#Michael;How many centuries deep are your wounds | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thebigqueer · 3 years

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Can you do an au where Percy dies in Tartarus and Nico is absolutely devastated and Will helps him accept that he's dead?(fluff+ angst? Idrk) Sorry if it's a lot and you can't do it. Love your writing btw, you're really talented💕

"Plant Your Roots and Grow" - Solangelo - One-Shot

Summary: (basically the ask lol) written for the free day for @solangeloweek !!

Notes: I started falling asleep while editing this so if it sounds bad... sorry lol. Also I'm not sure if this is exactly what you wanted, anon, but I hope you like it nonetheless!

Word Count: 1980

Read on AO3

Nico gazes out into the water, trying his best to ground himself with the sound of the lake. White sand prickles underneath his feet and hands, and a wave of cool ease falls over him, but that doesn’t stop the anxiety that trickles down his back any time he closes his eyes to blink.

All he can see is Percy’s ghostly face, screaming as his life drains from his very body.

Nico wasn’t there when Percy died in Tartarus. He knows he couldn’t even have saved him, but that doesn’t mean that he feels any better. Any time he thinks about the late demigod, grief seizes Nico’s heart like a vice. He could have done something.

When Nico came back to camp, his guilt relaxed a little. He took time to himself and prepared to take on the biggest challenge he’d ever had to take - to spend time for himself. And for a while, it worked. His mind wandered into a temporary bliss. He learned to love, to care, to be himself again.

But then the dreams started coming. Memories of Percy dying, screams of terror, the scent of hot, sour air. Terror gripped Nico at night; fear crawled down his throat and stripped him of his dignity. He could barely find the will to get up in the morning. All that he could even think about was Percy, Percy, Percy.

It’s been months, but still Nico can’t let go of him. He can’t accept his death.

The son of Hades sighs as a brush of wind strokes his face. The blue sky above blends into a pink hue, and with a sudden chill, Nico realizes that evening is approaching soon.

He doesn’t want it to be dark already. He’s not ready to face the shadows.

Nico pulls his knees to his chest and bows his head, curling himself into a ball. His body shudders as a deep, shaky breath releases from his chest, and his fingers twitch and shiver as another gust of wind blows past. Tears press against Nico’s throat and prickle in his eyes, but he tries his best not to let them fall.

He can’t fall apart. Not right now.

A soft crunching sound rumbles behind him, and in surprise, Nico twists around to meet his intruder. A golden human emerges onto the beach, gleaming like bronze under the orange sun. Nico blinks as he tries to outline the figure, but when he realizes who it is, a warm, soothing warmth overcomes his system.

“Will,” he whispers over the lapping water. “What are you doing here?”

The gleaming human points his blue gaze to Nico’s dark eyes, and for a second, Nico almost swears the world around him stops spinning. It’s only him and Will, drifting in the silence, absorbing each other’s presence.

Then Will settles down next to Nico, his arm brushing against the son of Hades’ as he does so, and he offers a shrug. “I thought maybe you’d want company.” His eyebrows arch in concern. “How are you? Are the dreams getting worse?”

Nico sighs and scrubs his hands over his face in exasperation. “Yeah,” he mutters. “It’s like… like he’s calling for me now. Like he’s asking me to come save him.”

Will winces. “What does Dionysus say about this? Does he think your dreams are… real?”

Nico turns his gaze back to the waters, eyes reflecting the sorrowful blue of the lake. “He thinks it’s definitely something that means something. Whether they’re real or not… I’m not really sure.”

“Do you think that maybe it’s Percy who’s calling you down to Tartarus?”

Nico shrugs and bites his lip, trying his best to force the tears back down. “I- I don’t know. I don’t think so. I felt his life force slip away. I don’t think he’s the one calling for me.”

Will nods solemnly, turning his own gaze out to the sea. Together, the boys stare off into the distance, allowing the chirping of birds to crack the air and letting the soft breeze of the lake whisper against their skin. Will’s hand snakes through the sand and touches Nico’s gently. After a second of hesitance, Nico allows Will to hold onto him.

“Nico,” Will murmurs, “do you think it’s possible that Percy’s showing up in your dreams because… you haven’t let go yet?”

Something hot and painful slices Nico through his core. His hands turn to ice, and his heartbeat quickens its pace. Nico’s body hums with some kind of excitement, some kind of giddiness as Will’s words trickle over him.

“I…” Nico sighs desperately, considering how to answer. “Maybe. I guess.” He groans. “I don’t know, Will! I just… I don’t know anymore.”

And, suddenly, it’s as if someone’s dropped a bomb over Nico’s feelings. His emotions burst from the dam he’s built up; his body shakes with each sob that racks through it. Tears trail over his cheeks like shimmering cracks and slip through his fingers, and he’s leaking all over, pouring his sadness and grief out into the world. His fingers tangle into his dark hair and brush against his feverish forehead, and his ears turn red and hot as each sob cracks into the open air.

“I’m losing control,” he murmurs through the tears. “I don’t know what I want from me. Why am I still thinking about him? I saw him die when I was on the Argo II. I’ve already accepted that I liked him. I’m supposed to move on, but I’m not. Why can’t I just grow from this? Why is he tying me to my past?”

Will watches Nico with apprehension, considering how to act. He’s better with physical wounds than anything; emotional pain isn’t something he can take care of. But nevertheless, his heart aches at the sight of his boyfriend so broken and deprived of his dignity.

He’s cracking.

After another beat of hesitation, Will shifts closer. His body pusles next to Nico’s, and as his arm touches the other boy’s elbow, Nico looks up. His obsidian eyes are lined with the red hue of grief, and crystal tears tear through his cheeks.

Will’s own lip trembles at the sight of Nico. He pushes his hand closer into the son of Hades’, filling any holes or gaps between them. He wants to offer Nico any warmth that he can, to give him any semblance of comfort he can muster.

“I don’t know what it’s like to be you, Nico,” he says nervously, watching his boyfriend’s expression. “But… I know it can be hard to deal with things that have hurt you. Especially when that thing is the death of a friend.” A shaky sigh slips through Will’s lips, and he turns his gaze to the waters ahead, hoping to find solace in the rhythm of the blue ripples. “When I lost Michael and Lee… I lost myself, too. I felt like two important pieces of my identity had just… left. I broke apart. I didn’t know who I was. I kept holding on to the idea of them, hoping that if I just kept them in my heart, they’d never truly have to leave.” Will sighs again as a pang of grief strikes his heart at the thought of his deceased brothers. “I kept them because I didn’t want to lose them. I thought if I let go of them… then I’d permanently recognize that they weren’t a part of my family anymore, and I never wanted to do that.”

Nico stares at Will, his eyes glassy with tears. “How did you move on?”

“I just… I took some time for myself. I decided that instead of trying to hold on, maybe it was time to finally confront my grief for what it truly was. I talked to Dionysus, I talked to my siblings, I talked to friends.” Will pauses, considering how to continue. “I think my biggest issue was that I was afraid letting them go meant I was going to pretend they never existed. But really, it just meant I wasn’t going to tie myself to them anymore. I wasn’t going to align my entire grief and personality and actions on people who were dead. It didn’t mean I was going to forget their entire existence and move on - it just meant I was going to detach myself from making all my decisions about them.”

Nico allows Will’s words to pour into his ears and drown over his heart. He turns his gaze to their interlocked fingers, and at the sight of Will’s tan skin mixed with Nico’s own olive tone, his chest blooms with a soft, comfortable warmth.

He’s not alone.

Nico takes a deep breath, waiting for the right words to fill into his mouth. “I… I had a lot of trouble with accepting Bianca’s death,” he whispers, rubbing his finger over Will’s thumb. “I kept holding on to the thought of her. I went as far as to try to bring her back to life. I guess for me it was… I was scared I was going to lose an important part of my past. I was going to lose another person who was incredibly important to me, who had been with me through everything. I was scared of that.” He sighs. “With Percy, I just don’t want to accept that he’s gone. He’s one of the best heroes of our century. Letting him go means… means he isn’t truly here anymore.” He shakes his head as another wave of tears overwhelms his chest. “I don’t want him to not be here anymore. He was such an important piece of demigod history. He’s made an impact on so many lives.”

Will’s eyebrows arch in concern once more. He slips his hand out of Nico’s and stretches an arm out tentatively, asking silent permission to hold his boyfriend. Nico stares at the tan skin of Will's arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, he lets himself indulge into the comfort of the blond’s warmth. Will falls over Nico’s shoulder, and the latter leans into the blond’s side, allowing himself to submerge under the weight of his grief.

Will’s fingers linger over Nico’s shoulder, brushing against his skin softly in an attempt to comfort him. “I know it’s hard, especially knowing your history together,” he murmurs. “It can be really difficult to let go of someone who you’ve had such a strong emotional connection to.” Will shifts his gaze to face Nico’s head-on. Sincerity bleeds into the rim of his eyes. “But you’re not going to immediately get over it. It takes a lot of time and healing. You’re not going to wake up one day and decide you’re okay. Everyone feels and heals a little differently, and that’s okay.” A soft, encouraging smile lingers over his lips. “But you’ve got me, and Dionysus, and your other friends. You don’t need to be alone in this, Nico. Not anymore.”

Nico nods, but his gaze seems faraway, reaching for something in the past. Though he’s solid and real in Will’s embrace, his soul is dissolving internally, bleeding out into the world around him and leaving him as a hollow shell.

He’s not quite existing in this moment.

Nevertheless, he accepts Will’s words. As worthless as they feel to him right now, he knows Will’s advice is helpful - he’s trying his best, and he’s right, too. Nico needs time to forgive and move on. He just needs time to grow.

He sighs and brushes a few tears from his face. Leaning his head against Will’s shoulder, he whispers, “Thanks, Will. That… means a lot.”

The water around them continues lapping and overwhelming the white border of sand in front of them. Another breeze flits by, and birds continue chirping. The world goes on moving and growing around them.

Maybe it’s time for Nico to plant his roots and grow, too.

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bipercabeth · 4 years

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percabeth | hurt/comfort | 3k | commissioned by @mericatblackwood

a post-TLO fic in which we finally Let Percy Cry

Annabeth doesn’t know what to do with anger—her own or others’. She can take her problems to the sword fighting arena or bury her nose in blueprints for weeks, but she’ll still come away with a tight jaw. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands when they aren’t clenched into fists.

So when the tendons in Percy’s hands strain around his silverware at dinner, when his eyes are downcast and he’s closed off in that I’m-angry-but-trying-desperately-not-to-look-it way, Annabeth can only fumble over a painfully casual attempt at conversation and watch as he retreats to his cabin. He doesn’t even make an appearance at the campfire. The flames have been low in the weeks following the Battle of Manhattan, but they’re rising tonight.

The problem isn’t reading Percy; it never has been. Annabeth knows what’s hurting him and why. It’s the fixing part she struggles with.

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He’s been angry for the better part of a year, often because of the ambiguous impending doom of his sixteenth birthday, but not exclusively so. Annabeth caused more than her fair share of his anger, she knows. Rachel had been there to provide an escape in her place, but Annabeth supposes part of being Percy’s girlfriend means that it’s her who gets to provide solace now. Not that she didn’t before, but. There’s a deeper commitment now. He was always her person—as she was his—but it’s out in the open. She’s the first line of defense—she wants to be the first line of defense from danger, be it physical or emotional.

So Annabeth dons her Yankees cap and sneaks to Cabin 3, replaying the conversation where Percy shrugged and said he’s fine when she tried to call him out. He isn’t fine. She knows that much.

That doesn’t mean she expects to find him curled in on himself, bedsheets tangled around his middle. It shouldn’t be possible to look small in a twin bed, but he looks so small—not at all like the hero the other campers celebrate over the campfire. It’s a stark reminder that he’s only sixteen.

He lifts his head when the door opens, his eyes wide. Annabeth remembers that she’s invisible and knocks her cap off her head. She’ll pick it up later. Right now Percy’s breath stutters at the sight of her, his eyes shining like open wounds.

Annabeth can do dry anger: the cold, unfeeling rage that motivates, propels, inspires. But wet anger—the paralyzing, painful kind you cannot power through—leaves her scrambling for purchase. Annabeth is a runner. She doesn’t sit in anything.

The sheets rustle as Percy closes his eyes and takes refuge in his bed like a dog hiding his wounded paw. Despite his efforts, he cannot disguise his limp.

“Please don’t hide from us,” Annabeth pleads.

“I’m not hiding from you,” he says mildly, not lifting his head from the pillow. “I can’t hide from you.”

“But you came here.”

“I knew you would come.” Percy shrugs, casually stating as fact something Annabeth didn’t know herself until a few minutes ago.

In this moment, Annabeth envies Percy’s connection with Grover. She would kill to have a way to funnel her emotions into Percy’s brain in a way he could understand. All the love and concern she can’t articulate could exist in the world without the struggle of finding the right words.

Still, Percy specified her. Grover is out there at the campfire, probably sensing Percy’s pain like a twinge at the base of his neck, but Annabeth is the one Percy can’t hide from.

The thought propels her to the edge of his bed, sitting in the curve of mattress his torso folds around. His knees press into her right thigh as he shifts to close the space between them. Annabeth realizes with a jolt that he left this space for her to occupy.

On her other side is his face, youthful and soft in the moonlight streaming through the window. Blue light for a blue boy, swimming in blue sheets that should shelter him instead of giving him something to fist his hands in. His arms cage his chest as if his heart is trying to escape it.

Annabeth reaches for his hand, drawing it to rest between hers. If his heart is a burden, it’s not one he has to bear alone. They held the weight of the sky once. They can handle this.

For all their shared burdens, the one that weighs on Percy now is uniquely his. Annabeth is a hero, but not the hero. Shouldering “child of Athena’s final stand” for a few weeks is not the same as “hero’s soul, cursed blade shall reap” looming overhead for four years. Percy’s very existence has been dissected and politicized since the moment he was claimed, whereas Annabeth could’ve chosen a quieter, quest-free life if that’s what she wanted. She chose to pick it up. Percy’s choice was to stand under a weight that would otherwise crush him.

It occurs to Annabeth that everyone who has shouldered this burden before him is dead. The heroes whose birth was prophesied, whose death was prophesied, died fighting their battles centuries ago. There are no words for that.

Words are Percy’s strong suit, anyway. He has always known what to say to calm his friends down. Annabeth can’t recall the last time she saw someone do the same for him.

She squeezes his hand and focuses on being here, where it matters.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, knowing he doesn’t. Or rather, knowing he doesn’t want her to have to talk about it.

As expected, Percy burrows deeper into the bed. Half his face is squished in his pillow; the sole eye Annabeth can see fixes on the empty space in front of him. He gives her a noncommittal shrug she doesn’t buy. But at least he won’t lie outright.

Silence follows. It nips at Annabeth’s ankles, nagging her to move, to do something, but she decides to sit with the discomfort. The confession he’s suppressing is a palpable thing: Annabeth watches it stutter in his lungs and claw its way up his windpipe. Percy will tell her when he’s ready, and she’ll be here when he is.

“I’ve been having dreams,” he says, still not meeting Annabeth’s eye. That’s okay, though. He’s getting the words out. That’s what matters, right?

“What kind of dreams?”

Percy grimaces. “Not the useful kind. Nightmares, mostly. About the war.” He doesn’t breathe between the sentences, just grits his teeth.

“It’s over, Percy. The war is over. We can rest now,” she tries.

“They can’t.”

Dread settles over Annabeth, but she asks anyway. “Who can’t?”

“Beckendorf,” he chokes, his hand tightening in hers. “Silena, Castor, Lee, Michael—I killed him, Annabeth. I told the others where to go, and they died because of me, but I killed Michael.”

Annabeth opens her mouth to interrupt, but the names keep coming. Percy steamrolls through the tears, leaving her to watch his anger limp along until it collapses into the worn bed of sadness.

“Ethan shouldn’t have been on Olympus. I should’ve hit him harder, then he might have stayed down. And Zoe—I knew she was going to die. We found out who her dad was, and I knew and I couldn’t do anything. And Bianca wasn’t supposed to stop the automation. It was supposed to be me. She could’ve come home to Nico, and maybe then—”

“Percy…”

He shrinks with each word, looking every inch the child Annabeth found on Half-Blood Hill: bruised, tired, and crying for his mother. “My mom died because of me. I didn’t even save her—I saved the world, because that’s what I had to do. Hades let her go, but she still died.”

Annabeth gapes at him uselessly. To love Percy is to know intimately the amount of guilt and unearned blame he assigns himself, but that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach.

“You saved your mom,” she reminds him. “You saved her and the world. You shouldn’t have had to do either, but you did.”

“But I didn’t save the others.”

“No one could’ve.”

“I should’ve. When you fight the way I can, the people who die around you die because you can’t get to them fast enough. If I had just been faster, I...” He takes a shuddering breath. “Why do I get to survive when they don’t?”

A lifetime of war games and war alike, and that question is the worst thing Annabeth has ever heard. Percy is just laying there, still not meeting her eye, and she doesn’t know how to help him.

Terrified of how he’ll answer that question, Annabeth leans down to kiss him before he can. She tries to pour everything into it despite not having too much experience. Kissing Percy so far has been fun, sweet, and definitely trial and error. Nothing this desperate, this needy. She inhales him like she can steal the painful words from his lungs before he says them.

Annabeth tastes tears and pulls back, terrified that she’s done something wrong. Instead, Percy’s hand catches the back of her neck, keeping her close enough for their foreheads to touch. It’s there, inches away from his trembling lips, that Annabeth finds the words.

“You saved me,” she pants. “From the Furies on the bus, at the Lotus hotel, when Polyphemus knocked me out—” her fingers travel to his grey streak— “when we held up the sky, at Mount St. Helens, on Olympus… Too many times to count. From the first day we met, you gave me hope.” She strokes his cheek and wipes away the tears, feeling her own eyes well up. “Every day. You save me every day.”

Percy clings to her hand on his cheek and releases a deep breath, fully exhaling for the first time all night. “You save me just as often.”

“So let me do it now, yeah?”

Percy looks at her, green eyes wet and wide, and nods carefully. Annabeth sighs her relief against his forehead before pressing her lips there with an aching softness. There is more to say, but she takes a moment to just hold him. The Fates deemed her his anchor to mortality, so anchor him she will.

“You survived because you were saddled with the weight of the world at twelve years old and the gods owe you a fucking break.” She looks at the ceiling, almost daring thunder to rumble. The sky stays silent. “More campers are alive than dead after a war with impossible odds, Percy. You saved so many, but you can’t save everyone. None of them would want you to blame yourself for this. We have to honor their sacrifice—and, in some cases, their choice.”

That breaks him. The last of his anger gives way to painful sobs, the ugly kind that squeeze your lungs like a spasming fist. In this moment, he is not the wounded dog, but rather the limp itself: the awkward cadence of his breath reminiscent of limbs struggling to hold new weight.

“What do you need?” she asks. “What can I do?”

The mattress jostles as Percy scoots closer, freeing up part of the bed. “Could you stay here with me? Wake me up if it gets bad? If you have to go back to your cabin, that’s fine—”

He’s cut off by Annabeth kicking off her shoes and crawling into bed behind him. There isn’t much room on the twin mattress, but she tucks her knees into the backs of his and wraps around him, and they fit well enough. She settles quickly to avoid overthinking, glad for the excuse to be close to him.

This is entirely unfamiliar territory, as Annabeth discovers when she tries to figure out what to do with her hands. She’s never spooned someone before.

Percy senses her hesitation and laces their fingers, pulling her arm around his torso. Annabeth squeezes him tight, like maybe lining up their hearts will calm the frantic beat of his. Between that and her body protecting his Achilles spot, she’s got him.

