Hello friends, you may call me Hel (Helen/Helena) and I'm hoping I can get into writing again, as I used to have a fanfic account on here a few years back.
If you'd wish to ask questions/gush over mutual interests, or even request something, send an ask to my main account! (Please be patient with me and read the rules there too.)
About Blog
So this is my second blog where I will only post my fics/ideas. (Mostly smut (โ ;โ ลโ ๏นโ ลโ ) Proceed with caution. Further details in rules.)
The tags below will show you different posts of mine. "hel_yaps" is for my rambling and comments, "hel_writes" is for my works, and "hel_writes?" will be for posts of mine that is a weird combo of both yapping and writing, like headcanon discussions.
@vampire-inebriation-asylum is my main blog where I am most active.
Rules (I have zero tolerance, I will block you if you're genuinely being an asshole and/or blatantly ignore my rules.)
๐ค No bigotry whatsoever. No racism, sexism, ableism, homophobia, transphobia, nor fatphobia.
๐ค Please don't DM me, I have severe anxiety interacting with people through messages due to past incidents.
๐ค I do not believe in censorship if it isn't necessary. I believe in self moderation. Please block a corresponding tag, or block me if you find my posts unsavory. My blog will contain works involving cannabis, proshipping, horror, ageplay, smut and, on occasion, agere when I'm regressed.
๐ค Sfw only agere users dni: My blog is not safe for you. While I do age regress and make some agere centered posts, I still have my bad habits.
๐ค Generative AI is not my friend and it isn't yours either. It's stealing much needed water from people's homes, polluting said water as well as stealing from artists of all medias to train them.
I was wondering about Franco and how he'd react if he met an age regressing Reagent.
IMO, Franco would be, at first, very confused, noting the childlike behavior they exhibit, then, maybe, he'll start to feel this lull in his mind, regressing as well.
He would eventually find them curled up in the corner crying, and he just creeps over, unsure of himself. Unsure to act like a baby for once, because it's always been an act, something to hide his vulnerability.
But now it's real.
And sitting beside the crying reagent, letting a moment of silence wash over them, he plucks the pacifier hanging from his suit, and holds it out to the reagent with a quiet, uncharacteristically soft tone, "Y-You wanna share my paci..." He stops, clearing his throat anxiously before correcting himself with embarrassment, "My pacifier?"
They sniffle, lifting their head and rubbing at their red, teary eyes with clenched fists, their voice equally little, "Y-Yeah... Please..."
And this obviously intrigues Dr. Easterman.
Idk, this is a little dorky, been a while since I've written anything. Hopefully y'all see the vision.
Aromantic Dean Winchester makes so much sense to me after thinking about it. Makes sense why past relationships he was in never lasted long or were of sexual focus. Makes sense why Dean's so focused on familyโespecially Sam.
Idk, after hearing what Jensen said, I wondered about this and seen someone mention Aro!Dean and it's just makes the most sense to me.
Also, I find Jensen's words to be reasonable. I mean, he played as Dean for 15 years. Dean's a big part of him. But people finding Jensen's hesitation towards Destiel to be homophobic doesn't make a lot of sense to me, as there's been queer representation repeatedly in Supernatural. And as far as I'm aware, he's not upset about the queer part of this, it didn't sound like he was upset about the implications of Dean being queer, but rather he had his own idea with his character.
This is where the Aromantic idea comes into play. It would explain the tension between Castiel and him, that maybe, he is attracted to him, but not romantically. And after Cas was taken by the darkness, Dean felt extra guilt for unintentionally leading Cas on in any way, and knowing Dean's behavior, he probably stews in it until he feels resentful and therefore, his lack of care after upcoming days, plus his extra coldness because he doesn't want anyone else to fall in love for him when he can't in return.
But that's just a lil theory o' mine and my thoughts on Jensen's words.
Franco Barbi who was thinking you're mommy material, but after watching you follow orders, rely on the older/experienced reagents, and be a bit of a cry baby, he realizes you're better suited as a baby.
I'm most likely not the first and definitely won't be the last to realize this parallel involving the colours red and green, and Sam's relationship to Dean and Lucifer.
Lucifer's eyes are Red.
Dean's eyes are fanfiction/candy-apple Green.
Green is a colour corrector for Red. Dean (and his green eyes) does everything he can to protect Sam against Lucifer. Green shielding against red.
And here's where I wiggle in a little headcanon of mine: Sam's favorite colour is green. the colour green just feels so safe to him and he never seems to realize how much it's because of his big brother's eyes. And counterpart to that, I also headcanon that after his time in hell (and his soul is back), the colour red makes him feel uneasy. He genuinely has to swallow down the twisting fear in his gut the second he sees red lighting/glowing of any kind in particular because the hell he survived has red eyes that glow blindingly bright.
A/n: While I did have an OC in mind for this, I didn't write a lot of description so it can be seen as chubby fem reader insert. Finally posted something :') Sorry for the long wait and I hope you enjoy <3
This isn't good. This is not good.
Sam looked away for just a second and now the demon they were staking out is missing along with this girl it was clearly stalking.
She looked so sweet, sticking out like a sore thumb in the bar with those chubby curves and trusting eyes. The brown, oversized cardigan and the flowy, floor-length, white dress with daisies on it only added to her innocent appearance. A doe in the poacher's sights.
And now she is in danger because Sam got distracted for one fucking minute. One minute to catch a spilled drink. And it's the death of her.
He has no choice but to hope he can arrive at the demon's hideout before them. Dean had already scouted the place, found evidence of what looks like to be a ritual in the making. One that requires a virgin's blood. And while he's not certain whether the girl is a virgin or not, she sure looked the part; blushing at any mere compliment, squirming at the mere touch of her waist, and so forth.
