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mittensmorgul · 1 year

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so the tnt loop is looping around toward the end of s8, and it hit me again: I don’t think that Metatron sheltered HIMSELF so completely that he’d never even heard of the Winchesters. I think Chuck... bubble-ized him. I mean... this is a guy whose spent millennia collecting humanity’s stories for himself. I’m literally watching the scene where he explains it:

DEAN: So you have been holed up here, or, or, or in a wigwam, or before that in some cave, listening to stories, reading books?

METATRON: (grinning) And it was something to watch. What you brought to His Earth, all the mayhem, the murder. Just the raw, wild invention of God's naked apes... it was mind-blowing. But really... really, it was your storytelling. That is the true flower of free will. At least as you've mastered it so far. When you create stories, you become gods, of tiny, intricate dimensions unto themselves. So many worlds! I have read... as much as it's possible for an angel to read, and I haven't caught up.

Sam especially judges him HARD for this, for burying himself in narratives while “his kind” caused so much havoc on Earth. Metatron apparently hadn’t even heard of Kevin Tran, who Dean holds up as one of the Real People who have been harmed, and whose stories are what Metatron should be caring about. And that name also apparently doesn’t ping anything for Metatron. I thought all angels were supposed to have the prophets names etched into their brains or something (per Cas from 5.19, but also the fact only the current generation is there, the NEXT generation won’t be added until they are born, also per Cas from 8.07).

So... this makes me want to believe that Chuck... flipped a couple of switches in Metatron when he left Heaven. Like, oh, you’re gonna leave your post? Okay then, I’m gonna cut you out of the loop then. Or maybe Metatron even did it to himself, deliberately NOT wanting to know the Heaven situation... but I have a harder time reconciling that. I mean, he was HIDING, and on the RUN from Heaven, attempting to avoid imprisonment and torture for the information he knew about the tablets. I don’t think he’d want to be cut off from angel radio so entirely that he missed a decade of chatter about the Winchesters, the Apocalypse, and especially the fact that a supposed Prophet of the Lord was novelizing all of it. I mean... you’d think if he’d known, the same way Cas casually did in 4.18 like every angel knew all of this and it was entirely obvious information, that Metatron would’ve dropped everything else and read those books at the very least. But apparently not...

That seems like information that an angel attempting to hide himself on Earth to avoid angels for his own safety would’ve picked up on. You know. For his own safety.

Angels are all over the earth? End times? Catastrophic events left and right? Demons everywhere? And he was just... unaware of all of it? Assumed Michael and Lucifer were even still relevant playing pieces on the board and not both locked back in the cage after the apocalypse failed. Like.... HOW did he miss this even if he didn’t pick it up directly from angel radio? It really does feel like Chuck deliberately kept him shielded from all of this. Like Chuck MADE HIM into the weird lil guy he became.

Which leads me to point 2. We never knew what the results of the Hell Trials really would have been. Metatron said the Angel Fall Event wasn’t trials, but a spell. But it was built in the same way the Hell Trials were.

Sam went into the Hell Trials borderline delusionally hopeful that he could SURVIVE them. That was his goal on setting out (and why Dean worked so hard to save him when they learned Metatron had lied to them). And he KNEW what the description of the inevitable results of finishing the trials would be from the very first time Kevin ever told them about it: an eternity of being tortured, essentially. Sounds like something far worse than even the eternity in the Cage with Lucifer that Sam had signed himself up for in s5, yes? But WHY? Like, what would that eternal suffering accomplish?

And was that something Chuck wrote into the Hell tablet, or another addendum like the Angel Fall Spell added in by Metatron? We just don’t know. But I like to think Chuck knew full well that Metatron had added those unauthorized details for his own reasons, and that’s why Chuck helped him hide out, waiting for the time that he could bring Metatron out for his own narrative purposes. Just to see what would happen.

So yes, Sam and Dean decided for themselves in s8 to pull the Hell Trials. Their biggest act of hubris in all of canon, but it was like Chuck needed a plotline for s8 and started throwing tablets into their path, waiting for them to find the Scribe and drag him back into the story.

Anyway I’m about out of steam on this one. But there’s so many reasons metatron is my all time favorite spn villain. :’D

#spn 8.21 #i blame metadouche for everything including global warming and bee colony collapse #spn 4.18 #spn 5.19 #spn 8.07 #chuck's process #heaven hell purgatory and the empty

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sreegs · 2 months

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You're interviewing as a software engineer and you sit down to begin a coding exercise via remote video chat. Your interviewer joins a minute late. You exchange light pleasantries, then intros. They ask you a few questions relevant to your experience and you answer them satisfactorily.

The interviewer says, "Right, lets move on to the coding exercise," and directs you to a collaborative coding website. You select your language of choice and they begin to describe your problem.

"You have an array of souls recently liberated from their mortal shell, represented by this array of signed floats called "theDead". You must design a function that determines which souls go to heaven and which souls go to hell,"

"Heaven and hell are empty. The cumulative value of all the souls in heaven and hell must both be nonzero, and exactly equal to each other. You may leave any number of souls in purgatory,"

"Your function must return a bool indicating whether the balance of heaven and hell can be met given the array of souls. The count of souls will be 0 < n < 1,000,000. Do you have any questions before you begin?"

#programming #hell #heaven #coding

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iloveaustinelvisandmannymore · 1 month

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Hi love can you please write a male Wednesday whos obsessive and like his father towards reader

Not far from the tree

Pairing: Male Wednesday addams x reader.

Wednesday Addams, son of Gomez and Morticia Addams. A man who only felt joy if he ever had such emotion when he tortured the unfortunate souls he deemed worthy and who despised love, had fallen. You weren't Addams material, he observed, his empty, soulless eyes bored into you as you talked to your friends.

He didn't like them, he liked them dead for talking to his love. Elegant and graceful like normal, Wednesday walked up to you, the previous conversation was immediately stopped as your friends noticed him, his mere presence commanding silence. "My love. " he greeted plainly and grabbed your hand, his eyes boring into the leader of your friend group, almost daring them to speak up "I will be taking her. I hope you don't mind." Wednesday didn't give them time to reply as he stalked away, in dragging with you.

"Have I told you that I hate your friends?" He asked, his fingers tapping away on his old typewriter. "Plenty," you giggled, watching him affectionately from his bed. Wednesday was facing away from you, but you could see a hint of pink in his normally deadly pale cheeks. A comfortable silence settled between you two.

Wednesday despised the feeling of excitement or any other strong emotion, but seeing you so enthusiastic about the upcoming prom and all the fun things you could do together, he couldn't help but feel a tiny smile form on his lips. It made him almost happy to see you happy.

For you, Wednesday would do anything, even dressing up In a suit and tie that matched the color of your outfit, for your happiness Wednesday would do anything. He'd walk through hell, purgatory, and heaven just to see a smile on his Mi alma lips.

The plastic cup creaks under Wednesday's grip as he watches you dance with the leader of your little buddies, it was honestly pathetic that your friend called that dancing. Taking one last sip of the bland fruit punch, Wednesday sat his drink on the table and walked to you.

"May I cut in?" he asked, his coal-black eyes piercing into your friend's soul. "Uh, yeah, sure," they replied nervously before quickly making their way off the dance floor.

"You didn't have to scare them, you know," you giggled as you placed your hand on his shoulder and intertwined your fingers with his.

"How can I not?" he hummed, twirling you in a spin before dipping you.

"You're mine."

#male wednesday #genderbend wednesday #male wednesday addams x reader #the addams family x reader #wednsday addams #yandere wednesday addams

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torturedpoetemotions · 1 year

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Actually parsing that JACK never actually threatened to toss Dean out of Heaven. That was literally DEAN'S SUGGESTION. Came out of Dean's mouth!

Why?

Well let's see. If Jack casts him out of Heaven, where does he send him?

Hell? He's jailbroken that place before AND he's friends with the queen AND there are still demon!Dean fans bopping around down there. He's practically got an open invitation to come and go as he pleases there.

Purgatory? That's literally just where he and Cas go when they need some couples therapy, that place can't hold him!

Earth? That frees him up to live his damn life! Write his story! Find his angel! Probably the outcome he's hoping for tbh.

