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lilliagradiewrites · 3 years

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flinch (harry styles)

Summary: When you are arguing with Harry, you flinch away from him, and he realizes your last relationship was worse the he knew.

WC: 1.3k

WARNINGS: HUGE TW! THIS DEALS HEAVILY WITH DOMESTIC ABUSE/VIOLENCE! PLEASE KNOW THIS BEFORE CONTINUING!!

This story is mainly angst, with a lil bit of fluff at the end.

A/N: Another Harry one shot! My last one did so so well, and I gained so many new friends on this profile! I really hope you guys enjoy this super sad/angsty piece <3

(this has not been proofread.)

LET’S DO IT!!!

~~~~~~

“I’m sorry Y/N! I don’ know what you want from me! I’m always filming, there’s nothin’ I can do!”

“I’m not mad at you, Harr, I know it’s not your fault! I was just saying that it sucks, okay? I miss you so fucking much, all day, all the time! Excuse me for fucking missing you when you’re not here!”

The argument had sprouted an hour ago, when you told Harry you missed him. Now, here you were, having a screaming match with him in your living room.

Harry was currently starring in the new Olivia Wilde movie, Don’t Worry Darling. You were incredibly proud of him, but his constant filming was hard for you. He was always gone, filming in Los Angeles.

At first, he would fly you out every other weekend to visit him on set. While you didn’t see him as much as you would like, at least you got to interact with him face to face.

Unfortunately, this routine didn’t last very long. After the first crew member contracted COVID-19, they decided to maintain a closed set, to prevent the spread as much as possible. So, your meetings with Harry were reduced to facetime calls, which always left something to be desired. Not having your boyfriend with you was taking a massive toll on you, and all you did today was express that to him.

For some reason, he took personal offense to your statement, and the two of you began fighting.

“Do you think I don’ miss you too? Of course I do! But this is such a big opportunity for me, I’m not gonna drop because you miss me! It’s only lasting a little while longer, I promise you can manage!”

Tears began welling up in your eyes. There was nothing you hated more than getting yelled at, and it’s even worse since it’s Harry. You loved him so much, and just the thought of him being upset with you made you want to cry.

“I know, babe, and I’m not asking you to. I just.... I’m sorry. It’s alright. Can we please not fight? You’re only home for two weeks. I don’t want to waste it being angry with each other.” your voice was barely a whisper.

“I just need you to understand! It’s not my fault I’m always gone. You’re bein’ selfish!”

At this moment, he took a step forward as he yelled. In instinct, you whipped away, putting your hands up in defense. A whimper left your mouth, and for a moment, you forgot that it was only Harry standing in front of you.

Immediately, your boyfriend froze. His brows furrowed, and he went silent. You were still standing away, and your hands are still held towards him.

When you realized he’d paused, you came to your senses. Recomposing yourself, you turned around towards him, your hands folding over your chest.

When you met his eyes, the look in them was terrible to see.

He was absolutely devastated. The emerald green that normally shined when he looked at you had been dulled.

“Lovie…” He begins, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Did you just- did you think I was going to hit you?”

You dropped his gaze; you couldn’t bear to look at him.

“I would never. I would never, ever, lay a hand on you. Did… did your ex hit you, my love?

You could do nothing but cry. As your knees began to give out, Harry moved immediately forward, catching you before you could collapse.

Sobs wracked your body as Harry lowered himself and you to the floor. Silent tears slid down his face as he consoled you, the pain of this newfound information tearing him apart.

He couldn’t believe it. How could anyone ever lay a hand on his beautiful angel? You were nothing but sweetness and love? Hurting you was like shooting an angel down from the sky. You were so amazing.

What hurt even more was that you flinched away from him. He knew it was instinct, because of what you’ve been through, but he still hated himself for allowing the conversation to even get to that point. Seeing you move away like that, like you were scared of him… it caused him physical pain like he’d never imagined.

And now, you sat here, crying in his arms. His lovie, crying.

The sound of your sobs hurt like hell, too.

“I’m so sorry, my love. I-I wish I could go back in time and protect you from him. I’m so so sorry.”

This only made you cry harder. You hated that you made Harry feel like you were scared of him; you were far from it. When he was near you, you felt safe and protected. When people yelled at you, you went to a different place in your mind.

When you were being yelled at, it didn’t matter who was yelling at you.

All you see was him in front of you.

When your sobs grew less intense, Harry spoke to you again.

“Why didn’ you tell me, lovie? You never told me. I wish you’d said something.”

You looked up at him, and the sight was a knife to your heart. Your beautiful boy was crying.

You hated it when he cried.

“I-I didn’t want to upset you. It was ten months ago. I didn’t think I needed to.”

‘Ten months isn’ that long of a time period, baby. You still need time to heal. I wish I could’ve helped you before now.”

“I’m sorry.” Your voice was weak, and you began to cry again. You buried your head in Harry’s shoulder, but it was only there for a second.

He took your face in his large hands and moved it away from his body, making sure he could look you in the eye.

“No, my love. Don’ you dare apologize. I can’t imagine how hard it must’ve been for you. How hard it must be. I get it why you didn; say anything. You have nothing to apologize for, Y/N. Absolutely nothing.”

All you could do is nod.

“I wish I could protect you from your past.” Harry whispered as he held you against his chest.

For over an hour, you sat there on the floor of the living room, holding each other and crying quietly. You both had so much to say and nothing to say simultaneously.

Once a while had passed, Harry whispered something inaudible, then picked you up bridal style.

He carried you into your bedroom, sitting you gently on the bed. You just laid there with your eyes closed, too mentally and emotionally exhausted to do anything.

Harry moved quietly throughout your room. You could hear drawers opening and closing, hear the soft sound of his feet padding against the carpet.

When he came back to you, he lifted your upper half off of the bed, holding you close to him. You felt his hands on the hem of your shirt, and then felt his mouth near your ear.

“Is it alright if I help you undress, love? You should change into pajamas or you’ll be uncomfortable.”

You nodded sleepily, but that wasn’t enough for Harry.

“I need a yes, angel.”

“Yes, harry, it’s okay.”

He nodded lightly, accepting this as an answer. He lifted your shirt gently, tossing it to the side, and replacing it with one of his own. His shirt was soft and comfortable against your skin. You smiled at the feeling; there was nothing you loved wearing more than his clothes.

Harry got permission from you again before pulling off your jeans. He didn’t replace these with anything, knowing that you usually slept in your underwear when you wore his shirt.

Once you were in comfy clothes, Harry lifted you once more, placing your head on your pillow and pulling the blankets over you. Once you were settled, he climbed into bed beside you.

“I love you so much, angel. You are the love of my life. I will protect you with everythin’ I have in me. No one is ever goin’ to hurt you like that again, I promise.”

Those were the last words you heard before drifting off to sleep.

#harry styles #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fic #harry styles writer #harry styles x reader

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daltonacademia · 3 years

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There’s A Time For Daring - 1

charlie dalton x fem!reader [post events of the movie]

word count: 1.7k

warning: allusions to sex / slight sexual harrassment? drinking, mentions of neil’s suicide, horrible parents

Charlie couldn’t help but emit a low growl as his vomit-inducing, picture-perfect, high-society mother and father, whom he despised, prodded him towards the expansive front entrance of Nealson Preparatory School located in southern Vermont. His fuschia-lipped, cakey-faced mother, Cynthia Dalton, was a well-dressed, dignified housewife by day and charming socialite by night; she was particularly harsh as she trampled his pen-stained oxfords with her spearish kitten heels. His eyes shot daggers at the snow-strewn path below, a familiar fire burning in his core.

There were many things Charlie was tempted to furiously spit out at his parents, but instead, he managed to keep his jaw clamped shut, his pearly whites digging into the light pink of his lips hard enough to draw blood. No matter what he shouted, cried, pleaded, they wouldn’t budge. They never would. And it was infuriating.

“Charles! Being expelled from such a prestigious school is no laughing matter, young man. That school cost us quite the pretty penny! How dare you defy the rules to the extent of expulsion. It’s disgraceful, and I will tolerate it no longer!” Charlie’s mother shrieked, furious tears smudging the thick mascara that coated her eyelashes.

“You’ll be shipped off to Nealson Preparatory School in February, and if I hear so much as a single mention of your name not followed with overwhelming compliments, you can expect nasty, nasty consequences! Go pack your things, you’ll be staying with Aunt Barbara until the first of February finally arrives!” The rims of Charlie’s brown eyes stung with anger, frustration, and furthest down, sadness. He was diminished to nothing but an image-ruiner to his mother. The person who was supposed to love him, protect him, save him from the horrors of this hell called Earth.

Mr. Dalton silently observed the boisterous outburst from his expensive leather armchair across the den, a glass of strong, half-drunk whiskey in his palm. Charlie couldn’t bear to see their despicable faces any longer, and as his body felt no longer under his control, stomped up the stairs in a huff, rapidly swiping away the glassy tears spilling from his eyes. Thoughts of running away, escaping it all, flooded his unstable mind. ‘I get why you did it, Neil. I really do. But did you have to go so soon?’

But instead of lingering on the image of Neil any longer, he hastily threw his bare necessities into his suitcase, which was still covered in an array of Welton Academy stickers.

The grounds of Nealson were unsurprisingly well-maintained; it reminded him a lot of Welton. The impeccably manicured lawns, gleaming, icy blue lake, the gothic stone arches and pillars. It was eerily similar to Hellton, even down to the ice-cold blanket of snow coating the distant rolling hills. It’s beautiful, Charlie thought, surveying the slow sprinkling of snow, No, it’s hideous.