It’s a little awkward, the silence that follows. They haven’t exactly had pillowtalk before, let alone while calming Percy during a breakdown. Annabeth doesn’t know how to hold him to make all that go away, so she clings to him as tight as she can.

“You’re like a boa constrictor,” he chuckles. It’s a wet, half-hearted laugh that tells Annabeth he still has more to say. He’s at his worst when he’s deflecting.

Still, she moves to loosen up. “Sorry.”

He tugs at her hand. “No! I mean, it’s nice. I feel… safe.” He pauses, his breath deep. “I always feel safe with you.”

Annabeth hasn’t kissed much of him apart from his lips, but she liked the comfort of kissing his forehead. She tightens her grip again and presses her lips to his shoulder, just because she can.

“Sometimes they’re about you,” Percy whispers.

Annabeth lays her cheek on his shoulder, trying to see his face. “What?”

“The nightmares. Sometimes they’re about losing you.”

“Percy, look at me.”

The tension falls from his spine as he flips around, tangling further in the mess of sheets. Annabeth smooths everything out for him before laying on her back and tugging him close. He ends up halfway on top of her: his arm around her waist, her hands in his hair, their legs a tangled mess.

She holds his face, thumbs swiping at his cheeks gently. He may be invulnerable, but he’s a fragile thing. Maybe even more so with the invulnerability.

“Tell me about them.”

“What? No. Annabeth, I’m not— I can’t talk about you d— about losing you. I can’t say those words.”

Annabeth just holds his face and his gaze. “You should. Talk about it here, safe, with me, and maybe it won’t be so bad when you fall asleep. I’ll be here the whole time.”

The tension in Percy’s body is palpable as he resists Annabeth’s coaxing. But slowly, she slips her hands to his scalp and massages him there, leeching the stress from his body as he sinks forward into her. His weight presses Annabeth into the mattress. It’s comforting, having him above her. She can feel every breath he takes, every time his heart beats in his chest.

“We’ve almost died a ton of times, but that was always together.” He swallows, and his Adam’s apple bobs against her collarbone. “But then on the bridge with Ethan, when you took the knife…”

Percy takes a shuddering breath.

“Sometimes we get you to the hotel and Will can’t help. Or I can’t find Will. Or Blackjack can’t grab you. Or—” his grip tightens around her, and his tears fall on her skin. “Sometimes you, you die right there at my feet. You jump a second earlier, and Ethan hits you in the chest, and I kill him for it. I kill everyone on the bridge. Most times it’s an accident, just the river listening to me, but sometimes… sometimes I don’t know. Both scare me.”

One of Annabeth’s hands moves to his Achilles spot of its own accord. Percy gasps into her neck, where some tears fall as well. He’d fought his way through his confession, coming from somewhere so deep inside him that the deluge of tears was unavoidable. She hopes to distract him from them now.

“You saved me on that bridge,” she reminds him, her free hand scratching lightly at the base of his neck.

“But what if I didn’t?” he breathes. He sounds so small.

“Doesn’t matter. You did. Anything else is a hypothetical.”

“But in the future—”

“Uh uh.” Annabeth’s chin taps Percy’s temple as she shakes her head. “It’s like strategy. You can think and think and think and plan your whole life out, but it’s not real. You never know what’s going to happen until your feet hit the floor. Are your feet on the floor?”

“No,” he grumbles.

“No,” she echoes. “You’re in bed. You get to rest now.”

Percy is still for countless heartbeats. Right when Annabeth thinks he might’ve fallen asleep, he props himself up on one elbow to look at her. Even in the lowlight, Annabeth can make out his puffy eyes and wet cheeks.

“You know you’re my best friend, right?” He sniffles, his nose wrinkling adorably as he does, and his eyes bore into Annabeth’s. “You’re my girlfriend too, but you’re my best friend first. Always.”

Annabeth hears that statement for what it is and grins despite the tears prickling in her own eyes. “And you’re mine. Always.”

A smile breaks out on his face like dawn at this late hour, brightening up the small space between them. Exhaustion sets in to close it, drawing Percy to settle back into Annabeth’s neck with the slow pull of gravity.

They drift off in a bed made to be slept in alone as they share a burden made for one person. Newness tinges the corners of this memory, this moment Annabeth finds herself missing before it’s gone: Percy asleep above her, finally getting the peaceful rest he deserves. Part of Annabeth wants to stay up all night to make sure he gets the most of it, to watch his back as she promised to do, but her eyelids are heavy with sleep in no time.

What sticks with Annabeth is this: Percy’s breath slow and steady against her neck, his heartbeat reliable as ever as it syncs with her own. The world is warm and safe despite all the evidence to the contrary, and that’s what makes this moment untouchable. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, here they are. Together in every way that matters.

#i hurt myself writing this i am not going to lie #if u read this on tumblr all i ask is u give it some love on ao3 bc engagement with tumblr is Trash but i try to keep commissions accessible #commissions #my percabeth #my fic #mericatblackwood

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katehuntington · 4 years

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Title: All I Want - part three Fandom: Supernatural Characters: Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester (Bobby Singer, Castiel Mary Winchester and many more mentioned) Pairing: Dean x Reader Series summary: Sam and Dean come across an object that could be the solution to Michael. The Pearl of Baozhu grants the beholder’s deepest desire. Once Dean focuses on his wish, the archangel remains caged in his mind however. Instead his former girlfriend Y/N shows up, who was killed in 2010 in Detroit, by no other than Lucifer himself. Summary part three: Still in shock after Y/N’s unexpected return, the Winchesters fill her in on what has happened in the past ten years. Learning about all the ones they have lost, is a little too much for her to take in. Warnings part three: NSFW, 18+ only. Spoilers season 14 episode 13. Angst, fluff. Swearing, alcoholism. Descriptions of flashbacks and memories. Mentions of character death, time in Hell, torture and nightmares. Anxiety, grieving over lost loved one. Confusion that comes with time travel. Word Count: 5377 words Author’s note: Part three of a multi part miniseries, based on the 300th episode “Lebanon”. Beta’d by the lovely @kittenofdoomage, @winchest09, @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish, and @thinkwritexpress-official. Thank you all so much for your feedback!

All I Want Masterlist

“So, long story short,” Y/N summarizes, “Sam jumped into the pit with Lucifer riding piggyback, Cas pulled him out but forgot his soul. There was a civil war in Heaven. Cas declared himself God and released the Leviathan and when those ugly suckers were defeated, our angel buddy and you--” she nods at Dean, “- got sucked into Purgatory, which is a place that actually exists, apparently.”

They are in the kitchen, seated at the four-person table. The hunters raided the liquor cabinet, all in need of a drink after the rather unexpected and staggering turn of events. Y/N takes a shot of whiskey and puts the tumbler down on the varnished wood with a bang, shoving it across and motioning the older Winchester for a refill.

“Meanwhile, Sam hit a dog and you escaped Purgatory, but Cas didn’t. Then there was this whole deal with the tablets and the trials, which almost killed your brother. You let an angel - who actually turned out to be a different angel - possess Sam in order to save him. There’s a second civil war upstairs…” She knocks back her head, downing the glass in one go. “I mean, what is it with those halo idiots? Haven’t they learned anything from watching humanity slaughter each other for centuries?” “Y/N, I know this is a lot, but you need to slow down a bit,” Dean advises, but she snatches the bottle from his hand and pours herself another. “I’m nowhere near done. Where was I?” She looks up at the ceiling of the kitchen for a second while thinking, until it comes to her. “Oh, right! The angels fell, you took on the Mark of Cain, beat that Knight of Hell chick Abaddon, then got yourself killed. Again. But, oh wait, it gets better! You woke up a demon and had a fun summer with Crowley.” Her voice pitches a little higher, a hint of panic audible now. Dean watches her process the information which is so clearly overwhelming her and eyes Sam, who is fixing her something quick to eat behind the kitchen counter. Their gazes lock on each other, both men wondering in silence if telling her the whole truth was a good idea.

“Sam cured you, but you still carried the Mark. You killed Death.” She laughs, cynically. “I mean, c’mon! Death! It’s ironic to say the least. Anyway, the Darkness was released, which - I kid you not - is God’s sister. Oh, and God? Turns out that horrible tween girl novel writer Chuck is actually the almighty creator! Ha!” “Why don’t you eat something? You’re probably hungry,” Sam suggests, putting down a plate in front of her. But Y/N isn’t interested in the sandwich and instead picks up her crystal glass again, having another royal amount of the brown liquor. Holding the tumbler to her lips while letting the whiskey linger in her mouth, she points her index finger at the younger Winchester now, who sits down opposite of the woman from their past.

“Your mom is back from the dead, the British Men of Letters turned out to be stuck up dicks. Lucifer was sprung from the cage, became President of the United States, and knocked up an intern. He had a son, his name is Jack. How am I doing so far?” she rants, setting down the empty glass in front of her. Dean looks at her, a worried frown drawing lines on his forehead. He knows her well enough to sense she needs to blow off steam. Interrupting her might not be his best move, but that doesn’t stop him from growing concerned about her current state of mind.

“There was a rift between our world and this - this Apocalypse world, you called it? And Mary and Lucifer ended up on the wrong side before it closed. Luci killed Cas, Dean was sad, Cas came back. You guys went on a rescue mission, Sam got killed. Again!” She sighs deeply, burying her face in her crossed arms on the table. “Seriously, the amount of times you two have died is giving me a fucking headache.” “Yeah, sorry about that,” Sam says, shooting her a sheepish smile before she continues.

“So Apocalypse!Michael possessed you in order to kill the Devil once and for all.” She looks up again, focusing on Dean. “But he didn’t check out like he promised - shocker, by the way. He wreaked havoc here, then out of the blue let you go. And now you guys live here in this Men of Letters bunker with a Nephilim, an angel and your undead mother.” “That’s about right,” Dean confirms. Y/N lets a breath slip from her lips and stares past him absently, the gears in her head still on overdrive. “I need another drink,” she eventually mutters, not even bothering filling up her tumbler, but taking a swig directly from the bottle. When she sets it back on the table top and lets her fingers slip from the glass, Sam is quick to get up and take the bottle back to the kitchen, putting it away in one of the cabinets; she has had enough for one day. “And I died…”

The younger Winchester turns around and leans over the counter while observing his friend, his knuckles white on the surface. He studies the breadcrumbs that litter the stainless steel surface after he cut her sandwich in two, having difficulty addressing that topic. When Lucifer flung her into that wall with such magnitude that it killed her instantly, Dean lost the woman he loved, but Sam lost his best friend. He didn’t realize how he felt about her demise until after he got his soul back, which somehow made it even worse. Like he didn’t do her justice, didn’t mourn like he should have. He doesn’t have to reply to her words, though, because Dean beats him to it. “On May 10, 2010,” he states, averting his gaze and focusing on his folded hands in front of him, still wrapped around his own whiskey glass. The date is forever etched in his memory. Her mirage haunts him on a regular basis, but on the 10th of May she’s all he can think about, like a fog that refuses to lift at daybreak. It’s one of the hardest days to get through, the day that he misses her the most. Dean’s jaw flexes and he tries to swallow down the pressure that’s gradually building in his chest.

“That’s - that’s in a year and a half,” Y/N stammers, after quick calculation. “At least in whatever time I’m from.” “Yeah, just before the big title fight between the Archangels,” Sam confirms. Y/N glances up at him, then back at Dean, who still can’t force himself to look at her. “Who killed me?” “Lucifer,” Dean recalls, venom in his voice. Her brow lifts up at the reveal. She was killed by the Devil himself? Well, at least that would make a cool inscription on her tombstone. “You guys salted and burned me, right?” she double checks, even though she cannot imagine the Winchesters giving her anything but a hunter’s farewell. Dean pulls at his lip with his teeth, the memory of the burning pyre flashing before his eyes. He remembers it as if it was yesterday. The funeral that made sure her death would be irreversible, permanent. The sight of her body set alight. In order to stop the Apocalypse from happening, he lost his brother and his girl. Sam was suffering endless and horrific torture in the pits of Hell while she was going up in flames before his eyes. God, he was a mess. His brother came home, but looking back now, deep down Dean knows he never really recovered from losing the woman who will forever have his heart. “I did,” he confirms. I did, he said. All of a sudden, Y/N realizes Sam was gone too at this point; Dean didn’t even have his brother to lean on. Pitiful she watches the hunter, who has endured so much already. He lost the two most important people in his life in a day’s time. “Then… how am I back?” she wonders. “You said something about summoning me?” “We found a magical artifact called the Pearl of Baozhu. It grants your biggest wish, basically,” Sam begins to explain. “Apparently, it’s so powerful it doesn’t need remains to resurrect someone.” “And I am your biggest wish?” She chuckles. “What? Not winning the lottery? Peace on Earth?” A small smirk pulls at the corner of Dean’s mouth; oh, he missed her wit. “No, it’s you,” he states after a moment of quiet, finally meeting her gaze.

Astonishment silences her as she stares at him, the pain of having to go through life without her still evident in his eyes. He looks so much wearier than she remembers the tough hunter, the soldier who always marched on and kept grinding. Even after he came back from Hell, the experience that tore open wounds which bled even worse than those inflicted the night the hellhounds took him. Honestly, there were plenty of times she thought he would never recover, whenever he woke up screaming from another nightmare and she had to hold him until he calmed. And yet, he didn’t seem as burdened as he does now, and that is saying something. It’s as if time broke him down bit by bit as he grew older, until there was nothing left but a ruin.

Dean said it’s 2019, which means he’s forty years old now. His frown lines lay deeper, so do the crow’s feet by the corner of his eyes. There’s a scar on his chin that wasn’t there before, covered by his stubble. His hair is a little longer, but only by a quarter of an inch. Age has not done a number on him, because he’s still handsome, but trauma and loss surely have. Knowing that her own death had a substantial part in the neverending sorrow and guilt she knows the hunter carries breaks her heart, because if anything, she would never want to cause him such agony.

“We were together,” she says, ending the silence.

It’s more a realization than it is a question, but Dean nods either way. Her jaw lowers slightly, her mouth opening, but she has no idea what to say. She was frightened when she heard she was on a collision course with death. But now she’s made aware that her future self and Dean are going to face evil as one hell of a power couple, that fear diminishes. She was a teenager when she first started developing feelings for the oldest Winchester brother. She never acted on it, the hunter’s life always getting in the way of their romance. But somehow, despite destiny, despite the horror show that is their reality, they found their way to each other.

Seeing just how much her departure wrecked him, she reaches out, moving her hand across the table to take his. She squeezes softly, running her thumb over his skin, rough from the many fights he’s faced. He visibly relaxes, cherishing the moment he never thought he’d have again. Y/N forces herself to avert her eyes, aware they aren’t alone. She glances at Sam, who watches the two, smiling, but his content expression dissolves when she inadvertently turns the conversation in a harrowing direction. “What about the others? How’s Bobby?” she wonders, oblivious to the painful reply that is to come.

Dean’s face falls, closing his eyes in apprehension. Shit, he wishes he didn’t have to break the bad news to her. Bobby Singer was like a father to all of them, but Y/N spent the majority of her childhood under his wing. After her parents died, he took her in and raised her as his own, made sure she could go to school, that she could be a kid. Hell, he was her father, maybe not genetically, but he was the wise man who taught them that family doesn’t end in blood.

Sam stares back at her, then swallows thickly, letting his head hang. Analyzing his stance, the smile on her lips dies down, frantically searching for an indication that says it isn’t so. When the tall hunter is unable to return her gaze, she fixates on Dean, tears already glazing over her eyes. “Y/N...” He takes her hand in his now, trying to sooth her and cushion the blow, but he knows there’s nothing he can do that would take the pain away that is about to hit her like a freight train. “No...” She shakes her head, unable to accept it. “No no no no...” “I’m so sorry,” he says softly, his heart breaking as he breaks hers.

Her bottom lip begins to tremble, her face contorting as she fights the emotions that quickly overpower her. Shimmering pathways of anguish find their way down her cheeks, eventually falling to land on the wooden surface. Y/N wipes her cheeks dry, but it’s no use, new tears forming faster than she can erase. And so she brings her free hand up to cover her mouth, holding back a sob. “W-when?” she stammers, her voice shaking. “How?” “In 2012. He... he was shot,” Dean explains, trying to get the words across as gingerly as possible.

She shuts her eyes now, her throat closing up and she bites her bottom lip, trying her hardest not to break down in front of the boys. She has so many questions of which the answers terrify her. “Did he die alone?” She barely dares to look up again, meeting Sam’s gaze this time. He shakes his head, offering her a comforting smile. “No, we were right there with him,” he assures. “He’s in Heaven,” Dean consoles, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the back of her hand. “Cas double checked.”

Y/N nods slightly, sniffling as she digests the news. Knowing that he’s in a good place right now doesn’t stop the grief from tearing her apart, because she has no idea how to go through life without her mentor to council her, but at least he’s not suffering anymore. A shuddering breath escapes from her lungs as she collects herself. “What killed him, is it--” “- dead. Yeah, we made sure of that,” Dean guarantees. “Good,” she says, her voice having gained some strength. “What about Rufus? Ellen & Jo?” Sam sighs and looks down, painfully confronted with how many people they’ve lost over the years. “They’re all gone,” he states, still leaning heavily on the countertop. Shocked, Y/N stares at him, unable to believe how many have perished. “So, of the original crew, you two are really the last ones standing, huh?” “Yeah, I guess we are,” the younger brother confirms. “But we met some great people along the way, I’m sure they’ll be excited to meet you. We’re not fighting the good fight alone, by any means.” “Glad to hear that. Just, not today? I’m not sure how much more I can take,” she almost pleads, her voice raspy from crying.

Dean watches her closely, guilt constricting in his gut. Unknowingly, he has pulled her from a time where things weren’t all that bad. If she’s from October 2008, he has just returned from Hell. Bobby was alive, Sam was okay, so were the other people she considered family. They were growing closer, on the verge of giving in to the attraction they felt for each other. But now it’s just the three of them and a ten year gap between her lifetime and theirs. She must be feeling completely out of place, disorientated, exhausted. “Why don’t we go pick out a room for you, so you can lay down for a bit?” Dean offers, squeezing her hand gently to get her attention. She agrees and gets up from her seat without another word, mentally too tired to argue. The alcohol is coursing through her system, and although she doesn’t feel highly intoxicated, combined with the range of emotions she just went through, it’s doing a number on her. Honestly, she’s down for a nap, preferably one that lasts a day or two. Dean lets her go up the two steps first, ready to catch her might her coordination fail her after all. He glances over his shoulder at his brother, who picks up the untouched sandwich and carries the plate to the sink. “Go ahead, I’ll clean up,” Sam offers. Thankful, the older Winchester forces a small smile before he leaves the kitchen.

Quietly, Y/N follows the broad shouldered hunter who leads the way, her arms crossed in front of her chest, the coolness from the stone walls chasing chills up and down her spine. It’s not just the cold, though, it’s everything. Too much information to process, too much heartbreak to endure. Her brain is overloaded, fatigue hitting her like a ton of bricks. She watches Dean turn the corner and stroll into a long hallway with doors on either side, gold plated numbers below the Men Of Letters emblem. They stop in front of room 12. “You can take this one,” he suggests, opening the door for her and flicking on the lights. “I’m right next door if you need anything. Sam’s in room 21.”