Some other part of the multiverse? I mean. Clearly he knows his way around that.

The Empty, like Billie threatened? Well we all know the rumors about that place being inescapable aren't true. Also hmmmmm I wonder what Dean would do if he found himself there. Hmmmmmmmm.

But. Just. First thing out of Dean's mouth is "you wanna throw me out of Heaven" boy!! Be less transparent!

#the winchesters #dean winchester #spnwin #spnwin spoilers

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whereserpentswalk · 5 months

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You die and go to heaven but there's something wrong here. The sky is dark and the land is gray. The person at the front desk is an overworked human from the 15th century wearing clothing he stole off of Saint Peter.

She tells you nobody has really cared about most distinctions for awhile up here, but if you want to officially be part of heaven there's a verification system in the main city. Still, you're free to wander around.

The main city looks like a modern metropolis, but constantly dark like it's always night. Everyone is freindly here for the most part but it doesn't seem much like heaven. You spot someone selling angel meat and ask him what happened, he tell you that it would take a lot of time to explain, and that there's a library in the old temple out in the countryside.

You go out to the countryside, which is nothing but a grey desert with a black sky. Ancient divine amd demonic beings wander this place like great roaming monsters, and there are some roaming gangs of people, ranging from ex saints to people escaped from hell, to watch out for who the people of the city are able to keep out but who terrorize the towns.

You pass by the entrances the hell and purgatory, and the bridge to a few other afterlives. The skeleton of Satan is kept around there like a dinosaur being displayed in a meusum. Someone waiting there tells you that you'd need a train ticket to get to another afterlife, but hell and purgatory are fine to climb to if you want, though most people don't go there now. You explain that you're going to the old temple.

The old temple is in ruins when you get there, though it's so clearly the ruins of something that once held the light of heaven. This wonderful ornate structure fallen into disrepair. Golems guarding the place have stopped fully working, so you can just go in.

Inside its dark. The first room has a coffin the size of a whale, with an empty throne of a similar proportion. The ground if covered by isopod like creatures, perhaps just the souls of isopods, that make it hard to move.

You never find the old library. You're going back to the main city. It seems safer there.

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sparrowrye · 14 days

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Demi Demon || Alastor x Reader, A2 part 30

Synopsis: It’s been over a year since we were brought under Alastor’s watchful eye. We’ve unlocked our Demonic powers, discovered our own talents, and began building the Safe Haven with Charlie and co. Alastor seems increasingly interested in the power we hold as one and intends to use it properly.

Previous part

Part 30: gone

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I woke the next morning to an empty bed. Alastor's presence wasn't near but the bed still felt warm where he had been. He must've left in a hurry but for what? Normally I would've just went back to sleep and asked him about it later.

But something was off about this, something wasn't right.

I quickly jumped out of bed, falling harshly on my knees from my still lack of energy, and went to my room. I changed as quickly as I was able and went into the haven. The morning sun was coming over the treetops and the first few set of workers were already up and about. I made a beeline for Angel's hut where I know Husker should be. I felt his presence and pushed on it, at the same time knocking on the door. Fortunately, I didn't have to wait long as he came padding quickly to the door.

"What is--"

"Alastor's gone."

His tiredness faded. "What do you mean he's gone?"

"I mean he's gone. Our connection it's...it's like before. I don't really...feel it." I was struggling with ways to describe it.

"Where have you checked for him so far?" he asked next.

"Just the house and down here. I'm going to check with Rosie but maybe you can ask Charlie? I have a really bad feeling about this."

He let out a sigh and fixed the strap that had fallen off his shoulders. "Alright. I'll go over and ask. He's probably fine."

"Why does everyone keep discounting what I'm saying?" I half mumbled as I spun away. I melted with Alcine and ran up to the back of the house. I stood over the symbol and teleported myself into Hell, right outside Rosie's store.

Her store was closed but I did the exact same thing I did with Husker, impatiently waiting at the back door. When I explained everything to her, a look of worry finally came across someone's face.

For the next several days, I looked for him. His radio broadcast remained ever silent and our connection remained thin. It was impossible for me to reach him like I had before with Blackwater. He wasn't anywhere in Hell or on the surface. He was just...

Gone.

My panic over Alastor possibly being in the hands of any Angels was somewhat soothed by a conversation with Lucifer. He told me that Angels didn't have power to hold souls in purgatory - that was essentially his job in a way. He also revealed a conversation he had with Heaven. Well, with Adam.

Apparently, Heaven has been upset with how rampant Demons have been on the surface, a place where they naturally didn't belong. They've been arguing for years but nothing was ever done about it. Angel refused to let people know they existed because only their high father could control such events.

It didn't make sense to me.

Regardless, Alastor wasn't in danger with the Angels. That meant he must be somewhere else. Yet there were only two realms. So where was he?

Husker told me that it wasn't uncommon for Alastor to go missing every once in awhile. Apparently he did this right before he helped Charlie with her hotel. The only issue with him disappearing for some time was that he didn't tell me. Considering how we had been the night before he vanished, I had thought he would tell me he would do such a thing, or at least leave a note of some kind.

Perhaps I was wrong.

For the first year, I kept radios in every room tuned to his channel and a single one tuned to random channels. Maybe he would give me a sign through them. Maybe this was something he couldn't tell me for safety reasons. Surely he would want to give me a sign of some sort, a sign that told me I wasn't being abandoned. The only clarity I had of the situation was that he was alive since I was still alive.

The second year I turned some of the radios off and left one on for each floor. I still slept in his bed, wishing and dreaming that he would magically be there when I woke up the next day. Each morning was a disappointment. It was around this time that the hallucinations of him began.

By the third year, everyone had known that the great scary Radio Demon had disappeared. Our location had been leaked by one of Blackwater's men so Humankind and Demonkind alike came after our haven. While the remaining surface Overlords, or anyone wanting new territory up here, tried to attack and disband Blackwater's empire, I was focused on keeping the haven safe. At first it wasn't hard since it was relatively small groups that bit off more than they could chew, however, as time went on, people started bringing in huge groups and powerful Demons.

By the fourth year, I had truely pieced myself back together as a new woman and established myself as the guardian of the haven. I killed enemies, struck deals with new allies, and taught newcomers a thing or two about fighting. The hallucinations came to a near stop.

By the fifth year, the haven had expanded even more. Arleen, who was our lovely architecture and seamstress, was never seen resting. She had gorgeous red wings that mimicked a butterfly's and her personality was as sweet as nectar. She designed a new layout for the rest of the town—though, now it could really be considered a small city. We had multiple teachers, Vivian remaining as the head of them all, several healer apprentices for Althea, a few seamstress assistants for Arleen, an open pasture for cattle, plenty of fishers, many more guards, and so much more.

With the haven expanding and having new things, I also wanted to change my own living place. I painted the outside of the house a more vibrant maroon and fixed the shingles so they didn't look so tattered. I knew the house had belonged to Alastor's mother so I didn't want to change it too much should he return at some point. Reagan and Lucas occupied Husker's old room since Husker and Angel moved to their own secluded apartment in the haven.

My old room was now occupied by two siblings: Nym and Thatcher. They were a rambunctious pair with a thirst for adventure. Nym was six and Thatcher was five when they first came to the haven. They were also children of the ring fights and found it increasingly difficult to make the transition from the ring to the schoolroom. I began working closely with the pair since all other resources had been exhausted, and soon found myself feeling attached like I was with Reagan. Vivian and the others insisted I adopt them, mostly in an attempt to fill the empty house and gaping hole in my heart. So I did.

By the sixth year, I had completely forgotten about Alastor. I would go weeks without thinking of him. I had so much I was focusing on, so much I was keeping myself busy with, that I would fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. Occasionally I would think of him and it would hit me hard. When that happened, I tried not to be around anyone for the whole day. It left me annoyed and snappy at everyone, even Husker and Reagan. Fortunately, Nym and Thatcher were now able to attend school without attempting murder on any of the children, leaving me with more time on my hands.

By the seventh year, things had fallen into a routine. I was still the sole protector of the haven and mother to now three children. As things became mundane, I decided to assist the other Overlords in banishing the lasting traces of Blackwater. There was still one large factory hidden somewhere and I would be the one to find it. My reputation had shifted around in the past few years but this would solidify it for good.