Before he could fully vomit at the vile grounds of his new school, his parents fiercely shoved him inside the Headmaster’s dingy office, politely taking the vacant mahogany seats beside him. Charlie couldn’t be bothered to listen to a word his parents said with pearly white smiles, which were no doubt tooth-rotting, sugar-coated lies about the real reason he was expelled over a month prior.

He knew that they couldn’t just be transparent and tell the Headmaster that he had socked the utterly vile Richard Cameron’s face in (rightfully so, in his opinion), or that he was a star member of the infamous Dead Poets Society, or that he had gone to the extreme lengths to stage a phone call from none other than God himself. It didn’t work like that.

His mother’s cheeky, artificial voice sounded precisely the same as it always had: carefully rehearsed and slathered with naivety. Seemingly without hesitation, the catty woman could deflect any less-than-pleasant questions or insinuations about her “golden role-model” son, who’s admittedly “a little misguided at times”.

The new headmaster seated across from him appeared to be around the same age as Mr. Nolan, which, as far as Charlie was concerned, was older than the Cretaceous period at least. His pale-as-a-ghost skin was wrinkled and paper-thin; his patchy, gelled side-swept hair was (very obviously) dyed a deep, midnight black, reminiscent of an off-brand Elvis.

Charlie’s ears continued to mute the awkward conversation happening amongst him, his focus instead shifting around to the various awards and certificates lining the ivory walls. They all seemed so phony; ‘Best Headmaster- 1947-1959’, ‘Nealson Academy: Exceeds Expectations’. The Headmaster had even framed his high school superlative: ‘Voted Most Likely to Succeed’. What a pathetic-

In a swift blur, his parents rose from their seats, his mother clutching her magenta purse with matching pursed lips. Charlie was handed a hefty, stapled packet packed full of school rules and guidelines with a denture-toothed smile from Headmaster ‘Campbell’. This’d make some decent kindling, he thought as he yanked the packet from his clammy clutches, leafing through its pages with a smirk, this garbage’s almost laughable.

A syncopated rhythm of raps on the door, followed by a gravelly, ‘come in', presented his new dorm escort. His chauffeur just so happened to be you, the accomplished and universally admired student body president in the same grade as the newcomer. You were dutifully donning Nealson’s horrendous uniform: a crisp, white button-up accented with a blue and silver tie was topped with a depressing grey sweater vest. An equally loathsome pleated skirt concealed your thighs, and your ankles were shielded from the chilly February air with black crew socks.

You extended your perfectly manicured, soft hand out to your brand-new peer with a yearbook-worthy smile, introducing, “Hi. Welcome to Nealson, I’m Y/N Y/L/N.” You swore you heard the brunette mutter something disrespectful under his breath, but nonetheless, he, rather unprofessionally, shook your hand with an eye roll. Things between the two of you were not starting off the way you hoped, but you were determined to make a good impression. The best impression possible.

“Charlie Dalton,” he replied with a mischievous smirk. The brunette standing in front of you reeked of cigarettes, and there was the slightest smell of cheap beer clinging to his clothes. His brown hair was messy, springing out in every direction, despite the water furiously combed through it. His eyes glinted with rebellion, a look so alluring yet dangerous.

“I’ll be showing you to your dorm, which you’ll sleep in for the remainder of the year.” Since Dalton was starting in February, he only had five months of studying before long-awaited senior year. Mr. Campbell waved the two of you off, and with that, you trekked towards the Boys’ wing, Dalton sauntering at your side.

The walk through the main corridor was silent and awkward. You had tried to enchant him with fun facts about Nealson and its (extensively selective) history, much to his obvious boredom and dismay. His umber eyes glazed the walls, uninterested in the decor. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, but for all you knew, it could be on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.

After a while of treading through the high-ceilinged corridors illuminated with fleeting pale rays of sunlight, the boy next to you made no attempt to hide him drawing designs up and down your body.

“I’ve never been to a school with both boys and girls,” he drawled with a smirk. “Do things ever get exciting around here?”

You shook your head no while indiscreetly tugging down the hem of your skirt uncomfortably, and he said, “Do you think you’d maybe wanna spend the night with me in my dorm? Make sure I’m all settled in?”

Your whole body, from head to toe, froze. The audacity of this… creep! Your tongue poked, nearly stabbed, the back of your teeth, wanting to unleash a select few words to the disgusting Dalton beside you. But alas, if he were to tell anyone of your fiery wrath, you’d be demoted from class president faster than you could explain what really happened. It’s a corrupt system, sure, but even with the power that comes with such a title, there was no way to mend it.

Eventually, while you were wrapped up in the furies of your mind, Dalton revealed a small, autographed golf ball from his trousers pocket and began throwing it up and down above his head casually with every step.

“Can you not?” you snapped at the chestnut-haired boy after he tossed the sphere up and down again in an arch. “Don’t wanna get in trouble on your first day, do you?”

“You think this’ll get me in trouble? Have a little fun, it won’t kill you. I promise.” Dalton turned his gaze towards you, an annoyed but smug grin painted on his lips. He slowly tossed the golf ball to your hands, intending for you to catch it. However, the small ball evaded your grasp, instead bouncing around the hardwood floors below you, creating a series of loud, reverberating thunks.

“You were supposed to catch it, you know,” Dalton teased, nonchalantly watching you chase after the rogue orb. After it was finally safe in your clutches, you stomped over to the no-good newbie, irritated.

“Nealson’s strict. They don’t let stuff like creating an awful lot of racket go unreprimanded.” You were seething; red-hot blood pumped through your veins. Dalton didn’t look anything but utterly amused.

“Wow, you’re just about one of the biggest suck-ups I’ve seen in a while.”

“A what?” you growled.

“A suck-up. A rule-following poster child of excellence? A bratty, know-it-all? Anything along those lines?” He sputtered insults so nonchalantly, it made your blood boil and eyes sting.

“You better watch it, Dalton. I don’t know who you think you are-”

“I’m the best thing that’s happened to this school, by the looks of it.”

You had nothing left to say to this conceited shuck of a boy who really thought that he was all that and a side of fries. Well he wasn’t! Not in the slightest! And if his first day of classes wouldn’t drill it into him, you would.

The rest of the walk was pin-drop silent and tense. No more fun facts about Nealson escaped your downturned lips, just the light patting of his beat-up oxfords and your pristine mary-janes on the polished wood floor. The hallways seemed more depressing than usual, their framed portraits and condensated windows didn’t fill you with the motivation that you came to expect.

After finally arriving at the boys’ dormitories, you grumbled, “well, this is it. Have a swell life, Dalton.”

“Right back at ya, Y/L/N. Let’s hope this isn’t the last time we meet.” He gave you a cheeky wink before slamming the door in your face.

#dead poets society #Dead Poets Society (1989)#dead poetry #dead poets society x reader #dead poets society quotes #DPS #dps fanfiction #charlie dalton x reader #charlie dalton x y/n #charlie dalton

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daemour · 4 years

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Summary: Seokjin is the crush of your entire school. He won the Prom King award six times, and he wasn't even in high school the first two times. Everyone loves him. But you're his neighbor, and you've seen his worst. You don't like him.

Warnings: Mild Cursing

For the @bangtanscenery collab, April Showers

Thank you to my betas, @moccahobi and @thebiasrekkers

"Good morning to my amazing friend," Yoon Jeonghan greets you at the bus stop, and you grin at the designated pretty boy of the school, and your best friend.

"Alright, you barely suck up to me. What do you want?" You tease him, and Jeonghan elbows you.

"Can't I appreciate my best friend?" You raise an eyebrow at Jeonghan, and he stares you down. He loses the staring match. "Alright, fine. There's this deal at the local café, that if you bring a friend, you can get two dozen donuts for the price of one."

"You don't need to suck up to me for a chance for me to get donuts." Jeonghan snorts and slaps your arm playfully.

"I should've known your stomach would win you over."

"You don't know me well enough, I guess," you joke. Jeonghan ignores your jibe but still elbows you again. As you two wait in complete silence for the bus, the sound of footsteps alert you to another person coming. Kim Seokjin, the resident hunk of Kaidol High School, takes the same bus as you two. Unfortunately. While it isn't as bad for Jeonghan, as he's the pretty boy, you're just known as "Jeonghan's friend." That isn't great when everyone at school who likes Seokjin (and Jeonghan, quite often), knows you live in the same neighborhood as him.

The jocks tease you, but it isn't too bad, so you don't mind. And when Jeonghan is with you, which is often, people don't tease you. Seokjin doesn't hang out with you at school, so most people with a brain don't dislike you. Once in a while, when there's a particularly nasty rumor going around about Seokjin, you get a couple glares and sneers, but Jeonghan is usually around to protect you. He's protective.

You hate using that word to describe your relationship with Jeonghan. It makes your relationship sound one-sided like you only use him. But Jeonghan has been your best friend since kindergarten. He had just moved into the neighborhood, and the kids at school used to make fun of him for his long hair. You didn’t. So you became his friend. Way before the hierarchies of school began, you were Jeonghan's friend.

"Are you two just going to ignore me, then?" Seokjin interrupts your internal monologue. You and Jeonghan sigh at the same time.

"Hello, Seokjin," the two of you chime out at the same time.

"You two sound like robots," Seokjin sighs out dramatically. "Can't a guy get some warm greetings?" Jeonghan puts a hand on your shoulder, likely to get you to stop looking like you want to murder someone.