Y/N steps inside, taking in her new accommodation. Despite the use of mostly brick and concrete and the lack of windows, the glow coming from the ceiling light and the lamp on the nightstand feels warm and welcoming. A large mahogany bed is situated against the far end, a matching desk on the left with an old typewriter and a radio sitting on top. Directly behind the door there’s a sink and a medicine cabinet with a mirror on the lid, and a wardrobe next to it. “We can put a rug on the floor, if you want. I remember how you always had cold feet,” Dean suggests. She turns in the middle of the room, a small smile on her lips; he’s not wrong. “I’d like that,” she says, grateful.

A little uneasy she lets her gaze linger over the still empty cabinets and bookshelves again, feeling foreign in this future that didn’t include her, before Dean wished she was. She realizes there’s nothing to fill them with, no clothes, no books, no picture frames. “Could I maybe borrow a shirt and some sweats from you? I’m gonna have to buy some new clothes later today,” she asks, a little flustered. “Sure, but actually, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck, the way he always does when he’s nervous. “I never threw away your stuff. It’s been in boxes in the storage room, so your clothes are probably gonna need to be washed--” “- Wait, you… you saved my stuff?”

She stares at him in awe. It’s been almost ten years since she died, and he still held on to all that she owned. Sure, it wasn’t much, since they were on the road most of the time, but still. They didn’t find this bunker until a couple of years later, which means Dean had stored it in a locker somewhere, or maybe at Bobby’s, and picked it up again when they found a permanent home. He had moved her things around for almost a decade, yet never threw them out, even though he knew there was no purpose left for the items that once belonged to her. Just painful reminders of what was and what was lost. “Yeah, I - I couldn’t really bring myself to throw it out,” he claims, as if he was dodging a task that should have been done long ago. He isn’t lying. Even though he knew she was never going to return to him, that her life was lost and his love was hopeless, he kept everything she held dear. Her books, her mixtapes, her photos, her jewelry. The clothes she wore, the guitar she played. The stack of coasters she collected, picking one up at every bar they ever had a drink at, from every town they ever crossed. The old school Polaroid camera she brought everywhere, snapping pictures of everything that caught her eye along the way. Sunsets, funny road signs, captivating landscapes, interesting people. There are a few of him, of the Winchesters together, some more portraying the three of them, all squeezed into the shot. She even caught Bobby on camera, ignoring his grumpy mutters when she had fulfilled her seemingly impossible mission. There’s the music box she got from her mother when she was little, her parents’ wedding album. Lore books, weapons and crystals that Bobby gave her when she first started hunting. The enchanted good luck charm Dean gave her for her birthday. He held on to it all, because he couldn’t bear the thought of having to let her go completely.

Sympathetically, Y/N observes him. His tough exterior only lets a hint of embarrassment over something so sentimental seep through. But she knows him, she has seen the knight without his armor. She knows how badly he’s hurting. “Anyway, I’ll - uh, get you some clean clothes and dig up your stuff from storage.” He points his thumb over his shoulder a little awkwardly, excusing himself. She nods. “Thanks.”

With a faint smile on his lips he disappears, leaving the door ajar. Y/N breathes in deeply and allows the air to flow out, trying to calm herself down. It’s her first moment alone since she found herself in the year of 2019 and she cannot begin to comprehend what is happening to her. How she time-jumped a decade into the future, having history with Dean she cannot even recall. It feels like she’s in a bad daytime television show, where one of the characters has hit her head too hard and suffers from amnesia, not remembering her lover. Rubbing her forehead she turns around, trying to massage away the headache. Her eyes glide through her new bedroom again. This is going to be her home now. After moving out of Bobby’s place, she never really had that kind of stability. The closest she came to a roof over her head was her minivan, her little house on wheels.

Fingertips grace the covers of her bed, the material soft under her touch, when she hears Dean’s boots echo in the hall. She turns around as he comes through the doorway, holding two boxes with a bundle of clothes laying on top of the stack in his arms. He lowers the neatly taped carton containers to the ground, her name written on them with black marker. Dean made sure to file on the label what’s inside them. “There’s one more box, your clothes are in that one. I can put them in the washer now, so you’ll have something better to wear than my oversized stuff,” he offers. “You don’t have to do that, Dean,” she objects, but he shrugs it off. “It’s no problem.” His voice is kind, but he’s not taking ‘no’ for an answer. It’s the first time he has moved her belongings without having to fight the tears, without having to pause in order to stop himself from breaking down. He wants to make sure she has something clean and fresh to wear when she wakes up later, finally being able to take care of her again.

Dean turns the corner and heads to the storage room, his heart finally calming with the simplicity of being able to do something as domestic as washing her clothes. After picking up the last big box, he exits the storage and pulls the door shut behind him, making his way to the dorm where the washers and dryers are situated. He sets the box down in front of one of the machines, pulls his pocket knife from his belt and cuts through the duct tape. The first item he pulls out, however, steals his breath; it’s the leather jacket she wore that night in Detroit. Two days after they lost her, Dean wrapped her in linen before he laid her down on the pyre he and Bobby built, her lifeless body still in the jeans and band shirt she had on when she was killed. He took off her favorite black leather jacket, though, wanting to preserve it, even though it was a part of Y/N - or maybe because it was. Traces of faded crimson still stain the collar. Dean shakes his head, trying to ban the image from his mind. The image of the blood running from her nose and mouth as she hung from his arms, dead weight, the spark of life in her eyes long gone.

After a deep breath, the hunter collects himself and lays the leather jacket aside, then begins to carefully pick out some of her clothes. He makes a selection that fits in the drum, adds a laundry pod and turns the machine on. He hopes the old thing does a better job at washing away the memory of her death than he’s doing.

When he enters Y/N’s room again, she has changed into the black shirt and grey sweatpants he offered her. She spins when she hears him, an amused grin adorning her face. “Nice socks,” she chuckles, showing off her novelty footwear with burgers and milkshakes on them. “Shut up. Sammy gave them to me for Christmas,” he utters, a blush on his cheeks. “Your stuff’s in the washer.” “Thank you,” she returns, grateful.

A silence followers as Dean lingers in the doorway. This would be the moment to give her some space and retreat to his room, but somehow he can’t make himself step outside. He has spent too much time without her by his side already, he doesn’t want to waste a second not being with the woman he’s still unmistakingly in love with. She’s his girl, afterall. But that’s where it gets confusing, because he’s not sure how she feels about all this. Y/N was zapped from a time where they weren’t in a relationship yet, so where do they stand in this messed up mayhem? “Y/N, about that kiss earlier…” he starts off hesitant. “I, uh - I didn’t know you were from a place where we weren’t… y’know, together.”

The smile on her lips dies down as she watches the hunter, skilled in the field when fighting evil, but now stumbling over his own words. It’s only now that she realizes how surreal this must be for him. His mind probably has archives full of memories she has no clue of, simply because in her time, they didn’t happen yet. “What I’m trying to say is…” Dean takes a breath, trying to get his message across. “If I came on too strong, or made you feel uncomfortable in any way, I’m sorry.” He glances up now, watching how she slowly approaches. Gently, she takes his hand in hers, their fingers entwining. After studying their hold for a few seconds, she tilts her head and restores eye contact. The look she gives him is so warm and kind, it mends the broken man that he is. “I’m not,” she responds, her voice soft.

She leans in, tiptoeing, and presses her soft lips against his. For a good moment all his grief, the endless regret, the physical pain that became chronic, is forgotten. He closes his eyes and melts into the touch, returning the kiss without hesitation. The voices in his head are silenced, his anxiety calmed. After eight years, eight months and twenty eight days, he has found his missing piece. If her departure from his world didn’t make him realize how much he loves her, this moment surely does.

The kiss lasts a few heavenly long seconds, but then Dean parts from her, resting his forehead against hers. He sighs deeply, the air leaving him with a shudder. Still high on the ecstasy that the undeniable connection induced, she opens her eyes, but his remain closed. Wondering why, Y/N squeezes his hand. When he does look back at her, the tears bring out his green irises, like holding an emerald gem against the light. Compassionate, she cups his face, tracing the lines of his jaw. “You really missed me, didn’t you?” she perceives. He huffs; she’s putting it mildly. “You have no idea,” he breathes.

Y/N does, though. Last thing she remembers is how Dean just returned from Hell. In the four months that he was gone, she was completely at a loss. Wildflowers blossomed on his grave from her tears alone. Knowing he was enduring unimaginable torment only made it worse. But when he returned and she was able to close him in her arms again, it magnified everything she had ever felt for the man who went to Hell and back. The rollercoaster he’s riding now is one she’s been on herself, but she doesn’t tell him that; it’s not about her right now.

She kisses him again, shorter and more sweetly now, smiling at him afterwards until he returns her expression. His eyes are still shimmering, but it’s not sorrow she finds in the depth of his pupils, not anymore. It’s gratefulness, appreciation, love, for her, the girl he lost so many years ago. “You should get some sleep. You had one hell of a morning,” he says after a quiet moment, unable to look away. She scoffs. “Understatement of the week.” He nods grinning, admitting she’s probably right. “I’ll leave you to it.” Dean is about to let go of her hand, when her grip on him grows a little stronger, causing him to glance up at her, questioning. “Could you…” she pauses, not sure if she’s asking too much. “Could you lay with me, just for a while?” He reads her carefully, pained to see the hint of fear; she doesn’t want to be alone. “Sure,” he agrees, the single word soothing her.

Y/N allows his hand to slip from hers now and circles the bed, folding back the covers as Dean sits down to take off his shoes. When he leans back into the pillow, his upper body still slightly elevated against the headboard, tiredness overwhelms him. He hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in forever, Michael always waiting in the shadows when he dares to close his eyes. But when Y/N crawls into his chest, filling the vacant place that has been cold for so long, he sighs content, letting the worry fall from his shoulders. Who knows, maybe with her by his side, he might actually be able to rest.

She pulls the sheets to cover the both of them, feeling Dean’s sheltering arm wrap around her and pull her in. The kiss he presses to her hair has her bite back the tears yet again. She tries to hide it, not wanting to come across as weak or emotional. The man who has always cared for her, doesn’t fail to notice, though. “Hey…” he says, softly. “You had a lot on your plate today, huh?” She sniffles and nods, not brave enough to test her voice. “It’s gonna be okay, we’ll figure this out,” he promises. “You got me, Y/N.” “Yeah…” she whispers. “I got you.”

Dean holds her close, giving her the security and the comfort she is desperately seeking, hoping she might forget about the world she’s in now and the one she was ripped from. Absently, he rubs his fingers up and down her arm, the slow, soothing rhythm lulling her to sleep. Within minutes she’s out, the warmth she radiates slowly melting away the tension in the hunter’s stiff muscles, tired and worn from endless battles with both monsters and himself. Exhausted, he lets his cheek rest against the top of her head, allowing his own eyes to flutter shut as well. The last thing that crosses his mind before he falls asleep is a promise. Past, present, or future, Dean will always be there for the woman who makes him believe in their little slice of apple pie life. A decade of time difference will not change his word of honor.

It took me long enough, didn’t it! Stay tuned for part four, I hope I have gained some momentum now and will able to finish this series sooner than later.

Anyway, thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).

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ahsnewsupdates · 3 years

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Exclusive Interview with Xander Smith: ‘AHS’ Concept Artist!

Xander Smith, the über skilled and talented concept artist who worked on four seasons of American Horror Story (Hotel, Roanoke, Cult, Apocalypse), was generous enough to answer some of our burning questions about the designs that he created for the show!

Throughout this interview, we will attach images of Xander’s work that pertain to the questions asked. You can check out his full, expansive portfolio by clicking here.

Thank you so much for agreeing to this interview! How did your involvement with American Horror Story begin? Were you a fan of the show beforehand?

Thanks, it's one of my favorite projects to have been a part of, so happy to talk about AHS!

I've loved the genre of horror my whole life, to me it's the one genre that you can push all emotions to their limits, and explore the human experience on a much deeper level than other genres. I think this accounts for some of the greatest stories being so horrific in nature: because it's innately human. This also accounts for the genre having the most lame movies too, haha, because it prompts storytellers to try to push boundaries, and oftentimes there's no reason to push a boundary if there's nothing substantive behind it. I think with American Horror Story though, that's not the case. It's deep, it's intricate, and it's very culturally significant.

I had seen the first season on television, and I remember thinking beforehand, 'this is going to be lame, you can't go as deep with TV as you can with an R rated film...' man was I wrong. It pushed boundaries and asked dark, human questions, all while staying relevant and mysterious. I never once thought that they were holding back due to it being on television.

As for the beginnings of my involvement with the franchise, that actually starts with my parent's love of genre films. When I was a kid they would take me to conventions, like Comic-Con, to learn more about film making and meet the cast and crews of various films. That's where my love of design came from. When I was in college, my Dad met Heather Langenkamp at a horror convention, and told her about my pursuit of concept art when I was going to school in Los Angeles. Heather was really kind, and said that when I graduate, I should send her my portfolio; her and her husband, David Anderson, own the legendary special FX studio, AFX. When I graduated in 2014 I did exactly that, they loved my work, and they hired me to work on American Horror Story: Hotel which would come out later that year. Since then, they've hired me to work on the next 3 seasons, I've also been hired by 20th Century Fox on 2 seasons, and by legendary Costume Designer Lou Eyrich for 2 seasons. I'm very fortunate and always have a blast working with the diverse teams that bring AHS to life.

Starting with American Horror Story: Hotel, you were part of the design process for the Addiction Demon [see above]. Can you talk about that? It was such an obscene being, but at the same time so true to form for the show.

Ah yes, the lovely Addiction Demon. That's one hell of a design to have worked on, ha.

I read that part of the script with David Anderson at AFX Studio, as they would be building the prosthetics, and the infamous 'drilldo'. He looked at me and just, 'alright, do your thing, make it horrific.' And that's what I did. I've seen people in the throes of addiction, and actually lost a good friend in my teen years to drug addiction, so when designing the Demon, I wanted it to be really visceral, painful to even look at. In the script, the Demon rapes a character, and as horrific of a concept as that is, I knew that it's one of those concepts that fits with AHS; pushing the limits, but for a good reason. That's exactly what addiction is: you think it's going to be like great consensual sex when it starts, but quickly the Addiction Demon materializes and it has its way with you whether you like it or not. Truly disgusting, but that's what I thought the design should encompass. So I sketched about 20 different versions, and 1 of those versions stuck, and we decided to take that one further. I sculpted the final design in Zbrush, and that's the concept that Ryan Murphy picked. The brilliant team at AFX brought it to life, and that's the demon you see in the show.

You also produced fantastic concept artwork for Lady Gaga’s character’s chain mail glove [see above], alongside costume designer Lou Eyrich and designer Michael Schmidt. How did that design develop? Was it fun designing for Gaga?

Thanks! Yes that might actually be my favorite piece I worked on. Lou Eyrich and Michael Schmidt were awesome, I think we came up with an iconic piece that's uniquely elegant and fit for a horror queen. It was very motivating knowing that it would be worn by Gaga, so as I was translating Michael's sketch, I wanted to maintain a balance of stylishness and darkness, something that both Lady Gaga and American Horror Story is known for. It was incredible to see it in the posters. Definitely a highlight for me.

Moving on to American Horror Story: Roanoke, you produced terrifyingly good concept art for another one of the show’s iconic villains, the Piggyman entity [see above]. Since that same figure was also featured in the first season, did you look back for inspiration?

Great question, because for Piggyman I was back at AFX Studio, working on the design with David Anderson, and we certainly had a lot of the same inspiration and ideas on how to do the design justice for such a horrific piece. There was a lot of shocking content surrounding him, like pig fetuses and butchery, and we just went all out on letting the character bathe in so much debauchery. It was also really fascinating to be designing while their FX team was sculpting the prosthetics (the production schedule was very intense), and I got to see sculptor Glen Eisner working on the pig head and stomach pieces in clay, only a few days after I had worked on the concept art. Incredible process.

On the same season you collaborated quite closely with the makeup department to design concept art for some of the season’s makeup looks, including illustrations for Kathy Bates’ and Finn Wittrock’s characters [see above]. Wittrock played incestuous hillbilly Jether Polk and the final product was quite frightening. How did that process go?

Also a really fun process, I got to meet some of the actors as they came in for face castings, while I was deforming their faces in the concept art- I almost felt guilty! We pulled a lot of inspiration from medical journals relating to birth defects, and we stayed pretty close to reality, as we saw fit for the Roanoke season. I was also busy terrorizing Kathy Bates image while designing what the character's demise would look like. Since there are a lot of complicated practical effects involved in the gory scenes, we spent time illustrating what the wounds would look like ahead of time. By the end of it, I had like 2 full pages of various gory ways Kathy Bates could meet her end that we presented to production, and they chose one of the most horrific ways that fit with the script (of course). Hopefully Kathy is used to it after so many years as a horror icon!

Arguably your most prolific designs for the show were for season seven, Cult. You produced some stunning concept art for the clown masks and general appearance [see above], some of which weren’t seen in the show but absolutely should’ve been. They look slightly ‘mechanical’. What was Ryan Murphy’s pitch there?

Completely agree, I really love the final designs. Unfortunately, for as much art as I did for this season, none of my designs fit the script well enough, I just couldn't hit the mark, and so my work did not make it to production. It happens, and that's why there are many artists on a project! I appreciate you saying they should have been in the show though! I think I focussed too much on the clown/mask angle, and less on the political/cultish angle, which is where the magic of that script was. In true American Horror Story form, it is a cultural commentary on the times, and I feel I was not paying as much attention as I could have. That being said though, I had a blast working with the crew at AFX Studio again, and we worked on a lot of pieces that at least helped move production forward. Sometimes it's useful to see a design that's not quite right, just to move the production in the right direction.

The last season you worked on was of course the crossover season, Apocalypse, for which you designed the Outpost Three hazmat suits [see above]. The plague doctor influences in those designs was a stroke of genius. How was it blending dystopia with 17th century Europe? Also, were you aware that Apocalypse was the crossover season when you started work on it?

I think I got my mojo back on this season, since not only were my illustrations on those hazmat suits finalized for the script, but I was also able to do some of the 3D modeling for the Plague Doctor masks that were 3D printed and worn by the cast as props in the show. That was a really rewarding experience, and I was working under Lou Eyrich again who is the genius behind the blend of dystopia and 17th Century Europe that characterizes Apocalypse. We did probably about 50 different sketches of those suits, and explored such a wide variety of directions and blends of dated technologies, medieval influences, hazmat suits, and gas masks. When we had a solid direction, I did a tighter illustration of a generic suit that could be worn by any one of those characters (one of the keys to the design was that they could be worn by several different body types, as per the script), and then did a final piece that showed Kathy Bates wearing the mask. I'm really pleased to have come up with the idea of the 'plastic plague doctor' design, and thrilled to see it on screen.

I wasn't aware that it was the crossover season either, I wasn't given that part of the script, but that let me watch the revelation in real time with the rest of the world!

Lastly, would you like to design for American Horror Story again in the future? What is your “dream theme” that you’d like the show to explore?

Absolutely I would love to return some day and help flesh out some new designs. Some of the later seasons have been less concept-heavy, but I've also had to pass on the work as I've been involved in other projects, and of course have been busy helping found my current company, Aliza Technologies.

But you never know what the future holds!

As for a 'dream theme', that's such a good question because I feel there are so many interesting directions the show could take. They've built such a rich world where stories can take place across a range of time periods and genres, and that's a real gift to horror fans. One of the elements I really love about AHS is that when it delves into the supernatural, it does it in a really measured way. I've always found ghost stories to be a little bland and heavy-handed, but since AHS is so nuanced in its supernatural material, especially in season 1, I think it would be really interesting to see them go the heavy handed way, lead the audience down a super super-natural route for half a season, and then absolutely pull the rig from underneath them halfway through, and have a natural explanation for all the 'supernatural' elements. It would be a complete mind-f**k, like 'wait, there were no ghosts at all??' and have that realization be even more horrifying. I'm no writer, but I think a concept like that could be really interesting... Also set the mystery across several different generations so that the supernatural explanation is more appropriate for an older generation, and is busted open by the modern take. Image what the flashback reveals could look like, and imagine the types of 'ghosts' I could illustrate...

