#as nothing more than a vessel to be cut into and split apart

[multi-lefaiye]

puts eden in my mouth and shakes him back and forth like a rabid dog

(art by my fiance @skitzo-kero <3)

#multi makes text posts #incomprehensible tags -> #bg3 eden is a combination of the normal tav storyline and the dark urge #he was a necromancer who was killed by his own creation. then he was revived. given a second chance. #but not for his actual skills as a mage or his intelligence. but to be an experiment for the necromancers who would form the absolute #they picked his brain for knowledge (quite literally) and then cast him aside #as nothing more than a vessel to be cut into and split apart #dehumanized in a very real sense of the word #and then they decided to discard him. wiped his memories. threw him out once he'd served his purpose #he wakes up in the nautiloid. a blank slate. but with something hanging over him #blood in his mouth and cobwebs in his brain #a tattered notebook in his bag full of the ramblings of a stranger (himself) #he has no choice but to live. to take another step and find who he is #but he has a feeling he won't like the answers to his questions #<- full of thoughts

[itty-bitty-sunshine]

Warnings: Bombs, death, blood, gore, suffering, idk a shit ton of organ failure?, emotional distress, destruction, ahem "toasted alive", graphic descriptions of wounds (Definetly missed some shit.)

Just stay safe guys, this is a story of self love :)

Prescript: this is the reincarnation au of the immortality au, but slightly tweaked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They barely hear the sirens blaring, before screeches and cries fill the air. They don't see it coming through the fluffy bangs they brushed this morning. They feel the impact for a split second before searing pain envelopes them. It burns their flesh entirely in a brilliant flash. Bones melting mere milliseconds after the flesh is incinerated. There is no time to react.

Heh this is new, who would have thought an immortal could run out of time?

how ironic.

they were infact a long distance from where the atomic bomb hit. The nuclear explosion carried quickly across the land. The few seconds Perkeo had were a millennium to the poor souls trapped beneath the blast. They managed to atleast heard the blare of the warning sirens first, no matter how fleeting that moment was. Their entire being had shut down, but death was nothing new to them. Though they had never been this destroyed.

they physically couldn't feel the way their remaining ashes, but their soul was ablaze. Just as their physical for was. The soul was desperate for a body to host, to rebuild itself. The immortal spirit never abiding by Perkeos wishes. The soul needed to be physical. It could never let go of the firm grasp it has on reality. Determined to live it wrenches its form back together. Ashes pulling together, just like that of a star.

Oh how fitting.

the strain put on the life form didn't deter it. As it painstakingly compressed itself back into a charred pile of dust. The dead cells begin to regenerate through unfounded energy. The spirit pouring all of the power in its inate being into producing some for of life. And piece by piece Perkeo was put back together. Wretchedly slow and gruesome, as it grows for a second time. This rebirth was different, it took more than life from Perkeo. The repair ripped their soul apart.

A rip in their eternal being.

it cut further than any knife, deeper than any sword. This was them. the true them. Not the body they were bound to. Their spirit within.

Perkeo awoke. In a desolate area. Repeatedly dying from organ failure, and misplaced insides. The fix was so desperate, it wasn't even sustainable. Once it rebuilt itself further, Perkeo would wake. Dying to the toxicity and lack of oxygen. No one came to the waste land in hope of survivors. They couldn't without becoming a casualty themselves. So Perkeo waited. And waited. And waited. Days turned to weeks, to months, to years, to decades, to centuries. Before the nuclear waste had eroded into something more livable. Perkeo awoke, unsure of this being real.

This was a first. They always knew they were real, usually they are the only static thing in the universe.

Perkeo barely opens their eyes to see the wreckage. Though it was more "liveable", that doesn't mean it was pretty. Gritty sand surrounding them. It took them too long to get their bearings. Dying from the shock a multitude of times after it set in. Once they knew what had happened.

they couldn't cry, they couldn't think, they just waited for death to take them. Only for it to return them with shaky palms. Unable to claim this defiant soul.

(So this is meant to end with Perkeo missing some of their ashes and gaining the ashes of many other bodies in their reincarnation. Something which hasn't occurred before, and it leads to this emptiness in them. They aren't whole. And they never can be again. something is innately wrong with this vessel now. Something not even fate nor immortality can fix.)

(The whole "tearing of their soul" was meant to become the sun and moon. In a twist of fate, even though their body can't be whole. The pieces of their soul come together over many lives. Always reconnecting on some level. Even I'd it can't be pieced back together, it can be content with their newfound proximity. They can always find eachother, even without searching, without knowing. Because they are all one. This is why they are perfect for eachother. Pieces of a puzzle torn into a shape where they can't mesh together, but still one image. Always belonging to one another. They weren't built for eachother with strings of fate bringing them together, they are eachother. They depend on eachother to function. Like a body with different systems. Like a brain with different sections. They must come together to fix eachothers needs of longing. Sure they are all technically one, but now that they are split they can take care of eachother. They don't have to rely on themselves, Perkeos existence and health became meaningless due to its endlessness. But now they aren't lonely, they have two other immortals. Parts of their soul able to help them, to stay by their side, to never leave, to never die. They love them with all of their being, even if it's just the things of their past self. Huh maybe that's why perkeo likes them so much. It's what they are now missing.)

Strangely the explosion may be the best thing that has ever happened to our dear perky,

After all,

They won't ever face anything alone again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Told ya it was about self love ;)

This is all noncannon, just me going insane.

If your seeing this it is a reminder to take a break. Eat. Sleep. Drink. Get up and move. Have a great day <3

I'm sorry but im just losing my crap laughing over the faz-ton of warnings and then " this is a story of self love tho 🫶 "

I read this a million times before and I have fun rereading it a million more

I have the softest of the spots for self love and how it projects on the way you love the world and the people around you

Everyone a round of applause to Suki who yet again graces us with chaos pain and suffering but this time with a twist of sugar sprinkled on top

And you heard her, break time!

#i love you #i love you i love you i love you #immortal au #immortal au writing #reincarnation au? #✨️: suki writing #cw gore #cw bombs #cw organs #cw death #graphic descriptions of wounds #cw blood #angst

[warningsine]

Nothing appears remarkable about a dish of fresh ravioli made with solein. It looks and tastes the same as normal pasta.

But the origins of the proteins which give it its full-bodied flavour are extraordinary: they come from Europe’s first factory dedicated to making human food from electricity and air.

The factory’s owner, Solar Foods, has started production at a site in Vantaa, near the Finnish capital of Helsinki, that will be able to produce 160 tonnes of food a year. It follows several years of experimenting at lab scale.

Solar Foods has already gained novel food approval for solein in Singapore, and is seeking to introduce its products in the US this autumn, followed by the EU by the end of 2025 – and the UK too, if the regulator can get through the deluge of cannabis-related products.

The factory’s output may be small in terms of the global food industry, but Pasi Vainikka, the Solar Foods co-founder and chief executive, hopes that proving its technology works will be a crucial step in revolutionising what humans eat.

Food and agriculture is responsible for about a quarter of all planet-heating carbon emissions. Its share of pollution is likely to grow as other industries shift to using green electricity, and ever-expanding middle-classes demand more meat for their tables. Up to now the focus for some climate campaigners has been to try to persuade people to eat less meat and more plants. Non-farmed proteins such as solein might make that approach more appealing.

Solein comes in the form of a yellowish powder made up of single-cell organisms, similar to yeast used in baking or beer-making. The company is hoping for those proteins to be used in meat alternatives, cheese and milkshakes, and as an egg replacement ingredient in noodles, pasta and mayonnaise.

The ravioli it served up this week was made with solein replacing egg, with a solein version of cream cheese. The Finnish confectioner Fazer has already sold chocolate bars in Singapore with added solein (which is also a handy source of iron for vegans). A Singaporean restaurant last year created a solein chocolate gelato, replacing dairy milk.

Vainikka was researching renewable energy systems at a Finnish research institute in 2014 when he met his co-founder, Juha-Pekka Pitkänen, a bioprocesses scientist. Pitkänen told him of soil-dwelling microbes that release the energy they need to live from oxidising hydrogen (rather than the glucose used by humans, for instance).

Together they built a 200-litre fermenter in a garage near Helsinki, to prove the technology could be used for food, but then went into the wild “finding new potatoes to grow”. All Vainikka will say on solein’s origins is that they found it somewhere “close to shore” in the Baltic Sea.

Almost all food consumed by humans at the moment ultimately comes from plants, which use energy from the sun for photosynthesis. That process converts carbon dioxide and water into the molecules they need to grow. Solar Foods instead uses the same renewable electricity from the sun to split water apart. It then feeds the hydrogen and oxygen to the microbes in a brewing vessel, plus carbon dioxide captured from the air from the company’s office ventilation system.

The claim that the proteins are made out of thin air is “never more than 95% true”, says Vainnika: 5% of the mixture in the brewing vessel is a solution containing other minerals needed by cells, such as iron, magnesium, calcium and phosphorus. The microbes are then pasteurised (killing them), then dried in a centrifuge and with hot air. That leaves a powder that can be used in food.

The process could also use CO2 from, for instance, burning fuels – although the molecule would end up back in the atmosphere once humans eat the solein and breathe out the carbon again. The real climate benefits from solein come from cutting the vast tracts of land used – and abused through deforestation on an epic scale – for animal feed and pasture. Instead, renewed forests could trap carbon.

Efficient US farmers get 3.3 tonnes of soya beans from each harvest of a hectare, according to the UN’s Food and Agriculture Organization. By contrast, Solar Foods’ pilot factory takes up a fifth of a hectare to produce 160 tonnes a year.

“As we can relieve pressures on agricultural land, they can rewild and return to being climate sinks,” Vainikka says.

Other companies are pursuing the same dream. Dozens are using microbes to create animal feed, although they often require sugars or fossil fuel feedstocks. One US rival, Air Protein, has opened a factory in California using similar “hydrogenotrophs” – hydrogen eaters. It has the backing of the food multinational Archer-Daniels-Midland, the British bank Barclays and GV (formerly Google Ventures).

The Dutch company Deep Branch, which is making fish food, claims its Proton protein will be 60% less carbon-intensive than conventional proteins. Deep Branch is looking at taking the CO2 produced by the UK biomass power generator Drax.

The companies have produced their test products. Now they face the challenge of proving their technology works at scale.

Vainikka says that is the key problem for cultured meat, or lab-grown meat. The market value of newly listed companies such as Beyond Meat soared during the coronavirus pandemic bubble, only to come crashing down as sales slumped. The opening of Solar Foods’ first factory will be crucial in persuading investors that the company will not suffer the same fate.

With meat protein, which is much more expensive than plants or cellular agriculture, there is simply no competition on price for each kilo. But Solar Foods and rivals could face other problems. Conservative politicians particularly in the US and Italy have identified lab-grown food as a threat to their ranching and farming cultures.

Vainikka argues that these fears are misplaced. He wants “coexistence of new and old”, with artisanal, high-quality farms remaining alongside cell farming that can deliver cheap, bulk foods. He argues it is “the opportunity of the century for the meat industry” to focus on quality rather than churning out as much cheap (and heavily subsidised) meat as possible. And plant agriculture will also remain, he argues.

“The future is not powder: the main body of food will still come through plants,” he says. The occasional “salami with the cultural heritage, that can remain. The meat in your lasagne during lunch will be done by cellular agriculture.”

#food #news tag

[butterflyinthewell]

Gift for Godzilla day.

Shin Godzilla as a cosmic horror. He became a universe and watches humanity’s hopeless existence as he recreates and snuffs it over and over.

But WHY???

This very short fic is an observation of the world. Godzilla is a vessel and a perspective to tell it through.

Horror is a reflection. If you don’t like what you see, smashing the mirror won’t fix it. You have to figure out how to fix the actual issue or else it’ll continue on and on.

Fic text and ao3 link are under the cut.

Rating: T

They called him Godzilla.

In their terror and fear, they watched him evolve through burning misery. Them, and the radiation they dumped into the sea, sealed their perpetual split-atom fate. The blame lay eternally on them, their ignorance was no excuse. They would suffer.

He grew, and razed, and enveloped, and absorbed, and mutated, and expanded, and swallowed, and devoured, and digested their pitiful, purulent blue ball of a planet in his roiling maelstrom. He pushed onward, rending apart time, space and existence until only he remained, the single tenebrous echo of a wrathful species long ago destroyed.

Inside his void, he recreated it all. They never knew. Ignorant filth.

The minuscule fools thought the universe was over thirteen billion years old. And they were right from their perspective.

They were wrong about their macabre existence. Silly little things, really, they got lost in their collective occhiolism and never looked past it. What more should he expect from unthinking microbes?

Many called out to the deities they worshiped over the eons. Maybe those deities existed somewhere.

Godzilla waited to meet them, to fight them, and so far none challenged him. Perhaps they feared what he would become to devour them, too.

He manifested his physical form when their atomic age began, he walked across their tiny places of worship and he disrespectfully cut them to scorched atoms. Their screams were prayers he ignored as insignificant. Their sacred blessings counted for nothing.

After the first time, after the trains, and the choking ice, and the agony, he expanded.

He became.

Thirteen billion years held no meaning to him after he became. He was everything. Time, space, matter and energy. They did not know. They did not understand. They did not learn.

It all happened again inside him, inside the void he wore. A downward slope was all he saw, but they, the feeble ones, never could.

Godzilla’s inner sense alerted him of obstacles and incoming threats, and he obliterated them like paper. His lurid cosmic light split the darkness in purple rays. He grasped atoms and divided them until everything ceased to be.

Puny insects, their destruction meant nothing.

He began it again, seeking change, and disappointment blossomed as hypernovae in the airless, black emptiness. Gamma rays tore galaxies apart and life became impossible as hate consumed him. He destroyed it and started another, heedless of what he snuffed out.

They thought the stars were balls of gas contained in galaxies. Quasars blazed along his expanding outer edges as the voids between them swelled. Black holes pin balled through the emptiness. Cosmic radiation sustained him, each source glowing brighter than a billion suns.

The stars were his eyes, looking down in accusation at the blue globe no more significant than dust at the bottom of the sea. Spinning galaxies persecuted the masses of murderous ghouls who refused to recognize him as their all.

He showed them the quasars as a red glow in the crust of his flesh. Let them see the horror, hideousness and meaninglessness of their existence reflected on him. They were insects, pushing through their hopeless, useless lives, killing and maiming each other over religions, and food, and land, and money, and, sometimes, love. Love, twisted into degradation and disgust. Their rage, apathy and loneliness fed him. He spat radiation on them while they spat radiation on each other, a vomitous mass of wrath.

Often, Godzilla reappeared to remind them of who their true master was. He burped up blood in their streets and tore their architecture apart, smirking at the harmonies in their mournful wails.

Their bodies splattered like paste under his feet, his footprints left trails of unrecognizable red mush amid dusty bone powder. He transformed their towering cities into disarrayed rubble until dead flesh and construction materials looked the same.

They never understood, nor remembered, regardless of how many times he collapsed everything and started it anew. It ended the same, every time, with the trains, and the ice, and the silence.

No apologies came. They weren’t sorry. They should have been. Fools.

As the ice spread over him, he closed his sightless eyes under the watchful stars and went inward, where it all began once more. He recreated everything over thirteen billion years until the ice held him still.

And again, and again, and again, further and further inward. These weak, pitiful creatures were terrible learners. He waited for the deities they begged for, waited for an end to atoms themselves.

Such execrable creatures on their blue globe could never conceive of how long or how old anything truly was. They suffered, it was their destiny to suffer endlessly, because they refused to understand every breath they took was willed by him. Sometimes he stopped their breath to watch them die, just because he could. They didn’t matter to him.

He was lost, no one knew, there was no trace of his yearning. They created him, all the agony after falling on their shoulders.

Let them shout. Let them beg. Let them cry. It never reached his uncaring, cold ears.

Godzilla continued imagining inward, another vessel frozen. Perpetually growing, the void within a void, a sempiternal horror.