The bus arrives, and you and Jeonghan hop on as quickly as you can before Seokjin follows. You two manage to get your usual seats at the back of the bus, but this time, Seokjin follows. "Can I sit with you guys? My friends are being driven to school this time, so they aren't picking me up."

"What did they do now?" Seokjin isn't even fazed by your comments about his friend group.

"I think they tried keying someone's car?" You honestly don't know how Seokjin ended up with that friend group. You think that if he didn't stick around with those people, you would've gotten along with him. Well, Sandeul isn't that bad. You've talked to him a little before, and he seems like a nice guy, but you don't know much about Ken, Jooheon, and Wonkeun. You don't want to assume things about them, but you don't want to risk your perfect GPA just yet.

"Sounds like them." Seokjin is still not bothered by your comments, and you turn to Jeonghan awkwardly.

The rest of the bus ride is silent, save for Jeonghan cracking a joke, and you giggling like there's no tomorrow. When you reach school, Seokjin heads out first, likely to find his friends. You and Jeonghan get out a little later and immediately spot your group of friends.

Yugyeom is the cute airhead of your group, but he also has an "in" with the jocks. He's the best friend of Jungkook, the jock-est of all jocks and Seokjin's cousin. Jaehyung is the oldest of your little group and the mood maker. You've dubbed him the master of deadpan, and he enjoys the title. He's on the badminton team, and friends with another guy, Younghyun, who has somehow subconsciously made his way into your friend group. His name's Younghyun, but you call him Brian. He's a little younger than Jae, but his mood varies to be either super mature or six-years-old. Jae calls him annoying, but you think they're closer than they let on. Finally, there's Jennie, the outlier of your group. She's extremely popular, beautiful, and can easily influence half the student body with her pinky. You don't know why or how she decided you guys would be her friends, but you appreciate another girl around you.

"What's up, amigos?" Jae cheers, and you roll your eyes at him affectionately.

"Jae, you thought ocho was cinco, not just yesterday," you tease him. "I don't think you should be throwing out some Spanish."

Jae raises an eyebrow at you. "You may be fluent in French and English, (Y/N), but that doesn't mean you don't make mistakes as well."

"I don't think five is eight, or that cinq and huit are the same either, Mr. I-Lived-In-Argentina." Jae narrows his eyes, and you glare playfully right back.

"Low blow, (Y/N), low blow."

"It's true, though," Younghyun butts in, and you reach up to give him a high-five.

"See, even Brian agrees with me." Younghyun retracts his hand just as fast as he had butted into the conversation.

"Nope, I revoke my high-five. I'm not Brian."

"Brian’s your name."

"But Younghyun’s also my name," Younghyun counters, and you roll your eyes.

"I don't even know what you guys are arguing about, but let's skedaddle," Jennie jumps in. "We're going to be late."

You groan. "I don't want to go to class, though."

Yugyeom gapes at you. "You love your GPA too much to not go to class."

"Shut up, Yugyeom. I don't want to go to class because a certain someone always distracts me. It's annoying." You narrow your eyes at him playfully, and he pokes you in the forehead.

"If you keep making a face like that, your face will be stuck like that. Look at that wrinkle." You slap his hand away, and Yugyeom laughs.

"My face is priceless." With that sentence, you enter your class and find your seats.

Unfortunately, this class you weren't allowed to sit next to whoever, the teacher had assigned seats. And you were next to Seokjin. He does nothing but pass notes and crack snarky jokes in class. While you were trying to maintain your GPA by listening to the teacher, Seokjin made it extremely difficult. You're sure he doesn't MEAN to annoy you, but sometimes, when he's being particularly loud, he sneaks a peek at you, and you are in doubt.

For some reason, though, today, Seokjin is quiet. It's now your turn to sneak a glance toward him. You're not used to this. Where are all sniggers and whispered jokes? The strangest thing is when the teacher called on him, Seokjin just answered the question quietly and didn't say anything snarky and funny.

You try to look around the classroom discreetly. None of the other students seem to notice what's wrong, but you've been Seokjin's neighbor since late primary school. You know something's wrong. You may not like Seokjin, but you know how he is.

As you glance around the classroom, you notice something strange. Seokjin's friends aren't here. He said their parents would be driving them. You know Sandeul and Jooheon don't have this class at the same time as you and Seokjin, but Ken and Wonkeun do. Where are they? Did Seokjin lie? "Miss (L/N), since you seem bored, would you like to answer this question?"

You jump up from your seat, startled, and glance at the question on the board. Are people inherently good or evil? "No."

"No, you won't answer the question, or no, humans aren't inherently good or evil?"

You stand up and answer the question as quickly as possible. "I think human beings are inherently neither good nor evil. Their influences in life can help them make decisions that deem them either 'good' or 'bad,' but they are not born evil or good." You sit down with a thump, and there is no fanfare for your answer. The class just continues on.

But not for long, as the teacher dismisses you all. Before Seokjin can stand up and leave, as he is usually the first to get out, you grab his sleeve. "Wait for a second, Seokjin."

"What is it?" Now, this is very different. Seokjin always makes a snarky comment or teases you, but this time, he's just straight-up asking what you want?

"Where are Ken and Wonkeun? Don't they have this class?"

"They, um, they're not in school for the time being." Seokjin seems annoyed, but you press on more.

"Why? Are they okay?" If you were asked this morning if you think you'd be asking if Ken and Wonkeun were okay, you'd laugh in the questioner's face. But here you are.

"Their parents decided it's best if they go to a private school. Same for Jooheon." Oh. No wonder. Seokjin may be popular, but he didn't have that many actual friends who hung out with him every day.

"Ah." You sigh. "Do you, do you and Sandeul want to sit with us during lunch?"

"I'd appreciate it," Seokjin says slowly, sounding like he's contemplating whether or not it's a good idea. "We do have the same lunch period, right?"

"Yeah." You say after a quick thought. "Well, I have to skedaddle, so see you?" Your tone is confused like you're unsure of yourself, so you do skedaddle out of that classroom as fast as you can.

Yugyeom and Younghyun are waiting for you in the hall, as the others don't have the next class you're heading to. "Why'd you invite him to sit with us?" Younghyun asks. "I thought you didn't like him?"

"I don't dislike him, Brian. I just didn't want him to have to sit alone for the first time in his entire eighteen years of life." You shrug. You feel a presence behind you, and you turn around to see Seokjin glowering at you.

"I don't need your...pity." He spits out that last word, and you flinch.

"I wasn't trying to pity you, Seokjin. I was making an effort to be friends." You try to explain, but Seokjin isn't hearing any of that.

"You don't need to act like a mother to me. I can do just fine by myself," he seethes and storms away, and you stare after him in shock.

"Ignore him," Younghyun tries to comfort you, putting an arm around your shoulders and drawing you away from Seokjin. "Let's just head to class." You walk with him, Yugyeom hanging slightly behind, unsure of whether to speak up. He decides not to, and the rest of you make it to class without any further disturbances.

The next class is math, so you're focusing on taking notes, but your friends aren't. They're glancing at you, and you must say it's slightly uncomfortable. What are they doing? You shake it off, and when the teacher starts to drone off-topic, you take a break from writing. Your mind wanders. Are you really annoyingly like a mother? Why would Seokjin say something like that? As you dwell on the subject, you don't even notice the teacher is back on topic, and class passes without a second thought from you. When the bell rings, you jump in your seat.

As the three of you head out of class, Jaehyung and Jeonghan catch up with you. "Hey, nerds," Jae says, and Younghyun rolls his eyes. Jae socks him in the arm.

"You're literally going into political science, Jae. Don't be a stupid hypocrite." Younghyun rolls his eyes at Jae.

"I'm not. That's why I'm going into poli-sci." Jae pinches Younghyun's cheek after that sentence, and Younghyun pouts.

"Jae, stop bullying Brian," you mumble absentmindedly. Then your eyes widen. You're doing it again, aren't you? Being a mother.

"Hey, (Y/N), you all right?" You smile at Jeonghan tightly.

"Yeah, just thinking," you reply quietly, and Jeonghan cocks his head.

"About what? You never think." You snort, and Jeonghan dodges your hand.

"Graduating early. I'm thinking about doing it," you lie. Jeonghan quiets, and everyone else's attention is on you. "The principal said I can."

"Why the sudden decision?" Younghyun asks. You sigh.

"I don't know. I feel like it'll give me some time to think about college. And wouldn't it look good on my resume?" Even if you did lie about what you were thinking about, you were planning on graduating early. You just weren't expecting to tell your friends.

Jae hums in contemplation. "Yes, but you will have a lot less time to decide on a college if you want to start college during spring. If you don't, then you need to work full-time."

"I think I will. I haven't told anyone but Jeonghan yet, but I got accepted on a full ride to NYU." Yugyeom chokes, and everyone else beams at you.

"That's great!" You jump at Jennie's voice. When did she arrive? "I'm planning on going to NYU as well! I'll be a year behind you since I have to finish four years of school first, unlike you, but I will be seeing you at college then! I also think Yugyeom's going to NYU on a full ride as well."

You turn to Yugyeom, who's bashfully scratching his head as well. "Really? That's great, Gyeomie! Why didn't you tell us?" Jeonghan smiles at the much taller boy.

"I didn't want to go to a college where I knew no one, so I was waiting to see where you guys would go." This isn't unusual. Yugyeom does love his friends and is a bit shy, even if he's a grade above you all. He is the youngest, but he's in the same classes as Jae.

"Well, then we'd be graduating at the same time." You elbow the much taller boy, and he gives you a grin.