I had grown a lot. It was time to show everyone.

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

Author's Note:

END OF ACT TWO!

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

Taglist:

@wendigonamecaller @saccharine-nectarine @thesimpybitch @papas-ghoulette

#demi demon #alastor the radio demon #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #soulmate au #soulmates #reqs open

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chvoswxtch · 8 months

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Congratulations on 3k!!! You deserve all of that and more!!! Thank you for all your hard work and excellent writing!!! <3

Can I request a midnights (from the vault) ticket with either Matthew or Frank (up to you because for the life of me I couldn’t decided. I feel it fits Matt better but Frank is my number 1 boy 🥴) with the quote “You, you love it how I move you. You love it how I touch you. My one, when all is said and done. You'll believe God is a woman”

oh nonnie, i know frank is your main guy, but this song is so matty coded

and y'all know i love some good slutty religious imagery

thank you so much for stopping by the tour!!! 🖤

as a reminder, from the vault means it's spicy! (minors dni)

blurb below the cut

god is a woman (matt's version) (from the vault)*

when all is said and done / you’ll believe god is a woman

Matt didn’t think it was humanly possible to feel this way. He was suspended in a delectable juxtaposition of his body feeling so tightly wound up, but also so completely free despite his righteous fists being pinned to the mattress above his head. His pleas for mercy got mistranslated on their journey from his brain to his tongue and ended up becoming repetitive prayers for more.

But you didn’t punish the Devil for his greed.

Instead, you granted him exactly what he asked for.

After all, he’d been such a good boy. Matt never hesitated to drop to his knees to beg for your forgiveness when another late night turned into another early morning with cold, empty sheets. He often sought retribution at the altar between your thighs, confessing his sins with his wicked tongue tracing each letter of his prayer of penance against your clit. He’d stay on his knees and worship you for as long as you could stand it, and then he’d seek communion in your body, and only when you baptized his greedy cock with the pure essence that flooded from your temple did he finally feel forgiven.

But tonight, you weren’t waiting for Matt to attend worship on his own. You were demanding it.

The fucked out look on Matt’s face as you rode his cock and held his strong hands captive, rendering him fully at your mercy, sent a surge of power through your veins. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, the most feared man in the city, was writhing and whimpering beneath you, begging and pleading, and it made you feel like a God.

Moving your hips in slow, purposeful circles, you elicited the most beautiful hymn from Matt’s lips. He was so close to escaping purgatory, the entrance to the heaven within you dangling in front of him like enticing forbidden fruit. An angelic note of faux sympathy sounded from your lips as you stared down at him.

“You need it, don’t you baby?”

Every single one of Matt’s senses were completely overstimulated, and he was nearly on the verge of tears, he was so desperate. His blank hazel eyes stared up in your direction as if you were the heavens, and his kiss bitten plump lips were parted as he panted, calling out your name over and over like you were the only deity he could remember the name of. He prayed harder to you than he had ever prayed for anything in his entire life. He needed you to grant him permission to the Eden within your walls.

“pleasepleasepleaseplease…”

A deviant grin stretched across your lips watching your Devil fall from grace.

“Let me have it, Matty. Give it all to me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, and you knew he would. Matt was devoutly and irrevocably yours; body and soul.

And at that moment, his God was a woman, and it was you.

#court's 3k followers celebration #court's 3k friends celebration #the eras tour (court's version)#matt murdock #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x female reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x f!reader #matt murdock request #matt murdock blurb #matt murdock smut #daredevil #daredevil request #daredevil blurb #daredevil smut

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ananke-xiii · 2 months

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Never getting over the fact that both Crowley and Cas's deaths in s12 are completely useless. Like, as far as Crowley is concerned, they clearly just wanted to kill him off, which okay I can get that, but they did it in a very stupid way. The dude sacrificed himself (totally ooc, but he's been so for at least the whole s12 so not a news) to close the rift but, surprise!, in s13 they will have to open it several times to go to the AU to save Mary. Uhm, okay. Crowley joins Bobby, Kevin and Charlie and their completely useless deaths from a narrative pov (if you delete their deaths the storyline stays exactly the same). His death doesn't even serve the purpose of "pathos", like the others did, because it gets completely overshadowed by Cas's death.

So Cas's death in s12. Zero sense. He dies and goes to The Empy. Now, that could've been interesting since we discover that there's Hell, Heaven, Purgatory and now... The Empty. But s13 doesn't deal with The Empty at all (and I'd argue no other season really deals with it at all but that's for another story). So what was the purpose of Cas's death? Ah, yes. To show us how Dean is devasted by it. Okay, fair. A tad cruel and also we've already seen this but okay, at least there's some sense. But NO! We spent the first 5 (beautiful) episodes of s13 literally watching Dean dealing with pain, it's fucking clear that this is about Cas because when he turns up alive again the guy is completely over the moon and forgets his mother might still be alive *waves in vague directions* somewhere. So, as a viewer, I'm led to think that Cas's death is A Big Deal, but again NO! The angel is alive, rebuilt and ready for... WAR? Like, I'm sorry, what? It's in this exact moment that I realized how much the show has betrayed the viewers' trust. There needed to be a payoff between Dean and Cas, it wasn't gonna be romantic we all know that, but the fact that everything was swept under the rug enrages me to no end.

Gosh, I could talk for hours about how season 13 has let me down. What a waaaaaste!

#spn #supernatural #season 13 #why I hate s13 forever #castiel #crowley #dean winchester #widower arc #destiel #dean/cas

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quillandink333 · 2 months

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The Other’s Choice • Pt. 1

Credit to @winterxisxcomingx for the beautiful banner ♡︎

SPOILERS FOR HAZBIN HOTEL ~ Read ahead at your own risk!

Faced with the harsh reality of Heaven’s steadfast opposition, the angel of joy is forced to make a drastic decision with gruesome consequences, but luckily she isn’t alone for long.

WARNINGS: Abrahamic imagery (obviously), pseudocest, assault, extreme heights, hunger

Part I • Part II • Part III

An eternity seemed to have passed since Emily had taken the irreversible dive from Heaven and begun her journey through Purgatory before finally manifesting in Hell’s scarlet sky. And yet there was such a long distance left between her and the ground that she still couldn’t make out a single thing happening down below. Her stomach was achingly empty—how many days had it been? It was impossible to know without the light of the sun to let her.

Her windswept hair obscuring her vision as she fell, she reflected on the moments leading up to this. They’d done it! Now even Sera couldn’t deny the reality proven by the unrelenting efforts of the Hazbin Hotel. Yet to Emily’s fury, the old hag was still too stubborn to allow word of it to get out even among the archangels.

The newly redeemed sinner, whose name she’d learnt was Sir Pentious, had appeared suddenly in Chastity Palace, somehow becoming the first human soul in history to bypass Saint Peter and the pearly gates. While the senior seraph didn’t take well to his arrival, the younger was over the moon, wasting no time befriending him and giving him the grand tour of his new, and rightful, home above the clouds. The conversations she’d shared with him were not only groundbreaking but deeply upsetting. The upsetting part, however, wasn’t the story of his noble sacrifice nor was it Adam’s brutal and shameless acts of fascism, but the fact that she couldn’t share any of it with the rest of Heaven.

Faced with this, she’d done the only other thing she could have. If there was no way for her to serve the sinners’ worthy cause in Heaven, she would simply have to leave. And so she would, but first, she’d penned a note to her elder.

Word Count: 0.8k

“I hereby vow never to return until the right changes have been made. This is not my choice, it is my duty. Thank you for protecting me, Sera. Goodbye.”

She’d never been so cold and blunt to anyone in all her aeons of life; it had destroyed her to write it, but soon regret would serve no purpose to her anymore. With a deep breath, she steadied herself and stepped with resolve toward the edge of the rainbow bridge. She closed her eyes.

Out of nowhere, all the world came to a screeching halt, the jarring loss of momentum causing her heart to nearly leap out her throat.

“I got ya.’”

A few seconds earlier, Lucifer had looked up through the glass walls of his new suite at the hotel just in time to see what could only be likened to a falling star.

