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twola · 1 year

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Seven Deadly Sins - IX

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Because if one thing is true, it is that Arthur Morgan is a sinner. Pure, organic, non-GMO smut. A continuing series.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Low to Medium Honor Arthur (and all that entails)

Perdition: a state of eternal punishment and damnation into which a sinful and unpenitent person passes after death.

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“I’m really sorry for you son, it's a hell of a thing.”

Arthur’s world slowed. It shrunk down to the room in this doctor’s office in Saint Denis, closing in on him, choking, like something pressing down on his chest. Making it even harder to breathe than it already is.

“Wha- what d’ya mean?” He hoarsely asked the doctor, who frowned before turning toward the sink opposite where he sat.

Tuberculosis. Consumption.

“You’re real sick, it's - it's a progressive disease. You’ll be… well, the best thing is rest. And getting somewhere warm and dry and taking it easy now. Is that possible?”

“Sure, I can just take my winters in my country club in California. No, it's not possible.” Arthur retorts icily.

“Well.. like I said, I’m real sorry.”

The doctor moves toward the table, grabbing a syringe. “Let me give you some more energy today, at least.”

Arthur barely registers the pinch of the needle in his arm, but he does feel the rush of energy through his blood, a warming that goes to his head and jolts his weary bones.

The doctor goes back to the table, fiddling with the syringe he just emptied.

“Doc - does it, how - c’n I give it to someone by…?”

He turns around, slowly. The doctor’s eyes flit down to Arthur’s hands - his left ring finger that was conspicuously empty.

“Are you talking about a woman? One you’re intimate with?”

Arthur nods, an even larger pit growing in his stomach.

The doctor’s frown deepens.

Arthur Morgan has always been an unrepentant man. He stole, he robbed, he shot and he killed his way through life. He was sure he would get his someday - at the end of a revolver perhaps, or the hangman’s noose.

He supposed he deserved it, that the higher power he’s never truly believed in would smite him down one day for his deeds - and he had accepted that. Bad men don’t get to have a good life. Why bother changing if all of that blood was going to damn him anyway?

The horse beneath him whinnies as he pushes his spurs into her side, urging her faster, faster, through the tepid and humid marshes of Bluewater, north, north to where the gang had taken refuge after Lakay, at some old blasted hill country camp in the damp and dark hills of Roanoke Ridge.

Arthur found himself praying - to a God he’s never prayed to before - that the punishment he was going to receive would be enough - enough to satisfy the divine being his justice.

You don’t deserve that punishment.

You don't deserve to die. Eliza didn’t deserve to die. Isaac, that bright and bouncing boy, he certainly did not deserve to die.

The thoughts of damnation and punishment invade his psyche so much so that he does not even realize he’s reached Beaver Hollow, absentmindedly going through the motions of hitching his horse and starting to walk toward Tilly, at the edge of the camp reading a book on a blanket.

“Miss Tilly.”

Tilly looks up and smiles. He doesn’t even have to ask, “She took laundry down to the river.” She nods her head to the left, motioning down the hill toward the winding Kamassa carved out of the Roanoke Valley.

Arthur nods and quickly heads down the trail, unwilling to speak to anyone else at the moment. Thoughts of his impending demise were shoved to the back of his mind - he would face them later.

He needed to see you first.

You’re singing, singing, of all things. Scrubbing a shirt against a rock. One of his shirts. The domesticity of it all warms his heart for a short moment - a moment before he remembers he’s a dying outlaw on the run and you are not his wife doing laundry at your homestead. Your soft laugh, your sly smile; the way you sigh his name when he’s buried between your thighs. How could he ever be deserving of your love, of all things, with this much evil he’s done?

You’re a petty thief. A saint compared to him.

You’re simply the object of his transgressions.

He’s lusted after you, your nude frame in the moonlight in Flat Iron Lake. He saw you and lusted for you and took you, that night under the bright moonlight as you sighed his name.

He’s gluttonous with your body - the sweet tang of your slick, feasting upon you in some old boathouse, head between your thighs taking of you far more than his fill.

He’s a greedy, greedy man - collecting your moans and sighs like a rich man collects gold coin - to drown himself in the pile he’s ripped from you.

He’s envious of any man who touches you - to brush against your soft skin that should be blessed only for him.

He’s killed, he’s murdered and maimed, for you - a wrathful punishment against men who dared disrespect or hurt you.

He’s guilty of slothful want - ignoring and shirking responsibilities and jobs and getting money to lock himself in a room with you and spend the hours worshiping your body.

He’s prideful in his possession, wanting all to know that you belonged to him - that you chose him, the miserable bastard that he is, above all others.