"Yeah, I guess we will."

"Now, let's go get food! I'm starving," Jennie proclaims, and your growling stomach agrees. Your group of friends all head off, and your thoughts about being overprotective are pushed away. That is, until lunch.

Contrary to his words, Seokjin and Sandeul do sit at your table. You can only assume Sandeul convinced him to still go since Seokjin is still grumpily sitting slightly to the side while Sandeul is chatting with your friends. Younghyun and Yugyeom let you sit in between them, as they are the only ones who know what happened, but you're still staying quiet.

You think Jeonghan suspects what happened. Guests have always made an appearance at your table, and you've never stayed quiet like you are now. Even when Jongin, the prom king runner up, sat at your usual lunch table, and you still made conversation. "So, (Y/N), what college are you planning on going to?" Sandeul is the first of the two visitors to talk to you.

"I'm going to NYU. How about you?" You answer hesitantly. Sandeul grins.

"That's great! Both me and Seokjin don't know where we're going." You offer a half-smile at that.

"I'm sure you guys will figure it out." Sandeul laughs.

"Well, I sure hope so. Do you know what you're going to study?" You shake your head.

"Not really? I'm stuck in between two majors, either business or law." Sandeul is actually really friendly. You wish you talked to him more.

"Those are good occupations. Hopefully, you can achieve what you want and enjoy it as well." You nod at Sandeul, in quiet thanks.

"The same goes for you." The quick conversation is enough to remind you to act like a normal human being and converse with people. You get back into your groove, and Jeonghan's worries are put on pause. "So, what do you think of Ms. Sunmi's substitute for today?"

The conversations at your tables resume, and the world is at peace for now. When Jaehyung eats a crabcake that Jennie let him try, his throat closes. He jolts up from his seat to rummage through his bag and pulls an EpiPen out of his backpack. With a steady hand, he uses it on his thigh. "I'm allergic to crab, and I forgot to take my medication beforehand." You tsk at him.

"How do you forget that? Come on, I'll take you to the nurse." Jae stands, and you accompany him through the halls. Seokjin follows quietly, and you shake off the uncomfortable feeling, focusing on your friend first.

The nurse's office wasn't far, and when you explained what happened, she took over. She also gave you and Seokjin a pass for the next class, and you guys had an unexpected free period. You headed straight towards the library, hoping Seokjin wouldn't follow you, but he did.

"Hey, um, (Y/N)?" he calls your name, and you try your best to ignore him. He grabs your wrist and spins you to turn to face him. "I'm sorry."

You roll your eyes, turning away from him. "It's fine. Sandeul must be wondering where you are. Why don't you go find him?" Seokjin gapes after you as you hurry down the hall again. He doesn't follow you.

You spend the rest of your free period in the library, and you go through the rest of the classes alone. With your final period being a free period, you head to the principal's office. When you enter the office, the secretary takes a quick glance at you before returning to her computer. "Mr. Lee is in a meeting, but he will be available in five minutes. Is it okay if you wait?" You nod, before realizing she's looking at her computer and voice your agreement.

"Are you playing minesweeper again, Ms. Hyuna?" Hyuna glances up, popping the gum in her mouth once before smiling and nodding.

"Yeah. This level sucks."

"Can I help?" you ask, and Hyuna nods, scootching over to make room for you. As you two discuss the strategies (apparently there are strategies according to Hyuna), the door to the principal's office opens and out walks Sandeul.

"(Y/N)? What are you doing here?" You glance up at him.

"Oh, I'm just here to see Mr. Lee." And see Mr. Lee, you did. He said you were able to graduate early at the end of the year, or you could graduate in the middle of the year with no fanfare. You decided to do it. With a quick goodbye, you left the office. You also passed by Hyuna to tell her not to click on the square with the mine.

Jeonghan had already gone home without you, as you texted him to let you know where you were, but someone else was waiting for you. "What are you doing?" you ask when you see Seokjin standing near the door to the principal's office.

"I'm walking you home since you stayed late." You roll your eyes.

"I'm not a child. I can walk home by myself."

Seokjin rolls his eyes as well. "Don't be stupid. I know you're not a child, but you did kind of run away from me when I was talking to you."

"I don't need your apologies," you say and walk past Seokjin. His legs are long, though, so he catches up to you. "What do you want?"

"I want to know why you don't like me. We've been neighbors for however long, but I don't know why you don't like me." You decide not to answer this question. It's not that you don't know why you don't like him.

He's loud. He throws parties on weekdays when you're trying to sleep. Sure, the first few times you let it slide since he didn't know you had a test, but it kept happening. Even after you asked him to keep it down. Your sleep schedule was fucked because of him. And that's not the only thing. When the police came to question him about his friend's actions once, he denied everything.

You're sure at least something must have been right, which means he must have lied at least once. Now, it's not good to judge someone, but you must say, you don't want to risk anything. "Are you going to answer my question?" Seokjin sighs impatiently.

"Ah, I don't hate you." You answered too fast. Seokjin raises a disbelieving eyebrow. "I just don't think you and I would get along."

"Why?" This man is stubborn.

"We don't see eye to eye on some things." That's your best excuse, and you can tell Seokjin doesn't believe it.

"Is this because of my friends' reputation and your love for yours?" You scoff. That was rude. "Don't give me that look. I know that look well. If you're so scared for your own reputation, then don't hang out with us. And don't invite us to lunch. It's an easy solution."

You glare at him. "It's not because of that." It is a little, but you're not telling him that. "And I wasn't trying to pity you, Seokjin. It's not entirely my fault that we don't hang out."

It's Seokjin's turn to roll his eyes. "How so? I don't seem to recall avoiding you every time you try to talk to me."

"But I do recall when you embarrassed me at the middle school assembly." Seokjin chokes.

"That was in middle school. This is high school now, so it shouldn't affect you." You feel your temper rising.

"People still call me stupid, sometimes," you hiss at him. "I still get notes asking whether my mom really was a criminal mastermind. But it's high school. It shouldn't affect me. So why does it still affect me?" Seokjin gapes at you.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize again. Anyways, if you're so annoyed by my indifference towards you, you don't need to worry anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm graduating a year and a half early. I'll be out of your hair. That'll make you happy." Seokjin just stands there, and you turn to walk away. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go home. I need to talk to my aunt."

"Which one? The shoplifter?" You clench your fists. Seokjin was only worrying about you, he didn't mean to jab at your family, but you didn't know that.

"No. Unlike you, Seokjin, some of my family actually cares about me. Maybe you should take a look at yours and see if you can say the same."

Seokjin's really mad now. "Oh, last I checked, your mother and father leaving you really seems like they care about you."

You stop, turn around and stare at him with glassy eyes. "Fuck you, Kim Seokjin." Before you can apologize, you run. He figures it'll be best not to go after you.

———

"I can't believe you're leaving already," Jennie whines as she gives you a hug. "I thought you'd be graduating at the end of the year, along with Jae and Yugyeom."

You smile at her. "Don't worry. You'll be joining me in just a year." Jennie sighs again.

"You said Younghyun. You never say Younghyun. You're sad too. You know it won't be the same. You'll be an entire year above us, and then you won't hang out with us as much. You might as well become best friends with Jae and Yugyeom instead of Jeonghan."

"What's this about replacing me as your best friend?" When did Jeonghan get here? He scared you and Jennie, as the two of your jump.

"Yeah, I might do it if you keep on scaring me," you threaten.

"Sure, you will. Come on, all the other guys are waiting." Jeonghan says with a short laugh. "I think Yugyeom might cry. Also, Jae bought a pizza and some fried chicken, so if you don't hurry, Younghyun may eat it all."

You glare at nothing in particular, racing outside. "Brian, if you touch that chicken, I'll kill you." Younghyun gently places down the chicken before going for the pizza.

"I wasn't touching the chicken, what are you talking about?" You laugh at his feigned innocence. Before you know it, you're crying while you laugh. Yugyeom starts crying too as soon as he hears the first sob, and everyone else rushes to try and calm you two down. Jeonghan is quick to envelop you into a hug, with Jae following quickly. Jennie and Younhyun pat Yugyeom's back. He was hard to calm down, and if you had the chance to, you would've hiccupped out a sorry.

"I don't even know why I'm crying," you sob into Jeonghan's hug. "Why's Yugyeom crying too?"

"He's crying because you're crying." This just makes you cry harder.

"I'm going to miss you guys." You choke out.

"What? Yugyeomie's going with you." Jae says, confused, and you laugh at him tearily.

"Yeah, but it'll take a while before we can all be united again. Aren't you going to the Cali State University with Younghyun? Jeonghan is going abroad to the University of Paris, and Yugyeom won't join me until next year. Jennie has two years to go too." Jae sighs, and offers you a tissue. He always carries a pack of them around because of his allergies.

"Don't worry. You'll have Yugyeom. And you'll make more friends! When you go to NYU, go find someone called Oh Sehun. You didn't hear it from me, but he's a good guy. He'll be a good friend."

You sniffle a little. Your tears are almost gone now. "Thanks, Jae."

As you dry your tears and help Jennie and Younghyun calm Yugyeom down, you can hear someone approach. You pay no mind, thinking it must be your aunt. "(Y/N) can we talk?" You look up and see Seokjin standing in front of you.

"I...sure. Just make it quick. Yugyeom and I have to hit the road soon." It's your last day here. You don't want to be mean.

"I just wanted to say sorry. What I said was rude." You sigh and nod.

"I can't accept your apology. And I don't think I'll ever forgive you," you say coldly. Seokjin nods miserably.

