#but i can’t fucking get over my grief. i can’t. i based my sense of self off of him and his stupid characters. and now i’m back to having

[proto-caustic-moon]

every fucking time i remember how grave the crime was. the gravity of what he did. i just get angry again. i can’t not feel fucking grief.

[dearestspirit]

a note heard in heaven - 01

mizu x fem!reader | au based on the film the handmaiden | word count: 3,388 | warnings: mdni. this series will contain sexual and dark themes, including: abuse, sex, sexual assault/harrasment, period typical misogyny, murder, allusions to suicide, and period typical stigmas against mental health. series masterlist | previous part | next part

“Fuck!” Mizu grunts, knocking her head into the ceiling of her little room after hearing your scream.

Hissing, she hurriedly flails up and out of bed, Madame Kaji’s words on her mind. The older woman had told Mizu about your nightmares– she was no stranger to them herself. If she were back in that dingy village she called home right now, she would’ve gone right back to sleep. It’d be a lie if she said she wasn’t thinking about ignoring you, even now. Taigen would have her head if she didn’t follow through with the plan, though… The thought of losing out on the money is enough to make her quicken her pace through your door, nearly tripping over herself.

Your voice is torn between muttering and full-blown shrieking– crying for your mother. Your mother, who, as far as Mizu knew, was long gone. Once she reaches your bed, she’s out of breath and already has her arms at, what she assumes is, your shoulders to hold you in place. Buried under your blanket and absolutely thrashing around, Mizu can barely get a word out to calm you down. Eventually, she can tell you’ve become more conscious when you start calling out for the name of your old handmaiden.

“No, no, I’m the new one,” Mizu hushes you, your wild movements slowly ceasing. “You had a bad dream, go back to sleep.” Her tone is rough, hoping you’re through the worst of it.

Finally, you take hold of the blanket, easing the hem of it down to your midsection. Mizu, for a moment, gulps as you’re revealed to her. In the glint of the moonlight, your eyes were almost crystalline. Tear tracks stain your cheeks, complexion ruddy with grief. Her eyes trail down to your lips, trembling. Grasped tightly in your arms was a doll. You looked… fragile. Fragile in an all too familiar way. Fragile in the way that she knew she once was too– a child, having a bad dream, calling for their mother. No mother would come for either of you.

She watches you raise your arm, finger pointing out into the gardens your room faces. “Do you see the cherry tree? My aunt… she passed. There’s nights where I see her out there.” Your rasping barely breaks through the quiet, hoarse and shaky.

Mizu’s attention is turned towards the large window, squinting out of it. Watching you from the corner of her eye, she can’t shake the thought of how eerie you are. Neither Taigen nor Madame Kaji had even hinted at the notion of you seeing ghosts to her. She wasn’t superstitious in the slightest, but she felt the weight of her responsibility for you become heavier. Melancholy like yours was easy to sense, deeply buried as it may be. This job was going to be the end of her. She sighed, hoping to turn around and find you peacefully sleeping.

“For fuck’s sake!” Mizu grits her teeth, finding you not even in the room at all once she turns back.

She’s quick to chase after you, finding you huddled in a swathe of your own blankets at the top of the stairs. You’re sniffling into them, knees pressed tightly to your chest. When you peer up at her, a zing of guilt courses up her spine. Maybe you didn’t just look fragile.

“Come to your senses yet?” She asks, tilting her head with her arms crossed. Reaching a foot out, she nudges at your legs.

You give her a sluggish nod in response, having exerted all your energy. Between the scrambling in bed and the mad dashing to the staircase, you felt well and truly exhausted. Part of you felt remorse; for looking at Mizu, even in the dim light, you could see the weariness under her eyes. In the gauntness of her cheekbones, too. Despite feeling despair holding you down, you reach your arms out, gesturing for her help. Mizu drags a hand over her face, grumbling. Squatting down, she’s somehow able to enclose her arms around the mass of blankets covering you, lifting you easily. It barely takes her any time to lug you back into bed.

Her awkward nature is obvious as she stands once more at your side. “Okay, well… goodnight?”

Sitting up, you don’t hesitate to take Mizu’s sleeve into your hand and pull. In response, she tugs herself away from you, scoffing.

“Don’t grab me like that,” Mizu seethes. “Ever. Just call for me.”

Your mouth runs dry. Whether that’s due to the harshness of her tone or the fact you upset her, you aren’t entirely sure. “I apologize… Could you stay with me until I fall asleep again?”

Her face scrunches. “Don’t you have a husband? Call him in here.”

You squirm, clearly uncomfortable. “We aren’t actually married yet. Calling each other husband and wife… it’s for appearances,” Your head lolls back onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling. That doll you had– it’s returned to its position of being clutched tightly in your arms. “Men like him are only gentle with women when others are watching.”

Mizu’s chest heaves, a strong exhale leaving her as she contemplates her next move. “Fine, just for tonight.”

Your eyes light up almost instantaneously. The sight makes her swallow, stiffly. Had… anyone ever looked at her like that? Those sparks of joy, finally overtaking that shadowy gloom in your irises; it captivated her. Briefly, at least.

“Ugh,” she shook her head, taking little care to climb into the spot next to you. “Look, if I’m staying here until you fall asleep, you’re facing the other way.”

“Your eyes are blue. I couldn’t see them that well before.”

“Yes, they are. Just another good reason for you to turn around, right?” she sneers. “Or better yet, go ahead and fire me.”

You frown, holding her gaze. “I wouldn’t fire you for something like that,” you’re mumbling as you bring a hand up to her cheek, caressing it with the back of your knuckle. “For what it’s worth, I think they’re beautiful. Someone would’ve been very happy to have you as a wife someday, I’m sure.”

Mizu snorts at that, carefully edging her face away from your touch. “I’ll pass, but… thanks. Even if it’s empty flattery.”

She can see your lips form into a pout. “It’s not!”

You’re playful, all of a sudden. She figures that this is it. Your loneliness bubbling to the surface. An undrownable creature made of desires and aches. Mizu knew your old handmaidens were mostly a lot older than you– elderly women vastly more experienced than the other youthful servant girls. It’s been very, very long since you’ve had a friend, if you’ve ever had one to begin with. It was only slightly unfortunate to her that she’d have to be the one to prey upon your vulnerabilities.

“Do brats like you whine all the time?” She huffs, taking your arms within her hands and turning you around herself. “You must be worn out by now, so go to bed. I’ll… be here.”

You chuckle at her, the grimace she must be sporting is obvious even though you’re not looking anymore. You can’t help but think that your mattress felt a bit softer tonight.

It was a long few minutes that passed by, Mizu’s eyes trained on the motions of your breathing. When your body rose, fell. The slight shivers that would run through you when your blanket slipped lower than wanted. Clearing her throat, she eased herself off of your bed. With her first night as your handmaiden over, she questioned just how sane she’d be after the end of all this. At least she’d be rich, she supposed, slipping back into her bedroll with a smirk.

Mizu awoke to a bleary morning and the sound of Madame Kaji’s grating nags in her ear. Something about even the handmaiden eating in the servant’s quarters– she didn’t care all that much, barely half conscious to hear it. It took her a few groggy minutes to make her way outside and get her hands on a bowl of rice and some sort of… porridge, she assumed.

The hall was filled with the gossip of the other young girls serving here. Together they squealed about The Count; he was due to make an appearance today. Supposedly they saw a light ghosting through the hallway, speculating it was him meeting you in your bedroom. She almost laughed at that, knowing the reality is that it was her going after you during your nightmare. Fiddling with her chopsticks, she felt little appetite knowing Taigen would be here today. Everything in this plan had to go perfectly, there was no room for her to be suspicious or lack confidence in her abilities. Perhaps the seemingly endless downpour of rain was also putting a damper on her? Taking only a few more bites, she pushed her bowls away from her. Padding over to where she left her shoes, she felt a bristle of anger. One of her shoes was gone, with a crowd of other servant girls giggling. Unfortunately for her, and fortunately for them, Madame Kaji was approaching her with a parasol held over her head.

“Is that how you intend on going to meet with the Lady?” Her eyebrow raises, gesturing to Mizu’s feet.

“I didn’t exactly plan on having my shoe taken.” Mizu fumes.

Madame Kaji sighs, massaging her temple. “Ah… Very well.”

A sense of unease settled in Mizu’s chest. This would be her first official meeting with you. It’d be up to you whether you’d take her on as handmaiden or not… and it was looking grim for her, right now. As if she isn’t on enough people’s hit list, she’d have to go and be added to Taigen’s for screwing up. She follows closely behind Madame Kaji as she leads her to your room, trying her best to ignore the sogginess of her footwear. It takes everything in her to not grumble with every step, keeping up a polite disposition. Even if you were willing to put up with her irritable nature, Madame Kaji certainly wasn’t.

Before long, she stood in front of you in a deep bow, hands folded at her waist.

“This is Mizu.” Madame Kaji spoke.

You felt a prickle of heat trail up your neck, a twinge of embarrassment at realizing that through the entire night, you hadn’t asked for her name once.

“I’m at your service, my Lady.” She straightens herself out, eyes now set on you.

You’re much more put together today. That hair of yours is pinned up neatly, off your shoulders. And your eyes, today, aren’t sullied by the red tint of sorrow. Your choice of dress guides the eyes– from nose to lips to neck to the faint hint of exposed collarbones. Delicate; the word that comes to mind when Mizu collects her thoughts. Madame Kaji leaves a less than pleasant swat on her back.

“Right, a letter from my last mistress.” Mizu stands before you, holding out the paper.

You don’t open it yet, instead choosing to focus your sight on Mizu. “Did you enjoy your first night here? It’s rare for the sun to come out. My husband prefers it that way, otherwise his extensive library would be at risk. To take joy in a place like this… it’s difficult, no?”

Mizu’s eyesight flickers between you and Madame Kaji, wondering how to answer. “I don’t mind it.”

“Hm,” You hum inquisitively. “You don’t have to lie when I question you. I want your honesty. Do you have parents?”

“What?” Mizu asks, somewhere between anger and surprise.

“I’ll be going now.” Madame Kaji shakes her head, sighing.

“I don’t have any either, so don’t feel bad. I had my aunt and Madame Kaji, so how much can the love of a mother really be worth?” For a second, she hears the twist of something bitter in you. You look back down at the letter Mizu handed you. “Read this to me, if you will.”

“You’re spoiled, aren’t you?” She grunts, taking the parchment out of your hands.

“It’s only because my head hurts before every reading session with my husband. Though your honesty is refreshing.” You’re grinning, unused to someone like her. Your previous handmaidens were at your beck and call– annoyingly so.

It’s odd, but in her mind she’s quick to consider you… charming. You’ve been spoon-fed and privileged your whole life, yet here you are conversing with her without taking any offense. Delight has always been scarce for her; still, she reminds herself whatever she feels now will and must be short lived.

“Dear Lady of the House… The Count said you needed a new maid…” Mizu starts, reading off the neat handwriting which she knows is Taigen’s, but you're oblivious to.

“Ah, enough,” You wave a hand at her, taking the letter back. “You’ll be my handmaid. I know Madame Kaji forbids it, but I don’t particularly care if you curse or steal. It’s my word that decides whether you stay or not.”

“You speak like you have a condition for my staying?” Mizu questions.

“I do. Don’t ever lie to me.” You smile, though your words are cold. It’s a chilling ultimatum that rings in the back of her mind for a while.

She freezes as you put her hands on her– resting them on the outside of her arms, slowly trailing to her wrists. There’s a second where she can pinpoint the exact change in your expression. Where it morphs from man-eating to genuine. She thinks that through all the rain, the sun might be shining a little brighter through the gray now.

“And, another question,” You’re scanning her appearance, zeroing in on the frames sitting on her nose. “Did Madame Kaji ask you to wear those- your glasses?”

“Yes, for my eyes.” She mumbles, finding the topic easily aggravating her.

“You don’t have to wear them if you'd rather not, and…” A finger of yours comes up, untucking a curl of her locks from their neat place. “You can wear your hair like this. It’s how you had it last night, too. You seemed more comfortable.”

Since when has anyone like you ever cared about the comfort of someone below you? She opens her mouth to speak, maybe even say some sort of gratitude, but you’re already flitting away from her. You’re eager, waving her to and fro every corner of your room. Trinkets on display are taken out of their designated place and into her palms, each one connected to a story. You talk.

You talk, and that loneliness once again bubbles, showing it’s soft underbelly to the skies.

“This is my mother.” You open up a locket to reveal an old photo.

To Mizu, the two of you have an uncanny resemblance. It’s almost bizarre, the way each of you is the picture of a man’s ideal wife. Again, the word delicate springs to mind. “She’s stunning.”

You tilt your head, eyes squinting. “And me? My husband says I don’t compare to my mother.” You turn, mimicking your mother’s pose. There’s nerves in your tone, a shadow looming over you as you wait in suspense for her answer.

Fuck. Your own despair would betray you. You’ve unknowingly gotten yourself ensnared in the perfect moment to sink her teeth into you. Your softness would be met only with blades. With her as his wing-woman, you’d be eating out of Taigen’s hand in no time.

Her stare lingers on you. “The Count says–”

“You’ve met him?”

“What?” She stutters, blinking rapidly. “I mean, my… aunt met him. She used to nanny him, so I’ve just heard things from her.”

“So, what did he say about me then?” Your eyes hold an expression of curiosity, maybe even a tinge of hope.

“He lays awake at night thinking of you. In bed.” She tacks on the last part of her sentence as an extra measure.

There’s a brief flash of a smirk upon your face before you speak. “In bed…” You trail off, gaze landing on her one shoeless foot. “And what happened there?”

When she recalls the events to you of her losing her shoe, you click your tongue, sighing. You reach out a hand to take her by the arm, but remember her warning about never grabbing her. Instead, she herself holds out her arm for you, rolling her eyes. Guiding her over to a large closet, you open the two doors, displaying your wide collection of shoes.

“Take a pair, please.” You indicate which ones would fit her. “It’s not like I’m allowed to go anywhere, so someone should get some use out of them.”

Mizu, uncertain, takes the plainest pair out of the ones you’ve shown her. They’re simple and black, seemingly comfortable enough to do her handmaiden work in.

You seem to be happy with her choice, the way your lips upturn. “You didn’t want any of the flashy expensive pairs?”

She shakes her head, shrugging. “Not my style.”

“Hm,” You look out the window, then shift your gaze to the room’s clock. “I have to go for my husband’s reading. You can stay put, I’ll go alone.”

“It’s pouring out there.” Mizu says, as if you can’t see the state of the weather.

“Come get me at noon, okay?” There’s that smile of yours again– do you have to smile so much?

The door is closed behind you before Mizu gets any sort of goodbye out. Adjusting her glasses, she snorted as her eyes landed on the clock you were looking at before. You’re rich, of course you have the latest inventions at your disposal. It was a handcrafted Western clock made of brass. She wondered who had gifted it to you, were they too trying to get in your good graces? Seduce you? She’s not sure if it mattered, since she– The Count, she corrects herself– would be the one to succeed. Letting out a moan of boredom, she decides to pass her time by looking through your belongings.

The overindulgence of wealth nearly sickens her. Your extravagant kimono collection, sorted by color, the best season to wear them, what obi pairs well with them. She thought that was nauseating until she plucked through the cases of jewelry. Gold, silver, every gem you could imagine existed right here in front of her very eyes. It’s not impossible for her to picture you bathed in their opulence, as the kind of woman that such a fortune suits. Would you ask her to put your earrings on for you? Moreover, would she be tame, tender? Snapping the jewelry box shut, she checks your foreign clock once more.

Noon. With clouds still darkening the sky, she grabbed one of your umbrellas, heading out the door to follow the path you had taken to your husband’s library. Stepping carefully to avoid scuffing her shoes– or, your shoes– in case you’d ask for them back. There was a thin layer of trust she was willing to grant you, but she of all people knew how quickly one could turn. When she makes it to the door of the library, she sits at the entrance.

You’re kneeled on the floor, your husband sitting at the table. He shoots you a questioning glare once his eyes land on Mizu.

“This is my new handmaiden, Mizu.” You’re talking to him, but your eyes stay on the floor, hands neatly in your lap.

Mizu goes to walk inside, before your husband shouts, pointing at a golden snake decoration. It gives her a shock, stepping backwards. She sees you pull a lever in the corner of the room, bringing down a grated gate.

“You may not cross that barrier!” He sounds fucking deranged, Mizu notes. She also makes the observation of his black tongue. Ink?

Trying to peer through the gaps of the metal, she searches for you. At the lever she saw before, you’re rooted in place. Trembling, in the face of an unhinged man you were forced to call ‘husband’, you looked scared. Fragile. Delicate.

Mizu wondered just how long she could pretend to be picking up the pieces of you until she would have to let them fall and shatter– to dust, to infinitesimal shards no one could see anymore.

a/n: the official chapter 1!! i hope people enjoy and can see where i'm going with mizu's characterization. there's a lot of shuffling i have to do of the plot to make sure i feel it's accurate to mizu. or at least as accurate as it can be in an au. so i hope that it's worth it and people enjoy!! i can't guarantee the quickest publishing rate with chapters, as i'm still figuring out how i want to structure them and they'll probably vary here and there in length. anyway thank you for reading!!

