#transcendent ruination

[unknownsigils]

singing, will happen, happening, happened / will happen, happening, happened

and we will happen again and again / ‘cause you and i will always be back then

[animal-feather]

needed to share these excerpts/concepts/vibes from my brocedes fic planning doc because i was feeling too emotional

this is a tragedy. fully knowing someone and using that against them (“I know you”). love and how it transcends everything. price of winning. losing/giving up everything. “Learn to let me go”. isolation. impact of knowing a person, how you change each other, and the hole they can leave behind. “This changes everything” “this changes nothing”. love to the point of ruination. giving up but not letting go, not moving on (because how can you?)

[gracelyngrausamkeit]

Luck is a fickle thing. Too little of it and the cruel world swallows you whole. Too much of it and the silvery brambles of complacency and arrogance suffocate you. Intoxicating and ever-elusive, luck is fate itself. For, have many a great conqueror not met a shallow grave after a single unlucky day, and have happy coincidences not given rise to great visionaries?

Uncaring to the world, the Weaver of Fortune walks their transcendent path, spurring Ages of Silver wherever their vigorous foot treads and spelling the ruination of every land only touched by their withered limbs.

It is Fate-Seekers’ holy mission, therefore, to chase after the divine on their inexorable journey. Riding under the banner of a thorn-crowned void, the Silverthorn devotees hope to guide the direction of the very Weaver's pilgrimage.

[quixotickeeper]

The Progeny of the House of Mischief (ocs, picrew).

Picrews used: pepperjackets: https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/1322863 chicken.nuggts: https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/1427462 hunbloom: https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/626197

Going forward, the first and middle names, as well as the ordinal numerals, of the characters will be listed. Their shared surname is 'Mischief'.

KILGORE FITZGERALD II [he/him] "His House in Ruination" / "The Laurel Wreath" The eldest sibling of his generation, as well as the oldest brother. Of respectable military standing, even if granted due to his family's status. Is probably a nice guy under the mask. Probably in his 40s, for what that's worth. Prickish. Not much is known of his personal life or inner machinations.

AURELIUS ALOYSIUS V [he/him]

"His Mind Transcends Us" / "The Left Hand" Probably the finest mind the Family has produced. Lord knows he hides it well. Of a hedonistic and flighty disposition. A most reliable fellow in times of crisis. Known for his dalliance with his fellows among noble poets. In his late 30s, most likely. A 31th century rake.

TACITUS KILROY VI [he/him]

"His Strength Rivalled by Nature" / "The Inexorable Man" A kind-hearted fellow of prodigious strength and cosmic determination. Quiet and withdrawn, yet charitable. Product of curious experimentation during pregnancy. Around the same age as Aurelius, but a bit younger. Could carry the weight of the world, if sufficiently motivated. Considers himself a cinephile.

FLORENTIA SISYPHUS X [she/her]

"Her Estate Tainted and Unearned" / "The Heiress of Mischief" The oldest daughter and the heiress apparent of the Family. Often away in distant continents¹ attending to personal business, as it is called. Socially maladjusted, though good at acting like she isn't. Coddled beyond belief for her value to the bloodline. Doesn't have an opinion on much of anything. Likes her siblings well enough, especially her younger ones. Mid 30s, most likely. Prefers to be left alone.

FELIX MADSEN VII [he/him]

"His Knowledge Transient and Absurd" / "The Scholar" Twisted by his pursuit of knowledge that is not desirable to be known. Discovered the answer of the so-called 'MCV² spiral question', a metaphysical anomaly studied for centuries by modern academia. No one would understand if he ever thought to publish his findings. Prone to lapses into lucidity, in which he will be polite if a bit absent-minded. Has a love for ufology and conspiracies. Early 30s.

