#and then you give me that line when they fight shadow selves where he says it feels like fighting his twin??? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shallowrambles · 3 months

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Going anon because this is a sensitive subject in fandom and I don't want to offend anyone.

I'm don't 100% agree but you inspired me to take a closer look at the Blood Brother ep. I've never seen it analyzed like that, and although your words bothered me, I think you had some good points. I don't think the fandom idealization of Benny is as bad as the fandom version of Sam, but your argument that similar forces are at work for both of them is really compelling.

I never really cared about Andrea, but everything you said has given me pause, but I think you might be right and the illusion in The Werther Project is a lot closer to the actual Benny we see on screen.

I love your take on Andrea, and I'm with you that it might've have been cooler and more of an unexpected twist to see her in purgatory instead during season 15! I love your brain!

Happy to give you something to ponder, then! It's sometimes fun to entertain the shadow selves of characters, and I think the treatment of Andrea Kormos toes the line of darkness and nihilism in a way that is often overlooked. :-)

TBF, I think all soldier-coded characters struggle with this. Michael, Dean, Cas, Mary, AU Charlie and others...struggle with this pretty often. It's not unique to his character per se. It's that old soldier-coded derealization. I feel like it's especially strong/most pronounced in the in child-raised soldiers, ones who've been raised/created to fight (Dean, Mary, Cas, Jack, etc).

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But anyway, I like this angle because it compels me, not because I dislike any of the soldier-coded characters. After all, it's a bit unflattering to be a soldier, fighter, warrior, (cop, hunter, military, angel, etc etc etc) in the first place!

But the idealization of Benny feeds into the strange imho idealization of Purgatory, that "pure" is somehow a positive thing when it's applied to Dean-Cas (it almost-never is in SPN, and I don't think it is here either). I think the whole existence of Purgatory is a nod to the worst selves of the soldiers, that black-and-white mentality and "rigid code" that both Dean and Cas tend to fall into...as well as suicidality and checking out of the complexity of "civilian" life.

When Benny says he doesn't "fit" and he's no good here, he's embodying the soldier who goes back. It's alluded to with, "The guy who got out and then came back. Like an idiot." It's got a name: "The Back There Paradox."

Deployments, and especially combat deployments, were a place where we knew how to use the skills we had developed. What we did was significant...Life could be very simple while deployed; get up, do your job... Sure, it got boring and repetitive, but we knew how to do stuff and we knew where things were. It was familiar."

We see this too with Dark Kaia in season 14-15: " At least over there, I understood things -- the world, my place in it."

What I'm saying is that soldier-coded characters' rigid adherence to "rules" can be just as neurotic as Sam's moral relativism spirals. (Cas is super fascinating because he embodies both tendencies!)

Purgatory represents "unthinking war," where there's 24/7, 360-degree combat. It's the horrific bloodlust that many soldiers are often too ashamed to admit they're addicted to, what is often quoted as: should "stay overseas, unsaid." It's the secret shame veterans won't readily admit to but many understand and know all too well.

Dean even shows signs of this in his fantasy world in AU Michael's bar, with the fame he crows about here (14x10, Nihilism):

DEAN: What you got? PAMELA: (wiping Deans face) Worst part of working here is having to clean up the blood after some pissed-off monster busts in to kill you. DEAN: (smirking) Well, what can I say? I'm famous.

///

"Being exposed to the adrenaline and the fame associated with being a soldier creates a dangerous addiction. Many veterans that deployed to combat come back to the states and chase the high that they felt on the battlefield." x

///

The unusual thing with Dean and Cas, is that they each recognize the nihilistic soldier in each other...ranging at times from joyful nihilism to the suicidal sorrow that's all wrapped up with identity-as-soldier-"weapon" and seeing combat far too often. (THIS is the subtext that attracts so many veterans.)

But the thing that's different for them is that they're crazed to get each other out. Underlined in two separate throughlines in season 8 and 15.

This is a little bit echoed in Alt Mary and Alt John, who also want to get each other out of hunting in SPNwin. That's what attracted Mary to John initially, that he was a soldier with a big heart even though he'd seen The Horrors.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is. I have a soft spot for the soldier who try, have tried, and are trying to get out. Even when they fail, like Benny did.

///

Anyway, soldiers are "loyal dogs." We see Dean referred to as a dog as late as season 15, when Lucifer calls him old "faithful," (like a dog) in one of Chuck's alternate endings. They're also "fish" (out of water). Bait. Bombs. Hammers. Blunt instruments.

They struggle with feeling perpetually dislocated when they're away from combat.

That’s where the, “I’m not sure what’s real” primarily stems from.

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kinsey3furry300 · 3 years

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5 ships I hate, why I hate them, how to (kinda) fix them, the better ships you should be doing in that universe, and why you should ignore me and keep writing them if it makes you happy.

Note: this is done for amusement, please don’t be offended; I’m not attacking your ship, I’m just listing some ships I do not always care for, and how I think they could be improved, and maybe made brilliant, by clever writing.

In no particular order, and focusing on ships that often annoy me, with no attempt by me to say anything meaningful or popular about the current state of any particular fandom. I’m also a firm believer in the idea that there’s no such thing as a bad ship, only a badly executed ship, so my objections to these is less a dislike of shipping, or the paring, and more that they raise writing issues that I think are difficult to fix in a satisfying way. That’s why in a lot of the examples below I prefer AU ships to ones that try to messily work it into the cannon. Anyway, enjoy... I guess?

Marco x / anyone (Animorphs)

Why I hate it: Animrophs is an intensely character-driven story, where the tension of each book comes from the conflicts, external and internal, that the five Animrophs (and Ax) face during a long, hard, traumatic war. And while several of the character are paired off romantically, it’s always to emphasise character conflict over their different points of view. Jake and Cassie are a pair because Jake’s struggle with having to make hard, grey, morally ambiguous choices as leader is highlighted by Cassie’s burning need to make the right choice, the lesser evil, the choice that leaves some small shred of humanity and dignity and kindness left in this bleak world. Tobias and Rachel are a pair as their arcs deal with literal and figurative loss of humanity, as the slow accumulation of trauma over time turns these happy(ish), normal kids into psychologically ruined husks of their former selves and destroys them slowly, one fight at a time.

Marco’s arc, isn’t about either of these things: Marco’s arc, is about the bright, clear line between A and B, between problem and solution. Marco is a utilitarian, a pragmatist: his concern isn’t the burden of leadership, or the cost of the decision, but about how to put that all aside and make hard decisions that actually work regardless of cost. It’s not about what to do, the path is obvious: the bright, clear line of ruthless logic, but how to do it. His match, his counterpoint, the other character who’s all about the logic of taking awful decision in a way that actually works for the team, and his foil, his female counterpart in this, is not a romantic partner, but his mother: Visser one, making the exact same hard, difficulty ruthless decisions using logic and maths, but for the other side of this war. A romantic paring gets in the way of this arc because a partner doesn’t help him with that bright, clear line, and worse, any attempt to pair him of with either Rachel or Cassie breaks up not only a cannon paring, but their respective character arc.

How to (kinda) fix this: Marco’s arc is, at the end of the day, a trolly problem. So make sure whoever you ship him with is one of the people tied to the tracks. Introduce a character he crushes on, and then in the second act reveal that they are either a Controller, or in the family of a Controller or the proximity of the target of their next mission in a way that will make them collateral damage ,and let Marco struggle with what happens when that bright, clear logical line from A to B cuts through someone he actually loves; you know, like it did with his mother. See, even trying to fix this ship is weirdly Freudian.

The far better ship you should be doing: Ax x / EVERYONE. Ax in human form is described as a worryingly pretty, worryingly androgynous male of indeterminate race. He is a literally Bishonen alien hedonist with no familiarity with human senses, poor impulse control in human form, and no knowledge or understanding of human courtship rituals, and he can shape-shift, including into other members of the core team if needed to compel a mission, he calls Jake his prince, and he is incredibly close to Tobias, the lonely outcast woobie that the LGBT fans adopted as their poster boy. Come on, the potential for shipping, both with wacky hijinks and sad, tragic star-crossed lovers’ trope is endless. Every line dedicated to Marco shipping is a line of text that could be dedicated to Ax trying to eat a Cinnabon erotically on his first date as a human and hulking out mid way because he forgot just how good they are. What could be better than him leaning into to erotically kiss a team-mate, and then fucking up due to his failure to understand human mouths, making weird mouth sounds, and then licking crumbs of the table in the middle of the mall, in front of the entire school, while his crush awkwardly tried to pretend this is normal? What’s wrong with you Marco-shipper people, do you hate fun?

Riz/Tem (beastars) Why I hate this ship: Okay, just to quickly ask a question, to people who un-ironically like this as a serious ship and not a dark joke, just one little question: What’s wrong with you? I mean,are you okay? Keep taking the meds: the show is VERY clear on that point.

It’s like those people who say Joker X Harley Quinn is their ideal dark, edgy relationship: no it’s not, it’s abusive! Morticia x Gomez is dark and cool but CONSENTUAL and HEALTHY. This… this is a deeply imbalanced person murdering someone and telling themselves after that fact it was special and rare and magical. ITS HOMICIDE! And even if you write that out (and you shouldn’t, because that changes the character arc of every other major character) it’s still got more red flags that a soviet military parade. This is the botulinum of a toxic, one-sided teenage infatuation. Riz’s entire arc is about how he projects his thoughts and feelings about himself onto this idealised, made-up version of his and Tem’s relationship which, from Tem’s point of view, never existed. Riz never loved Tem: he loved the idea of Tem, the idea that someone would see the real him, see his inner pain and accept him anyway, but he never once told Tem this. He didn’t warn him “Hey, because of you I don’t feel I need my meds any more, do you mind if I try not taking them and we can meet and talk about this in a safe, well-lit pace?” He’s not honest with Tem, and on top of that It doesn’t make sense from the point of view of either of the characters for them to be actually, romantically in love (although they were clearly close friends), because it undermines and cheepens Riz desire to just be seen and accepted for his real self, and the cannon Tem X Els ship. It also doesn’t make sense from a story point of view: Riz is a shadow archetype for Legosi. He’s what Legosi would have become if someone hadn’t interrupted his attack on Haru. That’s why Legosi needs to beat Riz with his own hands: because then he’s beating the darker version of himself he’s been carrying with him, and he can finally move on with Haru guilt-free. Having Riz and Tem’s relationship actually be what Riz imagined it to be undoes that. It undoes Riz’s interesting, dark inner struggle between truth and fantasy, it turns Tem’s tragic, unsolved murder that sets the entire story in motion into a just sort of weird Romeo-and Juliet suicide. It’s ruins the character arc not only for Riz, but for Legosi, and also, by extension, Louis and Haru, because Legosi’s internal angst over whether or not herbivores and carnivores can have a relationship as true friends needs this example of a tragic, flawed, toxic, failed friendship to bounce off of.

How it could (sort of) work: an AU where Riz’s attack on Tem is interrupted and Tem lives with a slight arm injury, and doesn’t tell anyone out of his complex feelings for Riz. Meanwhile, that bunny girl from the gardening club had been brutally devoured and Rz and/or Tem are so horrified with how close this was to their own near-miss, they start to investigate the murder, and in doing so get caught up in Louis’ inner struggle. Because that’s how the story needs to work, it’s about duality and struggle: and if Riz takes Legosi’s role, and by dating a herbivore he de facto takes the role, so Legosi must take Riz’s. This could be a great AU!

The better ship you should be doing: Pina/Riz (with a dash of Pina x Els), no, seriously, I’m not shitposting. You want to give Riz a redemption arc with a cute woolly boy? How about a story where Pina, out of a need for closure about at happened to him, starts to visit Riz in jail and they talk, mockingly at first, confrontational at first, but later Pina slowly becoming more fascinated in Riz and Tem’s life and asking Riz for more and more detail until they both bond over their shared traumatic experiences and their sense of loss for Tem’s senseless death, Tem’s unfished life casting a shadow over both off them. Eventually, the two of them find, from Legosi who still has the diary, that Tem had planned out an elaborate and beautiful first date with Els that he never got to take her on, and Riz, guilt ridden and sad than Tem never got this beautiful moment, decides to ask Pina take her on that date for Tem, with Riz coaching him by phone cyano-de-Bergerac style, Riz finally getting some closure that he helped one of Tem’s wishes come true and finally acknowledging to himself that Tem had a life and loves outside of him that were cut of short by his actions, and just crying over his lost friend, as Pina and Els slow-dance in Tem memory. Or if you just want to see Tem awkwardly date a carnivore boy from school, why not something less creepy and more wholesome and ship him with Jack? That would be cute AF, and more importantly, not romanticize brutal murder. Or an AU where everything is happy and nice, I’d argue at that it’s no longer Beastars at that point, but if it makes you happy, go for it. Let’s not shame anyone here.

Snape X Lilly (Harry Potter)

Why I hate this ship: honestly, it’s not for the reason you think; I just like Snape too much as a tragic character, and making him in any way happy destroys his arc in my opinion. The objection’s others have raised: that Snape acts in a worryingly possessive stalker-ish way towards Lilly, and that if Voldemort had gone for Nevil rather than Harry as a child Snape would have remained a loyal death eater, are true and I acknowledge them as having some validity, but that’s not why I can’t stand this ship. Snape is supposed to be a morally and emotionally complex, tragic figure. That “After all this time?” line was the best line in the Deathly Hallows. Snape is supposed to show the equality destructive and redemptive power of love. It’s sort of trinity: Lilly shows the pure power of true, unconditional love in her sacrifice to save Harry, Voldy shows what self-destruction and cruelty a life without understanding love leads to, and Snape sits somewhere in the middle: his one-sided un-requited love being both the cause of his darkest, and his greatest actions. His curse, and his redemption, fall and rise. Making him happy messes that up.

How to (kinda) fix this ship: make them miserable. Make them fall for each-other only to be pulled apart by circumstance (you know, like they were in the darn original source material). You’re serious about making this a tragic, dark romance? Don’t ship them when they’re at school: Ship them during Voldemort’s rise to power, in the 80’s, after Lilly is married. Have the original Order of the Phoenix send her to meet with Snape and use their previous relation to try to milk some information out of him. Have her feel conflicted about it, have James furious about it, but have her do it anyway for the greater good. Have her meet up secretly with Snape who is angry and distrustful, knowing his must be a trap, and talk. Have the relationship slowly build over time against the backdrop of a cold-war spy thriller, as Lilly slowly realizes that she has some lingering feelings for Snape, but can’t reconcile them her loyalty to the order and her family. Make this a love story of conflicted feelings, divided loyalties, and spy-work against the background of drawing war-clouds. Have Snape offer to leave Voldemort, if she’ll leave the Order, and run away with him, but by that point she knows she’s pregnant and chooses to stay, out of loyalty even though she’s crushing on Snape. Have him show up at the rendezvous expecting for her to be there only for James to lead an Order Ambush, and a fight to ensure, on top of Tower Bridge in the howling wind and rain, Snape surviving but having his spirit crushed and fleeing before Lilly can tell him her true feelings. Make it big, and melodramatic, but above all, make it tragic. Because that’s the only way Snape works as a character. Always.

The better ship you should be doing: Ginny X Nevil or Luna x Nevil: You want tragic lovers, at school, with divided loyalties, who never get together in the main cannon because a Potter ruins it and gets the girl? Ginny X Nevil. Write what was happening that final year Harry wasn’t at school when they took Dumbledore’s Army and make it work in earnest. Heck, you could even have Snape, as headmaster, hated by them but secretly trying to protect them as a secondary character to their secret, forbidden love. You don’t want to break up Harry X Ginny? Luna X Nevil is sweet and wholesome, but also tragic as they never get a chance, having their school life taken over by the horror of that final year and the need to fight for their very souls in a school run by Death Eaters and the trauma of the Battle of Hogwarts meaning that in order to put away the past and move on, they need to leave each other behind. Hell, do an AU where they canonically end up together, why not? They deserve happiness.

Dean / Sam AKA Wincest (Supernatural)

Why I hate this ship: They’re brothers. The show even makes a joke about how squick this is. Several times.

How you could (sort of) fix this ship: You can’t: They’re brothers. The show even makes a joke about how squick this is. I guess a body-swap arc could fix this, as it’s less squicky if its just their bodies with someone else’s minds, but seriously, the reasons why this shouldn’t exist are extensively covered in the show, and it was hilarious. To be honest, I don’t hate this ship done as a joke, but I have seen some dark spots on the internet, and I can say with all honesty it’s not always treated as a joke. Some folks are really invested in this, and all I can ask is, is your home life okay?

Now, done as a joke, I’m 110% behind this. This is exactly the sort of insane wacky bullshit that makes for a good crack-fic. For example imagine that the supernatural threat of the week was book that made anything written in it come true, and the brothers are trying to find and destroy it, but they keep getting distracted by their burgeoning romantic feelings for each-other, and suddenly realise that the owner of the book is a fan on the in-universe novels, and writing slash-fic in the book. They need to find the writer before they make them do something they’ll both regret, but it’s just so distracting when Sam’s beautiful eyes are right there and- dammit, Sam, it’s happening again! Make Sam less concerned and even a little amused, with it, but make Dean hate what’s going on. Especially when the writer’s description suddenly makes Sam noticeably better hung that him. Make the villain turn out to be Becky from “Sympathy for the devil” and end with them trying to take the book away as she writes frantically to force them to do her bidding, and you’ve got yourself a good fic.

The better ship you should be doing: Cas/Sam or Cas/Dean or Cas/Sam AND Dean fic. Duh. Once again the show-runners beat the fans to the mark and pointed out that this is the best ship, and then they took it away just to fuck with us.

Any Katniss ship that ignores her obsession with Emotional Security Logic. (The Hunger Games)

Why I hate these ships: Katniss is, briefly put, a mess before the books ever start, her father’s death and harsh upbringing have arguably given her PTSD before she ever volunteers for the reaping, and it doesn’t get better from there. In psychology, Emotional Security Theory (EST) is a hypothesis that the heightened emotions surrounding repeated violent exposures leaves children vulnerable to dysregulated distress responses and eventual psychopathology, aka, why Kat be so messed up. Her internal monologue makes the books completely clear that her choice in partners is not motivated by normal affections, but by deep, deep fear. A fear of loss, abandonment and death that leads her to make every decision about what minimises her, and her sister’s, exposure to potential physical and emotional harm. It’s frantic, fraught, cold survivalist thinking. And the other characters in the book notice and acknowledge it! “Which of us will she pick?” “She’ll pick whoever she can’t survive without.” Kat doesn’t like herself for it, but she does eventually admit to herself that she makes her decisions like this.

How do we fix this ship: Ship Kat with whoever you like, but give her a good reason to pick them: and in Kat’s mind “A good reason” is based on Emotional Security Logic, she needs to have a pressing reason why this ship makes her and her sister safer. Do that, and you’ve got yourself a good Katniss story. Don’t do that, and while you may or may not have a good story, the person staring in it isn’t Katniss Everdeen anymore.

