#✧ | ▹ • ❛ body claim abaddon

[daughterofcain-67]

𝕽𝖆𝖎𝖘𝖊𝖉 𝖎𝖓 𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉 (𝔭𝔱.1)

(Dean Winchester x Female Reader)

(masterlist)

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: The wretched mark that Cain had passed on to Dean was taking an affect on the elder Winchester. Sam had been worried about the changes in his brother's character. Abaddon had already been killed, Dean was insistent on keeping the First Blade to use on Metatron. But Sam was more concerned with how to get the mark off his brother sooner rather than later. But who would know where to even begin?

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Spoilers in the plots of seasons nine and ten. Mentions of blood, gore, SPN violence, mentions of genetic experimentation.

The look on Dean's face was all that Sam could remember when he held the First Blade for the first time. And ever since that moment he's noticed how much easier it was becoming for Dean to kill without any second thought.

Then there was the excuse Dean gave every time he wanted to bring that stupid blade along on almost every hunting trip they went on. Even when they truly didn't need it. It was like an addiction and there were times that Sam just wished he had given the blade to Crowley without Dean knowing.

But what really set Sam on the idea of taking the mark off his older brother, was the moment Dean finally killed Abaddon. The mark was powerful on Dean and after the lights went out of Abaddon's eyes, you would think it would be over, right? But Sam remembered how cold Dean had become before he straddled the body and stabbed repeatedly. The overkill was unnecessary and Sam couldn't forget the blood that covered his brother's face, while Dean didn't seem to want to stop.

Sam hated what his brother was becoming, and he hated that Dean was trying his best to justify when he kills. That he claims to be "nothing like Cain" in the sense of being a ruthless murderer. But in Sam's eyes, and in the eyes of their friends, Dean was changing and he was no longer the man he once was.

The only thing that Sam wanted outside of killing Metatron, was for his brother back.

Which then brings us to Dean.

He wished his kid brother would keep his nose out of where it didn't belong. Sam had no idea what he was going through, how could he? He had the power to beat Metatron now. And he could bet that he was able to beat practically anyone effortlessly if it came down to it. They could finally save the world for good.

He looked down at his arm and gazed at the mark, gifted to him by the father of murder himself. He knew he wasn't like Cain. When he killed, he had a reason. that reason was to kill all those evil sons of bitches that got in his way.

Although the constant burning from the mark, the constant urge to kill, he couldn't help but wonder that with his brother's nagging actually had some kind of truth. He didn't understand what the hell was happening to him, but he knew that right now it didn't matter what was happening. They had a task at hand.

So now, Dean had yet another meeting with Crowley since Sam was having a meeting with Cass to see if he was having any luck with the factions to beat the former Scribe of God. And that's exactly where he was.

Dean sat down in a booth of a bar, leaned up against the back of the chair, with a glass of whisky on the rocks. The King of Hell was sitting across from him with some fancy kind of drink with one of those tiny ass umbrellas.

Honestly, Dean didn't really know why he was still bothering to see Crowley. He wasn't even sure if he would even get the answers he needed from the demon but he knew he needed to at least try something. He didn't really find much of anything in the books in the Bunker's library.

So a visit with the King of Hell was the next best thing, even if the bastard was on his kill list after Metatron.

"I take it the angel hasn't had any luck finding that winged wretch, huh?" He asked, his accent thick and Dean rolled his eyes a little.

"Small talk? Really? Isn't that beneath you?" The hunter asked, a little impatient.

"Woah now, Squirrel. Just trying to have a bit of conversation. Didn't think that was so wrong especially after you bloody Winchesters kept me locked up for so long. You should be glad that I'm talkative and even willing to see you now." Crowley pointed out.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Let's just cut to the chase, alright? I don't even like being around you as it is." Dean continued, the demon placed a hand over where his heart would have been and feigned offense.

"So why have we arranged to meet?" Crowley asked, "I've already got what I want. Abaddon's gone and I'm the ruler of Hell again and I'm busy trying to get my kingdom back on track."

“I’m not gonna ask you to track down Metatron. I just want to know what the hell this mark is doing to me. I get enough of Sam bitching at me about how this thing is supposedly changing me. And I-“

“Let me guess, you want it to be nothing that way you can tell Moose you’re perfectly fine so he can get off your back. Am I correct?” The Winchester rolled his eyes a little but he couldn't exactly say the demon was wrong.

"So what's the deal with the damned thing?" He asked while Crowley took the cherry off his fancy little drink and ate it.

"Squirrel, I'd hate to tell ya, but I don't know what's going on with the bloody thing. Not a lot of people know how it affected Cain himself other than it of course gave him some sort of power, a thirst to kill. No one truly knows how it will effect the mind of the wielder." Crowley answered.

Dean didn't really know how much of what he was saying is true or if there was any more to this mark that the demon was holding back. But he didn't have the leverage to make him tell more.

"Well, if that was all you wished to know, I'd say that was a waste of chatting on. I'm surprised Sam isn't with you. Or are you still having marital problems?"

Dean's jaw tensed a bit. Things were always up and down between them and it didn't get much better after he got Cain's mark. There were times he liked to think they would still be there for each other, and he knew Sam was trying to look out for him. But it was just getting on his nerves.

"Other than this stupid mark he's wary of? Things are fine. Just focused on the job. The sooner Cass's group tracks down that asshat, Metatron, then the sooner we can focus on the next thing that comes out way." He said and the demon hummed a little.

"A hunter's work is never done. I can't say I pity you. But since there's nothing else to be done at this moment, I think I'll take my leave. Ciao."

Before Dean could protest, Crowley was gone. Dean grumbled to himself before he rested his arms on the table. Then he glanced down at his arm, looking at the scar.

Cain said there was a great cost with bearing this mark. At the time Dean was laser focused on killing Abaddon. But should he have taken things more into consideration?

Sam met with Castiel in his quarters since Cass was needed there while his followers continued the pursuit of Metatron. So now the two were simply in the angel's office so they could converse in private.

"So how are you holding up with the stolen grace?" Sam asked as a bit of an ice breaker and he watched Cass smile slightly, knowing that he'd say there was no need to worry about him.

"I can assure you that I'm holding up just fine for the time being. There is no need to he concerned when there are other important matters at hand. I know you came because you're worried about Dean," The angel said in his usual monotonous tone.

Sam gave that slightly awkward but point taken grin of his before speaking again, "Yeah, well, uh.. It's just that mark he got from Cain."

"You see that it's effecting him too. And what are you suggesting that we do?" Castiel asked, "You know that he cannot be without the mark until Metatron is defeated and he is the only one that can use the First Blade. You are already doing all that you can by not bringing it on every hunt you're on."

Sam sighed a little. He supposed the angel could have been right but even so, it wasn't comforting. Somehow it just wasn't enough. He's already thought about locking Dean up in the dungeon without the blade for a while so he's not a danger to anyone else yet.

Of course, the key word was yet. So there's a chance that Sam would have to do something that extreme.

"That's not enough, Cass. I don't want that stupid thing to affect Dean more than it already has. We have to come up with a plan or find someone that can at least help the situation before it gets any worse." The younger Winchester said.

The angel looked down at the hunter while he was sitting in the chair in front of him. He could tell just how worried the brother was and he knew that it was something that would never change. Even if there was seemingly no way for there to be any kind of relief before the changes worsen, he knew that Sam would stop at nothing to find a way to protect his big brother.

"There... there is a rumor amongst demons and angels alike." Castiel finally spoke again, causing Sam to perk up.

"A rumor? A rumor about what?" Sam asked as he sat up in the chair, giving the angel his undivided attention.

"It's simply a hearsay, so I can't promise this as some sort of definite truth so you must keep that in mind.'' The man in the trench coat warned.

"Yeah, yeah, just get on with it already."

"Well, there is a matter of Cain's descendants. Of course the ones mentioned in the Bible are dead because they were mortal and there are few left that carry Cain's blood in their veins. And even if they did, they wouldn't care his mark." The angel began.

"Okay, well what does that have to do with anything? If his decedents are slim pickings and they're human, it's highly unlikely that they'd know anything about the mark."

"Sam, I would appreciate a lack of interruptions if you'd like to hear what I have to say."

"Right. Sorry."

"Anyway, as I was saying, there is a rumor amongst Angels and Demons that there is one specific relative of Cain. One that wouldn't be mentioned in the Bible because she was conceived long after the book of Revelation was written. It is said that she walks among us to this day. The direct Daughter of Cain and Mistress of Murder. She is the spawn of a Knight of Hell and the Father of Murder."

"Wait, I thought Cain killed all of the Knights of Hell except for Abaddon who got away. How can she be a spawn of the both of them?" Sam asked, totally at a loss by the idea.

"Demons have their ways. Speculation from the ancient demons such as Azazel back in the day said that somehow, the demons obtained some of Cain's DNA and somehow used Abaddon's DNA, created a spell and Abaddon became pregnant. Cain's daughter is the first born-demon. She was born with the mark. All through experimentation and magic." Castiel said.

"That's insane! I knew demons were sick but this is just dispicable." Sam said and shook his head, and the angel couldn't help but to agree.

"The purpose of this was of course Abaddon's idea so that she had the perfect weapon to use against Cain. Cain supposedly doesn't know of his own daughter's existence and because she was born a demon rather than dying and becoming a demon, she is still living and arguably just as powerful as Cain himself, if not more powerful. But it's said that because Cain was once human, and Abaddon, of course, conceived with a human vessel, the child had some humane traits."

Sam was shocked at all of the overwhelming information. A demon that was born rather than a human dying and becoming a demon or being possessed? All of this was a bit much to grasp.

"So if this girl is still alive, why haven't we seen her? You'd think she'd want some sort of revenge since Dean killed her mother, right?" Sam asked.

"Well, that's a little complicated. The Mistress of Murder was not trained with the concept of family. It was said she and Abaddon never got along and because they clashed, supposedly because of her father's traits, she favored the idea of free will and not taking orders like Lucifer's demons. That was the time Abaddon told the girl who her father was and because she favored the human's idea of free will, she fought her mother and left Hell before going into hiding. Much like her father before her."

"That doesn't make any sense. Demons are pure evil right? How can one favor humanity? Especially one that you would think is born a demon." Sam continued.

"To be frank? That's the part that confuses everyone. That's why angels and demons only say this is a rumor rather than truth. There can be contradictions but some battle the contradictions and claim the humanity comes from faulty magic." Castiel answered.

"Well, first we'd have to find out if she's even real, right? Then maybe she knows something about the mark and can help us. If she was born with it then surely there's a way to subside it." Sam said, suddenly getting hopeful.

"Sam, this is going to be a bit complicated if she does know something. The mark is dangerous on anyone. And because she was born with it, because she's been killing since childhood, you don't know how she's handled her murderous urges over these last few centuries. She may not have the self restraint Cain supposedly had." The angel warned and Sam got up.

"We still have to try. She may not know how to get the mark off, but I'll take even the smallest bit of help rather than nothing."

Meanwhile, in Cincinnati Ohio, there was a little tattoo shop. It was a quaint little place that had been in business for a little while now. About four years to be exact.

There, sitting in a small chair with a handheld tattoo machine in her grasp and working diligently on her artwork, was the owner of the shop. A girl that no one truly knew anything about, but the mystery was a part of what kept some people coming, outside of the artwork.

You had practically shown up out of nowhere, bought a little building, renovated it and turned it into the little shop it was today. You were talented with your work, but outside of the fact that you were the owner of this place and had plenty of experience with your line of work, no one knew anything about the mysterious tattoo artist with the badass mark on her arm. Granted you enjoyed lying low and staying away from demons and angels alike, you got bored. You knew exactly where Cain resided before the current King of Hell and some human went and bothered him. But you yourself had never decided to go and meet the man you inherited the blasted mark from.

You didn't spare your father's life because you had compassion. Frankly you didn't care enough about your so called father to spare his life out of love. You barely knew the man. It was more to spite your mother.

You wished you could say you hadn't killed in centuries and of course you knew it was out of your demonic nature. But you figured if your father could walk away from Hell even if he was a demon, why couldn't you?