[saintsenara]

now, if you'll excuse him, he has to go and fall to his knees before either dumbledore or voldemort.

ok hear me out why must there be an or. why can’t we have snape/dumbledore/voldemort all at once (in the interest of unhinged ships that really could be rather hinged if u think about it, i am waiting patiently for u to tell me how actually, we very much can have snape/dumbledore/voldemort)

hot.

anon, you are so right that snumblemort has the potential to go really, really hard and i am now entirely compelled by it as a concept.

i back each of the constituent two-person pairings entirely - i've written about snumbledore and riddledore, and i know there's an ask sitting in my inbox about snapemort [which i promise i'll get to].

and, i realise, i back them for exceptionally similar reasons.

both snumbledore and riddledore work because the potential for horror baked into them [the age gaps, the fact that dumbledore was both men's teacher, and so on] exist in conjunction with the fact that there would clearly be the foundations for genuinely meaningful relationships chilling cutely among all the ways in which they're fucked up.

all three men are the only people in the series who can be feasibly described as the others' intellectual equals - and all three share the same outlook on what the purpose of magic is and how one ought to relate to it [even if dumbledore hides this behind his shame at how his belief in the value of magic and magical experimentation as power triggered the whole grindelwald debacle...]. i think there's an immediately compelling prompt for a fic in which the three end up being forced to work together to solve some sort of mystery - the chance to pour over ancient manuscripts in candlelit libraries, or race against time to unravel the base of a curse or a poison, or try to figure out a series of puzzles or clues contained within dark objects would be right up their alleys, and nothing's hotter than a man who takes an interest in your sapiosexual pretensions.

but i'm also really interested in the ways in which snumbledore and riddledore really work as the most plausible pairings in which dumbledore can be made to do some actual self-growth.

his canonical relationship with both snape and voldemort is born of his own self-loathing - when he tells snape, in the prince's tale "you disgust me", he's speaking to the memory of a man whose selfish desire to impress someone he loved was utterly destructive; he is not disturbed by meeting the young tom riddle in half-blood prince until he describes himself as "special", and his loathing of the adult voldemort's obsession with fame and notoriety is evidently caused by the fact that these were both things he once [and still] desired.

and he's forced in canon to confront this in his relationship with snape - after snape agrees to kill him in half-blood prince - and to come to regard snape as brave, loyal, steadfast, and trustworthy. he's never - for obvious reasons - made to do this for voldemort in canon [and, indeed, he is strikingly oblivious in half-blood prince to the things about voldemort which inspire harry's sympathy - above all his lingering grief over his mother's death], but i think there are numerous plausible scenarios in which being forced into closer proximity to voldemort could bring this about. the canonical voldemort has an extremely profound - if also extremely odd - sense of honour, and he also possesses the capacity to - in his own little way - be surprisingly brave, and i always think there's something quite moving about fics in which dumbledore has no other option but to recognise this.

and dumbledore having to drop his mask would be good for both snape and voldemort. it's clear in canon that one of the reasons voldemort dislikes dumbledore is that he considers him a hypocrite [especially because he decries voldemort's ambition for public attention while courting such things himself] and that one of the reasons snape dislikes him is that he feels he conceals things from him because he distrusts him, even as he's asking him to risk his life for the order. both of them learning why it is that dumbledore constructed his public mask of benign eccentricity would help them make sense of why he is the way he is.

and it would allow all the similarities between the three to fully emerge. one of the reasons why snapemort really slaps as a ship is because snape and voldemort have so much in common - especially their experiences of childhood poverty, their disappointing fathers who they greatly resemble, and their periphery to the posh, pureblood world they both long to be fully part of and also long to undermine and humiliate. and dumbledore has the shadow of a similarly difficult childhood - and a similarly difficult relationship with his father and his legacy - lurking over him. all three also carry the weight of life-altering grief [even if voldemort is the one of the three unwilling to admit to this]. i think there's a lot of opportunity for the recognition of each in the others that they all canonically use to drive their own loathing to mutate into something which might look a lot like respect...

do i think it would be healthy? ...eh, probably not. all three clearly have really fucked-up views on intimacy and love, for one thing, and i doubt whether any of them really has the potential to let go of their original ways of seeing the others, to be properly honest, or to relinquish the power dynamics established between them from the beginning of their acquaintances.

and yet...

[idv-brainrot-go-brr]

Weeping clown and Mike falling for a modern reader? Please i missed you!!

hmmm i love the circus gang so much you have no idea

Character(s): Acrobat, Weeping Clown

Content: modern reader hcs A/N: I am almost sure that I got this request before I went on summer break because it looked SUPER familiar. However, when I opened my requests again, my inbox was empty. So I think this was either sent in twice or was eaten by Tumblr. Either way, here it is

Mike

You’re from the future?! That’s so cool?!?

Listen, he may be traumatized as hell from having to identify a dozen burned dead bodies, losing his home and all his family, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be excited about literal time travel. 

Asks you about everything. Every fucking thing. The villain arc will be temporarily delayed.

Well, once the excitement dies down somewhat you’ll still have to deal with the fact that out of the five stages of grief, this man is stuck in anger. But that’s for later to deal with

Would love to see a spring base cotton candy machine

Would love to have witnessed modern cinema

and all those crazy carnival rides nowadays? How did no one die riding those. From what you describe, everyone in the future must be crazy

He treats the reality you come from much more like a story in a fantasy book rather than an actual possibility

Not to say he doesn't believe you, he just can't quite picture it. It sounds exciting though, certainly does

He listens to you talk about your timeline like a child listening to a bedtime story. Outside of that though, he will ignore it entirely.

This occasionally leads to moments where he just does not understand that you have different views or opinions on things based on the knowledge and standards of your varying times.

This sometimes even extends to scientific discoveries, but not as often because he doesn't care for science much

He also doesn't think about what might be or could be or would be in the future. You're probably never going to leave the manor anyway, so who cares which time you'd end up in

It doesn't matter to him, because he has nothing to go back to in his, and nothing to look forward to in your timeline. He has nothing. No matter where he ends up, he'd have to start over. Start from scratch. As long as he's in the manor, with you, the two of you will at least have that.

That's not so bad, is it?

Weeping Clown

Initially very confused about the fact that you came from literally another century

He’s more hesitant with his questions, more focused on trying to understand you and the world you come from rather than be entertained by all the changes that happened.

Honestly, I could see him at some point just being over the fact that you’re from a different time. Like, once he knows all he needs to know it doesn’t matter to him much anymore. Sure, your circumstances and the ideals and standards you grew up with majorly influenced you, and helped to shape you into the magnificent, amazing human being he loves so much but that’s all that matters to him: Who you are right now.

Would definitely love to see this Youtube thing you keep going on about though. He’s very intrigued

Finds that clowns aren't exactly popular anymore so maybe it's good that he lived in the times when he lived because boy would he have lost his job fast

However, apparently, no one can just go out and buy acid anymore, so that's definitely a plus

Based on what you told him, circus 'culture' changed a lot. Not it's more about performance and tricks than wild animals and laughing at 'grotesque' humans.

He thinks it makes sense then that you are as kind as you are, the time you come from is much kinder as well.

But still, he thinks that, if one day you get out of the manor, and maybe get to leave together to witness your time, then he would feel terribly out of place. Your eyes shine whenever you excitedly talk about the advancements of the future, all the good things in your world. All those are things he wouldn't understand. Perhaps it's better then, that you are trapped here. Because at least you are trapped here together, as opposed to a future where inevitably, he'd end up left behind.

[sillyvampireboi]

Illusion of loved. Illusion of seen.

Chapter 1 < Chapter 2 || ao3

Summary: Armand remembers of an interview snippet regarding his and Louis’ honeymoon era in Paris. Even during these happy times, Louis can’t escape from ‘him’. Armand can’t let the ghost of Lestat destroy the happiness he so eagerly worked for. What should he do?

Contents: hurt, no comfort, emotional hurt, implied sexual content, switching between past and present, pov Armand, bottom Armand, heartbroken Armand, blood

a/n: been listening to Skeleton by Set it off and Punching bag also by Set it off :’) It’s kind of a happy ending but still sad. I couldn’t find the mood and idea to finish it as happily ever after. Besides, I think it goes well with the first chapter^^ I hope, you’ll still like it tho <3

I wrote it in one sitting, sorry for typos ~

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

Recollection number [??] of the Vampire Armand. Based on Louis’ words from the interview with the human journalist Daniel Molloy. 

Blood-like rain drops fell from Armand’s eyes, making his irises look like freshly ripped flesh from the heart. A main artery got hit, so the bleeding tears flowed and flowed bottomless. 

His perfect porcelain-face was sculpted over with grief. The tears left long, dried up rivers behind, just to be filled up again. 

He looked down at his iPad he was still holding and saw that it was covered in blood. It started to dry on the sides and corners. ‘I’ll have to clean it later. I can’t keep things untidy around Louis. He might get irritated by it.’ - he started his rain of thought, when a new interview part came into his mind. He could still hear the soft voice of Louis as he was recalling the events. He stopped the recording and searched among his organised files, to blast one through his earphones. 

~~~•~~~

‘So Paris. You kept seeing and “meeting up” with Lestat. 

Yes. 

What did Armand say about all of this? I mean you were fantasizing about him, your shared ex, while you two were fucking. 

He didn’t know that it was this … concentrated.’ 

They had the most romantic honeymoon period in Paris. It lasted for a blink of a few months. A little happiness before the shadowy troubles continued. 

I visited him almost every night, - Armand heard his own voice recalling the interview - bringing him gifts as a form of expression of my love for him. My desperate, dry, strange to himself and to me Louis. He accepted the attempts of my self with his sweet, half crooked smiles of his, inviting or rather letting me into his Parisian flat under the landlord and above the sexworkers … and into his heart. 

My children grew uneasy at first , mixed with confusion. As time went on, it turned into hurt pride and anger. I chose to ignore it, because he occupied my whole mind and heart. 

I uttered the words “I love you” to him, opening the gates of my soul completely before him, for the first time in 150 years. It’s ironic how the person, who sealed off these three key words and emotions, was present in Louis’ mind. 

Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. 

It was a hot night, with high humidity in the air, carrying the threat of an upcoming storm. Claudia was still in the theater, so we were alone in their apartment. I was lying on my back and my sweet-faced Louis towering above me. I loved and still do, falling into the safety of submission with him. Knowing I’m stronger and more powerful than him, yet letting him do whatever he wanted with me was electrifying. 

“ Take off your clothes.” 

“ Yes Maitre.” 

A single word or a blink of his emerald eyes was enough to send me to my knees. I gave all my self and—

“ You promised you won’t talk!”

—here he was again. I sensed him in his mind several times during our time in Paris. However, I didn’t know the extent of his hallucinations. I let them happen in my false hope, that his tormented mind will find peace besides me on his own. 

What a naive hope that was. 

After all of my clothes were off, Louis remained fully clothed, showing his irresistible control over me. He connected our lips hungrily, kissing along my jaw and neck, then biting down my collarbones, marking me. 

Maitre, Maitre, Maitre make me all yours! My heart sang unheard…

While I was being lost in the feeling, his delicate lips leaving blooming fires on my skin, Louis was seeing him again. 

I only know this, before I saw it in Louis’ mind many years later, when I started creating walls, in order to protect him. 

Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. 

As my heart danced, not fully in sync with his, Lestat appeared next to our bed, sitting on a chair. He was wearing elegant, brown pants based on the fashion trend of the time and a white, short sleeved shirt. He was holding a cigarette, letting the warm air to be filled with his rotten smoke. Above all of this unbeknownst to me, he was staring at us with his attractive, cruelly mocking smile. 

‘ I can’t believe you taint your perfect body by fucking this gremlin, mon cher.’ - Lestat barked - ‘ And he is begging for it so badly. I lOvE YoU.’ - he scorningly laughed - ‘Why my love, you could’ve asked me. You know I’m always ready for you.’ 

Louis’ thrusts came to a halt, as he turned towards the empty air in the room. 

“Y-you shut up!” 

‘Oh mY sWEeT LoUiS, I lOvE yOu. You are acting, as if I haven’t said it to you enough!’

“Louis.” - I gently touched his distorted face, covered by the veil of anguish - “ he is here again. Let me make you forget him, Maitre and clear your mind.” - I whispered it syrupy into his ear - “Use me.” - I purred and laid back below him. 

He jumped on me doomed, devouring me for hours just to parlously cling to my side until the sun rose. 

As we laid there, he hugged me tightly and weakly prayed to me: “ I’m sorry Amand.” - and - “ Thank you. What would I do without you Armand? Thank you so much.” 

Words that mean nothing.

~~~•~~~

Armand stopped the recording and listened into the living room with the ear of a hunting cat. The gentle breeze carried Louis’ and Daniel’s voices towards him. The voices got clearer as he pricked up his ears and heard Louis saying: 

‘I’m bored. You are so boring, I said to him. 

After Lestat, he must have been a downgrade for you. - Daniel commented - He was life itself, wasn’t he? While Armand is your obedient housewife. 

Armand preserving my happiness when I don’t or can’t. 

Are you happy with him? 

Of course! He is the love of my life!

An ancient vampire, who longs to be used and a fucked up vampire who pretends. If that’s not happiness, then nothing is… And you know it’s funny, because you said that about Lestat as well. And if it was true, you wouldn’t call him boring and yourself bored by him. ‘

Armand stood up and silently went into their bathroom. He washed away the evidence of his scarlet tears from his face and iPad. The water refreshed his forever rosy cheeks and ruby eyes. He looked as pretty as ever. 

“ I’m sorry to interrupt, but the sun wakes soon, and Louis needs to rest” - he calmly announced as he placed a still hopeful hand on Louis’ shoulder. 

Later, as they laid next to each other on their cold, shared bed, Armand waited for Louis to fall asleep. As his body relaxed and eyes danced under closed eyelids, playing dreams for his brain, Armand left the bed without a sound. He went to Daniel’s room, and stayed there for a short time without waking him. After he completed the first part of his plan, he sat next to Louis and leaned above him. 

“My beloved, mirror of patient misery Louis. 

I’ll make you forget what you said about me. I know you don’t mean it. And I’ll lessen his power over you. We are fine together, I promise. “ 

As Louis sank deeper and deeper into the land of dreams, Armand rewrote scenes and placed walls. 

When he was done, he snuggled into his sweet Louis’ arms thinking of the next nightfall, when they’ll be the perfect, happy couple again. 

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

Thank you for reading :>

[amplifyme]

Squirm

The X-Files. MSR. Angst. UST. Implied self-harm. Post-Ep: One Son. Teen and up. WC: 3,333. Read on AO3.

Tagging @today-in-fic

He doesn’t wait for an invitation to come in, just pushes through the open door and past her, coming to a stop in the casement opening between the living room and kitchen.

“Mulder, what are you doing? It’s almost midnight.”

She looks small and fragile in her fuzzy white robe, and his mind conjures up the image of her standing slouched and nearly broken with grief in a hospital hallway in Allentown, Pennsylvania, two years past. Ages ago. Countless missteps ago. But he’d held her in his arms back then, held her up, and she’d held him up, too. He doesn’t know if they can ever get back to that. But he wants to try. He can’t stand any more of this icy détente they’ve uncomfortably settled into.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, but we need to talk.”

Her sigh is long and audible. “Mulder, it’s late and I’m on my way to bed. Can it wait?”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday. You can sleep in.” And he thinks to himself, It needs to happen now, before I lose my courage. Before it gets worse than it already is.

“Okay, fine,” she sighs a second time in defeat, her chin dipping down. “What is it?”

This is his fault; it almost always is. He’s done this to her. Ground her down and made her question everything she thought she knew. Whittled away at her until she exists now as a shadow, an almost unrecognizable sliver of what she was when she first came to him. All because he’s an idiot, because he doesn’t know how to care for delicate things. Because he’s never wanted to, before now.

“I came here to apologize,” he blurts. This is not how he planned it, rehearsing the words on the way over. So many things just leave his mouth without thought of the consequences. “I was wrong.”

“An apology for what?” she asks warily. Her eyes slide across his as she tightens the belt on her robe. It doesn’t escape him that he fucks up often enough that she needs clarification.

“For what I said to you at the Gunmen’s the last time we were there,” he tells her. “Before everything went to shit. What I said about you taking things personally. I shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t fair.”

“Why?” she immediately challenges, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. “Why wasn’t it fair? I’d like to know.” He won’t get off easily this time, nor should he. She wants it all laid out in front of them, poked at and prodded, questioned and analyzed, until there’s nothing left to hide behind.

“Because I make everything personal, Scully, everything. And it’s wrong of me to be dismissive when you do the same.” He swallows past the lump lodged firmly in his throat. “I think you’re… there’s a very good chance you were right. I’m not sure anymore that Diana can be trusted. Not like I thought she could.”

“Is your change of heart based on the fact that she crawled back into the woodwork as soon as you failed to show up at El Rico? Where has she landed this time, Mulder? Do you even know?”

No, he doesn’t. Diana hasn’t bothered to return any of his calls; all of them made after he went back to the Gunmen’s and did a deep dive into the information they’d compiled on his former friend and lover. And it’s déjà vu all over again: he’s down in the basement where he belongs, and Diana is just gone.