Without thinking, he’d bolted into action, racing to catch the little one right as she’d started to descend past the city skyline. She could’ve been shish-kebabbed by the spire of a skyscraper if he’d taken any longer to spot her.

His heart was pounding after his miles-long sprint through the air. “You alright?”

Emily ogled up at her saviour with wide eyes, failing to realise he’d asked her a question for a good several seconds. “Y-Yes. Uh…thank you.” He didn’t look much like a demon, dressed in white from top to bottom with strawberry blond hair and a warm red gaze. If she didn’t know better, she would think this gleaming, six-winged stranger was a seraph like herself.

“You’ve fallen,” he inferred with frantic eyes and a heavy heart. “What happened?”

But her attention was already fixated elsewhere. As the angel of joy, she possessed a divine gift that let her feel the emotions of others as if they were her own. Down below, there were people on the streets, and every last one of them was miserable. It was so much worse than she could’ve imagined. There truly wasn’t an ounce of joy to be found here. She watched as one of the wretched souls was violently defiled by another before her eyes, their cries of terror ringing in her ears clear as day. The latter’s hand clenched around the former’s neck, and suddenly she couldn’t get a breath in, a scream trapped in her throat as she could do nothing but watch. She felt sick.

Lucifer sensed her rising panic and held her closer. “Hey, look at me, you’re okay,” he urged, cradling the poor, lost princess in one arm while cupping her colourless face in his free hand. She met his gaze, her own filled with the all-consuming fear she’d had the privilege of never knowing until now. She looked like a deer in the headlights, her expression like an arrow straight to his once broken and unfeeling heart. “C’mon. Let’s get you inside where it’s safe.”

Her frail arms clung to him with a vicelike grip as she nodded and tearfully hid her face in his shoulder. At once, he set his sights on Pride Castle and took off soaring.

#my writing #applewings #pride and joy #prideandjoy #pride & joy #pride&joy #lucily #lucifer x emily #emily x lucifer #lucifer morningstar #lucifer magne #lucifer hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lucifer #emily the seraph #emily the seraphim #emily hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel emily #hazbin hotel #quillcifer 🍎🪶

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profoundbondfanfic · 9 months

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hi there just wondering what is the angstiest fics you guys have collectively read? I’m in search for the angstiest angst to ever angst

Hey there, sorry for the delay, but here are a few of our fav angstiest fics!

A Complete Kingdom by komodobits [Explicit, 85k words] #major character death

The sea; it swallows me. It comes up to my knees and it swallows me. The boys owe Jody a few dozen favours, and so when her niece goes missing near an old fishing village on the coast of Maine, Dean, Sam, and a newly human Castiel agree to take the case on. They settle into an old abandoned lighthouse-keepers' cottage, and slowly the tide comes in. (post-s8)

Angels Don't Fear the Reaper by you-cant-spell-subtext-without (ayreisha) [Mature, 144k words] #angst with a happy ending

"When his eyes first open, there is nothing but darkness. Not the velvety, deep black of night, but the steely, thin murk of nothingness. Of cold. Of death. Of Death. Somehow, it feels like coming home."

Every Part of the Animal by Askance (doomcountry), komodobits [Mature, 47k words] #major character death

It’s their first case after the Trials, after Heaven has collapsed: playing back-up to another team of hunters taking out some werewolves in the mountains. It's a routine job, an easy job - at least until the radio goes silent. Sam, Dean, and Cas follow after, but the caves into which the hunters have vanished wind deeper and darker than they could have expected, and something is wrong. Cas can feel it. The Winchesters may not believe what he’s hearing, but there's something down here with them—and it's not the people they came here to find, and it's not the werewolves they've been tracking. It's something else, something older, something violent, and it knows they're here.

Grey by Valinde (Valyria) [Explicit, 65k words] #angst with a happy ending

In a world where people don't see in color until they find their true mate, the first thing Dean sees when he pulls himself out of his grave is the blue sky. When Castiel raised him from the Pit, he inadvertently claimed Dean as his mate.

Man in the Wilderness by OneHundredSuns [Explicit, 68k words] #angst with a happy ending

Dean Winchester is fresh out of Purgatory along with every other Tom, Dick and Wendigo that called the cesspool home. As the monsters lay waste to the Earth and eat anything they can get their hands on, Dean sets out to find his only remaining family so that they can hunker down and fight the assholes head on. He doesn’t mean to stumble upon Castiel Novak and his adorable twins in the middle of the apocalypse and he sure as hell doesn’t mean to offer them a ride to wherever they are trying to get to. But the world is a dangerous place now and he’s always been a sucker for blue eyes and cute kids. So he’ll help them out and just hope it doesn’t get him or them killed in the process.

Ninety One Whiskey by komodobits [Explicit, 401k words] #angst with a happy ending

In the spring of 1944, the 104th Medical Battalion of the United States Army is disbanded, and its men reassigned to various infantry companies in preparation for their invasion of occupied France. For First Lieutenant Novak, this is less than helpful, as he has so far met his platoon’s designated medic a grand total of twice, and has both times found Sergeant Winchester to be the optimum combination of reckless, arrogant, and downright insufferable so as to make cohesive platoon function near impossible. When the time comes to move out, however, Castiel has to reconcile himself to the fact that men are going to go down and trust that Dean Winchester may well be the only person who can put them back together again. WW2 ETO infantry AU.

Right Where You Left Me by outdean [Explicit, 93k words] #angst with a happy ending

Ten years after the empty swallows Cas up, it spits him right back out—but a lot can change in a decade. OR The "Cas comes back from the empty to find that Dean is married" fic.

The Benjamin Franklin Key-and-Kite Experiment by beerenee [Explicit, 122k words] #angst with a happy ending

“Thank you for stopping by, Dean,” Emmanuel says, holding out the jacket. “I hope to see you in church on Sunday.” The tips of Dean’s fingers accidentally brush over the back of Emmanuel’s hand when he reaches for the jacket. “Probably not,” Dean laughs as he pulls Dad’s jacket around him. “Like I said before, I’m not exactly a believer. You?” Emmanuel doesn’t answer immediately. Then, without really looking at Dean (more like looking through him,) he whispers, “I will be.” Or 1.12 but Dean's faith healer is Emmanuel!Cas

the inexhaustible silence of houses by Askance (doomcountry) [Teen, 31k words] #unhappy ending

Almost two years after the world doesn't end, Castiel falls from grace—and loses his voice in the process. It is the impetus for confession and change; before long, he is settling into a loving relationship with Dean, the Winchesters are tired, and hunting for a place to land has taken precedence to hunting anything else. Dean and Castiel fall in love with the strange little house on the end of Swallowtail Drive, and for a little while life is as it should be—sweet, affectionate, and beginning afresh. But more and more Castiel sees and hears things in the house that beg the question of whether or not a place itself can be alive. The walls and rooms seem to shift and grow and breathe, and one night, Dean comes home from a hunt changed in a way that Castiel cannot explain. In the months that follow, their domestic bliss takes turns for the dark and sour, and the confusion of their circumstances will ultimately test everything Castiel knows about the man he loves, and everything he believes to be true.

The walk by Persephoneshadow [Explicit, 196k words] #angst with a happy ending

Dean's been living on the streets and turning tricks for a while. Most of the time clients just find him. After a job goes wrong he goes looking for work and finds more than he expected with a married man of faith with blue eyes and a trench coat.

To build a Home by intothesilentland [Mature, 383k words] #angst with a happy ending

Twenty-three years of head-over-heels, devastating devotion and love, love, love for the man with bright eyes and dark hair. Fourteen years of friends, best friends, of always together. One moment of rejection. Nine years of apart. Nine years of heartbreak, nine years of continents away, of not speaking, of no acknowledgement, no interaction, no closure, no peace. No happiness. Nine years of Dean’s life entering motions, going through them, constant, cold and mechanic, like clockwork. Nine years of alone. God. Nine years. A lot has changed. And yet Dean still loves Cas just the same. Even if his heart hurts all kinds of different. On the day of Jimmy Novak’s funeral, Dean sees Cas for the first time in nine years. He adored Castiel the moment he met him, at only four years old. But after fourteen years of friendship destroyed by one moment of heartbreak, and after nine years of silence, Dean is convinced Cas will want nothing to do with him. And it’s killing him.

