Hello! I'm a big fan of your work, as I've always been enamored with the concept of cyberpunk, and that combined with photos of my home town really just made me fall in love with your blog. I also wanted to ask if you would mind if I used one of your photos as a Twitter header? I would of course credit you (if you have a twt account i would link it, or your insta). Thank you!
Thank you so much! Glad to meet someone else interested in the concept of Cyberpunk Manila! :D Of course, I’d love to see your Twitter too once you change the header. Here are my other social media accounts:
https://www.instagram.com/led.noir.manila/
https://twitter.com/lednoirmanila
https://flickr.com/photos/50713598@N08/ (If you need the full-resolution pictures)
aaaaaaaa! i’m so happy!! I used your photo entitled, Green Ash! It’s one of my favorite pieces :) My Twitter handle is @insomnia_frenzy and I credited you in my bio. Thank you again!
The Tenth Doctor and Rose find some time to themselves. They relax in the TARDIS for a bit.
~
“You know Rose, we should spend more time like this.” The Tenth Doctor smiled softly down at her. Rose was enveloped in his arms, and they were lying on the couch in front of the crackling fireplace.
“Mmm, yeah. But it’s not as if we get time to ourselves. I mean ‘onestly, when was the last time we were able to relax like this?” She turned to face him, and her eyes reflected the light of the warm fire.
“Point made. So you don’t like the running around and saving creatures thing we do?” There was a flicker of worry in his eyes. He tried to cover it up with a joking pout, but Rose saw it. Neither of them could hide anything from each other.
She hurried to reassure his fears, saying, “No, no, no! That’s not what I’m trying to say. I love what we do. The thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of saving lives, I wouldn’t change it for the world. I’m just saying that every now and again, it would be nice to have a break.”
He internally sighed in relief and then smiled again. Nothing to worry about. For a moment, he thought Rose wanted to leave. It was a constant fear of his, that one day, she would leave him. It was not something he wanted to think about.
“Oh. Alright then. Why haven’t you told me this earlier? I could have easily taken you to the Pleasure Planets of Hivexia Thirteen. Or maybe to the beaches of Eilor. Did you know that at night their ocean gl-”
“Doctor, that’s not what I meant either. And you’re ramblin’ on again.” She grinned at him, and it was like the world brightened up, just a bit.
“Huh? Sorry, then what do you mean?”
“Doctor, when I say ‘take a break’, it doesn’t necessarily mean I want an extravagant trip to some pleasure planet or a day at a fancy beach. Just being here in the TARDIS with you is enough for me. So don’t go to such lengths.”
She snuggled deep into his arms and closed her eyes. She had longed for them to be this close for such a long time and now it was reality. It was just unbelievable. As she stayed in his arms, she could feel the rhythmic beating of his two hearts. It was calming, to say the least.
“Really? I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for that.”
They settle into a comfortable silence after that. The Doctor ran his hands through her hair and hummed an old Gallifreyan tune that he loved. It was peaceful, and they were content with each other’s presence.
Michael can't stop thinking about Eleanor. Fortunately(?) for him, Janet has a solution: Netflix! But it doesn’t quite work out how he wants it to.
~
Eleanor Shellstrop is not unique.
It's not an insult, Michael thinks, as he closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. It's a statement of fact. She's just another one of the seven billion humans populating Earth. Of that seven billion, there's thousands of other humans who are as terrible (if not more so) than her. Thousand of jerk-ass humans who had as much capacity for change as she did.
So no, she wasn't unique or special in any way.
At least initially.
The only thing that differentiated her from them was the fact that she actually changed. They all had the chance to do so, but it was only Eleanor (stubborn, determined, amazing, Eleanor, his mind interjects irritatingly) who actually did something about how much of an asshole she was. Granted, it took the knowledge of the afterlife, an ethics professor, two other humans, and the threat of eternal damnation to get her to take action, but hey- Who cares about the small details? The important thing is that in the end, she tried and succeeded to become a better person.
It wasn't as if it had been easy. Eleanor had literally everything going against her.
And when Michael says everything, he truly does mean everything. He threw every obstacle, every problem, every trick in the torture book, against her. If there was a way to torment her, Michael used it. Every single one of her weaknesses and flaws were dragged to the surface and stacked against her. He didn't pull his punches, and by all logic she should have crumbled like a badly built Jenga tower. It should have been, quite simply, impossible for her to improve.