Just when he thought he was given his deliverance, laid on his knees next to you after Guarma - the karmic forces of the universe threaten to take him away from you again.

Your song falls into humming as you move to lift the wet work shirt of his - the blue one he always manages to stain, wringing out the water from it before laying it out on a large, flat stone to dry.

God almighty, does he love you.

Maybe he will be spared this tiny bit of retribution for his incalculable sins and be damned to never touch you again. Never feeling your kiss or your warmth or the sweet clutch of your cunt on his cock again. That certainly is punishment for both of you.

Christ, he just wants to lay you down in the mossy grass and take you apart, loving each and every inch of you until he physically can’t.

But he won’t. If by some divine providence, he hasn’t cursed you, he swears he will never touch you again. He’ll put you atop his horse and take you to Annesburg and put you on a train with every penny he has socked away. To go on living, away from the gang that seems to be splintering by the day, away from him, slowly dying under the weight of his failing lungs-

“Oh, Arthur, there you are.” You turn and catch sight of him, a smile gracing your face as you slide across the rock to sit on the edge closer to him.

“Feel like I haven’t seen you in days,” you sigh, but cannot keep the smile from your face as he steps closer, a cold sweat breaking out over the back of his neck.

“Sweetheart, I-“

Arthur is cut off when you cover your mouth to cough, a wet, eerily familiar sound that sends his heart sinking to his feet.

“Sorry - think I’ve got a cold. Haven’t been feelin’ well since we got here, these damn hills….”

He’s been so busy since coming back from Guarma, moving the gang up to Beaver Hollow. The Pinkertons and the Indians and Annesburg and… he’s barely been around. He hadn’t heard a cough. His mind works a million miles an hour as he’s back in the chair in the doctor’s office in Saint Denis.

“There’s a good chance you’ve given it to her, son.”

“What were you going to tell me, cowboy?”

You wipe your mouth with your sleeve and he sees the faintest red staining your teeth.

This is his comeuppance. This is everything he’s ever deserved. Every terrible decision in his life, every person he’s ever hurt - it has all come to this. Damnation and hellfire and all of the pain he’s ever dealt out to others - it comes back in a crushing feeling in his chest far worse than the sickness slowly killing him.

He should have known. He should have known.

People around him get hurt.

They die, because of him.

Because he’s a bad person.

“Arthur? What is it-”

He moves to you in quick steps and falls to his knees, taking your hand and pressing it to his lips before moving against his cheek.

“I’ve damned us both.”

Your eyebrows quirk up in alarm, “What are you talk-”

“I- I’m dyin’. I got TB.”

“What? How - ?” You mumble incredulously, eyes like saucer plates.

“One o’ Strauss’s debts - beat him, he was already dyin’ and I beat him goddamn bloody….”

Your eyes start to lose their focus as you look down at your hand, small, pinkish splotches of blood faintly stain your fingers. You look back to him as color drains from your face.

A dawning of realization sweeps through your eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart. I - I…” he stumbles as his heart breaks.

Words fail him.

He’s sorry, he’s sorry he’s sentenced you to death, a terrible fate of drowning within your own body. That you’ve been caught up in the punishment he was fated to receive in the life he’s lived.

His bloodshot eyes water over as he can’t look at you anymore. He presses your hand to his lips again.

You pull it away violently. You may as well have shot him, the searing, visceral pain he feels piercing his heart - he would rather be shot than feel this.

“I…I need… I need to...” You whisper, standing up from your seat on the rock. You stumble a step away before catching yourself, eyes distant.

You may as well have stabbed him in the chest and ripped out his beating heart. He reaches out to you on his knees and you bat his hands away.

“I need to be alone right now,” Your voice has gone low and you refuse to meet his gaze.

“Sweetheart-“

“ Leave me alone.” You snarl back at him.

You turn away from him, quickly walking further down the riverbank, stumbling across the smooth river stones. He jumps to his feet, quickly following you, catching up to you after several steps.

“Darlin' - let me- let me take you to the…”

You stop in your tracks, not turning around. Arthur tries to grab your hand, and you nearly hiss at him, drawing away. You finally turn your head partway toward him, and a burning, smoldering, naked hatred reflects back at him.

“Haven’t you done enough?” Your frame shudders as you try to hold in a cough.

Arthur stops - painfully close to you. Close enough to reach out and draw your small frame to his, but his arms don’t work.

Your eyes narrow before you turn and walk away, your body language obvious that you do not want him to follow.

He’s watched before as someone he’s loved walked away from him. The stabbing, crushing feeling as real as any bullet or knife, or blow. The slow bleed of being left alone. The exsanguination of his beating heart - where love is given, but not received in return.