But that’s not Scully’s problem and he won’t let this train change tracks. So he reminds her, “You were right there with me that night. I wasn’t going anywhere without you.” She opens her mouth, but he raises a hand to stop her. He’s not finished yet. “Regardless. I’m sorry I treated you badly and dismissed your concerns. You don’t deserve that.”

“Well,” she says after an interminable time. “That’s a start, anyway.”

He knows he should be grateful and just keep his mouth shut, but since when has common sense ever triumphed over the wisecracking corner of his brain. “You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?”

“Easy, Mulder? Since when is anything ever easy with us?” She clearly has no patience for his misguided attempt at lightening the mood.

“All right. You’re right.” He runs a hand over his face. “Well, then, let’s just get this out in the open, okay? Acknowledge it, discuss it, and move on. What do you say?” He doesn’t have to wait long for a response, although when it comes it isn’t at all what he’s expecting.

“Have you been fucking her?” Her features are as sharp as her words, and he can’t escape the accusation of betrayal in her eyes.

“No!” He’s genuinely shocked that she would even think that. “God, no, Scully! I didn’t… I wouldn’t do that to you.“ He lifts his hands, pleading. “It’s not her I want.” He takes a step toward her, and her spine pulls straight as he hesitantly palms her shoulder and murmurs, “It’s not her I love.”

There. He’s said it. This second time feels less risky than his first, even coming as it does without benefit of opioids. That’s a good sign, right? That’s progress.

They lock eyes for long moments, playing chicken, neither daring to break the silence after his bold declaration. Finally, Scully wheels away and heads into the kitchen, yanking the tea kettle off the stove and filling it from the tap. She methodically goes about fetching mugs and a box of teabags from the cabinet. Mulder takes a few steps into the room, stopping at the table and laying one hand flat against the wood. He studies her from a safe distance and looks up quickly when she turns back to him.

“This is not about love, Mulder,” she announces. “This is about trust and where you choose to place it. It’s about respect.”

“You’re right, it is. And I’m sorry I fell short of that for you.” In for a penny, in for a pound, he thinks. “But this is also about whatever this… thing is… between us. I don’t know what you want from me anymore, Scully, or what you expect. Because you won’t tell me. You have to know whatever it is, it’s yours. It’s always been yours. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to fix it.”

“What do you want to do?” Her movements are jerky as she turns away to add a teabag to each mug.

Despite the emotional ground they’re uneasily treading, and his hyperaware sense of the danger inherent in pushing things with her right now, muscle memory refined over six years causes him to pull out a chair and take a seat. If Scully is making tea for them, then this is where he’s supposed to land: at her table and across from her usual spot. He scrubs his forehead and his tried-and-true method of deflection kicks in again just as the kettle begins to whistle and she yanks it from the stovetop.

“You want the Disney version or the two consenting adults version?”

“This is not a joke, Mulder.”

“No, it most certainly is not. So, answer me this one question, Scully. Do you love me?”

She swings around to face him, steaming mugs in hand, and he briefly wonders if she might launch them at him. “Why are you asking me that?”

“Because I want to know. It’s a simple question.”

She doesn’t answer him right away. Instead, she takes the time to set a mug in front of him first, and warily sits down across from him. “It isn’t simple, though, is it?” she finally says. “And it isn’t a question I should have to answer.”

“Why? You think it’s inappropriate of me to ask?”

“No, I think it’s unnecessary. You already know. You’ve known for a very long time; even before I did. But that knowledge didn’t stop you from… Well, you know what it didn’t stop you from doing.”

“No, I really don’t.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you come here to apologize for your behavior?” Off his nod she says, “Then you already know, don’t you?”

But that’s not what he’s asking. And he knows that she knows it and is doing some deflection of her own. Jesus Christ, how did they manage to get this fucked up?  “Are you gonna answer my question or not, Scully?”

“Why is it so important that I- “

“Because it fucking is!” He shoves away from the table and takes to his feet. The only part of Scully that moves are her eyes, tracking him on his way up and holding him there. “Because it would be nice to actually hear it, you know?” He can’t handle the way she’s looking at him, with her eyes all big and dark and bottomless, sucking him down into her depths. He could easily drown there. He turns away and raggedly confesses, “I can’t remember the last time anyone told me they loved me. You have your mom and your brothers and I’m sure you hear it all the time. But I don’t. And you won’t say it.”

He swings around to plead with her as the lead ball in his gut expands and makes it hard to breathe. He’s panting now and can’t seem to stop. His right hand lifts and presses against his chest, over his heart. He’s certain he’s just going to die. Crumple right here on Scully’s immaculately clean kitchen floor. “Sometimes I think I’ve lost my mind and I’m deep in a psychotic break and imagining things that aren’t there. If feels like the walls are closing in on me and there’s no escape. Sometimes I don’t know what’s real or what I should believe. I don’t know what to do.”

“You can start by sitting down.”

“What?” he gasps as she gets up and heads back to the cabinets. This time she pulls out two squat glasses.

“Sit down, Mulder, before you completely fall apart.” So, he does. Because she’s told him to and because she’s right. Usually with this amount of adrenaline pumping through him, he can find some slightly insane way to disperse a little of it. Like jumping off a bridge onto a moving train, for example. Or breaking into a top-secret air base. Or kicking down a door. Or any number of other incredibly stupid things. But he can’t do any of that right now. And he wouldn’t do that to Scully anyway.

“Now breathe,” she says very calmly. “Deep breaths.” Before he realizes what’s happening, she’s back sitting across from him, pouring out two hefty shots of whisky and pushing one of them his way.

“Drink.”

“Scully, I don’t -”

“Shut up and drink it, Mulder.” Her tone leaves no room for argument.

“Okay,” he mouths. He screws his eyes shut, tips his head back, and throws it all down his gullet. It burns, god but it burns, all the way across the back of his tongue and down his throat and settles into a glowing ember deep in his belly. He chokes out a cough and forces his eyes open, blinking against the stinging tears gathering there.

“Jesus, Scully, are you trying to kill me?” He looks over just as she takes a delicate sip of her own drink.

“There are three fully loaded weapons in this apartment. If I intended to kill you, I wouldn’t waste this fine Irish whisky on you beforehand.” She reaches and pats his forearm, like she’s soothing a grumpy toddler, and announces, “We have to stop doing this to each other, Mulder.”

He folds both arms on the table and hangs his head, studies his trembling hands, and gives voice to an earlier thought as he wearily shakes his head. “We’re so fucked up.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“No,” he retorts, lifting his eyes and looking over at her. He’s pointing an accusing finger at her that he doesn’t recall cocking. “No, don’t talk like I’m the only one who’s fucked up here.” He is suddenly aware that his tongue is fuzzy and feels larger in his mouth than it should. He always has been a cheap drunk. “You’re just as fucked up as me, Scully.”

He reaches for the bottle and splashes another, narrower shot into his glass. He downs this one without preparation or build up and looks over to find her watching him. Her features mimic the look he usually sees when she’s trying to process one of his more outlandish theories. The one that’s accompanied by a tight little smirk. He wants to kiss that smirk right off her face. More than anything.

“I don’t want to have any more regrets, Scully. I don’t want to lose the chance to love you the way I want to, the way you deserve. Just tell me what I have to do.” He punctuates his request with a third shot. This one doesn’t creep up on him like the first two have. It’s more like one second he’s pretty much okay, but the next he most definitely is not. He hasn’t been this buzzed, this quickly, in a long time. Scully pulls the bottle over to her side of the table and caps it. Probably for the best, he blearily decides.

“When’s the last time you slept, Mulder?”

There she goes again, throwing nonsensical questions at him from right field. He played right field in high school. It takes a good arm. “I dunno. When did we get back from Florida; two days ago? I slept that night,” he answers, and his mouth doesn’t move quite enough to enunciate properly. He blames it on his fat tongue and the whisky. Did she intend to get him drunk? He wouldn’t put it past her. So he asks.

“You tryin’ to get me drunk, Scully? You don’t have to do that if you want to take advantage of me. Despite your protests, I’m actually pretty easy.”

“In that respect, I have no doubt,” she responds smartly. “But I have no intention of taking advantage of you tonight.”

“Ah, come on. You can admit it to me. I won’t tell anybody.”

“My only intent is to put you to bed so we can both get some badly needed sleep.” He can imagine the look he’s presenting her. He felt his eyes widen and his jaw drop open. “Not with you in my bed, Mulder. I’m assuming you drove over?”

“Yeah,” he sheepishly admits.

“Then you have no business driving. The couch is yours tonight. There’s a new toothbrush in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. Feel free to use it. I’ll make up the couch for you.”

That’s it, then? They’re not going to hash this out tonight, once and for all?

“But, Scully,” he begins as she leaves the table and heads for the linen closet in the hallway.

She stops and swings back around to him. Her little fists rest at her hips, knuckles digging into the curvy flesh there. “Yes, Mulder, I do love you. There, now I’ve said it. It might be nice to hear, but it doesn’t solve our problems, does it?”

“Do you mean it?”

“Oh, Mulder, of course I do. I’ll meet you in the living room in five, okay?” And then she disappears around the bend.

He ponders his choices for a few seconds, the best he can, and decides to follow Scully’s lead. After all, he can be a good boy, and easily obedient when he wants to be. So he does as he’s been told for the first time since the last time she ordered him around. He sways in his chair a little and then folds in half and carefully unties his sneakers and toes them off. He heads for the short hallway in the opposite direction of the way she went, and they pass like two ships in the night, Scully’s arms full of bedclothes and a pillow.

He makes it back to the living room in under five, breath minty fresh, face scrubbed clean, bladder emptied. He considered shedding his jeans and tee in the can but decided against it. Bad enough he’s shouldered her with taking care of his drunk and maudlin, half-crazed and anxious self tonight. She shouldn’t have to put up with him in nothing but his boxers and socks on top of that. Somehow his belt has ended up slung around his neck, though, and he fakes hanging himself when Scully glances up at him from bed-making duty, gathering both ends of the leather in a fist and cocking his head to the side, tongue lolling out. He adds sound effects, too, so she’ll get the whole picture.

“Don’t give me any ideas, Mulder.” She punches the pillow for emphasis. He inspects her work and nods approvingly. She’s created a fine little nest for him. There’s even a tall glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol waiting for him on the coffee table.

She straightens and turns to face him and he’s feeling suddenly shy and a little bit ashamed. This late-night visit hasn’t gone down anything like the way he thought it would. He buys himself a few seconds, dropping his gaze and absently scratching his belly. He sneaks a peek at her from the tops of his eyes. “Would it do any good to apologize?”

“You’ve done it once already. That’s enough for tonight,” she proclaims.

“Because I really am sorry, Scully. For makin’ you doubt how important you are to me.”

“I don't doubt that. I just wish your methods of expressing it were a little less…” She circles an open hand in the air, searching for the right words, he guesses.

“Messy?” he offers. “Thoughtless. Boneheaded. Selfish. Stupid,” he finishes. “Take your pick.”

“All of the above,” she decides. But the corners of her mouth have lifted just the tiniest bit and he’s momentarily overwhelmed by the depth of her generosity when it comes to him and his foolish ways. “C’mere, Mulder, I’ll tuck you in.”

He carefully weaves his way around the coffee table and his belt hits the floor. He sits down and she squats and pulls off his socks and tosses them over her shoulder. Another few positional adjustments later and he’s under the blanket, his heavy, fuzzy head sinking into the feather pillow beneath him. She perches on the edge of the couch and smooths the soft blanket over his chest.

“Do you think you’ll need to vomit? I can grab a trash can for you, so you don’t have to worry about making it to the bathroom in time.”

He smiles up at her and thinks about how nice it would be to close his eyes while she continues to gently pet him. And then he does close them. “M’fine, Scully. I can hol’ my liquor.” Her snort of laughter shocks his eyes back open, and he has to blink a few times before her face comes into focus.

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Something she’d said to him earlier resurfaces in his head and he echoes the words back at her as his eyes slip shut again. “We gotta stop doin’ this to each other.”

“We’ll figure it out,” she says. “But not tonight. Go to sleep, Mulder.” And then she’s gone from his side. And as he begins to sink into what will be a rare dreamless sleep, he can hear her putting mugs and glasses in the kitchen sink and turning out lights, putting her home to bed, just like she has with him. And he thinks that he loves her so much that he’ll never find the perfect way to show her. He thinks that this unique alchemy, composed of the exquisite pleasures and deepest pain that loving her brings him, makes him feel the most alive that he has ever been.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Notes:

So in the midst of working on my passion project, that elusive One Breath fic, the muse approached me bearing a silver platter on which a tiny seed lay. “Here,” she whispered in my ear. “Let’s take a minute and plant this one, see what grows.”

I have no shame. I am her bitch, now and forever, world without end. I will always do her bidding.

Till next time…

[walker-extended-universe]

(Don't) Jump

Relationship(s): Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Cordell Walker, Cordell Walker & Sam Winchester, Adam Milligan & Cordell Walker, Lucifer & Michael

Tags/Warnings: Episode: S05E22 Swan Song, Stopping the Apocalypse, Self-Sacrifice, Desperation, Grief/Mourning, Angst, Hurt No Comfort

Summary: Gabriel senses the oncoming apocalypse and decides to quit being a coward. He brings Cordell along with him.

Part 5 of Henry Winchester 'Verse

Written for @angstober Day 21- Can't Save Everyone

Taglist: @theladywyn, @ihavepointysticks, @klaatu51, @itsjessiegirl1, @neptunium134

-------

It’s happening.

Cordell’s hands paused over the keyboard of his laptop. “What’s happening?”

The prizefight. Our brothers fighting over the planet, over paradise. It’s coming soon. I can feel it.

Cordell sighed. He’d known this day would come, but he’d foolishly hoped Sam and Dean would do something about it before it became a problem. “What do we do? Start prepping for the end?”

I can’t believe I’m suggesting this but… There might be another way.

“What? Like we go there and try to talk them out of it?”

It’s worth a try. Maybe it’s time we quit running from all this family stuff.

Cordell shook his head. “Do you really think that will work? That we can just stop the apocalypse if we ask nicely? I thought everyone up in Heaven and down in Hell wanted this….” He wasn’t sure what was left of their brotherly bonds would be enough to stop the will of cosmic forces.

We have to try, don’t we?

He wasn’t wrong about that. “Okay. Just- Let me tell Emily first. Just in case.” Just in case they didn’t come back. Just in case something went wrong. Just in case Gabriel was wrong about everything. They needed to be ready.

—-------

Lucifer and Michael stood in Stull Cemetery, ready for the final showdown. Neither of them truly wanted to do this- they were brothers, after all- but they had no choice. It was the way the story was written. It was fate, plain and simple.

Fate did not involve Dean Winchester rolling up to the site of the battle blasting his rock and roll. Nor did it involve their wayward brother Gabriel appearing in the nick of time.

“It’s been some time, little brother,” Michael greeted.

“I thought I killed you,” said Lucifer.

“Gabriel?! Why the fuck are you wearing my brother?!” demanded Dean.

Gabriel sighed. “Okay, in order. One, I’ve been a lot of places, Michael. Made lots of interesting friends too. Two, Lucifer, you are not the only person who’s taught me tricks. I’ve evolved since you left. And three, I’m wearing him because I needed a place to hide and he consented to it. Now, let’s talk Apocalypse. Or, rather, why we shouldn’t be doing this whole mess.”

Michael scoffed. “Gabriel, with all due respect, you abandoned Heaven eons ago. You don’t have a right to try interfering now. You lost that ability when you ran away.”

“And if you try to argue that you’re doing this to save human lives, let me remind you that you tried to kill me not too long ago,” Lucifer hissed. “How could you value these disgusting creatures over your own brother?”

“See, this is why I left Heaven; you asshats never let me talk,” Gabriel grumbled. “Alright, I admit I haven’t exactly been the most responsible archangel. I’ll own that. I’m an asshole. I’m lazy. I’m a coward. I run away from my problems and get my kick out of punishing people that I think deserve it based on my own metrics.”

“At least he admits it,” Dean muttered.

“Shut it, Winchester, adults are talking. Now, where was I? Oh, right. Now, I know I’m not the most responsible being in the universe but you know who’s even worse about that? God. He’s the one that fucked off ages ago and left you to run Heaven on your own. And you still want to play along with his little story when He’s not even around to watch it go down? Come on, Lucy, you’ve gotta hate that plan more than I do.”

“He will come back when we bring Paradise,” Michael said, ever the practical one.

“You say that like I’d let you win,” Lucifer snarked. “And who’s to say He would? Father stopped caring about us as soon as He made the humans. And I’m not doing this to play into His plan; I just want the earth restored to what it was before these monkeys wrecked it.”

“Again with this sympathy for the Devil crap,” Dean muttered. 

“Shut up!” all three archangels commanded.

“The point remains, Gabriel,” Michael continued, “You really have no room to speak on this. All the pieces were put in motion eons ago. This is just the way it has to happen. No one can do anything to change that.”

“That doesn’t really line up with the whole ‘free will’ thing, now does it?” Dean snarked.

“That’s enough out of you!” Lucifer rounded on Dean.