The better ship you should be writing: Finick X Annie. Or, Haymitch prequel ships

FinAnn. This, this ship has some real potential to it, and is criminally underutilized. Finick and Annie’s relationship is one of the most tragic and romantic in the story, and has so much to offer. Or, if you want to have a hard-bitten character from district 12 struggling with trying to find love in the hellish combat of the games, do a prequel in which Haymitch finds love in the capitol during training, but loses then in the area and turns to drink as a result. Heck, you could even have some fun with this and turn it into a dark comedy, or a great tragic love story, whatever you like. It’s got potential, and his backstory is vague enough you could do a lot with it.

So, tell me below why I’m wrong, and have fun with your writing: just because I hate that ship doesn’t mean you should. Enjoy yourselves.

I’m off to write awful Ax/Pina/Luna Polyjuice’d into Nevil/Cas/Finick fiction set at an anime high-school that fights a magical war against other fictional schools, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. BWHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

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jubilantwriter · 3 years

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Jaspvid Week 2021: Day 1 - Changes

(AO3) (2020) (V-Day)

@jaspvid-week

Familiar Faces, Worn Out Places

Summary: It's only been one year since the supposed end of the world, but David and Jasper still linger to wander these quiet lands. So then, it shouldn't come as a surprise that they stumble into a place that's too familiar and close to home than they like. David's heart squeezes as the memories bombard him from every which way.

Just how much has changed? And how prepared is he to face these changes headfirst?

Word Count: 3583

FHAKJSLDFJAK WHAT A WAY TO START, ONE DAY LATE ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGH ALRTH-

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They didn’t think their journey would lead them back here. There’s something eerie with seeing a town they recognize still look the same but also… not.

Sleepy Peaks was never meant to be this sleepy, he thinks. David reaches for Jasper’s hand, squeezing it tightly as his eyes skirt from one store to another. The wind rustles the doors left ajar, wood smacking against wood as familiar, old stores creak from the damage they’ve sustained.

Time has passed too slowly for it to have only been a year. Has it only been a year? Maybe a bit longer? It feels like ages since they’ve shared that chocolate in an attempt to celebrate Valentine’s day. Their worn boots crush the shattered glass still speckled across the ground, windows shattered like so many other stores, and yet, seeing it in a place from their childhood?

It feels wrong.

“Davey…” Jasper looks over at David, concern clear on his features as they stand in what remains of the sleepy town. “Maybe we should head out somewhere else.”

“No.” Despite his misgivings, he wants to continue forward. There’s things he wants to see. Things he… wants to see one last time before moving on. “There might be some useful things left over, you know? We gotta look around some more.”

“If you say so.” Still, Jasper never drops that look of concern. “Just tell me when you’ve had enough, alright? We can always bounce if it becomes too much.”

“Yeah…” He smiles cheerfully despite their memories slowly creeping in from years long since passed. It’s strange - they never really explored this town much as children, despite stopping in it often before being dropped off at that old camp. But as they approach the rickety General Store, the sound of excited, chattering boys echoes in his mind.

”Jasp! Ma said we can get some candy!”

“Radical!”

“David, I said one candy bar each, not everything at the counter!”

“Heeey, I remember this place.” Jasper whistles as the ransacked store sits full of memories before them. “You tried to shoplift from here once!”

“Jasp!” A bright, embarrassed blush raises to David’s cheeks as his criminal past is brought up. “You know it was just a phase!”

“Suuure.” He grins easily as he steps into the store, head turning this way and that before he makes his way to the counter. Another whistle escapes him as he plants his hands on the counter. “Damn, this used to feel so tall when we were kids.”

David walks to his side and imagines a pair of small hands barely reaching the top of the counter. “Yeah, we could barely see over it.”

“You used to think that since you couldn’t see the cashier, the cashier couldn’t see you when you stashed a bar in your pockets.”

“Really? You’re still going on about that?”

“Really.” Jasper waggles his eyebrows as David laughs. “Your mom got so mad when you got caught each and every time. You’d think you’d learn after three straight years of getting caught, but nooo, you had to be Mr. Bad to the Bone.”

“Stop it!” David playfully shoves him as Jasper snickers. “Like you were any better!”

“Hey! Between the both of us, I’m pretty sure I was the goody-two shoes.”

“Says the master of the puppy dog eyes.” David shakes his head as he strolls over to the empty shelves, hoping to spot something overlooked. “You could give the cashier the saddest eyes, and he’d give you a free candy bar.”

“I bet I could still pull it off if I tried hard enough.” With that, Jasper sidles up to David and bats his eyelashes at his boyfriend. “I bet you’d give me a free candy bar if you were the cashier!”

David groans guiltily before pushing Jasper’s face away. “...I’d at least pay for it first with my own money.” Jasper’s boisterous laugh echoes in the empty store as they continue following the ghosts of their childhood through the aisles. Nothing seems to be left behind, even as they check the broken-into backroom and behind the cashier’s counter.

Nothing remains. A store that once housed the goodies and rewards for a well-spent summer now sits haunted with the memories of the two men still standing in its shell. David takes Jasper’s hand and squeezes it once, before looking over to him with a strained smile.

“It’s been a year anyways, it’s no surprise that it’s empty.”

Jasper only nods along before tugging him out of the store. They pass by familiar storefronts, ghosts of their former selves taking peeks through the broken glass as they whisper about the newest, coolest gadgets, or the delicious smelling scents coming from the restaurants and diners. Lumps and bumps line the road as the pair traverse on the old asphalt, the road cracking here and there from whatever disaster may have struck this town. Earthquakes perhaps? David eyes the sides of buildings blackened by forces that could be man made or naturally caused. Fires too, it seems.

How many of the residents died? How many escaped? Sweat beads at the base of his neck as they approach the entrance to the woods, the road leading into it impeded by fallen trees and debris. It’s a good thing they’ve long lost the use of cars by now. They climb over the trees and carefully trek along the road, watching out for potholes and largely uneven parts of the road. Tree roots have managed to grow underneath the asphalt, lifting chunks of it high enough to trip over. A year of overall disuse has the entire road littered with fallen leaves, branches, and countless coverings of debris. Jasper grunts as he trips over a well hidden crack, caught just barely in time by David as he straightens himself out.

“Christ,” he grumbles, looking ahead into the shadows of the forest, “how much further?”

David looks up and follows his gaze, the end nowhere in sight. The car ride to the camp always felt like it took way too long, while also being way too short. It took him a while to really warm up to the place, but by the time he truly started to like the place, he stopped going to camp. What can he call the memories? Happy? Bad? Bittersweet?

He looks to Jasper as their hands linked together silently. “It shouldn’t be much further.”

“I’m bankin’ on that.”

The trek isn’t the hardest one they’ve made. They’ve traversed over rockier terrains, neighborhoods ankle deep in water where fallen telephones can be anywhere out of sight, and stepped over rickety, unstable planks of wood in houses falling apart at the seams. They’ve fended off desperate, violent survivors many a time before as well, running when possible, fighting when inevitable.

They don’t talk about the blood that covers their hands.

...So yes! They have been through much, much worse. A walk through a forest with a neglected road? Should be a breeze through the park! And yet, they drag their feet as if they’re travelling through muck, looking over their shoulders with an unneeded precaution, hoping to delay the inevitable. Jasper’s memories couldn’t have been as fond as David’s, given their last year together but…

“Oh. Shit.” Jasper’s mumbled exclamation draws him out of his thoughts. “Looks like you were right, Davey.”

Turns out, they didn’t drag their feet long enough. Ahead of them stands the familiar old sign of Camp Campbell, though half the letters are missing. The rickety old sign is hanging loose and limp, the one remaining chain allowing it to swing idly as a strong wind jostles it. Apprehension grips David as he looks over the once familiar campgrounds. When did the disasters start?

When did they begin?

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Jasper looks over to David, concern clear on his face as the old camp remains eerily quiet.

“...I mean, who knows, right?” He laughs nervously and slips his hand out of Jasper’s grasp. “There might still be some supplies! Some things we can take a-and stuff…”

“Davey…”

“I know what you’re thinking.” He takes a step away from Jasper, rubbing his arm nervously as he looks up at the faded sign above them. “But I- I just want to make sure. You know? I know the disasters started just before summer hit but I- I just want to make sure.”

A hand lands lightly on his shoulder. “You sure about this? What if you find something you don’t like?”

It takes him a moment, but he finally looks over to Jasper with a wobbly smile. “I think we’ve both gotten used to that feeling by now, right?”

An uneasy smile rises to Jasper’s face as he nods. “Alright, bud. How do ya wanna do this?”

He looks ahead to where the mess hall is. The place used to be so lively but now… “Can we split up? Just to cover more ground, and stuff.”

“...Right.” A skeptical look crosses his features before Jasper’s hand lowers to squeeze his arm with a comforting smile. “Just promise me you’ll holler if something’s up, capiche?”

“Capoche.” His response gets a chuckle out of Jasper, before his eyes search his one last time before stepping back.

“Alright, let’s meet back here before the sun sets.”

“Gotcha!” David waves as Jasper wanders off to the left, disappearing from sight as he goes to explore the grounds there.

Now he's all alone. He takes a deep breath and sighs. Well, it's not a bad thing, after all. It's what he wants. It's what he... needs. He shakes his head to clear it. Right! Exploration.

Right.

He walks right into the mess hall, the old doors creaking as he forces his way in. Tables and the like are covered in dust, but otherwise look mostly untouched. Nothing seems worse for wear, but the windows have been cracked, and some are even broken. His boots crunch over the shards as he examines the windows. It's not easy to determine if the broken windows were the cause of the many natural disasters, or if they were man made, but judging by the lack of disruption and chaos in the mess hall, he can hazard a guess and blame it on the elements instead.

...Oddly enough, the mess hall smells like nothing. It's not something that should take him aback, but it does. If he remembers correctly, it always smelled like mashed potatoes and butter in here. It was a staple for every meal. Thinking back, he always hated the mashed potatoes, but Jasper loved them.

"C'mon, Davey! It's Quartermaster's specialty!"

"Ugh, well maybe he should do a better job at his specialty. It tastes like wet paper and crud!"

"Davey!"

His steps falter as he steps closer to the kitchen. They were never allowed back here but...

Well, that never stopped him as a kid, now did it?

He pushes the door open and peeks around the kitchen. Nothing much has changed except the microwave looks both newer and incredibly beaten up. A shelf catches his attention, but his nose immediately crinkles up when he realizes the foodstuffs on the shelves are nothing but perishables that have long since perished. Another door catches his eye, and if he remembers correctly, this was where the staff kept the rest of the food.

"I dunno, Davey, this doesn't seem like a good idea."

"I didn't think you were such a goody-two shoes, Jasp."

"I'm not! I just don't think you should do it during activities!"

"Exactly, no one's gonna expect us to come in during the daytime-"

"What are you two doing here, children."

"..."

"SCRAM, HURRY!"

The memory nearly pulls a laugh from him as he opens the pantry door. Like the shelf outside, all the perishables have long since succumbed to pests and mold. He picks up a can and looks at the best by date.

19... 98?

He quickly puts it back down and chooses not to think about the implications. Okay, maybe the pantry is a bust. He turns on his heel and walks back into the mess hall. The unspeakable silence makes him swallow hard. It's... unnerving to see it so empty and quiet. He can still hear the laughter and groans of disgust that used to reverberate within these very walls. As he walks past a table, he swears he hears a familiar giggle from his memories. He turns to face the childish giggle, but nothing but a shadow from his memories greets him.

...Maybe some fresh air will do him some good. All that mold is messing with his mind.

His feet take him back out and towards where he thinks the campers were supposed to stay. Noises fill in the blank spaces, excited campers making conversations from the past that he once overheard in his youth. The crunch of the dirt keeps him tethered in the present, but even as he glances to the side, he swears he can see the shadows of former friends running around in the corner of his eye. This place used to be so sunny, so bright and full of life.

Now, all he sees are the broken down remains of yellow tents. Leaves and twigs cover some of them, and a fallen tree crushes a good few of them further off. He approaches a particular one, the third one to the left, and carefully tries to set it back up. It's no use - the poles on the inside have snapped into pieces, rendering it impossible to get upright. Still, he tries to at least straighten it out. He grabs some broken branches and props it up haphazardly. It works, but it won't last. A strong breeze could topple it over.

Still. He stands back to admire his handiwork. It's strange how he's taller than the tent now. Before, it used to feel kind of big with enough space for him to do a little jump inside if he felt like it. Now, it looks sad and tiny, with its tree branches keeping it upright in a poor resemblance of its former self. It's... not the best. The sides are sagging, and it looks ready to topple into itself but...

He blinks, and he can see Jasper's childlike appearance duck out from the tent, laughing boisterously.

"Come on, Davey! We're gonna miss the bonfire!"

"We can't miss the bonfire, stupid, it's still gonna be there even if we're an hour late."

"Still! C'mon, broski!"

"Don't call me that!"

"Broski!" Jasper's young laughter fades away as he rubs his eyes. The tent topples into itself like he predicts. He sighs and looks away from its remains, instead looking towards where the dock should be. A tree blocks his path, but that's never really stopped him before, now has it?

He climbs over it with ease and follows the dirt path down to the lake. The dock is largely untouched, but the kayaks are long since gone. In the distance, he can see the familiar sight of Normal Island, but he feels no need to explore that place. If there were any survivors, maybe they would be there but...

Splashes and excited shouts fill the insides of his ears, his gaze remembering the counselors that helped kids learn how to swim, or fellow campers having summer fun by swimming around the lake and splashing each other. He considers jumping down to check under the dock, a place he used to hide under until Jasper swam under and dragged him out, but getting his pants soggy is the last thing he wants at the moment. Instead, he sits at the end of the dock and keeps himself from giving into temptation and letting his legs dangle into the lake. He looks up and sees the clear, blue sky with not a cloud in sight. If this were a normal camp day, all the campers would be going out for a pleasant hike.

No fallen trees.

No eerily silent woods.

Just a normal, noisy, exciting hike.

A shuddery sigh passes through him, and he closes his eyes. Camps aren't meant to be quiet. It's wrong. It doesn't feel right. Even when he hated the place, he'd only seen it as lively and inexplicably loud. Now it's... it's...

Dead.

The lake laps at the shore softly, but there's no laughter to accompany the noise. No splashes, no cries, no shouts. Even as he tries his hardest to remember, the loud silence is the only thing that reigns around him. That, and the sound of heavy boots marching up behind him.

"Thought I'd find you out here."

He looks over and offers a weak grin. "Hey, Jasp."

"Heya." Jasper plops down next to him, a distant look to his eyes as he stares out at Normal Island. "...Feels weird, huh?"

"Yeah..."

"Different vibe from..." He gestures vaguely before dropping his hand to his lap. "Different from broken down stores and dank cafes."

"Strange, huh?" David hugs his knees to his chest and rests his cheek against them. "We had some good memories here too, though."

"Yeah." Jasper sighs as he leans back. "Good and bad. Nothing like stealing candy bars though."

David snorts. "No, nothing like that."

"But we did steal that kayak one night."

"I stole the kayak. You were just along for the ride."

"Mr. Bad to the Bone strikes again." Jasper turns and grins with a touch of sadness to it. "You always did have this thing for stealing things as a kid."

"I did, huh?" David shrugs with a small smile. "You were the only one who seemed to notice."

"And the cashier."

"And the cashier." A small chuckle escapes him as the breeze ruffles their hair. "...So did you find anything?"

"Nah. Just some dust, expired rations, dirty mags in the counselor's cabin..."

"Jasp!"

"What?" He laughs as David lightly shoves his arm. "We're all adults here. You can't tell me you've never looked at a dirty mag before." He waggles his eyebrows and it's enough to draw a laugh out of David.

"No, I never really looked at one before. But was that all you found?"

"Yup. Nothing else." A pause. "Not a single body, not a single skeleton. Hell, I couldn't even find the Quartermaster."

"I'm pretty sure he must be dead by now."

"You think so?" Jasper raises an eyebrow at that. "That dude seemed like he could live forever. Like, I'm pretty sure I saw him stab himself with a hook once. Preeetty sure that happened."

David laughs as his thoughts circle back to Jasper's previous statement.

"So no bodies?"

"None." Jasper grins as David feels a weight lifted off his shoulders. "Just an empty campsite."

Not completely. David looks out to Normal Island and thinks the campsite will never quite be empty. No one truly died here, but he knows it'll always be haunted by their memories. He stands up and dusts himself off before reaching a hand out to Jasper. "Just an empty campsite."

Jasper takes his hand, and he pulls him up with ease. "Ya ready to bounce from this joint?"

David takes one last look around the place. A part of him wants to look around more thoroughly, maybe explore the activities field one last time, or walk into the mess hall one last time, but the weight of the memories might crush him even if Jasper's by his side. And besides, he trusts Jasper's words when he says there's nothing left for them here. He smiles as he nods his head.

"Yeah, I'm ready to go."

"Sweet." Jasper leans in for a quick peck on the cheek, his thumb rubbing comforting circles into the back of his hand. "Where to next?"

"Don't know." David leads them back to the entrance of the camp, where the rickety sign continues to swing and perhaps will always continue to swing. "Wherever the path takes us?"

"Sounds like a valid reason to me."

They walk away from the remains of their past, never knowing if they'll ever come back to revisit it. A part of David hopes that they will come back to the old campgrounds. Maybe life will one day return to this old shell of a place. Maybe it will forever remain lifeless like today.

He's not sure what is left for a place like this.

"Wanna watch me try and vault over that tree like an Olympic track star?"

"Jasp, don't-"

"Too late!"

"Jasper!"

There's a lot of maybes on his mind. But maybe something will change someday for the better. Jasper laughs as he runs at the fallen tree in front of them, only to trip and smack his face against the bark. David yells and comes to his aid and is met with boisterous laughter, and he can't help but join his fallen boyfriend in his fit of giggles.

Maybe.

But until then, he'll cling onto these old memories. If these are all that remains of this old place, then he'll hold onto each one in its memory. For the sake of the place where they met.

”Hey, you’ll come back next summer, right?”

“No way, dweeb.”

“...Aw. Then how are we gonna meet again?”

“...Stop looking at me like that. Fine. Fine! I’ll come back next year!”

“Radical! That’s a promise, right? Pinky promise me!”

“Ugh, fine, you nerd.”

For the sake of their memories, he’ll let it rest fondly in his heart. Until he can finally leave them all to rest.