But this was Eleanor Shellstrop, and she showed him that impossible was not a word in her vocabulary.
Against all odds, she changed. 802 reboots, and in every single one (the ones that lasted long enough, at least) she put herself on the path of good all on her own. It was in different ways every time, but the end result was the same. In each reboot, Michael did his damnedest to make her afterlife hell, but he also watched as she grew and learned and improved in spite of it all.
It was frustrating.
It was impressive.
But above all, it was fascinating.
There was something about her, that he could never tire of watching. Oh sure, the others were just as frustrating in their efforts to better themselves (Jason was both a delight and a terror to watch) but they didn't have the same... spark that Eleanor did.
She was in a category all on her own, and Michael didn't understand what it was that made her so special. He'd gone over this dozens of times (honestly he's lost count of how many times he thought about the Dilemma that was Eleanor), digging deep through her files and desperately searching for something to explain... well to explain her in all her unpredictability.
Every time he came up blank.
Eleanor Shellstrop was just your regular, boring, run-of-the-mill, human.
And yet she was extraordinary.
In his entire several thousand years of existence, he had never come across a more frustrating mortal.
If this had been a few days ago, he would have called her existence a curse, a bane on his immortal life, and he would have meant it completely.
Now though... Now he's not sure. He's not sure of anything anymore, except maybe that Eleanor was starting to mess with his damned head.
He drew in a sharp breath, disturbing the stillness of his office. This was the first time he's had any time to himself since Vicky had the gall to blackmail him. And of course, he would spend it thinking about Eleanor. Because that was just how pathetic he was nowadays.
It was all her fault (obviously. who else could it be? him? definitely not.) How could he not think of her after her attitude earlier? She just had to go and be amazing and aggressive and brilliant, didn't she? All the others had easily agreed to his offer of teaming up after he spoke, but her? Nope- she had to go and question everything first. Had to get up all in his face with that scarily gorgeous face of hers and threaten him.
Great. Now he can't even think of her negatively without paying her a compliment. The day was just getting better and better.
He needed a distraction. Something, anything, so long as it keeps him from thinking too much. The logical part of his mind tells him that this is absolutely a classic Shellstrop move (as Eleanor would say, and damn it he's thinking of her again- it would be nice if he could stop doing that-) which means it will do nothing to help him, and will probably make things worse.
Yep he's definitely ignoring that logical bit of his brain.
"Janet?" He calls out as he opens his eyes.
The neighborhood consciousness appears with a smile and the familiar boop which heralds her arrival.
"What can I do for you Michael?"
"What do humans do to distract themselves?" Humans were the great procrastinators, so they must have some good ideas. No other race could put off doing anything better than them.
"That depends on the state of distraction that you want," she states cheerfully, "Do you want a light state where you can immediately resume your previous tasks afterwards?" A book appears in her hand. "Or would you prefer something more along the lines of ignoring a current task to help relax?" A laptop with a playing video drops on top of the book. "Or an intense I-don't-want-to-remember-the-last-ten-hours sort of distraction?" Finally, several bottles of alcohol appear and somehow manage to be perfectly balanced on top of the laptop.
Michael blinks. The last one is tempting, but he doubts Vicky would approve of him getting inebriated and possibly spilling any secrets. He has to care about her opinion now that it actually matters, he thinks acidly.
"I'll uh, I'll go with the second option."
"Excellent!" Everything disappears from her hands, and a TV appears in front of her instead.
"This," she pats the top of the TV, "is connected to every channel and every tv provider to ever exist from the beginning of time until the present. It can also show any movie, series, animation, and various other types of media; just state your preference out loud."
She smiles and turns back to Michael. "Can I help with anything else?"
"No," he says, eager to wipe his mind blank, "Thank you."
When he switches open the TV, a somewhat familiar logo appears. He almost mistakes it for The Bad Place version called Tenflix (it only shows the top ten worst TV series of all time- in 144p), and manages to suppress a shudder. He's so sick of watching reruns of Baywatch. Thank god it's only Netflix.
One day, multiple series, numerous movies, and about 7 tubs of frozen yogurt later, he's taking back his thanks. What started out as a simple distraction has now become an all-consuming void which has sucked him in and refuses to let go. It's more dangerous than IHOP.