Arthur lies in his cot. It feels so empty. It truly is only made for one person, especially one of his size, but he’s gotten so used to you being in it that he can’t bear to sleep without your warmth next to him.

Roanoke is cold. Damp. He’s stripped to his dark blue union suit, underneath a heavy blanket on his cot, staring at the flicker of the oil lantern as darkness settles in.

Arthur stumbled back into camp as the dusk was falling in, he somehow managed to avoid needing to interact with people and was able to pull the canvas shut on his tent as the hours wore on.

He’s listening for you, your soft voice or shy footsteps. Staring at the pocketwatch he left on the bedside table again, vowing to wait just a bit longer before storming out of his tent and going straight for his horse to scour the countryside for you. The nagging feeling in his chest was compounded by the damn Murfrees around.

Fortunately, for his sanity, he is not forced to make that decision.

The tent’s flaps are drawn back and a form slides between them. The burning lantern throws light on you, as you step closer, wringing your hands and staring at the ground. Your bare feet peek out from under your skirts.

“Sweetheart?”

You quietly pad toward the cot, and sit yourself down on the edge, swallowing and finally meeting his gaze as he sits up, shedding the blanket and placing his legs over the edge of the cot. Your eyes are red and bloodshot, and he knows that he’s the cause of it.

“If we’re dyin’, then I don’t want to spend any more time bein’ cross with you. I want to be with you as much as I can.” You say softly, almost a whisper.

“I’m so sorr-”

“Don’t. We’re here now. Ain’t nothing gonna change that.”

You settle in to sit next to him, and he puts his arm around you as he kisses your shoulder. For a moment you stare at the pitch of the tent before turning your head toward him.

His hand gently cups your cheek as he leans to kiss your forehead. “You’re… you’re the best thin’ that’s happened to me.”

You’re silent, and each moment that goes by drives the stake deeper into his heart as your eyes search his face.

“Darl-”

You cut him off by pressing your lips to his. By throwing your arms around him and pushing your body against him. By crawling into his lap and weaving your fingers through his hair. He pants gently, eyes wide as you pull back only inches. He thought he’d never taste your lips again.

“Make love to me, Arthur.”

“Are y’sure?”

Your eyes flit downward to his lips before coming back up to his eyes. Your hand moves to cup his cheek as you lean into him again, pressing your forehead against his. You nod, slowly, to answer his question.

You press your lips to his and he drinks of you as if he were a parched man. His arms wind around you, pulling you against him, plastered against each other.

“Oh, darlin’…” He sighs between kisses, having maneuvered you to straddle his lap, his hands settle on your hips as you begin to slowly roll your hips against his.

Your knees settle on either side of his hips as he sits on the cot, and through the layers of cotton of your skirts and his union suit, he swells. A groan escapes his throat as his blood settles hotly in his lap.

With one slow undulation, you cant your hips so that his burgeoning cock settles against your folds, parting them through fabric. Arthur’s eyes flutter open as you sit up straight in his lap, and your fingers slowly move to the collar of his dark blue union suit, undoing the first two buttons with practiced ease, as if you had been undressing him all of your life instead of only a couple of months.

More and more of his chest becomes visible to you as you work your way down, the bones of his ribcage much more prominent under the layer of muscle than they ever had been before.

He wheezes. Your fingers stop haltingly, the third button of his union suit halfway undone, falling back against his sternum. His bloodshot eyes catch yours once he has recovered his breath, pained, vulnerable.

“We don’t have to do this.” He mumbles, gaze locked on yours, the blue-green of his irises betraying that while the low tones of his voice say one thing, his tortured soul pleads for another.

“I’m not leaving.” You whisper back at him, your fingers slowly moving back to the buttons of his suit. Your gaze flutters down to his chest again as you continue your work of disrobing him.

You’re completely caught by surprise when he lifts you from his lap and easily maneuvers your body to lay on the cot before he climbs atop you, pressing his hips into yours again before chasing your lips as he settles his elbows on either side of your head.

Even ill, even dying, Arthur has more than enough strength to move you however he pleases.

His lips trail from yours down your neck, nuzzling his beard against your skin, leaving warm, wet splotches as he works his way down. He pulls back, balancing on his knees, shrugging out of the arms of his union suit, letting the fabric hang at his waist. You pull your shirt from your skirts and up and over your head, letting it fall to the wayside over the side of the cot.

He leans down and catches your lips briefly before sitting back up again, unbuttoning his union suit completely and pushing it down to his knees. His swollen cock bobs before he places his hand upon it and strokes a few times.