It was easy to forget how strong Lucifer was. It had been so long since any other angel had seen him at his full strength, even his closest brothers had forgotten. Even now that he’d been out of the Cage and found his true vessel, he wasn’t all that intimidating to the ones who knew him best.

How easy it was to forget how brightly his grace shone when he was full of righteous anger. Even Gabriel had to shield his eyes. Even Michael had to step back. He truly was the Morningstar.

Cordell screamed at Gabriel to do something, anything to protect his brother. But, despite his insistence on coming here, Gabriel couldn’t. He couldn’t move against Lucifer. Never could.

He was, in the end, still a coward. Always would be when it came to his brothers. Some things never changed.

So Lucifer beat Dean near to a pulp. Gabriel did nothing to stop him. Michael did nothing to stop him.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, Sam did something to stop him.

Gabriel noticed Lucifer’s grace dimming first as Sam fought his way to the surface. Sam stopped the beating and reached into his pocket for the key. The key to the Cage.

“Don’t worry, Dean. I’ve got him.”

The Cage opened with a roar and the wind picked up as it tried to suck Lucifer back in. Just as Sam was ready to fall in, Michael ran forward to stop him. If Gabriel didn’t know any better, he might say Michael was worried for Lucifer.

Cordell reached for his brothers; Adam was the only one he could grab. Gabriel watched in horror as both his brothers fell into the pit and Cordell cried out for Sam.

Then, just like that, the door to the Cage closed and the ground sealed up as if nothing was ever there.

Cordell stood, staring at the spot where his brother once stood. Sam- his brother, his twin, his other half- was gone. In Hell. He felt frozen in his grief, barely even registering Gabriel’s voice in his head.

He knew he had to talk to Dean. He knew he needed to figure out what to do about Adam. He knew he needed to call his family. But he also needed to grieve.

“Sam,” he whispered, tears silently falling down his face.

He felt a presence next to him; he didn’t even need to look to know his older brother was there, staring at the ground and thinking the same things he was. He wanted to reach out, comfort Dean. But he didn’t know how. Even if there wasn’t this gap between them, sowed by anger and abandonment, what does one even say in this situation.

Eventually, the silence got to be too much to bear. “Dean-”

“I’m fine,” his brother said robotically. “Why don’t you just go? Go home to your wife and that apple pie life of yours? You don’t need to be here.”

The words cut him deeper than any knife could hope to. But Cordell couldn’t argue. “I’m sorry,” was all he could say before walking away.

A small distance away, he saw his half-brother, no longer commandeered by Michael, speaking to a dark-haired figure (An angel, Castiel, Gabriel supplied) before the other disappeared in a flash. Adam looked at the ground, dejected. Alone.

Cordell sighed and made his way over. “Do you have anywhere to go? I can give you a lift.”

Adam shook his head. “I used to. But then I died.” He laughed bitterly. “I shouldn’t even be here. I only agreed to this crap because the angels promised they’d bring my mom back. But…” He threw his hands up. “Guess that’s not happening.”

Cordell nodded. “Why don’t you come home with me for now? We’ve got a spare bed for you until you figure out what you want to do. If that’s okay with you.”

“I guess I don’t have that many other options, do I?” Adam scoffed. “Where’s home anyway?”

“Austin, Texas.” Cordell clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. We’ll grab some burgers on the way.”

“Yes, please. I’m fucking starving.”

Cordell chuckled and led him away. Then, he remembered Gabriel had flown them there. “Gabe-”

Relax, Cowboy. I’m on it.

[hareefaree]

Journal - 2022 Fall Reflections - Game Design

Over the past semester, I’ve made a number of works - and even though I’m not happy with how I took care of myself this semester I can safely say that this semester of my college experience has been the most productive and creative yet. I have made works that I am incredibly proud of in close succession and have laid the foundation for multiple projects that I will be expanding on in the future! I kinda wanted to review my favorite/most exciting projects and detail why I loved them so much and where I want to take them next.

A project-by-project look under the read me, my animation work will be in a different post! :)

Personally I feel like most of my artistic work in the past few years have been stemming from a sense of grief and longing, which I feel like I’m finally starting to process both in therapy and in work (wow, working from your worst emotions unhealed actually hurts your creative process! Who knew.)  Working from these emotions raw was a good way to get them out, but I can’t say that I wanted to revisit and complete the projects I made prior to this year because they were just that - catharsis, for me. So now I’m trying to build distance again. And while the work I’m creating is still deeply personal (anything you spend hours on is), I feel safe presenting it to others now. 

I’ve also just been kinda… reconnecting with my heritage. I’m starting the process of properly learning Malayalam to help me solidify my ideas for my thesis film, and a few of the projects have just been me going through old family photos and trying to recreate the vibe of the memories I’m trying to capture (stiff and showy brown parties, photos and movies from 70s bombay, family dynamics that are exhausting and complicated but still important). I came out to myself as a lesbian this year and had the opportunity to properly explore my attraction and lesbian culture as myself, which was a long time coming. All the while I feel as through the world has suddenly become more and more reactionary, and I can’t help but emphasize the political dimension of myself and my art. 

All that to say is, I think I’m figuring out why I’m making art. So with the boring background out of the way, let’s get into what I’ve actually been working on!

GAME DESIGN

I had the amazing fortune to take a narrative design course this semester under the guidance of the creator of Twine Chris Klimas (if you’re interested in game design and storytelling just download it! It’s free, open source, and pretty versatile for text-based projects). I’d been struggling with game design prior, I wasn’t connecting with how I was being taught and I severely lacked (and continue to lack) the technical skills to make the games I want to make. But this class reminded me why I loved games so much and did a lot to reestablish my confidence.

Brown Party

Brown Party is a simple twine game and the first game design project of the semester. This was still more catharsis than art to me, if I’m being honest. I think going in there were a lot of ideas floating around - my relationship with my lesbian/desi identity, my issues with brain drain/Indian immigrant community culture, classism, and the overdone anti-artist prejudice trope. This shows in the writing - the narrative structure is a bit of a mess and I was so ambitious in terms of scope. But I made a game! 

I think, over the course of editing and revising this project that I actually stumbled upon some gems, stuff that I want to flesh out. I think it's a game that deserves to be bigger, that deserves more critical thought and cohesion put into it.

I want to genre bend this thing a ton- I kind of realized I was remembering this uncanny sense of space when I went to brown parties when I was younger. I may play with magical realism and whatever the fuck was going on in the RPG-maker horror game genre in the mid 2000s.

I also just want to hone in on the main characters, make them feel more like people and less like I’m ragging on the girls in my community. I have a lot of compassion for desi-american girls! I wish we as a community thought more about the world beyond our families but like. I grew up as that in that environment. It was grueling.

So yeah! I’m gonna be sharpening my unity skills and trying to see what sort of system would best serve this story…but its gonna be tabled for a while.

Ephemera/Your Mother Is Dead

Ahhhhh this game! I made this when I realized I desperately needed to be in therapy and it did me all the better. I had a pretty traumatic incident with my family and channelled all the fear and anxiety I was feeling at the time into this project.

This game, and I struggled a LOT with the technical aspects, ended up very different from my initial conception. The main narrative thread I was playing with was ‘packing up your mothers things after she died,’ and that vision stayed strong.

Game play wise, I was trying to build an inventory system in which you would stack things on top of other things and possibly break the things your mother had (the second person here refers to the player character! I feel like a lot of the aspects of this game were based in my heritage, upbringing specifically), revealing your own complex relationship with her. That didn’t work. I actually almost didn’t submit this because the system didn’t work. But the box packing wasn’t the important part, it was the relationship with your mother.

I think by channelling and solidifying my ideas in the writing, I was able to create a proper roadmap for where I want to take this. I will make the box stacking situation because I think it will help create closure, but I also wanted to incorporate dialogue with people, to have the gameplay be more about learning, knowing, and trying to understand how you feel about your parent.

I want to finish this game. I wanna rework the graphics so that it feels more homey and I want to create something I can properly cry my way through. 

And I will. :)

The Visitor

This was a collaboration with my good friends @addersmire (who led the charge on coding and designing the game) and Moss (I’m not sure if he has a tumblr so. hi moss, they did the sound design). I built the dialogue system (using yarn, they did the bulk of the legwork), wrote the most of the dialogue, and created the intro animation! 

It’s very different from the rest of my work this semester (probs because I was collaborating) and ended up being pretty fucking sick actually! I feel a lot more comfortable with Unity after this (especially bc addersmire is kind of a unity god? they have magical powers I think).

I’ll probs be incorporating yarn more into my work from now on since its such a good system (that needs more people to do forum answers for bc guys these hyper specific problems need answering)

The visitor is just an intro/prototype to a game we spent some time concepting. Not sure if it’ll ever be finished but it was a great experiment - you can play the intro on itch!

[sturionic]

Omg no I am absolutely honoured that you liked my comments enough to pull them out into a reblog!! I enjoyed DSOD for various reasons (the animation being one of them lol) but to me DSOD!Kaiba exists on a different continuity to either the manga or the anime, both of which leave off with him having undergone some personal growth. I think the only way DSOD!Kaiba makes sense if you are coming straight from Season0!Kaiba with no Train Stops of Character Development along the way.

OK, again, fuck the dub, does anyone know for sure if in the actual real dialogue he tells Mokuba he’s coming back or at the very least implies it? Or are we supposed to assume it’s implied? Or is it totally left open? I’m another one of those who is not very fond of the ending, for the same reasons as y’all (and also because of oh no *post-DSOD tumblr war flashbacks* which I will not get into for my own sanity).

Oh it’s horrible. In the subs, Mokuba desperately asks if he’s coming back, and Kaiba just does not respond other than to tell Mokuba “KaibaCorp is in your hands now.” Like. Is this the same Kaiba who nearly hurled himself off a building at the thought of not being able to save his brother? Who dis??? Mokuba can’t be older than 13-14 in DSOD, and the parallel is just awful - that’s around the age Kaiba inherited KC, and so him foisting it off onto Mokuba at that age is just him perpetuating the cycle that Gozaburo inflicted on him. Maybe you can make arguments for that being in-character (Kaiba is not known for responsible parenting decisions, in general) but “Guy continues the cycle of abuse with his innocent baby brother, showing that he has learned absolutely nothing over the course of the story” is just way less interesting to me than an alternative where he displays a smidgen of growth. Now, I actually don’t mind an interpretation where he hurls himself into the afterlife as a panicked, terrified, and desperate act of grief. Where the narrative portrays it as an unhealthy coping mechanism, and maybe even where we get to explore the ramifications wrt to his relationship with Mokuba. I actually incorporate this into a lot of my own fics because it’s fun and meaty to explore. Kaiba making massive mistakes based on emotional and impulsive decisions, and then having to deal with the fallout, is definitely a major theme that fits well with his character. 

But the narrative doesn’t present it that way. The narrative actively works to frame Kaiba’s obsession as ‘determination’ and he’s ‘rewarded’ narratively both by Atem appearing in the duel with Diva, and by that final shot of Atem smiling and greeting his challenge. No!!! Augh!! Stop!! Bad writers!! Don’t reward him for his appalling behaviour!! tl;dr in addition to wanting to bully DSOD!Kaiba I also want to swat the scriptwriters several times with a rolled-up newspaper

hello there :D i have a question for you what is your opinion for the ending of dsod (ie. kaiba making it to the afterlife nd all that) so far i've seen two sides (at least from what i've seen scurrying around tags and reading what people think) one that dislikes it and another that is completely down with it and i was wondering what you thought ?? i love hearing what other people think dfhd nd as an extra what do you think of dsod! kaiba in general i mildly side with the half that disliked the ending, i mostly just wanna see more art that isnt pr/deship nd more focusing on kaiba and mokuba with the whole 'going to the afterlife' thing although i may be biasd with that

DSOD!Kaiba is a rich and fascinating character that I dislike. 🤣 I think.

At first, I don't think I had particularly strong feelings about him, but as time has gone on, it's deepened into a sense of "I find you deplorable but I can't look away."

Part of it is I'm kinda content to ignore DSOD on the most part. It's got some pretty animation and I love everyone's updated character design (except Kaiba's new knee pads which I have an admittedly irrational hatred of). To me, it's not an addition to the narrative of either the original manga or the anime that enhanced my enjoyment of the canon.

Given that, I can take the DSOD ending or leave it. I think it makes narrative sense for the version of Kaiba they wrote for the movie, specifically a post-manga Kaiba, not post-anime. I don't think a Kaiba that obsessive or obstinate or myopic could do anything other than reach across the universes to pursue his vision of a perfect rival. To me, the interesting character bits is not that he got to the afterlife but what he chose to leave behind or forgo in pursuit of it. And what consequences might follow afterward. But those were never going to be explored by the movie itself, so it's wasted story potential to me.

He's a fun meaty character to break out, though, if I'm in the mood to explore themes of hubris and its price. I have the most fun with him when I'm actively pitting him against other versions of Kaiba.

Basically, I want to bully him. 🤣

But hey, who knows, maybe my feelings about DSOD and that Kaiba will change again in another few years.

[rhine-gold-archive]

Visions: Pyro

Second post of the series where I theorize on why people receive a specific vision.

First part: Cryo and Hydro     part three: Geo    Part four: Anemo

Pyro and Geo lineups look deceptively coherent until you get to a couple of exceptions that break the rule completely. I was going to describe both in one post and compare, but the pyro section became too long, so I’m splitting them. But I still wanted to mention that on the first glance, doesn’t it make sense for Diluc and Itto to swap elements? Diluc is serious, hard-working and diligent, like most of Geo, Itto is a fun ray of sunshine like pretty much every pyro except Diluc. 

They already have their burst do the element infusion. We just change Diluc’s skill to creating a cute geo construct bird, and Itto’s to sending a giant flaming Ushi over the battlefield. Peak character design, if you ask me.

Anyway, you go through Pyro users and think “yeah, this makes sense, these are all fun-loving, optimistic people who try to enjoy life to the fullest and never let the circumstances bring them down”... until you get to…

What is Batman doing in the Fun Squad? What does he even have in common with them? Perhaps by answering that, we can discern the pyro essentials. 

And okay, I guess you can call Diluc hot-blooded, on account of severe pent up anger issues that are only being let out in a form of a literal fire burst while yelling “BURN”. And I can’t deny that he’s very passionate about ~ReTriBuTiOn~, which another trait all pyro users share. But like... these are not exclusive to pyro. Tartag is hotheaded and incredibly passionate about the murder too.

But also, anger and passion for vengeance cannot be the reason for his vision, because he received it *before* his father died. In fact, he abandoned his vision entirely and left Mondstadt for 4 years, joined “the underground intelligence network” in a classic Batman: the Beginning training arc. 

Or should I say, in a Crimson Witch arc? “He sought after ardent flames that would burn brighter than any other, and an unshakable resolve.” Losing yourself to the grief after the death of the loved one, hating an authority that was supposed to protect, but failed you, and turning to the search of power for vengeance at any cost is literally Signora’s storyline. 

but Diluc turned away from the edge, returned and took up his vision once again, signifying return to his initial ambition, but now without a childish immaturity. But his Vision didn’t go out, which means the ambition stayed the same. What was it, then?  

Let’s rephrase it from another angle. What makes Diluc different from the Batman he was clearly based off, what makes him an original character? Batman is about blending with the shadows, being the scariest thing in the darkness. Diluc is about illuminating the darkness instead, creating the light where there was none.

“I will always face the darkness. For dawn to come, there must be those who dare to pierce the darkness with their light. “

Diluc’s theme is Dawn, his name is based on Latin word for dawn, his tagline is “The Dark Side of Dawn”, his burst is called “Dawn” and not a “Cool Flaming Bird”, which it actually is. Diluc’s ambition is being a hero, walking into the darkness every single night to march until the dawn comes. He is a Dawnbringer.

 And in this light, if you remember my thesis from the first post, pyro starts making sense. I posited that visions are received based on *Perceptions* that people have of themselves and their relationship with the world. 

Pyro users see themselves as being in a constant righteous conflict with the world. They are the trailblazers, guiding lights, individualists creating their own way, passionate about something that the world keeps telling them “no” to and they answer “fuck you, i’ll do it anyway.”

Bennet, who has the worst luck and is reject by all other adventurers, but keeps trying to become the best adventurer, literally fighting against the “wheel of fortune”

Amber received her vision when she decided “There must be something that only I can do. There must be", and became the one and only Outrider, exceling at scouting the unknown.

Xiangling is in a constant struggle to prove that the most unusual and gross ingredients can create a wonderful dish, despite people being horrified of eating them. She could easily be just as famous and accomplished chief just using normal food, but no, she has to fight for the slime condensate and lizard tails.

Klee is a Spark Knight, who is always well-intended despite naivety and received her vision while pushing boundaries of what a bomb can do.

Hu Tao is a literal guiding flame for the spirits, “Charon’s Butterfly”, crossing the darkness of the underworld to help the passing souls and keep the mortals safe. Received her vision after almost starving to death when camping in the afterlife domain.