Of course, the urges were there. The thirst for blood was there and it never left. The burn from your mark ignited your entire arm constantly. It was a perpetual pain you endured.

But because you can't say you were clean of killing, that only meant one other option. You still were a killer. No one had shown you what it was like to be human and not kill. You couldn't deny your demon blood. You refused to go back to Hell, you didn't care to aid angels because they'd kill you anyway.

Humans though, as ideal as it may seem, their deaths cause too much attention. That would ruin your chances of lying low. Plus humans tend to miss other humans and you didn’t want to be investigated over a missing person’s case.

But with the ever growing pain in your arm, you found that you liked the hunters' idea of killing monsters. Victims that no one would miss. They don't have souls so it's not like their death would benefit heaven or hell.

So the monsters were your designated victims, at least for now. Hey, the mark never said who you had to kill. And even if you did want to kill humans, you refused to give Hell the satisfaction of giving them souls. And over the years, you had fun with it once in a while, depending on how demented the monster was.

"Hey, Y/N?" Your client asked as he sat up when you were done with your work. You hummed a little as you got what you needed to make sure the tattoo would be protected during the healing process.

"I was wondering if you were taking any apprentice positions. I have this nephew who's getting out of high school and he's got talent. He want's to go to college and get some kind of art major but he needs a job since his financial aid and scholarships won't quite cover everything." The client said.

You lifted a brow. This was the first time something like this had come up. You didn't plan on working and teaching someone else. Let alone a human, but because of your senses you knew that this was no human.

"Let me think about it. I'll get back to you." Was all you decided to say and he got up out of the chair.

"Huh, so they say you do have a human conscience after all, Mistress of Murder."

You hummed a little and took your gloves off before standing up, not bothering to look the demon in the eye when it showed off his black eyes to you.

"Oh no, Kid. I was just entertained by your charade. I thought that I would play along just for your sake. You do well acting human, but don't you have a new king you should be serving?" You asked.

"Well the new King of Hell has tasked me in finding you and bringing you back to Hell wince Abaddon is dead. So if you'll just come with me then I'll go easy on you." The demon said and you scoffed and rolled your eyes.

"Oh how merciful of you, Mr. Demon. But unfortunately for you, I don't plan on going anywhere, and I certainly don't plan on anyone ever finding out where I am." You said.

"Very well. Have it your way." The demon said and he lunged at you with all the force he could muster but you took a hold of his wrist, unphased by his attack.

"You must be new to this demon thing. You're the weakest little pest I've ever seen." You said and you gripped even tighter and the demon was unable to move when you pinned him to the floor.

Then you placed a hand on his head, his black eyes widening with horror and when he tried to leave his human vessel, your eyes glowed red and you smirked, "Oh no, I don't think so, Love. You came in my territory, and you won't be going anywhere."

Then the demon started convulsing beneath your touch, the human body was growing hot as the demon started chocking. Then it started to vomit some sort of black liquid before it finally stopped moving completely. It lay there lifeless, eyes still black and wide open.

Then your eyes returned to their normal color.

"Well, it wasn't the most satisfying kill. But like I said, Kid. I don't intend on anyone finding me." You said and with the snap of your fingers, the corpse turned to red smoke and the mess vanished as if nothing had ever happened.

But one of the things he said stuck with you. You lifted your sleeve and looked down at your father's mark.

"So... she's finally dead. Too bad, I was hoping I'd get to her first."

Thank you!!!

Thank you guys so much for reading! Your support and feedback is greatly appreciated! Be sure to stay on the lookout for part two! I’m hoping to get it out soon along with a masterlist! You all are amazing! 🖤

Taglist:

@johannelis2302nely @justtrying2getby-blog @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373 @alternativeprincess @doctorlexilouwhosblog

#supernatural #supernatural imagine #dean winchester #jensen ackles #dean imagine #supernatural x reader #dean winchester imagine #dean x reader #spnfandom #dean x you #sam winchester imagine #supernatural family #supernatural fic #mark of cain #moc dean #deanmon #moc!dean #dean cain #spn rewatch #spn #spn fanfic #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester #castiel

[androgynousblackbox]

The Ancient Necromancer's Groom AU

Lucifer (20 years old)

Since he was a young kid, he could see and hear things that no one else would, making him an outcast among the other kids. His own family end up abandoning him because he was "too creepy" and has lived on his own in the streets until someone picks him up for an auction. Lucifer is so tired of living alone that accept to participate as something to be sold if at least it will give him a purpose. His magic has affinity with all other kinds, making him extremely desirable for other mages and creatures that want to feed off him.

Alastor Abaddon (???)

A necromancer mage that lives on the swamps outside of New Orleans who bought Lucifer with a bunch of money that he stole. His magic affinity is shadows and the dead. He was born crawling out of the body of his dead mother, a teenager that was killed by his father, and found by Rosie when she was a young mage. His first killing waas his own father. Regularly eats human flesh when he can and in general doesn't have the best opinion of humans for the way they treated mages/other magical creatures. He plans to marry Lucifer to control his training on all forms of magic and have children with him to control the next generation of mages. Because of his upbringing, Alastor has no clue what normal couples do nor how families are supposed to be like, to great frustration of Lucifer.

Charlie (4 years old)

An orphan child with the gift of sight that Lucifer takes a especial liking to so Alastor, without asking Lucifer, decides to adopt her (using a bunch of money he also stole to make the church shut up) to ensure that Lucifer won't ever have a reason to leave. Charlie them both papa or dad, but she is closer to Lucifer and usually follows him around as he is learning on the field. Stolas (???) The familiar of Lucifer that normally takes the form of an owl, but can also disguise himself as a human to follow Lucifer around. He was believed to be a bad omen that only brought on misfortunes and tragedies wherever he went, but he was merely there as a warning that other people never got to experience. The only exception was an old astronomer that Stolas became friends with and taught him a lot about the sky. Stolas takes his familiar role very seriously. He has a crush on the unreliable priest that is "in charge" of keeping watch over Alastor. Father Blitz (35 years old) The priest of the church nearest the swamp that was tasked to keep watch over Alastor to make sure he didn't cause any disasters, but mostly just goes to deliver letters and eat whatever Alastor has edible that isn't raw meat. Alastor already knows he can get almost anything out of him as long he can pay for it, including the adoption of a little girl with very little preparation. Despite his lack of faith and more than loose morals, Blitz is generally not a bad man who prefers to spend his day being lazy and enjoying life however he sees fit. He enjoys learning things about the stars from Stolas. Niffty (???) A house fairy that already lived on the place Alastor came to claim as his own. She cooks, cleans and keeps the place decent, but can't get out the property. She was waiting on the dark covered in dust until Alastor appeared, like a doll without an use. Rosie (???) Another old necromancer whose affinity includes jinxes/curses, the dead and plants (especially poisonus). She practically raised Alastor until he was old enough to live on his own. She becomes the first official teacher of Lucifer and sometimes babysitter of Charlie.

Millie/Titania and Moxxie/Oberon The queen and king of all fairies. They both have known Alastor for many years and are interested to see what does he do with his "little groom."

Carmilla Carmine She makes magical items and instruments to sell. She has known Alastor for a very long time, so naturally she is protective of Lucifer and doesn't want to see him "corrupted" by the asshole that is the necromancer since she can see he has a gentle heart.

#alastor pulling a lestat move by just imposing a kid on his love so he won't abandon him? more likely than you think! #radioapple #appleradio #duckiedeer #lucifer x alastor #hazbin hotel au #necromancer groom au

[konig-varorson]

Lost Chinese Lore: Grenth Be Just

Preface

Last year, I began a project to dig through the Guild Wars 1 websites of all the languages, mostly hoping to recover trailers that were lost to time (mostly successfully too). I also found some lore articles that weren't available to western audiences. Such articles were known to exist - mainly lore on Abaddon for Nightfall - and those were later (mostly) canonized by ArenaNet in Guild Wars 2.

So I decided to gather and begin slowly translate them. Previous posts on reddit:

Lyssa

Abaddon

Dwayna

Balthazar

Disclaimer: While there is overlap  with canon lore, there is no guarantee this is all canon as well. China is known to have alterations to the story to account for regulations in that nation, so it is unclear how much of this is expanded canon or simply reworked for China and thus non-canon.

For those who would like to see the original text and do their own translation: http://news.17173.com/content/2007-04-11/20070411113342700,1.shtml

Translated Text

The God of Death and Ice - Grenth

About Grenth

Among the five main gods of the Guild Wars (GW) world, Grenth is undoubtedly the most mysterious. He oversees the death of all creatures and all ice in nature, and as such is the patron god followed by necromancers and ice magic elementalists. The statue of Grenth is carved with a demon head and body, with two magic claws clasped together; its shape is enough to make people's skin shiver. Even so, at his feet, there are still many devotees worshipping and thirsting for his great power. Grenth never shows his true face, a black cloak covers most of his face, and even without the cloak you can only see his terrible mask. His eyes emit a terrible green light, it is said that looking directly into his eyes will take away your soul.

Grenth is keen to find and cultivate his followers in all parts of the world, which he considers a great pleasure. There are many people who claim to have seen Grenth with their own eyes and signed a death contract with him, but not many of these claims are true because Grenth is extraordinarily demanding of his followers and not everyone will be appreciated by him. As for what his criteria for identification are, I'm afraid only he himself knows.

Grenth has the power to manipulate all things of death. The necromancer, with close association with death, has long ago understood that to obtain the power of sincerity, we must absolutely submit to Grenth. The god taught them the language of communication with spirits, and could even show them the way to the Underworld. Therefore, all great master necromancers are characters with power beyond life and death. This also makes a lot of people willing to give up their original beliefs and defect to the Grenth who can give them great power.

Worshipers of Grenth

Belief in Grenth is not the same as belief in other gods, because once you have committed to Grenth, it is a committment you cannot turn back on even after death. Elders would always caution their children with these words, "Never make any agreement with Grenth lightly, for that will be an eternal contract." Despite this, the promises of power still bring many people to join the ranks of Grenth's worshipers. Because their actions are so mysterious and they deal with the souls of the dead all day long, they are regarded as bizarre by most people, who may even become hostile towards and stay away from them. This is all a misunderstanding of the world, because worshipers of Grenth are not directly equated with evil. There are times when their inner devotion even surpasses that of monks, only the beliefs are different.

Towards other part of the Grenth's followers, the ice elementalists, people take a very different attitude. This may be due to how most people do not know that these powers come from the god of death. The size of this group is also still relatively small, so it is less likely to attract attention.

Currently, the followers of Grenth are still a relatively contentious group. They rarely have close contact with other people or groups. They are used to solitude and isolation, but of course the perception that they are "lonely" is basically someone else's perception, because they never feel that way themselves - they are accompanied by a large number of dead souls.

The Story of Grenth

Desmina, who had always been despised by the villagers, could not escape the fate of being exiled by the villagers. Faced with her miserable and unfortunate fate, she cried out to the sky in despair: "O God! If I can take revenge on those who scorned me, I am willing to sacrifice everything I have!" At that moment, there was a horrible sound deep underground, and Desmina looked up in horror. The earth began to tremble, and then a crack opened up in the ground, and countless skeletons began to emerge from the crack. Then, the god of death, Grenth, finally appeared from the pile of skeletons. Grenth stretched out his skeleton-like hands and took Desmina into his arms: "I am your god. As long as you obey me, all the undead will obey you."

Desmina agreed without hesitation. As a price to pay, Desmina received the bizarre ability to dominate the undead and curse her enemies. Resentful of the villagers who had mercilessly expelled her, Desmina began to wait for the day of revenge in her dreams. And the days of waiting did not last long.

When Desmina was strong enough to satisfy the god of death, Desmina left the Kingdom of Ice and began to spread Grenth's teachings around the continent of Tyria. As people had never seen him and could not imagine that people can come back from the dead, no one believed her and even treated her as an ominous existence. Even so, Desmina continued her unpopular journey until she stepped into the area that had cruelly exiled her from her home, Cardone.