You shimmy your bloomers down from underneath your skirts, kicking them away as you draw your skirts to lay limply around your waist, baring your lower half to him as he hovers above you.

Arthur’s hand moves slowly from his cock toward you. He slides the sleeves of your chemise down, and the cotton falls from your skin as his fingers tug at it. He traces the pad of his thumb over your nipple, and you shiver as the skin pebbles as he passes it over. Arthur’s large hand then moves to cup your breast, squeezing lightly. His other hand weaves into your hair as he kisses you breathlessly.

The hot line of him settles against your soft belly as he settles between your hips, your legs falling open for him as the cotton layers of your skirts fall away.

Arthur wants to spend every waking second he has left in his miserable life in the gentle warmth of your embrace, skin to skin, about to bury his cock in your hips.

And when both he and you are bare and tangled in each other in his dark tent, with nothing but the heavy beating of your hearts and panting of your breath in the tent, Arthur gently, slowly slides his cock into your folds. A soft groan escapes his mouth as your hips touch, and you wrap your legs over his hips, crossing your ankles over his back as you whine back, the stretch of when he enters you sweet and overwhelming.

He takes his time, waiting for you to grow used to his intrusion into your body. When he does start to move his hips, it’s slow, gentle, as if he were savoring each and every second of being locked inside you. He slides down your chest, leaving small love bites upon your skin as you squirm underneath him with each thrust of his hips downwards to press you into the cot.

Your fingers spread out over his back, his hands weaving through your unbound hair, and your hips moving together in the dance of lovemaking without rush or the ferocity of your normal coupling. His hips roll and you accept: the sound of wet skin on wet skin periodically interspersed between soft moans, cut off gasps, and the creaking of the cot as your bodies move together.

You come and it’s completely by surprise, a choked-off whine as you clutch at Arthur’s shoulders, trying to smother your noise into his neck. He grunts and continues his pace through your orgasm, whispering soft affirmations into your ear as he fucks you, until the clutch around his flesh is too much to stand.

“I’m gonna… god-” he rasps into your ear, you can feel the muscles in his stomach clench against yours as he careens toward orgasm, “Where d’ya -”

“Inside - always inside, until -” you whisper, and he presses his mouth over yours to stop you from continuing further, from speaking into the world the terrible, unfailing truth.

He hitches his hips into yours, and a stifled moan rumbles from his chest against your mouth, as you can feel his cock twitch within your cunt. Arthur pours himself into you, coating your inner walls with his warm spend. How many more times would he be able to do this before he or you couldn’t?

He gasps, far more winded than he should be.

Arthur pulls out and you feel the slow drip of his cooling spend from your body, knowing it doesn't matter anymore. He quietly settles himself next to you, his hand moving to cup your cheek.

The tears in your eyes spill over, and he knows, it’s not from joy or physical satisfaction. He pulls you into his chest and his throat gets tight as you sob into his skin. Your hands are gathered tightly between the two of you, and he’s afraid you’re going to feel the rattling of his failing lungs under your fingertips.

He’s afraid that he’s going to feel the rattle from your lungs as you’re wrapped in his arms.

You weep into the curve of his neck. You weep for the impending death of dreams, of futures, and for your collective demise.

He cannot stop the tears from spilling from his own eyes. They track down his cheeks, hollowed and gaunt, as he stares at the pitch of the tent where the two of you are slowly dying in each other’s arms.

He weeps for you, that you are a casualty of the damnation he was always destined for.

#red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #red dead fanfic #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x female reader #red dead smut #seven deadly sins #ao3 #twolafic

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quirkle2 · 1 year

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what if there was an alternate reality where everything else was the same but every famous person had a Slightly different name. borax obama, will smite, marilyn monday. elvis press, morgan froman. benedict cumberbatch

#qktalks

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professorllayton · 3 months

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if i dont draw today after my shift u can all smite me down . pls.

#blabs #i will do one of these if it kills me. tablet is charged my earbuds r charged theres nothing stopping me. so help me god i will finish one

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randomperson99sworld · 2 days

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Ruffled Feathers 🪶

~ Part 16 ~

Summary: Julia Morgan, Bobby's niece, has always been a royal thorn in Dean Winchesters ass since the day they met 1 year ago at Bobby's memorial. She wants to be a hunter, he thinks she's a dumb kid playing dress up. Will she always be seen as an unwanted load in Dean's eyes or will he see something more?

