#angels and elements

[arickaandherfictionalothers]

Supernatural finale: The Musical

(Aricka’s SPN family)

(If Supernatural was a musical, and it was the finale, and the cast gathers to sing one final song. Thjs is how I’d imagine it’d go. Parody of “who lives who dies who tells your story,” from Hamilton)

LIGHTS UP on an empty stage. We see the Impala, still standing strong after all this time. DEAN WINCHESTER strides on from stage left. He looks at the audience.

DEAN:

“Let me tell you what I wish I'd known

When I was young and dreamed of glory

You have no control…”

From behind DEAN, we see every person the Winchester siblings ever encountered. Every member of their extended family.

HUNTER ENSEMBLE:

Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?

CHUCK walks on stage right, stands on a platform above everyone else.

CHUCK:

“I’ll give him this: his legacy is unbreakable

I couldn’t erase it if I tried

… and I tried…”

Lights up on the HUNTER CHORUS.

ENSEMBLE:

Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?

CASTIEL enters center stage, comes to stand by the Impala. DEAN cannot yet see him.

CAS:

“He took our world from ruin to prosperity

I’ve got to admit it

You know he never got enough credit for all the credit he gave us…” he walks over and Dean can finally see him. They share a long look. They walk offstage together, DEAN’S arm around CASTIEL’S shoulders.

ENSEMBLE, one final time:

“Who lives, who dies, who tells your story..”

ARICKA WINCHESTER, the youngest member of the Winchester legacy, walks onstage from the center. She looks haunted. Outraged.

ARICKA:

“Every other hunting legend’s story gets told…” SAM WINCHESTER enters stage right, joins his sister, just as upset as she is.

SAM WINCHESTER:

“Every other hunting legend got to grow old…” ADAM joins the two from stage right.

ADAM:

“And when you're gone, who remembers your name?”

ARICKA:

“Who keeps your flame?”

SAM:

“Who tells your story?”

ARICKA and ADAM:

“Who tells your story?”

Aricka Adam and Sam:

“Who tells your story?” The boys push ARICKA to the front; they say her name, then fade into the shadows for a while.

“Aricka…”

ARICKA:

“I put myself back in the narrative…” the HUNTER CHORUS is heard but not seen.

HUNTER ENSEMBLE:

Aricka…

ARICKA:

“I stop wasting time on tears

I live another 50 years

It's not enough…”

HUNTER ENSEMBLE:

“Aricka…”

ARICKA:

“I interview every hunter who fought by your side…”

JODY/DONNA/CLAIRE/EMMA:

“She tells our story…”

ARICKA:

“I try to make sense of your thousands of pages of writings..” she holds up a journal, not unlike the one that their … father… had, but it is all the more important because it was Dean’s.

“You really do write like you're running out of time

I rely on Sam and Adam…” SPOTLIGHT up on SAM and ADAM who are right behind ARICKA. LIGHTS fade back to only show-

ARICKA:

“While they’re alive, we tell your story

They are buried in Stull cemetery near you…” ADAM and SAM exit stage right for a while. “When I needed them most, they were right on time

And I'm still not through

I ask myself, what would you do if you had more time

Jack, in his kindness

He gives me what you always wanted

He gives me more time…” ARICKA begins a slow circle, and as she passes a new cast member SPOTLIGHT shines on them.

ARICKA:

I raise funds in Lebanon for a new network

The BMoL characters MINUS MICK and KETCH:

She tells my story…

ARICKA:

“I speak out against hatred…” the last word is said with a bite, and the BMoL minus Mick Davies and Arthur Ketch slink offstage ashamed.

“You could have done so much more if you only had time

And when my time is up, have I done enough?

Will they tell your story?” She is suddenly excited, and she waves her hands.

ARICKA:

Oh, can I show you what I'm proudest of?

THE HUNTER CHORUS:

The orphanage..