They did this to him, and they paid eternally. There would be no shaft of light in the darkness forever killing them. No. No salvation, no forgiveness, no relief, ever.

Their suffering was his.

#Godzilla #Godzilla day #shin Godzilla #cosmic horror #scifi #fanfic #fanfiction #Godzilla fanfiction #this is my darkest fic ever #Tay don’t look #Youtube

[princessnotfound]

🩸✂️🥶

🩸 Blood ✂️ Haircut 🥶 Shivering

C/W // Whump ahead ! ! ! (mild blood mention)

(4/7)

George feels disgusting in this moment. There is filth building beneath the hands that hold him in place and his tears leave spit in their wake. Sluggish to track down his face and roll along the underside of his chin. Following the curve of his neck and trailing over the burns at his throat. He may not have cigarettes crumpled up against his flesh anymore, but the burning persists. Hellfire gnaws at a living vessel and slowly, callously, turns him to ash. He can barely comprehend his surrounding environment save for the smell of rotting, burning dermis and the metallic taste in his mouth. Blood flows in a steady stream from his nose and gathers at his top lip. Merging with smudged lipstick and filling the gaps between his teeth, tinting them red and brown. If there wasn’t a hand over his mouth, he would’ve been sick. Their laughter makes him sicker.

Dulling pain still fuels the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Enough to force him to keep his eyes wide and limbs stiff, trying to twist his body in whatever way available to help him slip away. He isn’t moving. But he isn’t allowing himself to believe that, either. Somehow, feeling as though he is making progress working towards his escape grants him the slightest bit of hopeful confidence, even if he is swallowing his own blood and his bones cry out beneath the pressure of such a firm grip.

Something glints to the side of him. Refusing to keep still, George throws a hesitant glance in the direction of reflected moonlight, pupils shrinking to pinpricks and rattling within strained scleras. They are glossed over with unshed liquid. Rising storms in the unsettled ocean of his irises. His mind races faster than the waves crash, because it could be anything. 

A bracelet. A camera. A weapon. He doesn’t know.

He keens anyway. It’s pathetic and, worst of all, bloody. It smears behind the stranger’s hand and wets his own lips. It probably seeps between their fingers, because for once he acknowledges a sound of mild disgust rather than the sound of brutal mockery. He can feel droplets of crimson – blood? Tears? Spit? He can’t tell anymore – rolling down his skin, following the path along his collarbone, gathering on the low collar of his shirt. Shutting his eyes with another wet cry into his muzzle. Something cold and metallic is jutted against his throat. Just underneath his chin. The space beneath the tongue that isn’t protected by fragile bones and would split with fascinating ease. It is too complex for him to understand. How a single quick motion, right here and now, could leave him motionless. One flick, and his very soul would depart to make room for maggots and rodents. Distantly, George wonders if he would feel them eating him alive. If he’d remember dozens of little teeth tearing him apart before departing.

He is certain that he is going to die here. Like this. Helpless, restrained and filthy.

Desperation even urges him to apologise, if it was possible. His eyes roll to one side, hoping to catch the gaze of one of his attackers, but he is met with an excruciating pain in his head. Alien fingers tangled through ravenette wisps just to threaten to rip his hair straight from his scalp. Talons dragged around his skull over his Adam's apple. Shimmering steel is brought closer and he can do nothing but take it and hope they don’t slit his throat and leave him to bleed at the end of a dirty alleyway. 

When the taut grip on his hair vanishes, he nearly has the audacity to feel relieved. To believe that they are sparing him. But dark curls fall before his eyes and land in a neat little clump on the ground and George chokes on his own blood trying to scream. Thrashing the more they cut. What they wield are not knives, but scissors. Scissors slicing through ugly chunks of his hair off and letting it fall to settle on his shoulders, or gather on the floor by his feet. Every snip feels louder than it truly is. Ridding him of such an important aspect of his beauty, of his existence, and making him watch it decay. He weeps loud enough to be heard through rivers of blood and saliva and the barrier of a stranger’s hand, and they take it as an invitation.

Not only do they cut at his hair, but they snip through the hem of his crop top, too. Metal glides along his naval with frightening ease as it cuts through cotton. It falls to the ground in shreds. Humiliation flares beneath his skin, shirtless, even if his body shivers violently now exposed to the cold. When George feels the sharp end of scissor blades pushed firmly against his flesh, he squeezes his eyes shut and braces for the worst.

The fire continues its spread, and it is agonising. Scissors are not quite sharp enough to cut through flesh effortlessly. They are not nearly as razor-edged as the pointed edge of a blade, nor are they jagged enough in comparison to the fangs of a shark. They are blunt. So awfully so that George feels them tearing through his skin so slowly, disrupting and contorting split dermis, and he is sure that his body will never truly mend itself. Like a scalpel to a corpse. Dissecting every part of him, all of his attackers chatter amongst each other while they participate, like he is some sort of game. Like he is an event. A toy, an experiment subject to all of their most violent test runs, to feed into the sadism that is shown so clearly on each of their rotten faces. Blood is warm and sticky. It waterfalls from a gash in his arm to webbing between his fingers. George feels it all over himself, and he wails into a cupped hand every time new vermillion is spilt.

#•─── opus #•─── query #•─── spring party

[junisfics]

Hate Fucking ft Eren Jaeger (Day XV)

Focus: Hate Fucking

Warnings: Smut / Nsfw 18 + (Rough Sex), Brief Violence (Blood, Asphyxiation)

Word Count: 2k

You could kill him.

That impulsive, hate ridden, destructive maniac. You want to rip his throat out with your teeth.

Your jaw is clenched tightly, eyebrows furrowed together in anger, as you sit beside Sasha and across from Connie. They chatter nonsense as you eye him down from across the room.

Just hours ago he had taken out all his pent up anger by mercilessly insulting you after your defeat during training. Although wasn't for the reason one would think.

He had you pinned to grass bare dirt, knee pressing into your right arm and opposite foot pressing painfully into your right wrist. The tendons in your forearms rapping up against the sole of his shoe like the strings on a guitar.

His knife held against your throat, every swallow you take causing it to bob gently. His other hand bracing him up by the ground beside your skull, preventing him from sitting on your upper stomach.

"Get off me." You spit, writhing beneath his unexpectedly heavy body.

You speak with your eyes boring into his own. His brows knit together, beads of sweat trailing down his dirt covered face.

"You couldn't even give it your best for me?! You're going easy?! Piece of shit!" He practically growls, pushing the knife further against your quivering throat to enunciate the expletive.

He hates the way you distract him. Never did it cross his mind that you didn't give him your all, it was only the most convincing excuse he could come up with. He despises you for the way your innocent eyes glint as you look at him, and he hates you more for the uncertain lust that lures behind them as he has you pinned beneath him.

"Eren, I'm not - I didn't - get - you're hurting me,"

Recklessly, he throws the knife aside, causing the blade to slit a shallow cut against the fragile skin of your neck. It stings, assumingly more than a deeper cut would have. His large hand replaces the blade, his sweat poisons the wound and sending harsh waves of prickly pain through your body, he squeezes... hard.

Pathetic croaks slip under his palm and past your lips, blood rushing to your face and a deep buzz filling your ears.

Your limbs flail in response, desperately trying to shake him off.

His nose is scrunched, teeth grit into a snarl, face inches away from yours as he alternates the pressure on your neck.

Hard, bruising, enough to threaten unconscious, but before that can happen his grip goes soft enough to give you a moment of uninterrupted breaths. All the time while looking into your fearful eyes, like he's waiting for the light to go out.

You hated the way your body heated up under his dominance. You can't blame yourself, who wouldn't feel at least a twinge of excitement when pressed that closely up against a guy that attractive.

"Eren - p - please, I can't - I" You're voice is hoarse, tears flooding your vision.

He's tackled off. You sit up quickly, hands go flying to your abused throat, clutching and clawing at it mindlessly as you swallow heavy gulps of air. Sasha's by your side, squatting back on her calves with an arm thrown around your heaving shoulders.

Connie throws violent punches to Eren's face as he presses his skull into the dirt with his other hand.

His face bruised, Connie's fist split open a gash in his cheekbone. His pretty green eyes surrounded by popped blood vessels.

You admire his wounds from your table, completely disregarding your dinner and pushing it to Sasha. You go as far as thinking he's pretty... when his mouth is shut. Such a shame that such a handsome face is attached to a shitty person.

"Connie took care of him, y/n, he won't bother you again." Sasha says through the bread stuffing her mouth.

"He's just... an angry person."

***

You shower off the emulsion of sweat and blood that's covering your skin. Scrubbing so harshly with the tattered rag that red welts leave in its wake. The gash on your throat pulses and stings but your glad it's clean.

The itchy fabric of your shirt clings to your damp skin, the now cold water in your hair drips down your your chest as you squeeze it in your fist to wring it out. Legs guiding you back to your room.

Before you can completely retreat, the door gets pushed open as you attempt to close it.

"Hey -" Your mouth shuts immediately.

Eren enters shamelessly, shutting the door behind him as you back away slowly. Your heart wracks against your chest, breath caught once again in your throat no thanks to him.

He's come to finish you off, he's got you alone and now he's come to pummel you into next year.

His hand grips your jaw to avoid the slit on your throat, pressing your cheeks together so your lips pucker ever so slightly. You reach up to his wrist, reaching for sinewy muscle that strains under his grasp.

His eyes look down to you, a dangerous look passing through them momentarily. His face too close for comfort, his hot breath passing through his grit teeth and fanning over your face.

He walks forward, sending you stumbling back against the closed door.

You feel embarrassingly helpless before him. You pray he can't feel the shaking in your legs.

If he starts getting violent will someone know? Will someone hear? Would there be anyone to stop him this time?

"I fucking hate you." He spits, leaning against you and resting his palm against the wood of the door beside your head, "I think about killing you every fucking day we're stuck in this stupid cottage."

Your stomach turns at his words, but you have no courage to speak out against him. Something inside you tells you to listen to him... to wait.

"You drive me insane"

"Eren -" You speak through puckered lips, one hand holding his wrist and the other pushing against his chest.

Whimpers leave your mouth, desperate cries for him to release you, leave you, apologize, something.

"Fuck - " His voice falters for a moment and his jaw slacks as he glances down to the floor, "Do you know what you do?"

His eyes meet yours, the gears in your head begin to turn. They're softer this time, apologetic.

"I - I don't - please, Eren - I don't know what - "

"Stop begging, fucking stop," He closes his eyes tightly as the hand on the door drops to the field of skin between your neck and shoulder.

He squeezes tightly, desperately trying to restrain himself.

"You're so god damn lucky my need for you is stronger then my hate." His face gets too close to quickly, leaning down so your noses are a breath apart, "because I hate you so fucking much."

It's not your stomach that turns within itself this time, it's something else... something lower. All of a sudden his grip is erotic and his body heat is radiating onto yours in all the right places. He's so close, the tension is straining.

"I - I'm - " You're stupid. You can't even think. Your entire body short circuits.

"Let me have you." He begs, voice needy and dropping octaves lower.

He begs.

You mouth drops open as arousal sparks deep inside you. A shudder wracks your body at his words.

"I know you want it. I see it. G - god, fuck, please y/n." Both hands come to hold your face in his hands, "I hate the things you do to me."

His hips stutter forward against your stomach and you can feel him, hard, throbbing in his pants. A whine escapes your lips.

It's pathetic... embarassing... how much you want him. How much you want the man that constantly dances on your last nerve to take you in his strong hands.

"I hate you." Your voice is weak and unconvincing to both him and you.

His mouth takes yours, swallowing your whimpers and flooding you with him. You taste him on your tongue, dull taste of mint toothpaste and herbal tea. You're drunk for it. Hands gripping at the collar of his shirt to pull his toned body flush against you. It's borderline violent, his tongue drinking in your breathy moans and teeth biting at your lips.

You need him. You need this. You need this feeling, this tension, flooded out of your system and gone for good. You want it fucked out of you.

You push against his neck to give you enough space to mumble against his soft lips, "I need you to fuck me, fuck me as hard as you hate me, please."

His cock twitches, jaw dropping at your desperation. A groan choked up in his throat.

You lick at his open mouth and he takes it in his mouth and sucks on it. Never, never in your entire life would you have thought your cunt would flutter around nothing due to someone taking your tongue in their mouth.

He lowers himself into a squat, taking the waistband of your sleeping pants and dragging them down your thighs, biting at the supple skin that's revealed. His calloused hands hold onto your legs as he licks a broad stripe up your inner left leg all the way up to your hip bone.

You let out a breathy moan as he kitten licks at your clit through your panties.

"No, please, I need you - need your cock." You plead and he lets out a curse as he stands.

You kiss him again. Hands grabbing at his torso to get a hold on the waistline of his pants. He follows you, using one hand to press your chest against the door and the other pushing his clothes down his thighs just enough so his aching cock is freed.

Roughly, he grips the backs of your thighs and hoists them around his waist. Cock slipping between your bodies and brushing against your clothed cunt. Pushing you high enough up the door to take his length in his hand, you pull your panties to the side. His tip teases your entrance. You're sheathed onto his length, filthily moaning out as his cock drags across your walls.

"Fucking shit." He groans into your neck, "You're so wet, you're so fucking wet."

It's overwhelming. The flexing of his muscles underneath your grip, his low groans against your skin followed by open mouth kisses. You bite down on your lip, walls fluttering around his throbbing cock in reaction to his words.

"Oh my god, y/n. Did you just cum?"

You did.

You're cunt gripping his dick like a vice. You came just as he buried himself to the hilt. His tip kissing your cervix gently.

"Give me another." You beg, fisting his shirt tighter in your fist.

You're fucked into the door, shirt riding up as you're dragged up and down the both literal and figurative wood.

"You - Eren - you're so big." Your grip on his shoulders is bruising, arms wrap around his neck and forehead falling against his, mouth open in heavy pants.

"You're so pretty like this. God, you have no idea how long I've wanted to see you like this. How long I've been conflicted by you. I've fucked my hand to your pretty face every fucking night wishing it was your cunt."

You can't believe it. This whole time he hasn't hated you for anything you've done... he's hated you because he was hating the way you made him feel. You're cunt throbs around him at the mere thought.

"And now... fuck - fuck - just like that - now I have you... and my cock is inside you and not my fucking fist."

You came harder then you ever have before, head slamming back against the door and legs shaking as you suck him in and milk him dry. He slams you down one more time onto his cock and holds you there, throbbing inside you.

#eren jaeger smut #eren jaeger x reader #eren jaeger #aot smut #twenty five days of smut #eren yeager x reader #eren yeager smut #tw: blood #eren x reader #eren jaeger x reader smut #eren yeager x reader smut #eren smut #3k

[bibliocratic]

litany An exploration on endings. Or: all the ways it could have gone wrong and right.

jonmartin, spoilers for 200, content warnings in the tags

--

This is not what she thought victory would feel like.

Basira’s fingers tense and smart with overexerted aching when she stops to stretch them out. There is a geography of broken blood-vessels under the bruising that lies puddle-splotched over her hands which scrabble and claw talon-bent at the rubble. They are scored with scratches and tears where her exposed and dust-ruined skin has snagged on fractured brickwork.

She uncovers a foot first, as she pushes up and over the twisted mental of a window frame with an exhausted clatter. A trainer, the white doused with mud, the trailing laces caked stiff and russet. More heaving and hauling, her breath purging from her faster now – maybe, maybe, maybe, but she has lived too long now to believe in miracles. Overturning a fire-blasted section of what could have been once part of the imperious and grand stone stairwell, she reveals the leg the trainer is attached to, pulverised and off-angled by the weight of the collapse, the fabric of it drenched in soot. She peels back a cascade of plasterboard with a grunt, and there is a twisted pelvis, shattered ribs caved in under an acrid-smelling jumper. She’s not surprised at the dull punch of revelation, when she digs out hunched shoulders, coils of hair turned grey-white like swans’ down with the dust.