TITUS PERICLES VI [he/him]

"His Heart Rejects Us" / "The Brother-Keeper" The goodest of good fellows. Not terribly smart. Partial to Old-World³ mysticism. Forsook the Family for his brother's sake, and he didn't even need to be asked. Unintentionally funny. Has a brain-to-brain connection with Andronicus, though this manifests in sapping away Andronicus' IQ to temporarily add to his own. Unwaveringly optimistic. Probably late 20s to early 30s, though not as 30ish as Felix. Brief stint as a lawyer. Professional mobster impersonator.

ADDYSON ISADORA III [any, but prefers she/her or they/them]

"Their Mind Fractal Yet Unified" / "The Mind of Madness" The heiress presumptive of the Family, though this will never amount to anything. The kindest one of all, even if it manifests in odd puppet-based ways. Loves good fashion and magic tricks. Styles herself as a magician supreme. Has produced a series of puppets based upon her family members. Is not respected by the older members of her family, though looked on as a source of entertainment by her juniors. Late 20s.

ANDRONICUS VALERIUS II [he/him]

"His Brother's Keeper" / "The Heir of the World" A gentleman of supreme anxiety and intellect. A quiet and unnoticed scion, even at his birth. Fled into exile with Titus not long ago. Supported by his siblings in his gestalt of identity. Touched by cosmic chance. Professional lawyer impersonator. Brief stint as a mobster. Tries to help as much as he can, regardless of circumstance. Has plans of godhood. Mid 20s but feels much older. The youngest brother of the Family.

SIOBHAN LUCILLE IV [she/her]

"Her Creed Dappled with Sorrow" / "The Prime Philosophist" The Family's resident philosopher, even if she isn't very good at coming up with her own ideas. Or having an actually coherent philosophy at all. A source of vexation to the members of her Family who remember she exists. Bought one of those scam degrees online and thinks it makes her a true 'philosophist'. The only sister born out of the Iridescence⁴. Dalliances with local non-nobles are overlooked due to her insignificance to the Family's grand enmachinations. Probably had the best relationship with Andronicus not counting Titus. I'd say about early 20s, maybe very late teens.

GANYMEDE HESTIA VIII [he/she]

"His Pride Laid to Waste" / "The Speaker to Crocodiles" A mild-mannered and fun-loving child. Considers the conservation of 'special' animals to be of the utmost importance. Volunteer of the month 16 months running at the local animal sanctuary in Zürich. To be quiet honest, barely anyone in the Family remembers she even exists. Sometimes mistaken for a burgularish urchin when returning home. I'd say mid teens — 15, say.

HUXLEY JAZMINE XII [they/them]

"Their Goal Obfuscated by Spite" / "The Young Doctor" A young academic type. Lives in the lower levels of the House, close to the foundations. Lives where many haven't walked in years. Dreams of achieving the perfect biological gestalt being. I'd say early to mid teens.

ATHANASIA BARNUM I [she/her]

"Her Defiance Enrages Us" / "The Witch" The youngest child of the Family. Touched by something sinister, buried deep in the ruins of the Old-World. A complete unknown to the Family. Still has regular appointments with the house doctor. 13 years old.

¹Mainly in Asia, but occasionally in the Americas ²A reference to The Library of Babel by Borges, page 2 I believe ³Anything predating the year 2401 AD ⁴Referring to the hair colour represented here as blue, denoting afab children as possible heiresses

[writer59january13]

While in deep sleep tuning fork synchronized circadian rhythm in pitch perfect qi

while channeling the energy of Google exemplified by cute and cuddly moogle.

