seem to have the same effect on Sam and I wondered why? Demons had no empathy, no real emotion—what the hell was this? While she struggled to keep her composure, I resisted rushing toward her and pulling her into my arms. What the fuck? God. I resisted hard, willing my feet not to move. Not the first time I had felt this kind of unnatural urge with a chick. I knew it was something that should not be indulged, no matter how bad I wanted to go to her.

She must have known what I wanted to do, that certainly would’ve explained the awed look on her face as our eyes met.

“I’m sorry.” My brain ticked through other things to say, but nothing seemed appropriate or important.

“You always are,” she countered.

I couldn't bear to look at her anymore and cast my eyes away, tracing the cracks in the broken asphalt beneath my boots. It was our fault—my fault. Again. We couldn't stop it. We couldn't stop the Nephilim from being born. We couldn't kill it. Shit, we didn't even know what we were going to do with it now that he’d been born. We had nothing to fight Lucifer. We couldn't kill him. We couldn't find another way to close the portal before Crowley offed himself. Hell, we couldn't even save our own mother, after walking through hellfire to get her back from those English douchebags. Couldn't save Cass. We lost. Every loss is on us…again.

“No, Dean.” When I looked up she was standing in front of me, inches away. Every cell in my body felt her presence. Pure power. That explains why Crowley made her business his. My hands itched to touch her, hold her. “It’s not. It’s not your fault at all.”

Staring into those hypnotic y/e/c irises was a mistake, and I knew it as it was happening. The pull to her was overwhelming, like an invisible hand clenching the middle of my chest and drawing me toward her. I had felt all of this before… I didn't know who she was, or why she was important, but the instinct to protect her welled in the pit of my stomach and sat there like a boulder.

Who am I kidding? I can’t protect her. Everyone who dares to get close to me dies. No one with a brain would choose me as a protector, with such an obvious outcome? Why risk it? I’m not worth that risk. I would do my best for her, but in the end it wouldn't be enough, because it never was. I ruin everything I touch…

“Don’t do that,” she whispered. “I need you.”

Before I knew it, both my hands came up, fingers skimming up the length of her slim arms. Her eyes widened at the skin-to-skin contact, alarmed and almost fearful. Touching her was like touching a live wire, static electricity. She sucked in a quick, stilted breath and blinked away. Disappearing into nothing. My hands hung in the empty air, as if she had never been there. The loss of her presence affected me immediately, and physically; the boulder turned to a heavy ache, throbbing low in my gut. Emptiness. Emptiness that I was more than familiar with…it was deep, bone-deep, but also a strange comfort.

“What the hell?”

“I don't know,” replied Sam.

He’d been watching the exchange, silently, but I was sure my brother had already formed some kind of opinion. I glanced at him. “Since when are we off limits?”

“Since when is Belial a low-level demon?”

“What?”

“She called him Belial,” Sam explained. “If I remember correctly, Belial rose up with Lucifer during the rebellion. He was the first angel to actually fall in the fight against Michael and the other Heavenly angels. He’s—”

“Why do you even know that?”

Sam gave half a shrug. “He was in the lore. I read about him when I read up on Dagon. He’s the literal opposite of low-level. He is a Prince of Hell, Dean.”

“Prince of hair metal,” I grumbled under my breath.

“Dude. That demon just saved our ass’s…”

“Who is this chick and what’s her deal with Crowley? And why haven’t we seen her before, or at least heard about her? He was the king of running his fucking mouth—how could he not slip about his hot little sidechick? He would have bragged about having that kind of power at his disposal.” The urge to protect her stayed with me. Crowley and I had more in common that I cared to admit, and I began to wonder if he had felt the same way in her presence. Maybe we didn't know about her because that assclown was protecting her? God. Does she need protection? Why and from who? Obviously from this Belial douche… but now that Crowley is gone who will do the job? On the other hand— “Did you see what she did? She pulled that demon—a Prince of Hell—with a tilt of her goddamn head, Sam. With your psychic hoodoo, all hopped up on demon blood, on your best day, you couldn't swing that. That was,” I bit back ‘awesome’ and ignored the incredulous look my brother shot at me. Instead shaking my head, as if that would somehow communicate the rest of my thoughts to him.

“Dude, you okay?”

...

#dean winchester x reader #dean x you #dean x demon!reader #dean x y/n #reader insert #spn fanfic #dean winchester

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