ARICKA: (softly, tenderly)

“I established the first hunter orphanage in Lebanon Kansas…”

THE HUNTER CHORUS:

The orphanage…

ARICKA:

“I help to raise hundreds of children

I get to see them growing up…” a little boy runs onstage right to ARICKA, and she picks him up. ADAM and SAM also re-enter, each holding a child.

THE HUNTER CHORUS:

The orphanage…

ARICKA: (she’s still holding the little boy, who is wearing a flannel shirt over a band tee-shirt, jeans; and boots. He looks like a miniature Dean.)

“In their eyes I see you, big brother

I see you every time…” she sets the little boy down, ADAM and SAM doing the same with the children they were holding. She hugs them both- not wanting to let go. SAM let’s go first, symbolic of him being the second one to die of the Winchester Four. Adam and Aricka embrace as long as they can, but eventually, ADAM also lets go. Both brothers exit stage left.

“And when my time is up

Have I done enough?

Will they tell your story?” As she finishes the song, she sends each member of the HUNTER CHORUS offstage. She hugs them, squeezes their hand, pats their back, until she is the only one remaining onstage.

“Oh, I can't wait to see you again

It's only a matter of time…” The HUNTER CHORUS echos her offstage, we can hear ADAM and SAM over the voices, singing directly with ARICKA, present even though they’re gone:

“Will they tell your story?”

THE HUNTER CHORUS: (offstage)

Time…

ARICKA:

“Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?”

THE HUNTER CHORUS:

Time…

ARICKA: (softer)

Will they tell your story?

THE HUNTER CHORUS: (offstage)

Time…

ARICKA/ADAM/SAM/DEAN:

Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?

As the four siblings sing the last line, ARICKA looks off stage LEFT. She gasps, hands over her heart, tears falling down her face.

ARICKA:

OH-!

And; as the lights go down; we see ADAM, SAM, and DEAN run to hug ARICKA.

She made it. She’s home.

She told their story.

————————-

@astralshipper @rosieshipper @hyperionshipping @yeehawselfshipping @letsgofoletsgo @callsign-revenge @bookburnerkeay

[ptr-sqloint]

corroded

[isbergillustration]

Hey Hey you, on the other side of the screen

Can you see me? Can you see me? Can you

[valentine-cafe]

˖⁺. “ GUYS MY AGE don't . . . ” :

﹙ various older men x fem reader ﹚.𖹭 ݁

. . . various older men x fem reader !! 🍒 : 

older men just do it better. whether it be how they take care of you - treat you - touch you. . . how could a guy your age ever compare? why be a 'babe' when you could be a darling?

﹙ cws ﹚: explicit content ˖ age gap ( reader is obv over 20 ! ) ˖ fingering ˖ penetrative sex ˖ thigh riding ˖ groping ˖ also just a lot of fluff and affection n spoiling  | wc : 2.8k 

﹙ receipts ﹚: I've been wanting to do this for a while. to all the girls with daddy issues - this one's for you 

꒰  other treats : guidelines ˖ m.list ˖ characters ˖ our lore  ꒱

𖹭. GUYS MY AGE ───

﹙ Jìngyí 209. ﹚. . . don’t know how to treat me !! 🍒 : Spoiling has always been one of Jìngyí’s strong suites. Whether that be café and dinner dates, showers of gifts and endless shopping sprees.

‘You’re spending too much on me!’ you vehemently complain.

‘Well someone has to use my money,’ he counters diligently.

The latter is where you find yourself. Sleek, ebony vicuña weaved into a stunning dress with silk that caresses your skin and whispers the hundreds and thousands of credits your beloved is so ready to put on his bank statement. All to see you dolled up for him.

With shifts in front of the changing room mirror, you suck in a breath at the stare of amber from the reflection. You spin around to greet his sophisticated, seated stance not too far away. His heavy stare worships you from top to bottom. Every curve, every cling of fabric. “Do you like it?” The deep croon takes on the sensation of his hands you can already feel tracing along your hips and thighs.

“Well. . . it is a bit pricey.”

The click of his tongue finds your right ear before you can so much as blink. “Not what I asked, sweetheart.” Cold fingers separate the slit of vicuña at your thigh and remind themselves of your wonderful skin. Much like icy lips that reminisce along the path of your neck.