I awoke from mid-day siesta exuding peaceful easy feeling total all encompassing bliss suffused body electric of mine. Ecstasy resonated within these lovely bones triggering subliminal stimuli from head to toe profound tranquility linkedin entire corporeal essence, what me worry mindset bundled every nerve transcendent state issued forth analogous to standing in the middle of an intersection, where converged sense and sensibility without pride or prejudice experienced as orgasmic natural high rippling into soothing nexus of acute momentary emotional nirvana watching within third eye blind "the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog" which sentence contains all the letters of the alphabet if in doubt (take a pawn) and Google for yourself. Despite any care and concern within the webbed wide world, I seemed to float above the fracas, especially the fiasco of the fires their utter ruination laying waste entire Los Angeles neighborhoods seen from afar absolute zero familiarization, a futile endeavor trying to identify any hint of recognition impossible mission to comprehend the mind boggling death and destruction encompassing the second largest city within the contiguous United States far as the eye can see extensive obliteration and desolation analogous to aftermath of dropped atomic bombs unleashing their powerful fury minus the radiation fallout offering foretaste of hell on earth annihilating life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness shaking and baking bedrock faith witnessing enraged shaking fists screaming (at the top of one's seared lungs) accursed blasphemy exploding against omnipotent creator questioning unfair punishment, nevertheless birthing good samaritans offering emotional nurturance while drones buzzfeed truckloads of information using radio frequency (RF) communication through a data link, sending data like location, altitude, speed, and live video footage from the drone's camera back to the ground control station via a dedicated transmitter and receiver, typically operating on frequencies like 2.4 GHz or 5.8 GHz depending on the drone model and intended range; this allows for real-time control and monitoring of the drone's flight. Suddenly doggone petty trials and tribulations in Lake Wobegon (my adopted hometown out there on the prairie offtimes visited by Garrison Keillor) finds us speechless, and numb structures of silence crackling, popping and snapping courtesy non-verbal communication linkedin to eerie decimation courtesy ferocious acceleration of Santa Ana winds strong, dry, and hot winds that blow from the inland areas of Southern California towards the coast, typically originating from a high pressure system over the Great Basin desert, causing them to be very warm and dry as they descend through mountain passes, often exacerbating wildfire risks; they got named after the Santa Ana Mountains through which they frequently flow.

[godstrayed]

my body is dead , but i'm still alive . - abigail to hannibal

memes. ╱ always accepting.

　Survival was always an astonishing thing. The human body could endure the most horrific of things. Organs could be dragged outside the comfort of their skins, flesh could be marred and painted with torment, and minds could be twisted into his design. And the host would keep breathing, labored and wet with their own sanguine despair, but inevitably alive.

Was Abigail truly as dead as her fragile mind dared to perceive? His lips twist into a knowing smirk as he continues sipping his wine. "Death merely serves as the threshold to another chance at being enshrined. Will is going to witness your transcendence as it is his ruination too. Do not fear, dear Abigail. It will be quick, painless, and you will be of use."

There is a slow and steady pause before he reaches out for her face. So young, so naive, but so tortured. She knew far too much but not quite enough it seemed. "It is as your father would have wished."

[quotemeasonnet]

there is beauty in ruination.

glass shatters. its impact on the harsh unforgiving ground creates music and the aftereffect is numerous shards that dazzle under the light as enchanting as the finest of diamonds

walls crack. life seeps between lines left untended – hues of green peeping from the concrete, sometimes even pink, or red, or yellow; this is how you find art blooming on forgotten buildings.

fire burns. before the ashes comes the dance of its flames – an entrancing duet of auburn and golden hues; their warmth on your skin thaws your frozen fingers and your frozen heart.

flowers wilt. then they find their place between pages of a book, a lover's locket or homemade crafts decorating corners of someone's abode – transforming a house to a home.

scars etch. they paint your body in synonyms of "survivor" and in scattered medallions of battles surpassed; they are your autobiography.

hearts break. the tears running down your cheeks are pearls plucked from the hands of gods and flowing out of your fingers is feverish poetry – poetry is divine – and now so are you.

wars ensue. the taste of blood it leaves in your mouth is sweet and metallic; the bones littering the arena are merely cages of mortality abandoned by men who have transcended to something eternal.

stars fall. the arc of their descent is a glimpse of celestial glory; on them we pray with our fingers gripped tight, parcelling off our hopes to the ears of the universe.

death greets. it paints the canvas in shades of grief : all greys and blues and muted hues; the possibilities it brings stretch onto a horizon unseen – it is an end and a beginning, a damnation and a salvation, an escape and an incarceration.

there is beauty in ruination.