"I figured as much. Thank you. I wish you the best" You nod stiffly at him. Honestly, you don't want to talk to him. At all.

"Yeah." Seokjin leaves after getting the hint, and you sigh. "I really do have to go now." Yugyeom sobs harder. After more tears and goodbyes, you finally get in your car. It's time to go. You shoot a quick glance across the street to Seokjin's house, and you see him arguing with his mother. You quickly turn away and start your car engine. You're not going to worry about such stuff. Now's a new chapter.

#bangtanscenerycollab #seokjin fanfiction #seokjin fanfic #seokjin angst #seokjin #fanfiction #fanfic #bts fic #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts angst #BTS au

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stusbunker · 5 years

Text

Known: Two Halves, Three Hearts

A Supernatural Dark Fan-fiction

Featuring: MOC!Dean x Female OC, x Demon!Reader, Claire Novak, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Crowley

Summary: CC learns to navigate more of the Winchesters’ associates. Meanwhile, Dean crosses the line to end Cain’s reign of terror. He finds her vulnerable, will she let him sate himself in every way imaginable? Can he run from what he is becoming? Is she enough to keep the evil at bay? Crowley finds our Reader and offers a path to redemption, if she can trust what he’s selling.

Warnings: Post murder haze, torture, period sex, blood, blood play, stabbing, dub!con smut, subtle mention of past sexual assault, disassociation, humiliation, and loss of sense of self.

Series Masterlist

*^*^*^*

December 11, 2014

The Bunker

It was nearly dawn when Chloe felt the air tighten against the Impala’s entry into the garage. Something was wrong; Sam was driving. Dean sat in the passenger seat and in the back, Castiel beside a blonde who had cried out a week’s worth of mascara and eyeliner. Dean was bleeding, but that wasn’t what was wrong. He stared ahead, lost and empty, covered in others’ blood. It was human, every last drop, CC could tell just by the smell. An ability she would have appreciated if it didn’t lead to the implications on Dean’s clothing.

Other than the upset teenager, no one else seemed to have been touched by the fray. Sam rapped on the hood, giving CC his best ‘I can’t explain this away’ eyes. He was worried mute. CC finally moved toward the car, both Sam and she eventually earning swats as Dean came to, silently protesting their help.

“How many?” CC whispered against his retreating form.

“Look, they were loan sharks and they were going to use Claire-,” Sam started.

“How many people did he kill?”

“Four.” Castiel cut in, glimpsing back to the girl in the backseat.

CC’s stomach pitched, a phantom whiff of manure and dust drifted past her nose and into her thoughts. She didn’t allow herself to focus on the reality of Dean’s crimes, instead she moved the conversation along. “What are you going to do with the kid?”

“She won’t stay here. I was going to take her to a motel in town. Chloe, I’m sorry, CC, would you be willing to accompany me?”

Sam huffed. “Is that really a good idea, Cas?”

“I just thought that, maybe an older female might be able to get through to her.” Cas looked wrecked, his vessel wearing his worry like a neon sign. He felt more human to CC than he ever had.

“I’m not babysitting.” CC stared between Sam and Cas and back again. Her annoyance and concern reciprocated in one form or another. She should be checking on Dean, not playing Big Brother Big Sister to Castiel’s ward. Dean didn’t want to see her; he had made that painfully clear. CC fiddled with her knife as the girl’s ghostly eyes challenged them from the backseat. “I’m not ready to leave the wards, not yet. But, if you guys need a minute, I can get some food in her? Keep her out of your hair for a—”

“Thank you,” Sam mouthed to CC as he and Cas nearly ran out of the garage and the blast radius all she could do was reply with a single finger. CC walked around the hood of the Impala, hands tucked in her back pockets as she watched the girl glare and roll her eyes.

“What do you want?”

“I want to go back to bed, but since that’s not happening. Coffee?” CC gave Claire five seconds before walking away, nodding over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. Claire followed CC dejectedly, hunger trumped petulance apparently, if barely.

“So, who are you anyway?”

“You can call me CC.” She almost smiled over her shoulder, dropping down into the sunken kitchen.

“Which one of them is your–?”

“My what?” CC pushed the automatic drip setting from delayed brew to ON and started rifling through the pantry for English muffins once Claire made up her mind to join her.

“Dean, huh? Figures. Well, your man’s a murderer, if you didn’t know.”

CC didn’t really look up at the girl while she started preparing their hasty meal, but it was evident that her bitterness was far from fading. CC slammed the toaster lever in place and leered down at Claire, who was sitting on the kitchen table with her feet on the seat of a chair. “Alright, Miss Teen Bitch. First off, you are in their home, so I’d watch who you call what. Secondly, yeah, I did know. Pretty much every hunter has the bad kind of blood on their hands, that includes me.”

The creak of the muffins’ release broke the silence. There was more eye rolling and tongue tisking, but eventually Claire began to listen for the answer to her more pointed questions.

“What are you even doing with him?”

CC shrugged, “I could ask the same about you and the angel.”

“Gross.” Claire recoiled. “Besides, they came after me! I just swiped his wallet for some spare cash. They should have just let me go! If they had—- Fuck! You know what? Screw you lady. You’re on their side. You’re not gonna listen to me.”

“Hey, cool it, alright?” Claire threw her fists down at her sides and folded them over her stomach. CC could see she needed to keep prodding because Claire was so close to the next hurdle. “Let’s get things straight. This isn’t a black white, us vs. you scenario. They thought you were in danger and did what they thought was best for you; to keep you safe. Sucks not being able to make the call on your own life, don’t it?” CC waited for Claire to acknowledge the helplessness they shared.

“Yeah, well, I might be Dean’s whatever. But I know all too well about Winchester intentions. For the record, me and Castiel? Not friends.”

“He’s wearing my dad’s face. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”

CC dropped onto the bench below Claire, handing her a plate. “Just a little weirder than living in an underground bunker with the guys that sent your closest friend to Hell?”

Claire nibbled on the toasted olive branch, tearing it to pieces before finally relaxing. She was scared and desperate, it came off in every gesture of her defensive attitude. CC started to wonder just what was going to happen with the kid now that she had been brought in.

“I hate them, all of them. I hate them for what they did.”

CC’s mouth twisted in sad empathy at the girl, knowing that the grief she wasn’t processing was much more palatable as rage. It was like looking into a fun house mirror of her past: overdone make up and culturally rebellious hair style. All just more things to help in the lie to herself about how empty she felt.

“What?! I do.”

“I know.” CC rolled back up to her feet, nodding toward the fridge. “Let’s see what else there is to eat. There’s one thing that’ll piss Dean off more than messing with his car and that’s eating the last of his pie.”

“Okay?” Claire huffed out an unamused agreement, a reluctant warmth shone from her eyes.

*^*^*^*

February 2015

Dean had gone cold turkey. He stopped drinking, stopping lurking outside CC’s room at night, and started eating egg white omelets, apparently. Fat lot of good it did. The Oz Case with Charlie gave him whiplash, seeing his friend spilt into parts as if she was just the sum of her emotions rubbed him the wrong way. Breaking her arm was something he was never going to be able to forgive himself for; his knuckles still scabbed over from decimating her porcelain face. Her dogged determination and forgiveness still got him in the throat. Ever present, CC had stood, unflinching as the boys and Charlie had their goodbyes.

Now as Sam casually mentioned Tina from the Hansel and Gretel run in, something akin to jealousy flashed in her steely eyes. Something he had no desire to press her on nor any hope that it could lead to getting her back. She had helped out with Claire, had researched the hell out of the Bunker’s stacks alongside them through it all, and she had all but admitted the demon was the one moaning his name, the one that used her body to make his every nerve sing. If that wasn’t enough to drive him to drink again, nothing was.

*^*^*^*

February 16, 2015

A festering cavern, Hell

Blinding daylight burst from an unseen door to your left. Once your eyes adjusted a figure appeared, breaking through the shafts of light, like a key in a lock. His footfalls were leisurely, the clipping beat of his obscenely expensive shoes barely gaining ground. Crowley walked into your isolated prison like a birder on a Sunday stroll.

“Oh good, you’re conscious.” His big eyes teetered on compassion as his words fell in a nice noncommittal little heap. You wanted to reply; the empty air loomed as your mouth tried to form words. You couldn’t remember how long it had been since you had used your voice. Your tongue thick and coarse in your throat as it strove to remember language. Crowley squinted, but waited as you grew frustrated with yourself. You sighed, nodding in exasperation before he could mock you for it. You weren’t certain he was real, but the thought of a visitor, even one seeking twisted entertainment, was better than another decade alone. Eventually you decided that you couldn’t have made him up; you had better imagination than that.

“I wasn’t aware we still used places like these. These rubbish heaps were from the initial days of Hell. The time when the fallen Angels fought for control and some unseen judicial system weighed the disloyal and usurpers’ crimes. You got off lightly, by the old standards. It takes a lot of energy to maintain this kind of torment; it simply isn’t worth the output for a single demon here or there. Then again, we all must answer for our crimes; no matter how seemingly noble the reasoning. Rebels against an outdated hierarchy—”

He continued to drone on, though your exhausted mind could hardly keep up and when it did; you found yourself unaffected by his rallying attempts. You were too downtrodden to feel any comradery with the man who held the keys to your cage. To all the cages. Hate was a delicious main course that followed the apathetic appetizer. You began to wade out to the swells of emotion. Things that hadn’t reached you in years carving through you until you were ready to swim in the rage as he spoke, eyes beetle black and bulging as he spat his points.