Thanks for the questions, now I'm off to do some script-writing myself...

(Also, special mention to Eryn Krueger Mekash and Mike Mekash who designed the makeup looks!)

Xander’s links:

Official Website: https://www.xandersmithdesign.com/

ArtStation: https://www.artstation.com/xandersmith

Behance: https://www.behance.net/XanderSmithDesign

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/xandersmith_design/

#xander smith #ahs #american horror story #art #concept art

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crazygalore · 4 years

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AMORE CURATIVO ( MICHAEL CORLEONE X READER) : CHAPTER 3

Story Description: Michael Corleone lost his soul the night his daughter was unjustly murdered. Trapped in his own personal limbo, he has shut himself from the outside word, and hasn’t uttered a word in almost three years, while his gaze remains just as empty as the void in his heart. In a desperate attempt to bring him some semblance of comfort, Connie hires a nurse to cater to his every need. But will the young woman manage to mend more than his physical health, or is Michael’s soul shattered beyond repair ?

Disclaimer: My portrayal of Michael Corleone is almost exclusively movie-based. I have read the book and respect it for what it represents, but I have a preference for movie Michael, since I first watched the film, and only read the book years later. That being said, I will selectively borrow elements from the novel here and there, if and when I see fit.

Your P.O.V :

In the Underworld, they call your kind the repentant ones - angels who have yet to earn their wings through selfless acts of kindness and healing. Some of you ascend rather quickly, crowned with hallos of pure starlight and carried by feathered pinions to the great luminous beyond - while others may never succeed in their endeavour. You should know, for you have been wandering this Earth for centuries on an end, looking for the human soul who needs you most. Your have posed as so many people throughout the years, that you can't even recall your true name anymore. Following your angelic instincts, you travelled the world and helped countless wounded souls along the way, without ever giving up hope that you would someday find what you are looking for. And that was how you ended up in a small Sicilian town, pretending to be a young nurse in desperate search for a job, only to be hired by a middle aged woman who could no longer care for her catatonic older brother. Thus, grateful for yet another opportunity to earn your wings, you dutifully begin your service in the Corleone household.

Several weeks go by without any significant changes in your patient's general disposition and daily routine, which made it all the easier for you to learn by heart the schedule Connie had written down for you during the first few days of your new job. As for Michael himself, he hasn't acknowledged your presence in any way since the fateful morning of your meeting, and he remains silent and expressionless in spite of your best efforts to get a reaction out of him. Though unresponsive to your gentle attempts at communication, the man is malleable and obedient, allowing you to care for him at your own pace, without any unpleasant incidents. Most days, the creases around his eyes and mouth are deepened by an unspoken sadness like nothing you have witnessed before - although there are times when he seems more at ease, and his handsome features are relaxed in a serene composure. Those rare moments make you wonder how he would look like with a smile lighting up his entire face and chasing away the gloomy shadows in his haunted eyes.

Today, however, you have planned out something special, with Connie's gracious approval, of course. In the morning, you tend to Michael as per usual, but it is during breakfast that you inform him about the change of schedule. " Mr Corleone, I would like us to have a little picnic this afternoon, if you're agreeable to the idea. " You keep your tone light, allowing room for a possible refusal, even if you don't expect him to react at all. But to your surprise, the man's gaze focuses on you with such intensity that you find yourself feeling almost dizzy with surprise. For the briefest of moments, those dark eyes regard you with mild curiosity, before their light fades away into the ever-familiar vacant stare you have grown accustomed to. Encouraged by this brief display of interest on Michael's part, you begin making preparations for your upcoming escapade, careful to pack all of your patient's favourite foods - which Connie was kind enough to write down for you.

The first half of the day seems to be passing slower than usual, to the point where you can barely contain your excitement and impatience, although you make it a point to perform your usual tasks as flawlessly as ever - by ensuring that Michael is properly medicated, comfortable, hydrated and fed in accordance to his prescribed diet. When lunchtime has finally arrived, you lead him to the farthest end of the garden, where you have already prepared your little picnic spot. Although the former don remains silent, his gaze seems more alert, acknowledging you and his surroundings with a glimmer of mild fascination. He eats his food slowly, letting out the occasional appreciative hum, and the corners of his lips quirk in a small smile when you serve him a slice of the chocolate cake you have bought this morning. Later on, Michael lays down on the checkered blanket, contemplating the clear summer sky as you read to him from an old book you found in the library. His eyes are once again glazed over, and he is obviously no longer paying attention to what is going on around him - an attitude he maintains throughout the rest of your day together.

Nevertheless, you take this experience as a small triumph, because it helped you discover that there is still a soul worth saving buried deep inside Michael Corleone's shattered psyche.

#amore curativo #michael corleone x reader #michael corleone imagine #my writing

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wayward-mikaelson · 4 years

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Centuries-Five

Word Count: 2673

Pairing: None

Characters: Dean, Sam, Hezekiah (OG Character-I picture him like the dude who played Laurent in Twilight and New Moon), Reader, Rowena (Known in this chapter as ‘certain witch’), Michael (Mentioned), Maggie (Mentioned), HooDoo Zombies (not sure if that’s a thing but in this world it is), HooDoo Priestess (Mentioned)

About: Dean worries that he hasn’t heard from the Reader in a week. The Reader has stumbled upon a case that has a whole town trapped not knowing what day it is. The Reader breaks free and finds herself back in Texas and face to face with Hezekiah.

Disclaimer: Language and Angst

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DEANS POV

"It's been a fucking week, man," I pace the kitchen holding the cup of coffee Sam gave to me. "I haven't heard from her since I called her that night." I set the cup down and rub my face.

That phone still plays in my mind. I get why YN left, I really do, but I had just gotten her back myself. I wanted more time with YN before she pulled something like this. I knew her would too. When I pleaded with YN to come back she told me she had to do this alone. She didn't want me near Michael at all. Hell, I didn't want him to come back but things kind of changed but I wanted to do this with you. Then YN said "What if I wanted Michael back because a part of me loved him? I don't want you near if that's the case. I'll call you when I can, Dean."

I hate that YN had some weird ass connection with the archangel that took his body for a joy ride. That used it to stab her. To hurt her. That used it to manipulate her to do his bidding. That used some dream to get into her pants. I shiver remembering when I found out that she and Michael had dream sex. Something that Cas told us that even though in a dream, it was real. That used it to get her killed. I just can't get on bored with YN being in love with him. I just didn't believe her and I knew she would say what ever she needed to keep me out of whatever it is she are doing.

"I'm sure she will call when she calls," Sams doesn't look up from his laptop. "Last I check her phones tracker was lost somewhere outside of New Orleans."

I look up from my coffee. "Why are you tracking her?" Then it hits me, Sam knows. YN told him she killed Maggie. "Dude, if you even think about going after her, I won't hesitate to kick your ass."

Sams looks up and I see the pain and anger in his eyes. I feel for my baby brother, I really do, but I can't let him go after YN. Sam doesn't know how freaked out she had been learning she did kill her best friend. Sam doesn't know how she hid from him in her room. "I'm not going to lie, Dean," Sam closes his laptop. "It crossed my mind a few times this last week but I just know I can't. For all we know Hezekiah, the angel that has her mind on lockdown, could have pulled the strings on this and manipulated her like Michael had."

"Then why are you tracking her still?" I ask firmly. "If you aren't planning on going after her."

Sam leans back and takes a deep breath. "I guess to make sure she's okay, since she hasn't called at all."

I sit back and let out he breath I held in. I know Sam is hurting. I've been in his place where the girl I love has died. Maybe we can find a way to bring Maggie back. I can call Rowena, but she always has some sort of condition. "You said she was somewhere outside of New Orelans?"

"Yep," Sam nods. "Then her tracker literally just fell off the face of the earth. I should also mention I did try to call her but her phone is also out of service when the account says it's still in service."

My heart just barely stops. I know she's in trouble. I get up and make my way to my room to pack. "We should go look for her," I yell towards Sam.

"I know, and she will kill you knowing you didn't listen to her," Sam yells back. It sounds like he's in his room as well packing. Even though YN killed Sam's potential love, he still cared for her. He is still looking on the bright side of all of this.

As I'm throwing things into a bag my phone rings. I look down to see an unknown number. Not many people have this number but it could be someone needing help. I reach down and something tells me that I need to answer this.

"Hello?" my voice is cautious.

"Dean?! Oh thank God!" YNs voice sounds freaked out and out of breath. "How long has it been?"

"Wait, what? Why?" I ask confused.

"I don't have time," she yelled into the phone. I stop what I'm doing and turn around to see Sam in the doorway. I mouth to him that its YN on the line. His face is covered in worry. "Tell me how long it's fucking been since we last talked!"

"A week," I'm suddenly aware of the pounding in the distance over the phone. "Is everything okay? Are you okay? Whats going on?"

I hear some shuffling and banging around. "I accidentally stumbled on a case that involves some dark and heavy hoodoo. What's been a week for you has been only a day for me. I tried to call but my phone wouldn't work. I couldn't even leave either. I killed the witch or hoodoo priestess or whatever the hell you want to call her but when I did, the town folk turned to zombies. Now I'm trapped in a room with the only working phone in town."

I zip up my bag and signal Sam that we were leaving. "Honey, where are you? Sam tracked your phones last ping outside of New Orleans. We are on our way. Just hang tight."

YN gives a small chuckle. "Of course, one of you tracked me. And yes, theres a small town outside of New Orleans but it's not on a map. But I got this Dean, you stay where you are. Theres a window I can jump out of and high tail it to my car. All the magical bearers are gone now that the hoodoo chick is dead."

The sound of banging and wood breaking kills the call. "YN?" I try to call the number back but it's dead. I look at Sam and he sees the fear written all over my face

"I'm assuming we're still going?"

"You bet your ass we are," I turn the key in the ignition and we are on the road in seconds.

DEANS POV OVER

The line is dead.

A few hoodoo zombies stumble into the room. I throw the phone aside and eye the window thats a few feet from me. This is going to hurt like hell, I think as I take a couple steps backward to get a good running start.

"This window better already have a weak spot," I mumble as I run towards it.

Taking a leap towards the window, I break through landing on a dirt and broken glass. A few shards of glass pierce my skin but I don't care. I get up and make a bee line for my car. Only to be stopped by a few hoodoo zombies. I then notice that the one trying to eat my face off has a familiar necklace on to the one of the hoodoo priestess. I yank it off and kick the thing off of me and break the crystal-glass thing to the ground. A faint glow comes from it and breaks into several tiny specks of light and going after the hoodoo zombies. Once the light touches them they all drop like flies.

"Huh," I then grab my side. I look down and see a shard of glass sticking out of my side. I know I shouldn't pull it out but I needed to. I limp over to my car and throw open the trunk where I know there is a first aid kit. I bite my lip and slowly pull out the glass. A small whimper escaping my lips.

I toss the glass to the ground and quickly cover up the already bleeding wound. I take my flannel and cut off a long piece and tightly tie it around myself. Maybe I can talk Hezekiah into healing it. I painfully get into my car and pull my phone out of the glove compartment. The battery is suddenly charged and there's service.

I dial up Deans number and press send.

"YN?!" Deans voice sounds so excited. "Oh thank God. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I get the car on the road and speed out of town. Not evening caring to look back. "I have a bumps and cuts. The Hoodoo zombies are all dead. Apparently there was a necklace that held some sort of light thing that killed them when I broke it. Similar to how I killed the hoodoo chick."

Dean sighs on the other end. "That's good. Sam and I can finally have a good night in."

"Dean," I know hes on the road. He can't hid that from me. "how far are you out of Lebanon?" Dean's silent. "Dean, don't forget I know you really well. Anyone in danger that you care about, you drop everything and race towards them."

"About an hour," Deans voice is firm and deep. "I just couldn't live with myself if I just sat back and let you die. Again."

I close my eyes. Maybe taking off was a bad idea. Maybe I should have done this with Dean. "Whatever happened in that field was not your fault. You had zero control over it. Michael hijacked your body."

I can picture Dean licking his lips and staring out the front of the impala. "Right, anyway, where are you headed?"

Right, of course he doesn't want to speak about it. According to Cas, it's too much for him. Michael is a sore spot for him. But what they all don't know, Michael is also a sore spot for me too. Despite everything I've done. The only reason I would want him back is to beat the living shit out of him.

I think back to the last words I said before this whole thing happened. I told him 'what if I wanted Michael back because a part of me loved him?' I shouldn't have said that. I even wonder why I even did say that. Yes I have or had some feelings towards the archangel. Hell, he was incredible at making love to me, almost as good as Dean. I push it aside.

"I have a feeling about Texas," I tell him. "I feel like I've driven this road before. Just keep an eye on me if you don't hear from me."

"Sounds perfect, we will make our way there then," Dean is quiet for a second. "YN, I love you. Whatever happens and whatever you find out once your memories are back, just know that. I will always be here for you. Hell, I will die for you if I have to."

I drive all night and end up in Corpus Christi early morning. I don't know why I am here, but I know I am in the right place. I send a quick text to Dean telling him where I ended up and to tell me to call me when he's at a motel. I stare at the beach in front of me and feel a pull on the mark on my side. Which reminds me that I never asked Cas to look deeper into that mark. Too late for that.

I get out and walk the beach. The pull on my mark is strong. I look up and down the beach and my eyes land on a light blue beach house. I've been there before. I walk back to my car and drive towards the blue beach house. It's not the same place I walked out of before I killed Maggie. Maybe we changed location. I don't know, But I will find out.

I get out of the car and pull out my gun. I make sure it's loaded, you know just in case I need to stun the angel. I slowly and cautiously walk up to the door. I go to knock but then I slowly put my hand on the door knob. I slowly open the door and slip inside. Dean would be pissed for doing this part alone but, I need to know if the dick face angel is in here.

The house is spotless. Almost like no one has lived in it for sometime. It's also quiet. I poke around rooms and find nothing. Then I come upon a locked room. I look around the small hallway for a key until something hit me. I sweep my hand over the top of the door frame and feel a small objet. I take it down and see that it's a small key like thing. I use it to unlock the door.

I see a room that looks like I could have slept here. The bed is all messed up. Theres clothes thrown all over the place. I guess I didn't care about what my room looked like then. I pick up the clothes and stash them all in the hamper near the closet. Something tells me that I needed to open the closet.

I am not prepared for what I see in there. There are papers taped and pinned to the walls. A list of things that make me tear up. Maggies name is on that list along with the words HAIR FROM DEAN. It's crossed out so I must have gotten it from him without him knowing. There are pages from a book about how to create a vessel without really having a body.

"What the hell did I get myself into?" I ask myself.

"I was wondering when you would come back," a voice startles me. I turn around and see a dark skinned man with dreads in the door way. "I see that wall has been activated too. So how did you find your way back if you're memory is gone."

I watch as he walked a few steps into the room. He spots the gun in my hand. "I'm assuming that you're Hezekiah," I say staying where I stood. "According to Cas, there are some holes and cracks in the wall. Could explain why I was able to find this place. He was also able to pull out one memory from me. Maggie."

"Ah, yes, the girl from Michael's world," Hezekiah smirked. "As I recall you didn't have much regret for it. You really really wanted to see Michael. Well," Hezekiahs smirk got bigger. "That's what I made you think when I brought back and refused to do what I needed." Hezekiah must have seen the look on my face. "Yep that's right, when I brought you back, with a little help from a certain witch, you flat out refused to help me get Michael back. Told me and I quote 'go die in a ditch you self righteous spineless dickless asshole.' So I toyed with your mind some and now we are closer than ever."

Fuck, I think. "So not only did you throw up a wall to cover your ass, which you did a piss poor job by the way, you messed with my mind to get you to bring back Michael. For what? Control? Power?"

"To rule Heaven, along side him," Hezekiah raises his voice. "Once he's back and finishes what he started, I can kill him and rule Heaven. With you by my side of course." He takes a few more steps towards me. What was it with angels want to rule heaven with me by their side.

"Okay, I'll continue to help, but first," I holster my gun. I know that if I don't go along with this I will die. I need to play along. "Give me my memories back."

Hezekiah looks me up and down trying to get a read on me. "You're still very hard to read." He closes the space between us. He smiles wickedly as he touches my forehead. Dean is going to be so fucking pissed.

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mentornationpodcast · 3 years

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2020 in America: One big “SAW” movie being orchestrated by a “mastermind?”

I am John Abbas. I am the host of the Mentor Nation Podcast where we bring world class leaders, entrepreneurs, and people doing interesting things and we get them to mentor you by sharing their journeys, their stories, and their best advice. Think of it like having a personal mentor every week who is there to give you a tip, a kick or an aha moment so that you are more equipped in your success journey.

The year was 2001. Leigh Whannell (Director of Upgrade, The Invisible Man) and James Wan (director of Aqua man) were in their early 20s in film school. Little did they know that their simple idea for a scary movie would turn into a global franchise doing a BILLION DOLLARS in revenue and would lead to 7 sequels and counting?

They would go on to change the Horror/Thriller genre forever with a concept that in my opinion is more frightening than any Freddy Krueger or Michael Myers movie will ever be. There is just something about a horror movie based on things that could “actually happen” that scares me to death.

The entire movie was shot by these young ambitious kids in 18 days with an ultra-modest budget compared to any movie released today.

The film I am referring to is “SAW.”

A Horror/Thriller that took the country by storm, many people wondered just “HOW” this film shot by young students with little money and very little life experience could capture the attention and interest of the whole world.

I believe the answer is in the plot and how it relates to us all on a very deep and dark level.

The premise: An evil genius mastermind nicknamed Jigsaw, kidnaps a group of people, locks them in a dungeon, sets up a labyrinth of riddles and clues, puts them in an unimaginable situation where they have to make near impossible decisions forcing their true character to come out, and then they have to do unbelievable things to escape or they will die.

When I watched the film, I found my own emotions and thoughts stirring. I found myself wondering. “Holy Crap, What would I actually do or what kind of person could I truly become given a situation of that magnitude?”

What would I do if I had to kill a complete stranger in cold blood or else my own family would die? Would I be able to live with myself in either situation?

Would I saw through my own leg with a hacksaw risking shock and bleeding to death in order to escape being chained up in a dungeon where I would die a slow and agonizing death?

What truly interested me however, was watching how simple it was for jigsaw to create a set of circumstances that caused seemingly good people to do evil things that you would NEVER think they were capable of.

STAY WITH ME, You see,

One thing that I actually believe, is that there is a delicate balance to many of our lives, and as long as our environment is predictable and manageable, most of us are good, and we go about doing what we need to do each day with very few issues.

A very wise mentor of mine once told me. “Most people are good when things are good. If you want to see someone’s true character, watch how they are when everything in their life is falling apart.”

So what in the hell does this movie have to do with the current events in America?

Well, let’s look at what’s going on right now. It kind of looks like a plot straight out of SAW.

For the last decade things have been pretty good. The economy has been flourishing, and for the most part there haven’t been any world changing events other than the occasional natural disaster or the 24/7 coverage of Donald Trump. People have been generally good to each other, working together, and living their life.