The mirror strings your gazes once again. You suck in a breath when those familiar chills stroke along the inner corners of your panties. On instinct you urge to look, but the flex of firm fingers on your flesh keeps your eyes on his.

“I asked: if you like it, darling?”

Cotton underwear submits itself to the pull and slither of his fingers. They search for wetness rather than fabric — and once treasure is found they stroke in delight. Spilling hushed breaths from your lips to fog the reflective glass.

“I. . . w-well I - Jìngyí.” His thumb presses for answers at your throbbing clit, that weeps along with your slit for your answer to the sensual interrogation. Not that he would halt even with your breathy - “yes gēgē. . .”

He muses with a kiss to your jaw. Your wet pussy quickly becomes the centre of his attention, other than the pinch of your nipple between his free hand. Since you wish to be so stubborn and stiff with his spoils, he will simply have to ease you.

“Then it’s yours, sweet thing.” The obvious bulge flushes into your ass. A small greeting for what’s to come. The grind into your plush flesh reminds you of the shame he lacks. If his fingers already pumping at your poor cunny were not enough of a prompter.

Jìngyí’s drawl hums into your ear. The sweetest nectar a serpent could muster. Through slitted pupils and the sharpness of fangs peeking from his grin. “And since it is yours; why not break it in, hmm?”

His fingers plunge to the knuckle and he groans out at your hiccupping cry and spewing pussy.

꒰  mad doctor ˖ snake monster ˖ villain character ꒱

 

﹙ Alessio 1311. ﹚. . . don’t know how to touch me !! 🍓 : To grow accustomed to Alessio’s physical affection was to grow accustomed to air leaving your lungs. A fruitless endeavor. Whether it be his squeezes of adoration. Or the way he needed to rest his hands on your hips, thighs, waist and shoulders - as though his palms would surely burn if he did not. And his kisses. Oh his kisses. He may be a felon, but his lips are the true criminals. Devils eager to steal the very essence of your life. Vampiric.

All of these combined only seemed to heighten to the heavens with time apart. He’s a busy man, and you are far from different. So when you stumble through the doors of his late-afternoon apartment. Best believe he’s upon you like a bee to honey.

Yet instead of stings, his hands are sweet on your sides. To the caresses on your neck. The sap of his kisses were evident with the way his lips seemed to remain glued to yours. Heavy to pull away. Let alone breathe.

“Alessio,” you whine. Two rough thumbs apologise in rubs to your cheekbones. But the trails of saliva joining your mouths drips with guiltlessness. His chuckle joins the mix of empty remorse.

“That’s my name, hermosa.”

He’s on you again. Are you aphrodisiac itself? His mouth cannot get enough of you. Nor his hands that back you into the marble countertop and bathe your body in the setting sun poured from vast windows. They clamp on your waist and squeeze his fingers to delight in the flesh.

Your hands join the profession of need, with arms that hook round his neck with playful fingers finding the back of his black hair. It’s only right with the way his hands roam you in search of who-knows-what. Or perhaps there is nothing to be found. Only the essence of your sweet skin beneath his callouses and the shivers it strikes down his spine.

His lips take the carnal trail too. They travel along your neck and find their perch on the corner of junction of your jaw. Sucks and nips induce squirms — and he is left with no other option than fix his grip on your hips.

“Come now, pretty girl.” Alessio’s groan rumbles against your throat almost drunkenly suckles and kisses upon. Like a signal, his palms flatten against the sides of your thighs. Then slip back to catch the cushiony flesh and roughly squeeze. One even delivers a spank to your ass for good measure before he’s yanking you flush against him.

His height topples over you. Dark strands tickle your face as his lips remember yours and race home for round two - or three - maybe four? You cannot keep count when his black lipstick smears you breathless.

“Show me you love me.”

He punctuates with a jerk of his hips. His hard tent drags along your clothed folds so perfectly that you have to grapple for steadiness on his broad shoulders. A skillful tongue eagerly drinks to intoxication on your whines.