Finally, you fissured as the sound erupted from your mouth, a frustrated wail that shut the King up well and good.

“What do you want?!” you demanded between staccato breaths. You glared down at him, his human form was nearly a head shorter than you, but the inches of debris locking your ankles in place nearly evened the field of vision. You hoped the words you used made sense; because he was taking his time answering.

“I need someone to do a little digging on a certain individual. Someone who owes me and who won’t go gossiping to the demon next door.” Crowley tongue worked his cheek. “In short, I am offering you a one-way ticket back, what do you say?”

“Who?” The confusion began to clear as the delirious hum of hope rang in your ears.

“Can’t tell you here. Now–” Crowley looked over his shoulder and raised his fist in the air. “Let’s get you somewhere a little more accommodating, shall we?”

Before you could even nod, he snapped his fingers, freeing you from the slop and stench.

*^*^*^

Tale End of Executioner’s Song

Dean has killed Cain

Dean comes up from the dark with rasping breaths. His tendons are locked into place and his wrist is screaming from strain, a frequency he has yet to process. He doesn’t remember telling his feet to move, but his legs have carried him this far: away from the evidence and back down to those waiting on him. All pretense shrivels as he hears Sammy’s voice close by, persistent but muddled. Then Crowley’s, asking for his arm, no, the blade. Right, it isn’t a part of him after all. He should really let go, he isn’t sure what part of him is making these decisions, but grateful it doesn’t seem to be as hard as it feels.

Dean turns the weapon handle out and passes it to Cas. His eyes have focused enough to see the disbelief on the demon’s face at the gesture. Dean isn’t here to suffer fools; however helpful they had become. He reveals his deceits, unblinking as Crowley disappears. Sam catches him then, before his legs finally catch up to the path that got them there and Dean wonders what God sees in man.

The fog of battle clung to his mind, the Mark dulled, but never silenced. His blood flowed hot and vibrant, pumping through his veins in and out of his heart, that very human organ thumping in his gnawing chest. Dean moved as if he was tailing himself, looking down on his movements from some unimaginable higher ground until he slid into the Impala and drove away. Everything was reflex, instinct, autopilot. The moment the driver’s side door creaked open, he smelled it. Blood, faint and intoxicating. That hot beat inside of him pounded deeper.

He threw his duffel to the foot of his bed and shrugged out of his jacket. The Mark peered beneath the rolled cuff of his flannel, a garish pink against the dark fabric. Somehow, Dean found himself in the kitchen and despite the caffeine and the cheerleading from Sam, he felt hollowed out. Dean’s vision tunneled as he dodged out of further conversation to march down the hall. Finally, he could seek what had been calling to him.

CC froze over the washing machine as he loomed in the doorway. Her eyes closed as she felt him scent her, she didn’t turn an inch in his direction. Her bare legs, plump and smooth, beneath her tiny pajama shorts were just enough exposed skin to do some real damage. She fell back, heavy on to her heels. “How was it?”

“Final,” Dean said after stopping to consider an appropriate description for an assassination.

Chloe finally saw him, torn between shadow and shame. “I was scared you’d—"

“Yeah, well. I did.” Dean crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders hulking as he considered her concern.

“Is there something you wanted to ask me?” CC swallowed more air, the fear and electricity making her lightheaded. She moved to rest her hand on her knife handle, but it slid over the missing weapon. Her oversized sweatshirt sleeve covering her hand as it dangled in unfulfilled habit.

“How you doin’ Cease?”

“What?”

“How are you?” Dean said each word with a step forward, head bowing as he watched her straighten to face him.

“Uh, pretty crabby, but okay, I guess.”

Dean hummed, eyes squinting as she nervously looked to the door and back to space between their feet. “Anything I can help you out with?”

She blushed, a warmth twisting around her eyes and an awkward smile pulled at her cheeks as she centered her ponytail, giving her itching hands something to hold on to. “Dean?”

“Chloe?” Dean’s eyes darkened, the dangerous smirk pulling far enough back to let the overhead lights glint on his impossible teeth. He was gaunt and sallow; yet power continued to radiate from all over him.

“How are you looking at me like that,” she whispered in disbelief, pulling her top lower over her wide hips. “I am disgusting right now.”

“Yeah, well, compared to my butchered mug; you’re as tantalizing as ever, Cease. Besides, I could use a distraction or two, however dirty they might be.” Dean’s voice dropped another octave, an invisible fist clenched inside her. She groaned, letting her head fall in indecision. Dean closed the distance between them, big hands taking her shoulders firmly as he leaned down, earning a grin as she found his eyes suddenly playful beneath lush lashes.

“Seriously, I’m gross.”

“Not to me you’re not,” Dean purred, wide thumb stroking her strong cheek bone. “Let me make you less crabby.” CC’s head rolled to the side; her nose nuzzled into his comforting stubble.

At long last, she caved, her spiced skin slipping beneath his cracked lips as they danced over her collar bone. Dean’s entire body hummed with a need nearly as wide as the void inside him. They collided, grabbing and shoving until Dean started to wonder who was truly strongest. Then CC nipped below his ear and he tossed her on top of the washing machine she had set to HOT. She pinched her knees together, twisting side saddle on the hissing appliance, lips parting as Dean’s tongue took its time riling her up from the inside out.

Dean’s hands widened, tips and palms digging into her fleshy thighs, begging access until he demanded it. She groaned into his mouth before pulling back, her uncertainty crumbled beneath his singular focus. She tasted the iron from his split lip, a bit of coffee and something unimaginable. Even bad decisions need to be made to prove their consequence. Chloe grabbed Dean’s forearms and pushed him back, his gaze slow to move up from his target.

“Shower room?” she asked hopping back down on her bare feet.

Dean barely shook his head, nose buried in her hair. Her arms threaded around his waist as his thumb cocked up her face, his fingers threading into the loose strands at the nape of her neck.

“My room? It’s farthest from Sam’s?” Dean answered with clashing teeth and a fistful of Chloe’s ass.

There was a threatening rhythm to their efforts, hefty pauses ending only after the other started to teeter; to break. They had gotten to CC’s room, clothes shoved and forgotten along the way to the bed. Dean grasped the nape of her neck, his arm locked as he stared through her, eyes unfocused and mouth open against a horror she couldn’t see. She tried to pull him closer, to sit back and take him with her, but he was frozen. She slid her palm under his elbow and pushed up, her other arm braced across his chest to keep him back, in case his reaction was less than friendly.

His jaw worked over all the words that wouldn’t form, eyes dropping closed as he came back from the brink, grip softening as his forehead fell to her shoulder. CC couldn’t stop from shaking as the moment passed, Dean’s mouth finding her pulse point more than conversational again. All that hovered over them: fear, power, destiny and damnation, fueled them until they were desperate and starving, knowing that the other was just as empty. Just as wanton. Dean’s hands pulled her thighs apart and his teeth ran the edge of the faded cotton. The iron sang through his nose as it mixed with her arousal; a signature cocktail he couldn’t refuse.

CC swallowed as his fingers dragged down the last barrier between his mouth and her coated folds. No sound could reach her as she battled the disgust and desire, Dean’s tongue threaded through her lips, nipping and sucking them swollen. He moved in to circle her clit; the heat of her shame began to burn away as yearning eclipsed all custom and ceremony. CC’s head fell back, and when she closed her eyes knots of wood looked back.

Suddenly she was suspended from her every nerve, tucked away from feeling Dean shove three fingers inside her mess. In a bubble of warmth and muffled sound, CC drifted. It was calm and quiet there, a place without resistance or time. She began to wonder if this is what Death felt like, if the veil could manifest itself to tease her. To coax her immortality from her by sheer tranquility. There was something pulling at the back of her thoughts, something she was forgetting, something that demanded her opposition even, but CC couldn’t be bothered to think on that. Not quite yet.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s lost her, he just keeps finger fucking her until the thinning blood is snaking down his arm. His lips pull at her, thirst crazed and blind. The beat inside his head overtakes her pulse, heavy and languid, building. Her breath catches and he feels the gentle trickle, a silent compliment for his efforts. Her body pulls while he pushes, deeper, solid, unmoving as the shuttering of her walls loosen outward in waves.

Dean pulls his hand back and admires it in the light, rust rimmed nails and ruddied knuckles as the skin cools beneath the liquid as it dries and cracks. It’s not enough. His eyes search the desk and dresser, knowing it must be here, somewhere. He isn’t thinking, he is only moving. The battered leather sheath lays across her boots, handle smooth and solid as he grips it in his right hand. It’s smaller than he thought, but the spellworked blade dazzles as Dean pulls it from its case.

She hasn’t moved safe for her chest rising and eyes scrunched against the ceiling. Dean should know that isn’t a good sign, but either he doesn’t register it, or he doesn’t care. He moves to her side, where he can feel her curves against him, her lungs expand as he lets his weight fall against her. Her head lulls to the side and a soft whimper passes her lips as he slides home, blood thick and gritty along every inch of him. Dean almost cums at the sight of the gore he pulls out of CC’s channel. He pushes back in, shoving her knees obscenely against the comforter, letting every ripple of her thighs and ass urge him on.

CC feels the first slice between her breasts. Like a tuft of hair caught in a necklace she is pulled from her weightlessness and placed back in reality. The sweat stings her skin as it opens, her granddad’s knife dangles above her as Dean catches her eye. He thrusts into her with clenched teeth, eyes dark and muscles constricting as he shifts lower. Her legs lock around his waist as he stands, still buried inside her. She tries to sit, but his free hand pushes her back down, rough palm burning against the mangled flesh.