[int3rnall]

I find it ugly how grossly uneducated I am as of recently. Why am I doing nothing meaningful? Why am I not outstanding and what exactly am I doing wrong? Why am I not spectacular and special? Why am I not a prodigy at something? Where did all the prior remarkable schemes went? Whose grave did they plunder into?

I can't stay stagnant. I can't recycle my days and I cannot become ordinary. Mediocrity is an insult. I'd rather be amusingly terrible at something than being average at it. Now how exactly do we solve this? I suggest we start identifying the root of the problem. My routine.

Not only does it lack variety, there are also little to none tangible benefits that I could harvest from this immovable tree. I need to recognize what skills will significantly hoist me up the societal ladder of wealth and diminish habits that will reap the very essence of success from me.

Starting from TikTok. Don't get me wrong, the app is great for education as well. It offers real time news that isn't tainted by government propoganda influence or is particularly biased to any agenda, but on the flip side, it is also astonishingly distracting. One could argue your will is stolen from you with consent. You're betting your time over potential benefits (videos with useful information that will retain).

This is a highly risky gamble and will result in a disproportionate victory on one side, which is the forgettable videos littering the for you page. Tell me, do you remember what you watched yesterday on the app? What about 5 hours ago? No? 15 minutes ago? Impossible right. It's not meant for long term retention unless the video is somewhat of an essay or targets a specific audience (particularly scholars or those who are interested in the given topic). TikTok is meant for short, forgettable, highly entertaining junk videos that can be equated to shots of vodka the longer you scroll. Drugs, if I'm being straight forward. It's useless. The cons outweigh the pros, yet the dopamine levels in our brain refuses to uncurl it's grasp on this god forsaken app.

Not only that, but I also do nothing productive. I would pull out my yoga mat and lay it outside, only to ignore it as I watch a series of YouTube videos about foreigners visiting Korea as they ride whirring boats and stuff their mouths with fresh seafood from Jeju island.

I don't understand why I'm like this. I need to be more than this. I'm destined to be incredible. I will have some level of fame and wealth and I will inevitably attain it one way or another. I will scrub my hands with thorns if it meant being successful. If it meant being the smartest person in the room. The coolest, most calculating yet warm. I want to become something more than human, as absurd as it sounds. I've always had this dillema.

The desire to become more than I am, yet it is just a pipe dream. All I see is a wasteland. Chaos, sitting in the womb of hollow ruination.

I starkly recall one of Albert Camus's quote: 'Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is'

As well as this quote from my second mother, Sylvia Plath: 'I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.'

I used to curl into a ball as I miserably weep over this jarring, emptying realization. I had so much to do, so many people to become and lives to live. I wanted to be God. I wanted to kill myself and transcend. I wanted to be everywhere yet nowhere. Become everyone yet no one. Be known by everyone yet understood by none. A living cocoon swelled with bitter contradictions.

This is me, the butterfly trapped within the suffocating cocoon. The walls enveloping my soul are slowly crumbling away.

Any moment now.

Once it hatches, it will be ugly.

Mark my words

It will be revolting

[unknownsigils]

AND THE WORLD SCREAMS, “KISS ME, SON OF GOD”!

[kurimiaki]

May I please ask for Primrose and Cypress with Malleus?

flower prompt list is courtesy of ddarker-dreams

tw: yandere, female reader, abuse, allusions to bodily experimentation

Primrose - In the yandere’s ideal world, what would their relationship with their darling be like? 