#camp camp #cc david #cc jasper #post apocalyptic au #jaspvid #godddd these are all gonna be late #im so sorry #also these are all going to be unbetaed #im gonna try and keep these Not Long #lmao i ended up getting attached to this au im such a fool #well i started 2020 with this au might as well keep up the trend #AMIRIGHT FOLKS #hopefully i can produce #new things and new ideas #i know i will be reusing another au for another day but like #its cute lmao TuT #jaspvidweek2021 #I KNEWW I WAS FORGETTING SOMETHING

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mentallydatingahotcelebrity · 3 years

Text

LOKI SHOW AU:

Sylvie is a 16/17 year old character called “Nokka” (which is Norse feminine for No One). Loki reluctantly takes her under his wing when he meets her. After some time running from the TVA, and dealing with issues where Nokka “wants revenge” but struggles with hurting people when it comes down to it (esp from the TVA because she knows they’re all mind-controlled variants) Loki sits her down and demands to know the truth “because for a Loki you’re a terrible liar”.

Nokka admits/reveals that she’s NOT a Loki at all, just an Asgardian orphan who messed with the time-stream by accident (overhearing Loki tell a guard to inform Odin Thor was going to Jotunheim and running ahead to tell the Allfather when the soldier sneered at Loki’s back or smth else trivial). Loki asks her why she never chose a name for herself aside from what others gave her, and she says she didn’t really have time while being on the run to think of anything but Loki.

Loki is semi touched by this (but says nothing). (Nokka wistfully mentions in passing that while hiding on Midgard she heard the name Sylvie and thought it was nice too). Loki comforts her with a bit of awkwardness, then announces he’s going to help her with her powers and how to fight “less like an alley cat and more like a warrior from Asgard”. He also tells her that if she truly wants vengeance, she’s going to have to kill people. Nokka rebuts this with the declaration that she’s already killed people—citing those she’s had to kill to survive. Loki acknowledges that, but states that those killings are different from what she’s going to have to do if they want to win and get out with their lives.

(Aside: Kang wants Loki captured because OG Loki is different from the rest of his variant selves because he ADAPTS and grows his personality and character—whereas other Lokis do not. Kang feels OG Loki and Nokka are a threat to his rule, and he wants to permanently erase them to keep his rule over the Timeline secure)

Loki and Nokka make their way through the worlds and pull off a heist and crash the TVA with Mobius’s help. Ravonna prunes Mobius and Nokka out of rage and bitterness for destroying the order/TVA she loves—Loki, though he could escape, prunes himself too (showing how he can change his character from the other variants of himself).

In The Void, Loki stumbles among other loki variants, and finds Nokka moping by herself in one corner of Kid Loki’s underground palace. At the same time, Mobius arrives and busts them out of “Loony Loki Jail”. Impressed and amused, once they’re safe Loki asks how Mobius found them. The TVA agent declares that he found a trail of “complete and utter chaos, and followed that”. The trio share a laugh over this before growing solemn and trying to figure out what to do. Loki discusses Alioth and the strange energy the monster gives off, as well as the malevolent eternal purple mist. Mobius makes the offhand remark about going into it, or Nokka using her “wacky mind-controlling powers” on Alioth to get passed the giant to explore the mist.

Nokka hedges, nervous because she’s never controlled anything that big before. She walks away to sit by herself, staring out at the undulating violet mist. Loki likes the plan and irons out some details with Mobius before wandering down to Nokka. He sits beside her silently. Nokka announces “you can’t manipulate me like Thor—no Jotunheim trip 2: This Time Alioth.” Loki agrees that he can’t. Nokka smiles but hugs her knees to her chest with a shiver, rocking slowly. Loki asks what’s wrong—if she’s scared. Nokka shakes her head “just cold”. Loki magicks a blanket and gives it to her kindly, petting her hair (in a dad way lmao). They sit in silence staring at the mist. Loki quietly messes around beside her, magicking knives and bracers and other small pieces of armor for himself (we’ll give him an Asgardian tunic somewhere along the line because BURN the fugly TVA clothes). Nokka glances at him as he does this. Loki catches her and they share Looks.

Nokka shrugs and turns away. Carefully, as he cleans a dagger with a cloth, Loki wonders about two people controlling Alioth. Nokka eyes him warily. Loki briefly demonstrates/elaborates on how he can reveal or illuminate thoughts and parts of the mind, but can’t control it like she can. He quietly declares that if she shows him how, perhaps they can do it together. Nokka hesitates, but agrees.

So Mobius goes to distract Alioth. Classic Loki sees this (and as the only one actually paying attention to Nokka and OG Loki, runs in to help, doing the same thing he did in the show, allowing Mobius to escape). Nokka falters with the mind control, but Loki takes her hand and encourages her (insert some witty line about “only learning that day himself, after all”) and Nokka presses on. They succeed, and stare at a pathway through the mist.

Loki glances at Nokka, and tells her to “lead the way”. Grinning, but quickly sobering, Nokka heads toward the path. Mobius catches up to Loki then, and informs Loki he’s going back to the TVA to “raise more hell”. Loki grins, and Mobius “thanks him for the spark” like in the show. They embrace (to Loki’s surprise) before Loki follows Nokka. Mobius watches them until they disappear into the mist and then summons an orange portal and vanishes himself.

Walking through the mist, Nokka declares something “off”, and Loki agrees “like being laid in ambush”. Unsettled, they continue—but draw blades. At last they reach a half-burned and dilapidated castle at the edge of a cosmos. They come up to the black doors but nothing happens. Nokka blasts the doors off their hinges, increasingly paranoid. Loki criticizes the action but they proceed anyway. (Everything basically happens as in the show, but Kang is Not Friendly—menacing and ominous (think horror movie character—something off but not obvious) due to him wanting to destroy both Loki and Nokka). Loki catches on before Nokka to Kang’s intentions, and stands, lashing out at Kang. Nokka is confused and feels lied to (let’s say there’s some truth twisted into lies Kang said about Loki “and his lust for power” so she feels uncertain). A fight ensues between Kang and Loki but Kang uses Loki’s Frost Giant heritage against him. Kang says he’d accept Nokka as a protégé “because I’ve watched you—you’re teachable” but wants her to kill Loki “to prove she’s not as worthless as he is”.

Loki looks at her as she walks up to him, and he tells her “you only grow as far as you allow people to cage you” (or some other philosophical elegant line). Making the realization that Nokka will truly be just an imitation of all the other Loki variants if she kills Loki for her own self-succession, she drops the knife and instead frees Loki from whatever magical/enchanted snare Kang got him into. Kang lashes out, but Loki jumps up in front of Nokka, and takes whatever blow it was (maybe permanent obliviation, maybe transport to another timeline idk yet). Looking triumphant at the empty room, Kang turns around and wanders back to his desk “another mess all cleared up” he hums to himself.

Nokka appears out of the shadows and grabs his arm as he moves to sit, whirling Kang around. Angrily, tears in her eyes, she stabs him twice in the chest with one of Loki’s daggers he’d dropped. Kang collapses back into his chair, and laughs at her. He says some things about his alternate selves being even more cruel than him, that he’s “a kitten” in comparison, and she’ll never defeat them—“just a little nobody. Doomed to fail because you don’t have a name to be remembered by. A No One.” Nokka stoops over him, wielding Loki’s knife.

“I’m not no one—I’m Sylvie. Lokidottir.” She stabs Kang. After he dies, she wanders to the window, staring out at the splintering multiverse. She collapses, crying, because she’s alone. “You promised we’d win together,” she whispers to herself, a little broken.

(Opening to Consider for a potential Part II: a large flash of green out in the multiverse. Sylvie jerks her head up and stares—before grinning.)

Some notes:

The whole “love yourself” angle in this AU of the show is Loki learns to care for Sylvie even when she lashes out—and treats her as he would have wanted to be treated when he lashed out.

Kang is Not Nice. He’s not as bad as other versions of himself, but he is absolutely the bad guy in this AU.

Loki isn’t an idiot. Full stop. And he uses magic A LOT.

Loki takes a mentor role in this. HE IS THE MAIN CHARACTER, and Sylvie is a secondary role that morphs into an MC. He doesn’t get run over by Sylvie’s girl!pain backstory.

Sylvie isn’t a shitty annoying asshole kween. She’s a scared teenager. She’s not capable of huge fights or dumb shit like the canon shitshow.

This is Very Much a sibling or father/daughter relationship between Loki and Sylvie. No romance. PLATONIC ONLY!!!!

The TVA is EVIL. Not “a necessary evil” but completely, absolutely, reprehensibly evil. Autocratic and fascist, if you will. The interrogation Loki endures in the first episode (and then with Sif in episode ???) will be framed as torture.

Can’t really think of a faceclaim to the Nokka/Sylvie character (cuz DiMartino would be WAAAY too old for this one). But I’m thinking like a young Maia Mitchell or Mackenzie Foy type teenager. Gotta be brunette—cuz the blonde is stupid as shit and makes no sense. We want a Lady Loki lookalike here, folks (even if she’s NOT Loki; Nokka made herself APPEAR like him after taking his name so she could to be called one of his variants).

This makes room for a Loki “replacement” so Hiddleston could bow out, AND makes it “feministy” for the ladies; but ALSO allows for GOOD WRITING and Loki to keep his dignity/agency as a main character/antihero.

This whole thing was fully and completely inspired by this song while I drove home from work:

youtube

@fast-and-the-curious what say u to this AU?

#anti loki #the shitshow: a rewrite

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weltonreject · 3 years

Text

“look homeward, angel, now”

James lives and comes to find Oliver. Immediately post-canon. || Title and references from Milton’s Lycidas

I was crouched in my chair, looking for another pen, when there was a shallow knock on the front door. I paused for a moment, waiting for Meredith’s call to say she was answering. I pushed my chair back, remembering she was still out filming. I knew I had to stop relying on her for things, it was unbecoming. Felt like Dellecher all over again. Tied up between her and-- well, there was no other post to wrangle myself around. Just her. And still one end hanging lifeless in the wind.

“Coming!” I said, sliding my hand down the banister to keep myself from running. The knock sounded like it was a slow-response away from ditching.

Any other greeting I expected to say died on my tongue the moment I saw who had come-- who had found me.

“James.”

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead

It startled me to see he was soaking wet, like he’d walked right out of the sea and straight back to me-- but how could he have heard me? I cried silently and angrily in the hidden shadows of sleep, and isolated moments when Meredith would slip from the house for days at a time. I noticed, finally, that it had begun to rain outside. The explanation felt like a lie. Not the whole truth, as usual.

He seemed to notice my staring, my long dragging glances over his clothes, over his body. He was so much leaner than I remembered, than I ever dreamed of either, but he was still James. How could I find him unfamiliar?

"I’ve been here for over an hour... Trying to see if I should knock.” James sounded unsure if he’d done right. I pushed the door farther back to tell him he had. He didn’t move. “Truth is, I don’t know what to say to you.”

“Whatever you would like.” I said.

I tried not to overwhelm him with the truth of what simply the sight of him was doing to me. The return of a sailor we all thought had been lost to sea. I wasn’t even angry that he had been alive for years without a visit or a note-- except the one Filippa sent to me-- I didn’t care about the life he had before. It didn’t really matter. His had only started now that he was with me. And I felt the relief with as much greed as I thought to.

“We aren’t friendly enough for that anymore.” He whispered and it nearly disappeared into the rain.

"James,” I sighed and held a hand out to him. He’d begun to shiver. He resisted and I sighed, catching the wind of the rain. I spoke between the falling sheets. “ For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill, / Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill; / Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd / Under the opening eyelids of the morn.”

My verse stopped him, shivering and all: surprised but not put-off. It wasn’t Shakespeare, but then again, we were different boys than those that could converse with only another man’s words. We were lost-and-found men. It felt wrong, at such a raw and exposed reunion, to start putting up the thin veil of our old selves, our old routine.

He stepped inside and I grabbed his coat, hanging it on the doorknob. The wet bottom hem stayed on the doormat, staying with James’s wet boots, as he toed them off. I half expected him to start shimmying out of his jeans, getting ready for bed after a long rehearsal.

Oh, how I wish there had been one. Maybe I would’ve had better lines prepared.

“What happened, James?” I started for the kettle as I lead him into the kitchen. I wanted to distract myself, but also didn’t want to take my eyes off of James. How had I gone without a single real glimpse of him for years? How had I allowed myself to become so starved?

I remembered it hadn’t been me who had made the decision.

“What do you want me to say?” He was genuinely asking. Calling for a line prompt. “The guilt swallowed me, Oliver. And I thought once I hit rock bottom it would be over. But it kept swallowing me. Over and over, right over my head, like--”

Like waves.

He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, "What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?"

“You’re alive.” I prompted him finally.

"After the hospital,” James spoke softly, easing himself into the chair. The pain on his face told me of the time he spent, most likely cooped up and staring his guilt dead in the face, unable to utter it. Unable to heal. “I went to my family but, mostly to keep quiet. Gather myself without you knowing.”

“Me?” Anger flared in my chest suddenly, the hiss of the kettle a whimper compared to my impending growl, ferocious and unhinged after years in a cage. “Does everyone else know?”

“Meredith isn’t filming. She’s with Wren right now. I told her... I wanted to tell you myself. Alone.”

I glared at him, nostrils flaring as I tried to grapple with the sudden exposed strings tied to me. I heaved a breath, ready to scream, to rally a fight, but-- I sighed, seeing the guilt etched, again, on James’s features. They’d never return to the ones I used to study on stage; from across the room; once, right under my nose.

I couldn’t be angry at him. Between the two of us, what good was it? There was no score anymore. Just an extended intermission. Unfinished verse.

My anger caved and washed out of me and I nearly collapsed into the seat across from him.

Who would not sing for Lycidas?

“I can understand not seeing me, but you could’ve, at the very least, told me you were alive.” I said, trying to remain firm. “That’s all I cared about. Not the-- not an apology.”

“God, apology.” James became distraught again. He looked too weak to stand, but panicked enough to express another desire to disappear. “What can I even say to apologize? You wouldn’t let me-- and now there’s nothing I can say to give you back that past ten years of you life. I mean,” he choked on a long sob. “what could I possible do to give you any of that back?”

“Tell me you know why I did it.”

“What?” He ran the back of his sweater sleeve-- already soaked-- along his upper lip, composing himself.

“Tell me you know why.”

“I--” The truth was right there, held in our own held breaths. In the way our hands were both flat against the table top, finger tips too far apart to be purposeful, but trembling enough to say they were missing another half. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” James said more desperately. The words were as unrehearsed for him as they were for me.

I, again, chose words not of my own, hoping to dislodge the ten years of rust I’d let form around them. Never spoken, never practiced.

“Where, other groves and other streams along, / With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,” I blinked twice, looking down at my own hands. They weren’t as harsh red and thawing as James’s. I looked back up, knowing the rest of the verse, but changing it anyway. “And hears the expressive nuptial song, / In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.”

"I-I don’t know Milton this well.” Fresh tears had started in his eyes. One dangled over his cheek, his trembling body threatening his composure again.

I was pleased he at least knew the poem. I wasn’t just speaking in scattered verse, not just in a foreign tongue. It was code again. A secret layer of communication we could tuck between, like a warm blanket and firm mattress.

“Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more:” Against my better judgement-- against all judgement, really-- I rose from my seat and reached to brush the tear from James’s cheek. My hand never retracted. It stayed on him, thumb gently braced on his sharp, jutting cheekbone. “Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, / In thy large recompense, and shalt be good / To all that wander in that perilous flood.”

Weakness be damned, James himself stood again. He reached for me over the table, my shirt too simple for his grasp and going for my shoulders. He nearly folded me over across the table, bringing me to his lips. He was fully weeping by then, no sparse or embarrassed tears to be found. These tears were hot and pitiful: only I, a lost shepherd staring out over the sea, would be so foolish to be in love with him. Would forgive him with a heart so light it could so easily be handed over, passed from lips to lips.

“Don’t ever do that again.” He said, finally finding my face with both of his freezing hands. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

I wanted to make a joke-- a note that it wasn’t my decision, not really-- but I kept my mouth shut. Or, otherwise pre-occupied.

“I’m sorry.” I didn’t mean it entirely. So I went on. “I wouldn’t have ever let you trade with me, but I’m sorry it meant you had to be with the guilt--”

“All without you.” He took my sentence and tied it up, keeping it ended. “There’s no one like you.”

“James,”

“No, no,” he said, pushing my hair back and cradling my face like he’d gotten to touch a marble statue: intimately and with wonder. “fuck ordinary and nice and disposable. Oliver, there is no one on this Earth like you, and I can’t believe that I let you fall for me.”

“There’s no one else like you.” I said, stepping around the table to take him in my arms.

He was sturdier than I would have thought, but maybe that was just years of harsh reality building a shell around him. I kissed him again, ignoring his quiet whimper of disagreement to my confession. His hand laid flat against my chest, an echo of a memory never finished. His fingers pressed against my collar bone, trying to find my heartbeat. As if he needed a jumpstart to his own.

“No one else worth knowing, quite like you.” We were both breathing heavy, my words nearly lost in James’s continued shy nips at my lips. He was trying to stop me from speaking, but I could tell he was eager for absolvement. Not of sins, but of shame.

Finally, I brought him to rest against me. Fiery passion and frail relief encased us both. Our arms tightly tried to keep the other impossibly closer-- as if it would push the rest of the world away. I thought to myself, incorrectly but with a hidden smile:

But O the heavy change now art gone, Now art gone, and never must return!

#if we were villains #james farrow x oliver marks #iwwv fic #my fics #i fixed ittttt #not to be annoying but i'm really proud of this if y'all could hype her up that would be great...#i finished the book like an hour ago....

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spikedru · 3 years

Note

where do you stand on the division between Angel and Angelus as like, a way to absolve Angel of a lot of guilt, people irl and in the shows seem very back and forth about it (also that sire art of Spike and Dru is SO good)

i think part of it is bc even the show is so vague about what a soul is/does so its hard to say where the line is drawn between angel/angelus. its also hard bc sometimes angelus seems SO cartoonishly evil, like the moustache twirling, maniacal laughter cartoonish evil that its hard to see if there is any correlation between angel/angelus at all, or if its a dr jekyll/mr hyde kind of deal.

i think that while angel/angelus are fairly separate beings, they still operate under the same kind of baseline instincts. its like they are two sides of the same coin, rather than a single being who has a conscience vs not. they both are kind of give 100 percent to the people they care about or nothing at all, captial R romantic figures (even if angelus is a twisted version of a romantic). even their flaws are the same. angel is controlling/believes his way is the right way in order to help other people, angelus is just much more willing to use brutality to drive that point home and serve himself.

i dont think its necessarily a way to absolve him of guilt, bc angel clearly DOES feel guilty about the things angelus did, but its more like he feels guilty that he couldnt stop angelus from doing those things instead of feeling guilty that Angel himself did those things. its like trying to fight your own shadow. its technically a part of you but you treat it as if its separate bc the alternative is just to terrible to face. so much so that even angel visualizes himself as two separate beings, the souled angel vs the soulless angelus. it makes me wonder if angel is the anomaly or not when it comes to re ensouling a vampire, bc the different between souled/soulless angel is incredibly stark against the different between souled/soulless spike.

tldr when it comes to angel/angelus i think that they are each others shadow selves, they are fairly separate but are still intrinsically the same when it comes to their desires, they just change the way of achieving them.