Yanfei learned the law to better understand how to break it. Famous for finding loopholes like no one else does, to the extent that Ningguang keeps tabs on her cases to improve the law afterwards. But Yanfei’s cause is a righteous one - the improvement of the system is exactly what she wants, she just seeks to achieve it in her own, unique way. “Yanfei believes in "no structure without laws," and what she wishes for is to "live as one pleases without overstepping." Everyone in Liyue, adeptus or mortal, protects it in their own way.That is why Yanfei possesses a Vision, one that is of equal weight to her principles.” Yanfei is the best grirl sorry not sorry

"Rock 'n' roll is an avant-garde art in Liyue Harbor and Xinyan is the pioneer in this field. She rebels against ossified prejudices, using her music and passionate singing to awaken dazed souls fatigued by worldly matters.” Enough said, Xinyan is a rebel fighter and an individualistic trailblazer. 

Yoimiya is an actual underground rebel, constantly pushing the limits of both her firework craft, but also guiding other people through their times of struggle, like in her story quest of reconciling old friends who became enemies. “People often say that fireworks come and go in a fleeting heartbeat, but if they are memorable enough, they will remain in bloom forever in people's hearts. ” Every new order, every new firework or festival is a challenge to improve the world.

Thoma has exact same motivations as Diluc -  fighting the storm for the righteous reasons, walking into the darkness to be the light that illuminates it, but he’s focused on shielding his loved ones instead of extinguishing the evil. He received his vision on the night he decided to stick with the Kamisato clan, despite Ayato warning him to get out before shit hits the fan. “If I leave at this time, I will lose my loyalty and righteousness. <...> The will to burn for loyalty and righteousness forged a strong desire that drew the attention of the gods.”

From this point of view, it makes sense that the Archon of pyro, who see themselves in endless righteous conflict, is a god of war.

[orionsangel86]

SPN Conspiracies - Applying Logic to Chaos

Its been over 2 months now since the Supernatural finale aired. I am still so angry, hurt, and confused by it and I don’t think I will ever get closure unless someone like Andrew Dabb, or Jensen Ackles, actually opens up and gives us an explanation that makes sense.

What annoys me most right now is people trying to gaslight fans into believing that we should accept the narrative we have been given at face value: That the finale was always planned to be that way, that Destiel was never on the cards, that there was no Network interference, that the only changes made were due to covid and were minor at best.

This harmful gaslighting is FALSE.

NO ONE KNOWS THE TRUTH OF WHAT HAPPENED.

Look, I don’t agree with some of the crazier conspiracy theories. I don’t believe that there was some huge campaign among the CW Network execs to remove anything remotely gay out of homophobia. I don’t believe that the finale was changed because of some desire to make it into a Walker promo. I don’t believe that the finale was really bad on purpose in protest by Dabb for not getting to do an ending he truly wanted. I don’t believe that Dabb left us smart fans a bunch of secret messages in the finale to hint that he was on our side all along and that everything was fake.

I do, however, believe that all of these conspiracy theories have some elements in them that are plausible. At least, more plausible than the bullshit narrative mentioned above that some people are pushing in some desperate attempt to defend the Network (which imo is really strange behaviour anyway - why would anyone care about a TV network with a history of terrible behaviour?!?)

We have facts, based on information provided before the covid lockdown, which for some reason, people like Misha have since backpeddled on. So let me try to outline some of the information that makes no sense.

Below the cut I go on a deep dive into the conspiracies and statements I have heard about the SPN finale and try to make some sense of this whole fucked up situation. It gets long.

1. “Cas was never gonna be in the finale”.

False: We have many fan accounts of Misha confirming that he was filming the finale. We have video evidence of Misha confirming he was going back to film the finale after the lockdown. We have confirmation from fans in Misha M&Gs from March that he had about 5 days of filming left.

We also had fan accounts of discussions with Alex Calvert (I think) where he confirmed the final shot of the final episode was all four of them though I would LOVE if someone can find a source for this.

2. Okay, Misha was gonna be in the finale, but only as Jimmy Novak

False: I heavily side eyed Misha when he said this. But I think I can come up with a plausible explanation for it. Per above, Misha was supposed to film for 5 days. This does not align with the half a day he described of filming as Jimmy Novak. My own belief is that after Cas was cut from the finale (for whatever reason we don’t know) someone (probably Jensen Ackles) put up a fight and complained that Misha should be there for the final episode. The writers probably tried to come up with a way to bring Misha back without having to deal with Cas, and pitched the idea of Jimmy Novak being in Heaven. Misha, obviously annoyed about this, turned this stupid pitch down.

3. Destiel was never a thing, never planned, never part of Dabb’s ending. Bobo and Misha pushing the confession was the part of the season that was Wrong.

False: We have a SPN writer on record saying that Castiel’s confession was the first thing written for Season 15 when the writers returned to the writers room. If it wasn’t planned, why was it the first thing written, why does it align so well with the rest of season 15? Look I know some people either a. hate destiel and refuse to see it even if it slaps them in the face, or b. have major heteronormative goggles on, or c. are just homophobes in denial, but 15x18 fits in perfectly with the narrative of season 15. Everything Cas says, everything that happened in that scene was so in character it just works. It fit. If you just rewatch the season whilst applying some critical thinking skills and pay attention to the narrative and character arcs, trust me, the confession fits in with pretty much every other plot point, and character story in the season.

Also: We have known for a while that the network did market research into Destiel, wanting to know if it would go down well or not. They were well aware of its popularity and considering it. Where would this have come from if not pitched by the showrunner? Dabb must have at least been considering it. If you take all of Dabb era into consideration, starting with mid season 11, all the way through the season 12 build up, season 13 grief arc, and then Bobo’s Destiel break up arc in late season 14, early season 15, it is clear that there was some toing and froing on the issue of Destiel, but ultimately, I still believe that Dabb was on board. He wrote 13x01 for christs sake. No way he wasn’t taking it seriously.

 4. It’s always been about the brothers. The finale just stays true to what Supernatural is all about.

*rubs temples* Fundamentally FALSE: The show has time and again reasserted the message of “Family don’t end with blood”, as well as the messages of AKF and YANA. Sam and Dean may be at the heart of the show, but a heart can’t exist without a body to support it. Without bones, and lungs, and blood, and muscles, and a BRAIN. The finale abandons the shows core messages. It forces the characters back into their season 1 characterisations and the whole thing becomes hollow and souless. But I’m not here to complain, I’m here to lay down the facts. Dean’s heaven was supposed to be surrounded by loved ones right? We know OG Charlie Bradbury was gonna be in his Heaven, we also know CAS was gonna be in there. So this idea that the finale as it currently stands was how it was meant to be is wrong. Dean was supposed to die and reunite with his found family and loved ones. This alone would have been a far better ending than the one given. Do I think this was solely a covid issue? Fuck no.

The randoms that WERE in the finale are proof alone that they could have got people in and quarantined. We also have several actors on record saying that they WOULD have quarantined for the finale had they been asked to return but they WEREN’T.

Lies have been told. Samantha Ferris and Chad Limberg have confirmed that we have been lied to about the original plans for the finale.

This alone is proof enough that there is more plausibility in some of the conspiracy theories than any bullshit narrative some people are pushing in defence of the barbaric mess of a finale we were given.

So lets address some of the conspiracy theories now:

Conspiracy No.1: The CW Network reviewed Supernatural during the covid break, and due to homophobia, refused any Destiel arc that wasn’t already filmed, shut down any potential reciprocation from Dean, and forced Dabb to change his finale.

I don’t think this is entirely what happened. But I do think it is very strange how there is a such a huge disconnect particularly in Dean’s characterisations between what had come before the lockdown, and what came after. The one fact we have here, and please someone provide a source if you can find it because I know there is one, the finale script was still going through changes up to only 2 weeks before it was filmed. We know that there was some weird editing in 15x18 (which was still in post and uncompleted before lockdown) and we know from Jensen’s own mouth that there was more to the confession scene on Dean’s side that was cut. We also know that this isn’t the first time that Destiel heavy moments have been changed in post - the prayer scene is another big scene that went through a lot of changes and Bobo fought to have his script play out the way he wanted it.

There are certain things that in my own opinions, are basically true of SPN which I have put together from years of keeping one eye on the writers room, the network, and all the various comments made. My opinion is this:

The writers room has always been split on Destiel. Some writers heavily supported making it canon, others did not care, or were against it.

The Network considered it over the course of several years, did market research, green lit it, then changed their minds, possibly several times over the course of Dabb’s era. Destiel was pitched to the Network early in Dabb era.

The crew on set were also split. Some people heavily supported it, and worked to assist the reading, whereas others did not care/did not support it. The same can be said for the editing room.

Bob Singer supported the subtextual homoeroticism, but never supported bringing it into text (this is an opinion, but I think it aligns with everything we know about him.) IMO Bob Singer also supported subtextual homoeroticism between Sam and Dean - the guy is gross is what I’m saying. He isn’t exactly a progressive person.

Fun fact - a while back our old enemy Sera Gamble went on a Twitter rant about writers rooms and the ways a script goes through changes. I don’t think this was in relation to the SPN finale wank but she basically inadvertantly confirmed that the Network can step in and make sweeping changes to a script if they want to and if they decide they don’t like the direction of a story. Sera Gamble confirmed this as a fact.

Now. I’m not saying that this is what the CW did with Destiel. I just think its very strange how pre lockdown, the last thing filmed is a heartfelt homosexual declaration of love between Dean and Cas, and we have a finale script that Misha had not seen, but knew that he was meant to film as Castiel for 5 days (5 days on set is over half of an episode as far as I know). Then all of a sudden, Covid happens, and Cas is cut from the finale completely, a desperate attempt to bring Misha back only as Jimmy Novak takes place, which Misha rightly refuses, leading to a finale which makes zero sense narratively and appears in every way completely and utterly butchered.

The only explanation provided by anyone involved is that Covid meant changes had to happen - but that covid didn’t change the actual story at all.

But this makes no sense because we know that Cas was cut from the finale. This is FACT. Do not let anyone gaslight you into thinking otherwise. Misha was preparing to quaranting to return to set as Cas post Covid, so whatever happened to cut Cas from the finale, it wasn’t Covid.

I’m gonna have to Occum’s Razor this and say that the most logical explanation here is the one that is most likely true. Someone got cold feet with the Destiel story, and to prevent any possible interpretation that included Dean reciprocating, any hints of Destiel were removed from the finale script, including Castiel’s whole appearance.

Now, this isn’t me saying I think that Dabb’s original finale was full of Destiel love confessions and a homosexual kiss or whatever, but I am asking you all to really think about it and ask yourselves WHY Cas would have been totally cut from an episode he was supposed to be in at LEAST half of? 

We will probably never know the real reason Cas was cut, but he WAS cut. I’m not saying it was all homophobia, but some fuckery went down.

Conspiracy No. 2: The CW Network changed the finale to make it into a Walker promo because they only cared about raising up Jared and not Jensen and Misha as they were losing them anyway.

I don’t agree with this in terms of the finale being butchered solely to make it into a Walker promo. There are however moments in the finale that are clearly supposed to be Walker Easter Eggs and added to excite fans of Jared/Sam in particular such as Sam’s gratuitous and unnecessary topless scene, as well as the call on the “case in Austin”.

I will take this moment to say something pretty damn controversial though.

*Deep breath*

The fact is, Dean Winchester has been the “lead” character of Supernatural’s narrative for years now, with Sam often being sidelined and not given great storylines himself. Even in Season 15, right up until the finale, I myself felt bad for Sam sometimes because so much of this show has become all about Dean. Jensen Ackles is clearly the better actor when it comes to emotional story arcs, so the emotional heart of the story has most often leant on him.

So you can understand my confusion, when this is turned on its head in the final episode, to make Sam carry all the emotional weight, and have the most lines/screentime, and story resolution (even if his story resolution was just as crappy as Dean’s).

If we pretend that Destiel is not a thing, and ignore Cas’s confession, the story change in the finale from Dean focus to Sam focus is still rather suspicious. Again, I’m not saying I completely approve of or agree to the conspiracy theory that Walker influenced the butchering of the script, but I can believe that perhaps a note went down from the CW to someone like Bob Singer, to emphasise Sam/Jared more than they perhaps would normally, because the CW wanted to shine the spotlight on Jared to raise excitement for Walker.

I can also believe this note might have said something like “we wanna cater to fans of Sam/Jared the most - don’t do anything to piss them off.” but now I am getting into my own conspiracy theories so by all means dismiss this as me being bitter.

Conspiracy No.3: Dabb purposely made it bad, as a secret message to Destiel fans that he had been silenced, by layering meta clues into the episode that he knew fans would notice.

I doubt this one is true. Though some of the theories are quite compelling. The old vampire silent movie theory for instance starts off quite well, but loses me the moment it brings up Urban Dictionary slang.

Sometimes I have just had to accept that Supernatural is a bad show that is sometimes accidentally a masterpiece. However, some writers really did go That Deep with their stories - anything by Ben Edlund or Steve Yockey for instance, their episodes are meta masterpieces with a hundred different layers of beautiful subtextual storytelling and are a joy to analyse. Bobo Berens has certainly done some A+++ work especially now we KNOW that he was working hard all this time to bring Destiel to canon text (so any analysis of Destiel in the subtext in his episodes is very accurate). There have been many other key elements analysed over the years which have been confirmed true. Cas’s death in Season 12, Dean’s time as a demon in season 10, Season 11 ending in unity of dark and light, these were all plot points predicted by meta writers just by analysing the narrative. Sometimes the writers really have been very smart and they do add things to the show to aid us in our meta.

Richard Speight Jr for instance, confirmed that SPN has a visual library that the production team use to give clues and hints in the narrative. Pizza, for example, always means a lie has been told. Whenever Pizza is being eaten or even just mentioned on screen, there is dishonesty in that particular moment.

The beers also have a very specific message and the one thing I can’t let go about the finale, was that Dean was drinking El Sol beer. The beer his dad gave him, that was terrible.

El Sol has been used in the show to indicate something being wrong, a fake reality, or another lie, for the longest time. It is the beer of deception.

The fact that in the final episode of this entire show, Dean is in Heaven, supposedly at peace, and then he gets handed an El Sol beer to drink? Thats a HUGE red flag for any meta writer watching who can read SPNs visual library.

If they had given him the Margiekugel beer of family then it would make sense. Dean is in Heaven, with Bobby, his family, at peace. Margiekugel should have been the beer of choice. But nope. El Sol. Something is wrong.

I don’t know if it was Dabb, or Singer, or some disgruntled ADs and crew members who added these elements into the finale, but their very presence confirms some message of Wrongness.

I could go into a huge rant about Vampire Mimes not making sense and the very glaringly obvious symbolism of cutting out peoples tongues too, but that is high school level film analysis. It’s obvious. It means to silence someone. There is validity in interpreting this as Dabb saying he was silenced. I don’t know how true it is, but i can’t 100% dismiss it, because as I said, this is high school analysis levels of obvious subtextual storytelling.

So in summary, whilst I don’t think that Dabb intentionally went out of his way to sabotage his own script, and leave a breadtrail of secret messages for savvy fans to put together to confirm that he was silenced by an evil network into not getting what he wanted... I do think that there is validity in questioning these odd choices for the finale. Cutting out tongues? Vampire Mimes? El Sol beer?

The evidence is somewhat compelling is all I’m saying. I don’t believe the full conspiracy theories, but as I have said many times before, some fuckery went down.

So What Do I Believe?

That some fuckery went down and whatever company line they are pushing is bullshit.

I believe that the original script included Cas (since thats fact). I believe that the original script probably always had Dean dying on a vampire hunt (due to Jensen’s issues with it and in particular, his sarcastic comments about vampires in the past year or so which in hindsight are hilarious and prove he never really came to terms with Dean’s idiotic death). I believe Dabb’s original script was some less crappy version of what we got, which potentially included showing Jack rescuing Cas from the Empty and resolving the outstanding Empty plot points (potentially this was actually a 15x19 plot since Mark P commented that his final scenes were supposed to be with Jack and Cas), had Cas reunite with Dean in Heaven and had them have a discussion about Cas’s confession. I believe that there was probably a lot of back and forth over how to handle that with some people wanting Dean to obviously reciprocate and others believing they should keep it ambiguous. I believe that Dean and Cas would have reunited with Charlie Bradbury, and Bobby Singer, and possibly others (though if this was the case it must have been very early on since no one ever looped in Sam Ferris, Chad Linberg or any other Roadhouse people).

I believe that Sam’s ending probably didn’t change much, but I do feel that initially they were planning on him ending up with Eileen, because it is the only thing that narratively makes sense. Cutting Eileen and giving him a blurry wife is something I won’t ever understand and Jared’s bullshit explanations are quite clearly pulled out of his ass to appease bronly types. I believe the reunion on the bridge would have included Cas and Jack, with a final shot of all four of them together, at peace (as this aligns with Alex’s comments from around a year or so ago that the final shot was all four of them). (I also am not sure it was always supposed to be on a bridge since the foreshadowing in an earlier episode showed Dean, Cas and Sam all in the Roadhouse together).

I believe that script went through countless changes and redrafts, and not even production people or the types that some fandom people claim as their “sources” would even have seen those early scripts, since even Misha never saw it. I believe that these rumours of Dabb never having Cas in his finale and ignoring all Destiel elements likely come from people who only saw later versions, weren’t party to network discussions and felt bitter about the final scripts they did see (being the crappy butchered one that was ultimately filmed). Those “sources” are now spreading rumours to discredit Dabb.