Pairing: Dean x OC

Warnings: Age gap, language, sexual themes (used lightly), physical abuse (Not by Dean)

Word Count:

A/N: I was going to write something with Cas and Julia but didn't know how as it's taking place while Heaven is closed and Cas doesn't have his powers, I felt it would be unnecessary for now. Also, keep in mind that since I haven’t seen the show in a min that some things may not be accurate to the show but im trying my best to make it make sense still lol. Cas will show up later but only in small portions. This fic is mostly centered around Dean and Julia and obviously I'm not leaving Sam out lol

As the Impala sped down the quiet Kansas highway, the tension inside was palpable. Sam sat in the passenger seat, flipping through some old notes they'd collected about their next hunt. Julia, who sat in the back seat, could feel the unease in the air. Julia took a few days off while Dean and Sam had an intense fight with some angels who had gone after Cas, the Angel who turned human and is now homeless, the weight of what was coming next was clearly wearing on the brothers. Julia has met Cas once before, after a hunt had gone wrong, Dean had Cas use his powers to heal her. She hoped he was doing okay.

Julia leaned forward between the seats, curious. "So... what's next on the docket? Another round of smiting or something worse?"

Dean's hands tightened on the steering wheel. He glanced at Sam, who gave a subtle nod. "Abaddon," Dean said flatly, the name carrying a weight that made Julia sit up straight.

"Who's that?" she asked, feeling a cold chill down her spine.

Sam turned slightly, giving Julia a look that made it clear just how serious the situation was. "She's the last Knight of Hell. Powerful, dangerous, and practically unstoppable. We've run into her before, and she's not just some random demon. She's on a mission to take over Hell and, by the looks of it, the world."

Julia's eyebrows furrowed. "A Knight of Hell? I didn't even know that was a thing."

Dean's jaw tightened. "She's the worst of the worst, Julia. And we don't have the weapon we need to take her down."

She frowned. "What kind of weapon?"

Sam chimed in. "The First Blade. It's the only thing that can kill her. We've got a lead on it, but there's a problem."

Dean huffed, clearly still irritated by the whole situation. "The only guy who knows where it is... is Cain."

Julia blinked. "Cain? Like... as in Cain and Abel? That Cain?"

"Yeah," Sam said grimly. "He's the one who created the First Blade. And now we have to convince him to let us use it."

"Cain's still around?" Julia asked in disbelief.

Dean smirked bitterly. "Yeah, and he's not exactly the brother-of-the-year type. We already crossed paths with him, but getting the Blade is a whole different game."

"So, where is this First Blade?" she asked, trying to keep up with the mountain of information.

Dean sighed. "That's the thing. We don't know yet. We have a rough lead, but it's not going to be easy. First, we need to track down Crowley."

Julia raised her eyebrows. "Crowley? As in the King of Hell?"

"Yeah," Sam said, his voice heavy. "He's our best bet for finding the Blade. He's been playing both sides of this fight, but we don't have much of a choice."

"Sounds like a real solid plan," Julia muttered sarcastically, though she could tell this situation was no joke.

Dean gave a half-hearted smirk at her sarcasm. "That's the life. One bad decision after another."

"So, what's my role in this?" she asked, her tone a little more serious.

Dean glanced at her through the rearview mirror. "Your role is to stay out of the way when things go sideways."

Julia rolled her eyes. "Right. Like that's ever worked."

Sam chuckled despite the tension. "You're not exactly the 'sit this one out' type."

"Damn straight," Julia said with a grin.

The conversation settled into a heavy silence as they continued driving, the weight of their mission hanging over them like a dark cloud. They still had a long way to go, and finding the First Blade was only the beginning. But for now, they had each other—and that was something, at least.

As they pulled into the bunker's garage, Dean turned off the engine and leaned back in his seat. "We're getting closer to taking her down, but the closer we get, the more dangerous this becomes. You ready for that?"

Julia looked at him, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. "I've been ready for this since the day I started hunting. Abaddon or not, I'm in."

Dean nodded, then glanced at Sam, who gave a reassuring smile. "Alright then," Dean said, his tone gruff. "Let's gear up."

With that, they all climbed out of the car and headed into the bunker. There was no telling what was coming next, but one thing was certain—they were about to face their biggest challenge yet.

The bunker was dimly lit, the faint glow of old lamps casting shadows against the walls as Dean, Sam, and Julia gathered around the war room table. Maps and scattered notes lay in front of them, but the tension was thick. They knew the next step, but it was a step none of them wanted to take.

Dean broke the silence. "Alright, we need to talk to Crowley. I hate it, but he's the only shot we've got at finding the First Blade."

Sam, leaning back in his chair, rubbed his face. "Yeah, and the fact that Abaddon's already got most of Hell under her thumb means he's desperate. We might actually have a bargaining chip."