#sorry if this doesnt make a lot of sense just kinda word vomiting #the whole soul vs no soul thing is so slippery in canon its interesting to go on a case by case basis #on hoe it changed their morality /worldview /motivations etc #also u people are way too nice for your own good that drawing was so sloppy but thank you 😌#asks #anonymous

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iturbide · 3 years

Text

More Crest Control Edelgard in Heroes

(CheeseAndCake here) I just want to let you know that the CC!Edargard art is amazing, and it works as both a thank you and a bribe. Here is the accepted bribe’s payment! More Crest Control Edelgard in Heroes snippets have been delivered! Enjoy!

(Also, Me? Shamelessly inserting my headcanon that Almyra uses non-gendered language? It’s more likely than you think.)

_______________________________________________________________

It’s only after a long, tense, chat with the Crèche Guardians that Edelgard allows herself to relax on the bench in the dining room, and return her dagger to its hiding place. She left it on the table where both parties could see- and neither could easily grab- as a sign of good will, which for the most part seems to have worked.

The previous conversation wasn’t pleasant in the slightest, but it was something she needed to hear, and the distrust is warranted, since her past- and alternative- selves are here as well.

Considering what they might have done, she’s surprised she wasn’t set on fire the moment she entered.

Most of the castle is empty by now, aside from the occasional hero on patrol, which suits her fine. The silence gives her room to think.

She doesn’t know how long she sits on the bench to process the meaning of the words said- each of them have their own cultures, their own beliefs, so many reject the title of god, some find it holding a different meaning, some- the dragonkin aren’t one collective unit- which isn’t surprising, but somehow still hard to grasp- they’re people.

And Edelgard refuses to leave this dining hall until she finds the idea at least slightly easier to understand.

If it takes a while, and the Guardians are willing to talk again while she’s still processing, the least she can do is make sure the conversation’s on neutral grounds so it doesn’t feel like an invasion.

She must have fallen asleep at some point, because when she wakes up, the sun is just starting to rise over the horizon, which is surprising, since she usually has night terrors, but Askr apparently has heroes that can control dreams, so it might not be that strange.

She’s just glad she removed most of her armour before approaching the Crèche, and that this place is apparently safe enough to fall asleep without armour.

It’s only when she feels a small tug on her dress and looks down that she realises she’s not alone.

She looks down, and sees a very sleepy child with pink hair under the table. The child holds her hands out, and makes what she assumes to be an ‘up’ gesture.

Slowly, carefully, she picks up the child and paces her on the bench, and the child’s face scrunches before she moves onto Edelgard’s lap.

It’s only when the child looks directly at her face and cheerfully says “I’m Fae!” That Edelgard see’s the young girl’s forehead, remembers her visit to the Crèche, and realises she has a dragon child sitting on her lap.

For a moment, she swears her heart skips a few beats. Even now, despite everything, the word “dragon” in her mind still conjures an image of a fairy-tale creature, and not a… person.

She shoves that disgusting line of thinking to the side, and forces herself to think of anything else. No bad thoughts around the child. Second thoughts are more important than the first.

The Grima’s were going to kill her.

Think. She talked to Claude about this in Fodlan, didn’t she? Humanising comes from learning about the individuals. You are sitting in a room holding a- an adorable, tired, child with pink hair. Ask the child something. Anything. What’s a good thing to ask a child?

“So, Fae-“ Calm, casual, voice. Gentle, good, “What’s your… favourite colour?”

She really needs to learn how to talk to children.

If Claude ever found out about this, she’s going to strange him with his own sash. She could practically hear him saying “It’s a learning experience, Edelgard!” In the back of her mind.

Fae blinks a few times and smiles up at her. “Purple!”

“Oh, because of your hair? You have very pretty hair.” She didn’t make a move to ruffle the girl’s hair, but she shifted into what she hoped would be more comfortable for the little one.

“No! It’s the colour of mama and papa’s wings!”

“That sounds-“ don’t panic, don’t panic, “- lovely. Did you get your wings from them?” -don’t panic. This is a small, fragile child, if you panic, she will cry. Think you your younger- don’t think of that, it will make you panic-

“Nope! Fae’s wings are-“ Fae yawns and stretches, before curling up against Edelgard’s chest, “-white! But! Fae still has feathers, like them!”

“They must be very beautiful.” This time, Edelgard makes sure to pat Fae on the head since she’s giving Edelgard the same look cats give her when they want affection. “Fae, did you stay up late to spy on your parents?”

Because if there’s one thing all children do, no matter what their backgrounds, it’s staying up late to listen in on your parents.

“Hmmm…” Fae blinks slowly, and wriggles to get herself in a more comfortable position. “Yep!”

And then Fae falls asleep.

Edelgard has no idea how to move without waking up the child, and she’s pretty sure at this rate, no matter what, the entire Crèche is definitely going to kill her.

“You look uncomfortable.” A new voice rings out, and instinctively, her right hand goes to her dagger and she tightens her grip on the child in her arms.

Edelgard glances at the man with long red hair, relaxing as she realises he’s one of the Crèche’s caretakers. “I have no idea how to talk to children.”

The man lets out a small, relieved smile, and sits next to her.

“Give it time. It will come.” He says casually. Then, he leans over the child in her arms, holds his hand out, and whispers, “Fae, come on, your mama and papa are going to panic if they realise you’re missing.”

Just like that, the small, half asleep, child practically falls into the man’s arms, and whispers “Warm.”

The man lets out a soft laugh and says, “I’ll be returning the little one to her parents. Thank you for looking after her. My name is Arvis.”

“It’s no problem. My name is Edelgard, though I’m guessing you’ve already ment several versions of me.” She nods in response as the man- Arvis- leaves the hall with Fae in his arms.

—————————————

The next Crèche Caretaker she meets is named Lyon, a soft-spoken man with purple hair and kind eyes, who volunteered to talk to her about the Crèche’s activities after he saw her listening to Emmeryn. Apparently, that was what convinced him she was serious about wanting to understand the dragonkin and change.

The conversation was mostly natural, talking about the children’s’ favourite fairy tales, their favourite games, so on and so forth, until Lyon spoke about his fallen self.

Because Lyon- and the entire Crèche, apparently- use future tenses for his fallen self, but the guilt she can see in his eyes is an entirely different type.

“You’re lying.” She says it softly with a sigh, but perhaps it comes out blunter than intended. It needs to be said, because if what that implies is true, then she needs to know. No, she doesn’t need to know, but it’s something that will haunt her if she doesn’t at least ask.

“Pardon?” Thankfully, he doesn’t sound offended, only cautious and curious.

“You don’t have the eyes of someone trying to fight their fate.” She explains, keeping her voice low, in case the former prince wants to keep it a secret, “Or someone resigned to it. You’re not from before you’re fallen self, you’re from after, aren’t you?”

Just for a moment, she sees a shadow pass over his face, and his eyes seem to become so much older and wiser. “…Yes.”

Hope is a dangerous, terrifying thing. It’s not something that Edelgrad believes in, but in that moment, it crawls through her stomach and into her mouth, and she can’t help asking, “Did death bring you peace from the Demon King?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember, but…” He smiles, sadly as he looks at her. He doesn’t comment on the question. He doesn’t need to, “I can hope.”

—————————————

It’s rare to see Claude- and of the Claudes- on his own, since she usually sees him with the Crèche- who she’s giving space to approach her, no matter how hard the waiting is- with the Grimas’ twins and the other tacticians, or with his Golden Deer, which she knows to stay away from, since most give her death glares she approaches.

So, when she sees one of the older ones alone, she decides to ask him for a game. His strategies are always interesting and versatile, and she finds herself missing the matches they would play in their spare time.

“Sun’s light warm you and wyverns’ sing, Claude, High Ruler. Would you be willing for a game of Shatranj?” She asks, giving her usual greeting as she approaches him. He’s standing next to an empty table big enough to fit the board on, and she knows he always carries a small set with him when he can.

for just a second when the words leave her lips, Claude’s expression perfectly matches a deer’s when it sees a hunter, and he slowly sits on the chair. His expression becomes a calm mask and doesn’t change, and that’s how she knows she surprised him.

Claude. Surprised. She doesn’t know what to do with the information.

“I should let you know, I’m not king yet,” Claude corrects, somewhat stained and somewhat gentle, as if he hasn’t completely thought his words though, “Brave me has that honour.”

Oh. Oh, that’s embarrassment burning in her gut, but she can’t take back her words. Ruthlessly she shoves it down. There are better times for shame, and this isn’t one of them.

“Oh? I never did learn how to greet a prince.” Do it. Ask. Implications give nothing. Shame in asking is worthless. Somehow, the idea that she would have been too ashamed to ask before gives her what she needs to push on, “Would you be willing to teach me?”

“Sure, it’s: ‘Heir of High Ruler’ if you want to be super formal about it, but most people just use ‘Heir’ for any child of a governing family.” She can tell Claude’s been caught off guard, but now that he knows where the conversation is going, he has it under control. “‘Wyverns’ sing’ is also only used after the person’s Rite of Challenge.”

“Ya-kessh?” She repeats, butchering the pronunciation.

“No, Heir.” It rolls off his tongue naturally, and Edelgard bites the inside of her lip to stop her frustration and embarrassment from rising. Not the time, not the place.

“Heir-ch?” She says, forcing herself to try again. She can do this.

“Heir.”

“There you go.” Claude responds with an easy smile. It’s not perfect, but Edelgard can practice later.

Edelgard rolls her eyes. She’s worked for Claude often enough to know that type of smile isn’t completely real. “The offer for Shatranj is still there, Claude, Heir, do you accept?”

“With joy, Edelgard, Ruler of Land and People.”

“I lost that title years ago, Edelgard, Commander, is as formal as I’m going to allow you to go.”

Claude’s smile becomes sharper as he places his pieces, and Edelgard allows herself to smile in return. This was going to be fun.

In the end, she loses, again, which really isn’t surprising. Against someone like Claude, it doesn’t sting that much.

______________________________________________________________

[AN: yes, Edelgard did 100% refer to the Robins as “the Grimas’ twins,” since she doesn’t really know their history.]

[On another note, how do you think the Bad End cast would react to CC!Edelgard? I’m not going to write anything for that, I’m just really curious.]

______________________________________________________________

#submission #cheeseandcake #fire emblem: three houses #fire emblem: heroes #dragon creche #crest control #i've read this so many times now #i really wanted to finish the duo hero art before clearing out my inbox #just to make sure i didn't lose momentum #but i keep going back to this and reading it #and i absolutely love how cc!edelgard is clearly still working on things #she's in the process of unlearning bad habits #and has to remind herself about the good ones that she's trying to replace them with #because yeah changing that kind of mindset is really hard #this kind of growth is incredible and i absolutely love all of it #from her pushing herself to ask claude about how to address a prince #instead of shutting down because she feels she embarrassed herself #or talking herself through interacting with a tiny dragon child #when she still hears 'dragon' and thinks 'inhuman monster'#it's just such good character writing and i love every bit of it #this is an absolute gift #so i'm definitely going to write some bad end interactions to cc!edelgard for you

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wanderingcas · 4 years

Text

5 times Dean had work to do, and the one time he actually enjoyed it. pairing: dean/cas a commission for @jensenackhles <3 2k words

One

Dean first heard the phrase a few weeks after his mom died.

John had checked them into a motel—one of the many that they had cycled through in the past few weeks. Sam was asleep in the crib, and John was on the opposite bed. Dean had woken up to a strange sound; he rolled over and saw John at the foot of the bed, head bowed, shoulders shaking.

Dean had never seen his dad cry before. Even right after the fire, when he was telling the detectives what happened at the police station: completely dry-eyed. So seeing his dad cry was… strange. Dean wanted to make it stop.

He pushed back the sheets and hopped off the bed. Walking on unsteady, sleepy toddler legs to his dad, he put either hand on John’s knees, looking up at him. John was clutching a worn picture of Mary between his fingers.

“Are you okay, dad?” Dean asked.

John continued to stare at the picture of Mary’s smiling face. After a moment, he sniffed. Wiped his face that was striped with tears with the back of his hand. He ruffled Dean’s hair and said gruffly, “Yeah, kid. I’m fine. Get back to sleep, okay? We got work to do in the morning.”

And the next morning in the car, when Sam was crying in his carseat and kicking up a storm, Dean patted his head and said, “It’s okay, Sammy, shh. Stop crying. We got work to do, okay? So you can’t cry. We got to work.”

Sam just stared at him with big teary and trusting eyes. Dean didn’t even know what he was really saying at the time; what he was getting them into.

Two

He didn’t make it a habit to say the words out loud often. He said them more to himself, as a mantra to keep himself on track. But sometimes they would slip out, when he really needed to orient himself: when he really needed to kick his own ass into gear and push down the emotions.

The second time he remembers saying it was when he was 25. He was driving to a case with Danny, the son of one of John’s hunting friends. John was out of commission from a nasty encounter with a wendigo, so they were tag-teaming the ghoul hunt.

Dean felt his phone buzz, wedged between the driver’s seat and his leg. He pulled it up, glancing at it, just in case it was important. His stomach immediately sank when he saw Sam’s number.

Got to Stanford okay, in case you were wondering. Too hot here. Miss you and Dad.

The muscles in Dean’s jaw jumped as he clenched it tighter.

“Who’s that?” Danny asked, cocking his shotgun. “Somethin’ about the case?”

“No,” Dean said. He pulled into the driveway of the house where the hauntings were taking place. Eased the Impala into park. “Focus up,” he commanded, cocking his own gun aggressively. “We got work to do.”

Three

The seal to the gates of hell are open. Ruby tricked them, and Sam triggered the apocalypse.

Dean doesn’t know what to say.

History is repeated again, where Dean is sitting helplessly on one hotel bed, Sam crying on the other. He’s bent at the waist, shoulders hunched, tears silently streaming.

Dean knows that he’ll blame himself forever. He knows that this might break him.

He knows he needs to say something.

Getting up unsteadily, he walks over to the bed and sits down on the other side of his brother. The bed creaks from his weight. “C’mon, Sam,” he says into the silence. “We didn’t know, okay? We couldn’t have seen it coming.”

Sam remains silent, glaring at the ground.

A lead in his gut, Dean reaches out a hand, and places it on Sam’s shoulder. “We gotta keep going, okay? We just… we gotta keep fighting. We can’t just sit down and take it.”

“What’s the point, Dean?” Sam asks. He shrugs off Dean’s shoulder and twists around to glare at him. “Why even try, if I keep fucking everything up? Huh?”

“Because people need us, Sam,” Dean snaps. “We need to finish what we started. We gotta make sure the world is safe, okay? There’s no time to sit around and feel sorry for our damn selves.”

Sam stares at his hands, stonily silent.

Dean stands. Holds out a hand to his younger brother. “C’mon. We got work to do.”

Sam glares at Dean’s hand for a moment before sighing resignedly. He takes it, and stands.

Four

When Dean met Cas, a lot changed.

His view on angels not so much: he still thinks they’re a bunch of dicks. But the way that things aren’t always so black and white. That people—angels—can change. That Dean can maybe be… loved. Saved. Worthy of it.

At least Cas seems to think he’s worth it, anyway.

He tucks all these feelings into his back pocket; doesn’t want them to see the light of day. Because if they did… well. Then he would have more than his brother to be worried about. And in his line of work, any attachments are frankly a terrible decision.

Except, it’s Cas, and Dean can’t keep his eyes off him.

And he stares at Cas a lot. He knows he does; it’s almost like there’s a magnet that pulls his eyes to Cas’s face and stays there. Sam notices it; Cas notices it; everyone notices it. Dean just… can’t seem to help it.

Maybe it’s that otherworldly look that he always has on his face. Maybe it’s the perpetual five o’clock shadow that paints his sharp jaw. Maybe it’s because Cas is usually staring right back at him, all up in Dean’s personal space no matter how much Dean complains about it (even though he really doesn’t mind. Not at all. He’d love to have Cas even closer, actually).

Maybe it’s just because Dean has a damn crush on an angel and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

“So, you’re sweet on my brother, huh?” Gabriel asks Dean with a leering grin.

Dean snaps his eyes back into the room instead of watching Cas’s back leave the room. “What the fuck? No.”

Across the room, Sam puts a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Dean wants to punch him so that he’ll finally respect his damn elders.

“Liar,” Gabriel says.

“C’mon, that weirdo? In a trenchcoat? What are you smoking?”

“He has a… jeno se qua,” Gabriel says with a wave of his hand in the air. “A certain sexiness, if you will.”

“I’m not sweet on him.” Dean can feel the blood rising in his cheeks, and he hates it.

“Sure, Dean-o.” Gabriel winks. “Sure.”

Cas walks back into the roomthen , looking adorably confused, and of course Dean’s blush increases. He tries to look casual as he leans against the wall with a glare, avoiding Cas’s eyes.

Sam sputters as he tries not to laugh at Gabriel batting his eyelashes in Cas’s direction.

“Okay, knock it off, you idiots,” Dean snaps. “We got work to do.”

Cas tilts his head in that adorable way, asking, “What do you want me to knock off, Dean?”

“Your pants,” says Gabriel casually.

Sam loses it then, bursting into laughter.

Five

The apocalypse is done. By some miracle, they all lived through it—Cas, Bobby, and even Sam, who managed to push Lucifer out before throwing him into the pit.

There’s no imminent danger, no immediate threat—which is probably why Sam decides to bring it up.

“Are you going to tell him how you feel?” Sam asks. They’re sitting at Bobby’s table, each nursing a beer. Sam is still exhausted from his encounter with Lucifer, so he’s not getting out to hunt much these days; they normally spend their nights like this, just soaking in the quiet before the next inevitable storm.

Dean looks at his brother incredulously. “What’re you talking about?”

“Don’t play stupid,” Sam says. “I’m not an idiot, Dean. I see the way you look at him.”

Dean grumbles, sipping at his beer.

“Dean.” Sam sets his beer down. “The world is quiet. For once. The apocalypse is avoided, Michael and Lucifer are in the cage, just—there will be crap that comes up later. It can’t be avoided. But at least now, in this quiet moment, you can figure things out. With him.”

“Just leave it alone, Sam,” Dean sighs. He doesn’t even have the energy to argue with him anymore. Snatching his beer off the table, he says, “Think I’m gonna finish this outside.”

He ignores Sam’s worried eyes that follow him out of the house.

Leaning against the porch railing, he sips at his beer, glaring out into the salvage yard. Something familiar catches his eye: a figure wrapped in a trench coat, head tilted back and staring up at the stars.