I obviously believe Dabb is a weak ass pushover who either didn’t care enough to fight back, or gave up since he’s been stuck with fucking Bob Singer on his back for years, but I will NEVER believe he didn’t care about the DeanCas love story, because he has been one of the few writers who has championed for it for years. You can’t look back at Dabb’s episodes in earlier seasons and claim he didn’t care. Dabb was a writer whose creative ideas were beaten out of him by an unforgiving Network only concerned about where their future money was coming from. Do I think he gave up too easily? Yes. But I also have one other huge reason for not believing the bullshit about Dabb being this anti-Destiel villain.

Bobo. Because if Bobo truly believed Dabb was gonna fuck that up at the end, I don’t think he would have given us Cas’s love confession to begin with. If he had known it was gonna end like that, I think he would have reconsidered, because had Cas not confessed his love, I don’t think he would have been cut from the finale. Bobo - a gay man, would not have wanted such a horrible message for queer fans being put across in the show he worked so hard on. He started writing that confession scene the day they returned to the writers room. Dabb would have been there, would have seen what he was writing, probably discussed it with him, after all, other episodes were written with the confession in mind. No way was Dabb planning to fuck up the ending knowing what Bobo was giving us. Nope.

Something went very wrong over lockdown. Someone, somewhere up the chain of power caught wind of the confession scene in 15x18, realised that it demanded a resolution which would make Dean Winchester, their protagonist, queer, and pulled the plug. I believe this did not come from a place of homophobia, but of bad business sense.

The CW is constantly trying to win the approval and attention of the one demo group that they seem to fail at getting the most: young straight men. Supernatural was one of their only remaining shows that appeals to young straight men, and Dean Winchester is more often than not the fave character of those young straight men who project onto him. Making Dean Winchester, established Han Solo of Supernatural, queer and in love with his best friend in the finale would have come across as a betrayal to those young straight men. The CW probably feared they would lose that demo group for good, and with a show like Walker starting soon with Jared at the helm, they couldn’t take the risk.

Hence there was probably a whole bunch of back and forth script redrafts with the Network, with Dabb and Singer fighting to make a finale that would appeal to everyone. There was most likely no way that they could bring Cas back without addressing what had already been filmed, because any resolution of that plot would either a. make Dean queer, or b. address it awkwardly by having Dean reject Cas (this storyline would probably have been slammed by critics worse than the finale because it meant addressing it. It might have got the attention of LGBTQ activist groups and caused a bigger shitstorm than what we got). The best option was therefore C. Bury it and Cas, pretend it never happened. Never address it again and distract Dean with other things. Hope that Destiel fans will accept no answer from Dean as ambiguous enough to imagine a future reunion rather than shutting it down with a rejection, and still keep hold of the blissfully ignorant heteronormative straight boys so they can carry over to Walker when it starts.

I also believe (controversially probably) that there was concern that any resolution of Dean and Cas would have overshadowed network darling Jared Padalecki. If Dean and Cas had come together in the finale, with a very clearly textual homosexual reunion, then that would have been all anyone talked about. The reviewers, the critics, the audience, everyone. It would have been nothing but Dean and Cas (and look, if they did think this, they were right, Destiel trending over the US ELECTION.)

So what is the network to do, when they are losing the two stars who would get the most attention from this storyline? The one star they were holding on to and getting his own show, relegated to third place in the finale of the show where he was first on the call sheet? Nope. That’s pretty unacceptable. Even without Walker I can imagine people at all levels side eyeing the Destiel thing over the years. This IS a show about two brothers, and their relationship should be the core relationship, we can’t have one brother pushed aside in the finale to make way for a queer relationship that will get all the attention instead. It was never gonna get approved for this reason ALONE.

At the end of the day, if I look at it from a business perspective, it makes far more sense that the CW shut down Destiel, rather than “oh Dabb never cared and ruined it because he’s an idiot.” The writers cared, and had built on that story over years. But their mistake was leaving any Destiel resolution to the finale. If they had instead gone and got Dean and Cas together in early season 15, then they could have ended it in a way that satisfied everyone. Destiel wouldn’t have threatened pulling focus away from Sam and Dean, and the show could have gone out on a high.

When I lay out all the conspiracy theories, and line them up next to the cold hard facts, the conspiracy theories in some way or another, make more sense. To believe the company line, the narrative we have been fed, is to ignore your own eyes, ears, and memories pre March 2020.

All I’m asking people to do is take a look at the show, the narrative presented in the show, and the information presented above. I’m not telling you to believe what I’ve written here, half of which is just my own opinion. I’m asking you to ask yourselves if it makes sense to you. Because it sure as hell doesn’t make sense to me. I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied.

[adammilligan]

okay. i’ll put this under a readmore as to not subject you all to five absolutely incoherent paragraphs about some dipshit villain spn pulled out of their asses

am constantly thinking about apocalypse world and au!michael and au!lucifer. because that's a world where the main story ended at swan song except michael DID kill lucifer! and while i'm also constantly thinking about au!michael's line of "i killed my lucifer. tore him apart in the skies over abilene. but hey, can’t get enough of a good thing" it's also kind of important to remember that he. by this point. is absolutely batshit insane. gets a fucking high off of watching people die and laughs like a maniac when he kills gabriel and whatnot etc etc. and in this world where the story ended at swan song i think the exact same thing that happened in the main universe would've happened there. where au!lucifer would've told him that god was doing this TO them and begged him to walk off the chessboard with him and au!michael would've turned on him and called him a monster and told him that he was a good son and that he had his orders. and then he kills au!lucifer and then there's. nothing. no god. no paradise. no nothing.

and so au!michael is kind of left with the fact that not only was au!lucifer RIGHT, but that he just murdered the brother he raised from the moment he was created for nothing. absolutely nothing! and so since the majority of au!michael's anger was turned upon god instead of on au!lucifer, the latter of whom was the most important person in michael's life aside from god, then it kind of just turns into. yknow. au!michael DID remake himself in au!lucifer's image in the depths of the insanity that followed. and so au!lucifer's death became a good thing. a fun thing. i think au!michael's lack of anything to fall back on in the wake of lucifer's death (if au!raphael was like raphael in that he was tired and depressed and thought god was already dead, that's not exactly something to find a sense of stability in) plus the grief of god's betrayal plus the grief of what he did to au!lucifer literally did contribute to him BECOMING au!lucifer but worse.

and it would make sense is the thing! for au!michael to do that! because that's exactly what michael did! except with adam! michael kind of directly implied that he saw adam's word as second only to god's in 15x08, which would mean that the instant michael's faith in god was properly shattered adam's word would've taken the number one spot. regardless, michael and adam's time together no matter what happened DID somehow place adam as the most important person in michael's life aside from god. adam was his friend! and lucifer got knocked off that pedestal so adam could have that spot. the thing about this is is that. i mean. what were adam's penultimate words. they were "since when do we get what we deserve." adam isn't lucifer! he doesn't bite back! he doesn't have any sort of sadistic streak! adam's tired and sad and worn down and resigned to whatever happens. and then you look at michael in inherit the earth and what is he. he's tired and sad and worn down and resigned to his fate. and where au!michael went down swinging (like lucifer, like au!lucifer), michael literally did the opposite. he stood there and let himself be killed.

what i’m saying is that. out of the two michaels we were handed. one pretty explicitly and one based on context clues. both have a history of modelling themselves after the one most important to them after that one dies. and it’s kind of funny to me in a way that au!michael also admits that he tried to play god at one point because yeah he tried to model himself after HIM too but it didn’t work out and now he’s kind of still a more insane version of lucifer. which means that out of the two of them michael was the only one who lived up to his actual name (”quis ut deus?” which means “who is like god?” and it’s meant to be framed as a question with an answer already written: that no one is like god) but i digress. so the thought of au!michael and au!lucifer kind of drive me crazy because it means that au!michael would’ve called him a monster. realized that au!lucifer was right about everything. lost himself in the spiral of madness. and became that same monster. an even worse one, in fact. i think about it literally all the time it’s like yes dear god he still hates him he killed him once and he did worse to his alternate self but. i mean. that was HIS monster. HIS brother. HE raised him. it’s not like michael and lucifer where their relationship got worse and fell apart entirely until they no longer even seemed to care about each other by the end of it. i think that at least part of if not a lot of au!michael’s insanity is just his grief for au!lucifer and the fact that he killed him for nothing, for the father who never even cared, manifesting outwards until he can convince himself he hates him all over again while he kind of wears him like a second skin that doesn’t fit him quite right but melds just enough with au!michael’s own cruelty and anger until it doesn’t even matter.

because this isn’t the main universe! this is the fallout of a swan song that didn’t end with imprisonment! where there was no one to stop them! that ended the way it was technically supposed to end! with one brother killing the other! and the end result is the fallout of that. where au!michael really did kind of take the attributes of the one he loved most and incorporate them into himself out of grief. michael in the main universe IS capable of the same cruelty and we see that with the lance but he doesn’t share the sadistic streak as lucifer and au!michael do and au!lucifer would’ve. does ANY of this make sense.

[tea-cat-arts]

My sibling in Christ- THIS POST WASN’T ABOUT YOU! THIS POST WASN’T ME TRYING TO CLAIM EE WAS HANDLED PERFECTLY! I have other posts that actually go over my problems with the story and how I think they can be fixed (I can’t link them because tumblr has already crashed and deleted my response to this once, but I can DM them if you want). But my god, for someone who asked me TWO DAYS AGO to just DM them with this kind of conversation, you sure went straight into writing 5+ paragraphs when you could’ve just asked me if this was about you privately or responded “please clarify” publicly.

On to you’re actual arguments,

Your point here is only partially true. Though HoC is there, it’s only about to change, mutate, and move things that are already in the realm. The sims are still able to fuck with the code (see Kalpas, Kosma, Griseo, and Vill-V) and regain control over it. HoC isn’t shown to be able to fully delete anything on its own, shown by the flame chasers it corrupted being alive and just in a separate location or fantasy of theirs.

Me bringing up the unreliable narrator thing is not meant to be about every single aspect of the story, just about how Elysia presented her story and the walking through the maze thing at the end. I think it makes sense for Elysia to remember her life as everyone loving her and being kind to her (or at least to only present that part of her life to Mei), and to remember her death as this grand party. She’s established very early on to be a romantic and a liar, and one of the main themes from ER was that how something is remembered and perceived is just as important as what actually happened, so I thought it was fine that Mei just accepted it and moved on. I personally took all the flame chasers we saw post Elysia being back as Elysia and Mei’s memories of them, but I can definitely think of better ways Mihoyo could’ve gone about establishing that idea.

On the robot thing- Jesus Christ, we’ve both already bitched about the terrible programmers in charge of the realm and them doing a terrible job. I get it, WE LITERALLY HAD THIS EXACT CONVERSATION TWO DAYS AGO AND CAME TO AN AGREEMENT ON THAT POINT!

On the “Mihoyo doesn’t let you feel sad” thing- eh? Elysia does ask that of Mei repeatedly, but even in the current arc, Mei is still shown going back and forth on whether or not she feels sad in a way I’ll admit is handled really weirdly. Fu Hua and Kevin are pretty bluntly going through the 7 stages of grief though. I disagree with you on “Because of You” being intended to be a happy cutscene though. The lyrics for TruE are about longing for an embrace that’s permanently out of reach, I’m pretty sure the whole song is written in a minor key (I’m not a music nerd, don’t quote me on that), there’s the somber bit at the end that’s mostly instrumental was definitely written in a minor key… there’s just a lot of audio cues that are like “I’ve consumed enough media to know what this means but I lack the vocabulary to explain it properly” that lead me to believe that it’s still supposed to be a sad cutscene. Plus you got Ely’s monologue talking about how these are unfinished stories with tragic ends, but we have no choice to move forward.

Finally

You really want to accuse me of being condescending when you say something like that to me??? Throughout your argument, you’ve repeatedly dismissed my points as “coping” or “a convenient little explanation” when no- these are actually ideas that were established in the story. One of the major ideas in the opening arc of ER was whether or not Mobius was real, with the conclusion being “if she perceives herself as real, then she is.” They have thing on whether or not Su killed human Klein, HoC directly says “the Elysian Realm is your lie” (or something like that) and Ely does not deny it, there’s multiple discussions about how the realm changes drastically based on who’s memories your in- THE UNRELIABLE NARRATOR IS A CONSISTENT PRECEDENT IN THE STORY. That’s also why you can only find out what really happened in Sundown Ally by looking at like 5 different flame chasers accounts- because every character only has part of the story. This is also why they constantly jump between POVs throughout EE. Not every writing decision can be excused by an unreliable narrator, I was never trying to claim that, but you are being incredibly dismissive and just straight up incorrect by acting like it’s something I just made up to cope with the bad writing.

You have repeatedly asked others to simply not read things if they don’t like them and to handle matters like this privately, so now I am going to ask you to either take your own god damn advice or stop demanding that of others.

I don’t get people who use “nothing bad can happen to the flame chasers 🙄” as a critic of Elysium Everlasting. Like, ya… nothing bad happens to them there because it’s literally what the realm was designed for. It’s literally Elysia’s fantasy rest place for her friends who went through nothing but torture irl and to allow their stories to be continued to be told in the future. This isn’t a real world, these aren’t real people- these are sims in a controlled, digital environment and all their real life counterparts are either dead, wishing they were dead, or Fu Hua. This point was established so early on the story, how did y’all miss it?

[helliontherapscallion]

Phantasmagoria (Adrenaline Junkie Part 16)

Part 1     Part 2     Part 3     Part 4     Part 5     Part 6     Part 7     Part 8     Part 9     Part 10     Part 11     Part 12     Part 13     Part 14     Part 15     Part 17

Spotify Playlist (collaborative)

Warnings: swearing, mentions of injuries, death, depersonalization, grief

REMINDER: you are real. the topics discussed in this is fiction and not reality. you are loved and valid, hydrate and eat 3 meals a day <3

Word count: 2,645

You were in and out of it for the next few days. Whenever your eyes would crack open and you would even slightly move your arm, you would be in immense pain before you would pass out again. You could sometimes hear the voices of your family talking to you, but never Arthur. Good, he definitely shouldn’t see you like this. 

Whenever you heard Philza, he would be talking to you about all the journeys he’s been on in his hundreds of years of living. Oh yeah, you found out that he was an immortal being that can’t die. Your brain was too tired and clouded to contemplate it. 

Whenever you heard Technoblade, his monotone and deep voice always eased your worries. It gave you something to focus on; if anything, his voice was the one that cut through the fog the most. He would always recite Greek myths to you, often telling you that you reminded him of a few characters. 

Whenever you heard Wilbur, all you heard was him asking you questions such as ‘how was your day’ or ‘what do you think of someone-so’. He would talk to you as if you were conscious, often having one sided conversations with you. Sometimes he would bring his guitar and compose new songs, asking you if he should keep a lyric or if he should throw it away. 

Whenever you heard Tommy, it broke your weak heart. It was like your little brother was a completely different person; his usually loud and upbeat tone was reduced to a quiet and broken one. He was the one that wouldn’t talk much, instead he would sit with you and eventually after a day or two (you think) of silence he would play his jukebox. But whenever he did talk (which was rare) he would tell you how scared he was seeing you like that on the table. 

As time passed, you could feel yourself slipping deeper and deeper into your subconscious. It was like you were fading away, but you couldn’t fight against it. You wouldn’t fight against it; you could feel your pain fading and it was a great relief. You only wished you could hear your family’s voices before you completely left them, they were fading as well. Eventually, everything slipped into nothingness and you felt… euphoric. 

When you opened your eyes, everything was black. You were sure that you had your eyes open, so why was everything so dark? Was this the afterlife? You expected it to be more… heavenly. However, you weren’t complaining; your entire body felt light and you felt waves of peace waft over you. This was nice. You didn’t have much time to relax while you were living. 

After a while of staring into nothingness and just peacefully floating in one place, you became restless. Sure this was nice, but your hands itched to tinker with something. You’ve never done well with sitting in one place for too long, that’s always been your weakness. You tried to push your body off from anything so you could at least float around, but that proved useless when there was nothing to push off from. When you tried flapping your wings- well, wing- you only succeeded in spinning in circles. At least you thought you were spinning in circles, the inky abyss was unchanging and it was starting to mess with your perception. Your senses felt like they were deprived, but the worst thing about it was the overwhelming silence. 

So, you talked to yourself to fill the ringing silence. You were merely voicing your thoughts, repeating your lessons you’ve taught Arthur over the last few weeks. After a while, you were running out of things to talk to yourself about. So, you sighed and crossed your arms. They were very pale, you were actually dead this time, huh? You could only wait to see your brothers and Arthur when it was their time, hoping that they wouldn’t come to you too soon. It pained you to remember that you would probably never see Philza again, but who knows; the universe has a strange way of working. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, (y/n).” You screamed at the soft voice that cut through the overwhelming silence and whipped your head around. There stood a woman that looked to be in her early thirties with long black hair and tanned skin. You could not see the upper half of her face as it was covered by a crow mask, however her eyes glowed a bright white. She was smiling at you with melancholy and bittersweet happiness. The two giant white feathered wings sprouted from her back were glowing slightly. The powerful and intense aura that loomed around her was the complete antithesis of the gentle smile she was giving you. 