Martin is obviously dead. She hopes it was quick, fears it was not. His body lying stringless is curved around something, clutching it to him with his bruised and broken fingers. It takes many minutes of labouring, her spine seizing with complaint, sweat pooling at her brow and under her arms, but eventually she reveals Martin’s tender quarry, bundled up against his chest, blood-soaked from a wound long congealed. His own long and bloody fingers clenched and moored into the weft of Martin’s jumper.

She doesn’t need to check his pulse. She is cursed with enough sentiment to do so anyway. Crouching for a moment in the thick of the settling devastation, the fug of dust coating her nostrils, before she murmurs ‘I’m sorry’.

As she stands, she takes off her coat to lay it over them respectfully, the only shroud she can offer.

When her voice is composed, its cracks flattened out, she shouts the others over to tell them to stop searching.

--

The knife does not go in easily. There is force behind its thrust, a manic wave-shock of hysteric intent, and Jon’s lips part in a gasp as skin and sinew and flesh split. The noise wrenched from Martin is soiled with ruin, tremulous and saw-toothed, and he will never be able to forgive himself.

Jon’s eyes close. Peace of a sort granted to Magnus’ last and most beleaguered of Archivists.

And then they open. All of them, like the unfolding back of petals during blossoming, a meadow’s expanse of sight flowering on his face.

“No,” Martin whispers, the refusal almost lost over the tumult of the building around them. He pulls the knife out, and it drips onto the floor, making damp the material of his trousers. “No, nononononono.”

The wound presses together like lips, and then it is gone.

“I think it’s too late for that, Martin,” the Archivist says in that calm and reasoned voice of his.

--

It is a surreal, poorly-rendered mirror of before. A way the record of the world has slipped, juddered aground in a repeat. For all they have both changed, outgrown the casings of the people they were, for all they have endured both together and apart, it is a sick homecoming of sorts to stand again a second time round at the entrance to his hospital ward.

She’s brought supermarket flowers bunched in plastic, the last of a bad crop and too late to get the freshest, the stalks of baby’s breath drooping, the petals on the carnations mottled slightly and past their glory days. Jon lies submerged in sleep, the focal point in a placid storm of machines and wires. This coma chemically induced with no inkling of the supernatural, a last-ditch effort by the doctors to reduce the swelling on his brain. To give the body a chance to heal from the damage sustained during the collapse, his frame bludgeoned and punctured like a shrike-caught mouse, the smoke that has snarled like brambles in his lungs. The almost comically neat wound punched into his chest, nicking his heart.

She hopes his sleep is dreamless.

It takes him weeks to wake up.

“… Georgie?” he finally gasps out on an otherwise uneventful Thursday. His vocals are ribbed and scored with smoke damage. He’s sluggish as he blinks and turns and groans at the complaint of his body around him. “What – er?”

“Hey Jon,” she replies. “Good to have you back with us.”

She lets him acclimatise. Without his glasses, he squints and peers owlishly, like an inquisitive bird, absorbed by the novelty of his environment, the mundanity; the hospital-blue curtain that’s been pulled back around his bed, missing a few rungs and so hanging lopsided in places. The wilting flowers on the side table. The IV needles threaded into his arms.

“Did it work?” he asks finally.

“We think so.”

Georgie doesn’t add more. The conversation is one she knew they’d have, but it still feels like stepping out on frozen water. She is waiting for it to give beneath him, for the drop and drown in the unmoored cold.

His relief muddies in increments. His brow crinkling with a frown, glancing around again at the other beds. Their occupants dredged up and out and recovering from their private terrors, bringing the lessons of their landscape with them.

“Where - ?”

He looks up at her. The ice cracking.

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Jon,” she says.

--

“We made it. L-look, see, we’re – I don’t know where we are exactly, b-but that doesn’t matter, does it, because we’re together, yeah? We’re together and that’s… that’s what we promised.”

The blood is drying on his trembling fingertips, the crevices of his palm, and it flakes off like decaying leaf-fall. The front of his clothes is clogged and sodden, the slick slow to harden. The weight in his arms is making his shoulders scream but he can’t let go.

“We – we did it,” he repeats hollowly. Desperately. “We did it, s-so you can come back now. You can come back. Together, you promised.”

The winds of this new world blow as cold as the old one did, and it is Martin’s only reply.

--

“It’s for the best, Martin,” the Archivist says.

“Shut up,” his furious watcher snarls. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t play st – Like him! Like he would! Using his voice.”

“It’s my voice. It’s me, Martin.”

Martin doesn’t respond to that. Their arguments are cyclical as roundabouts. He tells Martin he loves him. Martin tells him to fuck off.

The place where Jonah Magnus met his End, crumpled up on the dais of the Panopticon, has been cleared of blood. It distressed Martin to look upon, as evidence of his ascension rather than his capacity for brutality, so the servitors saw to its removal. The body he gifted to the mulch of the bone gardens, and the wailing growths flourished beautifully with the nutrients it bore.

The screams beyond the walls of the Panopticon cut off faster as he hastens them towards the End. He observes a world in its twilight. There is still torment, and it is unendurable and unfair but it will end under his reign, for good and for ever, and he will ensure that there is no more.

“You don’t have to stay,” the Archivist says. Considered. Gentle. “I know… seeing me like this is not what you wanted. I want us to be together while it ends, but I won’t force you.”

“And how is it any better out there?”

“It’s not,” he admits. “Here, I can keep you safe. I want you to be safe. I want you to be happy.”

“Well, you fucked up there then,” Martin snaps.

His anger is righteous and flint-spark, makes barriers that almost waylay his grieving. He looks at him, and for a moment, his gaze shakes. He will see nothing less than he expects to see, a man, unkempt from travel, a bit grubby. Coarse hands he has held, lines he has attempted to smooth. In many ways, this makes it worse.

Martin turns away, and the Archivist lets him go.

He needs time and they have more than enough of it now.

--

He is inconsolable when they dig them out. A horrible, anguished keening like he’s being struck, a gasping that violently gags and stoppers in his chest. His face twisted, blotching, his eyes swollen, and the picture he makes is ugly, rent-open, decimated, bawling into the body he’s crushed up against him. Rag-doll limbed. Ashen.

They can’t make him let go. His cries transform and degrade into wails, garbled wordless, the horizon of language lost. They aren’t even sure if he knows they’re there. The sound pouring out of him is frenzied, delirious and anguished by surviving the unsurvivable alone. He fades hoarse through the ruin he has made of his throat and then he just weeps into Jon’s chest, and still he will not let go.

Melanie’s the one that stops him using the knife the first time. Wrestling it from his grip more out of surprise than shock at Georgie’s shout, and her anger is poisoned with her panic, throwing it to one side and hearing it clatter, snarling that I’m not going to fucking bury both of you, you hear me, don’t even think about it, fuck you, you think this is what he would have wanted, you think we want to lose you too?

Martin doesn’t reply.

They are not fast enough to stop him the second time he tries.

--

There are two men, strangers to these parts, who moved into the village from elsewhere like seeds caught on breeze. They plant their roots in uneasy soil. They talk to no one, versed in polite but guarded pleasantries, their greeting smiles to-the-point and weathered like coastal walls to withstand even the most inquisitive of questioners.

The one who is tall has the pared-down appearance of someone who has lost a lot of weight through some wasting that gnaws upon him. A gauntness that accentuates the furrows and gulleys and crags of his face, worsens the snow-stark white of his hair. The one who is short has been formed naturally sharp in features, although the brown of his eyes is mellow, prone to distance and otherwise unremarkable. The rumour mill, that tumbles in cycles of chatter that rolls from suspicious to musing, supposes some great and devastating fire to account for the injuries on his hands and the exposed skin of his face and neck, the pocked divots like scattered spark burns, ragged scars from shrapnel of some kind.

The one who is short limps on a sturdy walking stick, fashioned from an oak branch divorced from its tree in a storm. Any travel ventured upon is slow and demonstrably an effort. His free hand clasped in the hand of the one who is tall, who decks himself in layers even in the mildest of weathers, whose eyes are biting as hailstones, awashed grey and framed with bruising as though his dreams are rarely kind.

They re-painted the outer walls of their house last summer, when the temperature wallowed sticky and dense and glorious. The tree in their garden has fruited its first pears, few and stunted but a start that promises better crops come next year.

There is the hope that the strangers are happy.

If they are, it remains nobody’s business but their own.

#tma spoilers #tma finale spoilers #tw blood #tw violence #tw mild injury description #tw suicide #tw suicidal ideation #cw death #jonmartin #WHAT ABOUT THAT FINALE HUH?! #ask to tag #this one tends towards the heavy #hurt/comfort #hurt no comfort #angst #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tma 200 #the magnus archives #tma

[shedobewritingalittle]

As The World Caves In

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Stark!Fem!Reader

Summary: Steve deals with the loss of his wife after the Snap.

Rating: R?

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: Grief, depression, feelings of loneliness, death, graphic depiction of a death

A/N: hi yes I wanted to get this out before TFATWS got out. I have never liked the ending Steve got in Endgame, so I wanted to write a new one for him!

Steve would like to say that he lost his wife like everyone else did that day.

He would love to say that she turned into ash like the rest of his teammates. He would love to say that they had some tear-filled goodbye before she turned into nothing. He would love to have that hope that might be able to come back.

But he can't.

Because she actually died that day in Wakanda. Right before his eyes.

It had happened after Thanos had tossed Steve aside. Y/N had charged at the Titan, angry at the purple being for hurting her husband. He caught her in mid-air, his golden gauntlet shimmering in the sunlight as it wrapped tightly around her throat. Steve had scrambled to stand up, his eyes on her.

Y/N coughed and sputtered, her face turning colors as she kicked, her fingers trying to pry the large gold covered fingers off of her throat. And while it felt like hours for Steve, it had only been seconds. Seconds. Seconds he had held her in their air, seconds she had suffered as the Titan cut off her oxygen. Thanos had smirked before tightening his grip, a sickening crack filling the air. Steve couldn't breathe as her body was tossed towards him. It seemed to move in slow motion, bouncing when it hit the ground.

When her body finally came to a stop in front of him, her head lolling to the side as the cloud of dust settled. Steve still had hope somehow. He prayed to the Lord above as he looked at her, hoping that she was somehow still alive. Blood vessels had burst in her eyes and blood trickled out of her mouth. There was a darkening bruise on her throat, her neck was bent at an unnatural angle. Steve had been unable to move, unable to breathe. Within an instant, she was gone. His wife, the love of his life, ripped away from him in mere seconds.

And then his friends and teammates turned into ash all around him.

The worst moment of his life was when he watched his wife die right in front of him. The second worst is having to tell her brother that she was dead.

After Tony had come down the ramp of the ship, Steve had ran over to help him down that last view steps and over to Pepper. Stark told Steve that Peter was gone and in that moment of silence that followed, Tony's eyes scanned the small group of survivors for his adopted sister. Tears sprung up in the man's eyes as he looked back at Steve. The Captain's throat constricts with emotion, tears brimming in his eyes as he just nods, unable to get the words out. Pepper ran up in that moment, wrapping her arms around Tony just as tears rolled down his face.

Y/N is the only one they actually bury. Her funeral is a quiet affair, with only the remaining members of their team and Pepper in attendance. The couple had never talked about what might happen or what they would want if either of them died. Tony tells him that she would want to be buried next to their parents, so she is. He makes sure his baby sister has the best coffin money can buy, the best headstone-everything. Her funeral is the last time Steve and Tony talk to each other.

Steve gets an apartment she would have loved. It's right around the corner from the restaurant where they had their first date and a few streets away from the cemetery. There was those big windows that Y/N had always expressed fondness over. The apartment also had built in shelves that lined one wall of the living room area, which had been another selling point for him. One day Steve hoped that he would be able to fill them with her many books and tchotchkes, but now they stood empty, the shelves gathering dust. Her collection of novelty mugs weren't in the cabinets, no they were still wrapped up in newspapers within one of the many boxes. He had planned on unpacking all of the things that had once filled their shared room at the compound, but the boxes stay in the second bedroom, all piled up in the middle of the room. He couldn't find it in himself to go through all of her old things, didn't want to be bombarded with emotions and memories.

That first year is the hardest. Learning to live without her tears him to shreds. Steve hardly sleeps, hardly eats. He spends a lot of his time alone, dwelling over what he could've done differently. Natasha tries to reach out to him, but Steve distances himself. He tells himself that he needs to do this alone, needs to try to get through it by himself. Y/N always feels like she's just out of his grasp and he prays and begs to have her back with him. His prayers go unanswered.

Natasha appears outside his door on the one year anniversary of Thanos's snap and Y/N's death, holding a bottle of vodka in one hand and Asgardian mead in the other. They sit together in the kitchen and drink as vigils and memorials take place around the world. For the first time, Steve talks about how much he misses his wife. The two heroes talk all night about each person they missed, both of them wondering aloud how were they supposed to live without them.

By the end of the second year, Steve is getting used to living without her. He hates it. He hates how much that ache in his chest has lessened. He hates that he can see a picture of her without a lump forming in his throat. Steve is able to talk about her more and starts a grief support group. Sure he sometimes wakes up and hopes she's there, but that's getting less and less frequent. Steve's afraid that his memories of her are going to slip away from him, terrified of forgetting her.

So he starts to draw her. He's desperate to hold onto every memory of her, so he fills up page after page, sketchbook after sketchbook of nothing but Y/N. The drawings aren't perfect, but he is able to cement those memories in his mind. Steve wants to make sure that he can remember her face without having to study a picture. So when he remembers something about her, he puts it onto a piece of paper. Y/N on their wedding day. Y/N when they were on the run and she fell asleep in the Quinn Jet. Y/N brushing her teeth early in the morning, her silhouette lit up by the almost golden bathroom light. Y/N the first day they met.

Natasha sees them once when she stops by to see him. One of the sketchbooks is left open on the table and she sneaks a peek when Steve goes to the other room to get a sweater. There on the page in incredible detail is a sketch of her best friend with tears in her eyes, her mouth open in shock. She doesn't know that this is the face she made when she learned that Bucky had killed her parents and Steve knew. Natasha looks away, her cheeks burning. She feels like she saw something too personal, too raw, and she shuts the journal before Steve returns.

When the third, fourth, and then fifth year rolls around- well Y/N has been gone longer than they were together as a couple. Steve has gotten used to her being gone. He's able to walk past the room holding all of the boxes without stalling. It gets easier to talk about her, easier to share stories about her to his group. He still misses her, it's just easier for him to live now. His wedding band never leaves his ring finger, needing to have a part of her with him always. Steve still loves her and he doesn't think he can ever love someone as much as he loves his wife.

And then Scott Lang reappears.

Steve wants to reverse what Thanos did, wants to bring back his friends even if that means he cannot bring back his wife. That ache in is chest returns as they put together their heist plan. Steve feels like there's a ghost following him around while he's back at the compound. His shoulders feel heavy again and he tries to put on a brave face as the people around him get hopeful. He tries to be happy, knowing that he will be getting his friends back and fixing what had happened, but he can't help but be upset.

-

Steve gets to see her when they go back.

It's after he knocks out the younger version of himself. Steve is standing over himself, breathing hard, and holding Loki's scepter tightly in his hands.

"That is America's Ass." He comments, looking behind him before back down to the unconscious man. He needs to meet back up with the others so that they can-

"It definitely is." A familiar voice calls out from in front of him. Steve stills, his breath catching in his throat before he slowly lifts his head. There she is, standing before him with a smirk on her face. Y/N is dressed in her navy blue suit, her hair messy from the battle she just went through. Her face is dirty, her lip split and there is a long cut across her cheekbone. His mouth goes dry and he's suddenly tongue tied, like he was when they first met.

Steve remembers how nervous and awkward he was when they were first introduced to each other. Y/N gave him a million dollar smile and just like that, he knew he was a goner. Steve had stumbled over saying his name, which had then made her laugh-God, that laugh. That laugh had made him warm all over, made butterflies swarm around in his stomach. And in the past five years, those butterflies had been dormant and now, now they're wide awake.

"You're not my Steve." Y/N announces as she walks towards him, studying him. Steve's heart is beating fast and he wants to reach out and hold her close, wanting to tell her how much he loves her. My Steve. God, he misses her. He misses everything about her.