And oh - what a greedy man he is. With a hand shoving the back of your head closer; so that you have no other option than to breathe him in as air. Than to cling to him like a lifeline.

As stated. To get used to his touch is to grow accustomed to suffocation itself.

꒰  rockstar ˖ mercenary ˖ punk character ꒱

 

﹙ Orion. ﹚. . . don’t know how to please me !! 🍒 : “What do you mean, that your previous has never tasted you?”

What a poetic way to express his surprise the first time his head swam between your legs. Lust darker than the Abyss had cleared for the shine of shock at your words that day. It appeared the right hand of Lord Darkness could simply not fathom that your former lover refused to worship you in this way.

Ever since, Orion made it his life’s mission to set the stars on your vision whenever he went down on you. Regardless of how many times he’s tasted your sweetness. How many times he’s gorged and drunk on your ambrosia.

He’d never get tired of the flex of your muscles squishing his face your tight leg-lock. The fist of your fingers through his hair black as night. Not to mention the flutter and roll of your eyes, the weight of fat tears on your lashes.

Much was evident tonight after his hours of patrol through the city of shadows. No difference in the caress of his delicate, large hands along your perked breasts. The tickle of his tongue on your thigh. Nor the eagerness to lift your leg over his shoulder.

An angel of his stature, an Admiral of the Abyss, down on his knees for your divine pussy. As though you were his god. You certainly are in his eyes.

“Cannot believe,” he pants into your wetness, taking a moment to gulp down your juices. Still, some poured down his chin and throat. “That fool. . . let this go to waste. Sightless.”

Sightless, quite the way to describe your current state too. With your head draped back into the cushions of the seating. Eyes tittered the line of blindness with the white that invades your vision. Much like his relentless tongue lapping away at your wetness.

“Soooo wet. . . such a pretty pussy you have here for me, yes, love?” Another gulp. To compensate for the lack of stimulation, you receive a tight spank to your spurting cunt. Your sob raises to a slew of hiccups and cries of his name when he dives back in. As though mere seconds away from your heat is a sin of the highest accord.

“O-Orr - Orriii - i-on - p-plea - hic -”

Dark wings envelope your shivering form while his arms lock around your thighs. His lower face needily grinds into your pussy. Eager for another squeeze of your cum and slew of cries. The bridge of his nose certainly takes the memo seriously - as always - and roughly rubs into your quivered clit.

“Thaaattt’s my girl. Mhhm - hah - feel that?” He slurs into your heat. Drooling just as much as your oversensitive pink flesh. “’s is how you should - mngh - should be treated. Buck, sweetheart.”

What more can you do but obey with rushed jerks into his face as your tummy coils? As you stutter his name to the divine and squirt all over his face with fingers squeezing his dark hair through the gaps.

It’s not as though he will stop any time soon. Not when he’s drunk on your cum and eager to prove that this should be the standard. Laid back with a man feasting between your legs — just as you deserve.

꒰  abyssal angel ˖ dragon character ꒱

 

﹙ Rasui 9948e. ﹚. . . don’t know how to read me !! 🍓 : Quiet men have a certain observation to them. You have learnt such in your relationship with a certain fire elemental. The retract of his his tongue is exchange for keen skills in reading each and every one of your signs.

Or perhaps it is simply him. A man his age surely is aware of all the signs and symptoms of the female body and mind to the t. It doesn’t surprise you any less every time he so effortlessly points out your needs. The craving of your essence that even you at times do not realise.

Today was not the case. You knew well what you wanted. Needed. Your skin missed his flame. His warmth a lathered memory on your flesh. The throbs between your thighs call his name — and yet you don’t so much as peep.

Rasui is a busy man. You should be grateful that you’re even allowed in his office when he’s got that much paperwork on his desk. At least, that’s what you’ve convinced the depths of your eager mind.

Every low hum he sounds when observing a document, the hushed mutter that deepens his already baritone voice; it thrums through your very being. So you squeeze your thighs in failed attempts of alleviating some on the unbearable tension.