Dean takes a steadying pull of beer before stomping down the porch steps. He stands next to Cas, the neck of his beer bottle hanging loosely from his fingers. Cas gives him a nod of acknowledgement before looking back up at the twinkling stars above them.

Clearing his throat, Dean says gruffly, “So, you thinkin’ of going back there?”

“Back there?” Cas asks.

“To, you know.” Dean waves his beer at the sky. “To Heaven.”

“Heaven is not in the sky, Dean,” Cas chides.

“Okay, whatever. Just answer the damn question: are you going back?”

Cas lifts one shoulder in barely a shrug. He looks at Dean then, blue eyes sparkling in the night. “I might not go back—if I have a reason to stay.”

“Well, you might have one,” Dean says. “There’s plenty more shit to take care of down here. Rumor has it Raphael is pissed about you rebelling against the apocalypse, so he’ll probably stir some shit up that you have to—”

“Dean.” Cas turns to him, suddenly very serious. “Do I have a reason to stay?”

Dean can feel his breath catch in his throat. He realizes that he could lie. Could laugh it off with a joke or a snarky comment, like he usually does. But he knows it’s now or never. Cas could leave. He’d do anything to stop that.

“Dean,” Cas says again. There’s a filter of emotion that comes through to his eyes—it looks like hope. That makes Dean crack.

“Maybe you do have a reason,” Dean says. “Maybe we want you to, I don’t know—stay.” He looks at the ground. “Maybe I want you to stay.”

Cas takes Dean’s hand. Dean’s heart rate increases as Cas rubs his thumb against Dean’s calloused knuckles. “I want to stay, too.”

“Good, that’s, uh.” Dean smiles wide. Steps closer to Cas so that their chests are nearly touching. “That’s good, Cas.”

Dean asks Cas to marry him six months later on the hood of the Impala, burgers and beers between them.

He doesn’t see the point in waiting when he just…. knows. Cas seems to know too, since Dean can barely get out the question before Cas is tackling him to the hood and kissing him senseless, whispering Yes between each breath.

Sam cries when they tell him. Of course. Bobby pretends not to get emotional, but Dean sees him wiping at his face a minute later. The angels are, of course, pissed—but Cas couldn’t care less.

Apparently Cas had been planning to ask Dean from the beginning—he and Charlie had even been making a wedding scrapbook with Charlie in the past few months.

Cas pulls out the scrapbook to show Dean the next morning, both in their pajamas and sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table. His cheeks are stained from embarrassment, unsure how Dean will take it.

But Dean finds it the least embarrassing thing in the world—he just flips through the pages and pages of wedding decorations, tuxes, and rings, and gets increasingly choked up. He almost loses it when he sees the Enochian words for “Forever” inscribed on a ring that Charlie made in photoshop as a mock-up.

Dean puts down his coffee, and kisses his fiance soundly. When he pulls back, Cas is smiling, bright as the rising sun.

Shutting the book, Dean stands, and grabs Cas’s hand with a wink. “Well, Cas. Looks like we got work to do.”

#<33 #thank you so much for commissioning me!!#this was so much fun to write #destiel #destiel fic #commission #tatiana requested i share this with you all <3

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shamemp3 · 3 years

Note

gimme top five scott lines or more bc i like white men in red glasses

OKAY

1. OBLIGATORY THE WHAT WAS THE REVOLUTION SCOTT QUOTE. “OUR LAST CHANCE. OKAY?! we have nothing left but threats! we fought for them and they hate us! we fought alongside them and they kill our children in the streets! we pack up and move to an island and they destroy it! we move to another island and the fucking avengers storm the fucking beaches! we’re supposed to be the next step in human revolution yet we’ve become an endangered species. we’re everything they are not and we’re a shadow of our former selves! all we have left is threats. the threat of revolution! the threat of a fight we hope they dont want! so, yes, i got in front of any camera that would show my face and i looked their world in the eye and told them—they better leave us alone... i stood on the bridge of the helicarrier and i threatened them... because nothing. else. has. worked. xavier is gone. logan is gone. i watched xavier die at my feet and i thought if i don’t do something to kickstart it… the dream is really truly dead. after us, what is there?”

2. “god, don’t you think i want to be just like everyone else?” (what’s stopping you?) “the power won’t go away. whenever my eyes are open, i can’t turn my eyebeams off. how relaxed would you be around people if you knew you could kill them all by just looking at them wrong?” (you’re so hard on yourself. you’ve got it under control, buddy.) “no. the special glasses have it under control. the combat visor has it under control. they’re the only things that can hold my power back. ruby-quartz lenses. i can’t just take them off and be normal. i can’t go swimming. i can’t play sports for fear my glasses’ll get knocked off or just slip from sweat. i’ll never know what it’s like to have a girl look me in the eyes with kindness. i can’t even cry because i’m not sure what my tears might do. none of htis gives me anything. it just takes. it just takes.”

3. “there never is. but it’s what we do. and right now, we’re the best equipped. a long time ago, i heard someone say that in this line of work, there’s a point where you have to rely on your instincts. do what’s right, and trust the rest will follow.” (mm. yes, i’m familiar with that sound bite. does it, generally, in your experience? follow?) “not always. but we keep trying. i used to think that if i could do what you did, it would unlock the world. i’d learn to make sense of things. i would make sense. mostly, what i’ve learned is how wrong i was. and that it’s worth it anyway.” IDK TBH THE ENTIRETY OF SNAPSHOTS SCOTT HE IS MY EVERYTHING. COULD PUT THE ENTIRE ISSUE HERE IF I COULD

4. lol champs 2019 scott “i’ve been where you are. i know what you’re feeling. i can’t guarantee that it’s gonna get easier, but i can tell you this--what you’re doing matters. the champions matter.”

5. ALSO CHAMPS 2019 WHEN HE GETS TOLD OFF BC HE WENT TO SEE THE CHAMPIONS AND GETS TOLD (what were you thinking? we’re supposed to be a team.) and scott says, “i know. that’s why i went...because my team needed me.”

6. “i don’t care what you think you know. i don’t care what you dress my brother up as and i don’t care what flag you wrap yourself in. my friends need help and they need it all over the world. so you have a choice. you can have the hulk try and kill me...or you can get the hell out of my way.”

7. “i know that risking everything we’ve built for a few lives doesn’t work for all of you. i understand you don’t have the luxury of thinking that way. i really do. but hearing you say it out loud...tasting it in my mouth...i find it unacceptable. so i do not accept it. you formed the quiet council to be the government of krakoa. well, the x-men are heroes. and we will save those who need saving. whatever the cost.”

8. “you had a dream. i have a plan.”

9. “so we’re clear...you’re angry at me, logan is angry at me, everyone is angry at me but...i’m angrier at myself. i mean it, kitty, i am going to pay for my sins, i am... but i’ll be damned if i don’t make it so our people finally have a chance first. it’s us. we’re all that’s standing up for mutants having a future. not the avengers, not shield, it’s just us. but forget that now...forget all of this. what do you need from me?”

10. (you got a problem, scott?) “several.” i just. laugh at this always

11. “my name is scott summers and i’ve been an x-man since i was fifteen. and like everyone else here, i’ve been a mutant all my life. the ground--this city we live in, just off your shores--this fortress we occupy--this ground is sacred. no mutant or their family will be harmed here. no mutant blood will be spilled here. our children shall not be hunter or harmed. they shall not be prejudiced against, legislated against, or ever go to sleep for a single unsafe moment. we may have payed the ultimate price for our safety tonight. but i am here to promise you, unequivocally, we mean you no harm. in spite of the decades of harm inflicted upon us personally, privately, or as a matter of law. we have been, and always shall be, sworn to protect a world that hates and despises us. only now...we shall all be free.”

12. “but i promise you this...i’m going to find you. i’m going to find out who you are...and god help you then. you think you know me? you think you know what i’m capable of? that is everyone’s mistake.”

13. “to me, my x-men.”

14. “that's why i am a leader. the blind leading the blind, maybe...but a leader nonetheless. a leader because i'm prepared to take the fall, and because i'm prepared to make the hard decisions. such as the one you made, mom, that day you pushed alex and I out into the sky with a single parachute between us. because a leader knows, it's not so hard to die for your people. it's hard to order your people to die for you. and leading with certainty into an uncertain future doesn't require sight. it requires vision. it requires holding on. and no matter what happens, never letting go.”

#tehre r so many more but it is 5 in the morning and my brain is stlil fried from the matt ask .#this is what it looks like when u are unwell in the head .#i am supposed ot be getting rest bc im traveling tmrw and yet look at htis. what is htis #I OLOVE HIM WHAT IS THIS #horrorsuns #answered

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a-lil-perspective · 4 years

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Remember Me/Holding On (For Dear Life)

A/N: The Bad Batch X Reader. Playing around with a scenario where the Bad Batch removed their inhibitor chips with Echo, thus forfeiting executing Order: 66, and they go incognito in faking their deaths thereafter. Reader doesn’t know so it’s full of angst? All-around switching up my writing a bit with this one. Feedback is always appreciated. Technically is a Reader insert but I also switched up the pronouns a bit. [Warnings: Mourning over death of loved ones, subliminal implication of suicidal thought] @shadow-hyder @starflyer-104 @thegoodbatch @kriffingunlucky @karpasia @obiorbenkenobi @everyonehasanindividuality (Tag List is open.:))

{~***~}

Clone Force 99. The Bad Batch.

A Clone Force To Be Reckoned With.

A whirlwind of gray plastoid and flashing crimson accents. A brewing swirl of personalities and a tempest of skill, bleeding together seamlessly. Much like their bond. Brothers by blood, and brothers in arms. A camaraderie unprecedented, a stellar example of unorthodoxy. Their story begging, no—demanding to be told.

I’m not the right person to do so. You’d do well hearing it from the four warriors themselves.

But they aren’t here. They’re gone.

Not gone... I must correct. Merely marching far away.

No, marching is too straightforward and monotonous for them, too regulated and predictable; a disgrace and offense to their overall prowess—those insufferable, lovable di’kuts.

Not marching: Clone Force 99 is ‘charging-headfirst-into-no-doubt-a-suicidal-battle-comprised-of-an-equally-crazy-strategy’ far away.

Yeah. That’s more like it.

Accelerated aging. The untrained eye would’ve been none the wiser. The span of a decade accompanying, yet their demeanors depicted a thousand lifetimes. Fine lines etched into coarse and defined features, each one a new resolve for each man to fight for more than just existing.

They constantly challenged me to find a new angle. Something I couldn’t find solely through the scope of Crosshair’s rifle. They cut through and canceled stereotypes, combatant through even the thick resistance of daunt and demoralization: a resilience stronger than even the sharpest cut of Sergeant Hunter’s knife. Their oddities and wonderfully endearing peculiarities: fully embraced and secured in a grip stronger than even Wrecker’s large endow of muscle. The four men: definitively and unknowingly hacking into and through even the most incredulous beings by way of their efficiency and bond—an impressive capability that gave even the ingenious Tech a run for his credits.

Their aura of commandeering and confidence incited fear, evoked jealousy, or channeled respect. I’d like to point out from personal experience that it was absolutely possible to acknowledge the manifestation of all three reactions simultaneously. The Bad Batch had a peculiar way of affecting people; almost comical, when I think about it. Enough to nearly bring a smile to my face.

They say a person never leaves you. Maker, I’m hoping that might be true. What started so perfect was over too fast.

They boasted a ferocity, but a tenderness. Each member carried their armor a little differently, a little heavier than the other. When you unlatched and peeled away the protective encasing, therein was a raw vulnerability: humanity. A vulnerability, not a weakness. A strength. One of many the unique quartet possessed.

At their core: living, breathing, feeling, humans; ideal candidates concerning the way war tried to brutally strip them of that very individuality. But they protected as fiercely as they fought. They loved as passionately as they clung to their varieties of honed adeptness. Their loyalty and liberty was as explosive as the colorful destruction left incessantly imprinted throughout battlefields.

It’s borderline treasonous to say, that the Republic could’ve majorly benefitted from some propaganda courtesy of those four. Oh, how many times I tried to convince their stubborn and surprisingly bashful selves of the prospect—seriously, wouldn’t four handsome Commandos inspire you?

They seemed to think otherwise. Kriff. From the outside looking in, I would’ve enlisted in the militia the minute I saw those dark clad figures, shrouded in enigma and purpose, handsomely poised just above the text of some patriotic slogan that would’ve captivated me in a state of naivety and infatuation. Yes please. Sign me the hell up.

Not exactly how our first encounter went, but, not that far off, actually. The Sergeant of Clone Force 99 can could recall the story in great detail.

It hurts. I want to lift the pen and stop. But I press on.

On a more lighthearted notation: what you probably also didn’t know is that the boys kept a running bet. Gotta keep things lively when awaiting their next set of intel, right? Though more often than not, the four men each managed to singlehandedly work up the energy of a wild Loth-Cat, and of their own accord, impatiently and prematurely sprung into action; innately preferring to take charge whenever opportunities present. The indefinite cardholders, if you will: you play on their terms, or not at all—a subtle implication towards their fastidious and absolutely brilliant battle plans. Part of their aesthetic and reputation, you could say. I say with all affection: pure mischief, that bunch.

To their enemies: may you experience reverence and/or embarrassment in the 250+ fluent ways the Bad Batch could (or did) utterly kick your ass. In which case: may you rest in peace thereafter. Take that, shabuir.

Anyway, I digress; though not before the brief accredit of my improved fluency in the Mando’a dialect directed to the tutelage of Clone Force 99. Their methods define as unparalleled and most certainly, never present with redundancy.

Betting was limitless to the four, especially along the seemingly most insignificant points of interest: Who can find the best hiding spot for Hunter’s thieved bandana? Toss some credits in. How long will Tech go without sleep this time? Credits in the betting pool. How soon will Crosshair run out of his next batch of toothpicks? Bet.

As for me? I would’ve bet on us. We were untouchable. I always told them it’d take a whole damn army to drag me away.

Ironically, it took a half-dozen Clone Troopers to drag me away from the gravely man bearing news of their tragic fate.

I lost a part of me I’ll never find. But as sure as it is my obligation and desire to consistently—always— remember those men in everyday passing, it is more my duty to make certain their legacy is not lost. It’s my priority, the dedication of time and breath, to depict the breadth of their influence.

You should remember the skilled men donning a palette of gray and red. The men adorning variants of a skull insignia and two matching digits: 99. Distinct characteristics, delineate biographies demanding to not be cast aside nor torn from the pages of history.

Ramikadyc—a Commando state of mind. An adjective of the Bad Batch. An inherence that extended beyond their overt classification, one that outreached towards others, an absolute; an honorable invitation bridging the gap and instilling unification between fellow Clone brethren.

A minuscule sampling scratched within this piece as a broken illustration, of the life of the greatest Commando unit to ever exist, and of incredible men.

This is not the end. It’s just the beginning.

Be’Bes’Bavar Ashnar Olaror.

The Cavalry Has Arrived.

{~***~}

Her swollen wrists flexed to knot the crimson accessory around the piece of flimsiplast at last; a seal. It never got any easier to re-read her hastily scribbled Aurebesh requiem. It folds in on itself, the material crinkles, informing the woman that her hands are trembling as she performs the simple task involving dexterity. A dark splotch newly materialized on the worn fabric of bandana vaguely registers to her, of the salty tears now welling in her eyes. She inhales sharply and awkwardly bends to lay the rolled note to rest in the garden of stone and corpses. And with it, the remnants of her already fragmented composure.

Her throat was tight again. She struggled in swallowing deep anguish amidst the sharp winds that chapped at her soft facial features and stung against the dry sclera of her red-rimmed eyes. The buzz of the cold did little to counteract the hot flush rising in her cheeks. Time hung in stasis, yet the throb of her ankles indicated a semblance of how long she’d actually stood motionless at the foot of the weathering graves.

Or maybe the ache was from the extra weight carried purposefully around her newly swollen abdomen; she could no longer tell which. The deep pang in her chest robbed her of a breath, and she felt as empty as the four corpses now six feet under the stars. The thud of a heartbeat—now two—felt cruel and indignant within the graveyard and for a millisecond, a sickly enticing one, the DC series cinched at her hip was, obscurely, the most alluring décor amid the melancholy earth.

She startled at the fleeting thought; gone as quick as it began, giving way to the flood of despair. Agony was quickly sinking it’s teeth, despondency was bearing it’s full weight on her shoulders, and respite has abandoned her. A strangled cry scraped from her dry throat, a familiar sound she’s produced a dozen times in the wake of his disappearance. Six months.

It felt like a lifetime.

She remembers in total recollection the last night she saw him. It replays like a broken holorecord every time her eyelids shut. A moment that robbed her of more time; a cruelty.

His dark eyes harbored solemnity. She gazed up in anticipation at him, a nauseating knot twisting deep in her belly. At the time, she didn’t register the feeling of dread. He told her not to worry, that everything will be alright. She should’ve been more intuitive, should’ve known those words were accursed in their own right; a distinct diction almost always bestowing a finality or goodbye.

But he was gentle and soothing with his words, albeit deliberate in presentation. In the quietude, she associates him with serenity. The man’s adoration for her transcended. His fingers curled around her own in emphasis as he pushed the newly gifted DC blaster pistol to her chest.

“From me to you.” A raised hand quickly cuts off her stubborn reiteration of her full capability and independence without the weapon in tow. “It’ll make me feel better for you to have this. Never know when you’ll need it.”

Times are changing. He desperately wanted to tell her, about everything.

“I just need you.” Her declaration is faint. The spindly man briefly clamps his tongue in quelling his own dire reciprocation threatening to spew. The faint ticking of a chronometer in the corner warns him not to break down and unravel here, it’s not the time. Not right now. Not yet.

Only when he departs.

“What you need is to be strong. For me. Okay?”

For the baby. She quickly extinguishes her pained cries. Her hand splays reflexively across her midsection in stoked remembrance, and the calloused pads of her fingers rub soothing circles in the stirring, where there was now pressure from the child‘s restlessness. Mando’a serenaded habitually from between her lips, along with a promise.

“Ner cyare ad’ika... I promise that you will know all about your family. Your Buir. Your wild Bavodu’e.” A strained chuckle unbridles, leaving a bitter taste, short and succinct before disappearing. A forlornly glance to the headstones. Her voice cadences. “They would’ve loved you. Someday, you’ll be able to feel them.”

“Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.”

Not gone, merely marching far away.

Something hopeful and inspiriting flits deep in her soul. Her lashes flutter upward and the stars are in a particular array of brilliance. It zips across the expanse of sky, like a ship jumping to hyperspace nearby.

“Ret’urcye mhi, ner cyare.”

Somewhere not so far beyond, she can feel his warmth; the tangibility of his deft fingertips resting assuringly at her shoulders, the wind now encasing her in a mimicry of his lanky but sturdy arms. She holds tight in his absence, and the wind resonates vivid echoes of his sultry voice just past the shell of her ear and bristles the stray strands matted to her tear streaked face.