“Calm down,” she flew over to you and wove her hand in the air. You immediately felt a wave of calm ease over you. “That’s better. You’ve been through so much, my little fledgling.” Her little fledgling? That was something you’ve recently started to call Arthur. 

“Who are you?”

“Oh where are my manners? I’m Kristin, the Goddess of Death. I wish I didn’t have to do this, but I’m here for your life.” You hummed, “that makes sense.” She tilted her head slightly and somehow the eyeholes of the mask morphed into an eyebrow raise. Was that her actual face? “You’re not scared of death?” 

“No, I’ve already died twice- no, three times already. But this is- it’s different. Is that because I’ve lost my last life?”

“You’ll find out in due time. Ender, you’re everything Phil described you as and then some.”

You perked up slightly, “you know my Dad?” Her airy chuckle brought you even more at ease, “of course I do, he’s my husband.”

You gaped at her, “so does that- does that make you my mom?”

“Only if you’re comfortable with it, I wouldn’t want to push you into something you didn’t want.”

“I’ve always wanted a mom. D-don’t get me wrong, Dad’s done more than enough for me he’s an amazing parent-”

“I understand and I’d love to be the mother of someone so smart. You’re destined to do great things one day, my little fledgling.” You tilted your head slightly, “greater than being an inventor?”

She nodded, her black locks swaying with the movement, “greater than being an inventor. Our time together is coming to a close.” She flew over gracefully and pulled you into a hug. You reciprocated it. Her hug felt warm and welcoming. It was hard to believe that she was the Goddess of Death, you always thought Kristin would be ruthless and cruel. 

“You will face many trials and tribulations and you must persevere through them. This is indeed your reality, but you share it. Do not be afraid to ask for help. The world can be a lonely place, but remember that you are never truly alone.” 

She pulled away from you and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead, the beak of her mask poking you. Suddenly, the weightlessness feeling disappeared and you felt a tugging sensation from deep within your chest. Your body was sent flying through the abyss, the gripping sensation you felt in your inner chest felt very intimate somehow. After a bit of screaming, you were still flying through the void. You had no idea how long you were flying for, but eventually you just crossed your arms and went limp in the mysterious embrace. Aaaanny time now. 

Eventually you saw a pinprick of light far off into the distance and it was rapidly approaching you. You sighed out a drawn out “finally.” And watched as it came at you at mach speed. After you crashed into it, everything went white. 

You jolted up with wide eyes and looked around panting. You saw the walls of your childhood room? So you didn’t die? Then what the hell were you doing in the void? You were so sure that you died permanently. That you lost your last life. When you glanced out the window, everything was dark. When you sat up, you felt the familiar tugging sensation of the scar tissue around the base of your wing, except it was less intense and you had less mobility in your right shoulder. You glanced at the hearts on your wrist expecting to see three empty outlines. Instead, two ruby red hearts stared at you.

Impossible. Impossible. You were in your last life so even if you didn’t die, you should still only be in your last life. Your second life was taken from you in an explosion. It should not show up on your wrist. Furrowing your eyebrows, you ignored the sound of the door opening and footsteps rushing towards you. You ignored hands appearing in your vision and hovering unsure above your hand. 

You only looked up when the hand grabbed your wrist and blocked the two perplexing ruby red hearts. You saw Philza with a look of immense relief on his face. “How’re you feeling?”

“I don’t know.” You looked back at your covered wrist and took it out of Philza’s grasp, staring at the two red hearts again in confusion. “I-I should only have one life. Where’s Arthur? Ender, he’s probably so scared. Did you leave my prosthetic in the cave?” Your rapid fire questioning was stopped by a hand on your shoulder. 

“Slow down, you only just respawned.” You threw your hands up in frustration (well, you tried with your right arm, it only moved to about two thirds of your full range of movement before you felt a slight pain and a stretching sensation), “how the hell do I respawn when I was on my last life?” 

“You aren’t-”

“Yes I am! Fuck man, how do you forget that?! First time: Warden. Second time: explosion! I know I just died for the last time, so how am I still here?!” You glared up at him. It astonished you that he just forgot about the first two times you died. Who forgets their own kids’ deaths? It takes a real monster to forget things like that. 

“(Y/n), you’ve only died once and that was because the infection you got was too severe,” he put a gentle hand on your shoulder and pulled you into a hug. You pushed him away and seethed, “How do you not remember! Ender, did the last two and a half years just escape you? You’re fucking immortal, almost three years is nothing to you!” 

“Two and a half- (y/n). Two and a half years ago you were fourteen and you were barely just learning how to do tricks midair.”

“No, I’m twenty years old! How the fuck do you forget your own kid’s age?” 

“You turned seventeen six months ago, (y/n).” 

You ran a frustrated hand through your hair and laughed sardonically, “I’m not dealing with your bullshit right now. Where’s Arthur?” You stood up with shaky legs and swatted his hands away. “I don’t know an Arthur. Please lay back down, you’re-”

“First you forget my deaths, next my age, and now Arthur?! What the actual fuck is wrong with you? Where is he?” You gritted the last sentence out through clenched teeth.

“Who-”

“Curly red hair, freckles, always smiling, about yay high,” you flailed your hand from side to side rapidly at your mid torso, “your grandson. That ring a bell?”

“No because I don’t have a grandson. Sit down, I think I know what’s happening.”

“No. Not until I see Arthur.” You brushed his shoulder as you walked by him and out of the room. You could hear him following behind you, but you ignored him. After you ripped Arthur’s door open, you paused in the doorway. 

The entire room was decorated with Wilbur’s belongings. Instead of random bags of redstone dust and small contraptions that Arthur was too proud of to throw away, piles of sheet music and the occasional book was strewn about. Instead of the poster of you Arthur had hung up on the wall (you had laughed at it at first, he still geeked out over you even though you were his parent), a picture of the family was there. Despite it being a sweet picture (it was one of the very few ones of the family where everybody was smiling at the artist and not moving around), it shook you to your core. “A-Arthur?” You whispered in a broken voice. What was going on, where was he? 

You faintly felt someone put a hand on your shoulder. You however stood frozen clutching the door handle in your hand until you walked over to the nightstand. It was completely barren except for the glasses case sitting near the lamp. This isn’t right, this isn’t right at all. Arthur’s things should be there, not Wilbur’s. 

“No, no, no, no this isn’t right.” You broke off into mumbling while staring at Arthur’s (or Wilbur’s?) nightstand desperately trying to find the feather hidden somewhere. Once again, you felt a hand on your upper arm. “Everything’s right, (y/n).” You said nothing as you stared at the glasses case on the nightstand. “C’mon, let’s go sit down.” You barely registered him leading you gently back to your room and handing you a glass of water. “(Y/n)?” 

“Why is his stuff just- just gone? Everything was there before I left.”

Philza was silent for a moment, his feathers ruffling and brushing against your arm. “...Sometimes when a person’s been through something traumatic and they’re about to die, they sort of… make up their own reality without knowing that they’re doing it. It’s the brain’s way of coping. 

“This reality could last anywhere from a few days to years for them with the events seeming real, but in actuality only a few minutes have passed and nothing that the person thinks happened actually happened. It’s just the person’s subconscious mind playing out scenarios that they think would happen or wished had happened.”

You felt like you were previously walking on a stable sheet of ice before you were plunged into the icy abyss of unknowing. You felt several emotions coursing through your veins ranging from anxiety and frustration to grief and disbelief. The cup of water in your hands became incredibly blurry before you were pulled into his chest. He wrapped his arms and wings around you tightly and held your face securely against his shoulder. He started rocking you back and forth as you felt the tears silently leave your eyes and your breathing shudder. You felt yourself start to sob when a barrage of thoughts came and the reality of the situation hit you.

None of your inventions actually existed.

L’manberg doesn’t exist. 

Your name was unknown.

The last two and a half years were pointless.

Arthur doesn’t exist. 

Your precious Artie, the little boy that idolized you, begged for you to teach him everything you knew, followed you around like a little duckling, held your feather against his chest as he slept, enthusiastically asked you if you could take him flying, your little fledgling, your pride and joy, your son, didn’t fucking exist. You were never going to see his smile again. You were never going to laugh with him as you took him into the clouds. You were never going to cook breakfast with him again. He was never going to give you magnets again. He was never going to ask you to teach him something or ask you to help him with his own inventions. He was gone and there was nothing you could do to get him back. 

“I- I prom-mised him that I’d never leave him.” You sobbed into his shoulder, clutching onto his shirt. “I fucking promised him and I’m never gonna see him again.”

(A/N): ok so a little explanation, chapters 4-mid 15 didn’t actually happen. It was in the reader’s mind as after they passed out in chapter 3. There was foreshadowing (esp in chapter 4, I consider chapter 4 to be the chapter where the brain is getting used to the illusion it set up (hence the title “what is real”)). It explains why the reader couldn’t remember their own death. The line “You were probably still in the cave bleeding out as your delirious mind turned stone into the comforting walls of your home. You were probably imagining hearing your dad’s voice in a last chance to comfort yourself as you neared your impending doom” was pretty self explanatory. In the last chapter, the souls saying “wake up, we need to get you out of here” and “don’t leave me” were Philza’s voice cutting through (”The voices ranged from... familiar to unfamiliar”)

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[wiypt-writes]

Murder, He Wrote

Epilogue

Summary: You and Ransom attend the launch of his book and the cover closes on your story.

Warnings: Bad language, Mature (NSFW, 18+) NON-CON situations, kidnap, violence. Blood. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER…READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED…YOU HAVE BEENWARNED.

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N: The end! I can’t believe all this span from @jtargaryen18​’s Halloween Challenge last year. I hope you have enjoyed his as much as I have.

Word Count: 3.6k

READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK series so don’t @me if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18 get off my blog!

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

Part 7

 The town car and it's driver took you to whatever swanky hotel Ransom and his publishers had decided upon, you not caring the slightest inwardly, outwardly only half paying attention. You glanced out the window watching the lights of downtown pass by as your husband of merely three weeks held your hand and rubbed the back of it with his thumb. 

It was a warm July evening, the two of you dressed to the nines in formal attire. Ransom had insisted the launch be an invite only, formal event. Therefore, he was dressed in a two-piece suit, black of course, with a crisp white button down, silken black tie, and you, you looked like an ice queen's slutty sister. The powder blue silk dress you wore tied together with thin straps on each shoulder, your feet already hurting in your nude six inch sandals. Your free hand tapped a neatly manicured finger over your clutch that matched your shoes. A delicate white gold and diamond tennis bracelet adorned your wrist whilst the necklace you'd been gifted at Christmas hung around your neck. You wore your hair the way he said he loved it, in a ponytail full of waves and wisps framing your face.

After the incident on Valentine’s Day, you’d spent another two weeks in the confines of the basement. All luxuries removed and you were used and abused in exactly the way you had been when Ransom had first taken you, until he’d once more sucked the fight out of you. Only this time you didn’t have the strength to find it again. 

You played the part you’d been cast in his sick little fantasy and became totally passive to his whims. You let him fuck you which, in all honesty, wasn’t an entirely unpleasant situation as he knew his way around your body and it felt good. You had given up denying it, and for the moments he was teasing those carnal reactions out of you, you escaped, let yourself imagine you were with someone who you wanted. And by keeping him sweet, you fooled him into thinking you were content. And things settled down, you had that halfway to normal life that you’d achieved before you discovered his manuscript.

But it was bullshit. A means to an end. And you deserved a fucking Oscar.

He’d had the audacity to propose to you, too. In a restaurant. Surrounded by people. He asked you the question, like you had a fucking choice.

Angry, desperate tears had filled your eyes as you’d simply gaped at him, tears the deluded cunt took for you being overwhelmed with happiness. With a smile he slipped the gaudily large diamond on your finger, sealing your fate.

It weighed as heavy on your hand as the grief for your lost life, and the despair at your situation did in your heart.

You’d had a small wedding. Attended simply by your parents and sister. He sent an invite to his mother and father but they didn’t show up. Your dad walked you down the aisle and as you walked towards the man you hated with every breath in your body, your father kissed your cheek and asked you if you were sure you wanted to do this. And no, of course you didn’t, but what could you do?

There was no way out. 

“You look as gorgeous tonight as you did on our wedding day.” Ransom’s voice slightly startled you and you turned to face him. 

You smiled at him, the smile you knew he wanted to see, as he placed a soft kiss to your cheek before doing the same to your hand, his lips ghosted over the top of the obscene rock and matching band on your finger which caught the lights of the city, sparkling with all the ferocity of a supernova.

Before you needed to reply with some half assed compliment back, the town car stopped as the driver got out and opened Ransom's door.

"Wait here," he instructed and walked around with the driver on the other side, escorting you out the minute your own door opened.

Flashbulbs fired off in your eyes, no doubt the press there for some absolutely ridiculous notion that this book was anything but its true nature of terror and disgust.

Ransom’s hand pressed into the base of your back as he guided you along in front of him, various members of the press calling his name, and you heard the excited shouts from some as they spotted the bands on both yours and Ransom’s hands, positively shrieking as they asked when you’d gotten married. 

The headlines flashed in your mind now, 'Grandson of the Great Harlan Thrombey Releases First Suspense Novel'. 'One of Boston's Most Notorious and Eligible Bachelors is Strictly Off The Market' . 'Trust Fund Playboy Sinks His Bunny'. 

It made you want to puke. 

In fact, as the press line faded and you stepped foot into the lobby, you swallowed back the bile forcing its way up. A tray with champagne flutes passed you by and you immediately snagged one.

When Ransom had been distracted for a brief moment, you quickly glanced around and swallowed back the entire flute of the bubbly drink. Delightfully enjoying the brief taste and quick head rush it gave you.

The further you walked into the event, his hand still against your bare back, the louder it grew and the more trays of champagne and appetizers were floating by.

As typical, the two of you were fashionably late so, you had little chance to take part in any nibble or further, a drink, because the supposed "man of the hour", more like terror of life, was due to give a speech.

His agent pulled the two of you aside and made mention that it was time for Ransom to greet his guests. He pressed a sickening sweet kiss to your lips and confidently took to the small podium atop a small stage nearby.

“First and foremost, thank you to everyone who came out tonight. But more importantly, thank you to my beautiful wife, without you Sweetheart, this wouldn't be possible.”

The smile he flashed you was loaded with meaning as the pair of you looked at one another, his eyes shining with the depraved private understanding you shared. 

And you hated him then just about as much as you ever had.

Excited muttering spread around the room as he had knowingly referred to you as his wife. It was the first time he’d announced your marriage to the world but, as he smiled and held his hands up, nodding smugly and confirming whatever people were asking him, you felt nothing but an overwhelming sense of nausea. To everyone else it was a sweet dedication, to you it was a sickening truth. This book was based on what he’d done to you. What he was saying was literal truth. 

And the fact that the people currently applauding whatever he had said would never realise the true nature of those words on the pages of his book made you want to vomit in your handbag.

Applause rang around the room and you realised everyone was turned in your direction. Drawing your shoulders back you stood tall and once more fixed that fake smile on your face before Ransom cleared his throat and began to speak again.

But you didn't listen, you drowned him out, the sound of his voice distant and murky like Charlie Brown's teacher. You allowed you mind to think of anything but the present, other than the fact that these people were in unknowing full support of the hell you'd been through the last nine months.

Eventually a loud, rapturous applause signalled the end of his speech and he stepped back, smiling and then turned to the man from his publishers who shook his hand furiously, before the pair of them posed for photos.

That was when he beckoned you to him, looking at you in such a way that made your skin crawl and your teeth seethe with each breath. This bastard expected a photo op from you above all this, commemorating this disaster.

On autopilot you headed towards him, indifference obedience now your specialty and his arm curled possessively round your waist, fingers splaying on your hip. You posed and smiled as the flashes went off, but as you stole a glance at the large, ornate clock on the wall, you suddenly felt your head beginning to swim.

Seeing a convenient way out of this bullshit, you made sure to falter just a little, placing your hand to your chest. It caused Ransom's attention to turn to you.

"Sweetheart, are you alright?"

“I’m feeling a little light headed and warm.” You looked up at him. “Could we maybe get some air?”

"Sure, yeah," he looked to his agent and they nodded towards a side door in the room.

His arm still round you, playing the doting husband, he led you towards it and opened it with a flourish, allowing you to step out in front of him. 

You emerged into the alley at the side of the building and took a huge gulp of air, steadying yourself.

"Y/N, what's wrong?"

You were warm, flushed, your skin tingling as the now cooling air hit your slightly damp skin, your nipples perking at the temperature change were visible through the silk dress, and you didn’t miss the heated glance he gave them as you spoke. "I, I don't know. I think it's all the commotion."

“You do look a little flushed.” His eyes moved back to yours and he studied you for a moment, his large hands gently cupping your face as he kissed your forehead before his lips pressed to yours. “Wanna take a walk?”

Despite the fact you really couldn’t walk far in the ridiculous shoes you were in, you nodded. Anything to avoid going back in there and listening to all those sycophants kissing his ass.

He took your hand and started walking slowly down the alley. You were mid-way down when a man jumped out from behind the dumpster. You screamed and instinctively Ransom jumped to the side, pulling you slightly behind him.