He’s glanced at you a few times. Whenever you’d shift in the seat to ‘readjust’ your dress and urge it further down your thighs. A fault on your behalf. Wearing a dress around him after waking up that needy. . . you were hungry for problems.

Greedy for a bit more than that it seems. Your cunt’s insatiable to the thought of his thick cock parting your walls. Or his fingers. His hot tongue —

You force your lower face into your palm and press further into your book. Gorge your eyes on meaningless words you have forgotten how to read. What’s comprehension when the thought of him rearranging your insides tastes sweeter to the mind?

His mere presence is enough to leave you wanting. What have you become? A depraved whore? You feel like one.

“Habibti.”

The only thing better than the filthy imageries plaguing your mind like a sinful broken record. His voice. You will your gaze to him and hone every fibre of your body to attempt normality. Topped off with a tight-lipped smile and flex of your thighs beneath the cotton of your dress. “Hmm?”

The pat of his thigh is the only response you get. Oh no. There goes your manners. “Come. Treat yourself.”

You don’t know whether to cry tears of embarrassment or relief. It doesn’t stop your muscles from pulling and legs to shuffle over to your boyfriend. Straddle over his thigh and flush your heat onto his pants-clad thigh with a breathy gasp.

“- ‘m sorry.”

“None of that.”

Eyes dancing with flames and desire cast you affection. Poured out next onto your cheek as he thumbs the skin. Then a pat to your thigh after he rids the hem of the dress to bunch higher. “Don’t apologise for needing me. Take what you need.”

That long awaited sensation of warmth encases your thigh. An idle rest and motivator while his free hand scripts across his document. As if you are not getting off on him with small rocks of your hips and stuttered breaths.

“Th-Thank. . . Thank you.”

“Of course.” His lips meet yours for a moment. In tender pecks to match the aid of his grip to your grind. To kiss on your soft moans and drink them like honey. “Anything for his sweet girl.”

꒰  fire elemental ˖ mercenary leader ꒱

 

﹙ Vespasiano 781. ﹚. . . don’t know how to need me !! 🍒 : At times you wonder if you should have thought twice before falling for a Lieutenant. One of special ops especially. His side of the bed felt like arctic whenever you’d roll on over in search for him in the middle of the night. The phantom of strong arms haunts your skin. From the time the moon rises till sun takes its place.

A repetitive cycle. For days. Weeks. Until your very flesh calls for him. Your heart and soul join the choir of pining. Deployment was an evil, cruel thing.

It mattered not how often he’d communicate. Nothing compared to having his deep voice drawled right beside your ears. Large, warm hands flat on your waist, to your hips and then their squeezing destination at your thighs.

Tonight is different. The strings of your heart play a chord of joy. You watch the windows. Wait the door. Each creak of the floorboards. Every pair of footsteps out of the house.

For a moment, you lost hope at the mockery of the clock’s arms stretched wide across its face. Sink into your slump of loneliness, now missing his touch more than ever.

You’d forget about them the second the lock turned. His arms are all you know once his black boots hit the threshold and your senses flood with the scent of sandalwood. His lips grow hungry and reach for yours — you catch on instinct with his hushed groans and stumbles into you.

The both of you forget his height. Vespasiano’s height staggers over you and pushes you back into the house with his foot carelessly shutting the door. A fumbling waltz through the foyer to the nearest wall. His hands reach - and caress - and grab. Whatever they possible can at your long-awaited body and heat.

“Amore mio. Dio. . . missed you s’fucking much.”

Forget the wall. He needs you up and personal with his skin. Merged into one if he could help it. His palms greet the back of your thighs and remind them of his strength. Effortlessly, he hooks you closer like a lasso and lifts you. Hips reuniting too. Lips familiarising your neck and leaving behind a hundred apologies.

“V-Vesp. . . oh Vespasiano,”

Your hands thread to his hair and grip at his greys in a desperate attempt to keep him right there. Swimming between your thighs and scouring your body with hands and lips in search of who-knows-what treasures.