Julia had heard stories about Crowley, the King of Hell. It was weird knowing they'd have to trust a demon—especially the demon—but she trusted the Winchesters enough to know they wouldn't make this move unless it was absolutely necessary. "You think he'll actually help us?" she asked, still skeptical.

Dean scoffed. "Crowley? Help us? Hell no. But he'll help himself. And right now, that means finding the Blade."

Sam sighed, pushing away from the table. "Let's get this over with."

They arranged the meeting in an old, abandoned factory on the outskirts of town. The crumbling walls and rusted machinery made the place fitting for a clandestine meeting with the King of Hell. Dean stood with his arms crossed, eyes scanning the area, while Sam and Julia waited nearby, both on edge.

A crackle of energy filled the air, and with a faint pop, Crowley appeared, adjusting his suit as if stepping out of thin air was an everyday occurrence.

"Hello, boys" Crowley said, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they fell on the trio. "The Winchesters. Always a pleasure."

Dean glared. "Crowley."

Crowley's smile widened as he took in Julia's presence, raising an eyebrow. "And who's this? A new recruit? You lads are moving up in the world."

Julia shot him a look. "I've heard a lot about you, Crowley."

"I'm sure you have, love," he replied, his tone dripping with mock politeness. He turned his attention back to Dean. "So, I take it you're here to discuss our mutual problem?"

Sam stepped forward. "Abaddon. She's taking over Hell, Crowley. We know you want your throne back. You help us find the First Blade, we kill her, and you get your seat of power. It's a win-win."

Crowley chuckled, his eyes darkening. "Oh, it's a win for me, all right. Abaddon's made quite the mess of things. Hell's not what it used to be. And as much as I enjoy a good game of thrones, she's overstayed her welcome."

Dean's patience was running thin. "So, can you find it or not?"

Crowley gave him an exaggerated sigh. "You never did learn patience, did you, Squirrel? Yes, I can locate the First Blade. But it won't be easy. The Blade has been hidden for centuries—protected by ancient wards, spells even I can't touch."

"Then how are you supposed to find it?" Julia asked, arms crossed.

Crowley smirked. "There's a certain... relic... I can use to track its energy. Think of it as a hellish dowsing rod. But it'll take time. And in the meantime, you'll have to play nice."

Dean clenched his jaw. "Play nice?"

Crowley shrugged. "You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Help me clean up a few... minor messes left in Abaddon's wake, and I'll make finding the Blade my top priority."

Dean let out a bitter laugh. "I knew there was a catch."

"Always is, darling," Crowley said, flashing a wide grin. "But I'm a man of my word. Help me, and I'll get you the Blade. It's in my best interest, after all."

Sam looked at Dean, a silent exchange passing between them. They didn't have much of a choice. If Crowley really could locate the Blade, they needed him. But working with the King of Hell was a dangerous gamble.

Dean sighed. "Fine. But don't even think about screwing us over, Crowley. You'll regret it."

Crowley's grin didn't falter. "Oh, Dean. I wouldn't dream of it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some demons to herd. I'll be in touch." And with another crackle of energy, Crowley disappeared.

Julia let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "That guy gives me the creeps."

Dean nodded. "Join the club."

Sam rubbed the back of his neck. "We've got to stay sharp. Whatever Crowley's got planned, we'll need to keep our eyes open."

Dean's gaze hardened. "Let's just hope this leads us to the Blade. I want that bitch dead, and I don't care how many deals we have to make to do it."

Julia stayed quiet, watching Dean's intensity as they left the factory. She had seen the weight he carried, and though she wasn't sure where she fit into the brothers' lives yet, she was determined to see this fight through to the end. If finding the First Blade meant saving the world from Abaddon's chaos, she was all in—no matter the cost.

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sigyns-drafts · 10 months

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Norse mythology

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Hercules

Aphrodite

Hades

Shiva + his wives

Rudra

Anubis

Lu bu

Adam & Eve

Kojiro Sasaki

Jack the ripper

Buddha

Qin

Apollo

Poseidon

Smite

Maman Brigitte

Amaterasu

Anhur

Anubis

Ao kuang

Aphrodite

Arcane

Ares

Athena

Artio

Awilix

Baron samedi

Bastet

Ballona

Cernunnos

Chaac

Chang e

Charon

Cu chualinn

Da ji

Discordia

Erlang shen

Eset

Fafnir

Freya

Ganesha

Gilgamesh

Guan yu

Hantchiman

Hades

He bo

Heimdallr

Hel

Hera

Horus

Hou yi

Isthar

Iz chel

Izanami

Janus

Jormungandr

Kali

King Arthur

Kukulkan

Lancelot

Loki

Maui

Medusa

Merlin

Morgan le fay

Mulan

Neith

Nike

Nox

Nemesis

Nu wa

Odin

Olorun

Osiris

Pele

Persephone

Poseidon

Rama

Sequet

Set

Shiva

Sol

Skadi

Sobek

Sun wukong

Surtr

Susano

Terra

Thanatos

The Morrigan

Thor

Tiamat

Tsukuyomi

Tyr

Ullr

Vulcan

Xbalanque

Yemoja

Ymir

Yu Huang

Zeus

Ror!Thor x Fem!Sif reader(A kiss under the evening sun)