"How can you tell?" He asks, a tiny smile appearing on his face. Y/N chuckles, taking seeing two Steve's surprisingly well. But then again, she had just got done fighting aliens and a literal god so he supposes that things have been weirder.

"My Steve won't even look me in the eye. He blushes when I look at him. When I look at you...you just look so sad. That's how I know you're not Loki." She answers, stopping in front of him. Steve studies her face, taking in every little detail because he knows that this is the last time he'll see her.

"I-I'm that easy to read, huh?" Steve retorts and she laughs again, nodding. God, he misses that sound. He misses her so fucking much that it makes his chest ache. Y/N's smile falters as she looks at him, watching as his smile drops.

"I'm not going to pretend what is exactly going on here, okay? Obviously you are going through something and it's pretty clear you are on a some type of mission." She tells him, motioning to the scepter in his hands. Steve looks down to his hand before looking at her. He knows that she should be calling for back up because by the way people keep speaking through her comm Y/N must know that things are going south.

"I'll bring it back, I promise." Steve replies and the smile returns to her face. Y/N glances down to the unconscious man on the floor before looking at him.

"I know you will. I never saw you, new Steve. And don't worry, I'll make sure you don't choke on your tongue." She teases, gesturing to the passed out version of himself. Steve's smile returns to his face as she continues, "But I do expect some sort of explanation when you come back."

"Of course. I'll be back before you even know I was gone." Steve says, wanting to say so many other things that he knows that he just can't tell her. He opens his mouth again when her comm once again crackles to life. Y/N's eyes widen and she gestures for him to leave. Steve's mouth snaps shut and he nods, quickly walking away.

Tony would later tell Steve when they're in 1970 that he started crying when he saw his little sister.

-

When his teammates return on the battlefield, she isn't among them. He knows she won't be coming through a portal, but some part of him still holds out hope for some reason. Yet, there is no sadness inside of him on that battlefield. No, rage has pushed all of that sadness aside, filling him up completely.

When he fought against Thanos and his army, he did so with every ounce of strength in his body. Steve wanted to avenge the death of Y/N, wanted to kill Thanos for what he did to her. Steve has never felt so angry in his entire life. He wanted to be the one who ended the Titan's life. He ignored the large gash in his arm and tore through aliens.

And in the end, it's Tony who takes out Thanos. He is the one who avenges his baby sister's death, but the price he pays his high. And Steve has to watch another Stark die.

He feels so guilty that he is alive and both of the Stark siblings are gone, both of them buried side by side, right next to their parents.

There is just so much death in his life, so much damn loss. And he's tired. Steve is exhausted. He hoped that bringing back his friends and the half of the universe that had disappeared because of the Snap would make him feel better, but it hadn't. No, instead that hurt has returned with full force. His chest feels like its about to cave in on itself, like his ribs piercing his lungs and heart-God, everything seems unbearable. All he wants is for the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

And then, he is reminded that he has to return the stones.

And while every single part of the journey is noteworthy, he saves returning the scepter for last.

Y/N is sitting beside the unconscious version of himself when he returns. She turns his head to look at him, a smile on her face. For a moment, he considers staying here with her, reliving every single moment of their life and their relationship as it happens.

But he knows that he can't.

It wouldn't be right for him to stay here with her, knowing everything that he knows. Steve has had his time with her, time that he will treasure for the rest of is life. He knows that if he returns back to his timeline, there will be a lot of hurting that he will have to go through. Steve knows that it would be so much easier to stay here with Y/N, but he won't let himself do it.

So Steve explains to Y/N why he needed the scepter, leaving out her death and the death of her brother. After he finishes, she stays quiet for a moment, processing all of this new information. He just waits and sits there.

"Don't tell me what happens, please. I want the cards to fall where they may. I-I want to be surprised." Y/N tells him suddenly, glancing at the unconscious man before looking at Steve. The Captain understands exactly what she means. She must know somehow that she ends up with him, something on his face his showing his hand. Y/N had always told him that he had a shitty poker face. A smile stretches across his face, nodding. His wedding ring-hidden under his gloves-feels so much heavier, like its weighing his arm down.

A pit of dread opens up in Steve's stomach as his time draws to an end. He thanks and apologizes to Y/N as he hands over the scepter. She just smiles, telling him not to worry about it as she puts it back into its case. He must look as upset as he feels because before he leaves, Y/N wraps her arms around him. It surprises Steve, but he quickly wraps his arms back around her. Steve holds her tightly, letting his eyes shut. He knows that this will be the last time he'll ever hold her and he just savors it, wishing that it could last forever. Wishing that he could stay here forever.

But everything has to come to an end.

When he says goodbye, he knows that Y/N doesn't understand that this is him saying goodbye to her for the last time. Steve finally gets to tell her goodbye and even though he isn't able to tell Y/N how much he loves her, it's okay. It's okay because he will be able to tell her how much he loves her one day, even if that day isn't today. They'll be reunited again. He just needs to wait.

She tells him goodbye and he takes one final look at her before he returns back to his timeline, back into a world where she's gone.

That night, he returns to his empty apartment, the silence almost deafening. That hole in his chest has reopened and he is in so much pain that everything just feels numb.

He goes through the motions of getting ready for bed, washing the day's events off of him hoping that this would also wash away the numbness, trying to pretend like nothing of importance had happened hours earlier. When he crawls into the same bed he has been sleeping in for the past five years-a bed she has never touched-he realizes how empty it is without her. He can't feel her here like he can at the Compund-No, here she doesn't follow behind him. No, this is a place she has never been so she can't be here. The apartment is suddenly too big for him-everything is too big for him. It's too big and too empty and too fucking quiet-

It's like the string that was holding him together the past five years has finally snapped and he just starts crying. The Captain's body shakes with sobs as he lays in that empty room. Steve had thought he had processed her death and grieved already, but he hadn't. Until this very moment, it had never fully set in that Y/N was dead. It was never fully real that she was gone. He knew that she was, but some part of him was still holding out hope that somehow she was going to come back. If Bucky could come back, surely she could have as well. But Y/N isn't Bucky and so she never came back.

It took until today for him to fully realize that she was gone. Y/N was gone and there was nothing he can do about it. There was no stones to gather, no traveling through dimensions for him to do. Steve had to live the rest of his life without the love of his life, in a time where he'll never belong in. That small flicker of hope that had been silently living inside of him had been snuffed out, leaving an empty dark space inside of him, leaving him cold and empty.

The only hope that remained is that they would be reunited one day in death, but until then Steve would be forced to carry around his pain where ever he went.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #captain america x reader #chris evans x reader

[snowflake-of-destruction]

“  you love me so fiercely. i’m almost afraid of it.  ” matchablossom

“You love me so fiercely. I’m almost afraid of it.  ” Kojiro adds oregano, rosemary, thyme, and chili flakes to the heap of flour in the bowl and shakes the vessel to sift them through. He crosses to the stove to turn the burner beneath the pot of chicken stock off, though he'll let the pot stay where it is for now, still simmering until he's ready to strain it. He keeps busy so he sounds nonchalant.

Kaoru stands in the middle of the kitchen, leaning against the island, feet stuck out enough to ensure he's in the way as Kojiro darts around. He makes his presence known, not that Kojiro would ever be able to overlook him, even in a crowd of hundreds. "I don't remember saying I loved you at all."

"Why would you need to use words?" Kojiro finds the eggplant in the crisper, slaps it down on the cutting board, cuts vents into it. He presses the side of the same large knife he used on the eggplant to a clove of garlic until it split apart and stuffs the pieces into the vents he created. "That seems like a last resort."

"If a restaurant can be ruined by a few bad reviews, then it was doomed to fail to begin with."  Kaoru picked up another of the garlic cloves littering the counter and began to peel it idly. 

"It was a dedicated smear campaign across every social media platform and review site. I think Carla hit most of the travel sites too. How many fake profiles did she create?"

"They were encroaching on your customer base." Kaoru left tiny shreds of garlic skin on the island and held out the innards, pinched between his fingers, as an offering to Kojiro so he could finish stuffing the eggplant.

"They didn't serve Italian food." Kojiro drizzled olive oil over the eggplant and massaged it into the skin. 

"This restaurant is all you have." Kaoru looked around for where he had set down his fan.

"Not true."

"The only thing of value."

"Even less true." Kojiro almost forgot to sprinkle the eggplant with sea salt before transferring it to a cookie sheet to stick in the oven to roast, Kaoru's lies were so outrageous.

"Less true?" Kaoru scoffed. "How does that make sense? Pay attention to what you're saying. Nothing of value acknowledges that you do indeed have other possessions, which, even at a default level makes it more true than claiming you have nothing."

"I have an insufferable boyfriend and I value him above even my own life, but he needs to love me a little less and trust me a little more. Sia la luce is doing fine."

"Using words on me? Seems like a last resort."

#matchablossom #kojiro nanjo #kaoru sakurayashiki #twileighplants #snippets

[border-spam]

Does troy really have a split jaw or is that fanon?

It's total fanon!

The design of the split lines across his cheekbones and chin coupled with the cheek clips and v shaped hinge outline next to his ears lead to a lot of people coming to that same outcome, that there is something up with his mouth from a prosthetic/mod standpoint.

So much of his design is never mentioned once or referenced in any way (hightech spinal rig with tattoos under it, neuro connector, mech arm that's much older and doesn't seem related to the spine and neuroport, implants on bicep, face mod etc) that like Tyreen's scars and possible lower body Siren markings, fandom took over when it came to coming up with logical explanations for 'em.

This actually touches ground with some Ao3 comments I wanted to share as they are all Leech Lord compliant, so I'll list them here alongside links to the fics they were related to (note warnings!)

You leave no avenue for characterization unexplored. Troy's facial prostheses finally receiving backstory is amazing

- Maw (Gore/Bodyhorror)

I LOVE the idea of it being not just decorative shit on his face, but my MO for any content I make is always based around asking why, over and over, and trying to make sense of what material I'm using in the first place. The modded mouth is a popular piece of fanon but you know... why? Why would he do that shit to himself. WHY would he want to be grotesque, why would he be chasing the reaction people would have to it when canonically he seems to really not be interested in fan attention the same way Tyreen is, what's the difference to him between being adored as his persona or being lusted after as a monster, etc. I just love deep-diving into the logic behind character and world building? It's what adds meat to the bone for me.

Big 'ol character and worldbuilding / lore responses list under the cut -

He could afford better robots but these ones UNDERSTAND Ty, don't you get it?

- Good night in (tooth rotting fluff)

Hey just because it's mangled and broken, and can't perform its intended function to a degree expected of it by everyone around it... and it's got rusty sharp bits it accidentally hurts you with sometimes... and it's cranky but it doesn't mean it... and sometimes it errors out in a way that's mildly disturbing in a way you can't place.. uh.. doesn't mean you should just GIVE UP ON IT you know? He can fix them :) They will be fine :) No one should just throw away something that's trying so hard just because it's damaged... haha... :')

It's so hard seeing how much they tear each other down when they're the only thing they have left. And what a poor self-image Tyreen has beyond all that glitter and bluster...

- Wolf in sheep's clothing

The twins function well enough as a unit till tensions rise, and I was trying to seed in The Leech's influence on them in earlier work like this too - towards anyone else Ty would become MORE aggressively confident, more assured in her complete and utter dominance of the situation, her flawlessness, but against Troy who see's her for what she is, it turns inwards and eats at her instead of lashing outwards. He switches from relatively submissive around her to almost surgical levels of dissection, he knows exactly how to go for the jugular with words, and doesn't hold back. She's The Leech's mouth but he's its eyes and it's only when they lose control emotionally enough for it to claw to the surface of their psyches that you get an idea of how much it really affects them individually. GB had an absolute goldmine on their hands here of cosmic/body horror and the concept of toxic family when all you have is each other, there's so much to work with, and I figure it's a factor in why some people still really enjoy messing around with Calypso content.

I like how you allow Troy to be a disabled character, how his congenital defects and prosthetics colour his outlook and appear in ways big and small in all these vignettes. It's easy, I think, to see him as largely untroubled by his health apart from when he needs a charge from Tyreen in the game, but you allow him to struggle with his weakness.

- Chronic (Drug use)

I'm really glad to hear that's coming through in the writing because it's something I noticed a lot too. Very often when Troy, or other characters canonically disabled / chronically unwell are written it's "told" and not "shown". Chronic pain, illness, it's not something that is just a little tickbox in a life or some descriptive terms added to a character synopsis, it's something you live and deal with. There are bad days. There are times it is a negative that has to be worked around or faced in ways that aren't pleasant. It doesn't make you lesser or weak to have times where illness does leave you unable to function to a level you want to, it's not a failure for you to be unable to perform tasks when a disability or flair up means it's not viable. I feel personally that by showing scenes like this where his health and body issues do have a very visceral and impossible to ignore the effect on his ability to function, and going through his mental processes of dealing with and managing them, it brings the character across as stronger than if he never seemed to be shown dealing with symptoms or weaknesses. People are more than their disabilities and conditions, those aren't just kinda taglines to add onto a character's description and then never address. I feel like doing that in a way undermines what people deal with who manage chronic illness, pain, and who have disabilities that affect their daily lives negatively. Appreciating the effort it takes to manage them is important.

What I really like about these is that you can really understand as a reader how their dynamic must have evolved. How even before Leda's death Tyreen would have felt demonized while Troy got the attention because of his condition, because he was less willful.

- Starlight, Moonbright

Ah man, absolutely - and that shit stayed with them. It wasn't his fault and he never wanted it, but of course their parents would have had their extremely ill child at the forefront of their thoughts, especially during weeks when he was.. bad. Tyreen by nature even without The Leech's influence is a little attention seeker, she'd be the life of any party and she BLOSSOMS if she's got the spotlight, but as a little kid who's got literally no one but her parents and her brother, and who all three of which can't give her nearly as much time as she deserved? That's rough. That's really unfair. That coupled with The Leech's warping effect on their egos as they grew up and the bitterness and resentment they harbored in different ways created a reverse dynamic. She'd never be out of the Galaxy's attention again, and he'd have no choice but to take his rightful place in her shadow.

I love how you illustrate both how much more, and yet how much less Troy is now. How the blameless child, full of potential, is inextricably linked to the brutal, larger-than-life avatar he fashions.

- DeLeon ( Graphic Violence / Gore / Hallucinations)

He's molded the monster he is now out of the bones of the man he should have been - there's no going back really. There's nothing left to go back to. He broke Troy DeLeon apart to build the persona that acts like an iron lung now, suffocating him breath by breath while forcing him to still take them. That life is over, he killed it before it had a chance, but the idea of it is still there in his subconscious. Somewhere in the absolute trainwreck of Troy's brain is the tiny, flickering belief that maaaaaybe one day this will all be over and he can shuck off the bracer and spines, peel off all the shit he's covered his skin with, and just go back to not being Calypso. DeLeon here isn't some aspect of his mental state or his sins haunting him - it's The Leech, spitting venom at a host it loathes in something that's not sound or comprehensible language. His subconscious has just translated it into something it can understand - his greatest regret.

On if Borderlands Humans originated on Earth -

There's a really tenuous link between BL verse and rEarth, but it's there and can't be ignored. The cultures, accents, terminologies, so many are Earth specific despite these people being spread across galaxies, so hell yes - Earth as an emergence point makes total sense. The next question then, is why is it never mentioned - and you can cover for that with a lot of things like say, tt was so long ago that it's not relevant to anything that would ever be discussed, or it could be a mass evacuation from a catastrophe there is little record of now. I like to go with something along those lines, that the first human Siren host emergence on earth just absolutely decimated the planet. Like, we were doing fine till this random woman somewhere in the ass-end of nowhere develops weird markings overnight, then goes apocalyptic. The first Leech maybe, not understanding her powers and having them rip across continents in a spread of crackling electric death that only left husked shells of plants and animals in its wake, or the first Firehawk who went nuclear and burned the sky, or the first Voidgrasp who lost control and began to collapse the planet's core - some extreme shit that had humans fleeing en masse with barely any preparation and HUGE swathes of history and knowledge left behind. That would cover so many social things surviving into the BL verse, cultures, accents, cooking, that shit comes with us regardless of what we were able to throw into escape ships. Like so much data would be stored on any tech and data arrays within the vessels people would use to leave a dying planet even in an insane rush, but that shit waters down over time - if you're farming barely edible plants on some planet that smells like farts, are you really gonna be that stressed about teaching your kids history from a lost planet when your current concerns are not being eaten by something with 19 legs and 4 buttholes? Don't think so.