His deep groan vibrates the front of your throat and he plops you over the nearest piece of furniture. Lips meet yours again. It’s treason to leave them for longer than a minute. His hands abandon their perimeter mission to instead cup at your face and rub calloused thumbs on cheekbones.

“Missed that the most, dolcezza. Missed my name on your tongue.” Muffles to your mouth — ain’t no way is he leaving any time soon. Not when he has to reward your tongue with his after those sweet sounds. His hands return to their worship and once more, you fear his height will topple over you completely. The only thing stopping him from collapsing into your very being is the tightness of your legs round his waist.

“C’mon,” he huffs down your neck. Kisses to your collarbone and hands slipped beneath your shirt, up your sides as his dull green eyes peer into yours. On the verge of heart-shaped pupils and a haze of clear ache for you.

“Move those hips. Show me you love me.”

꒰  lieutenant ˖ vampire ˖ dilf character ꒱

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[deadwerewolfgirlfriend]

Supernatural + the many meanings of "Castiel" 4.01 Lazarus Rising // 4.16 On the Head of a Pin // 4.21 When the Levee Breaks // 8.10 Torn and Frayed // 8.17 Goodbye Stranger // 13.01 Lost and Found (source)

[journey-to-the-attic]

the rest of the cast got their new song covers, so i wanted to try putting the others in a band :>

i did want to make it look a bit like an album cover but i have no idea how those are designed so eh?? i also couldn't think of any band or album/song names so. if anyone has any ideas...

[nebuladreamz]

Hey guys you should go watch Angel Hare

Shitpost with spoilers under the cut (GO WATCH IT PLEASEEEE)

[despazito]

It's crazy how cishet men can be given a tool like AI and the most ""creative"" use a good portion of them can come up with is to generate a poreless white femoidian lich with a dead expressionless face. Kind of impressive

[jasmine-loves-writing]

y'all are testing me I keep seeing posts about Angel and David getting into crashes and Angel being latent. like please I can't do this rn I'm already stressed without y'all putting that in the world

[sysig]

Divided minds of the same thought (Patreon)

[cherubidae]

Angelic ranks. This isn't entirely to scale, angels tend to be abour 4ft~ and archangels tend to be about 10ft~. I also couldn't fit in the serapth for the time angel line, so I'll post them separately when I get around to it.

The life cycle of an angel is pretty simple- they don't die from old age, so they simply live until they are killed. A new angel will not really have any personality or individuality, but they tend to develop this stuff and change their appearances from the default the longer they live and spend time working on earth.

As for archangels, there's 3 per angelic type (1 for each variant in that type, and 216 total). They are mentors and managers for every angel in their subgroup, and tend to stay in heaven MOST of the time as to not do too much damage to the earth with their amplified power. If an archangel falls, an angel from the same variant is selected to take their place (sort of like bee larvae being selected to be fed royal jelly). All archangels are more humanoid to a degree, however none of them have ever looked the same as their appearance changes to match what values and traits they embodied most strongly. Due to this, when you are looking at religious or historical artwork/literature, you can often tell which archangel is or was in power from the way they are described or drawn. But only an angel could actually tell you more, human accounts tend to be very… vague.

Here's the OLD 2021 version of this, just for archival and comparison purposes. Different angel type too of course (drive angel).

[kirby-the-gorb]

[midnightsilver]

My artwork for ‘lullaby for a rainstorm’ written by @tellmetheskyisblue for the @midambang24

If you want to read this beautiful, ephemeral story you can find more info here

Painting Timelapse under cut

Timelapse video of my painting process. Painted in procreate in digital oil paints. Storm gif effects added in Werble.

[video image ID: a Timelapse video of painting process for the scene of Adam on top the lighthouse with the storm raging around him.]

[thefaeriefolk]

Sylph by Linda Ravenscroft

[blogfanreborn777]

Snow Convoy Secrecia by by anotherwanderer

[cinalilli]

skizzy wizzy