Unable to forget the bitterness of her past, Desmina settled down in Cardone and built a temple dedicated to Grenth in a cemetery. The villagers, who were deeply frightened, tried to expel her again but could not pass the boundary set up by Desmina. News began to spread that warlike barbarians were about to invade the village. The barbarians numbered in the thousands, but the village had only a few hundred people. The villagers had no choice but to put aside their prejudices and pride and seek help from Desmina. And Desmina thought that the time for revenge had finally come.

Just when Desmina wanted to give the villagers who begged her the curse of Grenth, which she had honed a thousand times for this moment, the voice of the god of death came: "Desmina, go and help them. In this way they will listen to my teachings." Desmina obeyed the god's instruction and proceeded to summon hundreds of undead souls that then crawled out of the catacombs. She commanded to the undead, "You who have gained the power of my life will never be allowed to return until you have completely defeated the invading barbarians!"

In this way, the undead saved Cardone. And this place gradually became celebrated - it was the birthplace of necromancers.

#Guild Wars #Six Human Gods #Grenth #don't let lore get lost #gw #gw1 #gw2 #Guild Wars 2 #gods #god of death

[helllords]

( headcanon: nsft preferences. )

Lucifer: claims to be dominant through and through because of his need to control but if he does end up trusting his partner properly, he will switch their roles. Beware though, he still can be bratty and tell you what to do. Loves both mirrors and blindfolds. Restraints. Pull his hair and he will set you on fire. Asmodeus: A genuine switch that has seen and experienced it all. And while he claims to love pleasing and being pleased, he cannot help but love being spoiled and having his partner's attention entirely focused on his own pleasure. Loves lingerie. King of oral. Tell him you love him and he will skedaddle. Abaddon: Dominant but will bottom on the very rare occasion ( or if he really, really likes you ). Masochistic with a love for knife/blood play if it is his own. Dirty talk. Likes coming in his partner and watch it drip out of them. Priest kink ( with him pretending to be the priest ). The suit stays on. Also bite/mark him, please and thank you. Leviathan: Also dominant. Sometimes his beast instincts just take over and he will pin his partner to the bed with his body weight and bite and growl how they're his and no one elses. Prefers to be clothed so that his partner doesn't see his scars. Sometimes likes to be in water if he is comfortable enough. Big no on choking and using restraints. Mammon: Dominant. Will absolutely step on you with her heels. She will never admit it but she loves it when her partner is needy and desperate. Big on begging but also her partner being greedy ( obviously ) and trying to take what they want. Beelzebub: Submissive. Big win if her partner is a witch. Absolutely will bite you and loves being covered in blood. She will do whatever you want her to do to be honest. Queen of oral but her partner better expect lots of hickeys and bite marks on their thighs and hips. Can also easily be persuaded into having multiple partners. Will laugh and talk a lot. Belphegor: Switch but prefers to simply watch as his partner touches themselves to the thought of him. Possibly while he is hidden and whispers from somewhere about what they want him to do to them. Likes it slow with lots of making out. He will not be intense or fast as that takes too much energy.

#( nsft. ) #(( something for sinday hehe )) #( you should see me in a crown. );; about: lucifer. #( i am your god i am your curse. );; about: asmodeus. #( father of hellhounds. );; about: abaddon. #( the dragon of the sea. );; about: leviathan. #( the curse of the highest pedestal. );; about: mammon. #( saint babalon. );; about: beelzebub. #( sleep; brother of death. );; about: belphegor.

[general-kalani]

Well, Abaddon, how do you plan to thank the ones who made you? It’ll be difficult to do that with where Jay is stuck at. But what about that dep chick?

"Oh... Jay will come to me. Claim all he wants about how he doesn't want to anger Jacob further, his very nature is breaking rules imposed on him. And these rules are solely on him. He'll come, eventually. And Deputy... One way or another, it will go my way. One way or another, they will come around. They know I'm better than the old fuck that held this body."

#copy that taccom { ask } #Anonymous #anon #muse: abaddon

[nerdylilpeebee]

So, I have this story idea. This is basically the summary of what will be the start of the story. I'd love any feedback. :)

The story follows the Half-demon, half-mortal Daughter of Bee-lzebub, the Demon Prince of Gluttony. This daughter, named Thalia, is an Esper, due mainly to her demonic/human blood mix. At her current stage, she can move things with her mind (including herself, allowing herself to fly basically) and create and control fire to a small degree.

Thalia is the only daughter of her mortal mother, a rich aristocrat in the Telen Empire, one of the many countries on the Planet Sera (an alternate Earth, basically). She lives with her mother and their fairly large staff of servants in a mansion a few miles outside of the city of Jula, one of the largest cities in the Empire. She's basically a bit of a shut-in, having rarely left the mansion's grounds, spending most of her time engrossed in books and researching the various artefacts her mother purchases to satisfy both her and Thalia's, well, gluttonous desire for forbidden knowledge. Particularly around demons.

One day, her Mother returns with an Urn. An artefact she claims Thalia's father had delivered to them. This immediately catches Thalia's interest and she gets to work researching the Urn. However, she doesn't find much about it. Too curious to stop tho, she decides to remove the Urn from the case it was delivered in, in order to see what might be inside. Upon touching the urn, her mind is immediately assaulted by images, Memories and information. So fast and so numerous she barely perceives them, and nearly falls unconscious.

Once she recovers from the daze this puts her in, she realizes she's still holding the Urn. It's just resting in her hands like she didn't fall to the ground, nearly unconscious. Her curiosity and interest is now through the roof. She looks inside the urn, finding it filled with Ashes. There doesn't appear to be anything beyond that, but as soon as she sees the ashes, she hears a voice.

It's a woman's voice, beautiful but reeking of danger. She introduced herself as "Abaddon," claiming she is the "Archangel of the Abyss." This sends Thalia's heart racing. She has a million questions, and immediately gets to work asking them. Abaddon is very happy to answer.

They spend hours talking. She learns that Abaddon is a demon, that she herself is part demon, that her father is one of the Demon Princes... But oddly, Abaddon refused to say which one, instead choosing to insist that someone like her should be able to figure that out on her own.

Suddenly tho, Abaddon herself asks a question. "Do you want to see me?"

Thalia of course, ecstatically answers "yes." One of the library shelves opens on it's own, revealing a long, dark hallway. Thalia briefly considers grabbing her mother or one of the servants, to help her carry anything interesting she finds inside (not a cautious bone in her body), but ultimately just enters alone, carrying the Urn.

She travels deep into the long hallway, ever beckoned to go deeper by both her curiosity and Abaddon's voice, which now echoes through the hall. When she finally reaches the end, it's just a wall. "Push on it" Abaddon tells her, and she does.

But on the other side is just... The library. Exactly where she left. The books she had scattered around her during her research were even still in the same spots. Only, strangely, everything feels colder, and the books are covered in dust. Abaddon chuckles as she looks around confused.

Thalia then begins calling out for her mother or the Servants. No one answers. She exits the library (leaving the Urn on the ground inside), expecting to find some servants cleaning in the hall like they usually are, rationalizing they maybe just didn't hear her. But as soon as she opens the door, she's hit with a blast of ice-cold air. It takes her a moment to recover from the shock, but when she looks out into the hall, it's empty. The windows are covered in ice, and the hall is dark and empty.

Fear finally begins to creep it's way into her. She begins frantically calling out for someone, anyone, rushing out into the rest of the mansion, but it's all empty. There is no one inside and the windows are frozen over.

Out of desperation, she returns to the library. Maybe this is some trick, or illusion, after all, and she can get back to the "real world" by travelling back through that hall. But when she gets there, the library shelf has closed itself already. She pushes on it, pulls, grabs all the books off the shelves... She tries everything to get it to move, even using her Esper abilities to try and knock it over or burn it. But all that does is show that... It's not a door. Behind the shelf is just a wall. Pushing on that doesn't even reveal it to be false.

Abaddon finally speaks again, beckoning her to go outside. Seeing no other options, she retrieves the Urn from where she left it, and goes to the entrance of the Mansion. She expects it to be frozen shut, but Abaddon assures her it will open. And it does, easily. Thalia is immediately blasted by even colder air, plus a mix of snow and ice. The world outside is covered in snow, and blizzard rages outside.

Thalia asks where she is. Abaddon tells her "don't worry, this is still your world. I have simply... Entered it."

Thalia asks what she means, and Abaddon responds, "oh my dear little half-breed, I must thank you. It's because of you that I was able to do this. It's because of you that I have returned."

Thalia's confusion just grows. What does she mean? She repeats her question, practically begging for clarity. Abaddon simply continues.

"Soon all will be me. Soon you will be too. Soon, I will be everywhere. Everyone. There are many with great power in this world, but all will fall to me. All will be Hive."

The fear Thalia feels grows exponentially. What did she do? What's going on? Where is her mother? Her butlers and maids? So many questions pass through her mind, but Abaddon interrupts them with a dark laugh, dragging her back to reality.

Then she simply says:

"Come and find me, my little Pandora. Let us see which one of us wins this little game we have started."

#story #story ideas #any opinions? #feedback welcome #writing #fantasy #sci fi #scifi #science fiction #demons #magic #esper #apocalypse

[books-in-a-storm]

Book Of The Week

Title: Claimed by Lucifer #1 Demon King

Author: Elizabeth Briggs

Pages: 306

Synopsis:

When my best friend goes missing in Las Vegas, there’s only one man I can turn to for help.

Lucas Ifer. Billionaire playboy. CEO of Abaddon Inc. King of Sin City. And… the devil himself?

Lucas—aka Lucifer—agrees to help me, but in exchange he wants one thing: me.

He’s dark, dangerous, and wickedly handsome. Oh, and evil incarnate. I should say no, but I can’t. I’m that desperate.

But when you make a deal with the devil, there's no escaping it. Now he owns my body for seven nights of sin.

Even worse, he says I'm his fated mate and that we have a past stretching back through time—but I don't remember any of it.

I’m Persephone being claimed by Hades, and I have no choice but to enter his underworld and become his dark queen.

Is there any light left in that black heart? Or will his darkness consume me?

#book of the week #book of week #booklr #bookblr #books #demon king #elizabeth briggs #bookworm #recommendations #october 2023

[facelessxchurch]

SP HeroForge: Eliza Scorn

And a natural progression of making war-time China is to make war-time Eliza, too.

I decided to give her the spell-bow archetype, based primarily on that short chapter in KoTW where she and Nocturnal hunt mortals for sport with bows.

Those glowing red decals on her bow are meant to represent sigils etched into the wood that generate arrows of red light, and then take advantage of the bow’s own mechanics to propel them, allowing all the magic to be focused into penetration power. Hence no quiver- her magic is her ammunition.

I think maybe Eliza can also give them tracking properties, so they hone in on targets or fly around corners. Exactly the kind of ability you would need to, for example, hunt down Saracen Rue in a forest where he keeps hiding behind trees and seems to always know where you and your soldiers are.

If you’re wondering why all the female characters keep using heeled boots, it’s because HeroForge has no option to lengthen the legs only. It does have that option for arms, so you can have a little midget with freakishly long arms, but you can’t really have a character who has very long legs in comparison to their torso for those ideal proportions.

As a result, I keep resorting to putting characters into heeled boots who shouldn’t really be in them because it gives me the ratios and vibe I’m looking for. Otherwise they look too squat/short.

I also gave her a bowl cut to match with China, but her hair is straight. Usually I despise bowl cuts but I think Eliza makes it work. A pretty girl can rock a ridiculous bowl cut. Just in general, a lot of atrocious hair can be excused if it’s on a beautiful woman lmao

Like China, I also gave her a sigil lighting up under her skin, in the same place, but hers is red and more angular and spiky. Maybe this sigil links the sigils on the bow to her eyes in some way- some modern technology is controlled by people by tracking eye movement, maybe Eliza triggers the arrows to appear or identifies targets for them to hone in on the same way.

And a cool metal face guard that hugs the line of her jaw. I always like giving archer characters those for some reason, it just hits right.

—

No. Just no. This is an actual bowl cut and I have a passionate hatred for this hair style. No one can make this hair style work. Also, one of my personal pet peeves is depicting Eliza with straight hair and China with curly.