Then 2020 hits. The coronavirus becomes the single greatest GLOBAL event that derails life as we know it in the blink of an eye. Months later, just when we think we are getting a handle on it, the George Floyd murder happens, leading to social and political unrest everywhere. There is a big divide now happening in a country where we are all supposed to be on the same team regardless of sex, race, or religion. Differences of opinion between friends are turning into severed relationships full of animosity. Distrust of our government, politicians, and the people who are here to protect us are higher than I have ever seen in my 37 years of life.

A simple post, pic, or video leads to huge arguments, threats, and sometimes, even worse.

Protests are turning violent, monuments are being destroyed, and now people everywhere are walking on eggshells scared to offend someone with an opinion.

People are going to war with each other over masks, race, politics, beliefs, etc. Even the smallest thing seems to push some people over the edge.

Doesn’t it seem like people are turning against each other, and the true nature of many are coming out front and canter for everyone to see?

Could there be an “evil genius mastermind(s)” or “Jigsaw(s)” out there taking these events and using them as a catalyst to have the people in our country turn on each other?

Even if something like this were possible. Why, would anyone want this to happen? Who would want this to happen?

One possible candidate is another country.

If you are reading this and you live in America, I want you to think about something.

The U.S. has had the largest economy on earth since at least the 1920s

The U.S. is regularly and rightly so called the “Land of the free” and the “Land of Opportunity.”

There are many other things the U.S. leads the world in but here’s my point. When you are the top dog at something, especially the top dog at something as important as the economy, influence, and money, you better believe others will be gunning for you and trying to overtake you, often by any means possible.

There’s an old saying that goes something like, “The higher you climb the pole, the bigger the target on your back” or “the more your ass is exposed” and I believe there is a lot of truth to this.

Imagine for a second that this were true. To beat the U.S. if you are another country. You can’t just do it face to face. David didn’t fight Goliath in bare knuckled hand to hand combat. The U.S. is full of smart people, the defence/military budget is 100 times larger than any other country, and has been for decades. The only way to win if someone wanted to, would have to be “very strategically.”

If you’ve ever watched the movie “War of the Worlds,” the story is that Aliens that have been living under the ground for thousands of years come up and start killing everyone by the millions. No weapon, missile, or gun can even scratch them, let alone kill them. Just when it seems humanity is about to be wiped out for good and nothing will work. The aliens start dying out. We find that it wasn’t a weapon that did the job, but a virus. A virus harmless to humans, as we have evolved and developed immunity over the centuries, but deadly to them. A microscopic virus caused the Aliens bodies to attack itself leading to their death. Isn’t that fascinating: The Aliens perished, not from an exterior attack, but rather from within.

Another issue that we are dealing with in the U.S. is the fact we are a relatively new country in terms of history and others know this. We don’t have thousands of years of history and tradition that we have built upon. As with most cultures in their early days, ours too was built on conquest, treachery, oppression, and often times brutal savagery. This is not a new concept unique to the U.S.

The difference with the U.S. from other countries however, is that we are much more fragile and so “new,” that many of the wounds of the past still feel fresh to people since our country as a whole only dates back a few hundred years.

Why is all of this important?

Well, because in my fictional world, these events would make a perfect recipe for an outside country with the ambition to be the largest economy or power in the world to get there, not by conquering us, but rather by having us conquer and destroy ourselves from within. Not to mention it’s much easier to do this than one would think. Given an “event” or “some events” happen that can be used as a catalyst. (AKA Coronavirus, George Floyd, Donald Trump and election time.)

Unlike Jigsaw, who had to create extremely elaborate environments that needed to be well thought out, planned, and executed perfectly with zero room for error, all someone or some group would need to do here is feed the fire that has already started with more fuel.

What’s the fuel? False Harmful Information.

How do you feed the fire? Spreading False Harmful Information Quickly.

Posting false negativity on social media where uninformed people will see it, believe it, and become angry based on misinformation.

Feeding the anger by sharing anything and as much as possible that which is relevant to the core of the anger.

I can’t tell you how many so called “facts,” I read, posts I see, and articles I watch that when I just dig a little deeper and do some research, I realize are so totally and completely wrong. But by then it doesn’t matter. The damage has been done. I look at the comments and see that most people are believing it and it has been shared 57,000 times already.

We all know people who get emotional and share things, regardless of whether it is true or not. But have you ever thought or asked yourself. Who first posted it? Where did it originate? What was that person/person’s intention?

Think about how dangerous that could become.

With social media being global, think about how EASY it would be for ANYONE, ANYWHERE in the world to create content designed to turn people against each other.

My point is to compare the ACTUAL events of what is going on in the US to the premise of the movie “SAW.”

What if Jigsaw was another country or countries, and what if the intended target is the entire United States?

I AM NOT SAYING THIS IS THE CASE, OR THIS IS WHAT’S HAPPENING. MAYBE IT’S NOT ANOTHER COUNTRY, BUT RATHER JUST ANGRY PEOPLE SPREAD OUT ALL OVER THAT ARE FULL OF HATE, AND GET JOY IN PEOPLE DESTROYING EACH OTHER.

There could be thousands of “JIGSAW’S out there who are just stirring up things for their own personal enjoyment.

Is it actually happening? Maybe.

Should we at least consider the fact that it IS happening? I think so.

Are the issues going on real? Of course they are.

The problem is not that these issues aren’t real, but why they are turning into something a thousand times bigger. I think one of the main reason these issues are getting out of hand and turning violent, angry, and dangerous, is because of the sinister acts of bad people who want to take a bad situation, and make it infinitely worse.

To add insult to injury. If it’s true and it is happening, it would be almost impossible to know who is doing it, who started it vs. who is exacerbating it, and where they are doing it from.

It’s kind of like “Jigsaw” is also “The Invisible Man.”

AGAIN, AND PLEASE HEAR ME,

I am not saying all of this is happening, and I am not someone who believes in the million conspiracies out there.

What I want you to think about is. How realistic it “could” be that outside influences are taking the events of 2020 and using them to destroy a country from within. Kind of interesting when you think about it.

Have you ever watched an episode of Law and Order or CSI and thought to yourself. Wow that was freaking clever! I wonder if these shows give anyone ideas in real life.

If you do, then it isn’t too farfetched of a thought to wonder if “SAW” is really happening, only to a much larger scale.

To read/listen more podcast kindly visit - Mentor Nation Podcast

#mentor nation #mentor nation podcast #mentor podcast #podcast #podcasting #mentor podcasting #world class podcasting #world class podcast #business podcast

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fishfingersandjellybabies · 4 years

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You and I Weren’t Forever, And It’s Fine - fic

Characters: Damian Wayne, Colin Wilkes Pairing: implied/past DamiColin Summary: The world was ending. Literally, right now. Batman was surprised he didn’t have to watch it all crash down alone. A/N: Inspired by ‘If The World Was Ending’ by JP Saxe and Julia Michaels. Obviously adult Damian and Colin. Get ready for vague sads and everyone dying haha. While I seem to imply their relationship ended badly, it didn’t? In my head they just slowly stopped talking to each other, and both felt really guilty about that. (Title is my misheard lyrics of the song because apparently that’s not actually it haha)

It was the end of the world.

And even after everything, it turned out not to be anyone’s fault. No aliens, or villain’s plan or other dimension shenanigan.

It was just…nature. Earth’s time. A poorly placed and sized meteor phenomenon.

Doesn’t mean it wasn’t an apocalyptic finale, though.

The shower was so big and so strong, it knocked Earth just so out of orbit. Tilted the axis a few miles, or feet or even centimeters. No one would ever know. No one would survive to find out.

The tides changed. Cities were flooded. Earthquakes led to tsunamis led to volcano eruptions.

It all appeared so quickly. But Earth’s death actually took months. Almost a full year.

And it was torturous. No superhero, armed force or prayer could make a difference, and, just like the citizens they were trying to save, they slowly died. Painfully, agonizingly, slowly.

And Batman watched it all. Did his best, but in the end, watched his family, city, and whole life die in front of him. From building collapses, holes opening in the ground, water, lava, diseases springing up, poisoned air. Think of the worst thing you can, and it probably happened at least twice in those last days.

How he survived this long, he doesn’t know. Some demon watching over him perhaps. Laughing as he survived every new plague, every natural disaster starting over again.

Until he was the only one left.

So he stood atop the remnants of Wayne Tower, still the tallest building in Gotham City, watching as streets and buildings collapsed into this newest, ever-growing sinkhole. Watching like a captain, going down with his ship.

There was no one and nothing left. No hope. He’d be swallowed with Gotham and this whole mess would finally be over. The Earth would be done, and start its centuries long journey into becoming space dust.

He was almost excited.

He pulled his cowl back as he heard the crash of another building, watched the fires of another meteor hitting already ravaged land miles away. Took a deep inhale of dirty oxygen, and prepared to watch the end of the world while waiting to die.

He was the only one left.

Or, at least, he thought so.

There was a crash behind him, and he paid it no mind. Not until he heard, “Damian?”

He whirled around. The crash hadn’t been the building falling deeper into destruction, it had been the opening of a door, slamming into a shattered wall.

It was a door being opened by a man covered in as many scars as he still had freckles, with long red hair blowing in flame-induced wind.

Damian’s heart stuttered in disbelief, and his mouth gaped.

“Colin?!”

Colin grinned, moving forward. He limped, and through ripped jeans Damian could see an infected wound. “Long time no see, buddy.”

“Everyone’s dead.” Damian breathed. “I…I thought everyone was dead…”

“They are.” Colin laughed. “Frankly, I thought I was the last one left. Until I saw that all too familiar silhouette up here…”

When Colin reached him, he didn’t wait. Just threw his arms as tightly around Damian’s neck as he could. And Damian did the same.

“How long has it really been?” Colin’s voice was muffled against his throat.

“Fifteen years at least.” Damian returned. When they parted, Damian kept fierce hold of Colin’s hands. “Not since two years after we…”

“Harder to be friends with your ex than we thought, huh?” Colin was still smiling. “I…I wanted you to be at my wedding. So did Cynthia. Really. But I just…didn’t think I deserved to be in your presence. Not after everything.”

“I understand. I wanted to text you congratulations when I saw the engagement announcement but I…” Damian trailed off, glanced down at their hands. “She was beautiful. I’m sorry for your loss.” Another pause to squeeze Colin’s hands. “For her loss, and your daughter’s.”

“Don’t be. I lucked out, in a way. They never had to see any of this. Cynthia died of cancer seven years ago, and Abbie was killed by a drunk driver.” Colin waved it off, but his smile dimmed anyway. “You, though…”

Damian closed his eyes.

“I…was watching, when it happened. On the news.” Colin whispered. “You and Superman…the new Superman…you guys were a thing, right?”

“His name was Jonathan.” Damian returned just as quietly. “He never actually proposed, but when the meteors hit, he said he was going to marry me at the end of the world.” Damian sighed. “A hero to the end, trying to save that town in Washington. But I guess even half-Kryptonians aren’t stronger than getting pinned by half of a suspension bridge and slowly eaten by lava.”

Now it was Colin’s turn to squeeze Damian’s hands. “I’m so sorry.”

Damian shook his head, and opened his eyes with a smile. “I’m glad I got to see you one more time before the end, though.”

Colin’s face lit back up. “Me too.”

“…I want to say I’m sorry that we didn’t work out, but-”

“But I’m not.” Colin finished for him. “I found Cynthia, and you found Jonathan. We found better love after each other.”

“…Right.” Damian laughed. “I never forgot you, though.”

“Never stopped loving you either.” Colin agreed. “Thanks for making me a better person.”

“You as well.” Damian nodded. A few more crashes echoed nearby, and Damian looked across the landscape. Buildings were collapsing into the sinkhole at a faster rate, and more fire was spreading. The smoke, mixing with the toxic air, was making it hard to see. “Colin, you should go find shelter and-”

“And do what? Really be the last person on a dying planet?” Colin asked, tilting his head to get back into Damian’s line of sight. “It’s the end, man. And there’s no one else I’d rather watch it with than you.”

Damian looked back at him, stared for a few seconds. The flames were highlighting his freckles, brightening the shade of his hair. Colin just kept smiling at him.

Silently, Damian let go of his hands, only to hold his face. Let his fingers twist in the long red strands of Colin’s hair as his stroked his thumbs along his cheekbones. Then leaned up to plant a kiss on Colin’s forehead.

The building rumbled as the hole got closer.

Colin just chuckled. Turned his head to give Damian a quick peck to his cheek as well, then enveloped him in his arms. Held the Batman as the buildings around them shattered and collapsed.

Closed his eyes as Damian returned the tight embrace.

Then they fell.

And everything was over.

#Damian Wayne #colin wilkes #damicolin #damiancolin #tiny boyfriends #i dont remember their ship name anymore oh noooooooo

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spencecreates · 4 years

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Bleeding Blades: Chapter 1

Idk if i’ve ever posted chapter 1 here (idk if it’s even good) but the restarted version of bleeding blades chapter 1

word count: 4001

warnings: mention of war, murder, suicidal ideation

The land of Teradio was once prosperous and peaceful, filled with the beauty and love of the ruling family. It was an envy of its neighbors and powerful, avoided in war and a coveted ally. It was overseen by the god of life Seres and goddess of family and love Meriam and their children, the last of the Libbirix. A perfect family ruling a perfect nation.

There are four Libbirix, a winged race and the children of gods. They used to be plentiful and jewels of the world. They were as powerful as they were beautiful, beacons of perfection and wonders of Teradio and the surrounding world.

There were two other races in Teradio, the Klol and Gripois. A warrior race and servants and workers under them. They were complacent in their roles, under the Libbirix and following the word of their god and king. It was for this reason unrest began, the disbalance of people among the nation. A rebellion sparked with one of Seres’s own sons.

The Fall of the Libbirix was jarring. Had things not been as perfect as told for a rebellion? It was led by Seres’s favored son Lucifer. He spoke with a silvertongue about the injustices he saw among his kingdom, inflicted upon his people. His rallying voice called for a change his father did not like.

His eldest brother was sent to squash the rebellion, told to do what it took to end this war before it even began. There was a battle, brief for the immortals yet the years as agonizing as an eternity for those that fought. A battle to ensure there was no war, Seres had said. In the end, Lucifer had to be subdued in the worst way possible.

His brother Michael, Teradio’s shining sun and golden warrior, cut off his wings and those of his followers with his blade of glittering gold. He took from them their magic and senses of self with the amputation, ensuring they would never rise again.

As quickly as the rebellion had begun, it was snuffed out and its followers were left in the ruins of the city they had once called home. They were left expected to rot and die.

Centuries passed as they rebuilt their city, their magic from their wings lost but finding new powers deep within themselves as they learned they were so much more.

Lucifer gazed out his window at their city, heart swelling with pride and body aching from a long past battle.

“The anniversary of our Fall is almost here,” he said to Bartholomew, making him look over from where he was sweeping. “It weighs heavy over everything.”

His hand went to rub where a brand was hidden under his shirt sleeve. His father had given it to him himself, on each arm and again on his back between the scars from losing his wings. They marked him Sacraas: the one cut from family, without hope, without loyalty. Never would his wounds from that fateful time fully heal.

“I’ll ready the salves for the pain, sir,” Bart said as he went back to what he’d been doing. Lucifer nodded.

“Thank you, Bart,” he said softly, continuing to stare out the window. Finally, he glanced back to Bart.

He was a young half Gripois, his other half hidden from everyone else. His arms were marked with a Dreamcatcher’s markings. It started at his hands, covered in a smoky black and gray that swirled up to his elbows and continued to climb each day. He didn’t even know how rare that marking was.

Lucifer sighed deeply and moved to walk past him, rubbing his eyes with one hand. He felt his age so heavily now. He nearly stumbled, grabbing to a wall to keep himself up as he caught his breath.

“Luci?” Bart’s concerned voice came from behind him, gentle hands moving to help him up. He shook his head.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” he said, waving off concern. “It affects me earlier each year, hm? I just need to rest.”

He straightened up with a sigh, glancing down to the younger man and offering a small smile. He felt so tired, and it was barely midday. He pulled from Bart’s supportive hands to walk towards his room, his shoulders sagging with the weight of amputated wings.

His door swung open for him and he smiled a little.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, hand pressing to the door frame before he continued to bed.

He sat down heavily, putting his face in his hands. He ached, his entire body in searing pain it seemed. It all originated in his back, those wounds…

He stood slowly, moving to his mirror. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled his hair in front of his shoulder, turning and craning his neck to see his back in the mirror.

There used to be a patch of feathers between his shoulder blades that went up the back of his neck and to the middle of his back. They’d been a dusty pink, matching the base of his wings. It had long since fell out. All that remained were small blackened ones, like they’d been burned.

Pieces of bone jutted out on either side from his back, the end jagged and broken and the skin around it red and tender and fresh. They twitched like the wings that no longer existed wanted to fly once again and Lucifer clenched his teeth nearly to the point of cracking at the incapacitating pain that shot through his body.

It took a moment for the waves of it to subside and finally Lucifer took a breath, tears stinging his eyes. The physical pain brought them but the ache in his chest, in his heart that caused them to fall.

They slid down his cheeks like raindrops, pattering to the carpet below as he bowed his head. Sobs wracked his aching body, shoulders curling in despite the strain.

Not for the first time, he’d wished he had died in that war. He wasn’t much of a fighter, he should have. And perhaps the thousandth time, he found himself wondering if he should right that. He thought to the knife resting in his desk. So simple it would be, do it right and it’d be fast. He wondered the reaction it would invoke.

Those thoughts were halted as there was a knock on the door. He quickly wiped his eyes and moved to grab his shirt, slipping it back over his shoulders.

“Come in,” he called, glancing over to see the young Klol step in.

“Bart said you’d need this,” Jabez said, holding a vial of the pain salve. Just seeing him pained Lucifer further. He was the child of his Bond and best friend, whose death still plagued him. And he looked so much like him. Straight straw-like hair that was tied at the nape of his neck with a ribbon and bright red eyes, though they had his mother’s thin shape and monolid. They matched his sharp features, pointed chin and nose with thin pouting lips.

“I do,” Lucifer said, moving to take it. He was barely able to look at Jabez, it hurt far too much. He made a dismissive gesture. “I don’t know why he asked you to bring it. Now go.”

“Most people say thank you,” was the retort and Lucifer scoffed.

“Most people are worthy of being thanked.”

“Mhm. Not here, they’re not.” He glanced back as Jabez crossed his arms, hips cocking. “Now I know you can’t reach that spot on your back, may I?”

He held out his hand and Lucifer stared at it for a moment before rolling his eyes. He handed him to vial and pulled his shirt off. He moved to sit down back to the other. He didn’t react as a gentle hand began to massage the salve around the wounds. He sighed, feeling his shoulders relax.

“It looks… worse,” Jabez murmured. He shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it, not with him. He just wanted the pain to stop. “Oh come now, you know I’m not one to judge.”

“I haven’t done anything. That’s just the progress hundreds of years have done,” he snapped. A judgemental hum came from behind him.

“Oh of course not. It doesn’t itch when it heals, you don’t continue to sleep on your back and bend these remains anymore, of course not. That’d be dumb.”

“I thought you didn’t judge.”

“I’m not. Should I be?”

A growl was hissed between clenched teeth. “Just finish up and leave.”

A snicker was the last sound either of them made. Lucifer stared at the canopy of his bed, the sunlight dancing through the window, bathing the dark pink fabric in warm golden light. Funny how something so simple would stir up so many memories.

“Tonight was your father’s idea,” he said finally. Jabez froze, barely breathing anymore. “This party every year. Celebrate the anniversary of… becoming your own.”

“Dad… dad just enjoyed partying,” he said finally, voice sounding pained.

“He did. I never understood it. He somehow convinced everyone else that he was the calm one of the two of us,” he said, a faint smile playing across his face. He shook his head, glancing back over his shoulder to the young man.