He grunts and gasps, and CC finally sees it, the terror in his eyes. He’s frozen once more. The knife is shaking in his hand, a not so invisible force extending over his forearm. CC needs to do something; Dean’s panicking as his body moves without him. She rolls her hips and threads her fingers around his wrist. Dean’s eyes go wide as she sinks the metal beneath her ribs. She shushes him, nodding and rocking into his body. Dean looks away and moves again, entering her doubly as the Mark takes her offering to free him. She tries to keep breathing, to stay conscious and keep watch on Dean.

Her hand slips up from his wrist and over the cursed brand in his white skin. She focuses on it, stomping on the tendrils of control with her mind; it remains immobile and unnerving. She feels the darkness pulling at her, trying to put her under, to stow her away. Dean’s face falls to her neck, he pulls the knife from her side, leaving jarring pain shooting through her as the wound registers. Dean cries out, clutching her head to his, arms tight and knife falling.

CC thrashes against him, breaking through with a fist through his near headlock; they roll back, clinging to each other like a life raft. His scruff prickles her throat and CC coughs, breaking the stalemate. They pull apart, limbs and groins untangling in guilt riddled silence. Dean clears his throat and sits up, hand hovering over her wounds. He’s mesmerized and apologetic, biting back any sorry when CC inhales against the pain. She waves him off and pops up onto her elbows. Her eyes take in the damage and she frowns in consideration before closing her eyes.

“Cease?” Dean whines a worry as her skin starts to glow.

“It’s okay. I’m gonna be fine, just, uh, just gimme a sec.” CC wills the walls of her organs to fuse, her muscles knit together, and the skin zips closed and clean before Dean’s eyes. She pants from effort and falls back to the bed, a gentle smile twisting on her face before she opens her eyes. Dean’s are like saucers, his slack jawed expression made worse by the patches of blood and slick crusted in his scruff. All CC can think is how his mix of scary and stoned is causing her heart to catch in her throat.

“Hey?” CC whispers, slipping her hand over his, despite the nausea that was creeping back up. “You good?”

Dean lets her question sit unanswered, floating in the space between his guilty hands and her enabling eyes. The world seemed to tilt before he falls into the damp darkness of unconsciousness.

^*^*^*^

Dean woke to the sound of his own screams, his fist jutting up into some unseen enemy. He swung against her as CC tried to pull him back, her hand cool on his left bicep. He smelled soap and felt damp pillows; he couldn’t remember showering. Finally, the room righted itself and he could piece together what little furniture she had accumulated since they’d been brought back to the Bunker. Since the demon inside her had helped Sam cure him. He spotted her empty boots and the images of her knife in his grip flashed in his mind’s eye; his stomach twisted against the memories he forced himself to swallow.

CC let him work through it, she was sore and exhausted and couldn’t find the words that would bring him back from the brick wall he kept running himself into. His recoil from her every touch set up her haunches as it was, maybe she should have dragged him to his own bed after all. Having him here felt like they were hiding, but the only person she felt any guilt for was no longer in this phase of existence.

He whispered a desperate ‘fuck’ into the early morning quiet. Finding his undershirt; he ducked into the neck before turning to face CC. Whatever he was hoping to find in her face, it wasn’t there. Her tired eyes were set deep atop her full cheeks, her uncertainty and caution bordering on annoyance.

“What?” Her voice warbled.

“Forget it.” Dean closed his eyes as her hand snaked over the sheets to cage his in. “I’m sorry I woke you up, I’ma head back to my room, let you get some rest.”

“Dean? You don’t have to—” She didn’t even try to sell it.

“I know, but, I just keep going through the thing with Cain and, you need to recuperate now, so.” Dean shrugged, left a peck on her forehead and threw on the rest of his clothes before either said another word. Once he was free to the safety of the empty hallway Dean shivered, his bare feet and wet head oddly comforting in the confines of his body and bones.

CC watched him leave, quick and painlessly. There was so much lacking between them that it didn’t even register as a rejection; they were simply saying what they thought the other wanted to hear. They were quite the lop-sided pair: the cursed hunter and Heaven’s bastard’s mistake. Both broken, in very different directions.

*^*^*^*

Next Chapter: The Mark

#known series #moc!dean #dean winchester fanfic #dark fic #dean x female vessel oc #dean x reader #dean x demon!reader #moc!dean x reader #dub!con #dean winchester smut #spn fanfic series #spn dark fanfic #blood #period sex #stabbing #the tense change was left in to promote immediency #i dont think thats a word #oops not sorry

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limey-blue-arty-do · 6 years

Text

Going Through The Stages

a lil ficlet inspired by my Angor Rot shitpost of how he deals with humans (in turn inspired by my OC and Angor interactions)

this is very heavily a canon divergence AU, features OCs, and is an Angor angst-free zone. enjoy~

Stage 1: Do not fucking touch me

“Angor Rot, this is your new assistant.”

The young woman that Strickler gestured to bristled furiously, as she muttered, “We’ve already met.” Angor was very much content to glare and bare a slight growl in her direction.

Strickler felt a sinking sensation in his gut as he recalled the state that the Order’s new witch had been found in – bruised and exhausted in the care of the Trollhunter.

“So, you might have gotten off on the wrong foot”, he started, an attempt to placate the two. Twin glares suggested placating would not work. “But remember that you are here under the watch of the Order-” The witch scowled, something horribly bitter and yet sad in her eyes. “-and you are under my strict orders.” Another of Angor’s slight warning growls was uttered, this time in Strickler’s direction. Strickler held up the ring, and the gentle hum of golden power silenced Angor’s snarling.

“You two will be working together to stop the Trollhunter”, Strickler told them. “And as such any inconveniences-“

“That’s one way to describe murder”, the witch mumbled.

“…Any inconveniences will not be allowed. I’m sure the two of you will manage to figure out a working plan.” Satisfied, Strickler gave them both temperamental smile. The witch responded with a roll of the eyes and a heavy sigh, before glancing at Angor.

“At least you’re not allowed to try and kill me now”, she commented, reaching out a hand to the troll. He recoiled, his knife still in grip from his usual golem carving, spitting at her, “I’m sure I could manage to maim you, witchling!”

Strickler’s sinking sensation did not abate.

Stage 2: Gestures of comfort are going get snapped at

There was something about having one’s soul used against oneself that left a painful ache even stronger than emptiness.

Angor watched Strickler’s back as the changeling walked away from the night scattered woodland clearing, feeling the urge to leap at his unprotected back and sink a stone dagger into the softness. But his limbs would not obey. Not now. Not until that ring was in his hands.

“Not gonna lie, that guy is kinda an asshole”, the witch commented. She was sitting nearby. Almost casual, but her shoulders rose when Angor glared at her as if she too would pounce.

As Angor rumbled a foul phrase in Trollish, the witch stood, unwrapping each leg with a wince and brushing off whatever foliage stuck to her coat.

“I uh….I feel you though”, she muttered. “I get that this sucks, having something taken, and-”

“Do not presume to know my thoughts!”, Angor snapped at her, his voice edging on a brutal roar.

“And don’t you try to judge me in return!” Silence. Inhale, exhale. A shaking breath. Soft fleshing movements. Such weakness.

Stage 3: You can steady yourself if needed but I will push you away if touch lingers for more than 1 second

They’d been traversing these tunnels for about an hour. Angor had been expecting the young witch to make some complaints or tire, but she’d been keeping reasonably good pace to his hidden surprise. Sure she’d attempted to make some conversation, but seeing as Angor was either short or reluctant on responses, she’d eventually lapsed into silence.

Well, for long enough periods of time.

“Do you know other kinds of magic?”, she asked. “Apart from tracking and stasis and projection? Granted that’s a strange combination to have on hand..” Again she trailed off. Angor glanced back over his shoulder, checking again she had not fallen behind. The human face was vaguely illuminated by the grey-white orb of light she had summoned to her hand, face pinched in that common manner that suggested she was thinking about something, or otherwise not in the moment.

“Keep your wits around you”, Angor rumbled, and her eyes snapped back up to him. “We will not be alone for much longer.”

“Right”, the witch said, and she took two steps into a hidden crack or crevice. Stumbling, she muffled a sound of distress, her path sending her falling against Angor. He braced himself not to step back, an arm adjusting to keep her upright.

A second passed, and he shoved her back onto solid ground.

“…Thanks”, she said.

“Watch your step, next time I may not assist”, Angor replied, continuing to lead the way.

Stage 4: If you hit me during a fight I’m going be a little bit proud

The woodlands surrounding Arcadia were widespread, with trunks and leaves that could swallow sound like a hole.

It was a suitable hiding place and training ground.

Shadows warped and coalesced across the dappled grass, forming a solid object that the witch plucked from the ground. Her hands forced the shape into a spear that turned and blocked Angor’s downward swing, stone and shadow hitting together with a muted metallic noise. Leaping back, Angor tossed the dagger to his other hand and came running in again. The witch turned the spear to the incoming attack and didn’t see the claw stretched toward her unprotected side. Sure the dagger was blocked again, but she was still bodily flung across the clearing. Turning in the air, she landed, rolled with the continuing motion, and came to a halt in a crouching position.

“When facing a greater opponent, they can always flank you”, Angor called across at her. “Maintain awareness of all your surroundings, and you may withstand a chance of survival.”

“I get it, I’m small, I’m more likely to die”, the witch said, standing with a sigh and slack posture.

Unguarded.

Angor kicked off from the ground, dagger in one hand and a spell manifesting in the other. Something to stun, to sting, to drive the lesson in-

Wait.