( For reference my face claim for Eliza Scorn is Alaina Huffman as Abaddon in Supernatural. )

The top part of the armour is fine, but I don’t like the bottom part. It reminds me too much of Astrid from HTTYD. And her metal head piece looks out of place. I feel like it would fit a Marvel super hero (thinking of Scarlett Witch in particular tbh) better than a mage warrior fighting between the 17th and 20th century. I also feel like Eliza didn’t spend much time on the battlefield if at all and her department was more espionage? Not based on anything canon (bc Landy doesn’t develop the world past what’s needed for the plot as we all know) but more a vibe I’m getting off her.

And I do realize I’m mainly giving you attitude over my personal headcanons and not canon. But to be fair canon gives us very little.

However I do like that you made Eliza use bow and arrow/made her a long distance fighter. It makes her compliment China close range fighting style (if I remember right, been a while since I’ve read the books) and differentiates her from China. Honestly, Landy did her such a disservice by just making her a lesser China. While I feel like the symbol would make more sense placed on the hand she draws the bow with, but I also recognize that HF has limited customisability and that’s probably not possible. I would also prefer hand movements used to control the arrows over her controlling them with her eyes bc it just reads better when using visual mediums, ya know? Still, her sigils on her body working together with the sigils on the bow is such a cool idea, I love it!

#Eliza Scorn #skulduggery pleasant #HeroForge #submission #also I feel like I might have been really harsh to you on my personal #I really hate bowl cuts tho #so so much

[pride-and-wrathfulness]

Everybody Wants to Rule The World || Abaddon and Moloch || Para

Moloch walked through the badlands of Hell. Here, there was no true 'domain' as it was elsewhere further through the circles. Where Kings resided, they had land in their ownership. Archdemons had much larger claims and special areas that was manifested by their particular powers. Lucifer owned all of Hell over any King and Archdemon, but had land specifically for himself along with a throne that looked over all of the dimension. This was the pinnacle of power, much like the capital, of the dimension. All beings here bowed to the power here, the whole landscape shifts to Lucifer's will.

The badlands were the outskirts where torture ran rampant, lesser demons filled the voids and strange, unique creatures roamed. If powers of the sins were orderly in the domains, the sins ran chaotically elsewhere. These areas differed much like one would expect on Earth. Darkness through miles, lakes of fires and brimstone through another area, Icey pits and acidic bogs- this created the fantastical demonics that resided here.

Dust kicked up with every step that the Wrath demon took across the dark desert. Above, the sky was pitched black much like the void that Adramelech controlled. Instead, the darkness was bending and folding as if alive. The air felt dry and intense here. A being on earth would last mere moments as no water existed, the area sucking moisture from a living being quickly. Sand was much like tiny diamonds, glittering in the dark light that emanated from itself- the only light in this land.

Moloch continued his trek, knowing where each place was in this world. Other demons hissed and attempted to mock, even attack, but they quickly backed away as they realized the demon walking among them. He needed to get his strength back fully, and this was the closest thing he could get without entering his domain. It wasn't the throne being occupied that wouldn't allow him passage- it was Adramelech who had locked him out with his great power that was bouncing him out. Moloch knew this, and it pissed him off even more.

In the distance, a building stood amongst the sand and rock. It was faintly lit by a disturbing blue hue that nearly matched the black of the shifting sky. Within moments, Moloch came up to the building, the air changing instantly when stepping up the obsidian steps. While it didn't seem tall from the outside, inside the spire appeared to be endless above. Chains clamored from hidden chambers, wailing and tortured scream vibrated through the floors. This was typical in every corner of Hell- souls being destroyed, tortured, consumed.

As Moloch thought of it, he appeared at the top of this building in front of a large offering area filled with deep knowledge demon sigils and ancient demon languages. There was a calming for Moloch here, ever fiber of his being understanding the knowledge and history here.

Speaking in abyssal, the winds picked up around him. Strange flames rose up from patterns in the floor and voices miles away could be heard echoing Moloch's words. His voice became more demonic and less used with the body as he continued the spell, summoning.

The ground quaked as the summoning was succeeded. The ground below him cracked and screams filled for hundreds of miles. There, standing in the middle of a demon sigil was Abaddon, her body taking on a soft, purple aura here. "Dad?"

"Abaddon..." Moloch stepped in to hug her, but found himself quickly pushed back as she crossed her arms and scowled at him.

"I have nothing to talk to you about."

Moloch knew she was a wild card. He never wanted the child, even if technically she was a heir. In fact, he was so prideful that he thought himself to be the last Wrath King on the throne for the rest of eternity, so having an heir was a moot point. "What the fuck, Abaddon? I haven't seen you in a few years and you push me away?"

"What the fuck did you do to piss off Adramelech? And what did you do to piss of Azazel?"

Confused, he tried to quickly think back to past events, only really coming up with the most recent where he was 'killed'. Shaking his head he replied, "They weren't pissed, they were using me to complete a ritual."

"Well that's not what my husband told me. They wanted to get rid of you." Abaddon looked very sure of this fact, and right now seeing Moloch- who seemed to care very little for her- solidified what she had been told.

"They did. If Adramelech had his way, I'd be cast out from Hell. Luckily, he's not in charge of Hell or me."

She was already impatient, upset she hadn't seen Azazel in weeks and getting lonely. "You just said they used you and weren't pissed. Which one is it?"

"What I'm trying to say is sure, I must have did something to upset them, but they used me to do the stupid ritual. Two birds, one stone. I just happened to be the one they needed for the ritual."

"Whatever. Why the fuck did you bring me to this... "her eyes looked around, finally rolling them, "stupid fucking place?"

"I need your help."

She partially laughed, "Of course you do."

"Wait, listen to me," he began to plead.

"No. I don't have to do a goddamn thing you tell me. You're a fucking loser, you're a fucking pawn, you couldn't get back by yourself after being killed, and now you're begging me for shit. Get bent." She turned and goes back to the middle of the sigil and waited, but stomps impatiently as she can't figure out how to unsummon herself in the moment.

Moloch himself looked completely offended by her words. What was Azazel and Adramelech feeding her? The rest of Hell was scared of him, but here was his daughter who witnessed some great things, calling him something much less than what he was. "Excuse me? Loser? Who the fuck is lying to you? Where the fuck are you getting this shit? "

"Just... shutup! Okay?"

The Demon King extended his hand, forcing her to turn to face him, pulling her close with his powers. While doing so, her eyes widened, not expecting Moloch to do something like this to her. His blue eyes stared back into her fear-filled ones as she tried to not look as scared as she felt inside. "I need something from my library. It's a spell book, bound in skin, black and sparkles. It will burn your mind if you open it because you're too feeble to understand the markings inside. You'll know it when you're hand passes over it because it will let you know it's beyond your comprehension. Grab it, don't open it, and bring it to me. Any questions?"

Abaddon stared at him for long moments, finally reaching out and slapping his face. The blow was strong, much stronger than Moloch was ever expecting as his head snapped to the side.

It was in this moment Moloch understood that there was a real loss in power here. What was he going to do? He needed that spellbook. He had looked at the spell several times, pulled others from Purgatory, pulled himself from Purgatory with help from Aaron who was alive at the time. But now he had to reverse all this, he needed the book himself, but he needed to communicate somehow with Aaron. He had done so from Purgatory with another ritual, but how was he going to do it from the earthan plane? More than anything, he needed to get into his library but Moloch needed that spell book. Now he knew why Adramelech made this a deal... It was very possible that Moloch would fail, giving the archdemon reason to get rid of him for good.

Moloch slowly looked back onto his daughter, his expression cold, his eyes restraining rage. This was HIS domain, HIS throne, HIS birthright and HIS book. He worked harder than any other demon for this, and he would be damned to let his own child take that away. She HAD a throne, a domain and a king to rule with. No one, not her, not Azazel, would keep him from it.

"Abaddon.... You will give me my book and anything else I want from MY domain, do you understand?"

"Or what?" She continued to defy him, for what reason he wouldn't know. Abaddon had grown to be like this, a spoiled brat. Especially after getting with Azazel.

"Don't try me. I'm not afraid of ending you if I had to."

Abaddon wasn't afraid of Moloch as others would advise her to be. She knew he was powerful, but she was full of herself and the power she gained. Along side Azazel, she felt unstoppable- even if it was wrongfully so. Her powers were utter ruin and destruction, it reached far and toppled any civilization. No one scared her now that she had untapped these talents, least of all her father.

"I'll tell you what, dad. You tell Azazel to get his ass back to me, and I'll hand over your stupid book."

Moloch seemed shocked by this little detail, unaware she was without Azazel at all. While this gave him leverage, he also could use it to his advantage. Abaddon wasn't whole without Azazel. "Azazel's missing? Where do you think he is?"

"I don't know! He went to Earth and he's been gone for a couple weeks now. He's not answering when I summon him. So when you see him, tell him his wife is mad."

"But you promise to give me my spellbook?"

She huffed, crossing her arms. Considering it again, she lied, "Yeah. As soon as he's with me, I'll grab it." Without giving him another chance to talk to her, she managed to return to the Wrath domain so he couldn't bother her.

Moloch cursed loudly, his roar carried across Hell- demons hiding and fleeing from his Wrath. He would have to go topside and hunt Azazel down to get any traction on this before he ran out of time.

#every body wants to rule the world #para #self

[theirmadness]

for @murderdeals, from here. ♡

finally, she had what she wanted most, other than hell: cain.

it had only taken a few centuries in between him leaving her, murdering her brothers and sisters, and becoming this pathetic excuse of a recluse. she watched him, relaxed as she leaned against the wall, watching his handiwork. this time, she didn't step in to help. she didn't have to. and this wasn't about her, anyways. this was about cain. this was about him, giving back into his savagery. she was just here to watch, to help guide him back into the darkness that they both knew so well. when he pulled the knife out of the last body, something stirred within her. something that she knew so well.

she broke the distance between them, her hungry lips claiming his. she grabbed him by his throat, her grip not tight, but still demanding of his attention. this time, he kisses her back. he doesn't fight her. she smiles into their kiss at his words. ❝ oh, you've no idea how much i've missed you. ❞ that as far as a romantic confession as anyone could get out of someone like abaddon. she went willing into him, pressing her body flush into his as he grabbed her hair and kissed her. with the carnage and death surrounding them, the sight of them making out was such an odd one. but it was all that abaddon wanted. ❝ i'm never letting you leave again, ❞ she purred into the kiss, pushing him into the wall with enough force to cause cracks into the foundation behind him, her lips attacking his with fervour.

nothing turned her on more than murder and mayhem.

#murderdeals #other . . . abaddon. #thread . . . abaddon & cain.

[senatushq]

NAME. Abaddon AGE & BIRTH DATE. Prehistoric & Unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/they SPECIES. Archfiend OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. İlhan Şen

biography

Coined an enigma not only of heaven, but of the Inferno and Abyss, the only reliable truth spoken of the Archfiend Abaddon is of their rampant gluttony. Crafted from the very essence of the cosmos to fight within the infantry of Gods, Abaddon was weaned upon the defiled world of the Great Old Ones. A soft hand meant to enact a nurturing upbringing was not found in a world sullied and putrefied long before Ulthar’s children had been crafted to expunge them and so Abaddon learned the world differently than most. Feathers smeared with ichor were trampled upon a muddy field, Old ones fell and the legions of the divine, Ulthar’s Blessed children were the ones who enacted such vicious cycle. Centuries of conflict, the slaying of their siblings, and the fall of Old Gods augmented the genesis of their life. 

The war had been heralded under a sacred promise; Ulthar would concoct the garden that would serve as Abaddon and his siblings' dominion to instigate rule over. Lucifer’s gospel of their father’s promised land trickled through the echelon of Blessed seraphim and each grew insatiable as a result. As Abaddon and their siblings culled the tenebrous entities that stalked the mortal realm, Abaddon’s restless wanton for Ulthar’s promised spoils leached into their methods of warfare. Gluttony, as he defiled the legions that squatted upon this realm, transitioned into a state of insatiable consumption. Ulthar had revered many Blessed seraphim but he hardly blinked as dozens of thousands fell, their ichor spilling upon the mire and muck. Abaddon remained amongst the divine as the war completed, but their dire need for Ulthar’s attention grew to a maddening result. Where the other generals of the divine war enacted their violence under a seraph blade, Abaddon consumed. Bodies fell at the hands of their siblings, darkness incarnate expunged from this earth, and Abaddon defiled the corpses that impacted the battlefield. A hunger that remained within their gut, something which trajected from their father’s indifference towards the children which died and killed for Him; if Ulthar could not lend Abaddon devoted affection, then Abaddon would command it so. 