On if the other Siren entities are as influential to their hosts as The Leech -

I touch on it a wee bit throughout LL, but the others are FAR more passive and meld more to their host's whims. The Firehawk Siren wouldn't.. like.. care? If the host was burning down a planet or fighting off an evil corporation? They are removed from any nonsense happening on this side, they might not even really be able to tell, it's like asking an amoeba or a collection of sentient atomic particles what its opinion is on Brexit. That's not really its priority. The Leech is so aggressive in its control of the twins and desperation to drive them towards an outcome it desires only cause it's split, broken, removed from the song, and completely lost. We're talking a caged, half-mad animal removed from its natural environment and left totally isolated from its own kind for millennia. It's in pain, it's confused, it wants to find its way back to the song and the others and where it belongs, but it's stopped by a barrier it can't comprehend ( the twins and being ripped between them), so in its impotent rage it feeds back that hatred onto them. It's not really sentient in the way we would describe functional intelligence, but it wants, and craves, and FEELS. And it feels very, very angry.

Big thanks to @undergoingcalibrations for talking through so much of this with me!

Asks are Open!

#borderlands #borderlands 2 #borderlands 3 #bl3 #troy calypso #tyreen calypso #calypso twins #sirens #leech lord #my hcs #my writing

[maybedefinitely404]

Day 13: Logince

@tsshipmonth2020

Day 13: Everyone is born with a super power, but when soulmates are together their powers are nullified by each other. (AKA the hero/villain AU I’m probably going to have to write a sequel for)

Content warnings: battle wounds (minor blood), physical combat, general destruction, fear of death/intention to kill (no one dies), passing out.

Comments: I’m definitely more of a dialogue heavy writer, so writing so much action was new to me. Life hack: watch fight scenes online to get a better visual when writing combat.

Word count: 1.8k

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. 

That’s all Roman could think as he weakly pushed himself onto his elbows, lifting his battered forehead from the ground, an action that required far more effort than it should have. Never before in his life had he been reduced to this, a limp pile of bruises and ice burns and bloodied cuts surrounded by the wreckage of a once unscathed street. The smell of smoke was thick in the air and heavy in his lungs, rising from the rubble of collapsed buildings and choking him both physically and metaphorically, as a reminder of how much he’d failed. 

This guy, whoever he was, was a new villain. As far as Roman knew, at least. He’d never laid eyes on the man before today, and hated how instantly attracted he was to the maskless villain. Of course, the lack of mask also indicated that he didn’t intend on staying around long enough to be recognized in public… or leaving any survivors that would be able to pick him out of a line up. So even though Roman immediately felt bad as soon as the first well aimed hit of his flaming sword’s hilt knocked into the man’s jaw and sent him tumbling, it was quickly overruled by his ingrained instinct to protect. The goal was to take him down alive, relatively unhurt, and have him placed in the same secure facility all of Roman’s defeated foes were sent to, but if he had to be killed for the greater good, that was just a sacrifice he would have to make. Guilt could come later, when everyone was safe. 

But his one hit was all he got in before the man completely unleashed everything he had. He had unclipped a small tube from his waist and popped it open to full size; a compact staff that was at least double the length of Roman’s sword. The distance he’d stumbled from the first hit was just enough, an action that Roman only now realized had been completely intentional on the other’s part, and he swung with accuracy that put the hero’s to shame. It hit him in the side and sent him sprawling, landing on his hands and using the momentum to roll, jumping back to his feet and setting his sword aflame once more. He couldn’t let his concentration falter like that again. Forget those perfect blue eyes, Roman. He’s trying to kill you. 

He’d kept his distance after that, an artful duck and weave between buildings, avoiding spears of ice that seemed to grow from the ground itself and praying one of his blindly shot gusts of flame had landed a hit. Of course, of freaking course, the one villain that stood a chance against him combat-wise had an opposing power. His sword was starting to dwindle and his arms were sore from deflecting and breaking through the walls of ice his opponent continued to raise with no hesitation, and the heat in his hands was starting to fade. He was tired. That just made this harder, and the fun factor was starting to wear off. He had to end this. 

That was the wrong mindset to go in with, because then he was desperate. Desperation led to destruction, and he regretted his sudden carelessness the moment a clumsy spur-of-the-moment shot missed his nemesis by a mile and tore through the entryway of a jewellery store instead. Luckily the street had been cleared the moment the fight began, so no one was injured, but that building going up in flame was only the beginning of the chaos. Because even though it wasn’t his fault after that, things just got so much worse. 

The street itself began to crumble to pieces, concrete breaking apart where thick tendrils of ice ripped its way through in all directions, spreading like tree roots, the ‘trunk’ itself being the new villain. He was standing in the middle of the street, watching Roman with an unreadable expression, as the carnage only increased. It was as if he saw his accidental blunder and decided he wanted to break buildings now, too. All Roman can think about is the Titanic, a mighty vessel taken down by a single piece of ice, as the roots shredded through the foundations of the downtown street. Metal and wood creaking fills the air, the sound of the ice growing and spreading, and it takes the hero far too long of just staring in terror to remember that he needs to try and stop that. 

He was strong, not smart. 

He ripped his sword out of the display window it had been flung through after an especially bad ice shot to the hand and sprinted forward, weapon ablaze with his newfound dedication. The unsteady ground rose to trip him, every muscle burned, blood dripped into his eye, but he pushed on, vaulting over a flipped car and coming face to face with his opponent. Again, he was slightly taken aback by the sheer confidence in his eyes, the man not at all flinching as Roman brought down the sword towards his head, blocking the strike with the edge of his staff. The destruction of the street came to a standstill as he turned all his concentration to the immediate fight, blocking Roman’s next two hits. The hero let the impact push his momentum downwards, swinging his weapon through the empty space where the man’s feet had been seconds ago. A creak to his left stole Roman’s attention for barely a split second, a mistake he realized the second he glanced away, and the other man went onto the offensive, thrusting the end of his staff into Roman’s side. He let out a soft grunt and threw up his sword, blocking the overhead strike inches from his head but not acting before he was kicked in the stomach, the force throwing him back. His sword clattered from his grip, the flames flickering out of existence and blending in with the rubble. And oh, how tables can turn. 

He rolled out of the way as the staff was jabbed into the ground, feeling the cold metal barely brush his neck. As he leapt to his feet, retreating several steps, his eyes kept shifting between the villain and the ground, searching desperately for his sword. It was a waste of time; his opponent was sizing him up again, almost like he was calculating weak spots in his head. He lunged forward, bringing the staff down towards Roman’s neck. Roman blocked with his forearm instinctively, immediately hissing in pain as a jolt shot up to his shoulder, and took another step back. This isn’t good. This isn’t good. He picked up the first weapon-like object he could reach, the bent pole of what was probably a street sign, and swung it at the other’s head with little to no aim, stumbling with the momentum. The villain ducked underneath it with no hesitation, stepping forward under the pole and landing a solid hit into Roman’s spine. Another kick in the same place sent him headfirst into the rubble, smacking his forehead against a piece of metal and feeling the skin split on contact. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. 

That’s all Roman could think as he weakly pushed himself onto his elbows, lifting his battered forehead from the ground, an action that required far more effort than it should have. Never before in his life had he been reduced to this, a limp pile of bruises and ice burns and bloodied cuts surrounded by the wreckage of a once unscathed street. The smell of smoke was thick in the air and heavy in his lungs, rising from the rubble of collapsed buildings and choking him both physically and metaphorically, as a reminder of how much he’d failed. 

He rolled onto his back, wincing as shards of metal and glass pierced his skin, only able to watch as the villain strolled towards him, twirling his staff smugly. Every muscle and bone screamed as he pushed himself onto his feet, stumbling weakly. Weak sparks shooting between his fingers was the best he could summon in this state, his hands numb from overexertion and skin dry and cracking from the constant flame. 

“And to think, I actually expected a challenge. They made you out to be so much more than this.”

The first words he’d heard the man say, slipping from his lips like honey, a near growl. He continued to advance, taking a step for every one of Roman’s pained backpedals, until his broken and bleeding skin bumped into the remains of a wall, pushing the debris in just that much further. Just as Roman glanced down to his feet, looking for anything weapon-like, he flicked his wrist in the hero’s direction and four shards of ice broke apart from the main roots around him, shooting through the air in a blur, and pinning Roman to the wall. Still the villain approached him until they were almost touching, Roman’s pain-hunched form causing the man to nearly tower over him, a smirk slowly spreading across his face. He raised a crooked finger under Roman’s chin, tsking under his breath.

“I thought you were their hero.”

And just like that, with no further monologuing, he shoved his hand into Roman’s chest, the cold limb burning Roman’s skin in seconds. He let out a weak sound, somewhere between a yelp and a groan, too dizzy with pain to even care about dignity anymore, waiting for the final blow. 

Just get it over with, he thought pathetically. But the hand didn’t get colder, or shoot a spike into his heart, or however this villain had planned to kill him. They just stood there, still, until Roman built up the courage to crack his eyes open, not knowing what to expect.

Whatever he had imagined, it wasn’t this. The man was squinting in concentration at his hand on Roman’s chest, the fingers spasming slightly as nothing happened. Whether it was sudden exhaustion or improper training, Roman didn’t care, because a surge of energy filled him and he focused it on his hands. Granted, they were pinned to a wall, but if he could just get the angle right-

Nope. Not a spark, not a flicker across his palm. They heated up, they burned, and he knew they should have at least glowed slightly to indicate the power flowing through them. The villain seemed to notice the way his fingers formed a fist, curling and uncurling to try and get them to do something, and a look of pure horror crossed his unmasked face. It took Roman much too long to realize as well. 

Neither of their powers were working.      

“No,” They both spoke simultaneously, jerking up to meet each other’s eyes. 

The villain dropped his hands to his sides, taking a couple steps back, the shock clear on his face. Another choked, “No,” escaped his lips before he turned and ran, the ice around Roman’s arms melting into thin air as soon as he was far enough away. The hero watched the man- his soulmate?!- sprint into the smoke, off to whatever base he was from, before crumbling weakly to the ground. Exhaustion overtook him, the memory of those startling blue eyes his final thought before the world dissolved into black.

#lywrites #tsshipmonth2020 #logince #logan sanders #roman sanders #sanders sides #sanders sides au #ts soulmate au #sanders sides soulmate au #sandersides #sanders sides fanfiction #sanderssidesfanfiction

[bodyswapmischief]

The Crossroad Contract

Are you okay?

Yeah? What do you mean?

I don't know ... you have been distracted all night. Like you have been thinking about something. You been constantly looking at your watch. And, you keep looking around like you expecting some one to show up.

Okay, I get it, I get. I don't know ... I guess I just been stressed lately. But, it's nothing you need to worry about.

Are you sure? Because if I didn't know better it kinda feels like your trying to hide from someone. We been dating for a year now, so I know when something is wrong. Did you get into trouble?

No, it's nothing I promise. It just a lot is happening at the ... at the gym. In fact we are planning on creating some branches. I've been waiting to hear from Mark because we are expecting to meet up with some sponsors to help us expand. That's why I've been anxious. We should be having an online meeting, tonight.

What!? That's great! I know once they see how fit and hot you are, you'll have them eating out of your hand. You don't got anything to worry about.

Jason and Eric continued the rest of their date. Jason tried his best to act normal in front of his boyfriend, but inside the fear of what was coming ate at his mind.

Do you want to come inside?

No. I actually got the text from Marc. I need to rush home and get my presentation ready for the zoom meeting we are having.

Jason gave Eric a tight squeeze, as they hugged. Even though Jason was taller, bigger, and stronger than his boyfriend, he felt safe in Eric's arms. He loved this feeling. He loved everything about this past year. And, he wanted to stay in this moment for ever.

But, he knew he couldn't. It wasn't safe to be near Eric, as the night grew later. He gave Eric a kiss a turned back to get into his car. As he drove home, his strong musclar arms shook with the the growing intensity of fear.

Reaching his apartment he prepared himself for what was to come. As the time past, Jason did all he could think to do, pray.

Dear God forgive me for what I did. For give me for my sins. I need you now. I need your strength.

His isn't listening.

The room filled with an echoed laughter. Jason opened his eyes and noticed the room was even darker than before. Sitting on the couch across from him was a what looked like a man. He stretched out comfortably. He was extremely attractive, dressed in an all black suit. His eyes matched, as their were no whites. His eyes were pools of pure black. The expression on his face was one of twisted joy.

It always amuses me that people like you feel worthy of forgiveness.

The figure laughs. And Jason instantly started shaking with fear. He was sure that he head more time. Looking at the clock, 11:00 pm, he should have had an hour left

Do you need to be reminded of the 5 soul you destroyed to summon me? The poor souls you used to selfishly stir up this deal. The things you did to have the body of your dreams.

The man continued his laughing. Jason tried to speak up, but fear gagged any attempt at sound.

What cat got your tongue? Don't you remember how you stabbed your father in his heart, as he slept. What about your mother? She woke up to the bloody sight. Your father bleeding out. She started screaming. How many times did you stabbed her in the neck? And your poor sister, at first she thought you enter her room to protect her, but once she saw the blood she knew the truth...

Stop!! Shut the fuck up!!! I don't want to hear it!!!

Tears started streaming down Jason's face.

Wow, someone has major balls yelling at a demon. But, your right ... what you did to your two friends was way worst...

Please shut up! If I could go back, I would have never done it. I'm sorry... Take this back ... I don't want this ...

Jason collapsed on the floor begging to the demon he summoned a year ago. His heart screamed with the pain of what he had done.

It's a little late for that, now isn't it. We made a deal. Those 5 souls for your "perfect body." It's not like I can just recreate those 5 souls for you. That body is now permanently yours for as long as you live. Live... now that's a funny word. Because it brings me to my real reason for coming here tonight. You know what I'm talking about. It's been a year buddy ... and you haven't delivered a new souls to hell. Do I need to remind you about the second clause of our agreement.

No... I know.. In order to stay alive in my new body. I must continue to kill a minimum of 1 person every year, otherwise I'll be dragged to hell.

Jason wiped away his tears feeling of defeated. In a strange way he wanted this. He felt like he deserved it. The guilt of killing his family and friends weighed on him for the entire year.

Well then do it! Take me to hell.

The demon smiled as chains emerged from him. They snaked around the room and wrapped around Jason. The strung around him and stabbed into his skin. He screamed out in pain. And, painfully his body started moving on its own.

Tears started forming in his eyes, as he feared his fate. In the corner of his room, a figure started to take shape. The closer he got the clear the figure became and the more he tried to scream. But, all that came out of his mouth were moans of panic.

Standing in front of him was a monster. The creatures body was tall with stretched limbs. It's skin was pale and was patterned with sores and cuts. It stood on bended knees. It fingers were long and curled, in disfigurement. It's nails black and sharp, resembling claws. The face was long and sunken in at the empty eye sockets. The skin hung loose on the bone. Holes done by picking reveled deep layers underneath the skin. It lips were cracked and torn.

The demon laughed.

Do you still wish to go to hell?

Jason was able to regain his movement and feel to the floor. From the corner of his eyes Jason could see the creature lung down towards him. Expecting to be ripped apart by the creature he closed his eyes. But, seconds past and nothing happened. Slowly he open his eyes and looked up. The creature was also looking up. The Demon started to do a soft chuckle.

Jason slowly picked himself up, not sure what was going on. The creature did the same. The Demon's chuckles got louder. Jason started slowly walking backwards away from the creature. The creature did the same creating more space between then. The demon was laughing hysterically now.