Tears had gathered in Jabez’s eyes and were sliding down his face. He stopped and turned, pulling him into a hug. The action shocked them both.

They were not friends, though Lucifer had kept him and helped raise him. In fact, the two of them rarely got along. This was so rare, to be this close to each other without pain that Jabez immediately tensed, waiting for something. When nothing did, he slowly hugged Lucifer back, being squeezed tighter.

“He would never blame you for what happened, Jabez,” he whispered. “Never. Your father adored you from the moment he knew of you. He cried just telling me you were to be born.”

Jabez whimpered.

“I never meant to make you doubt that…”

They stayed in the embrace longer than was intended and then finally Lucifer released him. He stood quickly.

“I need to go.” And with that, he hurried out the door. Lucifer sighed. He had broken something so long ago, when he’d reacted so angrily in the wake of Cecil’s death. Though the regret stayed buried.

Such thoughts were shaken away. He closed his eyes to breathe.

By now, a numbness coated his back. He felt himself finally relax. After all, the pain had ended. For now. He moved to sit on the bed and sighed, closing his eyes.

The party was merely hours away… but he was so tired. He rubbed a hand over his face and finally laid down. He needed sleep, he had been awake the night before. It wasn’t uncommon on the eve of the anniversary. Whenever he closed his eyes, he pictured the golden blade and the golden hand that had held it.

He had hated his brother for so long after. He had hated nearly everyone. They had sat by while he was mutilated and tossed away like common filth. Now it was much the same as his back; blessed numbness, but beyond repair and horrifically scarred. He had no true feeling towards his family, but he knew it ached. Deep in his chest, within his heart, it ached so horribly that at times he felt he could hardly breath.

He curled into a tiny ball, a soft blanket being pulled over himself. It was such a poor substitute for his wings, not nearly as soft and without the weight and movement. But he had gotten used to such discomfort. He had no other choice.

Finally, he forced himself into sleep. He couldn’t afford to look tired at the celebration.

In his dreams, he saw his brother. Michael stood over him and looked down with his lips pulled back in disgust. He condemned him, disowned him. Unlike in reality, the sword was used to pierce Lucifer’s chest.

He awoke in a panic, sitting up and his hand going to his chest as pain swirled through him like his own blood. He closed his eyes as he pulled his hand away. He almost expected to find blood when finally he looked but there was nothing. His hand was clean, as was his chest. No blood, no stab wound. No Michael.

Lucifer wept. His eyes stormed, the torent in his heart finally manifesting itself. In another time, he would have comforted himself with the thought that Michael would never do that, he would never kill his beloved little brother. He loved him far too much.

But this was not that time. Lucifer now knew the truth. Michael held more loyalty than love, his capacity to obey was far greater than to love. Though he had learned long before that never could the blame for his father’s decisions lay on someone else, even if they were the weapon he wielded. And Michael was more Seres’ sword than his son.

He closed his eyes and curled back up, trying with desperation to will his pain away. Tears finally stopped and he again laid in numbness. It wasn’t until the sun had long since gone down that he finally got up.

The celebration was in an hour and he finally began to get ready. Fanciful clothes had already been laid out, a silken wine blouse embroidered with pink roses down along the cuffs and over his chest, fitted dark pants, and a long dark gray coat embellished with pink carnations. It was tame compared to the things he’d worn before.

Unlike then, he had no want to bring much attention to himself. He would likely already have far too much as it was. He hardly left his castle, hardly made appearances, even as the appointed “king” among the Fawkyrn. Perhaps that was a part of the curse, to feel uncomfortable in the spotlight his youth had always sought out.

He moved to rub his hand over the sigil upon his arm again, closing his eyes at the gentle throbbing it sent through his body. It didn’t ache like his wings, just reminded him it was there and steadily stealing his sanity.

He shook his head and finished buttoning his shirt. A hand ran through his curls, grimacing as he yanked a knot. He was vain and prided himself on his appearance, and yet… he hardly had the energy to maintain it. Barely enough to live day to day.

Finally he stepped out of his room, a black ribbon coming up to tie up half his hair in a complicated knot on his head as he went downstairs.

“I expected you to not be ready yet.” He turned his head to look at Bart, a gentle smile crossing his face as he saw him. He too was dressed far better than usual, in dark blue clothes and his hair pulled back from his face. It showed his most striking features easily, his mismatched eyes and hair. His left eye was yellow, matching the blonde side of his hair. The right was sky blue, striking against the black side.

“I have to be there on time. I’m the guest of honor,” Lucifer answered. He stepped over and deftly straightened his coat. “You look nice. You’re only ever seen in your work clothes.”

“There’s never really occasions for much else,” he said, brushing Lucifer’s hands away. “Besides, my work clothes are far more comfortable.”

Lucifer shook his head. He was thankful for the younger’s relationship, it pulled him from home and gave him some semblance of a normal life.

“Where is Jabez? We need to leave.”

No sooner had he spoken than the click of heels could be heard on the wooden floors. They looked over at Jabez, looking more like his parents in a long dark blue dress slit to the thigh and his hair hung loose around his shoulders. Lucifer still felt that pang as he saw him.

“Come on,” he said quickly, turning to leave. It was a night of remembrance, as well as a celebration. They were alive but had lost so much, in the war and the years since.

Libbirix were not believed to be able to survive without their wings. It held their magic and according to some stories, their souls. But here they all were, alive and well and now… celebrating.

The celebration was held in the courtyard in the center of the city. The lights could be seen as soon as Lucifer walked through his garden and, despite himself, he smiled. His people were still here, still found reasons to celebrate.

As they left the gate, music and laughter rose to greet them and the twirling skirts and coats of dancers flashed over the cobblestones like flowers thriving in the stones they never should have grown.

Lucifer smiled as he walked, the ache lessening. It was times like this that he knew he had done the right thing. He had freed them. It had come at a great cost but it was worth it.

“Oh Luci!”

He turned to look at Lilith, rolling his eyes as he saw the group of men she left. He moved to allow her to hold onto his arm.

“Hello, Lil,” he said with a warm smile. “I am glad to see that you are enjoying the night.”

“Oh, immensely,” she said with a smirk, glancing back to the bachelors. “You got here earlier than I expected.”

“I hate to miss any of this, you know this, my friend,” he said, tilting his head. “He would never want me to.”

Lilith’s smile turned sad and genuine as she thought to her late partner. She shook her head.

“Cecil would have killed if ever you did while he was alive. And even dead, he would have dogged your steps until you came and saw your people.”

Lucifer chuckled, a sad sound as he watched Lilith. He sighed and turned to look at the others.

“I know. And he likely would have gotten drunk and started a fight,” he said. Lilith laughed beside him, though sadness was on her face. They stood in companionable silence until she moved to offer him her hand.

“Dance with me,” she insisted and he gave her a look, brows wrinkling above the bridge of his nose. “Come now. The last time you danced was at the wedding and that was decades ago.”

He shook his head.

“No thank you. I’m afraid I’m a bit too sore to dance that way,” he said. He nodded to the group of young men. “Perhaps they will humor you.”

“Oh fine, go sulk and drink then,” she said and turned with a flick of her hair. She glanced back at him with a smirk and a wink. “Just know that my offer is there.”

He shook his head at her and watched her walk off. Then he turned and searched out glasses of wine and a table laden with food. The best part of any celebration.

He saw a child, barely to his hip, rush to the table. She wore her hair in intricate braids and a long dress that was stained with some blue substance. Likely the result of some fruit tart, the same as the one she was trying to reach for.

Lucifer watched her struggle to get the plate holding the sweets and then moved to scoot it closer to her with a warm smile. She looked up with wide purple eyes and an even wider smile as she snatched a few of them up.

“Don’t get a stomach ache, little one,” he warned warmly. He moved to pluck one from the plate and gave her a wink as he moved to step away, making her giggle as she rushed off again. He watched her with a soft look and then sighed, sitting on a bench to finish his drink and dessert.

He watched the children there. They were so young, they knew nothing but this life. Nothing but the crumbling city that used to thrive. He sighed, closing his eyes as he finished his wine.

“Well hello, your majesty,” a cooing voice said beside him. He turned to look at the woman, offering a warm smile.

“Hello, Aita,” he said politely. The two had never been close but she was a beautiful woman. She was tall and plump with warm features. Her eyes were black but in the right light looked purple or even blue while her skin was the gentlest red, like a dying fire. Tonight her rich red curls were piled on her head in intricate knots and she wore a dark dress off her shoulders and trimmed with fur.

“You always look so lonely at these,” she said as she sat down, much too close to him. He chuckled.

“That’s because I am,” he said honestly. He looked at everyone else; the dancers dip their partners, children twirling and giggling, and even those serving seemed to be having a good time. “But it is not a horrible thing. I am here with my people.”

“No one should be alone, not tonight.”

“I am not alone,” he said and gave a warm smile. “It’s not the same thing.”

Aita rolled her eyes and leaned back. They sat in silence for a moment and Lucifer wondered if he had been rude to her. He thought through their conversation, though his concentration broke as she finally spoke up again.

“My brother would have loved this. It’s not what you wanted, but to see everyone who’s suffered coming together this way and enjoying life and… free…” She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. “And none of this would have happened without you.”

Lucifer was silent. How he’d often told himself that. It was hard to enjoy this thinking of all they’d have lost. It was molting season and he wished he could see the feathers on the wings, colorful and catching the light of the lanterns. But it was never a sight he would again witness. He sighed, looked down to his glass.

“I am going to get more to drink.”

He stood to retrieve something stronger, letting it burn his throat as he drank. He didn’t mind it and was half through it when he was urged to speak, as their king and leader. The one who had brought them here. He felt his heart pound as he slowly gave in and stood, glass extending out in a pseudo toast.

“My friends,” he began, voice stronger than he’d thought it’d be. “It is tonight nearly four hundred years ago that we were removed from our homes and positions. Four hundred years since we had decided we’d have enough of my father’s oppressive laws. Four hundred years since we lost our wings.” He swallowed. “But it is not a sad night. Tonight, we remember.

“We remember those who died for this, those who left us here to rot, and why we have chosen this. My father dictated laws between the races of Teradio that never should have been. Our children and people deserve more, all of us deserve so much more! And here we are, we were expected to die but we have thrived and made a home among these ruins, we have made a place for ourselves. We are a people that can not be extinguished, no matter how much the world may be against us! Our fallen brothers and sisters smile upon us, this is not the ending we had pictured but it is our happy ending! To the Fawkyrn!”

There was a cheer and clinking glasses and Lucifer smiled as he sipped his drink. He looked over then, pausing as he saw something in the distance, upon a hill. He set his glass down as more noticed it. A fire swallowing the hillside far too close to the city limits and above it, a flash of glowing gold.

Michael.

#aka the chapter where i put out all of lucifer's issues and why #i really like the imagery of this chapter #idc if it's overly flowery #excerpt: infernum #caelum infernum #my writing

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readingquoteseeker · 5 years

Text

Headcannon for the Immortal!AU that there is one way they can die: through their own hands. Not the “I put a knife in your hand and move it so I can kill you” kind of way, they have to actively come to the decision, and whoever created them made sure they can’t do it while being drugged or brainwashed.

But some people don’t need drugs or the methods of secret agencies to reach their goals. They just need their tongue and a few little tricks and then even an immortal can fall to the hands of a petty little human.

Everybody in the Crew was close to falling at least once. And one of them wanted to find out if he had wings and had to realise that angels weren’t real, even in their world.

Geoff couldn’t remember a time where he didn’t drink. It didn’t matter in which time he lived, humans had invented alcohol early enough, and he was enjoying himself. But he also saw the downsides of the poison, people around him dying because they lost control, because they got into fights or because their bodies just couldn’t take it anymore. With every friend he lost to the alcohol he felt like he lost a part of himself. He managed to stop. Until he met a person he thought of as his friend, who he started drinking with again. More than he ever did before. And one day the person got so much closer to reaching their goal, to rid the world of one of the beings who lived all those lives they didn’t deserve. The bodies of immortals are made to withstand time and so much more, but sometimes they just have to give in. after his internal organs collapsed under the weight of the alcohol, Geoff was sober enough to listen to the person and decided he didn’t want to bear the pain any longer. Apparently he wasn’t sober enough to be considered in a clear state of mind though, so the grave wouldn’t take him. Luckily enough, the person believed the one way they thought would work to be a lie, so they left. His body regenerated faster than it took his head to be completely clear, and Geoff decided to give himself another chance. He never touched an alcoholic drink again.

Jack had learned long ago that humans always thought they had a good reason to make others suffer. She herself wanted to do the right thing, to protect people she loved, to leave an impact on the world. If she had been given the responsibility of an everlasting life, she wanted to make sure it wasn’t wasted. And so she fought in too many wars to count, killed in the name of one cause after another, never feeling satisfied. Until she realised that there was never a good enough reason to unleash hell. She decided to help the helpless instead and worked in hospitals, helping wounded soldiers at the front, where humans were too fragile and afraid to really help. Even though the suffering she saw made her feel worse every time, she kept going. Because for the first time she felt like she was doing something meaningful. After meeting Geoff, she only helped occasionally, and after Ryan joined them they moved to America and she had more than enough work helping her little crew rule the city. But then World War One hit the world and she felt like she was needed elsewhere. Her crew was immortal after all, so she left them to play and headed to Europe. She helped carrying wounded out of the battle, saved people who would’ve died on the battlefield, she tried everything in her power to make this catastrophe a little less horrible. And then the poison gas attack brought her to her knees. She never would’ve thought to see wounds like these, to see those numbers of people suffer at the same time. She struggled with the purpose of her life once again, convinced that she would never be able to make up for all the horrible stuff humans thought of. Even worse, somebody who had seen her walking unharmed through waves of bullets aimed to get rid of the other side’s advantage. After talking to them one last time, Jack was on her way to a plane to get as far away from the war as possible and fall without the hope of wings to catch her. At the airport she met Geoff, who had come over from America to see if she was alright. The plane never took off.

Ryan was used to betrayal. He just attracted people who for some reason thought the benefits of treason were worth the risks. None of them was still thinking that in the end, though. And he moved on, always being aware of the weak believes humans had, never really trusting anyone. Until he met Geoff and Jack and learned that they all had the same secret and a similar history. For the first time in hundreds of years, he actually felt like he had someone else to rely on. He promised to never let them doubt his words. But as an immortal Crew, they tended to attract the worst kind of enemies. Unfortunately, one of the opposing gangs was too well informed, and they knew how to take advantage of Ryan’s lucky capture. Of course his body took no lasting damage, but the drugs and the words with way too much reason behind them still managed to get to his head. They left him with his hands tied behind his back, a chair and a rope, after convincing him his betrayal had let to Geoff and Jack being captured. Even though deep down he knew the gunshots he heard couldn’t have caused their deaths, he still climbed the chair. The two others crashed through the door just in time to see him jump off.

Michael loved the sound of being alive. He loved the laughter, the cursing, the music, the noises of cars, thunder, everything. Especially gunshots and explosions, because he didn’t need to fear those. He couldn’t stand silence. In his opinion, silence equalled to pause, and to pause equalled to miss something. If he was blessed (or doomed?) with immortality, he wanted to experience everything. He wanted to see the world, to take it all in and remember it forever. And then the Spanish Flu hit the world, and the world went silent. It didn’t matter where he went, people were dying or grieving. The world had become one big graveyard, and he had always avoided those. He heard way too many stories about the end of the world, even after avoiding the members of a certain cult who seemed to be everywhere. The doubt had been planted, and fearing he would be the only one left, Michael decided to go out with the loudest bang possible. One day, during his last test of the explosives, he saw a woman walking out of the collapsing building completely unharmed. After talking to her, he was relieved to know there where others like him, that he wouldn’t be alone after all. And although they parted ways shortly after that because Jack didn’t like his way of living for herself, he now knew there were people he could always turn to who were just like him.

Gavin enjoyed watching humans explore the fields of science. He never helped, he never even took a job that came close to being scientific, because he felt like that would be cheating. They needed to figure out the facts themselves to really grow. And he cheered with them every time there was a new discovery. But he had always hated the downside, the fact that so many great ideas were used to kill people. The day the first atomic bomb was tested was the first time he doubted his faith in humanity. After the bombs fell on Hiroshima and Nagasaki he felt like he himself was falling. Being unfortunate enough to have someone pretending to be his friend who recognised this as an opportunity to get him out of the way, he walked way too close to the edge. Ironically, it was the news of the development of the atomic watch that made him realise that humans would always find a way to use science for both good and evil, and that there was a certain calming balance in this fact.

And then there was Ray, the one who actually took the last step, in the truest meaning of the word. To say he was tired wouldn’t do him justice, because there was so much more to it than that. Like the others, he existed since the first days of humanity; unlike the others, he had always felt like he was missing out on an important part of life. He had always longed for the thrill of death, the effect it had on the lives of humans. Nothing could satisfy this need, nothing helped him feel better. So he started thinking about ending it all, because every one of them somehow knew instinctively that there was this one way out. But before he could accomplish his goal, he met the Crew. And he didn’t forget his plans, but they suddenly weren’t that important anymore. He wasn’t alone, and the world had so much to offer for a group of friends who could be stopped by nothing but their own decisions. For a century, they lived life to the fullest. Then they decided to settle in Los Santos, to lay low for a while, a bit like going on a vacation. While the others enjoyed terrorising the city, Ray caught himself thinking about his old plans more often. As the others noticed him being more silent than ever, he told them about his longing. They were shocked at first, but every one of them had hit rock bottom once their lives, and they felt somehow honoured that Ray would talk to them about those thoughts. And after the first shock they started to understand him better with every time they talked. In the end, they accepted his decision, and bid him a worthy farewell the city would need years to recover from. They all stood with him on top of the tallest building in Los Santos, and he had never felt happier than after his last step.

#tw suicide #fahc #fake ah crew #fahc!geoff #fahc!jack #fahc!ryan #fahc!michael #fahc!gavin #fahc!ray #achievement hunter #gta au #ah #immortal!fahc #immortal au #immortal fahc au #this is the first time I'm posting my writing on tumblr #so please be gentle

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creeping-crowley · 5 years

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☠ Another One Bites The Dust ☠

It had been on his to-do list.

It had been right there amongst the mental note to re-pot a few of his plants and nip to Tesco. Hell, however, had decided that the priorities with which Crowley had been going through his mental to-do list were in need of some re-ordering.

A mental tug snared him, scoring a painful wound through Crowley’s thoughts. Dazed, the demon pinched the bridge of his nose. He was being called. Well. Called, rather implied there was a choice in the matter. Summoned was rather more accurate.

His very essence coiled into inky smoke, coursing and winding through the infinitely bound layers of reality to plummet lower and lower. There were more stylish manners to descend to hell, but the mental rope tightened, choking and smothering away any form of preference, dignity or comfort with which its target was drug out from his warren. Upon coursing downward through a haze of blistering ice and vapid heat, jet wings flung open from Crowley’s back, clawing a wide arcing path through the air in an effort to slow his fall. Gracelessly, he met the ground, feathered wings sprawling out either side of him as he made swift to appraise his surroundings and those in attendance. It was never good to be brought forth by unbreakable tie.

Damp, acrid dirt stung the demon’s palms. He pushed himself upright, noting all the eyes that watched. Nobody stepped forward. The sulfuric air that burned at his nose and lungs brought back the memories of the place- hell’s pit. The pit was not so much a place for conversation as it was for public demonstrations, executions and torture. It was a place steeped in sorrow, punishment and fear. Even those clustered around appeared apprehensive (and knowing the risk of collateral that hell had, they had good reason to be).