Extreme measures spoke of their starvation; the hunger for love was harder to remove than any hunger for daily bread -nourishment. Envy manifested as starvation and as Abaddon glared upon their fallen siblings they feasted and gorged within their voracious appetite. A prodigious hunger sullied Abaddon and where Ulthar favored a particular sibling one week, they’d come to fall the next; mysterious circumstances surrounding them. Abaddon’s reputation preceded them, some siblings balked at the idea of crossing them for fear of ending up a victim of their gluttonous fervor. 

Eden housed an unappeasable beast, Abaddon stalked the garden like a lion caged as he was meant to become sentinel over the elves and soon over Ulthar’s secondary creations. Flesh was a bounty worth little in this time and Abaddon, like an insolent child weaned off of any affection they could gather, feasted upon the lean flesh of elves, the lesser siblings who’d never quite fit within the history books. The elves slipped forth to Eden and Ulthar affirmed an agreement; sanctuary for the spoils of the Seasons the elves could create. Beauty spilled forth into the garden; lucious flowers, intemperate suns, the waning decay of autumnal fauna, glacial snow -it spoke of the cyclical life Ulthar’s second creations would soon fulfill. Humanity trickled forth under this agreement between Titania and Ulthar; children who were meant to live in blissful ignorance, those who would never know the rotten spoilage of war nor a warrior’s pride. It was Lucifer who marveled once at Ulthar’s promises, of Eden, and he was also the first to revolt. The Moringstar, coined so damningly beautiful that they would refuse to be contained within a wretched vessel to absolve Ulthar’s secondary creatures of their power. Their blinding grace was lethal to the frangible vessels humanity was composed of; thousands of eyes, hundreds of wings, unable to be perceived by humanity. Abaddon reveled in the result, their blinding presence destroying the fringes of the realm, scorching the eyes from mortals. 

Ardenter was their cardinal sin, an eager consumer, but Abaddon’s gluttony spiraled upon all levels of consumption. Within Eden, flesh abound, they were Nimis, excessively consuming the flesh and spoils of the garden until Lucifer commanded their fall from Grace. A lion did not bow the sheep upon their land, and though Abaddon had remained -albeit bored but- with a full stomach, he would sneer at the idea of kneeling for such weak morsels. Upon Lucifer’s refusal, Abaddon ensured his father’s fury and the rise of the rebellion, feasting upon the celestial World Trees. Their voracious destruction defiled the trees that kept the stability of Eden, imbuing it with a poisonous darkness. Cast from the comfort and splendor of their empyrean domain, Abaddon could descend upon those still loyal to Ulthar, tearing their grace from them and spitting their essence back upon the Cosmos; even an insatiable fiend such as Abaddon could recycle. 

Centuries of an imploding war between seraphim saw gods finding solace and safety within Elysia; rot had festered within the realm and Abaddon could only find a wicked sense of glee as destruction streaked across the realm once more. Where the war that had sparked their initial creation had ensured the beauty of this world, Abaddon was now set on tearing it apart; waste towards his over-indulgence littered the path behind Abaddon. If Ulthar would not allow them praise for their former glories, then Abaddon would vie to hear Ulthar pray and beg for their abstention. 

Inevitably contained, Abaddon was banished within the putrid slush of the third circle. An imprisonment of all those who first rebelled, great generals who had slain those still tethered to the Divine. A great storm of putrefaction surrounded him, what was meant to be designated as a punishment upon the Devourer, only twisted the now creature of the Abyss beyond recognition. Abaddon feasted - they’d feast, and they’d feast, and they’d feast, feast, feast, feast - upon the souls caught within the slush, upon those drenched by foul and ceaseless rains. Abaddon cared little for the gluttonous and twisted souls that ended up within their slush-ridden domain; where flesh had once been bountiful, imprisoned within the third circle, Abaddon would learn to garner a Studiose appetite. Souls filtered through as mortals would not be relieved of pride and greed, of the throes of war and death; where Ulthar once promised them a lap of luxury, Abaddon could grin within their circle as tormented souls inevitably piled up and filtered through the circle. Cerberus, a hound befitted with three heads, was the only companion within the circle and even his appetite could not amount to Abaddon’s starvation. 

They’d stalk the putrid slush together, fallen general and three-headed beast, as Cereberus flayed and mauled each glutton Abaddon was complicit. The third circle never stayed full for long as Archfiend and hound filled their maw as though it would ever satiate the voraciousness of their unyielding appetites. A chasm where their Grace had been was revealed as the perfect place of Abyssal influence, the Abyss seeping into their essence and taking infernal roots. Abaddon’s presence in the realm was frightening as a monarch alone, but his mere presence could destroy the gluttonous souls who found themselves at the mercy of the third circle merely by destroying them through their own frightened screams. An archfiend befitted for a king’s feast eventually slithered forth from the dark, a vestige of dark procreation Abaddon devised Cereberus to heel as the ruler of the third circle set their sights upon the archfiend that had slithered forth and conquered. His stomach full, though not for long, Abaddon prowled through the putrid muck of the third circle, an angel of the abyss permanently altered, perpetually restless. 

Sheol was concocted in the Old Testament as an abode of the dead, an Underworld separate from the tale Dante’s descent into the Inferno crafted. Sheol spoke of insatiability, an abyssal realm which spoke of gloom and deep darkness. A myth, but close enough to the Inferno which imprisoned the archangels turned archfiends as the gates of hell came crashing down around them. As the Proverbs uttered, Sheol and Abaddon are never satisfied, and never satisfied are the eyes of man; just as death and destruction are never satisfied, so human desire is never satisfied. Abaddon leapt forth from the Inferno alongside his fellow archfiends, Ulthar’s kingdom theirs to take dominion over; so long ago their father had promised them a place to enact rule and so his promise should finally be recompensed. 

Oztalun, the Last, offered them infernal influence and with legions of demons behind them, the archfiends were quick to overthrow the divine Gods. Abaddon culled and consumed those who were not swift enough to slip away from the realm and as Lucifer, the vainglorious Moringstar, took his place amongst the throne, Abaddon set his sights upon the mortal realm; he was famished, after all. Apollyon the destroyer, Abaddon the devourer, he’d rise upon this earth a locust, an omen of a plague to destroy their kingdom once more. 

personality

+ Methodical, knowledgeable, humble – Calculating, spiteful, venomous

played by gia. est. she/her.

#takenc #takenm #takenarchfiend #abaddon

[listmaker-lastcity]

The Flayed Thing

Big as a galleon, it resembles a great, twisted tree made of flayed corpses of every shape and size. It’s base and trunk are made of fused torsos, its roots are myriad skinless legs and arms. It’s branches are arms, ribs, and spines reaching and clawing at the sky. Its foliage is sheets and scraps of flayed skin, including huge pieces of peeled skin that snap and flap like sails broken loose in high wind. Skulls pock its surface like galls, and a great maw opens as its bole.

It only exists in our world at night. It haunts and hunts lonely places. It is quiet despite its bulk – or would be if not for the sound of flayed skin snapping in the high wind that always accompanies it. If it can, it stealthily approaches an isolated building in a rural place, sibling up as close as possible, before bursting multiple windows and doors simultaneously with questing limbs. It drags its prey forth, then drops them one by one into its maw, where they are flensed in individual chambers in its gizzard. These flayed victims are then assimilated into the Flayed Thing’s body, their skulls growing from its surface like pustules.

The Flayed Thing has a number of supernatural powers. The gaze of the creature can strip the skin off of opponents. It does not need to swallow skinned victims, instead absorbing them directly into its flesh. It can also cause a victims skin to peel off with a touch, though this not automatic; it seems to prefer swallowing victims whole to flay them first, then using its flying touch once its gizzard is full. The Flayed Thing can create minions by restructuring and regurgitating the skin, flesh, and bones it has consumed. These spawn include living sheets of skin, flayed skeletons and zombies, and amalgamations of flensed flesh and bone in inhuman arrangements. It is said that the Flayed Thing can skin living things in such a way that they survive the process and may live on painlessly, without complication from infection, shock, blood loss, or other factors. The skinless men created this way are supposed leaders of a cult dedicated to the Flayed Thing. The many skulls of the Flayed Thing can shriek, scream, and roar, producing various effects, such as fear, stunning, deafness, and nausea.

There are many stories and theories about what the Flayed Thing is and where it comes from. Some say the wickedest hags of three worlds, lead by Black Annis herself, created it as the greatest skinning tree in the multiverse. Others claim it is some kind of apex fauna from Hell or Abaddon or the Abyss. Or the final weapon of mass destruction of the necromancer empire. Or a punishment from the gods. Or a new breed of tane derived from the sard and ecorche or skinstealer stock. Or a Great Old One. Or a demigod of flaying, fleshing, skinning, and the amalgamation of flesh in new forms.

#eldritch abomination #pathfinder #rpg monster

[helllords]

( headcanon: possession. )

Demonic possession of a human ( also known as a vessel ) depends on how old and powerful the demon is and how much the body can withstand. Usually the demon enters through the throat and spreads through the body like a parasite, enveloping the soul nestled in the chest and thus claiming its host. Ordinary demons can be exorcised without killing the person if it hasn't taken a full hold of the soul yet but the stronger the demon, the more difficult it becomes. Those who are about to be possessed feel a growing shortness of breath, the taste of ash in their mouths and a feeling as if the walls are closing in on them. Possession through ancient demons such as the lords of hell are a different case. Considering their power, the vessel has to be able to withstand it, otherwise it will lose its mind, break and crumble beneath it. All seven lords have a different way of claiming a body, which makes it easier for hunters to distinguish which demon they are dealing with. 1) Beelzebub, for instance, lured her vessel ( a witch ) into an endless, exhausting dance as it tried summoning her, bringing it to the verge of death through exhaustion while also making it impossible to stop. Its mind felt as though it was chipped away, as if someone was biting at it while its vision blurred with the sight of a thousand flies. 2) Abaddon, in his blasphemous glory, possessed a priest, breaking its ribs and filling its throat with scorching, tar-like darkness as it began choking on it and the prayers it uttered. 3) Belphegor attached himself around his vessel's neck, pressing himself against its back and slowing down their bodily functions, bringing it to a delirium as it tried to fight, to keep its eyes open. His possession takes the longest but considering he is the most difficult to spot, he is also one of the most difficult to remove. 4) Leviathan took the body of a sailor trying to fight him when he still was a beast of the oceans. Through the powers of Lucifer helping him seal him within it, filling its body with the salty waters of the sea as monstrous appendages dragged it to the deepest, darkest parts. 5) Lucifer has the most issues finding a fitting body, his power too immense, too many prior vessels burning away around him. His possession feels as though the vessel was lit ablaze by flames once pure, now entirely black, burning skin, flesh, mind and soul. 6) Mammon settles in her vessel's heart, making it feel as though it has turned to lead, growing heavy, threatening to crush the soul beneath. It becomes unbearable until ( with a sudden jolt ) this sensation travels through the entire body and she takes a hold. 7) Asmodeus is a tempting, sweet, syrupy voice whispering in its vessel's mind, guiding it towards a mirror as it feels its skin heating with delight, its hands beginning to caress its own body until a gentle touch is not enough and it drags its nails deep within its flesh, tearing it open. Through these wounds he enters, bringing absolute bliss despite the overwhelming pain.