He’s not here.

The sun remains persistent in rising and combating the dark, so she wills herself to stand amidst the devastation. An abrupt halt to her story—their story—left without a full narrative or plot to flesh out, now leaves her dubious over the already shrouded future.

A fond realization, no longer destined to be a memory—for memories are manifested from events already taken place—nevertheless flickers to the surface. The fondness remains just as palpable.

A memory never allowed to transpire, aggrievedly reminding her, a memory simply not meant to be. But she wills the strength to dream, anyway. She decidedly reaches for an alternate cover to write a new story in. It starts as a rough draft, but the growing bump of her abdomen is living proof of new beginnings, of continuing legacies and a beautiful piece that wholesomely envelops and accounts for the aching, missing one.

Not a memory; no. An assurance, a promising devotion to his origins inscribed on the delicate surface of her heart, and one day, sewed and etched into her child’s. Their child.

“Little Ram’ser: a sniper, just like your Buir.”

#star wars #The Bad Batch #Clone Force 99 #The Bad Batch X Reader #technically Crosshair X Reader but I don’t want to spoil #sorry if you saw that tag before getting into the fic XD #I rely heavily on subliminal messages and the element of surprise if y’all can’t tell XD #wrote this with an already established relationship in mind—particularly—between Cross X Reader based off the dynamics of my other fics #just to clear that up lol #my writing #it’s a Lil thing #again feedback is incredibly helpful and appreciative #it’s been quite stagnant around here lately #I’m honestly not sure what y’all like/what content you’d like to see next #if anything?#just come hang with me and obsess over Star Wars #I don’t bite I promise #OK gonna cap these tags off here before I can’t stop rambling #I haven’t slept so I don’t know half of what I’m saying down here XD

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reikiangeltherapymedium · 3 years

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"Queen of the Moon Oracle", Four Elements Spread reading for July 4th 2021.

Good Evening friends, and Happy 4th of July for those of you in the United States. Tonight I'll be doing a reading from the Queen of the Moon oracle deck by Stacey Demarco. This is a very symbolic deck associated with the mysteries of the Moon and the different seasons of the year and how the relate to one another during different phases and cycles. I will be doing what Stacey Demarco calls a "Four Seasons Spread."

1st card: Earth; what is the true issue? #29 "Hunger", which is represented by the Wolf-Moon.

Feed the good and hope within you. There will always be a lean part of the cycle. Prosperity will come. Do not let your hunger blindly dictate your actions entirely.

Affirmation: "I recognize all that I hunger for."

As an old wise Cherokee (of the First Nations of the U.S.) is speaking to his grandson about life. The young boy asks his grandfather: 'It is said, Grandfather, that everyone has two wolves within them. The first wolf gives darkness, despair, and hate and jealousy and sorrow. The second wolf gives light and hope and helpfulness and kindness. Yet, Grandfather, I feel them fighting within me. What can I do? 'My small son, these two wolves will always fight and they will fight within each person. You are no different', said the Grandfather. 'But', said the boy, 'Grandfather, which wolf will win?' And the Grandfather answers: 'whichever wolf you feed.'

We must be careful about what we nourish and feed within us. If we give abundance to the aspects of the self that can harm others and ourselves then we cannot truly thrive. Having no limitations upon these behaviors and patterns, hurts us and starves the higher and finer parts of our selves that will bring us more happiness. To ripple that happiness to others is part of why we are on the planet as humans. We must also recognize that in life, just because it is a cycle, there will always be leaner, less abundant, or less bright times. Yet we have built our resilience and self-trust for times like this, and we know we are both loved and protected. The cycle will soon turn to less shadow and more bounty. Companion stone/metal: Amazonite.

2nd card: Air; how can I solve it via intellect/communication? #32, "Trust", which is represented by the Egg Moon.

Trust yourself. Develop self-trust and joy will follow. You can rely on your own capabilities. Begin to plan carefully for the future.

Affirmation: "It is the beginning and I trust myself in all things."

Apart from the trust we might develop spiritually with our higher power, self-trust is the basis of all other trust. Self-trust is a surety that we can rely upon ourselves. That our decisions are valid. That we ourselves matter. That knowing ourselves combined with trusting ourselves leads to better, more-informed decisions about all aspects of our life, including career and relationships. Self-trust is far more than a flashy show of confidence; it is deeper and farther reaching than that. It is security at the very core, that no matter what, our wisdom matters and is best. It allows for flow and for faith in oneself and the way you do things moving and choosing in the world.

Self-trust is a full acceptance of self. As accepting one's self becomes easier, thus self-trust will begin to shine. This gives great momentum to anything we choose to tackle or do. Our ancestors saw spring, the great thawing, as a new beginning. They would walk the marshes and plains and find newly laid eggs. More than just a symbol of fertility and new hope, the egg meant that the worst of the cold was over and that new life really was here. The Egg Moon was a time of celebration and rejoicing. Companion stone/metal: Iron.

3rd card: Fire; what emotions can I bring to or release from this? #13, "Will", which is represented by the Waxing Gibbous Moon.

Decisions require action. You are in control of your own decisions and life, no one else's. Passion and will determine a great proportion of your success. You will persist. You posses free will, which means you should focus on yourself first and avoid placing your will over another's.

Affirmation: "I have the will to make the changes I need."

'Will' feels like a very old-fashioned concept. In a modern world where it seems like everything is geared up to be as easy as possible or there is always someone else to blame, the idea of placing our personal will persistently into something seems quaint. When we decide we are going to change something in our lives, let's say a particularly negative pattern or bad habit, breaking the old way we do things can be difficult. The change requires a concentration of our will. We may want the change, but it is our will that insists we stay on the path to that change. To be willful means we have the power of control over our own actions, and that will fires up the persistence we need to get what we want.

Contrary to popular belief, for example in witchcraft traditions practitioners do not interfere with another's free will. This means we do not cast spells upon people to influence their behavior. How do we get what we want instead? We cast on ourselves in line with our will, focusing carefully on what we would like in our lives instead? For example, instead of casting a spell on a ex-boyfriend who doesn't want us by influencing his will to love us again, we more ethically cast upon ourselves for our ideal partner. This way, we don't interfere with his free will, and if the ex is our ideal partner, he will return to us freely. If not, we have attracted someone new and better for us. Either way, win-win!

To use our will productively, we should assess what we really want and make sure this is what we want to reach for. Companion stone/metal: Hematite.

4th card: Water; how do I move/flow on from this issue? #41 "Sovereignty", which is represented by the Queen of the Moon.

You have sovereignty over your own life. Act with grace and confidence. You have the ability to unite disparate people and views should you choose to do so. The buck stops with you. You are powerful; act like it!

Affirmation: "I reign over my own realm."

Goddesses of the moon are one of the oldest kinds of Feminine Divine and feature in mythologies from almost every corner of the globe. From Diana of ancient Rome and the Greek Artemis to the Semitic Astarte and Hina from Polynesia, the link with the Feminine Divine and the lunar planet and cycles is a strong one. These goddesses in all their myriad of forms were extremely powerful, and demonstrated to women that they, naturally, had power as well.

We should strive to be the powerful queens/kings of our own domain. Women especially have been socialized to defer, to keep small, to be quiet and to hold a very twisted kind of service that borders on servitude. While in many first-world countries women can choose to be what they wish to be on paper, women still experience inequality in most countries in areas such as wage disparity and an imbalance of the numbers of women in government or in high-level board positions. However, what has been accepted in the past is not what will be accepted in the future: a new queendom is coming!

When we reign over our own lives, it is us that take on the responsibility for our own change and decisions. The Moon Queen knows that we, just under the divine, are our own rulers, and as such the buck stops here. Therefore, it is worth us investing in growing our own self-awareness, our own self-trust, self-care and self-esteem in real and practical ways. We must, as any Queen would, set firm boundaries to protect our queendom and those who are under our protection. This does not mean we become cruel rulers; we should always aim for benevolence, fairness, and a great love for all (as well as ourselves). It does mean we may have to push against those who do not respect our line in the sand. Companion stone/metal: Platinum.

Thanks for stopping by for another reading everyone hope you have a lovely rest of your night! Namaste.

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nemesisadraste · 3 years

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Good Omens : What if Shadwell had never enter the bookshop that day?

This is a little OS fanfic im which Shadwell has accepted Madame Tracy's money and even went to Newt rescue with her. Therephore, he never went to Aziraphale bookshop resulting his entrance in the portal and the fire. So how does thing goes in this setting?

Aziraphale had just tells the Metatron he was on his way and called Crowley. He was really suprise about how Crowley ended the call saying "Not a good time I have a friend over." ... What did that mean? Why would he had friends over at a time like this when the world was ending in a few hours and he had planned to go to Alpha Century?... Were they really a friend? Was it a way to tell him he wasn't his friend anymore after the bandstand fight and his multiple refusal to go off with him? Was he in danger?... All those questions were running around his head and he needed an awnser... The only way to have them is to go check himself.

So he tooks Agnes book and he was on his way... But just as he was opening the door he reminds of the portal... It was still open. The angel couldn't possibly leave it that way unsupervise it could be dangerous. The only way for it to close was that someone or something with enough power went inside it and as there was no way he ever goes back to Heaven, he add to think of something else... Something like... Yes exactly this!

He took a piece of old paper and write something on it with an as old ink. Then he trows the paper in the portal. The energy of the portal shatter it in thousend of pieces but the message on it rest intact and arrive perfectly at it's destination :

Count me out.

Three little words. Probably he scariest he had ever write but it was a relief to finally express them. He was now on his own but that didn't matter. Cause for the first time he was free and for the first time he aknowledge he wasn't alone. Well... If Crowley could forgive him this time.

A few minutes later he was at the Demon's flat and he catch him on his way out. He didn't had the time to knock that the door opened to revels a familiar face

Crowley : Angel!

Aziraphale : Hello dear! Everything is allright? our last call was a bit strange to me... Hope I'm not actually disrupting a friends reunion...

Crowley : Oh that? No don't worry it was just Ligur and Hastur being their usual assholes selves I took care of them.

Aziraphale : What?! Hell sended them to get you?! Did they hurt you?! Hownyou allright?!

Crowley : Relax Angel everything is just fine. Ligur got a taste of the Holy water you gave me in 1967 and Hastur is having a blast in my message recorder tape.

Aziraphale : Oh... Ok... anyway I wanted to apologies, I lied to you about the Antechrist, I know where it is and it was so foolish of me cause you were absolutly there is no one to reach out to up there. She didn't even take my call I only had the Metatron and he is as pro armageddon than all the others Archangels, nothing else never mattered to them, not the humans, nor the earth, nor anything else in the whole creation... Nor even me, but thats not really a shocker.

Crowley : I'm sorry to hear that. All of that really matter to me though youvknow that right?

Aziraphale : Really? Even me? After all I did to you?

Crowley : Espetially you angel. You have nothing to apologise for I swear. In fact I'm the one who own you an apologie. I should have been more comprehensive of what you were getting trough... I putted you in probably the biggest loyalty conflict ever and then harass you to choose me and give up when I know how much this world mean to you... You're a guardian afterall... Very sorry for that.

Aziraphale : Well everything is tickety-boo now! After my chat with the Metatron I message Heaven to count me out so there is no conflict anymore. In fact I think that in my heart there never was. (He smile after the last line. It is the sweetest, the purest and the quickest smile to ever exist).

There is a pause after that as they both need to fully realise was that mean. What this whole conversation means.

Crowley : Does that mean you changed your mind for Alpha Century?

Aziraphale : Well no. At least not before we try something to stop all that!

Crowley : Ok... What do you suggest? He got his full powers now he won't be that easy to stop.

Aziraphale : I know someone who might have just what we need.

Crowley : Really who?

Aziraphale : Sergent Shadwell, he is the commander of the humans I told you about the...

Crowley : The witchfinder army?

Aziraphale : Yes you know them?

Crowley : Well yeah those are my guys too!

Aziraphale : Seriously?! What an odd coïncidence... Anyway let go see him. We have to be quick tough if we wanna be able to get out of London.

Crowley : What do you mean?

Aziraphale take Agnes book and opens it to prophecy 4781 and show it to Crowley. The prophecy says :

Prophecy 4781 On the final day when the home of the Big Ben will be 3 hours late of their noon appointements, a ring of evil fire will trap the old smoke in it's center. Thou can all thank the snake for that (ok the last sentence I'm not sure Agnes would actually write that I just wanted to add it for the fun lol 🤣)

Crowley : Shit, shit, shit I had totally forgot about the M25 thing... Shit!

Aziraphale : Well no time to stop this part now so we gotta hurry. We only have half an hour to go search for a weapon and go out of London.

Crowley : A weapon you mean...

Aziraphale : Exactly. We don't have other options now. Not if he decide to go on with it.

Crowley : Ok.

Aziraphale : What?

Crowley : Nothing I'm just suprise this comes from you.

Aziraphale : Yeah me too.

They take the Bentley (of curse) and go too Shadwell apartment but find it empty of it's occupant. They enter regardless (no time to wait) and take the weapon (the same they tok on the show I don't remember the name). When they are out they only got 10 minutes left before the M25 cast in fire so Aziraphale doesn't mind Crowley speed at all. He does miracle the Bentley to be gost like so he doesn't hit anything on the way. Crowley finds it funny and take advantage of it to show his angel how fast the Bentley can really go and he is extremly happy about it. When they finnaly go out he break as a reflex after all the adrenaline and thats when the fire rings light up. Crowley looks back and say :

Crowley : Wow... It worked! Shit... You imagine being stuck in this like an idiot? 🤣🤣🤣

Crowley starts driving again and they arrive in Taddefield american airbase in advance for Armageddon despite having to ask directions to a nice old man. The Horsepeople are already there, but not the Them. Not the Antechrist.

Aziraphale was going to talk to the security guard who was waithing for their explanations when suddently the Bentley cast in fire and explode to ashes and everyone turns to look at the pile of burning metals.

Crowley : MY CAR!!!!!... 90 years without a single crash and now this!!! How?! What?! Who?!

An evil form gets out of the shadow smiling better than it never had. With it's hidious dark grey-green raincoat and a literraly frog on his head he was immediatly recognisable.

Crowley : Hastur. How was your time in my message tape?

Hastur : Not fun. But not as not fun as will be the rest of your existance. (He add this while smiling even better, eviler) Hell will...

Security guard (shacking, affraid and unconfident just like in the show) : Ok all of you stay right where you are and put your hands in the air! I will call backups and they'll take care of you! In the mean time if you dare move I swear I'll shoot you! Starting by you red hair guy with the explosive car!

Hastur had no time for humans bullshit and cast the human to a painfull instant combustion in the horrored eyes of the angel and the other demon. The frog then return to the matter that had him here to begin with.

Hastur : I hate to be interrupted... Now where was I... Oh yeah! Hell will not forgive, Hell will not forget and you know it Crawly. The great war and our victory won't clear your record. From now on the only being to interact with you will be me and trust me it won't be the pleasent kind of interractions for you I'll make sure of that.

Crowley : Oh I trust you on that all right... Come get me then.

He had said that provocativly and was now slowly stepping back has Hastur was slowly stepping foward, his eyes lock with his preys'' waiting for the moment to strike. Aziraphale was between them and he steps in the way to block Hastur's path.

Hastur : Stay out of this sunshine this is an Hellish matter. Your time will come soon enough.

Aziraphale : Is it really? An Hellish matter Inkean cause I am very suprise that your boss sended two of their dukes to catch a renegate so close to armageddon... Aren't you suppose to get your plattons ready for the fight right now?

Hastur : Well,... Yes but Michaël called Ligur to tell us about Crowley not being trustworthy and we never liked the guy so we took the initiative to go catch him before he do more damage. It was a buissness initiative but now he destroyed Ligur wih Holy water right in front of me, trap me in his stupid machine and nownI'm seeing him with you, an angel! So this is personnal.

Aziraphale : A secret personnal initiative?... Oh dear.. I don't know how things work down there but if an angel had did that kind of initiative so close to armageddon they would be in a lot of trouble... Espetially if that said initiative had cause the lost of one of their greatest warrior... I don't think they could ever leave that unpunished... But if Hell is cool with that...

Hastur (laughing badly) : You think you can scare me that way? 🤣 I'm not stupid! Inknow hownHell work sweetie. And the is that if I don't even get this traitor snake back as an apologie present that things will be bad for me. So good try, but now move!

Aziraphale : Or what?

Hastur cast a fireball in his hand and show it to the angel as a reminder : What he did to the human, he could do it to the angel.

Aziraphale : Oh please, thats all you got?

Aziraphale open his wings and "power up" (hope I am clear here 😅) resulting in the extinction of Hastur Fireball. This time it was Hastur who back away as Aziraphale step foward.

Aziraphale : My previous logic wasn't scary enough, ok... How about this one : (his voice was deeper, stronger, but always stays clam) If you back in Hell right now without Crowley and take your position as you should have never leave it to begin with, you migth not be that badly hurt. I mean Before Heaven cruchs you all of curse. Am I clear?

Hastur (Terrified but tried to hide it) : I guess this can wait after the war... I'll go now but Crowley, don't think it mean you'll get out of it cause when we'll won, you'll see that the Universe is not that big compare to the eternity I'll have to find you treat you has you deserve!

On those enlighting words, Hastur sink down to Hell and Aziraphale release a relief breath. Not that he had been scare of Hastur, no. He was releave that he didn't had to actually hurt him for him to go. He hated display of violence and would never do any unless extreme necessity.

Crowley (he had run to his angel sides) : Angel you're allright?

Aziraphale : Of curse dear. I'm a Principality and he a Duke of Hell. In a one/one combat based on brut power he didn't stand a chance against me. He is not stupid he knows it too thats why he left when he saw he couldn't scare me.

Crowley : Sure thing. He's right though, I can't get out of it... If your lot win they gonna chase me down cause they want to destroy all demons, if we stop armageddon for happening Hastur and probably other demons will also chase me down to punish me and if my lot win, they will alo chase you for being an angel. There is no alternative where I'm left alone.

Aziraphale : Yes thats true. But either way I'll be with you. We'll be together. I won't let you alone in this. And I know you won't leave me alone either. So let go in there and see how things turns out cause I'm extremly tire to play "guess what will happen if..." all the time.

Crowley : Angel... Sorry but I can't help it...

Crowley rushs into Aziraphales' arms and hug him for the first time ever. Aziraphale was shock for a second but then he took his wings that was still out and cover his dearest demon in it as a shelter and a promise : He will always be there for him.

The hug was interrupted by the arrival of the Them who enter in the airbase. After that everything that happened is exactly as the show... Or is it?

#Good Omens #Fanfiction #OS #please be indulgent this is like a draft 😅#hope you enjoy #what if?