He was just starting on his eighth tub of yogurt when there was knocking on his door. If knocking was defined as extremely loud banging on a surface, then yes. There was knocking. A lot of it.
He would have stood up, but the warmth and comfort of his chair coupled with the blanket around his shoulders made a very compelling argument against the prospect of actually facing his responsibilities. So he did what any self-respecting demon would do.
He ignored the knocking.
Ten seconds (precisely, he counted) passed. Then: "MICHAEL WHERE THE FORKING HECK HAVE-" a very familiar voice yelled, and Michael was so shocked that he just... fell out of his chair. And dropped his tub of yogurt. Then fell into the yogurt, ruining his favorite shirt.
"...you...been..." Eleanor trailed off, blinking rapidly at the sight she was greeted with. They stared at each other for several seconds, unsure exactly of how to react.
Then Eleanor burst into laughter. As in the, full blown, doubled over, can barely breathe, kind of laughter. Michael just sighed and settled into the puddle of yogurt, completely resigned to his fate. So this was what humiliation felt like.
"Holy shirt," Eleanor wheezed, "Holy shirt. You should have seen the look on your face. I wish I could have taken a photo!" She slapped her thigh as she continued to laugh.
It took her a full two minutes to finally calm herself enough to be able to talk normally again; two minutes of which Michael spent marinating in cold product. It's not as disgusting as one would expect. It's- It's pretty comfy, actually, once you ignore the dampness. Oh, and the fact that his dignity has taken a nosedive and is now practically non-existent. not that much of it existed in the first place.
Eleanor, in a rare display of pity, (mock-pity, but pity nonetheless) stoops down to offer him her hand. Michael takes it, taking no small amount of satisfaction in smearing melted yogurt all over her palm. Petty, of course, but he's a demon. That excuses it, right?
(Hint: It doesn't)
"Oh come on ya big lump," Eleanor pulls him up forcefully, ignoring the way her clothes are getting stained, "Stop moping."
"I'm not moping," he insists, but she just rolls her eyes.
"Yeah, yeah." Ignoring his protests completely, she sets him down back in his swivel chair. He clamps his arms together and glares at her like a child. There is no heat in his gaze however, and Eleanor takes it all in stride.
"Hilarious as it is to see you like this," she gestures towards his ruined clothing, "we should probably get you cleaned up." She smiles at him, and his heart skips a beat.
Fuck. He's hopeless.
He stares at her for a moment too long, and she raises an eyebrow at him.
"What? Do I have something on my face? Aw shirt, did I get your stupid yogurt on my-" she wipes frantically at her cheeks with her sleeves.
Michael grabs her arm, gently, and gets her to stop. "No, you're fine! Great! Your face is great!- I mean,no, it's not-"
"My face isn't great?"
"No, it's beautif-" Yep, he's stopping that thought right there, "I mean- I mean..." If the ground could kindly swallow him whole right now, that would be fantastic.
Eleanor stares at him blankly as he continues to dig himself further into what he assumes is an early grave. Either he'll die of shame (an impressive feat for a demon), or Eleanor will kill him out of impatience.
Fortunately for him, neither of those things happen. Instead, she claps a hand against his forehead and asks, "You okay there dude? Are you sick? Wait, do demons even get sick? Do you get hell fevers? Oooh, maybe hell pneumonia?" she wrinkles her nose, "On second thought,maybe not. That sounds disgusting."
Her ramble gives him enough time to gather his wits. "No- No, Eleanor. We don't get sick. Not in the way you know at least."
"Mm. Okay," she shrugs, "Anyway. Back to you."
"Right. Well, there's no need to make this whole song and dance about it. I can just do this," he snaps his fingers, and he's back in his regular, clean clothes again.
"Oh. Yeah. Kinda forgot about that." For some indecipherable reason, she actually looks disappointed. But she quickly recovers and goes back to smiling again. "Well then, now that that's cleared up," she grabs his wrist and pulls him out of the chair. There's a lot of strength in that deceptively small frame, enough to make him physically stumble as she drags him out the door of his office.
"Hey- What the-" he protests, but the attempt is half-hearted at best.
"Don't think I forgot about you promising to go to Chidi's ethics class with me!" she throws him a mock glare over her shoulder, "If you think I'm going to suffer through another one of those classes alone- Then you've got another thing coming buddy."