Her posture shifted even as he moved, the spear splintering into a dozen shards of black magic, her eyes watching him and prepared, she’d planned this and she was ready.

He struck low, moving to avoid the shards, as she leapt high and planted her foot into his face.

A small explosion of black cloud pushed the witch forward and Angor backward, hitting the ground and rolling uncontrolled, coming to rest on his side with a growing pain across his jaw. The witch didn’t fare much better, launched across the clearing by her own magic and falling in a cacophony of limbs and smoke. For a brief while, the two opponents lay dazed.

Angor let out a laugh, distant and grating as he slowly pushed himself back to his feet. The witch eyed him with an expression of nervousness.

“You are learning”, Angor said. “There may be some worth in you yet.”

“….Did you just compliment me?”

“I stated the facts.”

“You complimented me. Wow.”

Angor nudged the witch in the ribs with his foot and she wheezed.

“Up. This lesson is not yet complete.”

They took position once more.

Stage 5: Tapping my arm to get my attention is allowed but causes irritated glaring

The Trollhunter and his allies were wary now. They’d encountered Angor enough times to keep an eye out and to travel in groups. Now Angor no longer held the Shadowstaff, this led to some slight difficulties in keep track of the group. No major issues at least.

From the thicket (annoying brambles jabbed uselessly against stone), Angor watched the fleshling children walk together down a lit street and talk amongst themselves.

No Triumbric stone, but a magical implement gained. What to do now? How long until Angor Rot returned from wherever the portal had sent him? How to retrieve the stone? Where to find the next?

Angor listened. To know the plans of your enemy was to be able to fool him. To know where the prey would flee would be to set the trap in his path. He followed the three, moving silently from the thicket to thicket, another shadow in the darkness.

He felt a hand tap his arm and it was only the fact that the gesture brought no threat that stopped him from immediately turning his dagger on the person. Even so, he still brought up in a threatening movement, an annoyed snarl curling across his face. Tapping a finger to her lips, the witch pointed behind them. Angor turned his head too, and heard bushes move, the thud of heavy stone feet and limbs as one ungainly troll and one large troll moved towards the group.

Time to disappear somewhere else.

Angor pushed the witch ahead of him, and she in turn moved the shadows around them, the night enveloping the two and turning them into dappled shapes against moonlight and street lamps.

Stage 6: Comfort gestures are met with grumbling as opposed to violence

“Do you miss your home?”

Angor cracked an eye open. The witch was sitting across from where he’d taken up his own seat, floating wisps of black magic above her open palms.

She’d spoken enough of her own home in the same pained longing that Angor had felt when he’d been tired enough to recall his past, when Strickler had described Angor’s rise to the Pale Lady’s champion.

He felt the wisps of golden magic in his hands flutter, glowing in strength. Was it at the thought of the Pale Lady? Or was it at the thought of his home, long left to dust and ruin?

“There is nothing to miss”, Angor eventually responded, and he spoke truth and it seemed to ache even more than his emptiness.

Damn this witch for making him remember what had been taken. So much had been taken.

It took a moment for Angor to realise the witch had just said that.

“It’s not fair for you to loose so much”, she continued, almost muttering to herself.

“Do not loose focus. Empty your mind to concentrate on the power”, Angor warned her. He didn’t say she was wrong.

The black wisps curled, fluctuated and then dissipated. Letting out a sigh, Angor went back to focus on his own magic, only to see nothing but the fading glow on his hands. So much for a successful lesson.

The witch watched him, eyes narrowed. Angor couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen her wariness, her spite. He couldn’t recall when he’d last felt that sickly hate, like when he sensed the presence of a witch and thought of what had been stolen from him.

She stood up, walked across to him (even with him sat down she only stood higher than his head from the torso up), and asked him, “You said once that trolls comfort each other by pressing foreheads together, right?”

Angor could tell where this was going. He curled his lip, let out a dull, “You should not bother to care”, followed it with a, “I could still try to kill you.” But still he felt contact against his forehead and he closed his eyes.

“The Impure will not know about this.”

“My lips are sealed if yours are too.”

Stage 7: You are fucking small get on my shoulder to get a better view

He needed that ring.

He was going to get that ring.

And damned by any that got between him and his soul.

The rooftops of Arcadia had become second-nature, much like the sewers, and Angor travelled across them quickly in the dim light of nighttime. Behind him, blurring shadow in footsteps and muffling sound, the witch kept well enough pace.

As they neared the museum, somewhere Angor knew Strickler frequented, Angor swung and clambered his way across a gap between the buildings, vaulting up the side of a billboard before leaping across the next gap. An easy path.

For a troll at least.

Looking behind him, Angor saw the witch try to peer between the billboard and metal vents, muttering angry words before trying to clamber up the billboard. Angor watched her progress for maybe a minute before deciding it simply wasn’t going to cut it. Back across he leapt, dropping down beside her.

“Stay still”, he said, and picked her off the ground. The witch wriggled briefly, as she usually did when carried. Reaching around, Angor held her up to the aging branches that grew across his spine and shoulder.

“Hold on”, he ordered and she did, he felt her weight across his back and a foot accidentally kick his side.

Up the wall, digging claws into the metal structure and up to the top of the billboard, Angor crept across before leaping the gap across the buildings again. He heard the witch inhale sharply, felt another accidental kick before that foot shoved into a nook somewhere in his back.

Landing gracefully, Angor shook himself and the witch dislodged herself without much other word, clambering down his arm to terra firma.

“Keep going”, Angor said.

“Of course”, the witch replied, following his lead.

Stage 8: Comfort gestures don’t cause grumbling

Angor Rot felt like his cracked core of a heart had been squeezed in a clamp. One moment that ring, his soul, had been in the clutches of the Trollhunter. The next, the witch was holding it and looking like it was a death sentence.

“Please, give it to me!”, the Trollhunter shouted from beneath Angor’s clutches.

“Do not”, Angor growled, and lo there was the spite, the bile, again a traitorous witch had taken his soul and how dare she, how dare she-

“Angor”, she said, her voice shaking and he couldn’t understand, he’d watched her change from bitter to capable at his side. “Please, come here.”

He moved. Close until she was right before him.

“Angor Rot, I return to you your soul.”

Reaching up, the witch placed the ring into his hand. There was a brief moment of stillness, and suddenly warmth flooded into him. Joy, freedom, a weight lifted with the removal of manacles. Angor exhaled for the first time.

He was free.

“You did not have to do this”, he said to the witch. “You shouldn’t have. I could kill you now, kill you and the Impure and the Trollhunter.”

“I…I trust you not to”, the witch replied, confidence leaking back into her voice and posture. “Do you really want to? Now that you have the choice.”

Angor looked at the witch and saw his village.

“No. No, I do not.”

The smile of relief on the witch was shaking but genuine. Reaching up, she placed a cold hand on his arm, and he leaned down in response to press his forehead against hers.

“Does someone want to explain what’s going on?” Ah, he’d almost forgotten the fleshbag Trollhunter. Stepping aside to face the confused young boy, Angor gave him a menacing grin.

“My leash has been removed”, he replied. “The Impure and his Order, nor the Pale Lady, no longer have a grasp on my actions. Angor Rot is loose, Trollhunter. And next to be broken is the leash of my ally.”

Gesturing to the witch, he was gladdened to see a look of surprised glee on her face. Both were especially surprised though by the Trollhunter’s next words:

“So, where do we start?”

Stage 9: I’ve gotten so used to you starting to climb up me now because you’re small that we have a damn code-word during fights

Given a month ago Angor had been raised from his chains to a world changed and marred, leashed by an Impure and forced to work alongside a witch fleshbag, he would not have expected to come to this. Standing in the shadows of a building alongside a dock of hulking steel and crates, and not being forced to work, not any more.

“It is clear”, he rumbled, and the witch ran ahead of him, taking shelter behind the first set of huge metallic crates. She crept ahead under she reached another opening, then gestured. Angor ran and leapt up onto the crate, flowing across the top to leap to the next before motioning for the witch for follow him. Turn by turn, they navigated the space between the line of buildings and the ship before them.

Angor heard them first. A sour chittering, and claws across metal. He dropped down to the witch’s level, motioned for her to stop. She stepped up to his side, hands instinctively drawing a weapon from the dark shadows around them.

The first goblin was taken out by a simple punch. The next fell to a spear. More and more, about a couple dozen, they swarmed the pair and it was a good fight. Sure, not a difficult one for Angor Rot and his witch, but a good one nonetheless.

Several goblins came in from behind them, from atop the crates, and Angor just about managed to turn and cut them apart into green ooze as they jumped at them.

“Midnight”, the witch called over and she grabbed for the now outstretched arm, clambering up and settling into place with a hand on those aching fossilised branches and a swinging glaive knocking back any other goblin that dared to try and claw at Angor’s back.

When the last goblin turned away with a frightened howl, there was a pause to breath. To take in the scene once again.

Again, the skittering of claws on concrete and metal. But this time something else was breathing, heavier and larger than a goblin.

“It’s them, it’s the Order”, the witch murmured, and to hear fear for the first time in a long time made Angor snarl at the oncoming foes.

“They will not stop us this time”, he growled, as the shapes of humanoid (but not, stone skin and claws and hooves and spines) figures came into view from around.

They would not stop him.

Damned be the Pale Lady, she would not take his village from him again.

#writing stuff #trollhunters #angor rot #OC #self insert #I mean the OC is based offa my personality so idk

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