Initially, he’s not entirely sure. You, child of man, will wither with time, one human lifespan comparatively ephemeral to an everlasting faerie. Malleus loves you, he does, but you do not fit into his life. You’re an inscrutable puzzle, a final piece that simply does not have a place in the kingdom to which he is bound. He’s meant to rule Briar Valley, and you simply lack the tenure and experience his future partner must have. Although overzealous in his lavish, ever-intimate proclamations of love for you, your prince is not delusional by any means. Malleus’ advisors try to dance around the blaring emergency that is you, bastardizing creature that you are, sneaking in portfolios of potential candidates and foreign crown princesses Malleus may deign to take as his queen. They know better than to overstep their bounds and outright declare you a threat to his position, a hindrance, only vaguely attempting to sway their heir apparent away from a human of no notable existence. Malleus initially makes no move to refute their persistent endeavor to find him a partner, disregarding it for as long as you’re unaware of their deriding chatter. It’s true: you’re not fit to rule. You could hardly gain a modicum of the experience he’s gathered in your lifetime; and again, that quality of experience is something the current queen demanded Malleus gain before he assumed the throne. Why would his future wife be exempt from such a cardinal expectation?

You are no one of significance, not in anybody’s eyes but his, or so he’ll tell you. A fleeting life, with your comparatively barren mind, that wisp of a presence. You’ll die unknown, loved only by the man who pried you from what creatures dared to.

These are qualities Malleus is very well capable of forcing out of you. If he wills it, your humanity can easily be reworked into something transient of time. Operating beneath his public’s watchful eye, or rather, shielded from it, he has the necessary resources to remold you in his image. Perhaps his grandmother, dutiful in her fervent maintenance of tradition, of a pure royal bloodline, one flush with magic, would have no qualms offering up knowledge of millennia-old transformation spells, should her devoted grandson request it. Given how rich with magical history Briar Valley is, vast and transcendent, it’s not beyond the bounds of reason to suggest that a human’s genetic makeup could be altered with the proper arcane wisdom. Malleus is capable of forcing his fanatical ideals, his hopes of a fully committed life with you, to take true form in reality. As you are now, a human born without magical reserves, his hopes are left an impossibility. As you are now, biologically unfit to rule alongside him. But you will be, in time. Your body’s very framework is collapsed, broken apart by his deft hands, and built you back up to the standard he’s subconsciously yearned for you to achieve. By making you something else entirely, a creature so fundamentally different from what you once were, he can openly claim you as his with no external complaints.

Cypress - How does this yandere comfort their upset darling? 

Hesitant as he is to admit it, Malleus hasn’t a clue of what to do when you inevitably suffer a mental break. Entering Briar Valley, a domain you’ll be constrained to for the foreseeable future (requests to visit outside are denied, denied, and denied again), proves to be the catalyst for your mental ruination. Malleus loves you ardently, to be sure. Any harm he inflicts upon you, intentional or otherwise, does not bring him a modicum of pleasure— but that’s not to say he suffers any guilt when you’re thoroughly rearranged to suit his needs. Whatever good humor you once bore is snuffed out, replaced by a despondent, melancholic countenance he doesn’t exactly know how to approach. And, regrettably, the irreparable damage you’ll imminently face as his lover, the pain of being reborn into something new, is not something he shows much pity for.

Your physical health, at the very least, is something Malleus is fully equipped to care for. Truly, he went to great lengths to ensure your sedation and complacency while work was done to distort you; to his luck, and your misfortune, his diligent efforts to keep you unconscious resulted in a foggy remembrance of the entire ordeal. Initially, there’d been a great display of defiance, a strong abhorrence and rejection of his monumentally deranged proposal to make you into something ‘eternal’. You fought, bucked and wailed and resisted, tried to flee, but even still awoke an ill-defined amount of time later, changed, exactly as he promised you’d be. The tether of your fragile mental integrity is something he snapped without care. And now, dealing with the aftermath of his recklessness, he must learn patience. The patience to rebuild you in another way, more gently now, to nurture your mind back to the quality it once was. It will feel as if your brain was carved out and sewed into the skull of someone new; even if, by large, your looks have hardly been altered. Malleus cannot be as hasty in meddling with your mental state as he was your physical— it’s a fickle and inscrutable thing, the mind. Even more so when you feel it’s not your own. Patience is something so easily applicable to every other facet of his life, with how rapidly time flits by. He’s never minded waiting, but of course, it isn’t the same with you.