Serpentine eyes scanned for the one at the head of the gathering.

Moloch.

Master of shame, devourer of life and lover of sacrifice.

There was a reason Crowley had always done well to avoid this particular circle of hell. He had never quite seen eye to eye with Moloch- a being that favoured the suffering and carnal devouring of body and souls (particularly the innocent). He was a real brawn-over-brains sort. The likelihood of getting a trial or so much as the chance to weave his path out of the firing line with words was looking unlikely. Crowley swallowed.

“Ah, Moloch…”

The tang of ash and rot boiled into a thick, putrid haze. A soft crackling of flame was punctuated with the damp hiss of droplets cascading from the rock above, throwing up plumes of angry, stench-ridden steam.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Run. Running. Always looking to run.” A deep baritone rumbled, shaking the air about them.

Snakelike eyes flitted back to Moloch, halted from their restless efforts to map what tools surrounded him in an effort to categorise the threat.

“Thinks he can run…from Moloch!” Deep thrums of laughter echoed from the demon’s chest, coursing a low hiss of snickering from the beings that encircled the pit.

“I didn’t say—”

“Thinks he can LIE to Moloch.” The demon interrupted.

“…I just got here.” Crowley insisted, already acutely aware of the dread building in his chest at how little purchase he was being offered.

A wail of air howled through the stifling chasm, picking up smatterings of ash and cinder.

“And soon you’ll be leaving.” Mammon, Prince of trust and greed spoke up, electing to intervene before his companion got ahead of himself.

“Listen, guys, whatever it is there’s probably some sort explanation. The pit? Really? Surely it doesn’t call for this…” Crowley’s tone held up surprisingly well in an effort to hold his nerve- to make it all seem like some silly understanding. To make it seem as though he were the last demon deserving of such treatment (when in actuality he found himself mentally scrambling to work out which of his many transgressions had earned him a place in the pit).

“Oh, but I think you’ll find it does.” Mammon’s words were silken. Carefully the web was being woven to ensnare him.

“Holy water does not kill you.” Mammon’s gaze fixed Crowley. All of a sudden, Crowley noticed that none of the demons in attendance were looking at him as though he were one of their own. A babble of agreement slithered through the gathered crowd as heads bobbed with concerned agreement. He was a stranger now. An outcast- struck out with the rest of the unwanted to boil and melt in the pit.

“You prefer the company…of ANGELS!” The accusation rose into a shout, stirring the crowd into a chorus of angered and horrified howls and shouts. Roaring beside Mammon was Moloch, pounding a fist against the wall.

The volume marked his cards, turning Crowley in on himself as his shoulders lost the nonchalant air he had fought to uphold. Warily, the demon’s feet inched back.

“The angels know of you…and you were there each step of the way- thwarting Armageddon. Thwarting our chance to ESCAPE THIS PLACE. To WIN!”

“And when it was all said and done, the Archangel Michael did not destroy you…” Mammon’s voice softened with an insidious air of contemplation.

“They wouldn’t kill one of their own. Someone fallen…some damned spirit to be heaven’s eyes and ears in dark places. You were too useful to them. But that doesn’t make you very useful to us…”

A low hissing pronunciation of a name that Crowley had not worn for centuries addressed him.

“Your work on Earth has hereby come to a close. Hell has no requirement of your services any longer. Please step into the centre of the pit to surrender your vessel.”

“Sorry…what?” A haze of confusion and panic slowed Crowley’s thoughts as he battled to grasp the closing space around him. An urge to shout out at them tightened the demon’s throat- an urge to insist there was a terrible misunderstanding. They had it all wrong. But all the evidence backed up the accusations pinned against him. He’d done very little to maintain his ties to hell or uphold any ally that would save him or so much as vouch for his deeds. Crowley paled.

Moloch set about advancing, lowering into the pit with an impatient gnashing of pointed fangs. At the movement, Crowley arched skittishly away, seeking to buy himself a little more time.

“No no no, you’ve got it all wrong!” He insisted, flashing a borderline manic smile that hoped to insist how thoroughly laughable the mix-up was. As Moloch drew closer in his hungry advance, coal-black wings struck out in an effort to better scramble away. It was to be the first of many mistakes. A large clawed hand snatched out from Moloch, far swifter than the brutish form of him would have made anyone think possible. Moloch’s crushing grip found the crook of Crowley’s wing and snatched it, pulling firm to yank the smaller demon into his trajectory. Caught entirely off-guard by the sudden force that threw him off balance, Crowley tripped, meeting the ground clumsily at Moloch’s feet to a round of hearty cheers. A thread of humiliation and shame began to crawl and writhe within his chest at the noise. It was every bit a confirmation that nobody was going to help him. They wanted to see him torn to pieces. They wanted him dead. Gone.

A low groan ached at the pit of Crowley’s throat before a sharp rip of claws struck the first effort to break the demon’s Earthly form.

“No…” A soft, mournful moan escaped Crowley (too quiet, thankfully for the jeering crowd to hear). A slick dampness of blood brought about ragged breaths as Crowley began to crumble beneath the torment. Frenzied at the reality of his predicament, he pushed forward, attempting to writhe and batter away his attacker with both wings. A cascade of feathers swirled about the burning pit.

Boulder-like fists snatched at bone beneath feather, seeing to it that the appendages were shattered and crumpled into a useless cloak of blood and darkness. A visceral shriek that did not sound as though it belonged to Crowley at all broke through the growing applause. Shuddering under the shock of such an injury, Crowley crumpled, one wing falling weakly to his side in a searing haze of pain. Moloch saved no time to observe his work. The larger demon brought down a foot onto Crowley’s leg, grinning widely at the sensation of splintering bone. The choked screams grew louder. The crowd’s enthusiasm grew with them. Animalistic panic drove Crowley into pushing against the force that sought to slowly break his limbs one by one. There was nothing he could use to escape. No clever plan. No way out. He couldn’t think. He hadn’t been given the time to think.

“LISTEN!” A bloodcurdling howl pled against the sensation of his arm being broken. Thirsty breaths ripped through the demon’s lungs as he sensed what time he had left for leverage swiftly draining away. A wave of laughter erupted from those watching him. The assault did not so much as pause at the word. Nobody wanted to know what he had to say. He couldn’t stand. He could hardly draw breath. Suddenly he felt very small.

Only once the onslaught of violence brought out a more compliantly weakened state from Crowley, did Moloch slow his efforts. With a snort, the demon straightened himself, casting a broad smirk at the onlookers, inviting them to see his work.

“Traitors are not shunned by one.” Moloch spoke the words in a way that one who relished in them could only manage. As though heeded by a command, those whom had been part of the audience slid forward into the pit.

“THEY ARE SHUNNED BY ALL!” A roar shook the chasm as they descended upon the crumpled form of their prior comrade. Hands set upon whatever they could find, punching, ripping out feathers and biting. The ritual was almost complete.

(( @exanxmo ))

#crowley rp #ineffable husbands rp #ruby dixon rp #guess I'll die #Is the general mood of this #good omens rp #go rp #oc rp #angst angst angst

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maggiemaybe160 · 5 years

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Wandering Angel

Fanfic by MaggieMaybe160 on Ao3 Fanart by blueeyesandpie on tumblr (full photo is on my A03 fic!) MCD WARNING

Castiel sits with the small group of hunters. He had been summoned, but instead of a rescue, it’s a celebration. The hunters are celebrating and thanking him for coming to their rescues over the years. Right now, in front of the small bonfire, Castiel is handed a beer that he will not drink.

His eyes are watchful of the party around him and quickly drop to the ground when two people kiss. He sucks in his breath, the sting in his chest a reminder.

“Who broke your heart?” someone nearby asks. Their tone is half jest, but the words stab into the angel. His eyes close.

“Dean Winchester.” The entire party goes silent at the sound of the deep voice. The two words sound painful in his mouth. The first time any of these hunters hear the angel of tears speak, it is the saddest sound they have ever heard. A deep voice, scratchy with disuse.

“Please, Castiel,” someone says gently. “Tell us.”

There’s a heavy pause as the crowd waits, hungry for the stories that he’s reluctant to relive. He twists the silver ring on his left ring finger. It is the same ring that had once circled Dean’s right fourth finger.

“There’s a grief that can’t be spoken,” Castiel says, his eyes on the flames. It remains completely silent except for the snapping of the fire, the flames licking up toward the sky that the angel doesn’t dare look up at. Not anymore.

“There’s a pain,” Castiel looks over his shoulder where his hunter’s car is parked. The black is still gleaming, the silver accents still shining. The memories, preserved with his ongoing care of the now ancient car. “It goes on and on.”

The angel looks back at the full beer bottle in his hand and remembers the times that he sat in the Men of Letters Bunker at the table beside two of his favorite hunters. He remembers the small green cooler that was kept in the backseat of the beloved car, always a war between beer bottles and health smoothies. He remembers the clink of his bottle against Dean’s, the small smile on his hunter’s lips.

“Empty chairs at empty tables.” Cas whispers, staring into the empty Impala. He can feel the weight of the keys in his pocket. His seat in that car had been any but the driver’s. The driver was always Dean. Forever and always. Except now.

“Now my friends are dead and gone.”

Dean stares up into Cas’ face. His hands are covered in his own blood as he reaches for Cas. There’s blood bubbling up onto his lips as he gasps for breath. Cas can’t heal him. Not this time. He has Dean’s blood on the side of his face and in his hair.

“I don’t want to go,” Dean says. His eyes are filled with despair. His hand land on the lapel of the trench coat, right over Cas’ pounding heart. He grabs it tight, his knuckles turning white. “I can’t go where I won’t see you again.”

“You’ll see me again,” Cas promises, though he knows he’s lying. He doesn’t know when he had started crying, but his tears are landing on Dean’s cheek. Dean doesn’t seem to notice or care. “If they won’t let me, I will fight for you, Dean Winchester.”

“Cas,” Dean smiles.

“Dean,” his angel answers breathlessly. He clutches at the hand on his lapel. Their fingers twine together, Dean’s grip tight even as his face pales.

“I won’t go without you,” Dean chokes around the bood. He coughs weakly and Cas pulls Dean against him. They embrace, Dean’s head against his angel’s shoulder. Dean has his arms wrapped around Cas, his hands tangled into the thick dark hair. Cas is holding Dean against him, unwilling to let his hunter go. “I love you.”

“I love you, Dean Winchester.” Cas presses his lips against Dean’s, ignoring the metallic taste of blood. His hand is on the side of Dean’s face as his warmth fades. Their kiss ends, breath mingling between them, as Cas presses their foreheads together.

“Cas.” The word is a whispered, final breath as Dean leaves him, his body going limp in his angel’s arms. Cas sobs, shaking and silently begging for Dean to wake up.

“Here they talked of revolution,” Castiel says, forcing himself out of the memory.

He sees the bunker again, Sam standing before a concept board, explaining to the group from the apocalypse world what their world was like. He taught them new techniques and explained how they were going to take down Michael. His heart sits heavy in his chest. They called him Chief. Dean hated it. “Here it was, they lit the flame.”

“Here, they sang about tomorrow.” He recalls every time they talked about a world without monsters, a world that didn’t need hunters, a world they could retire in. A world they never saw. “And tomorrow never came.”

“From the table in the corner, they could see a world reborn.” With every soul saved, every monster killed, their morale lifted. They were winning no matter how many times the world attempted to crumple and die. They had been there time and time again.

“And they rose with voices ringing.”

Saving people, hunting things: the family business.

I’m Dean. This is my brother, Sam. We kill monsters.

Let’s kill some evil sons of bitches and raise a little hell.

I think what we have here is a miscommunication. We’re not stuck out here with you. You’re stuck out here with us.

Cas? You got your ears on?

“And I can hear them now,” His blue eyes close, his face becoming a mask of anguish. “The very words that they had sung became their last communion.”

“Dean, no.”

“I am your sword,” Dean says, stepping toward Michael. “Your perfect vessel. With me, you’d be stronger than you’ve ever been. If we work together, can we beat Lucifer?”

“Dean!” Listening to him is a fresh wound with every word.

“Can we?” Dean yells over Cas, obviously feeling the same pain as his angel behind him.

“We have a chance.”

“You can’t.” Cas wants to reach out and protect his hunter, embrace him.

“I don’t have a choice!” Dean yells back, his eyes locking with Cas’. They both ache, but he pulls away again. “If we do this, it’s a one time deal. I’m in charge. You’re the engine, but I’m behind the wheel. Understand?”

“Oh my friends, my friends forgive me.” His voice is weak. The intense blue eyes open again, filled to the brim with shining tears. His steady gaze is finally on the stars above him. He allows the tears to spill over, sliding down his cheeks as he looks at the stars, the sky, the heavens for the first time since Dean Winchester died.

“That I live and you are gone.” His voice cracks and he can feel his heart, already a broken thing in his chest, splintering again.

“There’s a grief that can’t be spoken. There’s a pain that goes on and on.” Cas’ head falls again, his tears dripping down the point of his nose. His hands are shaking. The bottle of beer drops from his hands and shatters between his feet. Where everyone else around him flinches, he does not. He doesn’t seem to notice his wet shoes or the glass sparkling up from the ground.

He steps down onto the glass, a cruel crunching under his shoes. He turns and takes a few steps away from the fire toward his hunter’s car. He chokes on a sob and swallows it down, yelling, “Phantom faces at the windows.”

Dean is supposed to be in that windshield, his hands on the wheel. Loud music should be playing. Sam should be sitting shotgun, fighting about the volume while he tries to study. They are supposed to be there, their faces behind the windows of the beloved car.

“Phantom shadows on the floor.” Dean’s bowed legs, long on his shadow self. Sam’s shadow slightly behind him making them the same height. He lets himself cry. “Empty Chairs at empty tables, where my friends will meet no more.”

“Oh my friends, my friends!” His heart is being ripped from him. He never should have opened his mouth. He’s dropped to his knees, his hand clutching at his chest. His cry echoes as he sobs.

“Don't ask me what your sacrifice was for.” His voice is raw again, a small sound that is wracked with grief and loss than none at this celebration could ever understand. Not truly. For they haven’t lost and lived on for a century with much more time to pass. They aren’t exiled from their lover’s resting place. They aren’t eternally alone.

They had sacrificed everything one bit at a time. Sam’s education and career. Dean’s life for his brother’s. Sam said yes to Lucifer. Dean said yes to Michael. Around and around with their imprisonments, demon deals, self sacrifice… and for what?

The Winchesters may have died, but the monsters persist. The world goes on because they saved it. They saved it countless times and for what? For monsters to pursue and kill? For innocent lives to be lost when their hunter saviors are too slow? For Castiel to watch it live, alone. Alone, dulling the beauty around him.

“Empty chairs at empty tables, where my friends will sing no more.” Castiel doesn’t bother wiping his tears from his face.

* * * * *

Dean’s hands are tight on the device that Ash had rigged up for him not long after he’d died. In the monitor, he can see Cas.

Tears stream down Dean’s face. “Cas!” Dean chokes.

Sam looks over from his seat at his brother. He runs over as Dean screams, “CASTIEL!”

“Dean, he can’t hear you. He can’t hear you. Dean.” Sam is pulling at Dean’s arms. Ash comes out of his room at the sound of the screams and rushes to Sam’s aid. “Dean!” “CASTIEL, HEAR ME!” Dean screams, the words raw in his throat. “I PRAY TO THEE, CASTIEL! HEAR ME! CAS, YOU PROMISED!” Dean’s fingers are pulled from the screen and he goes limp, sobbing as his angel currently is on Earth. “You promised, Cas.”

Thank you @blueeyesandpie

@telefunkies @qenericqueer @ain-t-bovvered @adventurous-blob @royalrowena @iamcharliebradburylevelperfect @deanwinchesterswitch @righteouscomeuppancejogstheliver @castibella-shipper-of-the-lord @destielhoneybee @k-lewis @thekingofselfloathing @skittles-rainbow-cat @awkward-penguin-in-a-trenchcoat @spn-thot @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @destiel-honeypie @soloarcana @fandomismymiddlename @lily-t2019 @anarchiana @samatedeansbroccoli

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prairiedust · 5 years

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Red or Green? The literary and folk themes of Oroborous

Red or green is the official state question of New Mexico as ratified by the legislature in 1996. Order anything at any restaurant, even a burger in some places, and you’ll likely be asked “Red or green?” Do you want red chile sauce on your entree, or do you prefer green chile? The “state question” can sometimes reveal geographical origins-- red sauce is supposedly favored in the northern half of the state, while green is more popular in the south (I lived in the south, and you could easily get either one anywhere so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ .) The best green chiles are grown in the south, so maybe that has something to do with it-- like wine grapes, chiles from different parts of the state have different flavor profiles. Green chiles from the Hatch area are world famous.

But it’s important to remember that the sauces are made from the exact same fruit. The difference is all in the timing. Green chiles are harvested early, unripe, then roasted and chopped up and canned or put in the freezer, whereas red sauce is made from chiles that have been allowed to ripen fully and are then (typically) dried.

It’s all about timing. Let your chiles stay on the plant too long, and you miss your chance at the magical elixir that is green chile sauce.

Timing.

The sister stories of Snow White and Sleeping Beauty are, to a great extent, about timing. They are about waiting, about vigils, and about being at the right place at the right time-- or the exact wrong time.

(If you have not already read this rundown of Snow White in season 14, I suggest at least reading a few of the translations of the original folktales here or here. And cw the Sleeping Beauty story called Sun Moon and Talia is dark. I’ll be discussing the difference between the original material and the Disneyfied stories somewhat. Usual disclaimer that this is lit crit and not spec, why you ask, because I am a hundred years old is why.)

I want to say first that Steve Yockey in Ouroboros did a truly wonderful job allegorizing the story of Snow White, which has been teased for a while now. In the Grimms’ Snow White, as in other tales of that type, Snow White has been 1. run into the wilderness by her stepmother, B. taken in by a group of dwarfs, Three: then poisoned by that stepmother and fourthly laid to rest in a glass coffin. While the story has been poked at over the course of several episodes, Yockey sums it all up again in this one.

Dean-- along with the rest of TFW 2.0-- has been traipsing around New Mexico looking for a peculiar monster. Trope one. From the screen shot it looks like they’ve possibly been through Clovis, Roswell, Albuquerque, and finally made it up to Raton. As far as wildernesses and in-between places go, New Mexico is the most liminal state in the union-- many people in the country think it’s part of Mexico and if you think that’s a joke when I was a senior looking at colleges I had two well respected schools send me their foreign student applications. Roswell. AAAAaaaaahhhh Roswell. Roswell is the city that straddles reality and science fiction. They fry ice cream in New Mexico, they eat both ripe and unripe chiles there, and they have old mountain forests and arid white sand deserts within fifty miles of one another.

Another nod to the Snow White story is the Ma’lek Box that Dean mentions again-- B-- it can be seen as an allusion to Snow White’s glass coffin (in other versions, it is merely ornate or sometimes bedecked in rare gems but it is definitely something that she alone can not get out of… being dead and all...)

Finally, when the Gorgon knocks him out and Michael escapes, Sam tends Dean’s wounds while he is unconscious, which fulfills the traditional Snow White requirement for someone other than the king/prince to affect a physical change in the heroine’s state-- cutting off an enchanted dress or jostling the coffin so that the bite of poisoned apple can be coughed out-- in order to bring her back to life. Walt Disney and his studio added the “first love’s kiss” into the Snow White matrix in 1938, not even a century ago, but it quickly took over the narrative-- Disney also brings the story into a more accessible reality for modern viewers, he introduces the prince into the actual storyline earlier than in the folk tale, and then has him awaken her with The Kiss. Which do we, as an audience, prefer? The rabbit-hole of darker, more psychological Snow White tale types, or Disney’s recent and overwhelmingly iconic romantic reimagining?