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sillyfudgemonkeys · 4 years

Note

K now you got me curious about that. I kinda assumed P5MC would’ve been stronger then P4 MC (P3MC beats them both no doubt from me) so why do you say that P4MC is stronger?

Was gonna make a separate post when I had time but now is a time as any XU (btw I still dunno why people think P5MC is stronger, is it cause of the gym? His Phantom Thieving? The gun? Stanael’s gun? The Yaldy scene? I really wanna read people’s reasons but I have a feeling it’s those and.....if that’s it then no one is paying attention to poor P4MC then ;w;)

So that post was more lore driven than gameplay driven just a heads up (gameplay it’s a lot more complicated because we have to look at like.....a bunch of different entries and lay down ground rules for those, cause like P3P!MC/FeMC vs P4MC vs P5MC is.....a lot more fair considering the former can’t use fusions due to them being items....assuming we can’t use items). Just want to clarify before I explain what I mean is lore wise (I’ll compare the Personas down below but I’ll try to keep it from crossing to much into the gameplay meta line). And this is excluding Royal/Scramble (cause....not everyone knows that stuff yet, and I need to reevaluate things myself and I just haven’t been able to yet XU). But man, people really do underestimate P4MC ;w;

Now then, without Personas they are probably about even, like if they got into a fist fight they could probably end in a tie (but my money is still on P4MC if I had to choose cause he gets back up). P4MC seems to be taller (by a few in) and a more buff build, while P5MC is more of a slim build (but is probs more agile). And this is regardless if they are in the Metaverse, TV World, or the Real World (cause he should get an outfit in the Metaverse, plus Personas seem to give the user great physical strength regardless if it’s a Metaverse setting or not). That being said, P5MC does have akido(?), but it’s self trained and that’s if he goes to the gym. But, P4MC trains with Chie (which he probably did cause they all probs maxed their SLs/CoOps, but Ren might not have gone to the gym), and also stays in shape thanks to 1) fighting Shadows and 2) his sports club SL (this is assuming we are only looking at their school time selves, Adult!P4MC is unknown atm), so it’s not like he’s out of shape himself. P4MC also has crazier and bigger fish too (also needed to complete an SL), so that could be deemed as a work out compared to P5MC’s fishing.

If we’re looking at initial Personas (which is what they are most likely gonna run with cause of how the spinoffs handle P4/5), P4MC has the upper hand thanks to resisting Dark (aka curse) (btw Minato/Hamu would probs go down first in an initial only Persona fight, cause they’d be weak to P5MC and then P4MC could/would probs beat P5MC thanks to resisting the other’s attack).

Ultimate Persona is a bit more....I wouldn’t say even, but there’s strengths and weaknesses to both sides. Satanael has the upper hand with a “survive one attack” ability, resists everything but almighty, heatriser, and can harm INO via physical (and maaaaybe psy/nuke...it’s unclear how Atlus wants to treat INO in this regard). INO has better stats (and can achieve better stats than Satanael), can deal BIG almighty damage (thanks to mine charge, Satanael doesn’t have a charge), and while he doesn’t resist Light/Dark/Alimighty he does have a big evasion ability. I’d say INO could also be hit by PSY and Nuke thanks to PQ2 (which still makes no sense???? why didn’t they add resist in those categories to all the other ult Personas ??? XP) but P5R shows INO resisting those now so we gonna go with that....because that makes more sense (it makes sense for them to resist Psy and Nuke because they resist all elemental damage but since those didn’t exist, you could assume they could resist it cause it falls under elemental damage...but PQ2 fudges it up for some reason XP), I mean P5R also made him more of a beast since it seems like INO resists Phys too but I won’t include that. I mean if you wanna say he can be hit by Nuke fine, one more thing INO can be hit with....BUT INO also has a ult attack and Satanael doesn’t. Which, while Satanael and INO could be going toe to toe for awhile, INO might be able to deliver the final blow that Satanael can’t.

Which leads into why....P4MC should win. He’s just shown he’s stronger in his stories. He wins because of his own power that made him stronger. P5MC doesn’t win via his own power. He wins because he receives outside help more often than not (which isn’t bad, I’m not saying having help is bad, but in a hypothetical 1v1....it doesn’t bode well for him). Against Yaldy he got a freaking buff from the cognitive world....A TEMP BUFF MIND YOU! THANKS TO COGNITION! It’s such BS! Yes, P3/4MC they received their power because of their bonds, their connections, MC’s are their friends’ power as much as they are power for the MC’s. P3/4MC could only get that strong because of their friends. It’s because of their own effort and will to protect the ones they care about is the reason they win......P5MC it’s because of the public cheering for them for like 5 min for a temp buff cause of cognition (and it def doesn’t continue to last cause of how the meter goes down to 50% later irl). Even with cognition on P5MC’s side, it’s probably not a whole lot to actually do anything beneficial for him like with Yaldy. P3/4 is about power of friendship and relationships. P5 is about the power of convenience and plot devices. Buncha bullshit that he gets handed the World Arcana like that, not even his own power saved the world (he doesn’t even have a World Arcana Persona! No one ever talks about that what’s P5MC’s World Persona?! P4 has INO, P3 has a finger 8U What’s P5′s????)

There’s also the fact P4MC can use Myriads of Truth outside of Izanami, and it can hurt people outside of her too (we know this thanks to Arena). Satanael can’t use his Sinful Shell (at least at this point in time, watch Atlus jk my post when Arena 3 comes out, I’m already prepared for it >8V I bet Atlus’ reason won’t even make sense because->) because it’s only used in the 100% cognition scene! Satanael can only be that powerful and can only use that move thanks to cognition! But you see, P4MC is Mr. Bond Master, he’s strong cause of his bonds, every handshake with a new person=him getting more powerful (half jk). 8U But this drive also shows that even if he loses a fight, he gets right back up because he wants to protect his friends (as seen post-Liz fight in Liz’s route in Arena). Like this is a big thing P4MC has that I think people overlook, this bastard has A LOT of willpower. Whenever that word is brought up, only Tatsuya (you know defying time and reality to keep his memories) and P3MCs (staying alive for like two months to keep their promise) are ever mentioned (and don’t get me wrong, those are amazing feats too! All three/four, FeMC/P3MC are technically two people, of these people deserve the top 3 will power spot), but gd P4MC has it too. After getting his ass handed to him by Liz, he got right back up and was like “round two!” and power starts to flow through him that it takes Liz aback! Or his most amazing feat, coming back from the freaking underworld (aka basically death), just will his ass right back in front of Izanami and then Izanami is unable to freaking kill him (he hangs onto 1 HP like a boss, hell if he can do this against P3MC it’s possible for him to even come out on top of that fight). Izanami literally says “can the will of so few surpass that of all mankind?!” His (and IT’s) determination is one that surpasses all of mankind! Compare that to P5MC, who defeated Yaldy because of his bond with his CoOps-oh wait no it’s cause of a BS temp power buff the public gave him my mistake. P3/4: “We know what’s best for mankind! And it’s not freaking death! Our will power will surpass mankind!” P5: “Y-yeah same! But we’re gonna not succeed on our own and get bailed out by the public, only for them to half revert back to their same old ways despite....changing for us for a hot second...wait what?”

P4MC (depending on where in the timeline we have him and P5MC facing off), he’s had more experience too. Not only has he beaten 7ish gods/god avatars (to P5MC’s.......looking at all the P5 entries and without spoilers....possibly 3ish/4ish gods/godly avatars/god level stuff), he’s also faced off with 2 robots and what is basically a super soldier (aka Sho), he’s also fought against a lot of SEES who are seasoned fighters and had ult personas vs his initial persona (and won in some cases, or held his own A LOT, depends on the timeline/route). Oh and has fought more VR people/the VR people more times (P4/G, PQ1, PQ2, and...maybe Arena/Ultimax depends on the route). While P5 is catching up (kinda, we aren’t comparing how a lot of those final battles were won with the final blow), P4MC still has the most experience.

The only way P5MC can win if it’s 1V4+, P5MC has access to the VR and can use multiple Personas and P4MC can’t, P5MC has 100% cognition on (not possible, and would be a real ass pull), P4MC is crippled beyond belief (even then I’d still expect him to win cause he doesn’t give up).

So yeah. P4MC has more willpower, his Personas seem to have an advantage (either elemental advantage with initial, or stat+final blow for Ult), and doesn’t get up/gets right back up after a beating (so even if P5MC gets P4MC down to 0 hp, its possible P4MC will get right back up without the need of a skill like P5MC).

That being said I need to reevaluate some stuff with Royal. I still think P4MC is stronger tho (but I think P3MCs are the strongest, that being said P4/5MC haven’t been put in a situation where they need to die to protect everyone, aka get the universe arcana, so I wouldn’t 100% count them out because I think P4/5MC have the potential to go as far as the P3MCs if need be...well....def P4MC.....not sure about P5MC he still needs to prove himself imo).

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imagine-darksiders · 5 years

Note

Ok, human get so much shit in Darksiders and are considered a ‘violent’ species but look at angels and demon and Nephilims who all they do is fight. So I vote for a hc where the horsemen’s human tells of on an Angel for calling their race violent and human pretty much lists off all the wars since literally he dawn of time and ends with this “I recommend you check your facts before spewing anymore bullshit from your ignorant mouth. Humans are violent? sounds very hypocritical to me.”

“Ugh. They are so primitive,” the angel drawled loudly enough to garner the attention of the barracks. At first, it took a moment for you to realise he’d been referring to you, so you don’t even look up until the silence stretches on a little too long. The background ambience of the old warehouse peters out entirely, no more soft murmurs as the angels talk amongst themselves, nor any clanking of metal armour or footfalls on the concrete floor. The hastily-drawn map that you’ve been pouring over for the past twenty minutes lays sprawled out across Usiel’s war table but as the silence settles thickly over the room, you tear your gaze up from it, confused.

“Huh?” You blink, glancing around and suddenly finding several pairs of eyes trained on you, the most hateful of which belong to a helmless angel with wings of a vivid, electric blue. His skin is almost as pale as the hair on top of his head, and two milky white irises barely stand out at all against the rest of his face but you can tell without a doubt that they’re pointed at you.

You’re about to ask if you could help him when a low growl comes from the larger, far more imposing angel standing beside you at the war table. “Manakel,” the angelic commander - Usiel - warns, his hard glare never straying from the map.

At his leader’s tone, ‘Manakel’ stiffens and after a moment’s deliberation, slinks away towards a row of book cases, haphazardly stacked with scrolls and tomes belonging to the Heavenly soldiers.

Shaking your head, you return your attention to the map. “Okay, so here -” You tap a finger against the rough outline of a large tree, penciled in by the hand of an angel to whom drawing is not his primary skill “- Is where I saw the bodies of your missing angels.... I’m...sorry, Usiel. I don’t think you can help them.” Peering sideways, you find the angel’s mouth is stretched into a grim line. A week ago, when you offered to help map the area surrounding his makeshift barracks, you hadn’t known you’d also be enlisted to find the angels’ fallen comrades too - those that had been unlucky and fell during the first assault. Death hadn’t been the end for them though, not by a long shot. They’d been twisted and warped into shadows of their formers selves, weapons made to serve the Destroyer and slay their own brethren.

You don’t mind the extra work, of course. After the end of the world, having at least something close to a purpose was a comfort, even if that purpose was grim in nature.

Just then, as you’re about to offer a meagre word of comfort to Usiel, you hear a heated scoff, and the hushed conversation that had been carrying on in the corner abruptly raises in volume thanks to a familiar voice boldly claiming, “Well if you ask me, this apocalypse only hastened the inevitable! Humanity was well on its way to destroying itself without Hell’s interference.”

There’s a moment of hesitation where you hear one of Manakel’s comrades urgently whisper something to him about keeping his voice down, but the loudmouthed angel doesn’t seem to care. If anything, when you drag your eyes up to look, you find him turning a contemptuous smirk your way. “Why should I? Are you worried the human might get violent? Ha!” he continues, laughing, “You needn’t worry, brother. For such a violent and vicious species, they’re only ever good at destroying themselves. Little more than impetuous savages, if you ask me... ”

Fingernails digging into the wooden table, you can feel your temper rising. This isn’t the first time you’ve overheard a member of another species voice such an opinion. At your side, you can feel as Usiel starts to bristle, the feathers all along his wings rustling like hundreds of leaves on a particularly angry tree. Before he can move or scold the soldier though, you decide that enough is enough and shove yourself up from the table, turning to face Manakel fully.

“Sorry, sorry to interrupt,” you snap, “But, uh, I’d just like to point something out.” Gesturing to him up and down, you let out an incredulous bark of laughter. “Like, you’re actually gonna stand there wearing full body armour, a sword on one hip and a halberd on the other, and tell me that my people are - are violent by nature?” You begin to trip over words, caught up in your indignation so you pause and take a steadying breath. “Haven’t you been at war with Hell for thousands of years?”

Apparently, the angel had expected you to suffer his insults in silence because as soon as you address him, he has the nerve to look surprised. “I....We -” Manakel falters, his eyes darting towards his commander as though he were expecting Usiel to take his side or at the very least tell you to stand down and shut up. But the imposing angel at your back has kept his eyes fixed to the map, an unreadable expression on his face. It would seem he’s happy to let you tackle this unruly recruit.

Deterred, but only slightly, Manakel reacts by puffing out his chest in an effort to intimidate you further. “The war with Hell is necessary. We fight for an honourable cause,” he spits triumphantly.

You give him the flattest look you can muster. “I’m not saying the ‘cause’ isn’t honourable, I’m saying its pretty rich of you to call humans savage when all you angels seem to want to do is pick a fight. Be it with me, the demons or even Fury! Now I don’t know about you, but that makes your people seem pretty violent to me.”

“That-” he sputters, aware that the eyes of his fellow angels are all trained on him now, “Is absurd! Just because some of us choose to fight, it does not make our entire species violent!”

The corners of your lips quirk up and you lean back on your haunches, drawling, “You don’t say?”

Immediately, he realises his mistake and tries to backtrack. “Well, now it - it is different with you humans! You’re wired differently to us! It’s in your very nature to be aggressive.”

“You hypocrite.” The angry growl leaves your throat before you can stop to think about the fact that you’re surrounded by dozens of battle-hardened angels who might take offence to a human getting uppity with them. “Are you really so far up your own arse you can’t see the skeletons in your own closet? You’re gonna judge us for the exact same damn thing you’re guilty of? Humans are not the only species who’ve been to war, Manakel. And last I checked, we’ve only be around for a fraction of the time angels have. How many wars has Heaven been involved in, hmm?”

Even the distance between you can’t hide how the warrior’s eyes suddenly flash wide open, taken aback. He hadn’t thought you’d give him this much resistance. As a last, ditch effort to regain some lost dignity, Manakel fixes his attention on Usiel and whines, “Sir! Are we to take this insolence lying down?”

Cooly, the commander takes a step sideways, bringing him closer to you and showing his soldier that he stands with you in this. “The only insolence I’m hearing is coming from you. Now, instead of continuing to disrupt my meeting with the human, perhaps you could make yourself useful and sort those into some kind of order.” Raising a hand, he points across the warehouse at a hugely disorganised pile of books and parchment scattered over several tables that are tucked away in a corner.

Manakel looks aghast and you can honestly understand why.

“With all due respect, Sir,” he says, “I am a warrior, not a scholar.”

Usiel’s metal gloves creak as he clenches his fists tightly and leans against the table, balancing on his knuckles. All he has to do is shoot Manakel a look that promises an even worse task and the smaller angel hesitates, glances around to his fellows and finds several of them smirking at him before he beats a hasty retreat, tail tucked between his proverbial legs.

“Hmph, I must apologise,” Usiel murmurs once the atmosphere returns to its regular hum drum and bustle, “I would have stepped in but you were handling him fairly well.”

You shrug a shoulder. “It’s cool. Not your fault. I just...wanted to point out the irony in what he was saying.”

“And a good thing too,” the commander agrees with a hearty chuckle, “Why, I imagine he’ll be feeling that sting for weeks. It isn’t every day a proud angel is cowed so thoroughly by a little human.”

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thecleverdame · 5 years

Text

East Of Nowhere - Year Five

Sam x Reader

Series Masterlist

Summary: You and Sam are strangers trapped in a desolate mountain town where you live alone, isolated from the outside world, for five years.

Warnings: language, violence, smut, talk of past trauma

Beta: ilikaicalie

This story is complete (44k) and available now on Patreon for a pledge of 2.50. >>CLICK HERE<<

Four Years, Six Weeks

Sometimes you stand naked in from the full length mirror in the bathroom and look at the shiny pink scar on your stomach that bears a stunning similarity to a washed up fish bone. Running the pads of your fingers over the raised skin you think about Sam, as if you’re rubbing a locket that reminds you of his unwavering love. A different version of yourself would be bothered by it, the tough, mangled flesh that healed without concern for aesthetics. But you feel grateful for Sam and, in a strange way, appreciative that Shadow Hill exists.

You’re lucky to be alive, this is your daily reminder.

Four years, Two Months

It’s mid-morning when you finally drag yourself out of bed and meander downstairs. There’s coffee in the pot and bagels on the counter. Sam’s seated at the table still in his pajamas, bent over a copy of The World Hardest Crosswords Puzzles, Volume 7.

“Morning,” you greet him, casually reaching out and touching his shoulder as you pass by.

“Mornin’,” he responds without looking up, his tongue pressed between his lips in complete concentration.

“You making any progress?” He’s been stuck for two days.

“What?” he asks, utterly indifferent to clarification.

“Nevermind,” you pour yourself a cup of coffee, tugging open the refrigerator in search of milk. You’re normally a ‘black-cuppa-joe’ girl, but every once in awhile, you treat yourself to milk and sugar. You watch him as you stir your coffee, unable to keep from smiling at the sight of his wild bed head. Cupping the mug in both hands, you take a sip and gag as the rancid taste hits your tongue. Turning to the sink you spit it out, then stick your entire mouth under the faucet as you rinse the taste away.

“What the hell?” Sam looks borderline irritated that you’re interrupting his progress.

“The milk’s bad,” you say it before you realize the meaning behind it. Sam looks at you cockeyed and gets up from his chair.

“That’s impossible,” he picks up the milk jugs and smells it before taking a sip himself. “Oh my God,” he gags, pushing you aside gently to spit into the sink.

“See?” you raise an eyebrow, vindicated.

He pours himself a glass of water, resting his butt on the counter. “It’s probably just a glitch. I mean some things stay where we put them, so maybe a couple of wires crossed somewhere.”

“Maybe,” you’re not unagreeable. Stranger things have happened before, never with the food, but there’s a first time for everything. So the next day, when there’s fresh milk magically waiting, you don’t give it too much thought.

Four Years, Three Months

“Do I look older to you?” You stop in front of the mirror in the dining room, patting at the corner of your eye.