Twist and Shout by gabriel, standbyme [Explicit, 97k words] #major character death

What begins as a transforming love between Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak in the summer of 1965 quickly derails into something far more tumultuous when Dean is drafted in the Vietnam War. Though the two both voice their relationship is one where saying goodbye is never a real truth, their story becomes fraught with the tragedy of circumstance. In an era where homosexuality was especially vulnerable, Twist and Shout is the story of the love transcending time, returning over and over in its many forms, as faithful as the sea.

What Is Tomorrow Without You by sobsicles [Explicit, 93k words] #angst with a happy ending

Cas is dead, and Dean is living through hell all over again. Experiencing hell as he'd first lived it, Dean aches for peace. When Jack enters his life, it only brings him a purpose. A mission for revenge sends Dean spiraling out of control as Jack does everything in his power to help Dean, going as far as to using his power to let Dean visit Cas where he resides after death. But when Dean depends on these visits and learns a few things about how he truly feels for Cas, the line between what's real and what's not starts to blur. Dealing with grief and his need for revenge, Dean struggles to find a way to get his family back together while also coming to grips that he might have to find a place in a world without Cas in it. Fortunately, Cas comes back, and Dean has to learn to navigate through the life he'd been wanting. But things aren't quite what they seem as their relationship blooms, and Dean realizes he's the reason Cas is slowly changing, and not for the better.

What Used to be Mine by someonetoanyone [Explicit, 48k words] #angst with a happy ending

“There is…” he starts; he licks his lips and glances away; his fingers twitch and fiddle, “... there is one thing she's afraid of. There's one thing strong enough to stop her.” That sounds too good to be true, so Dean waits for the other shoe to drop. It doesn’t take long. Cas at least has the wherewithal to look Dean in the eyes when he says, “when Jack was dying, I made a deal to save him.” ___ a terrible, evil AU that posits; what if the divorce arc was even worse, what if Dean never apologized in Purgatory, and what if Cas internalized all of that, making his ultimate confession less confident, though no less heartfelt, and he died thinking Dean hated him?

You Can Keep Holding On by NorthernSparrow [Explicit, 352k words] #angst with a happy ending

Hiatus fic set after the S11 finale. Dean's alive, Sam's alive, they're going to get Cas from wherever he got zapped to, and everything's finally gonna be all right. Dean's on top of the world. A little voice in the back of his head is whispering "It's never that easy," but Dean ignores it.

#asks #group rec #angst with a happy ending #unhappy ending #major character death

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lavenderdreams205 · 9 days

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spn thoughts as requested

tw & spoiler warning

they should have kept the grungy filter and aesthetics from the early seasons

bring back the southern / midwest gothic vibes

dean would've listened to and loved 90's & 2000s grunge - I know that the whole "there's no good music past '79" is a key part of his personality but pre series/early seasons dean is soo nirvana / Weezer / smashing pumpkins coded

there is too much flannel in the later seasons - I miss the carhartt and leather jackets so bad

BRING BACK DEANS JEWELRY

there's so much about cas that we don't know. there's all the episodes where he just isn't there and they never tell the viewers what he's doing or where he went

on the same note, cas's personality isn't nearly as flushed out as sam's or dean's are. who is his favorite musician? what's his favorite place to travel to? why does he like the pimpmobile so much? does he actually like the trench coat or does he wear it just because it's there?

so many people characterize cas as a little guy, and while he is cute, it's important to remember that he's also an incredibly powerful eldritch horror who leads angelic armies and brands Michaels vessel just because

dean is bisexual and in love with cas - I won't take the time to list all of the reasons here, but you can definitely find those reasons somewhere

i would've loved for them to use the handprint as a physical manifestation of their bond instead of having it be just a scar that fades with time

i'm actually really ok with the way cas dies, I think it makes sense for his character and provides closure (for him, at least, not for dean)

the parallels of cas and dean meeting in a barn and then dean dying in a barn

cassie is deans first love, cas is his last

the imagery of the empty as cas's wings in 15x18

why do the subtitles spell cas as cass, its awful

there's a few lines in the early seasons that seemingly reference dean getting roofied / sa'd and are subsequently played for laughs, Jensen Ackles confirmed that dean would've done underage sw when John didn't leave them with enough money. I believe that this trauma is a major reason that dean never accepted his sexuality

the way deans alcoholism is overlooked and joked about is actually insane

having dean be completely ok after 15x18 is also insane, especially after the widower arc where the show specifically shows it's viewers how deeply dean grieves cas when he dies

deans death is literally so stupid. I get that the show is trying to make a really meta point about the characters not having plot armor anymore because chuck is gone, but dean deserved to find peace. if the events of the show had never happened and pre series dean had never gotten pre series Sam back into hunting it would've ended the exact same way - dean dead on a hunt and Sam dying from old age

dean spends as much time on earth as he did in hell, and while he would never be the same, I like to believe that if he had been allowed by the narrative to live longer he would've gotten back a little of the twinkle in his eyes that he had before hell

in 15x20 Bobby says that cas helped rebuild heaven but if he was there he would've gone to see dean. additionally, there's no way cas should have been able to escape the empty. this is such a glaringly obvious plot hole and it drives me nuts

I would've liked to see cas's wings in the show - not just the shadow of them

the only time I tolerate serious discussion of wincest is in the context of ethel cain

i am a Sam disliker - while he does have many positive qualities, I have a really hard time getting past him not looking for dean when he was in purgatory and him joking about deans alcoholism and other traumas

i like Sam the best when he's with Eileen, I think they're adorable together and I'm mad they killed her off

I am a chronic jack defender, that boy has done nothing wrong

it would be interesting to explore cas and jacks relationships with their respective genders

there's no way being forced to murder the dean clones didn't affect cas, we only saw him kill the last one but the first few he had to kill had to have been devastating

i'm really disappointed by 14x13 Lebanon, we get the scene with John and Sam but I would argue that dean has significantly more reasons to be upset with John and it's unfortunate that the episode just glossed over this - I believe a screaming match between the two would have cleared the air a bit and been at the very least cathartic for dean

i'm fairly sure that it's canonical that John sent dean away on his 17th birthday to kill lesbian ghosts. my personal hc is that John suspected that dean was bi and sent him to teach him a lesson

i saw a post on here comparing hunting culture to biker and cowboy culture and viewing those things through a queer lens and I thought it was fascinating - there's so much spn could've done if it cared about the show more than money and losing viewers

every time cas and dean beat the shit out of each other, it serves as further proof of their relationship rather than discrediting their relationship - ie demon dean and cas fighting in the library is used to parallel Cain and Collette. it could even be assumed that their love is stronger because Cain killed Collette but dean left cas alive

The purgatory love triangle was so silly

once dean worked through all of his trauma and toxic masculinity he would've been a swiftie

all of the main characters have old / vintage cars but in like season 13/14 dean sam and cas just collectively own and use this really ugly silver truck from the 2010s. its such a small detail but it absolutely ruins my viewing experience every time I see it

dean is actually really smart but most of the fandom overlooks it because Sam is characterized as the smart one. if you know anything about cars you know it takes an insane amount of brains to build a car from scratch (he did this with baby multiple times throughout the show) also he just makes an emf meter using basically nothing. if dean had been given the same opportunities he gave Sam, he would've been an engineer or something

i will always be a John hater, if this man has 0 haters, I am dead

#spn #supernatural #dean winchester #castiel #sam winchester #destiel #ethel cain #grunge aesthetic

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mittensmorgul · 7 months

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i need to know where and how and why the concept of Free Will in supernatural has been erased... like... the whole point of the show is that humans DO have free will! like... that literally causes All The Problems for Chuck in telling his preferred story! He really, seriously leans into it in early seasons!

Chuck's Story doesn't preempt human Free Will! It USES it! He creates Situations™ where he knows what his "characters" would choose! He pushes them into making the choices they do! THAT IS THE POINT!