#tw: body horror #tw: gore #tw: violence #tw: insects #ask to tag #( saint babalon. );; about: beelzebub. #( i am your god i am your curse. );; about: asmodeus. #( you should see me in a crown. );; about: lucifer. #( the curse of the highest pedastal. );; about: mamon. #( the dragon of the sea. );; about: leviathan. #long post

[fandom-space-princess]

All In Your Head

Characters: Sam Winchester & Gadreel (minor Dean Winchester, Castiel, Abaddon, Crowley, Kevin Tran) Rating: T, gen Length: 3.8k

---------------

Lots of things have made a home of my body without caring whether it was built for it, he thinks, slow, pointed. And most of them have claimed to be pure.

Sam's memory is full of holes, his thoughts are feeling less like his own by the day, and his injuries are vanishing almost faster than he can track. Since he failed to complete the trials, his body may be home, but it certainly isn't feeling homey.

(Canon divergence for the beginning of Season 9: what if Sam figured out Gadreel was possessing him on his own? How would he feel about it?)

---------------

read below the cut, or on AO3

Infection engages all the senses. Get sloppy cleaning a stab wound, or forget to sterilize a needle before giving yourself stitches, then wait and see: soon enough, streaks begin to creep across the skin. Even as it closes, the flesh swells red and purple—or, worse, blue and green. Fire smoldering low, site of what should be healing fever-hot to the touch (and even the flames of Hell burn cleaner than this). Let it get bad enough and it becomes possible to smell it, to taste it on the air: rot, sweet and cloying, a tang slick as blood at the back of the throat and thick in the sinuses. A body consuming itself from the inside out, desperate to expel that which isn’t a part of it. That which, by rights, has no place in it.

Sam thinks he can even hear it, near the end. Watching the floor rush up to bruising communion with his knees, digging splinters into his palms, he isn’t sure if the ringing in his ears is some bell-tower ghost trapped in that derelict chapel, or just the sound of holy fire finally burning all the way through to his heart.

----------

Light chasing across his eyelids. Are those—stars? Rushing too fast, too regular, glimmering through his eyelashes and he swims up toward wakefulness—

—not stars at all. Headlights reflecting off blurry mile markers. He squints. Highway 70. Somewhere flat, vaguely rural. City off on the horizon, light pollution spilling up to wash the low clouds in ghostly purple.

His eyes hurt. It’s the first thing he notices, once he’s aware enough to start taking inventory of his aches. Bands of tension at his temples, across his forehead—hell, even the back of his neck. Reminiscent of those nights spent staring unblinking at his laptop screen in darkened motel rooms, researching until the sun came up. That particular pain of looking into a bright light for far too long.

“Where are we?” He groans, rubbing at his eyes.

“Whoa, hey, take it easy. You ok?” Dean’s voice is concerned, all careful skittish focus on Sam’s sudden consciousness. Sam almost does a double-take, almost snaps at him to watch the road. Almost.

something awful, something unnatural, rattling the bars of his chest from the inside, shredding his ribs and biting venom into his lungs

His head hazes with half-formed visions, nebulous and vagrant as mist.

slumped against the car in the mud, rain in his eyes and the sky raining down on them, and... are those... stars?

Dean’s still looking at him. Sam has seen him gaze with more welcome on ghosts. He shakes his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. “I’m... uh. Fine, I guess. Tired. Feels like I slept for a week.” One hand creeps up to his neck, massaging the muscles there.

His brother grunts. “Try a day. You’ve been out since the church last night. Since the sky started spittin’ angels.”

Right. Falling stars. Guess not. “What the hell happened?”

Dean’s eyes jump back to him, then resettle fitfully on the road. “What do you remember?”

And that’s the problem, really. Memory.

Or rather, the empty places where memory should be.

----------

Somewhere between Terre Haute and St. Louis, the sun rises. They pull off the interstate into an abandoned park, some blip on the map between Nowhere and Nothing. A place to stretch their legs and wolf down stale gas station sandwiches.

Standing feels strange. Like he shouldn’t be doing it. He bends his knees, flexes his shoulders, rolls his arms above his head. Twenty-four hours ago this would’ve hurt like hell. His body had been caught between continuous bruise and cauterized wound, burning in a conflagration of his own design.

Dean watches him, out of the corners of his eyes. Sam keeps catching him doing it. After the first few times, he gets subtler about it (he’s always been subtler than Dean). Studies his brother in return. He’s shifty and shifting, all nervous energy and fidgeting tells. He’s working through something, and Sam knows what that looks like. Knows he should prod. Knows how far that’s likely to get him, as well.

He stays quiet, and listens to the thud of his own pulse.

Or maybe it’s Crowley, rolling around in the trunk. Hard to say. That one had come as a surprise.

(was it so surprising? why let go of what he can use? )

Slouched in the passenger seat, he catches sight of his face in the mirror. Hair greasy, dirt and dried blood still clinging to his scalp, caked along the edge of his collar: he’s looked better. But... he presses the tips of his fingers to the darkened skin under his right eye. Skims them along the cut that trails across his cheekbone.

It’s almost gone.

Still scabbed over at the end where the glass had dug deepest, sure. He frowns, and the muscle underneath pulls a little, complaining at the movement. But only a little. He prods harder, feeling for the telltale sting of glass shards, finding nothing. Just over a day since he’d been thrown through a window by Abaddon, yet his wounds are almost gone. This one probably won’t even leave a scar. And that feels... wrong. Of the two of them, Dean walks off wounds like they’re nothing. Sam’s not one to wilt, of course, and he’s tanked his way through more hits that should’ve been fatal than he cares to think about, but he’s always been slower to heal, to need to retreat for recuperation. Yet here he is, body mending itself with a speed he’s seldom experienced. Walking it off like Dean does. Like Cas does. Like the things they hunt do.

Why question it? Accept good as it comes to you. After what you’ve been through, perhaps you’ve earned it.

In the mirror, he frowns again. Can’t meet his own gaze.

There’s something there he doesn’t understand.

----------

Maybe the bunker’s haunted. Then again, maybe it’s just Kevin.

The kid doesn’t like their demonic houseguest, even chained down in the basement under every ward they know, and Sam can’t say he blames him. Kevin clearly hadn’t been sold on either Sam’s reassurances or Dean’s promise to let him be the one to end the King of Hell, and now he roosts like an infuriated owl at the furthest end of the library, shooting exhausted but withering glares at either of them when they look like they’ll stray too close. He leaves his nest of notes and crumpled wrappers only occasionally, muttering grimly in long-dead languages, pulling books from the dusty shelves with purpose he is either unwilling or unable to explain.

Sometimes Sam will catch him staring down at a page, and know without needing to ask that he is, in that moment, blind. Every nerve attuned to the hum of air and machinery in the bunker. He’s just... listening.

But Crowley never makes a sound that would reach all the way up here. Perhaps it is only that he can hear himself think more clearly, against the gentle whir of antiquated appliances. Or maybe he hears other voices. Voices more inhuman, more undeniably holy.

Sam sits in silence on the floor, just out of sight, on the other side of the door.

Listening, like the prophet, for something he cannot see.

----------

“Abaddon? Seriously, man, what the hell. I thought you Kentucky-fried that meatsuit.”

She’d gone up in a blaze. Holy oil burned sweet and tarry, a nauseating counterpoint to the stink of scorched flesh that clung to his hair for more than a day after he’d regained consciousness. Nothing about his patchwork memories could fake, or forget, that smell. “I did.”

“How’d she get it back?”

I did what I could. am I to blame? did I let you down again, am I responsible for this too?

(You haven’t let anyone down, Sam. Not your brother. Not the world.)

Sam shrugs. “Dunno. Why don’t you ask her next time we see her?”

Dean ignores the inquisitive glances of men in military fatigues as they pass, undeterred in his grumbling. “Oh, trust me. Top of my list. Then I’m gonna chop her friggin’ head off.” He grimaces, brow furrowing. “Again.”

----------

When it comes, the trap is almost a relief. Surviving it, more so—the glaring lack of Abaddon notwithstanding.

At least this time, mulling lost minutes and Dean’s odd sidelong glances from the passenger seat on the long drive home, flashes of half-heard conversation and words he’s never spoken on the tip of his tongue, he can almost convince himself it’s just a concussion.

----------

Dried blood under Sam’s fingernails. Ring and middle finger, under the outside corners of the nail, right hand. Down under the deepest part, where it’s always been hardest to scrub.

Irv. Irv’s blood. Must be. You moved his body, lifted it onto the pyre yourself.

Irv had long since stopped bleeding by the time Sam picked him up. Shoulders loose under his hands, rough green jacket deep red in front, worse in the back where he’d bled out but—no. No, that would’ve stained his palms, his clothes. Sam would remember washing that clean. If he’d had to.

But he hadn’t.

And they’d torched the demonic vessels with the bar. Arson covered over a wealth of greater sins.

whose blood is this? why can’t I remember?

His body, whole now, unmarred for the first time in months, offers no answers. Certainly it isn’t his. He turns his wrist upright on the desk. Traces the point of a fingernail along purple-blue pathways beneath the skin. There had been a moment, he thinks, in that bar as he stirred back to awareness, when Dean had looked at him like—

Like he was expecting someone else.

He feels jumpy. Not unwell, exactly; in fact he feels better physically than he has any right to do. But he has done nothing to earn this wellness, doesn’t trust it. Pain would be better, after what he’s been through. Injury, he’s at home with. Infection—that would make sense.

Anything but this half-formed sensation of being a ghost in his own skin, with a memory he can’t trust and blood under his fingernails that he can’t identify.

Dean’s blood, perhaps. His internal monologue is grasping at increasingly desperate straws. Or Irv’s after all. Would you remember? You’ve been forgetting so much, since the trials.

Since that monumental striving for redemption. Since that last-ditch attempt at salvation, at proving himself worthy. At making himself pure.

The difference between purity and poison is one of scale, not of kind. Purity muddies the senses, creeps along the veins like rot; something bad in the blood. Offering himself to the trials was an exercise in inviting purity into himself, and nothing had ever felt so much like an infection. He’d purged himself of what was human to make space for what was sacred—and just that word: sacred. That was the problem, wasn’t it? To be a sacrifice, a body must first be filled with what is sacred. A lesson he’d learned once, long ago, the hard way: Lucifer was nothing if not sacred. And he hadn’t belonged in Sam’s body, either, no matter how much he insisted that they were made for it. Lucifer had burned so pure he’d almost consumed them both.

Sam picks his head up. Takes a deep breath. For the first time in days, he turns his eyes to the mirror above the sink.

how long has it been since that fight? The skin on his cheek is smooth; as predicted, no scar. Not even a faint pigmentation to show the recent healing. His reflection stares back at him, pale, eyes crinkled in concern but otherwise whole, hale. how long should that have taken?

His thoughts barely sound like his own. What are you so afraid of, Sam? What is it about being whole that you fear?

Purity never cared if your body was built to be a home to it. And mostly, human bodies aren’t. Sam’s is, sort of—more than most—but he’s not celestial in the way Lucifer kept insisting. Not some angelic beacon of purity. Sam is a man, flesh and blood built to house not light, but a human soul, and all the necessary mortal mess that comes with it—the blemishes, the cracks, the essential imperfections that, totaled together, make up a human life. He examines his reflection, hunting for—what, exactly?

lots of things have made a home of my body without caring whether it was built for it, he thinks, slow, pointed. and most of them have claimed to be pure.

----------

Dean’s lying to him.

Tonal shifts midsentence, a skipped needle on the record of his awareness. One instant his brother is annoyed, the next—alarmed, skeptical, different one word to the next. There are other things: guilty looks, missing moments. Whatever he’s been worrying behind his teeth since the angels fell is getting worse, not better, and Sam knows he should ask about it. But... he knows, too, how fragile their current peace is. Sam’s fickle memory has not seen fit to unburden him of those last minutes before unconsciousness had claimed him, on the muddy ground outside that run-down church, and his confession to Dean and his brother’s answering resolution are still raw. He wants to be what Dean believes him to be, wants their relationship to be one of mutual and rewarded trust.

Perhaps you have misjudged. What would he have to lie to you about?

Sam wrinkles his nose, twists his lips in what, under other circumstances, might be a smirk. you tell me.