How do you not see it it? Are you really that blind to the situation?

The words rang through Jason's mind. His faced turned to shock. And in a twisted way the creature face also turned to one of shock. As Jason looked at the empty sockets of the creature, his brain works 1 billion times per second. He was looking at himself. He looked down at his body and still saw the ripped muscular body of his dreams. But, looking back at the creature he could see it was also him twisted, stretch, tortured, and mutilated.

What the hell is going on? What did you do to me?

I didn't do anything. I'm just merely showing you your true reflection. Yes on the outside and to the world, you look like a beefcake. But, once you leave that vessel. Once you die, this is your truth. Your true form, this is how you really look.

Jason stood in shock. He lifted his hands to his face. Touching his features and the creature did the same.

This can't be.

What!? You sold your soul Jason. You couldn't think your soul would still look pure and beautiful. God has disowned you and cursed your appearance to match. You are scared of becoming a monster. But, you already are one. Let yourself be one.

Jason fell to the floor, sobbing, The adrenaline from the fear starting to wear off. He was tired and defeated.

So what now!? Your going take away my body and torture me for all eternity, while looking like some type of monster!

Well that's up to you, Jason. You signed the contract. You know the consequences. Either take a life and live in this extremely attractive vessel for another year, or lose everything and be tortured until that mind of yours becomes just as twisted as your soul. Either way you become one of Lucifier's pets. But, doing it the easy way, at least you continue to look hot and have some sense of yourself still intact.

But, this body won't last for ever. Eventually it's going to die... so. I'd have nothing eventually.

Jason!! What don't you understand! Your a demon now. You are basically employed by the devil. Once that body becomes obsolete, and you are in good graces with Lucifer, you will receive a new body, in order to complete the work Lucifer ask of you.

So if I make the devil happy ... I can live the life I always wanted... and more.

Now, someone's getting it. Let the monster within, be unleashed. Let your dark desires free. You've killed once and you can do it again. Deep down you know you crave it. But you better work fast. By the looks of the clock ... you only have 30 minutes left.

Why are you telling me all this.

Your my recruit... if you do a good job... it also make me look good. And, I'm looking for a promotion.

The demon winks and with a flash he vanished. Jason looked around the room and catches a glimpse of his reflection. For a split second, he saw the demonic reflection of his soul. And, in that moment everything clicked. He had to stop pretending. He had to let loose and be himself. Be the monster. He knew what he had to do. He couldn't let everything he worked for slip away from his grasp. The souls of his family and friends would just be wasted. He might be a monster but he didn't have to look like one. He still deserved happiness, right? He deserved power. He wanted more power.

Now, that he knew what was at stake he started to really think to himself.. if this body was just given to him for signing a contract, then what else would he be able to achieve if he continued to make Lucifer happy.

He went to his kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife he had and slid it inside the back of his pants.

He pulled out his phone and started texting.

Hey babe, the meeting ended and it went really well. There was no reason to be anxious, in the first place. You were right. I thought I'd come back to your place. So, we could celebrate and I can release this tension I been holding in all day. I'll be there in 5 minutes. I'm dying to stick it in you 😉

Wow, the meeting must have gone great! You're not usually this flirty and direct. But, I like it. It's turning me on. Hurry, I'll be here waiting.

Jason looked up from his phone and smiled as he walked to his boyfriends apartment, a few minutes down the street. The thoughts of ramming his knife, into his lover, turned him on.

#body #swap #mischief #transformation #tf #story #stories

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Mech Suits

Prelude: The Hive Wars  As is with most first contact situations with a new species on the galactic scale the first interactions with the Hive were of the hostile nature. 

They had been slowly expanding across the stars through the use of their continent sized bioships that would set down on new worlds and begin spreading a organic like material across the entire planet that the Hive could mold into whatever they needed. True they could not travel as fast as most jump capable vessels, but their bioships produced a rare organic compound that was ten times more potent than average space fuel which propels them steadily enough. 

One such ship landed on a fringe moon belonging to the Sandrul species. The moon’s isolation and holy status within Sandrul society had aided Hive in establishing their foothold as only the Sandrul priests were allowed to travel to the moon. It was several weeks before returning priests discovered this but by then the Hive bioship had terraformed roughly 1/6th of the planets landmass. 

The Sandrul were outraged as the moons location formed the tail end of the constellation depicting their god from the Sandrul homeworld further in system. An immediate holy war was declared and Sandrul forces flooded on to the moon to purge the sacrilege. 

Most of the Sandrul military leadership believed the Hive to be nothing more than an invasive species of insects with no sense of tactics; but as the war went on it quickly became apparent that there was indeed a mind driving the Hive’s actions. 

Several of the leadership class had accompanied the Hive ship and had been studying the Sandrul tactics through the eyes of their warrior classes. Once the examination was complete they began altering their tactics, using the religious zeal of the Sandrul against them and luring them into countless ambushes time and again. 

With the war beginning to turn against them and with half the moon now in the Hive hands the Sandrul priests did the unthinkable and called on the galactic community for aid. Several species sent forces, though out of fear of the Hive spreading rather than any bonds of honor or friendship to the Sandrul. 

The priests were adamant that no orbital attacks could be carried out on the holy world, much to the anger of the now coalition forces, and instead insisted in a conventional ground war with the growing hordes to drive them back.        

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Hive Wars: Day 503 “INCOMING!”

Tombo woke to shouts coming from all corners of the base and alarms calling out like the banshees of old. 

Springing from his cot he grabbed his armor and weapon and exited his squads barracks block. All around coalition troops were sprinting back and forth like a swarm of ants. He watched them go by for a few moments before he heard the roar of gunfire and reflexively ducked. He looked to his left and saw one of the guard towers had opened up with its rotary cannons at something beyond the wall and was followed suit by troopers lining the wall itself and firing down. 

Tombo’s squad came piling out after and nearly ran into his back before he side stepped out of the way. They were looking about dumbfounded as he had but now with the sound of weapons fire intensifying Tombo new what he must do. 

“To the battlements!” he cried, raising his lightning staff he pointed to the wall where the other soldiers stood firing, “We must defend this place!”. His squad let out a cheer of holy creeds and followed him as he led the way. 

The walls of the compound stood at nearly 12 meters into the air made of thick fabricated stone with a metal staircase built into the inside section. The walls surrounded all three miles of the base and landing pads like a giant circle and had not been attacked since it was established several weeks ago when the coalition forces arrived. 

“Get out of the way!” 

Tombo turned to see a human vehicle behind his squad with the driver leaning out and blaring their horn. Tombo’s face twisted in anger as he saw the driver. Not for his disrespect towards one of the Sun Flayer’s chosen, but because they were human filth. Allowing such heathens to set foot on this holy place burned Tombo with hatred as much as the deadly insects that had come to take it. Yet the priests had spoken and that they must endure their presence as decreed by the Sun Flayer’s will. 

Tombo waved his squad to the side and they allowed the vehicle to speed passed them towards the wall. The back of the vehicle was open and he could see more human soldiers carrying their weapons and performing final checks.

They had just reached the stairway when the main gates crunched inwards with a horrific “THUNK”. Stopping at the stairway Tombo turned around to see that the tower guns had redirected themselves to firing at whatever was in front of the gate while more soldier atop the wall turned their fire. 

Another loud impact reverberated Tombo and he felt a coming dread at what was about to happen. Quickly ordering his squad back they took up positions around the gate as more human soldiers arrived to join them. A third deafening impact struck home and the gates slowly cracked apart to reveal a massive eye just on the other side of the gate. Tombo’s squad ha deployed in a half circle around the gate just as the forth impact came and split the gate wide open. One of the gate doors flew backwards and Tombo had dodged within a hairs breath as it flew passed him and took two human soldiers face first. 

Whatever had shattered the gate Tombo could not see as he turned his head back and saw a swarm of Hive warrior forms scuttling in through the wide gap, their jaw like pincers opening and closing hungrily as they rushed forward.

The human soldiers opened fire at once without waiting for a command from their commanders while the Sandrul waited for Tombo’s command. 

“For the Sun Flayer!” he cried, leveling his lightning staff. 

“May he shed the darkness from our life!” came the response as the warriors leveled their staffs as well and fired. 

Bolts of pure energy shot out from the tip of each staff into the oncoming swarm. Were the energy struck it turned the flesh to ash in moments before proceeding through to the next victim and so on. 

The constant fire from the lightning staffs tore the Hive warriors apart leaving deep gashes in their lines as they pressed onwards and when combined with the human ballistic weapons picking off the ones that got through the breach was safely contained. 

Tombo had just begun to think that they would be alright when a mighty roar came from the other side of the wall. The ground began to shake with charging footsteps and the Hive parted like water to allow a massive form come plowing through. 

A massive mound of flesh and armored exoskeleton came crashing into the left side of the base of the tower next to the gate. The structure began to wobble unsteadily and soon began toppling over on to the Hive warriors mewing about outside casting a massive dust cloud into the air. For a moment Tombo could feel the calmness of the battlefield as everything went silent before the sound of a thousand rushing feet took him back to the present.

Using the downed tower as a series of stepping stones, the leaping warriors of the Hive were able to scale upwards and on to the top of the wall while those on the ground used the widened breach to break the coalitions formation. 

Before Tombo could shout to his squad to fall back the enemy were already lunging from the dust cloud with talons outstretched. Many were cut down where they stood in a heartbeat while others were able to get off one or two lightning staff shots before being taken down. The humans present fared little better as they emptied their weapons entire supply of ammunition in single bursts desperately trying hold back the onrushing tide only for them to jam or run empty in the midst of the storm of teeth and talon. 

With the formation broken the Hive were now pushing deep into the base. Tombo now moved backwards while firing over and over again into the rushing mass. Those that were still alive formed around him and together they continued making a covered retreat. 

Another deafening roar came and the monstrous creature pressed forward again through the throngs of warriors and came directly at Tombo. His lightning staff bots struck home against the creature but bounced off like pebbles leaving only burn marks. The creatures mouth spread wide open just as it was upon him when a blur of motion struck the beast and sent it sprawling back into the milling warriors splattering several with it’s weight. 

Tombo turned to see three large mechanical suits striding passed him. Two carried large rotatory guns while the third carried a massive hammer of some kind. One of the rotary gun suits looked down at Tombo and motioned with their hand towards the innards of the base.   

“Fall back to the secondary line, we’ll hold them here.”

Before Tombo could reply the two gun wielding suits opened fired while the third stomped forward. 

Standing nearly twice the average humans height, the leading suit hefted it’s war hammer and brought it down hard in a sweeping arc into the rushing Hive warriors. The sheer force of the blow was enough to turn their bodies into stains on the great weapon. Tombo watched as a warrior leapt off rubble of the wall and lunged for the head unit of the hammer suit only to be casually caught with the suits right hand mid air. The warrior flailed about wildly trying to break free of the grip only to spasm as the hand tightened and crushed the warrior. 

The two rotary suits had kept back from the melee and had been seeking to corner off the right and left flanks of the breach while the hammer wielding suit held the middle. 

Just passed the seething mass of warriors Tombo saw the great monstrosity that had shattered the wall once more rising to its feet as the hammer suit came close. Billowing a mighty roar the form charged heedlessly through it’s own comrades to tackle the foe. The hammer suit brought the hammer upward this time and it struck just underneath the beasts jaw sending it violently backwards. It staggered but rallied quickly and then charged again. The suit had switched to a downwards arc now intent to shatter the creatures skull when at the last moment it halted its charge and the hammer smashed harmlessly into the ground in front of it. 

Roaring the creature kicked out and snapped the hammers staff in two and charged again. Tombo thought the suit’s pilot would seek to distance itself while its compatriots gunned it down from a safe distance. Instead the suit spun the shattered staff in it’s hand with the broken end facing outwards and met the charge of the creature head on. 

It’s massive jaws spread wide and bit deep into the armored plating of the suit and picked it up into the air like a rag doll. All around it Hive warriors were moving around the confrontation like water keeping the other two suits occupied enough and unable to come to their allies aide. 

Tombo rallied what was left of his squad and attempted to fire on the beast but the Hive warriors were too thick around the battle for any of his shots to make it through. 

The hammer suit, held deftly in place by the rows of pressurized teeth, grabbed hold of the creatures jaw to steady itself. With a swift motion that surprised Tombo for it’s brutality the suit drove the shatter shaft of the hammer it still held deep into one of the beasts eyes. It let out a roar of pure anger as the suit removed the shaft and drove it in again and again into the beasts eye socket. It flailed around insanely from the pain crushing several dozen of the surrounding Hive warriors as the suit finally drove the shaft deep into the socket and brought it’s clenched mechanical hand down like a hammer and drove the shaft through the creatures inner skull. 

It roared again and it’s mouth finally eased enough for the suit to pull itself free just as the beast stumbled back into the breach it had created moments before and die. 

The warriors halted their advance for a moment as the suit rose to it’s full height again, the teeth puncture wounds in the suit showing the mechanical innards. The gunners continued mowing down the dumbstruck warriors just as the Hive reorganized itself. 

Somewhere far away from the front lines a hive leadership caste saw the suits as a more imminent danger and redirected the swarm to taking them out. 

They rushed the now weaponless suit from all sides in their attempt to bring it down. Tombo watched in amazement as the suit, rather than retreat to it’s fellows, stood its ground and once more met the charge. 

Raising its arms up it jabbed and punched like a whirlwind all around itself, each blow dealing a death blow. When a warrior dove for its feet it was grabbed by the throat and thrown backwards at full force leaving a bloody gash in the Hive ranks. 

During the brief respite the suit bent down to the carcass of the monstrosity and with strained effort broke off one of the mouths protruding pincers. Hefting it like a club the suit pressed forward and swatted aside the rushing warrior forms. 

A second warrior dove low under the suits guard mid swing and slashed out at the suits legs cutting several cables. Black fluid gushed out and the suit suddenly came crashing down to one knee. Rather than trying to rise again the suit continued swatting aside those that came too close until finally it’s compatriots stood by its side and laid down additional covering fire into the breach. 

Tombo looked up to see additional suits now clearing the tops of the walls and stalking through the base picking off the isolated pockets of warriors that made it inside before being cutoff. Shortly there after the Hive forces began to cease their attacks and scuttled away out of range of the bases defenses. 

Some time had passed when Tombo returned to the breached gate to still see the three suits that had fought alongside him still there. The two rotary gun suits had put down their weapons and were now grappling with the third. One was holding the suit from behind while the other was trying to pry open the front. 

As Tombo approached he could hear the chatter of the pilots. 

“The fraker did a number on you, that’s for sure.”

“Just open my damn cockpit already! I need help, not narration.”

With a screeching twisting of metal the third suit was finally able to rip open the cockpits hatch and reveal the pilot within. 

The suit that had been holding from behind released their grip and came up front. “You alright sarge?” the pilot asked. Tombo saw the human inside stretching their arms and taking deep breaths of air before slowly rising to their feet and exiting the cockpit. 

“I need a shower, a drink, and my bed; then I’ll tell you how I’m doing.” 

The pilot drew a small knife from their jacket and began walking towards the pile of dead Hive warriors. “But first there’s something I gotta do.” The two suits nodded and together picked up the damage suit to carry it off back to the repair bays. 

Tombo watched for a moment as the human pilot clamber up the mound of dead and begin shifting the corpses looking for something. They seemed undisturbed by the icors and smells of the Hive and continued searching for something. With a yell of triumph the human stopped moving bodies and sat down, his knife slowly carving into something. 

Tombo was curious now and approached closer to the mound. He covered his nose as he came close and circled from behind to see what the pilot was cutting. To his surprise the human was carving a scale out of the creature that had attacked him earlier. 

“Why do you defame the bodies of the dead?” Tombo asked without hesitation. The pilot’s response was simple and he didn’t even bother to look up from his task. “What does it look like? I’m taking a trophy.” 