But then they start seeing more and more behind the layers of curtains! They get bigger and bigger glimpses of what makes their universe tick, open more doors to different parts of existence and still CHOOSE every time to stay in the fight, to not just lay down and give in to the story Chuck spends 15 seasons trying to force them into!

And I appreciate the concept of Castiel "inventing" free will for himself, but he literally did not! He learned it from watching Dean, and figured out how to apply it to himself! It's literally the point of his entire character arc, from following heaven's orders and believing fully in the righteousness of his mission from God, to his disillusionment and increasing curiosity and care for humanity in general and Dean in particular! And he goes through hell! and Purgatory! and the Empty! literally and metaphorically! over and over again! as he GROWS his own identity and learns to make his own choices!

BUT HE DIDN'T FUCKING INVENT FREE WILL!

DEAN (and Sam, and every other HUMAN character in the story!) ALWAYS HAD FREE WILL FIRST!

like... why does a lot of fandom seem to want to erase this fundamental aspect of the story and hand the only agency in the narrative to Cas? Basically erasing everything he actually struggled through to grow into that?

Especially when the final season is essentially Chuck's attempt to break their own belief in their own free will?! And he almost succeeds! BUT ALSO! He is COUNTING ON THEM TO EXERCISE THEIR FREE WILL TO ENACT HIS FINAL STORYLINE.

ugh it just... sucks all the importance of any of the characters' arcs to just say they never had a choice in anything, that none of them were ever "real" enough to have made their own choices at all. I personally find it a horrifying take on the entire narrative.

And yet... i see it stated constantly as an undeniable fact of the story. like i get we all made jokes about this during s15, but... yikes

#that's what free will is #chuck's process #sorry i'm just venting because like what is even the point of that story then? idek #i've just seen too many posts lately expressing this and i find it utterly baffling

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sexyinaratkindaway · 4 months

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Leave All your Love and your Longing Behind

Rating: E

Fandom: QSMP

Pairing: FitMC/Pactw

Summary: In Purgatory, two almost-lovers meet on the battlefield, feral as dogs and just as beaten, to find comfort in each other.

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53085622

Pac is scared.

Of course he’s scared.

Why wouldn’t he be?

This isn’t Purgatory. After Purgatory ends, fire and brimstone and purifying gold, Heaven awaits.

This isn't Purgatory.

They're in Hell, and Pac doesn't know what he's being punished for, but he must have deserved it, for Hell to be so vivid and terrible. Instead of devils tormenting him, it's his friends, his family.

Forever is there, Mike is there, thank the Goddess, but so is Cell— Cellbit —and so is Fit, beautiful, dangerous, cruel, kind Fit. He’s at his most handsome like this; bloodstained, cruel, scarred and dirty and grungy, blood in his nail beds and stubble on his chin and dirt in his scales. He’s handsome as the sun, as howling wind and tall mountains and thunderous waterfall, and Pac is, irrevocably, unendingly, in love with him. He can't bring himself to hate him when he catches sight of him, manic and dust-covered and bloodstained, so different and yet so familiar. They cross paths on the battlefield, again and again and again; again and again and again they brush shoulders without the time to really face off. Pac is happier that way; he doesn’t know if he wants Fit to see him like this.

Because Purgatory has turned them all into animals, and Pac is no exception: his lungs itch, his throat hitches, his skin burns, from the toxic fog and the acid rain and the sand swallowing him whole; he’s gaunt and hungry, howling like a dog, his undershirt is torn and dusty and stained, his hoodie tattered and dirty, the only colour left about him the scabbed over, bloody cuts that tatter him all over, and the too-bright blue that, he knows, shines in his eyes like headlights. It’s a curse, it makes him too visible; but being visible has its advantages, in battle as in stalking. He’s just come out victor of a duel—with Cellbit, what a pretty coincidence—when he spots Fit spotting him, and he can see the emerald green spotlights of Fit’s eyes shift and tighten and widen when they land on him.

He grins at him, waves his arm in the air like everything is normal and perfect. Like there's no droplets of blood swinging in the air from his brisk movement. Fit jogs the distance between them closed, the lightest of limps in his stride, and Pac feels himself frown. He kicks Cellbit's body to the side, lifeless and pale and limp and empty, finishes stuffing the last of his things in his backpack. His knife feels odd in his hand, heavy in the blade and light in the handle like it wants to jump out of his grasp. He tucks it in a holster on his thigh and turns to Fit.

"Fit!" He says, and barely holds back from drawling out the end of his name into the soft, tender fricative it so badly wants to be in his mouth.

Fit, despite himself and what his better instincts say, smiles.

"Pac," he says. It’s a tender, low, breathy sigh, a parched man who can’t believe his luck, finding a puddle of clear water. Pac is his water, and he doesn’t know the water’s poisoned. “Pac, God, what happened to you?”

“Just tired,” Pac says, nonchalant. He runs a hand through his hair to pull it out of his forehead, huffs when the too-long locks fall right back over his eyes. He smiles, and hopes they crinkle with it even if he doesn’t feel it. “Might just give up on this and do like you, cut it all off. What happened to you ?”

He nods his chin in direction of Fit’s leg, stiff, pained. It’s his left.

Fit chuckles. “Oh, just a bad fall I took a couple days ago. ‘M fine.”

Pac knows it was the tigers. Pac doesn't say, and grins instead. "At least now we match!"

He lifts up his left leg, bends it back and forth at the knee. It goes smoothly, but screeches an ugly sound when he bends it back too far, and Fit's handsome face crumples into a sympathetic grimace.

“That can’t be good for stealth.”

“Eh, I just can’t crouch too far. I’ve been meaning to oil it, but…”

Not much oil in Purgatory, and what little is there is better used on machinery, on farms. As long as Pac can walk and stand, he can conserve the oil.

“Can't be good for stealth.”

“I don't need stealth.”

“This guy tried stealth on you?”

Pac laughs a wheezy little breath, nudging Cellbit's corpse with his running hook. It's warm, still twitching.

“Nah, he tried to be honourable; came to me face to face. I respect that, even if I think it was to get me to panic more.”

“Well, that obviously didn't work.” Fit's words are all a chuckle, low, gravelly with misuse. If that hadn't been enough to make Pac quiver, then the way he stared at the mess of blood and guts on the floor, staining Pac's still open scythe, cold and calculating and hungry , would have been.

“Nice scythe,” Fit says, and then squeezes his eyes shut like he can't believe he said something that stupid; Pac feels laughter bubble in his throat, and for a moment they're back home.

“I see,” he says, “you only like me for my scythe.”

He enjoys seeing Fit sputter and blush, loves the look of his handsome cheeks bloody red under the scales, grimy and dirty on his face, the bashful smile stretching his lips.

“Well, it's a very nice scythe. Looks… well-made.”

“It’s not better than my scythe back home.”

“Yeah, I be–”

“What are you doing here, Fit?”

And that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? What is Fit doing, all alone, so close to team Soulfire’s base?

Fit doesn’t answer, mirth blown out of his eyes, mouth set in a grim line, and Pac knows, he knows. He pulls his MDA from his pocket, stares at Fit’s name on the screen, looks back at Fit. “Who do you have to kill?”

Fit’s eyebrows twitch. He doesn’t pull his phone out.

“You.”

It’s like he has to wrench the words out of his throat to say them, but Pac feels a weight lift off of his shoulders, relief settle around his nape like a scarf, his mouth stretch in a smile.

“Oh, thank the Goddess. Now it’s easy. I also have to kill you, you know?”

Fit is staring at him like he doesn’t understand his glee, and to be fair, he probably doesn’t.

“Why don’t we just spar for it, right here, right now? And who loses dies.”

“I’m not killing you,” Fit says.

“Why did you come here, then?”

Fit doesn’t have an answer to that. He swallows empty air, shifts his weight on his feet, doesn’t say anything, eyes—too green, too bright—stuck on Pac.

“Do it for our children,” Pac says, and he knows it’s low, he knows it’s cruel , but he doesn’t care, he needs this, he needs this, after fighting Cell, after winning Cell, the stench of blood and feces still high in the air, he needs this with Fit. He needs to feel him. “We have to do it to save our children.”

“You're cruel, Pac.” He is reaching for his sword.