Sam wanders up behind you, looking at both your reflections. “You look beautiful.”

You smile, tipping your head to the side as you examine small wrinkles. “Thank you, but I wasn’t fishing for compliments. I mean it, do you think I’ve aged since we’ve been here?”

Sam thinks about it, stepping close and inspecting his own skin. “I don’t know. I can’t tell a difference. Do I look older?”

You turn to him, running your finger along his hairline, then down the side of his jaw. “No,” you confirm, “not a day.”

Four Years, Four Months

Sam looks back to make sure you’re still behind him and picks up his pace, racing up the steep hill that leads to the library. He loves mornings like this, late fall when the air is chilly before the first snow. The cold air stings his lungs, but it feels good to push past it and get his blood pumping. He knows you can’t quite keep up, but he’ll circle back for you, right now he just wants to move faster, pushing beyond invisible barriers. By the time he’s at the top of the hill, the muscles of his legs are burning just the same as his lungs.

He jogs in place catching his breath and tipping his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. On days like today, he wakes up with the energy to do something new. He’ll settle for any-fucking-thing because the days are a mind-numbing repeat of the weeks and months before. He just wants something to take his mind off the thoughts that play on repeat in his brain. It’s a never-ending loop of worry and fruitless anxiety that picks at his insides until he wants to cut himself open for surgical removal.

He wants to hunt, to have a mystery he can solve because the one he’s trapped in has beaten him ten times over. He wants to take you on a fucking date, go to a restaurant and have a stranger take your order. He wants to take you to the cabin on Astor Lake that Bobby took him and Dean to when they were kids. He wants to go to the bar with Dean, drink too much, and get into a fight over the pool table. He wants to be more than Shadow Hill will allow, so instead, he runs as fast and far as he can.

“You’re killing me long legs,” you pant, trotting up behind him. That voice, your voice, somehow makes it bearable. He turns, watching with amusement as you lean over with both hands on your thighs, gasping for air. Your cheeks are bright red, hair stuck to your sweaty forehead. He can’t imagine loving anything more he loves you, just like this; exasperated, but determined.

“You wanna head back?” he chuckles, putting a hand on your shoulder.

“Never,” you gulp, standing up straight, “I will not be defeated.”

“I’ll slow down a little, give you a fighting chance,” he takes your hand and pulls you across the lawn toward one of the dirt paths that lead through the tree line.

He takes it slow, running side-by-side down the winding path, determined to enjoy the parts of this life that are good, and there actually is a lot of good. There’s immense comfort in the sound of your footfalls and labored breath beside him.

The tree that catches his attention isn’t far from the house, it’s just of the edge of the housing development. He slows and you fall beside him, “Hey, look at that.”

Wandering over to the old oak tree, it takes you a moment to see what he sees. All the trees are a shell of their summer selves, naked and stripped of leaves, nothing but raw, boney branches stretching toward the sky, but this one is different.

“It’s dying,” you mutter reaching out to touch the bark, peeling it away from the hollow wood underneath. “Sam, I’ve never seen anything here die. Not like this.”

Four Years, Five Months

“Sam,” you whine, wiggling under the full weight of his body. He’s not sure he will ever get used to the way you say his name, especially like this. What brief slivers of pleasure he’s had throughout his life never came close to the way he feels when he’s with you, naked on a sunny afternoon.

It feels like every inch of his skin is touching yours; his lips on your lips, his chest pressing against your warm, soft breasts. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, thighs squeezing either side of his hips as he rocks slow and steady on top and inside you. He reaches back hitching your leg higher around his hip, adjusting the angle just a little, but it’s enough to make you moan, clenching his cock with fluttering muscles.

Part of him wants to reach down and suck a nipple into his mouth, he does love sucking your tits while he fucks you, but there’s just something about the closeness of this moment that he hesitates to interrupt.

He likes to watch you, loves the way your mouth falls open as your head thrashes from side to side. You furrow your brow in pleasure as your fingernails dig into the flesh of his biceps, pulling him closer, urging harder. When you’re laid out like this with him grinding into you, he doesn’t even need to touch your clit to make you come. The slow, firm slide of his pubic hair over your sex does the same work his fingers normally do.

You come with his name on your lips. Sam follows soon after, spilling into you with his face pressed into your neck.

Neither of you knows it yet, but this moment will alter your future in a most profound way.

Four Years, Five Months, Three Weeks

The timing of your birth control pills is something you don’t play around with. There’s an alarm in the spare bedroom that goes off every morning at 10 a.m. sharp, screeching through the whole house until you run upstairs, tap the ‘off’ button and slip into the bathroom to swallow your daily dose.

Today is nothing special, you slap the clock radio silent and pop open the pink pack of pills. It’s the second day of your sugar pill, which means you’ll start bleeding by tomorrow morning. You gulp down the medication and smooth a panty liner into your underwear.

It’s the next morning before you realize your period is late. It’s still early when you blink awake, still tired and sweating because Sam’s wrapped around you in a tangle of arms and legs. He’s like a furnace, skin running hot even after he’s kicked the sheet off his side of the bed.

You squirm out of his grasp, slipping from the bed. He catches your hand, asking without opening his eyes, “Where you going?”

“I have to pee.” Yawning, you meander half asleep to the bathroom. Without checking, you grab a tampon from the drawer before sitting on the toilet. It’s then that you realize: there’s no blood.

Your menstrual cycle is normally like clockwork, so this should send up a warning sign, but you were late once before so you chalk it up to nothing and assume it’ll come tomorrow.

Tomorrow turns into two days, and two days turn into a week. It’s real.

You take three tests, line them up on the sink and set the egg timer. You sit on the edge of the tub, legs bouncing with anticipation as the seconds tick by agonizingly slow. You haven’t felt strange, no nausea or dizziness, but you wouldn’t, not this early.

You’ve been trying to convince yourself there’s another reason for Aunt Flo’s sudden departure, but in your heart you know before you even look at the three positives looking back at you in happy pink letters.

Your heart drops to your stomach.

---

Sam’s gutting a series of two way radios; wires and circuit boards littered over the living room floor. He wants to figure out how to boost the strength of the signal, so they’ll work at opposite ends of town.

Squinting down at the diagram in ‘The Ham Radio Electrician’s Guide,’ he thinks he might need glasses. He hears you pad down the stairs, the soft rustle of bare feet on the carpet. He’s about to ask where you’ve been all morning until he hears you sniffle.

You’re crying.

His chest is tight, fear rising from his gut to his heart. “What’s wrong, baby?”

He stands and you stop walking in the middle of the room, taking a deep breath of courage. There’s no point in trying to hide it, you don’t hide things from each other, not here. “I’m pregnant.”

Sam’s face falls slack as the words make their way from his ears to his brain, forming the thought: pregnant.

“What?” he stutters. “How? I mean, are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m late and I took a test, more than one.” You wait for him to respond feeling lost in the center of the living room.

“I, um, I don’t know what to say.” He’s hard to read, expressionless, and stationary as you take a step closer.

“Not the best news, huh?” you confirm with a sad grunt.

Sam takes your hands into his, looking you head on. He doesn’t want there to any miscommunication. “I love the idea of having a baby with you, hell, I want to have fifty kids with you...just not here. I don’t know a goddamn thing about childbirth, something could happen.”

Sam can tell himself all the lies he wants, but somewhere deep down he knows this is the only place he could ever be a father. Back in the normal world, he would never bring a child into this life. His whole existence has been a careful dance to stay alive and adding a baby to the mix would be just about the most selfish thing he could ever do. If this was ever going to happen, Shadow Hill is the only place it had the opportunity to come to fruition.

“I can do this.”

“And what if you can’t? I’m not a doctor.”

“You don’t think I know that? Sam, women have been having babies for thousands of years without doctor and hospitals.”

“So, we’re just going to roll the dice?”

“What else is there? Do you want to get rid of it?”

“No, I don’t know...” he rubs his lips together, his heart breaking from the way you’re looking at him. He pulls you to him, closing his eyes and holding you tight, his heart beating out of his chest. “No, of course not.”

“I know that we-” you’re stopped as an uncontrolled sob tears from your throat and your voice leaves you.

“Don’t cry baby.” Sam squeezes you tight, one arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head.

“I don’t,” you gulp, pressing your face into this chest, “I don’t want you to hate this baby.”

“Y/N,” he sighs, pulling your head back so you can look at him. “I could never hate something that we...created. I just don’t want to lose you.”

It’ll take him a while, but he’ll find a way to temper the dread with joy. He’ll grow into the idea of having a little one and start preparing for the day when he’ll need to add ‘midwife’ to his ever growing list of talents.

Four Years, Eight Months, Three Weeks

There’s a part of Sam is truly excited about the prospect of being a father. When he was in college and with Jess, he could imagine what it would be like: he’d be a lawyer, she’d work in a gallery or teach in an elementary school, they’d live in a suburb, and try to start a family once they’d been married for a few years. They talked about it, how many kids they wanted, what they would name them.

Sam’s dream of an all-American family died along with Jess. He never imagined that in his thirties, he’d be given the opportunity. It’s not what the younger version of himself imagined, but what truly is?

He’s sprawled out in the bedroom across the hall from the one you share together, surrounded by the parts of a crib, each section laid out neatly. He promised he’d have it done by tonight, but he’s no longer so confident. He’s solved a lot of puzzles in his life, but the instructions for this particular item of furniture appear to have been written by someone with a questionable grasp on the English language.

You’re only four months along, but showing, just a little but really showing, the bump he not-so-subtly sneaks peeks at when you’re changing or standing naked in the shower. Now, your stomach is rounded out, a perfect little globe, nestled in your midsection. There are little things about this child that makes his heart flutter, mundane details that end up replaying in his head. He likes the way your shirts stretch over your stomach, the material barely roomy enough to do the job. He loves the way you look when he fucks you, a surge of caveman pride stirring in his gut at the thought of you carrying his child. Mostly, he enjoys the idea that you’re going to be the mother of his child, that the two of you created life. He thinks it must be fate; must be written in the stars. He tells himself that fact when he can’t stop thinking about all the things that might go sideways.

There’s no way the series of events that led to this is at all random.

Four Years, Nine Months

You wake up nude.

It’s not unheard of, there are plenty of nights you fall asleep naked after being thoroughly worn out from Sam being between your legs. There’s always the intention of peeling yourself away from him to find something to sleep in, most of the time it doesn’t happen.

As you blink awake, it’s clear what woke you, you’re freezing. There’s only a sheet pulled up to your waist and your nipples are rock hard, a fully exposed barometer. You can feel Sam behind you, an arm heavy over the edge of your hip. You wiggle back into him, finding the curve of his body as your back meets his broad chest, round ass cheeks pressing into his warm, soft cock.

“Mornin’,” he mutters, sliding a hand over the curve of your stomach, flexing his bicep, squeezing you even closer.

“I don’t want to wake up yet.” Grumbling you press your face into the pillow. His hand starts to travel south from your belly, but stops short, moving back up to cup your breast.

“You’re freezing.” His mouth is at the back of your head, a smile in his voice as he rolls a nipple between his thumb and index finger.

It’s going to be one of those mornings.

“That’s why I have you.” You run your hand over his arm, covering his much larger hand where he’s kneading your breast. “That feels good, don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Sam places a kiss on your shoulder, then another and another as a chill runs down your spine. You run your fingers over his, encouraging him to squeeze harder, it might be lazy morning sex, but today, you don’t mind it a little rough.

His hand slides down, this time all the way to your sex, wiggling his middle finger between soft flesh. He makes slow circles around your clit with just the pad of his finger.

He’s erect now, pushing forward into your ass, just enough to ease the tension. You reach behind you, snaking a hand between your bodies and wrap a hand around his cock. You both come like this, you writhing on your side and Sam spurting warm and wet on the small of your back.

After you both come down and clean up, you open the dresser drawer in search of underwear and clean clothes, but much to your surprise the dresser is empty. Before calling for Sam, you open the closet to find two shirts hanging on the rack. One is Sam’s, the other yours, the clothes you woke up in when you first came to Shadow Hill.

Every subsequent morning you’ll wake up to a guessing game of what’s missing from the house, some mornings its clothes, other times toothpaste or canned goods. This reality is an analog station whose frequency is half-static as it tries to retune itself.

Four Years, Eleven Months, One Week

One thing is clear, this world is falling apart. What were once glitches and inconsistencies are now full-fledged issues that you find yourself combating on a daily basis.

“Sam!” You yell for him from the bottom of the stairs. The larger your belly gets the more you let him to come to you.

“What’s wrong?” His head pops around the corner at the top of the second floor hallway.

You really don’t want to tell him, he’s got enough to worry about, he doesn’t need something else, but there’s no way around this. “All the food, is, um...bad.”

“What do you mean?” he bounces down the steps.

“It’s spoiled.” You offer, letting him pass you, then following him to the kitchen.

“What’s spoiled? It’s probably just…” his voice trails off as he opens the refrigerator and finds shelves of molding, decaying fruits and vegetables. “Shit.”

“It’s everything, the bread, too.” Sam believes you, but still grabs the loaf off the counter. There’s green mold pressed against the clear plastic packaging.

“It’s okay,” Sam shrugs, his mouth fighting a grimace. “Lets just go into town, see what’s going on at Tolliver's. You alright to walk? ”

“Sure,” you nod. “Might as well go now.” You make sure to stay active, walking several miles every day so fitting this situation into your daily routine feels somewhat reassuring.

Sam has to pace himself, walking slow enough that you’re able to keep up as you meander down the street. He holds your hand, his vice like grip betraying his nerves. He might be pretending to play it cool, but inside, he’s on the verge of panic.

Once you arrive at Tolliver’s, you discover moldy fruit and soured milk. After popping open a couple of cans, Sam sighs with relief. At least the items with a longer shelf life are still edible. He fills his backpack and you make the journey back to the house. That evening you feast on a dinner of baked beans and canned chicken.

“I’m sure we’ll wake up tomorrow and it’ll all be back to normal,” he assures you.

Sam’s wrong. The next day, and every day after, you’ll eat food from a jar. The easy days are over and the challenges that lie ahead will be the toughest you’ve experienced so far.

Four Years, Eleven Months, Two Weeks

The summer has been unseasonably hot. The four previous years brought favorable temperatures, never anything this extreme. By noon everyday, the gauge on the porch reads the outside temperature to be hovering close to 100°F. A heat wave like this, coupled with your pregnancy, means you relegated to the house and the air conditioning.

Once the sun goes down, you mill around the yard and try to save your dying garden, but for the most part, you spend your days reading baby books and trying to wrap your head around the fact that you’re going to give birth in a ghost town.

It’s mid-afternoon when you lay down to take a nap on the couch. Sam’s gone on a trip to the library with your wish-list of literature along with few of his own. You’re not sure how long you’re asleep, but when you wake up it’s incredibly uncomfortable. You smack dry lips together and sit up as sweat rolls down your forehead and into your eyes.

“Oh God,” you groan rocking to stand up off the couch. Your shirt is stuck to your chest, sweat stains soaking through. You pad to the thermostat to check the temperature but the small screen is blank. “Wonderful.”

In the small bathroom off the living room, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your face is bright red, cheeks looking like ripe peaches. You strip right then and there, taking a cold shower. Once you’re done, feeling more like a normal person, you pull a clean tank top and pair of panties from the dryer, it’s about all you can stand to wear.

An hour later, Sam walks the through the front door, drenched in sweat from his bike ride, expecting a blast of arctic air, only to be met with your sweltering home. He drops his backpack to the floor and kicks off his shoes. “Y/N?”

“I’m in here.” Sam finds you at the dining room table in your underwear with a glass of ice water, situated in front of a box fan you pulled from the storage closet.

“What happened?” He asks taking the glass of water you offer.

“I don’t know, it’s just not working.”

Four Years, Eleven Months, Three Weeks, Six Days

There’s a “boom!” right outside your bedroom window that jolts both of you awake. Sam’s out of bed before you even sit up, pulling back the curtain to look at the yard. You don’t realize it at first, but there’s a glow on his face from something lit up outside. You blink, watching his eyes widen and mouth fall slack.

“Holy fuck.” He’s staring in awe at whatever scene is unfolding before him.

“Sam, what’s wrong?” It takes you two tries before you successfully swing your feet over the side of the bed and walk to him. You pull back the other side of the curtain and your heart nearly stops. It looks like a scene from an apocalyptic movie. There’s a hole in the roof of the garage across the street and it’s on fire. What appears to be fiery debris is raining down all over the lawn, a million tiny embers falling from the night sky. You don’t say anything, you just stand next to him as another giant rock, the size of a car, falls from somewhere above and makes a crater in the middle of the road, just down the street from your house. “What do we do?”

“We get ready,” Sam looks at you, his face expressionless.

Five Years

“We’re gonna die,” you whisper, tucked under Sam’s arm sitting on the front steps of your house. You both should probably be inside taking cover in the basement, but it seems futile. There’s fire raining down around you, a world ablaze as it self destructs in one final, glorious crescendo.

“I’ll be with you when it happens,” he pulls you tighter to his side, closing his eyes as tears roll down his cheeks. The arm around your shoulders pulls your head to his chest, his other hand resting on your stomach, covering his unborn child.

The roof of the house across the street collapses when it’s hit with what looks like an asteroid. This is biblical: fire from the heavens.

“I’m scared Sam,” you lift your head to look at him, “I’m not ready.”

“I know,” he wants to tell you he’s scared too, he wants to scream and beg and lose his damn mind with grief and panic. But, he can’t do that to you, you need him now more than ever. “I didn’t think it was going to end like this.”

“What? Death from above?” you laugh, half crazed, wiping your wet face.

“Well that, too...I always thought I’d die saving someone, on a hunt with Dean. But, this is better.”

“How could this possibly be better?”

“I’m a father and husband. I have you. It could be a lot worse.” His voice cracks at the end as he cries. You pull him to you, grasping each other.

The ground shakes and the sky rapidly turns black, inky clouds swirling overhead. There’s a deafening sound, like the universe is tearing in half. You both know: this is it. Sam takes your face between his hands, kisses your lips softly, “Just look at me.”

You look into his eyes, shaking in fear. “I love you, Sam.”

His mouth twists in agony, blinking out final tears as he says “I love y-”

He’s gone.

The hands holding you are suddenly absent. You blink and he vanishes.

“Sam!” You scream at the top of your lungs, frantic as you call for him. “Sam!”

You scramble to your feet ready to run, to find him, but you don’t know where, you don’t know what to do. The panic overtakes you completely, clasping at your chest trying to breathe. The child inside you, in just as much distress, kicks the inside of your stomach. You gasp, what will be your last breath in Shadow Hill whispering, “I don’t want to die alone.”

Everything fades away and suddenly your world is black, void, and nothingness.

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#East of nowhere #series #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fanfic

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