The honesty caught Tombo off guard as he had been expecting some lie or misdirection. “To sell and profit now doubt.” Tombo spoke as he reached under his cloack for his lightning staff. The pilot shook his head. “To remember and honor.” 

Tombo stopped. “Why do you honor the dead, even more so when the dead were your enemies?” 

“They wounded me.” The pilot began, “they left a scar not just in my body but in my mind that made me question if I was going to live or die. A foe like that is worth remembering, worth learning from.” 

Strange as it sounded Tombo could relate to a degree as it was written in the book of the shinning one that even in death there is much to learn. 

“During the battle,” Tombo asked as he took his hand back from his lightning staff, “why did you continue to fight the creature even when your weapon shattered? Would it have not been better to retreat?” 

The pilot stopped for a moment and chuckled, as if the question amused him. With a final stab he pried the scale off the beast and held it in his hand. He casually stepped back over the dead and came before Tombo still admiring the scale. 

“One can never be without a weapon, when they ARE the only weapon they’ll ever need.” 

Without saying another word the pilot tilted his head and walked passed the Sandrul, humming a soft melody as he flipped the scale between his fingers over and over.       

#HUMANS ARE WEIRD #humans are insane #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #scifi #story #mech suit

[fandom-space-princess]

Radio Silence

midam week prompt 3: Connection - a relationship in which a person, thing, or idea is linked or associated with something else

Rating: Teen

[1.5k words, angst with a happy ending and hurt/comfort]

One by one, the voices of the Host are falling silent.

Michael struggles to come to terms with the deaths of his family. Adam helps.

read below the cut, or on AO3

Michael's first memory of Lucifer is song.

The Creation was still so young then, so new. For some undefinable period of existence, Michael had been not First, but Only. Sole companion to Father in his dominion of light. Though time had no meaning in that early formless void, in Michael's memories his solitary existence at his Father's side was a small stretch of eternity.

He did not know loneliness. How could he? He had his Father. Moreover, he had no basis for comparison.

But from one moment (or year or epoch) to the next, he was suddenly no longer Only.

Father's hands, alternately stirring and stilling the fabric of spacetime around him. Urging matter and energy into coalescence, a weave of plasma and starlight and intention condensing in on itself. Reaching out and taking a piece of Michael himself, his essence of silver and steel, the better to bind and grow this new creature. As he did all things, Michael gave of himself joyously. Felt the twist of his rehomed grace as it rooted and flourished, blossoming and expanding into —

(this creature of blinding luminescence, stretching wings like his own from grace like his own with a voice, oh, a voice like his own)

The Second turned to face the First, and raised his voice in glory. Michael, knowing naught but the love and the rightness of it, echoed back the song. And all the kingdom of his Father, all the dominion of light, rang with the birth of the first harmony.

— companion.

Kin. 

Second.

Go, My creations. Father's whispered first instructions. Go forth and expand My domain, in My name.

Singing, they circled each other. They flew through the void trailing gravity in their wake, shedding stardust from their vast wings, and nebulas swirled into being as they passed. Where they went, existence followed.

Soon their Father called them home, and commanded them to give of themselves once more.

Grace from the First, grace from the Second. Starstuff and intention, and twin blooms of being. The Third, a creature of bright sparking joy and gentle hands, so like Father's. The Fourth, wings as golden and unwavering as the timbre of his voice.

They were Four, and at Father's side they were complete. Theirs was the first choir.

There came a time, of course, when more voices joined the chorus. In the millennia that followed, Michael grew to love all of his brothers; every voice in the Host was welcomed, wanted, cherished, a vital addition to the melody. Such was Heaven. Yet for the rest of his long existence, Michael would guard most closely those early memories. Before their smaller kin had been spoken into being. Before Father's absence. Before the amputation of self that was Lucifer's Fall, was Gabriel's departure.

When they were Four, in and of only each other, and their melody was whole.

-----

"Can you still hear them?" Adam asked once, and Michael had been unable to meet his eyes.

The Cage was a lonely place, only the four of them. But at least Michael still had this connection, however tenuous, to his brothers. Adam didn't even have that much.

After a heartbeat (or a year or an epoch; the quality of time passing here was oddly reminiscent of the timeless Beginning), Michael nodded.

"I can," he murmured, "if I focus. I can't reach out to them, but... I can hear them."

The voices of the Host in his mind. Years, now, since the choir of Heaven sung in well-ordered harmony, but they were there nonetheless. Discordance or not, their presence gave him comfort.

He had glanced at Lucifer, brooding on the other side of the Cage near Sam Winchester's sleeping form. Adam had followed his gaze.

"What about him?" Adam asked. "Does he talk to you? Does he try to talk to them?"

Michael shook his head.

"He hasn't tried to talk to me in a very long time," he sighed. "I doubt he has any greater interest in the others."

-----

Something is brewing. The singing of his brothers is strident, strained. There is no harmony here.

There is fighting, and whispers. One by one, voices begin to vanish from the chorus.

----

No amount of the Host falling silent can compare to the moment Raphael is slain.

Lucifer does meet his eyes, then. For the first time in a hundred years, their gazes lock across the expanse of the Cage, and Michael knows that their pain is, in that instant, identical.

Gone, gone, gone. It hadn't felt like this when Gabriel died, and why...? But Michael hurts too much to think about it, too much to do anything but let himself be gathered into Adam's lap and weep.

He feels a part of his grace return to him then, a piece missing since the beginning. An remnant of bright sparking joy and caring hands. His healing, gentle brother.

He has never wanted anything less.

-----

Michael's head is splitting, his grace tearing apart at the seams. Thousands of voices reverberating agony. Deaths — there had never been so many of their kind to perish at once. Deaths and an echo of war cries, some in terror, some in joy, and all the same.

Castiel. Castiel. Castiel!

He slumps into Adam's arms, hands gripped tight enough to bruise on his vessel's shoulders. Adam runs fingertips over his scalp and mutters soothing nonsense into his ear.

He wonders if Lucifer can hear them too. Wonders if he cares.

-----

Sometime around year 700, Lucifer disappears from the Cage. One moment, he is there, a silent shadow opposite Michael and Adam, and the next — he is gone.

For a while, this feels like a glimmer of hope. A sick sort of hope. But hope nonetheless.

Even this fades in time.

They have long since passed the point of keeping anything from each other. Down here, with no one to hear them but the Cage walls and the howling damned, Adam cradles Michael's head on his lap while the archangel whispers fears, fears of silence and the dark, and clutches his hand.

Adam's soul is not like the grace of his brothers. Michael's mouth twists in wry amusement at the notion. Once, his younger self would have considered a human soul to be beneath his notice — unable to be harmonized with, such a far cry from the resplendence of celestial hymns. But in the confines of the Cage, against the growing backdrop of silence and static from the Host, Michael has found himself in a position to reevaluate.

Quiet Adam's soul may be, small and fragile and human. But it is so much more than that, too. Its song is steadfast, so determined, and the love it radiates is all the more fierce for the comparison to Michael's divinity.

Here in the dark, Adam is a lighthouse. And Michael —

— it is blasphemous to even think it, but Michael has never seen a light so bright.

-----

When Gabriel dies, this time, he knows it. Can feel the reality of it in threading back into his grace, broken strands of gold returning to wend back whence they originated.

It is no comfort that Lucifer follows soon after.

He stares up at the shadowy ceiling of the Cage, and contemplates what it is to be Only once again.

-----

"I can't hear any of them any more," he says one day, and Adam pulls him back to lean against his chest, sheltering in his arms.

"None at all?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing. It's just static."

Too quiet. It had never been quiet before. Not since the Beginning. This — this can't be the End. This is all wrong, it can't, it can't. His grace flares out, one long distressed lash, glaring and harsh in the dim space.

"Hey, hey. Listen to me, Michael." Adam is a comforting weight at his back. "I've got you. I've got you."

Adam begins to sing.

He is not companion and other-self and kin-in-kind, not the way Lucifer and Raphael and Gabriel were. Not even a long-beloved note among the melody of the Host.

His voice is not like his brothers' — Adam sings human hymns, songs he only half-recollects from a childhood a thousand years gone. But there is something in it, a vein of simple solace that has Michael's grace reaching out to brush up against and twine around Adam's soul.

Adam sings, and there Michael takes shelter. Adam raises his voice, and there Michael finds love.

Michael's own voice is cracking, rusty from disuse. It has been so long since he sang. But as he allows his grace to ebb and thrum along with the words, matches pitch and volume with Adam until they might ring through into even the depths of the Pit outside, he finds the harmony that he had feared gone for good.

Archangel and vessel join in song, and Michael hopes this may not be the End after all.

Hopes that, maybe, they can sing a new Beginning.

#i know i said i wouldn't write another angsty one and i SWEAR i didn't mean to #this just Happened #it is less angsty in that they are both alive in this one though so that's something #posting this a few hours early in my own timezone #because work is going to eat my soul tomorrow and i won't have time #angst #michael spn #adam milligan #midam #midam week #spn #fanfic #mine #my fanfic

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (88): epilogue || atz

Perhaps, somewhere deep in you, you’ve always known that it would have to come to an end.

Death isn’t a concept known only to humans. From the second the breath of life passes through any living being, it fights, flees and struggles to stay alive. The reason a a shoal of fish scatter before a shark, why birds take to the sky to escape stray cats fighting for their own sustenance, death is the one language every creature understands.

Survival instinct. The basest, most primal drive shared by every living being on this earth. Stay alive.

That’s what you’re fighting as you walk towards the black dagger pointed directly at you, the wind screaming in your ears, power surging through your fingertips even as you feel your body crumbling apart under the onslaught you’re putting it through. Slowly chipping at you, sand falling through your fingertips, the end draws closer and closer no matter how much you’ve tried to fight it - inevitable.

Two responses, fight or flight.

You can no longer run from this anymore.

“Finally, we meet again, sea goddess.”

An odd feeling stirs in you, strangely serene even as the storm swirls around you, lightning flashing and thunder raging. Right, you remember now, your memories slowly surfacing the more your body deteriorates. The sea, the storm, the sky. You could never ben human to begin with. This is who you are.

Hot tears burn your eyes, sting against the cracking skin of your cheeks, but you bite your lip and stand strong, back straight and eyes fixed firmly on the man in front of you. The blade in his hand trembles at the sight of you, and somewhere in the depths of your memory, you realise why Hongjoong’s gaze had drawn you from the very beginning upon your first meeting.

The same fierce gaze. The burning glare. Both father and son had the same eyes.

“You.” The sea goddess speaks with you, every word falling from your lips echoed by thunder, its resounding cry. His eyes burn the same way they did years ago, and the image of a venomous green stare blazing with tears superimposes itself over the vision in front of you, a scream of vengeance from a single man left alone on a deserted beach louder than the howling wind - I will never forgive you! “We’re here once again.”

“Right where you killed my crew.” Commander Kim speaks, voice even as he keeps the blade pointed straight at you. You can feel the very power thrumming in your body flowing through his and all about you. This place rises from the depths of aeons of memories - a single ship, splintering upon the sheer indomitable force of the storm, the screams of its dying crew, the anguish of its only surviving captain. “I’m here to take back everything you took from me.”

“You want to kill me.” You say slowly, nails digging into your palm, and skin splits beneath the force before it too, is blown away like chaff in the wind. “Your soul, it’s mixed with the essence of the sea. You’ve committed taboo of the highest order against yourself, foolish mortal. What you’ve done cannot be reversed.”

Sluggish, like a waking beast, an ancient force churns slowly in the commander’s body, wrapping its claws around the human soul. Like a predator, it latches on to the only support it has, burying its tendrils so deep that you can’t tell it apart from the original soul. There’s no going back for him.

All water eventually flows back to the sea, and now, it’s reaching out for you.

Blood trickles slowly from the corner of his mouth, his eyes mirroring yours - you see the primal force in them as in yours. “Then I’ll have to see it through till the end.”

In the blink of an eye, the waves surge.

Higher and higher, until they tower high above you, a seething mass of water and wind, the storm sounds its death knell - and it all comes crashing down upon you. Move, the survival instinct in you screams, and you throw your hand up. Beneath your feet, the sea twists and writhes like a massive beast before it responds to your call, crashing into the incoming wave and breaking it apart in a shower of salt water that rains down on you from above.

Commander Kim stumbles, more blood dripping from his lips and staining his teeth red, while burning pain engulfs your legs, so agonizing that you collapse to your knees. You can’t think straight, fingers of your one remaining hand burying itself in your hair even as you try to force yourself to your feet once more.

“-hin Hae! Chin Hae!” A voice fights its way through the death knell of the storm, and you turn your eyes to see three people on the beach. Yeosang, mouth agape, Wooyoung, his eyes wide with horror, and your captain, shaking on his feet and staring at the scene before him in shock. The entire island they’ve been standing on has been reduced to nothing but a bare strip of sand by the commander’s massive wave, yet only where Kim Hongjoong stands stays untouched.

“Captain, you need to escape-” You begin to shout, but before you can do a thing Hongjoong unsheathes his sword, and with a cry runs towards his own father, blade swinging down in a merciless arc.

Horror leaps into your throat, and you take a step forward. “No!”

Commander Kim moves aside just in time as Hongjoong brings the cutlass down in a flash of wicked silver, dodging and avoiding every swing aimed his way. Yet he doesn’t retaliate even once, wordlessly defending, never attacking as his own son raises a blade to him with the intent to kill.

“That blade can kill gods, can’t it?” Hongjoong snarls over the roar of the storm, and lightning races across the sky, so dark it almost resembles night. The clash of steel rings in your ears, punctuated by claps of thunder. “Then it should be able to kill you too, am I right?”

His words echo over the storm. The tears in his one remaining eye cry even louder than his words.

“Hongjoong, I’m warning you, get out of the way!” His father utters, a guttural growl that sounds more bestial than human. “I can’t control this much longer, and if you try to fight, I-”

The energy in the commander tightens its grip on his soul, squeezing. The more your body falls apart, the better you see things that humans cannot - the cracks emerging on that soul, the strain of the commander who is struggling to resist its power in its entirety, and for a moment, panic floods through you.

“Captain, run!”

You hear the sound of a soul breaking, like glass shattering. Like a now empty, broken vessel submerged at the bottom of the ocean, it can only helplessly watch as water gushes into it, wiping out every last remaining trace of what it once used to be - and then it’s as if the entire sky turns black.

The scream you hear tears the sky in two.

Another wave rises and sweeps towards you, picking up in ferocity and height until it almost blends in seamlessly with the sky overhead. You throw up both hands and the sea obeys your call, sweeping up into a massive hurricane that envelopes you in a spinning mass of water and wind like a protective cocoon. And not a second too late, because in the next moment a wall of seawater crashes into the barrier you’ve thrown up, the sound thunderous enough to make your ears ring.

“I will kill you, sea goddess! My crew, give them back to me!”

More tears fall from your eyes, hot and burning. Memories overlap with memories, and you can feel them, the bones lying at the bottom of the seas, so deep that the sun will never reach them ever again. Hear the screams of the dying, the feeling of suffocating, their cries and pleas to spare them - you feel their deaths in your body, the sea that you encompass, and tears only come faster, harder - this is why the gods do not have emotions.

Right. That was you. This is who you are. What you are.

“You should have taken my life with theirs!” Commander Kim screams, face so twisted with fury and grief that you can barely recognise it, and you can barely raise a hand to block it, feeling your body crumbling apart more and more under the repeated attacks. “I would have gladly given my life for any of theirs, so why-”

Another wave.

“Why!”

The sky shatters, lightning cutting a clean line through the clouds, and a torrential downpour falls.

“Why did you have to take them from me?”

The sea rises from every direction, storm and sky melding together, and brings their joined fists down upon you.

Your shield breaks apart under the onslaught, and you cry out as you’re flung onto the beach like a limp rag. Head swimming, you taste copper in your mouth, vision going double as you try to sit upright, shaking uncontrollably.

Just how many had he killed to become this strong? Just how powerful is his desire for vengeance that he was able to endure this long?

Run.

The voice in your head chants, louder and louder.

Run. Run. Run.