----------

There had been light. He wants so badly to be wrong about this (knows, deep down, he isn’t wrong about this). Wants, more than anything, for this to be another trick of his fragmented and echoing thoughts, a failing of his mind and not... but Cas is in the back seat, miraculously unharmed. Dean’s stammered explanation of double-crossed reapers and hastily bargained resurrections be damned, Sam was certain of this one thing:

His hand, over Cas’s unmoving chest. Wounds stitching closed beneath his palm.

And a light that he’s seen before.

----------

How do you forget an earthquake? Seismic events don’t happen between blinks. And yet, Castiel’s expression has gone from structure and hope to rubble and shock in the moment it took Sam to look away. Dean’s posture holds fault lines, fading tremors, betrayal.

no, Sam thinks, in disbelief. He grasps for the place where memory should be, comes up with only blank distress. I won’t accept this.

“Cas!” He shakes his head hard, strides after the already-retreating angel.

(Sam, let it lie. Please. The taste of bile at the back of his throat. But nothing like the madness of purity; this desperation is far too messy. Far too human.

He would laugh about that, if he could laugh without choking.)

His hand lands hard on Castiel’s shoulder, and his friend’s eyes are wide. For all his time spent with Sam and Dean, he hasn’t learned the human conceit of shuttering his expression, burying his pain. Sam hopes, fervently, that he never takes this lesson from them.

“Cas, wait,” Sam begs, words measured. “Please stay. This isn’t—give us a few minutes? Something isn’t right.” He takes a deep breath, exhales through his nose. “And I don’t think you leaving is the solution. I think it’ll just make it worse.”

Castiel looks over Sam’s shoulder, brow furrowed into a frown. Whatever he sees on Dean’s face, when he turns back to Sam, his expression is no less stormy. “I don’t understand. Are you sure?”

(The anxiety in his head is a wordless hum, now, and not his own. He forces his breathing to slow: in and out, long pause, in and out. Ignores how close he feels to shaking apart. Very carefully directing the thought to nothing in particular: whatever problem this is, we’re finding a better way to solve it.

No response. He didn’t really expect one. But the fear subsides, and that’s something. One thing at a time.)

“I’m sure,” he replies. “Dean and I need to talk. Just—go find Kevin. Let him know you’re here.”

Castiel studies his face intently. After a moment, Sam feels the muscles in his shoulder relax under his hand. He nods, and drifts away, turning the corner into the hallway and vanishing deeper into the bunker.

Dean reaches out to him, unsure. He starts, “Sam—”

“Don’t,” Sam cuts him off. Levels a glare at his brother. “I don’t want to hear it. Not yet.”

Dean’s mouth snaps shut.

“Wait here.”

He turns on his heel, leaving Dean, pale and speechless, behind him.

----------

He does not slam the door. Instead he clicks it shut, deliberately; every movement precise. Tightly controlled. When he turns to the sink, grasps the sides of it until his knuckles whiten and meets his own eyes steady and determined in the mirror, this too is unhurried.

He doesn’t blink. He simply waits.

His reflection blinks first.

“Who are you?” Sam grits out from clenched jaws.

I mean you no harm, the Sam in the mirror replies; for all that the voice is in his head, the otherwise mundanity of the moment is jarring. The creature in the mirror—in his head—doesn't feel hostile. Placating, if anything. I’m here to help you, to heal you and myself. Your well-being is my primary concern, Sam Winchester. I wish only to be of assistance.

“How?”

Your brother. Though I believe you suspected as much already.

A breath hisses out of him, between his teeth. He nods, once. Slow. Precise. Controlled.

“You’re an angel.” Not a question.

I am.

“You're the reason for the—the gaps. In my memories.” The words taste poisonous across his tongue. “You healed Cas. Are you the reason he’s leaving?”

I... am, yes.

“So you have something to hide.”

The creature in the mirror inclines its head minutely. I am unwelcome, among my own kind. Were they to find me here, in their search for my brother, the outcome would be unpleasant for us all. I believed having Castiel depart to be the safest course of action.

“Does Dean know that? Any of it?”

The angel frowns. I was less than honest with your brother about my identity. He believes me to be someone of... far greater esteem.

Sam’s eyes remain locked on the mirror. An odd sensation, to see your reflection unable to meet your own gaze. A paranoia crawls over him, a feeling of existing apart from his body, being outside looking in. He bites the inside of his lip, then his cheek; harder than he means to, but the sting and the copper tang of blood calm and center him. This pain is still his, then. This much of him is still within his control.

“Why are you doing this?”

The creature in the mirror does meet his eyes, then. You almost killed yourself trying to atone for who you are—for what’s been done to you, been made of you. Trying to make yourself worthy getting past sins that were never yours. Not really. It frowns, thoughtful. I can relate, and I admire your drive. I wish to believe I, too, am capable of such.

“You’re looking for—what? Absolution? Redemption? What did you do ?”

I trusted. The angel looks uncomfortable. I was what others required me to be.

“And yet you expect me to trust you.” Sam laughs, a cracking mirthless chuckle. “Lying for your redemption. This—” He gestures between them. “This is a violation. You get that, right? So what else will you do for it?”

The Sam in the mirror leans back a fraction, though he himself remains unmoving. The angel’s shoulders slouch, his body curving in on itself in a shockingly human display. Sam is startled to recognize that expression, has seen it on himself before, times beyond counting; the emotion that has settled over this creature like a cloak—it's remorse.

I understand. I wish I had something more to offer you, in exchange for your trust. The angel’s gaze skitters away again. Unfortunately, what has been made of me has left me decidedly less worthy than the being I once was. I wish to heal you. I wish to help. That is all I have to give.

He can feel the weight of possession, now that he’s allowed himself to acknowledge it for what it is. Can sense the shape of the angel, its emotions, its intent. The thing in his head is old—old in the way Lucifer had been old—but where Lucifer had cauterized everywhere he touched with cold-burning light, with purpose, this creature is altogether different. Its edges are crackly with tension, the bulk of it twined through with what can only be regret. The entirety of it held together under the thinnest veneer of brittle hope.

Sam is acquainted with the intimacies of angelic possession. This thing, though—this cracked, imperfect mess—well, it feels a lot more like human than he’d have guessed.

Certainly it doesn’t feel pure.

“Ok,” he says. The angel’s eyes snap back to his. He shivers, but holds its gaze. “Provisionally—” He raises one eyebrow, mouth set into a grim line. “—provisionally, you can stay.”

The angel’s eyes widen. It blinks, then tips its head in deference. Unexpected. It pauses. Then, quieter: Thank you.

They stare at each other for another moment, neither quite sure what the next step is meant to be. Sam feels as though he’s easing away from the lip of a canyon, a cliff upon which he’d been millimeters from the edge, and he’s not entirely convinced he won’t still end up throwing himself over.

Well, Sam Winchester, his companion finally says. In what way would you like me to be of help?

“You can start,” he replies, “by telling me your name.”

The angel smiles, small and rueful. It will inspire no love in any who would recognize it, but it may be of some use to you yet, I suppose. Gadreel. My name is Gadreel.

Sam steps back from the mirror. Even without the reflection, he has a sense of the angel—Gadreel—at the corners of his eyes, as though he would see him were he to simply turn his head. A deep breath, settling himself; then he turns, and reaches toward the door.

“Gadreel. We’re going to go have a talk with Dean, and then... then we’ll see. No promises, but. Well. We’ll see.”

The fear, the anger: these aren’t gone. They’ve sunken down into a dull simmer, somewhere underneath the angel starting to relax into the back of his mind. But they feel less like an infection, now. He steels himself for a fight with Dean (probably the first of many, in the days to come), and he reflects that of the many things he cannot be, it seems that he cannot—will never be—pure.

But perhaps, he thinks, there are things more worthwhile than purity.

#hmmm i'm not sure i'm satisfied with this but i am tired of editing it so #here you go #gift fic #sam winchester #gadreel #spn #fanfic #my fanfic

[actual-lea]

The plot! I found it! It’s here!

AO3 | First chapter | Previous chapter

“Hey, Dan, listen up for a sec.”  

He looks up from the newspaper in his hands, to see Frank leaning across the aisle to speak to him in a low voice.

“Once we get to Sydney, I'm gonna be getting on a different plane, and in case we don't see each other again, I just wanna make sure you and I are on the same page about everything that's happened.”

Daniel blinks; after Penny's boat had dropped them off in Perth, he'd expected that he and Frank would continue traveling together for a few more days, at least until they made it back to the States. “Which is...?”

Frank sighs, like that's the answer he expected, but not the one he wanted. “No matter what we were originally hired for, we know things, things that Charles Widmore does not want anyone to know.” He waits for a flight attendant to move past before leaning closer and continuing, “This is the kinda guy who faked a whole damn plane crash, and I think the fact that we know about it at all oughta be enough to keep us out of any trouble, long as nobody goes around spilling the beans. As long as their story holds up,” he nods to the article Dan's reading, its headline boldly claiming to tell The Amazing True Story of the Oceanic Six, “I don't think Jack and his group are in any danger. Anything happens to one of them, you can bet the whole world'll wanna know why. But nobodies like us?” He shakes his head. “It'd be a lot easier for someone like you or me to disappear under mysterious circumstances, if you catch my drift.”

He doesn't. “What...are you trying to tell me, exactly?”

Another sigh. “Look, Dan, just...” Frank puts a hand on his shoulder. “Keep your head down, for a while. Okay?”

------

Daniel spends most of the car ride struggling to sit up, shifting around in small movements and cursing under his breath every time he inevitably sinks back down to the smooth leather of the backseat.

By the time he's finally able to lift himself up on his elbows, just enough to see the road ahead, the surrounding buildings have all turned to industrial-looking monoliths, rectangular factories and warehouses all painted in various shades of the same dull gray.

The car slows to a stop in front of one of the warehouses, and Daniel's pulse skyrockets as Abaddon turns off the engine.

This is it. If he's going to have any chance at escape, it's now or never.

He manages to push himself up – slowly, his arms trembling with the effort – and slumps back in the seat, mostly upright, his head lolling against the headrest as he catches his breath. The door beside him opens, and Abaddon reaches in to pull him out.

“Don't, don't–” He shoves clumsily at the hands trying to grab him. To his surprise, Abaddon actually steps back, allowing him to place his feet on the pavement and grip the car door with both hands for support. “I can walk,” he insists, carefully standing up to prove his point.

He takes a tentative step forward as Abaddon watches with one eyebrow raised. “Do you know what 50,000 volts of electricity does to the human body?”

As if right on cue, Dan's leg buckles; the arm he throws out to catch himself immediately folds beneath his weight with an audible pop, and he bites back a curse as he crumples to the ground, clutching his elbow.

“You can't walk,” Abaddon states simply, and he easily hoists Dan onto his shoulders without another word.

“No–” Daniel struggles against his grasp, but only succeeds in exhausting himself, much too quickly. “Let me go,” he wheezes, driving a knee into his side. “You can't... you can't do this– Agh–” His windpipe crashes into Abaddon's shoulder as the latter roughly yanks Dan's arm forward to readjust his grip and, presumably, to shut him up.

“My employer wants you delivered unharmed, Mr. Faraday.” For the first time, there's a hint of agitation in his voice. “I can't have you breaking a bone or giving yourself a concussion because you're too stubborn to accept help.”

Daniel stills for a moment. Unharmed. It's better than the alternative; maybe he isn't being dragged to his death after all, then. He stares at the pavement of the parking lot below as it moves in a dizzying blur with each step. “This is your idea of help?” he says, hoarsely and with not nearly enough malice.

“Relax.” The pavement becomes floor, and the warehouse door swings shut behind them with a thud.

“What happened?” asks a new voice, echoing ominously in the open space, and Dan's stomach twists into a knot.

“He ran,” Abaddon replies, and then Daniel is dropped onto a folding metal chair; he fumbles ungracefully but catches himself and sits up, blinking warily at the finely-dressed man standing in front of him.

“Not quite the impression I wanted to make,” the man mutters, seemingly to himself, in an English accent. He looks old, probably at least sixty, if Dan had to guess, and oddly mundane; not exactly what he was expecting from a man who paid to have him abducted. “But, here we are, I suppose.” Something about him seems vaguely familiar as he offers a hand in greeting. “Hello, Daniel.”