Red or green?

Yockey gave us green, the version that has not ripened into what most people know as Snow White through the Disney cinematic behemoth.

The other duality in this episode is that we have Sleeping Beauty being referenced simultaneously with Snow White’s allegory.

Sleeping Beauty is Cas’ story and elements from that tale type can be seen in how the Gorgon stalks and overcomes his prey. The Gorgon uses sex to snare a human for consumption-- he says he’s an opportunist but that women have begun to be more cautious now that they are “waking up” from a long period of oppression. Sleeping Beauty’s deep sleep comes as the result of a symbolic sexual awakening-- in the more recent stories that awakening comes from the machinations of an enemy, so it is more a violation than a sudden innocent awareness. Where am I going with this? I don’t even know, this seems like it belongs in a different essay. What I’m trying to say is that the Gorgon uses sex to put people into a state of paralysis, and the evil fairy (known in the Disney movie as Maleficent) used a sexual metaphor to lure Briar Rose to her doom before she was ready for that kind of encounter. We are asked to contemplate the symbolic aspect of the Gorgon’s predation because he also uses a symbolic act-- eating eyeballs-- to see into the future and thus subvert the natural order of time.

In Sleeping Beauty, the evil crone/Maleficent also subverts the timeline by jumping place in line. She was not invited to the party in honor of the infant princess, but after nearly all of the other wise women have given Briar Rose their blessings, she breaks in to curse the baby. There is always one fairy left who, while not powerful enough to nullify the curse, can modify it to a deep sleep instead of death. In Ouroboros, TFW2 exploits the fact that Cas and Jack exist outside of the workings of Fate to defeat the Gorgon, but not without great cost.

Which brings us to The Wrong Kiss. I didn’t even want to meta the Sleeping Beauty stuff because of the kiss, seriously. So. What happens to Briar Rose is tragic, but in the three most famous versions of the story she comes out of her enchantment because a prince falls in love with her. Jack, here, as a result of Cas’ deal with the Empty, is no longer in the Sleeping Beauty story, he is not a Prince but a Giant-Killer once more, and the antidote he administers to counteract the Gorgon’s venom will not work. Once he activates his giant-killing powers, he can heal Castiel. (In the reciprocal, Cas is an agent of the SB story and the antidote works on the dude the Gorgon was about to eat because Cas administers it. It’s a very meta way of treating the folklore theme by both subverting it and keeping certain characters strictly within the parameters.)

Jack finally lives up to his name as a Giant-Killer when he takes out Michael. In Appalachian and English Jack Tales, Jack is always clever, sometimes to the point of unscrupulousness, but in the story Jack and the Beanstalk he is a naive picaro who betters his circumstances through reliance on his simple nature as much as his wits. Often “Jack” does not change as a result of his adventures, as most fairytale heroes do, but like many other mythological tricksters he operates outside the bounds of normal morality. Jack Kline has managed to hold onto his innocence despite initiation into the Winchester clan. Now that Jack has, presumably, burned off some large portion of his soul, it will be interesting to see how his picaresque nature might actually change. Because the story of Jack the Giant-Killer? Not the same story as Jack and the Beanstalk. The Giant-Killer is the story of a deadly clever young man who defeats several giants as well as Lucifer using mainly his wits and is afterward given a place on King Arthur’s Round Table. The story in its entirety borrows from Cornish, Welsh, and Briton mythology, echoing other simple folktales as well as hearkening to high heroes of the Mabinogi. Jack has become larger than life. (AN I started this before Peace of Mind, I’ll get to that one by the end of the season maybe :P )

In a less meta sense of course, this episode is one huge mythological allusion-- Cas refers to Dean’s imprisonment of Michael as a “herculean” feat, the MOTW is a Gorgon (and traditionally gorgons were a trio of cursed sisters in Greek legends,) and Dean enthusiastically references the 1981 Clash of the Titans film twice. In a /more/ meta vein, Andrew Dabb quotes the more recent Titans movie in a tweet on this ep’s airdate. I find that exciting because the story of Perseus in CotT features a descent into the underworld, and again while I flirt with speculation here I would REALLY like to see these nerds freaking raid the Empty.

As for Snow White and Sleeping Beauty now? Red or green?

It feels as though the Snow White story has possibly been tied up and tucked away now, solving the riddle of the “red or green” sister stories. Michael, Dean’s evil rival, is dead. Pretty sure. Whether his grace is contaminated and will have an adverse effect on Jack remains to be seen. See drsilverfish’s lovely analysis of the oroborous symbolism in the last two episodes for more discussion about what it means for Jack to have consumed Michael’s grace. But. Unless there is a Ghost of AU!Michael coming up, he’s gone.

We are left, however, with Cas’ deal with the Empty-- he gets to operate under normal parameters as long as he does not exceed the minimum threshold of happiness (and I want it to be an accidental or unexpected moment, unlike a lot of meta writers, but then that isn’t spec it’s just what I hope for.) And what does that mean for destiel subtext? I don’t know. Honestly, this is a little too intense for me, I am not “canon positive” or “endgame positive” and this episode freaked me out. Analytically, though, it places the subtext at a really interesting place. It means the princess who gets rescued from an enchanted doom is still on the loose, still avoiding Fate, and the prince is still out there having Adventures in the Woods. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#the folklore of supernatural #snow white #sleeping beauty #sister stories #spn meta #the title of the next episode is killgingg me

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flying-elliska · 5 years

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salut ellie! someone once asked you about your writing and you recommended falling in love with language and finding ways of writing you love. i was wondering, what books and/or writing styles are you in love with? it's just so interesting to know what somehow had an impact on the way you're writing bc i honestly adore your style

wow do you remember that ? that is such a flattering question oh my god. well, i’m still working on it. some of my favorites are (i’m very eclectic lmao) :

- His Dark Materials (it’s a fantasy book series ‘for kids’ but it’s actually insanely deep and philosophic) is pretty much the first book series that made me fall in love with stories, and made me want to write. I think I found it when I was 10, and it completely shaped me. It’s so ambitious and clever, it never talks down to the reader, brings up those amazing worlds and philosophical concepts and is still accessible to kids. Most of all it is so committed to atmosphere, to making it vivid, to really make you go through what the characters are. I’m thinking of it and I can remember exactly certain passages in an almost sensory way : the witch Serafina Pekkala describing what it feels like to feel the Aurora Borealis on her bare skin as she is flying through the arctic. The polar bear Iorek giving Lyra frozen moss to help bandage his wounds after a battle. The grilled poppy heads that the Jordan College scholars at Oxford eat during a meeting. The little Gallivespians on their dragonflies and the way the sun reflects off their poisonous spurs. That’s how you make a story stick ; that’s how you can put in deep stuff without ever making it boring. I am so excited they’re making a tv series because that shit deserves some recognition. And I mean the whole plot about the importance of stories, free will, the horror of religious fundamentalism....always relevant. Philip Pullman’s stuff is great in general, I love his Sally Lockhart series, which is more adult and adventure focused, and is a great deal of fun. And of course, the sequel to HDM he’s been putting out recently.

- I spent a lot of my teen years reading either crime novels or historical novels. (When I think of some of the stuff I read when I was 13 I’m like oh my god what were my parents doing lmao some of that was really horrible.) And I think it gave me a good feeling for suspense and setting, and how important tension is. One of my all time faves is Andrea Japp. She is a French writer who does mostly crime, involving complex/monstrous woman characters and a very sensory, poetic approach to language, often involving food, plants and poisons. My favorite by her is the “Season of the Beast”/Agnès de Souarcy chronicles, which is a crime series set in medieval times, with a cool independent lady at its core, crimes in a monastery, and this very gloomy end of times vibe that I love. I also read a lot of Scandi Noir stuff, I love the kind of ...laconic approach to life. And again : vibe. Vibe is so important. And Sherlock Holmes stories. I love the Mary Russell series that take place in that universe and are basically a big Mary Sue self insert guilty pleasure but are just. So much fun.

- I like poetry a lot - not stuff that is too wordy, but something short, sharp and vivid. i think reading poetry is essential to feeding your inner ‘metaphor culture’. I love Mary Oliver. Rimbaud, too, that I read at 17 and rocked my world. One of my underrated faves is Hồ Xuân Hương, a Vietnamese poet from the 18th century who was adept at using nature metaphors to hide both erotic stuff, irreverent jokes, and political criticism, and correspond with all the great scholars of her time under a pseudonym. Badass. Recently I bought ‘Soft Science’ by Franny Choi, which is about cyborgs, having a female body, emotions and politics and it’s absolutely brilliant.

- I love reading fairy tales, too. Currently reading (i always read a lot of books at once lol) Angela Carter’s Book of Fairy Tales, basically fairy tales for grown ups, collected from folklore all over the world, with an amazing kind of gruesome humor and wisdom. Norse mythology is also so damn funny. That one bit with Thor dressing up as a bride or Loki’s shenanigans...amazing. And I like fantasy, I find it very soothing to read for some reason, my fave has to be Robin Hobb and her Realm of the Elderlings series. And Terry Pratchett, especially the series with Death or the Witches. Just brilliant. Neil Gaiman too.

- I tend to be very impatient when it comes to literary fiction, I find a lot of it is self-indulgent, dreary. I’m a genre reader through and through, I need to be amazed. I loved ‘the Elegance of the Hedgehog’ by Muriel Barbery though. Some stuff by Amélie Nothomb, Virginie Despentes occasionally (they’re French writers with a very dark, wry approach to life, tho the first is more polished acid and the second very punk rock). And ‘Special Topics in Calamity Physics’ by Marisha Pessl is pretentious as hell but a lot of fun, if you like dark academia. Salman Rushdie has a way with language that is amazing.

- I read a lot of non-fiction. At the moment : the Cabaret of Plants (about the symbolic/socio historical meaning of plants and how they shaped history) by Richard Mabey and ‘Feminist Fight Club’ by Jessica Bennett. One I absolutely love is ‘the Botany of Desire’ by Michael Pollan in which he traces the history of four plant species (apple, potato, cannabis, tulip) and how they impacted us as much as we impacted them. I was obsessed with plants for most of my life as you can see lol (my mother is a herbalist and I wanted to become a botanist for quite a while.). Also philosophy/anthropology in little bits. I love Tim Ingold. Things about witches. Anything by Rebecca Solnit is incredible.

- I’ve been reading a lot of YA recently, because it’s fun and quick and keeps me reading, and has a lot of good female characters. Big fave recently : Jane Unlimited by Kristin Cashore. It’s about a young bisexual woman who’s grieving and comes to this weird house full of doors, each of which leads to a different path in life, and we follow her through each choice she can potentially make, each of one becomes a different genre of story : creepy ghost story, spy story, sci-fi, cute romance, etc. It’s so innovative and it’s a story that is also bisexual culture at its core. Also I absolutely love love love love love (etc forever) the Raven Cycle series by Maggie Stiefvater. What she does with language is just so cool, because she stays simple and efficient but uses her metaphors in such a fulgurant, vivid way. Some of her lines are just. bam! genius. #goals. Also Ronan Lynch is probably THE character that helped me the most with my coming out. He’s one of my forever faves. Of course Harry Potter, lmao, I was of the generation that pretty much grew up with him, the last book came out when I was 17. JK Rowling really should just stop rn. But I learned so much from those, about the importance of making your story feel like home, and having a clear emotional journey. And Harry is such a sarcastic little shit, I love him. And I love a Series of Unfortunate Events too, the darkly funny tone of it, the celebration of knowledge and resilience.

- I think in terms of the classics (I had to read in school lmao), I do like Victor Hugo a lot even though some of his stuff just doesn’t fucking stop. I also like Balzac and his Comédie Humaine, he’s very observant, mean and funny when it comes to people (even though it’s depressing.) Colette is my grandma’s fave writer and she is a rockstar, I love her (also hella bi culture). Jane Austen is great, I read Pride and Prejudice in one night straight, I was so hooked. Love Jane Eyre too. I read On the Road by Jack Kerouac while hopped up on opioid pain killers and that’s probably the only way to appreciate it, but it did mark me.

- But to be completely fucking candid, I probably read the most fanfic nowadays still. Esp since I got to college, I need to unwind when I read, and having characters you already know can be so comforting. Now, of course, there’s a lot of fanfic that is just fluff (nothing wrong with that) but I honestly really believe in the literary value of fanfic. Because some of that shit simply just really slaps and is well written. But also as a genre on its own : you just simply don’t get so much emotional nuance, and depth in most other things. Because these are characters we already know and the writers are not afraid to be self-indulgent and plot is secondary, we see shades of things that we never see anywhere else, we see relationships developping in the small things and wow that shit is breathtaking, bro, sometimes. The art of infinite variation on a theme. Even though a lot of fic writers could use a bit of stricter editing, and do stuff a bit too many unnecessary details in here, so does Victor Hugo soooooooo....

lol i could go on forever. i love book soooo much. uni kinda killed my reading appetite, I used to read several books a week when I was in middle school. hope i can get back there (although maybe not as much bc i have a life now lol.) but thinking about everything i have yet to read makes me sooooo happy. I want to get more into sci-fi, English lit classics. Basically I like stuff that’s witty, dark, political, hedonistic, with dry humor, but a warm heart. Stories that celebrate knowledge, curiosity and human weirdness. And that gets to the point. When I get bored by a book, I put it down, because I just don’t have the time. I also hate writers where you can tell that they think they’re better than other people. Misanthropy is boring. Thank you for this question anon I had a blast

#reading #books #book recs #literature #anon asks

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codyfernaesthetic · 5 years

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Dichotomy

Part 1

Summary: Among the dead in the lonely Outpost 3, after Mead and Venable tricked them to eat the poison apples, Mallory, the young Gray inexplicably rises from the dead and remains the sole survivor. Michael Langdon, the seductive representative from the Cooperative, has no choice but to bring her with him to The Sanctuary. Her resurrection further piques his interest in who or what she really is.

Enjoy!

(Part 2)

The filth covered bodies of the Outpost 3 residents lay cold and unmoving, the ground beneath them splattered with their bile and blood; apples with a single bite taken out of them were scattered about the room, or still gripped in the fingers of their victims. Among the lifeless corpses all dressed in fancy 18th century clothing, lies one particular body, a young woman in a gray maid’s outfit, dirty blonde hair wrapped above her head, vomit and foam bubbling out of her open mouth. Invisible, a power surged into the mass grave and surrounded the woman.

Her lungs filled with air, and warm blood pumped through her veins once more. She inhaled, and upon releasing her breath, she opened her eyes.

. . .

Michael smiled. Feeling finally that everything had been set right. Ms. Mead’s deep dark eyes were filled with remembrance and love, just like he remembered from his childhood. Nothing would ever separate them again. Every single evil, selfish motherfucker in the Outpost was dead, and he could return to the Sanctuary with his Ms. Mead and revive this stinking, rotting corpse of a world and rebuild it in his father’s image...in his own image. He would finally—

A sharp, overpowering sensation stabbed through him like a knife. His face twisted in confusion as he drew his gaze to sit over Mead’s head, staring off into nothing, as if waiting for a threat to burst through his door.

“What is it?” Mead asked, jarred by his quick change of expression.

His mouth slightly agape, a small thorn of fear pricked at his mind, “A powerful presence.”

She touched his arm like a loving mother comforts her child that there is no boogeyman, “But everyone’s dead.”

He met her eyes and answered with a hurried breath, “Not anymore.”

. . .

Mallory sat up suddenly, the room spinning and hazy. Her arms trembled as if struggling to hold her up. She removed her glasses, letting them drop to the floor; their soft thud muffled by a piercing ring in her ears.

She turned over to gain footing; her fingers grazing a wet, slimy surface. She grimaced and looked at her hand, now covered with a film of vomit and foam. She stood and wiped it on her dress, all senses sharpening. Her eyes widened in disbelief. She surveyed the room, shaking. Everyone was dead. Timothy and Emily lay parallel to each other, open, cold eyes staring into each other’s like a morbid lover’s embrace. Mr. Gallant was lying on his back near the center of the room, the entire front of his clothes covered in bile. The others were scattered about the small room in their own clusters.

Except Coco. She couldn’t see Coco among the bodies. A panicked buzzing formed a ball in her chest. She froze where she stood, running over the previous events in her mind.

Then she remembered that Coco had disappeared at the beginning of the party with that black-robed figure that she had assumed was either a guard or another Gray. She didn’t remember where she and the figure had gone. She looked towards the hallway, bracing to run. Maybe they were still alive.

“Very impressive, Mallory.”

Her gaze whirled to the balcony above her. Mr. Langdon and Ms. Mead stood side by side, looking down on her, illuminated by soft golden candlelight. Langdon’s smile was intrigued, like a scientist staring at a lab rat responding positively to an experiment.

So many different thoughts were spinning around in her head. But the most important one was Coco. If Langdon, Mead, and Venable did this, then she and Coco weren’t safe.

“I don’t know how,” Langdon continued dulcetly, “but you’ve managed to survive.”

He turned and went out the doorway slowly, leaving Ms. Mead to watch Mallory as she stood among the carnage. She glared at Mead, who only met her with a cold, unemotional frown. Langdon appeared on the lower floor; his walk was slow and even, like a predator’s. Mallory forced herself to look into his icy eyes every step he took. Her heart pounded in her ears as he drew closer; she balled her hands into fists and stood her ground.

He stopped with barely any space between them. His body heat radiating like a dangerous aura, a faint smell of smoke and warm vanilla making her dizzy. She trembled despite herself.

“I knew I was right about you,” his tone was low, almost breathy, “You’re perfect for The Sanctuary.”

She swallowed hard, anger pulsing through her veins, “Did you do this?”

He side-eyed the bodies to his left, a smug grin subtly creeping onto his face, “Yes, but only to prove what I already knew,” he leaned in closer, “That the others were unworthy.”

She stared at him, unsure how to process everything, when she realized who else was missing, “Ms. Venable—“

“Is dead,” he interrupted nonchalantly, “The selection has been made.”

She held in a gasp, every sense in her body becoming alert, “What about Coco?”

He cocked his head.

“She disappeared before we ate the apples they gave us.”

He didn’t blink.

“Please, she might be alive, I have to—“

“Mallory,” he said gently, reaching out to caress her face, “Coco Vanderbilt was never going to survive. You’ve known that from the beginning. You said so yourself that she was helpless.”

“Please, that’s why she needs me. I have to know—“

“She’s dead Mallory,” his fingers traced to her chin, “Her boyfriend survived. He found his way into the Outpost and stabbed her in the head.”

The sweetness of his voice rubbed salt in the wound. Her knees threatened to buckle. It was the first time her gaze dropped.

“There’s no need to mourn, Mallory. You’ve just been given the opportunity to live.”

He took a single step back, hands behind him, “If you will fall to your knees before me, Mallory, accept my offer, I will be your savior, and bring you into a world worthy of the likes of you.”

Tears silently dripped down her cheeks. A long moment passed, her fists loosened into trembling fingers. Her voice cracked, “I accept.”

“Declare it,” he commanded, “Proclaim me as your lord and savior.”

She looked up at him and slowly sank to her knees. She could see something shift in his expression when she slipped down. A subtle twitch, almost as if he hid a secret reaction he couldn’t show.

“You are my lord and savior,” Mallory slowly muttered, “I am at your command.”

#michael langdon #ahs michael #ahs mallory #ahs apocalypse #ms venable #ms mead #millory #cody fern #billie lourd #ahs season 8

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