You can’t win. Flee. Escape. Run!

A pair of arms wrap around you, warm. You glance up shakily to see a pair of concerned green eyes staring down at you, and one hand rises up to brush your tears away. “Wooyoung...”

“What happened?” Wooyoung’s voice breaks as he looks over you, his own eyes turning wet with tears even as the rain pelts down upon him, soaking his shirt and dripping from his hair. “Chin Hae. What’s going on? What’s all this about you being a sea goddess? What’s happening to you?”

Fresh tears roll down your cheeks the second you hear the anguish in his voice. “I’m sorry-”

“Father, stop!” You hear Hongjoong screaming over the storm. “Stop it! If your crew could see you right now, you’d be a shame to every single one of them! This isn’t what they’d want you to do!”

“Don’t bring them up when they’re already dead!” Thunder shakes the entire sky, the sound ringing painfully in your ears. “They’re gone, and this is the only path I have left! As a captain, you understand, don’t you?”

Through your own tears, you see Hongjoong’s lip trembling as he stares down his own father, blade shaking uncontrollably in his hand. A single tear rolls down his cheek.

“I understand.”

Commander Kim nods, eyes hard. “If you do, then-”

Hongjoong takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. When he opens them, his eye burns with the same fire you had seen all those years ago on his father’s face, and you can’t seem to breathe.

“I understand.” Hongjoong repeats, voice shaking, but his words come out clear. “It’s exactly because I understand,” he raises his cutlass at his father, pointing it directly at his chest in a clear challenge. “That I will die before I let you hurt Chin Hae. Because that’s what you taught me. Because that’s my role as a captain, just like yours.”

Commander Kim stops moving for a second, blue eyes wavering, and for a split second you see a flash of green once more.

“I will never forget everything that you’ve done. But even when I denied it this entire time, I realised my whole life was spent chasing after your back. I wanted to become a captain like you.” Hongjoong grits his teeth, tears spilling from his eye, mixing with the rain as they slip down his cheek. “But the man you are right now, is not that captain anymore.”

A single tear falls from his father’s eyes.

“Hongjoong, I...” He begins to say, but at that moment, he collapses to his knees, coughing and retching. Dark red blood begins to trickle from his mouth, his nose, his ears, and your mouth falls open in horror. His body is failing. Water always returns to the sea, and if it’s been kept in this mortal body for this long...

“Hongjoong, get out of the way!” You scream, throwing yourself forward. And just in the nick of time, because the second you do, the sea crashes down right where Hongjoong had been standing, and would have swept him into its depths if it wasn’t for your arms wrapped tightly around him protectively.

“Father!” Hongjoong cries out as Commander Kim groans in pain, red soaking into the sand. The waves leap to and fro like untamed, unbridled horses, increasingly wild and erratic. “Father, stop this! Please! I’m begging you!”

Commander Kim shakily rises to his feet once more, and to your shock, one of his eyes are a familiar shade of green once more. That shouldn’t be possible, how could his soul fight back against the sheer power of the entire ocean? Another tear spills from that one eye, and he smiles - a sad, resigned smile.

“What...” He says, so softly you almost miss it, as he looks at his son and then down at his own hands. “What exactly... am I doing?”

The wind screams overhead, piercing and shrill. Lightning flashes, outlining the world in white light and darkness. Commander Kim stands on the beach, alone as he was all those years ago, as the sea whips itself into a frenzy behind him, wild and uncontrollable.

The power in him responds, tearing his body apart from the inside out. He’s a vessel filled close to bursting, and the second he does...

Commander Kim knows as well. He turns to look at you, eyes beseeching. Black wind and rain whips around him, ferocious, near terrifying and yet he looks so, so sad, a lost, broken man in the middle of it all.

“Please.” A plea, begging. “Stop me before I end up killing everyone in this place.”

Tears stream down your own cheeks.

Don’t! The survival instinct in you screams. Don’t do it! You’ll die! You-

“Father, what are you talking about?” Hongjoong screams, voice painfully raw. The sheer desperation in his voice stabs you straight through the heart. “What are you doing? Don’t leave me again! Father!”

He’s talking to you.

You rise to your feet, liquid fire burning your entire body, and take one step forward. Another, and another, until you’re standing in front of the commander.

“You’re already a great captain.” Commander Kim says gently, and there’s so much warmth in his eyes as he looks down at his grief stricken son. “A greater captain than I ever was. You’re my pride and joy, Hongjoong.”

Hongjoong wails.

He turns to you, a self deprecating smile playing on his lips. “Sea goddess. I underestimated you, and I am sorry.”

You nod your head, but hold out your remaining hand as an offering. You know what you have to do.

“I understand why. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too.”

He smiles at you, and takes your hand.

“Wait!” Hongjoong stumbles forward, collapsing onto the sand once, before he forces himself to his feet once more, reaching out for you. With a pained smile, you hold up your crumbling hand, and a gust of wind physically holds him back, preventing him from taking a step closer to you.

“Chin Hae!” You hear Wooyoung cry out, Yeosang’s sobbing. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

Taking a deep breath, you turn and give them a final smile, voice trembling. “Commander Kim’s body is falling apart, and if all the power accumulated in his body is released here, a storm large enough destroy every ship in the ocean will rage. I’m going to bring him to the bottom of the ocean, so we can minimise the impact.”

“But you’ll get caught in it, won’t you?” Wooyoung screams, body shaking from sheer agony of watching you walk to your own death. “Chin Hae! You’ll die!”

You try to smile for him, to reassure him. For some reason, at this moment, all you can think about is them. Will they be alright? Will they be okay? “I know. I’m dying anyway, Wooyoung. This is something that only I can do.”

Hongjoong screams, wordless, fingers digging into the sand as he sobs, his entire body trembling from the force of his cries.

“Captain,” you say softly, even as Hongjoong cries harder. “You’ll forget all about me once I die. It’ll be okay. You won’t feel any pain, nor any guilt. It’s alright-”

“I never want to forget you!” Hongjoong screams, and at his words, the tears you’d been holding back finally fall from your eyes, your heart throbbing painfully. “Never! How could I... how could I ever forget someone like you?”

“Then please,” you manage through your tears, “don’t forget me, okay?” Sobs fills the cavity of your chest, and a muffled cry escapes you. “I thought... that if all of you were to forget me in the end, that this life I lived would have been completely meaningless. But now...”

You take a deep breath, and give him the brightest smile you can muster. “But now, nothing about this life was meaningless, because I spent it with all of you.” Another sob slips past your lips. “You called my name. With you, I was human. Chin Hae...” you bow your head, trying to stifle your sobs. “Chin Hae lived a very blessed life.”

Hongjoong doesn’t say a word, only staring wordlessly at you as if he’s trying to commit every feature of your face to memory before its too late. His eye is brimming with tears.

“So thank you, captain, for everything that you’ve done.”

With that, you turn around and take a step forward, Commander Kim walking with you. The two of you walk towards the ocean, where the storms rage and clash, and step into the water without looking back.

The water rises, as if to swallow the both of you whole. You can feel the sea surging, thrashing in response to your presences. You continue walking. The water rises to your chest.

“Chin Hae! Chin Hae!”

The water rises to your ears, and their cries are blocked out by the waves.

You continue walking.

All this while, the hand in yours doesn’t let go.

The two of you walk till there’s nothing beneath you. Until darkness surrounds you, and the weight of the sea is crushing from above. You grip the hand in yours tight as you sink, slowly descending to the bottom of the ocean, and you can no longer hear the storms overhead.

You open your mouth, and water rushes to fill you. Your mind goes peacefully blank, nothing but warmth surrounding you in this freezing ocean, consciousness fading. You wrap your arms around the man whose hand is in yours, and hear a soft thank you resound in your head as his power swells, tipping the breaking point.

An orange and black flag against a smoke darkened sky.

A single green eye, a confident smile. Warm arms wrapped around yours, furious pounding on a wooden door.

The taste of cream, an awkward scowl. Strong hands gripping a cutlass.

Rising sun breaking the dawn from a crow’s nest. Two rings braided in brown hair.

The scent of herbs and medicine. A cheeky laugh, soft hands and a softer heart.

The sound of meat sizzling over a stove. The taste of vegetables playfully stuffed into your mouth

The feeling of hot blood and gunmetal under your fingers. The sound of flipping pages, a serene voice.

A commanding bellow, pink beaches of sand.

Purple hair, and the warmth of conjoined hands in a pocket. Scarred wrists, a tender gaze.

The sea surges one last time, and vaguely, you see a gentle smile in the back of your mind.

Your lips part to form his name with the last bit of air in your lungs.

“___”

Somehow, you think, you can hear him calling your name.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho #ateez pirate king #w; ot8 #w; pirate king #w; fanfiction

[bloodandpie]

Supernatural fanworks masterlist

collaborative works by @monicawoe​ and @quickreaver​

(updated 11/1/2020)

Hello lovelies, here’s our most up-to-date masterlist including our 2020 contribution to the @spneldritchbang​:

Behold the Beast, Behold the Lamb - Season 4 AU.  Sam tried to free Dean from Hell, but angels intervened and took Dean for their own purposes. Sam is determined to get Dean back and will do whatever it takes, embracing his abilities fully. The more demon blood Sam drinks, the more demons he kills, the more he changes inside and out until it’s impossible to hide his monstrous side. Ruby, Uriel and Castiel push Sam to fulfill his destiny and become his true self—the Beast of the Revelation. (gen, Sam/Ruby, 20k words)

Here is a list of all our other combined works thus far, in no particular order:

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

word-count:  - written for the 2012 spn-genbang | sequel to The Devil’s in the Details When Sam opened Lucifer’s Cage, the only thing he found inside was Lucifer’s grace – his grace. With the return of his grace, Sam remembered his past – his war against the Host, his Fall, and his plans to bring about the End. The thing is…he doesn’t want the Apocalypse anymore. He likes things the way they are, and tries everything to keep his identity a secret- especially from Dean. Of course, the four Horsemen, Hell and Heaven have other ideas.(gen, 13k words)

Last Drop -  Written for the Twisted Tropes event - Sam/Brady AU set while Sam’s at Stanford:  Sam is slowly adjusting to his new life at Stanford University. He’s left his life of hunting behind, and traded it for endless studying and tests, but he’s plagued by dreams of Dean and Dad in danger, dreams of blood and violence. Then he meets Tyson Brady, who’s always there with a smile and a cup of coffee to get Sam through all-nighters. Sam’s dreams start to fade, but just as he’s getting used to a nice normal life, he starts to develop abilities—powers he can’t control. Brady thinks they’re great, but Sam knows power never comes without a cost. (Explicit Sam/Brady, 14k words)

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Best Self - written for @alyndra9​​  for the prompt: King of Hell Sam meets Kale!Sam and they have many differences of opinion to work out. (aka the only one who knows what Sam really wants is Sam.) words by monicawoe art by @quickreaver​​! (~4k words, Explicit Sam/Sam)

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All Our Wrath and Cutting Beauty

word-count:  written for the 2011 spn-reversebang:  Sam killed Alistair, but not before Alistair reminded Dean of who and what he'd become in Hell. Dean knows Sam can take down Lilith, and he'll make damn sure Sam gets strong enough to do just that. They'll stop the Apocalypse -- together, no matter how many bodies stack up, or how much blood is spilt. (gen, boyKingSam, demonDean,11k)

MANY more, beneath the cut:

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The Two Ravens

word-count: ~3,500 | written for the sammessiah antichrist-mas fest: Your brother he is, and heir to my throne. He’ll feed on the damned and he'll turn them to bone.

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The Last Days in the Land of Nod a comic adaptation of the fic by the same name

word-count: ~2,000 | The year is 2014. The Devil is wearing his finest, the Angel is human, and the Brother protects the survivors at Camp Chitaqua.

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We have also done collaborations with other talented writers and artists, including:

He Who Fights Monsters

word-count: ~52,000 | co-written with nwspaprtaxis for the 2014 GenTeensyBang: Demonic-MMA-fighting AU of the summer between Seasons 3 and 4. Dean's dead, dragged down kicking and screaming to Hell. Sam's not dealing well. And Ruby’s got her work cut out for her.

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Burdens, Doublefold

word-count: ~70,000 written for the 2012 spn-j2-bigbang, art by @ileliberte​What if Dean left Sam at Stanford after the fire, hoping it would keep his little brother safe and make things better? Somehow, 'better' never seems to be in the Winchester Family cards. Sam gets tangled up with his ex-roommate Brady, tracking psychics, but dealing with demons is never honest business. Dean carries on until his father is put in grave danger. He is left on his own to deal, stumbling into Harvelle's Roadhouse for help, where Dean gets just a little more than he bargained for. Eventually, the brothers’ paths twist and turn their way back to each other, but the results could mean the End of Days.

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Impala’s Run

word-count: ~23,000|written for the SPN Gen Big Bang, art by adrenalineshots | Sam and Dean Singer (aka Winchester) aren’t your average young Kansas farmers. Their home is very, very far from Kansas, in fact. Many light-years worth of ‘far’. The boys may look human, but certain talents set them apart: Dean speaks the language of machines, and Sam can heal through manipulating energy. Hidden on Earth by their father, their agricultural lifestyle gets rocked when warring alien races discover where they’ve landed, and Sam and Dean are forced to make the run of their lives.

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and here some other illustrated, shorter fics of ours for your enjoyment:

Instinct (Prophet of the Lord remix)

word-count: ~3,000 | (Kevin's POV of the same prompt) After the trials, Sam doesn't get better. Kevin's theory is that it's cancer: the trials are supposed to purge him of all physical and spiritual impurities, so tuberculosis is out, and cancer is the only reason left for Sam to be coughing his lungs up when he's supposed to be the pinnacle of human perfection. Nope. Sam's falling apart because the demon blood is gone.

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Instinct

word-count: ~1,300 | After the trials, Sam doesn't get better. Kevin's theory is that it's cancer: the trials are supposed to purge him of all physical and spiritual impurities, so tuberculosis is out, and cancer is the only reason left for Sam to be coughing his lungs up when he's supposed to be the pinnacle of human perfection. Nope. Sam's falling apart because the demon blood is gone.

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Bliss in Emptiness

word-count: ~41,000 written for the 2013 spn-j2-bigbang |As a reward for her loyal service, Lucifer brings Ruby back from death. When Sam throws himself into the Cage, Ruby slows his fall — just enough to grab a hold of his body, but not his soul. Together, they hunt the ever-increasing monster population and uncover evidence that Crowley and Castiel might not be as antagonistic as they seem. As the situation unfolds, Eve's interest in Sam piques and she gives him a gift that changes the very essence of what he is.

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Pattern Recognition: A Hannibal/Supernatural fusion AU

word-count: ~33,000 | Sam and Dean split after River Pass, and their confrontation with the Horseman, War. Since Will’s escape from the Baltimore Institute for the Criminally Insane, he and Sam have been in hiding. They have a cabin, in the middle of nowhere, that keeps them off the radar; they find comfort in each other. But they can’t stay off the chessboard forever, especially not when Lucifer, wearing Hannibal Lecter as a vessel, is tearing the world apart around them.

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Bones

word-count: ~1,800 | The third trial sounded way too easy.

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In the Cards

word-count:~3,600| written for the 2012 spn-reversebang:  Fate wasn’t hers to change. She was an oracle — there to tell them what the future held in store. Nothing more, nothing less. And people were so desperate to know, even though it changed nothing.

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Diary of a Madman

word-count: ~3,500 | Lydia's newest patient, Sam Winchester, suffered from hallucinations, delusions, and regular bouts of insomnia. He also thought he was Lucifer.

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Unless Its Roots Reach Down to Hell

word-count: ~2,000 | written for the evilsam-spn fright-fest 2014: Sam spent months piecing the spell together—he'd crafted it himself out of slivers of handwritten, ancient journals—the ones even the Men of Letters kept hidden away in a man-sized curse-box on lockdown in room 26.

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#sam winchester #boyking!sam #king of hell sam #spn fics #dean winchester #monicawoe's fics #quickreaverart