Ror!Hermes x NB! Human reader (Enchanting music of the night)

In whistling spirits can be growth (Hades x Persephone)

With an Honorary status, beware the rubble (Odin, Loki, Sigyn, Angrboda)

The unlikely jackal-headed companion (Ror!Anubis x fem!reader)

Bonding by the Nile (Smite!Sobek & Neith)

With parental aid, my cycle's dread will fade (Hel!Reader with Loki and Sigyn)

Slumber in the Divine Boardroom (Gn!Reader x ror!Hades x Buddha x Loki x Poseidon)

Secret crushes and seashells (Ror poseidon x oc)

You remind me so much of him (ror buddha x fem!reader)

#writing #masterlist #norse mythology #smite #shuumatsu no valkyrie #record of ragnarok

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shrinkthisviolet · 1 year

Note

you obviously do not have to answer if you don't want to but I'm just curious how you think Morgan and Berrie would get along if they were to meet lol :)

I love this question actually, so I’m delighted to answer it! Of course, I’m not as much of an expert on Berrie as you are, so feel free to correct me if I misspeak about anything.

Morgan and Berrie are an interesting pair to compare because Berrie seems like they’ve been actively raised by Eobard, while Morgan has sorta bounced around between Eobard and Tina (and after age 7, Eobard stopped being much of a parent to Morgan, really)

It does sorta seem like they’re roughly equal when it comes to moral codes, like Morgan also hates the idea of hurting someone unless there’s no other solution and/or she’s protecting herself…but also, even while protecting herself, Morgan will still pursue nonviolent solutions (unless it’s one of the seasonal villains, someone who’s hurt one of her loved ones (not just mildly but like…severely), or someone who’s done harm to a lot of people, especially metas (ex: Amunet is the antithesis of everything Sentry stands for, and it doesn’t take long for Morgan to want to kill her after learning about and meeting her). So I guess maybe Morgan and Berrie see eye-to-eye in that regard? Berrie’s first kill was an accident, so I don’t hold that against him.

Ooh but Eobard has different goals with both of them. He wants to use Berrie against Barry (until Berrie runs away to E1 after accidentally killing their teacher), but for Morgan, he just wants to keep her away from Team Flash and keep her from getting involved. He has a plan, and he doesn’t want her to get mixed up in it (and he’s also impersonating her father).

(Although if Morgan had turned out to be a speedster…well, then Eobard would want to train her as such and push her on a bit of a villain arc…maybe even use her against Barry. So in that respect, maybe Eobard’s intentions for her would turn out to be more similar to his intentions for Berrie if Morgan had gotten speed, though their origins are definitely different regardless.)

So they’d have very different opinions of Eobard because of how he views them. But it also depends on when you ask Morgan, really. If you ask her early enough, she’ll have stars in her eyes and praise Eowells to no end…but once you get into double digits, when she’s been living with Tina for a while…she’ll still defend Eowells, especially when she goes to live with him, but…there’s something else there. A nagging feeling she can’t shake.

Whereas Berrie it seems will do whatever Eobard asks…but there’s also that tragic element of Berrie being engineered by Eobard to beat Barry, rather than born out of love between two people who just wanted a child. Berrie is a means to an end for Eobard, in a way Morgan isn’t (Eowells loves Morgan for herself, he just does so in an unhealthy way), and that’s tragic. So if Berrie also defends Eobard out of desperation…then maybe they and Morgan would have the same opinion of Eobard if you get the timing just right for Morgan.

But if Sentry met Berrie, I think she’d want to protect them immediately and smite Eobard for hurting them. No questions asked. She’s about protecting metas, and Berrie’s a meta, and Eobard hurt them. Sentry wouldn’t hesitate.

Taglist (send an ask or DM to be added or removed):

@ocappreciationtag @arrthurpendragon @vexic929 @raith-way @thechaoticfanartist @ironverseocs

#the flash #oc: morgan wells #morgan wells au #other people’s ocs #(berrie is so fascinating i love them! thanks for this ask!)