“Give me the money and the jewellery, no one gets hurt.” The man spoke gruffly and you felt Ransom draw himself up to his full height as he glared at the dirty, dishevelled man, disdain on his face.

“Eat shit.”

“Ransom, just... please give him what he wants.” Your voice trembled as your body shook, your right hand already removing the rings on your left.

“I’d listen to your pretty wife, if I were you.” The man spoke as he reached into his pocket and when he withdrew his hand you swallowed at the unmistakable flash of metal.

“Fuck, Ransom, he’s got a knife!” You clutched his arm. “Please just give it to him!”

"Fuck, no," he started reaching for his phone but the man lunged toward him.

In the melee that followed, you were thrown to the side, your rings clanging to the floor somewhere along with your clutch, your palms and knees scraping painfully on the floor. By the time you’d pushed yourself up, you saw the man scrambling to his feet, Ransom’s watch and wallet in his hand. He turned to look at you and you backed away, stumbling once more to the ground letting out a blood curdling scream as he advanced. He stopped, picked up your rings and your bag, before he turned, bolting up the alley and rounding the corner, disappearing from sight.

"Y/N," the croaking voice came from your husband as he staggered towards you, a deep red seeping through his white dress shirt, his one hand attempting to stave off the bleeding. The other, cradling his phone. But he didn't get more than a few steps as he collapsed nearby. 

"Ransom!" You shrieked and heels be damned, you ran to him, looking around, "help!" 

"Call 9-1-1, Baby," he begged, trying to thrust the phone into your hand and you leaned over him. 

With a jittery hand you swiped over to the emergency call option and hit the first two digits before you glanced around again and hesitated, rising slowly to your feet.

“What...” Ransom’s chest heaved as he looked up at you, his face white with shock as you turned the phone in your hand and shrugged.

“Yeah, you see, I could call for help but...” with that you tossed his phone to the hard ground and crunched it with your stupidly high heel, rotating your foot to make double sure, the glass and metal grinding between the stiletto and the tarmac. “Whoops, looks like it got smashed in the fight.” You gave a little chuckle. “And of course, mine was in my bag which he took. Isn’t that ironic? I mean the first time you permit me to use it for something other than to contact you or my mom, I can’t.” You made a little tutting noise. “Guess I’ll just have to keep yelling and hope someone hears.”

With that you turned and screamed, a frantic yell. “Please, someone help us! Please, he’s been stabbed, call 9-1-1.” You slowly dropped back to a kneel, ignoring the sting of your grazed knees and smirked. “Dammed, I really am good at this acting shit, don’t you think, handsome?”

Ransom coughed a harsh and wet cough. His chest heaving raggedly as he struggled between catching a breath and bleeding out. 

“Y/N...” he spluttered, “you...please...”

"So many criminal junkies in Boston, Sweetheart. Plenty who will take the fall for a little hit,” you emphasised the 't' of the last word as you spoke the very same line that he had delivered to you months ago, the threat he had held over you and used to keep you in check whenever you stepped over that line. 

His eyes widened further as the realisation set in, you could see his brain working and it gave you a buzz, a sense of satisfaction to know that he understood this was your doing.

You wanted the last thing this bastard thought about to be how you were responsible for his death. But more so, his narcissistic and sociopathic tendencies be damned, you wanted him to completely understand exactly how it was his fault. 

And given the way he was bleeding and struggling for breath, you didn’t have long.

Another scream for help flew from your mouth as you pressed one hand on top of his which were now both clutched to the wound in his stomach, the other brushing his hair back slightly as you smiled down at him. 

“I told you when you threw me back in the basement that the way you treat people would come back to haunt you.” You gave a little shrug. “And, when you told the homeless guy looking in the bins on collection day a few months back to eat shit and get a job, well, he took it kinda personally. He didn’t even blink when I asked how much it would take to knock you off.”

"You..." choking on blood, "vicious..." choke,

At that you gave another loud hysteric yell for help before you turned your head back to look at him.

“See, once upon a time I thought you’d changed. But here’s the thing, a person like you doesn’t change, Hugh. You’re incapable of love. You take what you want when you want for no reason other than it pleases you.”

Another scream for help, and this time you could hear someone answering and a lot of yells as people started running towards you.

“Well, now I’ve taken your life like you took mine.” You bent down, your forehead pressing to his as you smirked. His arm reached up to grab you, his blood soaked hand curling over your cheek and side of your neck. "And you know what? It feels good."

His palm was warm and slick against your skin and his eyes blazed with anger as his fingers squeezed. You knew he was desperately trying to hurt you but you felt nothing. You smiled, as you placed a soft kiss to his lips, your words whispered as you pulled back ever so slightly. “Karma’s a bitch, and so am I. See you in hell.”

As the fake tears started to pool in your eyes once more, you allowed your lip to tremble for distraught emphasis. Blood was now trickling out of Ransom's mouth, along down his ear and to the tarmac. You pulled back just a little so as to see his eyes. You wanted to watch him choke on his own blood as he took that final breath. You started sputtering words incoherently as you amped up the hysteria, hearing the footfalls now just behind you. 

He didn’t even make it to the hospital. 

Hugh Ransom Drysdale was pronounced dead at 21:05 hours on Friday 17th July where he lay in a pool of his own blood, in that dark alleyway down the side of the hotel.

Leaving you a widow.

And free. 

***10 months later***

It was as simple as it sounded, closing your eyes and pointing to a spot on a map. Your finger ended up on Boulder. 

Colorado was far enough from the last year or so of your life that you could feel comfortable. You'd researched it, finding it to be something worth interest. Affordable. Breath-taking scenery. Incredible life altering activities and quaint little towns. The summers were supposedly warm but rarely did the temperature rise above ninety-five, the winters were supposedly very cold, dry and windy; rarely dropping below six degrees with partly cloudy skies year round.

The months following Ransom’s death had been as draining as humanly possible. The investigation had involved countless interviews before the police and authorities settled for it being a mugging gone wrong. But then there had been the months of wrangling and private law cases his parents had attempted to bring against you to prevent you getting his money, despite the probate law being fairly simple. You were married. He left no will. It was yours by default. 

Eventually, when the Drysdales had exhausted every last option, they were forced to concede and that was when you made the decision to leave, a decision of which your parents were highly encouraging. They practically talked you into this whole thing to begin with. Helping you leave your nightmares behind. Despite them not suspecting anything at first, you weren't blind to the fact that things still had not sat right with them. You knew they had suspected a level coercion, that maybe you'd had a manic episode of mental illness, but you never had divulged the full details and by the time he was gone, they hadn't cared. Your relationship with them had strengthened and healed and that was what you cared about.

Now, you were newly nestled in Boulder with a great condo downtown, a stone’s throw from the historic district that was filled with cliché shops and bars.  Whilst you didn’t need the money, you’d taken a job working in the media department of a private law firm. It was a far cry from your journalist days, but it suited you just fine.

The more distance you put between who you were now and who you had been, the better. 

You were at peace.

The May evening air was temperate as you crossed the street and opened the door to the designated bar in which you were meeting your new group of friends, mostly gathered from work, for a girl's night out. You’d been held up a little in the office so they were already waiting at a table. You waved and gestured to the bar, indicating you were going to get a drink. 

As you sidled up to the wooden counter, you were jolted a little into a man to your right. You turned to apologise and gave a little double take. You recognised him instantly. But you didn’t want to make that obvious and cause him to feel uncomfortable. You knew how it felt, to have everyone looking at you, hushed whispered comments as you went about your business, people trying to figure out if you were who they thought you were.

That was part of the reason you had moved, and you sure as hell weren’t about to subject the man next to you to the same, uncomfortable experiences. 

Recovering quickly, you hastily apologised and he smiled.

“Don’t worry about it.” His Boston accent was evident and you smiled.

“I miss that accent.” 

The man chuckled, his warm blue eyes creasing slightly as he looked at you. “You from Boston, too?”

“Concord.”

“Newton.” He replied, “well, I lived there anyway, but I’m sure you already knew that.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Should I? Know that, I mean?”

He studied you for a moment, and you kept your face as passive as possible. You could tell he knew that you knew, but you gave a shrug none-the-less and he smiled, a gorgeous smile that lit up his entire face, perfect white teeth flashing from beneath an immaculately groomed beard, as he extended his arm towards you.

“Andy Barber.” His fingers gently brushed the back of your knuckles, as you shook his hand, his grip warm and gentle.

“Oh, of course.” You smiled back. “One of our attorneys.”

“Our?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m Y/N. I work in the media department. I mean I only started a few weeks ago but...”

“Well, in that case, I’m pleased to meet you, Y/N, and welcome aboard.” His smile didn’t falter as he let go of your hand and gestured to the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”

You paused for a moment before you took a deep breath.

And nodded.

“Sure, that’d be great.”

******

Sequel: Follow Andy and reader’s story in Consciousness Of Guilt. 

[lexwritess]

incorrect quotes anon, i have a super angsty idea that i think you’ll LOVE. so basically michael x reader but she died at on of the outpost, and were basically the only good part about michael and him not caring about anything anymore (even more than usual lmao). and it’s just grief and sadness and anger. it’s fine if not, if you do i’d love to make incorrect quote for it also! have a great day/night!!!! ❤️❤️

broken promises [m.l.]

pairing: michael langdon x fem!reader

warnings: angst, death, swearing, blood, i don’t think this is accurate i tried to research on lilith but it was difficult but i liked the idea so this version of lilith is mostly based off the one from caos

a/n: i got a little carried away lmao

words: 1.6k

slightly au! i’m going to pretend michael can’t bring dead people back ✌️

y/n is a witch. but she’s a different kind of witch. she was born for a very specific purpose, one that she didn’t even understand yet. she knew she was different though.

she really knew she was different when her supreme, cordilia, tried to kill her.

she ran away from her sisters that night. she didn’t need cordilia to kill her. she already felt dead. defeated. the only real family she’s had wanted her dead.

that’s when she met michael.

michael despised all witches, but there was something about y/n that dragged him to her. the two of them were like magnets and they both felt it. the world always pulling them towards each other.

she met michael when he was at a loss. y/n wasn’t the only one cordilia hurt that day.

y/n found michael in the woods, he looked ill and lost.

y/n brought him to a dark church she saw a couple days prior. they found a woman there that was eager to help them back on their feet and get them well and nourished.

that was a big step for michael. after that visit michael finally got sense of himself. unfortunately, y/n still didn’t understand her purpose.

“i want to help michael, i really do but i don’t know what i’m suppose to do. you’re the antichrist! i’m just a rejected witch.” y/n tells michael gloomily.

tomorrow was a big day for him, he was getting back his ms. mead. of course y/n was happy for him, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he wouldn’t need her anymore.

“you are so much more than that. you are more powerful than you think and you are a big help to me. and even if you don’t serve a purpose for the apocalypse i care about you and want you by my side.” michael looks into your eyes and grabs your hands.

that’s where y/n and michael shared their first kiss.

“can you help him or not.” you interrupt the two idiotic coke heads.

“oh. who’s this?” mutt said cockily.

“she’s a witch on my side. her coven tried to kill her. don’t get any ideas though she’s mine.” michael said protectively.

you can’t help but smirk to yourself.

“alright, sorry. please don’t light me on fire.” mutt says defensively.

this is the second time michaels been here. this time he decided to bring you along so maybe you could get an idea what to do next if jeff and mutt didn’t.

“do you have some special marking on you, or have demonic fire powers?” jeff asks you while mutt looks for something to help michael.

y/n shows him the upside down triangle that appeared on her wrist about a month ago.

“not going to lie, that’s kinda lame.” jeff says disappointed.

y/n gives the man a glare and with the wave of her hand the glass bowl of cocaine was now broken across the floor.

“WHAT THE FU-.” jeff yelled before mutt stepped in.

“we can worry about it later. look at the book of revelations. have you read it?” mutt asks.

michael looks at them before opening the book with his magic.

y/n flips through the book when michael is done looking for anything else.

“who is lilith?” y/n ask monotone.

“lilith is technically a witch. she was the wife of adam but refused to sleep with him. eventually she went and sided with the devil. the devil turned on her. lots of variations and stories of her. no ones quite totally sure.” jeff explains.

y/n looks at michael with a skeptical look on her face and he gives one back.

“holy shit, you’re totally lilith! but for the new world!” mutt exclaims.

y/n stands up and look down upon the two.

“how would you know?” y/n raised her eyebrows at them.

“you’re coven tried to kill you, you just so happen to be with the antichrist, the triangle on your arm...makes sense.” jeff says.

y/n stays still staring at them. they gulp under her gaze before she walks out of the room.

michael hurries after the girl, needing to know what’s on her mind.

“y/n, what is the matter dear?” michael asks, linking his pinky with hers.

“i do not want to be lilith.” y/n says strongly.

“if being lilith means i will lose you in the end i don’t want it!” she lets go of michaels pinky and storms off to the car.

“darling you will never lose me! i may have to follow my fathers plans to end this world, but i’m still in charge!” michael yells to y/n.

“promise me!” y/n yells back, finally walking towards micheal.

“promise me.” y/n repeats, this time her tone barley above a whisper.

“i promise.”

-

2 years later

present time

the apocalypse is here. the world is gone. hell is on earth.

and you’ve been by michaels side the whole time.

he kept his promise

and now you were standing in front of your ex-coven.

they were back to kill you, again.

“come back to finish the job?” you bitterly ask cordilia.

“i had no choice! you were made for evil, i was never going to be able to peel you away from him and you would always choose him over your sisters!” cordilia yells.

“well michael never tried to kill me like you did! you were the only family i had!” you yell back, tears brimming your eyes.

you furrow your brows trying to hear what cordilia was mumbling but before you realized it’s too late.

“ms mead!” michael cried.

cordilia had killed his ms mead again.

“fuck you!” you say angerly stepping closer to cordilia.

as you walk closer cordilia is pushed back by your magic, a trail of fire leading behind you.

“how are you doing that?” madison asks in shock.

“because i’m the new supreme.” you smirk.

cordilia laughs bitterly and you look back at her.

“you can never be the supreme. you are a demoness! you are and never will be a real witch!” cordilias words burn in your brain as the realization hits you.

“mallory.” you whisper to yourself.

“precisely.” cordilia smiles.

while michael was having his last moments with ms mead, in the corner of your eye you saw madison grab the machine gun and go to point it at michael.

“repellendum malum minitar, ut nobis!” you quickly shout the protection spell.

you repeat the spell and step closer to michael.

“tutela eorum vinculum!” cordilia starts chanting against your spell.

you repeat the spell but as she gets closer the sheild starts breaking.

“et defendat mea!” you shout louder. the shield starts breaking as the other witches join in on cordilias chants.

“amans vitae meae praesidium.” you say quietly before the shield breaks.

bullets shoot throughout the room before your bloody body slumps against the wall. you feel awful, they shot you enough to make you weak so you can’t heal, but strong enough to let you bleed out.

“y/n?” michael says quietly, before he is shot as well.

myrtle cuts a piece of michaels hair and walks back to mallory.

“hurry mallory, before he heals.” cordilia rushes, and the witches leave the room.

michael wakes and looks over to see y/n’s bloody body.

“y/n! no, no, no!” michael lifts you up so he can hold you.

“michael you have to listen to me.” you cough, as the metallic taste fills your mouth.

“i can save you, i know father can. just stay with me a little longer.” michael pleads.

you smile at him and shake your head.

“listen, don’t kill cordilia. i’m not the supreme it’s mallory. she will go back and kill you in a past timeline, so none of this will never happen.”

“i have to! look what they did to you!” tears fall from his face.

“michael baby, i’ll be okay. i’ll be okay, but you got to make sure you don’t kill cordilia. it’ll bring mallory’s powers to full strength.” you assure him.

michael shakes his head as more tears fall from his crystal blue eyes.

“i love you, i love you so much. i’ll be with you soon.” michael squeezes your hand.

“i love you too michael, so much.” you let out a shaky sigh and squeeze his hand back.

“goodbye michael.” you smile as your eyes start to close.

“no, don’t say goodbye! baby please open your eyes again.” michael weeps.

“fuck! i wasn’t suppose to lose you. i wasn’t suppose to leave you, i fucking promised!” michael screams, while his sobs continue.

“it’s too late langdon.” cordilias chill voice fills michaels ears.

michaels sadness quickly turns to anger as he turns around to see the bitches smug face.

“you killed the love of my life!” michael shrieks.

cordilia hums and stares back at michael before waving the knife out of his hand into hers.

before michael can do or say anything cordilia rams the knife into her chest.

michael is at a loss for words.

he have lost

“no!” he screamed as cordilia fell to her death.

“no.” he repeated while falling to his knees.

he puts his face in his hands and starts sobbing.

he has lost everyone and now he lost the war.

he lost everything because of a job he never asked to have.

“poor michael.” myrtal said quietly while walking over to him.

“please! please just kill me.” michael says defeated.

“you’re the antichrist at his full form. i’m afraid killing you is impossible. you’ll have to live knowing you’ll never have her again.” myrtal says while waking away.

michaels cries continue.

he’ll never see you again.

you’ll never see him again.

in the new timeline he doesn’t exist to you and never will.

that’s what truly killed him.