For a time, he’ll try to justify his actions— although Malleus doesn’t truly believe he’s committed too grave of an offense towards you. It was for your benefit, he’ll claim, soft whispers while he soothingly stokes your hair. If it weren’t for what he did to you, the utterly dehumanizing dichotomy between his treatment and yours within his castle would go unchanged; hush-hush as servants and courtiers alike struggle to keep their rigid prejudices at bay. Without magic, in such a sacred place of sworn nobility, you would be eaten alive. Malleus disregards the complete truth. That, in reality, what he did to you was more irrevocably cruel than any derisory words uttered could ever prove to be.

The best way he knows to display comfort is to offer you an embrace. He hugs you quite often, in private, with a frequency that will grow to annoy you. It’s a light and tender hold, but not too lax, always tightening in some jarring manner should you attempt to pull away. He pets your head, soothes your back, rubbing up and down, an endlessly repetitive motion. He touches as if he were analyzing you, memorizing your every dip and curve, and enjoys sliding a lone finger up and down your spine, enjoying the way it makes you bristle— how you lurch forward, gripping his shirt, trembling and vulnerable. Like grabbing a kitten by the scruff of their neck. Malleus embraces you with the intent to soothe; but, selfishly, subconsciously, turns the intimate act into something akin to torture, for you. But, ultimately, if Malleus’ words ever seem to lack in sincerity, his touch will make up for it. At some point, you’ll come to intrinsically understand the extent to which he’s monopolized your every relationship— he’s all you have left. And so, if you turn away his offers to touch you, be it a hug or massage or something overtly sensual, there won’t be any opportunity to ask the same of another person. When your tears dry out, and all you’re able to do is helplessly gag and gurgle on the heady affliction that is your despair, he’ll be there to kiss your throat, to sweetly coddle you in the distorted way a true lover would.

[lokittystuckinatree]

“Loss is in our nature, but not death.”

In the comics, Loki achieves immortality. In the MCU sacred timeline, every time the writers tried to kill him off, they had to bring him back because the fans wouldn’t let him die. In the Loki series, Loki and Sylvie (another Loki variant who survives eternal ruination) have a conversation about how they are unkillable while waiting for an inevitable death that never comes. I see three poetic ends: irony, where Loki and Sylvie end as they began and die hand in hand as they should have on Lamentis one, as this time even love cannot save them; tragedy, where Loki survives eternity while Sylvie is lost to time, proving she is not a Loki after all; continuity, where Loki and Sylvie transcend death and time until the multiverse and it’s branches like Yggdrasil braid with the veins under their skin.

[calypsolemon]

also imma let u guys in on a little secret. technically oldman lloyd au and transcendent au stem from the same au canon, just diverging very early on. In oldman lloyd the ninja never turn evil like in ruination, events largely play out as some mix of the movie and s2. The god prophecy is still there, and at some point post s11 or so wu reveals fsm's full plans to the ninja because he begins to doubt his father's teachings. This essentially nullifies the whole thing because they know about it, but due to being now pretty well-adjusted adults, they aren't motivated to take up the mantle of gods. Most of them are uncomfortable with the idea of choosing to exist forever. Lloyd eventually gains almost equivalent power to his god counterpart, but remains very much alive (his immortality a natural part of him being oni/dragon). The difference really is just that he had the chance to grow up, and his role - which in oldman lloyd au he has the chance to accept of his own volition - is of a protector, not a god.