"I need it, Fit, and so do you.” Pac smiles, takes a step back and raises his hand in a grand gesture. “Will you do me the honour," he's hoarse, with joy, with adrenaline, at the sole thought of getting to taste Fit's blade, "of a dance?"

Fit looks down at his outstretched palm, blood under his nail beds, staining his fingerprints, he looks down at the scythe held tight in Pac's hand.

He smiles at him, all teeth.

"It would be my pleasure."

Pac has never been more in love than he is now. Their blades meet, iron and diamond, and never has Pac's heart sung louder than now, guided by the tempo allegro that their weapons beat. Fit is strong, stronger than Pac, the force behind the blow of his mile-long sword makes Pac’s arms quiver, but he’s strong too, and he’s got the advantage of a hooked blade by his side, of a smaller size and strong legs made for running. He jumps circles around Fit, and the man struggles to follow him, but his face is grim, his eyes are steely, full of the glacial wind of a killer with a target in his crosshairs, Pac is his target and his sword sings for blood and Pac wants nothing more than to let go of his scythe and feel the stinging kiss of needle-sharp diamond as it sinks through his ribs and makes tartare of his guts; his belly rumbles with desire at the sole thought.

But he has to try. He has to give it his all, if nothing else than out of the respect he feels for Fit; he’ll give the man a fair fight.

Fit is quick, is relentless with his sword, chases Pac like inevitable death, but Pac twirls his scythe around, catches every hit with the wooden hilt of his scythe, and the strength of Fit’s arms reverberates through Pac, and he knows the poor wood, if nothing else, is not going to come out of this fair fight unscathed.

A fair fight, apparently, is too much of a challenge for Fit, because it only takes a bit of tussling—a minute? Though it feels like they’ve been fighting for a year—for him to end up flat on the ground, arms pinned under Pac’s thighs. He's still gripping his sword: takes much more than a little fall for his grasp to loosen, and his sword is dangerously close to Pac's bare side; but the blade of Pac's scythe is nestled securely under Fit's chin, where Pac has dreamed and dreamed of tucking his face and sleeping, protected from the world.

It's easy to see who won: Fit doesn't have enough leverage to move his shoulder, or arm, or wrist.

Pac quivers: his body aches to lean into the sword tip barely grazing his hip, like he wants to fall into it, he needs it, needs it, needs it, needs it.

He's throbbing, he realises, pressed in the divot between Fit's pecs, comforting and warm and tight even under the leather armour.

Goddess, he's fucked up.

Cellbit's corpse is still laying down ten feet from the two of them, stinking up the place.

“Well,” Fit gasps, like breathing is hard, “you won.”

He won.

Victory tastes bitter.

“I can't kill you.” It feels like a defeat to admit, but he drops the scythe.

Fit laughs. “So you were just talkin' a big game, eh?”

“Sorry, I… got all worked up over nothing.” He blinks. He wasn’t supposed to win. “I wasn’t supposed to win. Did you let me win?”

“You insult me,” Fit says, smiling, voice just this side of wheezy. He’s still pinned under Pac, and Pac is not putting any effort in not letting all his weight lie on his chest, perhaps because he likes to hear the wheeze. “I wouldn’t just let you win. Why, just because you’re my… roommate?”

Pac feels a smile tug at his lips, tired.

“You wouldn't?”

“You don't give yourself enough credit, Pac. You're a better fighter than me.”

Pac wants to answer, to say something, anything, mock himself because that's all he knows, but then a great force is lifting him, thighs first, and suddenly the world tilts on his axis: he lands on the soft grass, and Fit is curled between his thighs, beautiful, dangerous, terrible. He can feel the stretch in his hip, trying to accommodate Fit's larger body in his, and that’s some unfortunate wording, is it not?

Fit's sword is nestled against the middle of his chest.

Pac closes his eyes.

Now the world is turning in the right direction again.

“What,” comes Fit's voice, torn between amusement and despair, after too long of a pause, “did you think I would kill you?”

And the truth is, despite himself, despite how deeply, desperately, achingly he wishes it so, the truth is one: his heart knows it would never happen. Never in his life has he felt so safe as in Fit's arms: not in the womb, longingly alone, not in his youth, when not even the other half of his soul by his side could lessen the harsh blows that life threw at them, and not now, as a man, ever chased by solitude and despair as he is. Fit's embrace, alone, his voice, his hands, so delicate on him when he knows them capable of such destruction, he feels safe in.

Fit wouldn't kill him, despite how much he wants it.

His skin itches. His throat itches. His eyes itch.

“Fit,” he says, low, whimpery, like a desperate call to the wind, like a plea for mercy, and he can't bring himself to care about that little ‘-tch’ his mouth tacks on at the end, “can I kiss you?”

Fit’s sword clatters to the ground, and he leans down and presses their lips together: he tastes like black tea, strong, bitter, burned. It’s the same kind Tina planted for them, but it’s obvious that no one in team Green is a master steeper. Pac gasps, and all the same tries to tilt his head up, to lean into the kiss, lets his mouth fall open and his tongue run along the ridges of Fit’s lips, chapped, warm, wet. He moans when Fit's tongue wets his lower lip, teeth-plump, when it touches his own tongue, when it coaxes it close for Fit to suck gently on. He’s not an expert kisser, but he more than makes up for it in enthusiasm. Pac moans again, tries to wiggle under Fit until their chests are flush and he can close his legs around his trim waist, get him close, close, Goddess, so close, he needs Fit to crawl into his chest . They kiss like starved, groaning in each other’s lips every time Pac’s legs hitch around Fit’s hips and pull him close enough that their bodies slot together like puzzle pieces.

“Fuck,” Fit groans, tucking his face in the crook of Pac’s sweaty neck, “fuck, how have I been waiting for this.”

“You have?” Pac hears himself asking, like he’s hearing it for the first time, like Fit hasn’t shown him, again and again, the depths of his affection and devotion, and he hasn’t been blind and deaf to it in the wave of his own despair. “Me too,” he says immediately after, lets his arms tighten around Fit’s shoulders, talks into his ear like he wants no one to hear him but Fit, “so long, so long I’ve wanted you, since the beginning, since the first time I saw you, kiss me again.”

Fit kisses him again, lets his hands roam along the too-thin expanse of his underfed chest, his fingers drum against the delicate imprints of his ribs under warm skin, under the thin cotton of his little black bodysuit, steadfast on his skin despite the tears, the dust, the blood that sticks fabric to muscle. Fit’s hands are hungry, hungry, pressing down on him enough that Pac fears tomorrow’s blooming bruises, and yet he knows he’ll be disappointed if tomorrow he finds none.

He’s been marked plenty, and never for good: forgive him if, for once, he wants the marks of ownership on him to be something beloved.

They kiss and kiss, and Pac sighs in Fit's mouth when he feels thumbs slipping under the hem of his shirt to caress at bare, bare skin and press into the divot between hip and thigh, so sensitive and rarely touched, tilts his hips up into the warm, rough touch.

“Please,” he gasps: he has to, because he feels like he's going to lose all grasp on the English language reasonably soon, and he would like Fit's cock inside him before then. “Please, Fit, please.”

What is he pleading for?

Fit groans against the delicate skin of Pac's throat, slips more fingers under his vest like he needs the skin-to-skin touch, “Don't beg me like this, Pac, you'll make me lose my mind.”

“Good, good. I've lost it already, so let's be crazy together.”

They kiss again, and this time it's Pac's hands pulling Fit's tank top from where it's tucked in his jeans, getting at skin, skin, skin, bare, rough, scarred, warm. He thumbs at his belt, and it takes four hands(three, because Fit’s metal hand is keeping him from tumbling face first into Pac), trembling and sweat-slick, to undo it, clicking of metal and leather, and then undo his pants to push them down his thighs just enough to expose his boxers, dark grey, threadbare, damp with a little pearl of wetness that Pac can't help but swipe his thumb into, enjoy the strangled groan Fit gives, tucked in his shoulder.