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300iqprower · 1 year

Note

Hey what would your dream Collab event be?

Smite - Maybe if we combine one giant mass of squandered potential with another, it’ll be like multiplying a negative by a negative.

Smite gets the usual batch of detailed skins and can even use the same VA dubs, FGO gets a version of Skadi/Morgan/Artemis/Parvati/Nezha/Pele that doesn’t fucking SUCK

#fgo #never thought i'd get an ask #smite #dont play gachas kids #dont play mobas kids

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skylarmoon71 · 2 years

Text

Aaron Hotchner (Criminal Minds)- Chapter 27

“Can you hear me?”

You swallow.

“Clear as day.”

“That’s good. Your mind is only as strong as your body. I’m sorry if I’ve been pushing you too hard. I just feel better knowing that you’re fully equipped to handle any threat. Even if that threat is me.”

“You’re not that person anymore.”

Your words are resolute.

“It’s true you could have lightened up with that body slam, but no pain no gain right.”

“I need to find out who you keep getting these sayings from and put a stop to it.”

You giggle to yourself, and Reid gives you a look. Clearing your throat, you divert your gaze.

“Dad, I’ve got to go. Code Blue.”

“What the heck’s a code blue? You need to stop with this cop talk I’m not a profi-”

His words are cut off when Morgan walks over to your desk. You have your phone in your hand, and he wears a smirk.

“Texting your boo?”

Thankfully that was a good cover.

“Nope. I was just reading a funny article. “

You pocket the phone.

“Whatever you say.” He sounds like he doesn’t fully believe you as he walks away and you sigh.

Since your powers were growing, you needed to progress with them. You’d been taking both physical and mental measures. Your father was agile in both fight and power. So there was no debate on whether he could help you. So far the both of you had been determining the radius of your telepathic connection.

He was currently at a coffee shop, five miles away. That seemed to be your limit at the moment. It was great progress. When you started you could only feel him when he was in the same room. At the very beginning if he didn’t announce his presence, then you had no way of telling where he was. You’d grown so close to him. Not to mention his promise to make a change. He’d sworn to you that he would refrain from using his powers to smite. That too was a work in progress. You were very proud.

“Any word from Hotch?” You ask Reid.

You’d just closed a case. The three of you were at the Texas precinct waiting for Hotch, Prentiss and JJ to return with the unsub.

“They should be coming up any second now.”

The elevator dings, and you turn. Hotch walks in with a man in cuffs, followed by JJ, Prentiss and a few other officers. The detective working the case looks like he’s able to breathe easier. Hotch makes the exchange, passing over the unsub, and the detective nods. You stand, moving over. There has been a stop momentarily, the sadden expression of the killer’s wife was something you all had seen many times.

“She has a gun. (Y/N), protect Hotch!”

You flinch at your father’s words. Hotch’s back is turned, and your eyes widen as they begin to lead the woman’s husband away. She lifts her hand, and you scream.

“HOTCH GET DOWN!!”

He doesn’t truly have a chance to react, you sprint, tackling him to the floor at the very moment the gun goes off. It echoes, and every officer in the precinct reacts. Both your bodies hit the floor, and you can hear voices yelling as they restrain the wife. You’re on top of Hotch, and you brace one hand on the floor as you use the other to search him for injuries. Your palm runs over his face looking desperately for any kind of wound. Your eyes plead for his safety.

“H-Hotch are you okay!”

His eyes open, and he stares back into your worried gaze. Your face is so close to his, and he’s breathing steadily. You survey his body briefly, right before your eyes move back up to his dark orbs.

“I’m okay…”

It’s somewhat of a whisper. He looks a bit dazed, and you smile, letting out a breath of relief. You’re still unimaginably close, and you appear to realize, because you pull away hurriedly. You rise, and so does Hotch, just in time to see them lead the couple away. The team races to Hotch’s side.

“Hotch, are you hurt?” Morgan asks. Hotch shakes his head.

“I’m fine thanks to Ms. Black.” You rubbed your arm bashfully. Morgan is wearing a wide grin.

“That’s some reflex you have. I barely saw you move until you were both on the floor. Good job.”

You nod.

“I’m just glad you’re okay Sir.” You refuse to look him in the eye.

“I-I think I might have bruised my elbow, I’m going to see if I can pocket some ice.” You make quick movements in the opposite direction, and as you’re walking away, you do your best to get your hand to stop shaking. For a split second, you really thought you would lose Hotch.

“Dad..Thank you so much..”

He can hear the gratitude in your words.

“Anytime Sweetheart.”

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