[themetalwanderlust]

Track Premiere: "Putrefaktor" - Vomitheist

Swizerland’s Vomitheist creates an atmosphere of seething devastation with HM-2 infused guitar riffs, vicious vocals, and drums that’ll knock you straight on your ass. Four of the eleven tracks on the band’s upcoming full-length album, NekroFvneral, have already been unleashed upon the world, giving us all a little taste of the ruination to come. May 19th via Transcending Obscurity Records, to be…

[definegodliness]

Muse: cyclical transcendence

She wields death As if it's a ribbon in rhythmic gymnastics, So full of life it's enigmatic; She lowers herself In the sludge of ruination, Yet whether sinking, drowning, Or violently reemerging, She will offer detailed descriptions Of the rotten foliage Like a brilliant botanist, Acknowledging Time, and all it gives and takes. Then she will speak; write, As if granting second lives To these buttoning flowers Now lain to waste, Etching their stories in time-space Before they're off to feed A new generation. She is a Cyclical, timeless being; Corkscrewing existence Since ever it did shape up to plug The free flowing of consciousness. She lets the wine breathe, And, so keen, her senses, She experiences Every grape's lifespan; The vine, the vineyard; The attentive fingers Of the long gone viticulturist... So can it be Life, And death, And rebirth's ever after All fit in her crystalline glass; Its mixture, Her ouroboric elixir. She drinks, She savours; She lives -- Again.

--- 18-8-2021, M.A. Tempels © “... written for my oldest and dearest friend here on Tumblr. Happy Birthday, @haikkun!! Haha, I could have just written ‘Muse: Maureen Armstrong’, but you know I’m a sucker for uniformity. And vaguetry is part of the series! However, today is your special day, and I hope you’ll have a good one. I hope this poem will contribute to that a little.

To those reading this, I’d like to forward you to > this post < , go on and say ‘hello!’, or drop something nice in Maureen’s inbox. If ever you’ve wanted to make a birthday wish come true, this is your chance!”

[hope-to-hell]

The Names of Angels. Mike x Reader. Smut. Writer Mike rides again, abusing metaphor and getting his rocks off.

And when her sweet moist cavern collapsed around him it left only rubble behind; he was completely and totally obliterated, crushed inside her in a spray of male essence that coated the cavern walls and seeped out from her portal. He was gone, demolished. The little death didn’t feel so little this time; could he have in fact perished in the midst of his pleasure, his fleshy lance piercing through him as well? Gabriel sighed and listened to his sweat pattering down on her naked skin, imagining all those salty droplets tunneling through to her heart. He sighed again as his thick pink cave worm slipped free, bringing with it little rivulets of spunk.

Spunk? Really, Mike?

Babe. That’s what you’re focusing on? Listen, I am absolutely fucking dedicated to this metaphor but I’m running out of synonyms for come. He twitches inside you, sated and spent but nonetheless thick; give him ten minutes and he’ll begin to harden again. He types one-handed on the laptop balanced on your hip; it wiggles back and forth with the threat of falling and he starts the voice recorder before setting it aside.

So tell me about Gabriel. You’re twitching your hips now that you’re free of the laptop, feeling the scratch of coarse hair against your ass, the twitch of his cock as he comes back to life.

He’s— ah. Do that again, babe. Squeeze me just like that— fuck. He’s a dreamer, the kind of guy who gazes out the window on a wintery afternoon. He’s a painter, or a writer, or a sculptor, I haven’t decided. Something artistic. He makes beautiful things, trying to shine a light on all the darkness inside him.

Sounds familiar.

He’s building up momentum, moving with long dirty rolls of his hips just the way you like it. He’s not breathless, not yet, but his words blow through him like—

Like winds from underground, carrying the chill of the deep earth. Ooh. D’you. Fuck. Do you think I can fit some more cave worm imagery in there?

Gross. Mike. Come on.