Armour starts dropping on the soft grass, clinking of diamond and steel, as they start undressing each other, feverish, reverent, and when the armour goes, it’s time for Pac’s jeans to go, too, and Fit stares at creamy, tan skin slowly revealing itself before his very eyes as Pac undoes them and shoves them off, at the way denim barely catches on the delicate hinges of his prosthetic, the sudden smell of arousal that wafts through the air and makes his nostrils twitch, sensitive. He wants, he wants, just as much as Pac does, and isn’t that a relief?

He’s laying in the grass now, legs bare against the chill, briefs tented and wet with his arousal, and he wraps his knees around Fit’s hips again, just so he can grind against him, let their arousals get acquainted. It feels good , and Fit’s breathy groan when their hips press together, separated by only two thin layers of threadbare cotton, is probably the best music Pac has ever heard, rough and wild, muffled with teeth on his throat. Fit’s hand, warm and rough, closes around his hip, thumbing at the hem of his briefs like he’s shy to pull it off, like they’re bashful young lovers on their first fuck and not… whatever they are, warriors, killers, hunters, monsters. So he tilts his hips up into the tender touch, enough for Fit to get the hint, and reaches down to pull the damn thing down, and now there’s cool air on his cock, less sharp than Fit’s gaze but making him shiver all the same, and warm, warm hands, rough with sword callouses, close around his skin with force enough to bruise; he keens a too-loud noise that has his blood freezing in his veins, has Fit’s too-green eyes darting around the clearing they’re in, settling on the dark trees surrounding them, the red sky above them, the mushy remains of a man staring emptily at the two of them like they might decide to get up and start biting. His cock throbs, scorching hot against Pac’s fluttering folds.

Only when he’s satisfied enough with the stillness of the air does he go back down to mouth at Pac’s throat, panting like a dog. Pac knows that kind of ardour, has felt it himself, many times, for many men, but to feel it aimed at himself is…

Indescribable.

He shifts his legs, tightens the lock of his ankles on Fit’s lower back; the movement presses him down, close, cock grinding into Pac’s cunt like it belongs there, and yet the man seems shy to reach down and tug it inside, through his low, rumbly, desperate moaning.

“Wh–what are you waiting for?” Pac hears himself asking. Tsk, tsk, breathless already like a teenager on his first tryst.

“I–it’s just… Is this really what you want, Pac?” Goddesses above, how infuriating that the man manages to look earnest through the traffic lights he’s got in place of eyes, and how much more infuriating that it looks terribly attractive, with his flushed cheeks and sweaty forehead and haunted expression like he’s terrified of being rejected, and that’s just silly, because Pac is a second away from wrestling a hand between the two of them and tugging Fit’s cock in his cunt himself. “I–I mean, I don’t want you to feel, you know, forced , or anything, or, like, is this just the adrenaline of the fight, I, uh…”

“Did you not hear what I said before?” Pac asks, and Fit looks panicked enough to spur him on and not let the poor man talk his own erection down, “I’ve wanted to have sex with you since, like, day one. When we crashed on the island, after you guys rescued us, I’m, like, pretty sure I went to bed for a week straight thinking about you with your shirt stuck to your chest from the rain. If you don’t fuck me right now I might go insane.”

As if to underline that point, he does actually reach between their warm bodies to tickle a hand around Fit’s cock, warm, thick, tip flushed red and glistening. He flutters his fingers, tight and then loose, and Fit moans a, frankly, whorish noise, high and trembling into Pac’s neck, and his hips follow Pac’s gentle coaxing like well-trained dogs; his cock slips inside like a knife retreating to the warmth of its sheath, and Fit moans again, the temple of his body wracked by a shuddering earthquake that almost sends him careening down.

He stays up, thankfully, holds himself up with both hands caging Pac’s head in, and gives a single, powerful thrust. Pac moans, kisses the discoloured skin of Fit’s fleshy forearm, lets his lips linger over pale lines of old, beloved scarring, and enjoys the way Fit shudders with every butterfly touch.

Fit's thrusting is shuddery, but methodical: little rhythmic jerks of his chin beat the tempo, as if he is counting the seconds between each thrust inside his head to ensure a perfect clockwork, and that is such a goofy thought, in-character as it is, that a chuckle puffs out of Pac's chest, and he curls his arms around his neck to pull him in a kiss, lap along his lips and coax his tongue out. He moans pretty in Pac's mouth when he starts sucking on his tongue; his hips lose their perfect rhythm and instead start pistoning in and out as fast as they can go, uneven and shaking with the effort of a movement never tried before, and now that feels good, the nearly-dry rubbing pistoning into him, so harsh it feels like it's tearing up Pac's insides, yes, yes, yes , more.

But Fit deserves better, better than this, better than harsh sandy earth under them and whipping wind and patchy red sky and dry-fucking under the bug-eyes attention of freshly killed prey.

So he pushes Fit away despite his half-pained whining—Goddess, the dryness was hurting him too, huh?—and spits on his hand, spits again for good measure, lets the thick, foamy fluid coat his glove before he reaches down to smear it on Fit’s cock, let it mix with his own wetness and the pearl of pre shining on his glans, and Fit cries out when he guides him back in, slide made easier by the spit.

“Fuck,” he groans, “Fuck, you—your… you feel good.”

That's cute.

“You feel good too,” Pac tells him, because it's true. “You're so warm and you fill me up so well when you thrust in, I can't wait to be so full of you I'll feel it dripping down my legs all the way back to my base.”

Something jumpstarts in Fit, a croaky gasp punched out of him, and the brutal pace starts up again. It's cute, in a way: Fit is mindless, chasing his own pleasure and gasping and twitching as if already on the brink of an orgasm, like a teenager fucking his first cunt. It's very cute, the way he cries out Pac's name every time he clenches around him, just because he can, just to be a dick.

Pac takes his wrist, the one made of flesh, discoloured and scarred, and brings his hand down between the two of them, guides him gently into tugging gentle circles on his cock. Fit is many things, and among those is a quick study: he takes to the movement as a bird to flying, spits on his hand and touches Pac, drinks in his every moan with trembling ardour until he is gasping wetly, stilling deep as he can go inside, and Pac can feel him twitch and spurt out pleasure, painting him white and taken with a pitiful whine just this side of ashamed.

He doesn't pull out immediately, which is already its own victory: but he stays still, panting heavily with his thumb pressed into Pac's cock, until he whines a strangled, uncomfortable sound, and immediately Fit picks his pace back up like the trooper he is, uncaring of the mess or his softening cock; at least, he tries to. He gives up after half a dozen thrusts, hissing his discomfort, and gives up to swirling his thumb in hypnotic circles, letting his fingers flutter along the jagged edges of Pac's lips to the rhythm of his broken praise, because despite how little Fit’s lasted, Pac is ridiculously close, himself.

“How ca–can I help,” Fit gasps, half-panicked as if fearing Pac will just up and leave, disgusted by his rapid performance, “Tell me how to help, I'll do it.”

Pac is struck by the very alluring image of Fit kneeling between his legs, face soiled with his own cum, nose buried in his bush.

Another time.

After they’ve all made it back to Quesadilla Island, where he'll be able to properly woo Fit on his soft bed in Chume Labs.

Man, he misses his soft bed in Chume Labs.

Instead, he shakes his head, “Just–just keep going, just like this, f–finger me, I'm so close–”

Fit immediately presses his index finger in, deep as it will go, the intrusion almost coquettish after having felt his cock.

“Good, go–good boy,” the finger twitches, his thumb stutters, “n–now curl it in, like you're telling someone to come close.”

Fit follows instructions like he was made for it. It takes very little, gentle coaxing and angling his hips into the stimulation, for Fit to catch the gist, start looking for the spots that make him sob all on his own, uncaring of the sticky mess dripping down his wrist, and when Pac comes, he comes with a shout, back arching and then falling like a poppet with cut strings.

They stay still a while after Fit gingerly slips his fingers out of Pac's cunt, the only movement the heavy fall of their breaths.

Pac is sleepy. Fit's eyes are droopy.

“We should… go back to our bases.” He tries, gravelly and hoarse.

Pac just nods. “Well, you would have to get off of me for that.”

Fit grunts, buries his head back in Pac's neck.

They’ll get up.

They'll get back to Purgatory.

Right now, they just want to rest.

#knight's notebook #qsmp #fitpac #hideduo #fitmc #pactw

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