Please let her be okay...
The truck it used is still warm when he arrives, which is a comfort. Means they hadn't been here long before him.
But as the door creaks open, the rotten floor groaning traitorously beneath his boots, there's not a sound. Not a whimper, not a malicious chuckle, not even footsteps but his own. He shouldn't go on without Dean, he said he'll be here soon, but with an image of that girlโbleeding and sobbing for mercyโpopping up in his conscience, he presses on, heart pounding against his ribcage and grip tight on his firearm.
Something's wrongโ
A cloying scent hits him, hard. Enough so that his eyes flutter, and saliva pools on his tongue. Such a familiar scent. Long has it been since he's indulgedโyears even, but the tang still puts a throb in his head, still tunnels his vision. He's been around demon blood enough over the years, but with how potent the smell is, how strong the reaction, there must be a large quantity involved...
Shit, is he too late? Has the girl been lost forever? Has she been butchered or corrupted?
Squelching. Scuffling.
No, the sight is worse than he could imagine as he rounds the corner. Worse and oh so alluring.
There, in the center of the room, the demon lays weakly, gasping and coughing futilely. There's no coming back from this, not when it's ribcage is pried open, flesh pulled aside, and blood, a deep crimson as it seeps into the floorboards and white fabric.
There's a demon trap beneath them, once hidden by the now discarded rug, ragged and frumpy where it lays at the edge of the room. But that's a mere afterthought as compared to the sight before him.
Headfirst in the barely living monster, is the girl, face sodden with it's gore, pupils blown wide enough to nearly overtake the whites of her eyes... There's tears spilling over her stained, freckled cheeks.
She's sobbing into the cadaver, teeth latched tightly into the slowing heart, drinking and drinking and coughing when some blood goes up her nose.
"What... are you?" The words slip out before Sam can stop them, gun pointed to the floor but ready.
Some ribs snap with a wet pop as she hauls herself from the corpse, shooting up onto unsteady legs that merely give out beneath her within seconds, vision hazy and head pounding from possible overconsumption.
"Stay back!" She cries out anxiously as she plummets to the floor, a loud thud echoing in the abandoned architecture. Splintering wood scratch, cut and embed slivers into her flesh with a harsh sting. She deserves it she believes, deserves the pain and the bullet in his weapon, because of the monster she is, tearing into possessed bodies with little care for the vessel. Always desperate for her fix.
Moonlight blooms over her figure as she crawls into the window's view, the dark spills on her mouth, throat and chest shine with an oddly divine gleam, dress soaked and clinging to the fat that make up the curves of her frame, gruesome yet so so beautiful. A breeze teases at her skin, goosebumps pebbling along the flesh... It carries the mouthwatering stench of demonic essence and something musky yet floral, right to Sam's senses.
The gun drops to the floor with a clatter. Hazel eyes give way to expanding pupils, and he's descending upon her before she can yelp.
I can't help myself...
Licking up the length of her soft neck, replacing crimson with saliva, Sam shivers with a low groan, a once familiar surge shooting through him at the taste. She goes limp in his grip, head tilting back with a whimper. Submitting. Fawning. He cups her head with a shaky hand, pulling her back up into his sight.
I need more...
He ducks down, licking into her bloodied maw, tasting what's left pooling amongst her teeth, tongue and gums. Her own tongue meets his tentatively, bashful and reeling from the sudden passion from this stranger.
I'm sorry Dean, I can't stop...
Forehead to forehead, Sam pulls away and stares down into her vulnerable gaze all while his heart pounds in his ears, breath unsteady as further craving settles into his stomach. There's nothing spoken but the words in their eyes are loud enough:
CW: Calling Easterman daddy, talk of Amelia's capture, implied manipulation tactics. Otherwise, just some fluff. Enby reader/reagent with no physical descriptions.
"D-Daddy..." Their whimper for help echoes in the room.
One month. One whole month since Dr. Easterman had last talked to them personally. Ever since Amelia was caught, strung up in the sleeprooms, it's been radio silence after every trial, the one thing that kept them going gone.
And they, poor thing, are the definition of a Daddy's little one, lost and reeling without his guiding hand and gentle praises. Exactly how he wants them to be. Exactly what he hoped would occur.
He's been watching them, audience to their crumbling confidence and their growing confusion. Now here he is, coaxing his loyal little 'how high' into his lap, the weight upon his slim frame as utterly addictive as his control over his disciples.
"Shh sh shhh... Daddy's right here..." His voice, a gentle balm to their anxious soul, his cold, slender hand snaking around and cupping the back of their head. He pulls them closer, deeper into his touch, and deeper into his influence, "A father's work is never finished, a teacher's lessons never ending. I am here, little lamb. And I... I am in control."
There's a slight waver to his last words, an urgency, as if reclaiming some kind of territory. Reclaiming his place as their leader. Their God.
He can't let Amelia's promises of freedom obscure his flock any longer. Can't let the seed of rebellion to further take root.
His thin lips press soothing reassurances to the flesh of their cheeks, a reward for their loyalty. And it's received with mumbled pleas for forgiveness, as if his temporary disappearance from their life was a fault of theirs.
Perfect, Hendrick doesn't even need to work hard to keep them, their broken little mind leaving them entirely dependent on him and his guidance.
"I love you." He whispers into their scalp, fingers sinking into their flesh until the threat of bruises throbbed underneath his fingertips.
Franco Barbi, please let ride your cockkkkk, I don't care if it's half hard, I don't care if you're impotent, I don't care if it's small, just pleaseeeeeee.