But babe. You’re so fucking wet. Little worm talk isn’t gonna kill the mood— fuck! Okay. Okay. Your swat’s more playful than anything but it gets the point across; he grips you with his broad clever hands and rolls you under him, pressing you into the sheets with his hand now fisted in your hair and he is still talking. Listen. Gabriel is— unh. He’s a charmer. He’d tuck your hair behind your ear and whisper filthy beautiful things to you. He’d tell you how he plans to ruin you but it’s not a ruination. It’s a remaking. It’s— shit, babe. I’ve got it. It’s him trying to build you up, make you transcendent in the way he wants for himself but that he’ll never achieve.

It’s a sorrowful idea and you’d tell him so if he weren’t driving you closer and closer to the edge with the way he grinds your mound into the mattress; he knows exactly how this position affects you, how the friction and the weight of him combine to fling you bodily over the edge into oblivion. If he came to you, if he pulled you open and buried himself in you, would you let him? Would you let him wander your halls, tucking little gems into his pockets? He craves you so desperately, your glittering caves and the sweet water from deep underground. Babe. Let him in.

Mike—

Let me in. He’s playing and he isn’t; he drives himself into you sharp and hard and all his earlier teasing is laid aside. Let me take— babe. Fuck. Tell me you want it. Tell me you need it. All of it.

Mi—

No. You’re so close, and yet he stops. He stops, and you can feel his heart beating deep inside you. He stops, because he needs to hear it.

Gabe. Gabriel. Please. I need it. Give me all your shadow.

Now, babe. Why didn’t you just say so? If you could see his face it might well burn out your eyes with the radiance of his pleasure. He is merciful, though, and buries his teeth in the back of your neck as he begins to move again. He hears you cry out for Gabriel, for water rushing through underground rivers, for collapse and ruin and all the dirty filthy wonderful things he can give you. And when Mike comes it’s with a sound unlike you’ve ever heard him make; it’s a death rattle and a beatific cry all in one. It’s a contradiction because Mike himself is a contradiction, because every time he should be one thing he becomes another. And he lets you see the seams of him, all the little scarred places where he’s stitched together. He lets you see, and when he tips your head up and back to kiss you deeply, he lets you taste as well.

[ao3feed-gratsu]

It Cometh Before The Fall

by PsychoticCatLuver13

War never changes. It takes, and it takes, and it takes everything from everyone and everything. A devastating cacophony of blood and tears and buildings and bodies left to burn and wither in wake of the raging fire craving, yearning, hungry for more.

The Great War was no different. What began as a spat between lovers derailed into a conflict between peoples and nations and histories until none but a few withered souls emerged from the ruins of old and swore to never let the folly of man bring humanity to the brink of extinction ever again.

Five Factions were created to create a Society that would transcend the ruination of man by detaching themselves from one of five core rudiments of conflict.

But little do they know that the Factions are deteriorating and fragmenting the further they stray from their original ideals and are approaching the throws of War once again. Little do they know that the Factionless are key to the renewal of the Old World and the reconstruction of the essence of mankind. Little do they know that the dismantling of this society would happen on the inside.

Little do they know that it has everything to do with one Natsu Dragneel.

Words: 1173, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Series: Part 1 of All Roads Lead to Home

Fandoms: Fairy Tail, Divergent - All Media Types

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other

Characters: Natsu Dragneel, Gray Fullbuster, Zeref Dragneel, Jellal Fernandes, Erza Scarlet, Lucy Heartfilia, Cana Alberona, Mirajane Strauss, Happy (Fairy Tail), Wendy Marvell, Gajeel Redfox

Relationships: Natsu Dragneel/Gray Fullbuster, Jellal Fernandes/Erza Scarlet, Cana Alberona & Gray Fullbuster, Natsu Dragneel & Gray Fullbuster & Happy & Lucy Heartfilia & Wendy Marvell & Erza Scarlet, Cana Alberona/Mirajane Strauss, Lucy Heartfilia/Juvia Lockser, Levy McGarden/Gajeel Redfox

Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Inspired by Divergent, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags Are Hard, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Trans Character, BAMF Natsu Dragneel, Natsu Dragneel-centric, Please Don't Kill Me

Source:https://archiveofourown.org/works/37891198