He glances at it, but doesn't move.

With something like a laugh, the man drops the hand to his side. “Of course. I didn't expect you to remember me. My name is–”

“Charles Widmore,” Daniel finishes.

The man blinks. “You... You do remember?”

He shakes his head. “You're just the only person I can think of who might have any reason to kidnap me,” he says, rather proud of how nonchalant he's able to sound despite his pulse still racing frantically in his ears.

With a stiff smile, Widmore laces his hands together and looks down, as if deep in thought. “That's quite an assumption.”  

Daniel looks around. The three of them are in a makeshift office space, sectioned off in one corner of the dimly lit warehouse by chainlink walls; there's a neat stack of papers sitting on one side of a large desk behind Widmore, and a few filing cabinets lining the wall behind that. The rest of the warehouse is conspicuously empty.

With a deep breath, he turns back to Widmore. “So, did you bring me here...to kill me?”

His head snaps up, and he looks surprised; offended, almost. “Why would I want to kill you?”

Daniel shrugs and rubs his sore elbow. “Because...I'm one of the only people still alive who knows the truth. About Oceanic 815. About the island.”

“I'm not going to kill you, Daniel.” Widmore laughs once. “I can promise you that. I only brought you here to talk.” He moves behind the desk and motions to Abaddon to leave.

Dan glances over his shoulder, then crosses his arms with a frustrated sigh. “You could have just asked me.”

“And would you have accepted my invitation, knowing who it came from?”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. “What do you want?”

“First, I want to apologize if your treatment today has been less than gracious. I fear I didn't make myself clear enough on the terms of your retrieval.”

Daniel isn't sure how to respond to that, so he doesn't; he watches Widmore retrieve a bottle of Scotch along with two glasses from behind the desk.

“As you can probably surmise, I am a busy man, so I'll get right to the point.” He opens the bottle and pours a centimeter of liquid into one of the glasses. “There is a certain...errand, that I need you to run for me.”

“Errand,” Dan repeats. “You mean, this isn't the warehouse where you build henchmen like him–” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder– “to do that kind of thing for you?”

“Daniel.” Widmore sets the bottle down, with just a bit of force, and circles around to the front of the desk. “I've done you the courtesy of bringing you here so we could sit, face-to-face, and have a conversation like gentlemen.” He leans forward to offer the drink to Daniel, and there's a dangerous edge to his voice when he continues, “But I'm warning you, do not test my patience.”

“Alright.” Daniel stares blankly at the glass.

Widmore sighs, and downs the drink himself. “Tell me, how well do you know them?”

Dan waits for context. “Them...?” he prompts after a few seconds.

“The Oceanic Six,” Widmore clarifies, the words dripping with disdain. “How much time did you spend with them?”

“I don't...” Daniel glances down, thinking. “A couple of weeks, maybe? I don't know.” He shakes his head. “Why are you asking me–”

“Their cover story,” Widmore interrupts. “The beach where they washed up – Sumba.” He sits down on the edge of the desk. “You and I both know how far that place is from the island. Or...” He stares at Daniel intensely. “From where the island was, at the time.”

He looks away, and doesn't respond.

“Now, I don't believe that they could have made it that far without some help, do you?”

“What...” He exhales softly and steels himself to lie. Deliberately, he lifts his head to meet Widmore's eyes. “What are you saying?”

“Have you met my daughter, Daniel?”

The directness of the question catches him off-guard; he hesitates for just a moment too long before putting on what he hopes is an adequately confused facial expression. “Your...daughter? Who's your–”

“Her name is Penelope.” Widmore taps his fingers on the empty glass. “But of course, you already knew that, didn't you?”

Daniel looks down at his hands. “Why would I know–”

“You've met her,” Widmore states with certainty. “When all of you left the island together. You, and the Six, and perhaps a few others. I don't know. I don't really care.” He sets down the glass. “I haven't spoken to my daughter in over four years, Daniel.”

“I'm...sorry to hear that,” Dan replies, not sorry at all.

“She wasted a substantial amount of time and money scouring the South Pacific, in search of the man she loved,” Widmore says with a scoff. “You've met this man as well.”

Daniel shifts his weight in the chair; the pins and needles are almost gone, now. “Even if I did, I don't see why it–”

“It matters because she found him, and in doing so, she found the rest of you.” Widmore crosses his arms. “And ever since then, I've had no information about Penny's whereabouts whatsoever.” He leans forward. “And that's where you come in.”

“So...” Dan taps a finger on his leg. “You want me to...” He shakes his head. “...what, exactly? Stalk your daughter for you?”

“No, Daniel. I need you to protect my daughter.”

His finger stills. “I, uh... I think you've got the wrong guy, Mr. Widmore.”

“No,” he says simply. “I've chosen you for a very specific reason, and that reason's name is Desmond Hume.”

Daniel takes a deep breath. “You know what...” Slowly, cautiously, he stands up, a little unsteady, but stable. “I think I'll pass, actually.”

“Excuse me?”

“The last time you offered me a job, a lot of people died,” he says, quickly, before he can lose his nerve. “This whole thing is... It's not something I want to get involved with again.”

Widmore stands suddenly, and Dan takes a small step back. “Like it or not, you're already involved in this, Daniel. Inextricably.”

“Alright, sure.” He shrugs. “But, so what? You already said that you– You're not interested in killing me, so I'll save us both some time and say no now.”

Widmore's eyes narrow. “Do you have any idea who you're speaking to?”

“Do you?” Something like a nervous laugh spills from Daniel's mouth. “Maybe you haven't done your research, Mr. Widmore, but I'm– I'm not really the kind of person that you want protecting anyone. And besides that...” He swallows, and forces himself to make eye contact, squaring his shoulders. “There's nothing you can do to me. I mean, you can have your guy shoot me with that– that taser thing again, you can... You can hurt me or threaten me all you want, but you don't have any actual leverage, because I don't have anything left for you to hold over my head that's gonna make me agree to work for someone like you.” He pauses to steady himself, but it's largely unnecessary; he's telling the truth, after all, and his voice doesn't waver. “And I think you know that, too, so what's the worst you can do if I just...walk out that door?”

Widmore does nothing but stare at him for a moment. “Would you really like to know?”

Dan shakes his head. “Thank you very much for the opportunity, Mr. Widmore, but I'm not gonna be a part of this.” And he turns to leave, halfway anticipating a bullet in his back anyway.

But it's only Widmore's voice that follows him. “Tell me, Daniel. How was Miss Spencer?”

He stops in his tracks.

“I imagine she wouldn't have been very pleased to see you. That is, if she was actually...present...when you visited yesterday.”

Daniel closes his eyes, and lets out a heavy breath. A bullet would have been better. “How do you know about...”  

“I have a man keeping a close eye on her, of course. I don't often abandon my investments.”

He turns around, slowly. “What are you talking about?”

“Didn't Abigail tell you who it was that paid for Theresa's care?”

Of course. “No,” Daniel says in a monotone. “No, she didn't.”

“Was she the one who gave you that black eye?”

He responds with a glare. “Why do you care?”

“Merely curious.” Widmore puts on a mask of innocence. “Can't really blame her, after all. With everything that poor girl's gone through, her sister's unfortunate...accident.” He shrugs. “Well, it would certainly be a shame if more bad luck were to befall that sad little family.”

Dan bristles, his eyes narrowing. “If you even think about it–”

“Then you'll do what?” Widmore snaps, closing the distance between them in a few quick strides. He's only a few inches taller than Dan, but he looms over him nonetheless, his eyes cold and menacing. “Finish your sentence, boy. Tell me exactly what it is that you think you, of all people, can threaten me with.”

Daniel's hands clench into fists at his sides. “Just leave them out of this.” He can feel his expression cracking. “Please.”

“I'm not the one who got them involved in the first place. That was you, Daniel. You and your carelessness.” Widmore's voice drips with venom. “Now, will you, once again, force them to suffer the consequences of your actions?”

Dan stares defiantly at him for a long moment.

Then he hangs his head, and closes his eyes. “What do I have to do,” he asks softly.

“That's better.” Widmore's footsteps echo as he walks back to the desk. “Come here.”

Daniel steps forward mechanically as Widmore gathers up the stack of papers. He’s still speaking, distantly, details that Dan should probably be listening to, but he's not sure he'd retain them anyway.

“And now, I have reason to believe that she might be in danger, from someone with the resources to track my every move,” Widmore is saying. He places it all in Daniel's hands. “That's why I have to send someone else to find her first, and keep her safe.”

“Well...” Dan shuffles through a few of the pages on top – plane tickets, hotel stays, car rentals, credit card records, a wealth of information, most of it for Desmond Hume and all of it apparently from 2001 or earlier. “Why does it have to be me?”

“As I said. Wherever she is, Desmond is with her.”

“Uh...” He blinks a few times, confused. “What does that have to do with–”

“Daniel, please, do yourself a favor.” Widmore shakes his head, looking annoyed. “Don't try playing dumb with me. I can guarantee you, it's never going to work,” he says sternly. “I know that you'll be able to track him down, and by extension, her as well.”

Daniel takes a deep breath and swallows against the lump forming in his throat; surely that can't be what Widmore is expecting him to do?

“Now, I have something else for you.” A drawer scrapes open, and the sound echoes in the empty space. “Consider it a gift, to help you accomplish your goal.”

He holds up a leather-bound journal, and Daniel's eyes widen. “What...”

“Here.” Widmore holds it out toward him. “It's yours, take it.”

And he does, in stunned silence. He runs his fingers over the familiar creases and cracks of the cover. “How the hell did you get this?”

“There's no answer I could give you that wouldn't lead to a dozen other questions.”

Dan opens the journal – his journal, filled with his own messy scribbles – and leafs through without really seeing any of it; it's all here, all his notes and equations and dog-eared pages and coffee stains. He closes it, and looks up at Widmore, with an overwhelming sense of dread. “What... What happens if I can't do it?”

“Daniel, I know much more about you than you realize. I know that you're a man of tremendous gifts.” His voice would be gentle, almost, in any other context. “I know that, with the proper...motivations, you will accomplish great things. So don't try to tell me what you can't do, when I know very well that you can.”

Daniel stares at his feet, and nods, numbly. This is really happening, then.

“Any more questions?”

His fingernails dig into the leather cover of the journal. He might as well be treading water in the middle of the Pacific. “Why,” is the only thing he can say, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I'm sorry?”

“Why are you doing all this?”

Widmore steps closer to him, and he stands still, defeated. “You don't have any children, do you, Daniel?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No.”

“Well, then, I can't really expect you to understand, but...” An unidentifiable expression crosses Charles' face. “Suffice it to say that a father will do whatever is necessary, to protect his children.”

He puts a hand on Dan's shoulder, and he looks away, sick to his stomach.

“Find her, Daniel. Keep my daughter safe.”

(next chapter)

#lost #fanfiction #daniel faraday #lost show #abc lost #(JAZZ HANDS)

[books-in-a-storm]

Paranormal Star Review

Title: Claimed by Lucifer #1 Demon King

Author: Elizabeth Briggs

Pages:306

Rating:⭐⭐⭐⭐(4/5)

Synopsis: I made a deal with the devil. Now he’s claimed me as his mate. When my best friend goes missing in Las Vegas, there’s only one man I can turn to for help. Lucas Ifer. Billionaire playboy. CEO of Abaddon Inc. King of Sin City. And…the devil himself? Lucas—aka Lucifer—agrees to help me, but in exchange he wants one thing: me. He’s dark, dangerous, and wickedly handsome. Oh, and evil incarnate. I should say no, but I can’t. I’m that desperate. But when you make a deal with the devil, there's no escaping it. Now he owns my body for seven nights of sin. Even worse, he owns my soul for all eternity. I’m Persephone being claimed by Hades, and I have no choice but to enter his underworld and become his dark queen. Is there any light left in that black heart? Or will his darkness consume me?

First And Last Sentence: Here

#paranormal romance #paranormal star reviews #booklr #bookblr #demon king #elizabeth Briggs #bookworm #romance #recommendations #february 2023