Michael sighs internally. This is what his eternal life has come to. Being bossed around by one, tiny, stubborn, insignificant human.
But, he thinks, as he sits beside her in her Icelandic-fashioned house and watches her argue passionately with Chidi while Tahani and Jason watch on in amusement-
What exactly does an ex-master assassin get up to in his free time? Murder? Puzzles? Cooking? Nope! He goes to the beach of course!
~
Daud never thought he would live past the age of fifty. He was an assassin after all, and he was good at his job. He’d made a lot of powerful enemies in the past, and a lot of people were out for his blood. It was only his reputation and sheer fear that kept them from striking. He’d expected to die at the edge of a blade or perhaps at the hands of one of his own whalers. Never in his wildest dreams would he have expected to receive any other fate than that.
And yet here he was, against all odds, and despite everything he’d done.
The infamous Knife of Dunwall, who’d taken out innumerable nobles for nothing but coin, who once caught the attention of the Outsider himself, and almost singlehandedly brought about the fall of an empire, now lived as a vintner in Karnaca. The man who had risen to infamy through his own wit and skill, albeit some supernatural help, and whose very name struck fear into the hearts of every man and woman in Dunwall, now grew grapes and made wine for a living.
He didn’t even have the comfort of being alone in his misery. When he left Dunwall, most of his whalers had insisted on following, despite all his protests. They even went so far as to sneak onto the boat he was riding to Serkonos. He tried to send them back, he really did, but even that backfired on him. It only ended with them finding more and more ridiculous ways to tail Daud wherever he went.
He once caught them in his vineyard, wearing these horrendous disguises, trying to pass off as trees or grass or whatever piece of nature was nearby. He nearly stepped on one of them. A lot of the whalers hid in the trees, perching on the uppermost branches where the foliage was thickest. At first, he decided to ignore them, see how long they lasted before they gave up. He spent an entire week with those idiots hiding in his trees.
He eventually realized his mistake.
Grapes, apples, and various other fruits were going missing by the dozen. He eventually lost his patience and threatened to pull them out one by one, only then did they finally get the hint and left the property.
Unfortunately for him, it was too much too hope for them to leave permanently. He soon found out that they somehow managed to acquire the house next door and were now using it to keep tabs on him. At this point, he just gave up and let them stick around. It wasn’t so bad. It was just like the old days, barring the assassinations and plague.
A year later, his vineyard was flourishing with the help of the other whalers. They had surprisingly taken up the art of winemaking with much gusto, and now their wine was well on its way to becoming one of the most well known in Karnaca. The merry band of ex-assassins were doing well themselves, even Daud had to admit that.
Life in Serkonos was simple. Calm. Quaint. And despite this, they had enough to keep themselves busy. They still took up missions for espionage, robbery, and similar conquests, but no more assassinations. Old habits were hard to break, and it made it easier for the whalers to get used to their new life. The thrill that came along with their previous occupation had planted a seed of adventure in each and every one of their hearts, and none of them really wanted to live a normal life anymore.
Some of the whalers took up hobbies, to while away the time when there were no missions to finish. Thomas learned how to bake (he was surprisingly good at it), Rulfio learned how to crochet of all things, a fact that the others teased him endlessly about, and Desmond took up writing again. He was currently working on a short novel. Daud himself took up wood carving, though considering the quality of his works so far, he might as well give it up.
In all his life, this was the first time he’d ever been truly content. He didn’t believe in happiness anymore, but if there was one word that could describe how he felt day after day, it would be contentment. He realized how fortunate he was. People like him didn’t get second chance. They didn’t deserve to. But by some twist of fate, he was spared from the punishment. Some inner part of him vowed to live a better life. One that was worthy of the mercy Corvo had deigned to bestow upon him.
He told Thomas about this once, as a fleeting comment in one of their many conversations, and the younger man took this as permission to force him to try ‘new’ things, and as Rulfio said, to ‘Stop brooding and get out of the damn house for once.’
And so one sunny morning, he found himself being dragged out onto the beach along with the others despite his protests.
“The water won’t kill you,” Geoff reassured him as they sat in the cart.
“I’m not afraid of the damned water,” Daud retorted. “I grew up in Serkonos, you idiot. I learned how to swim the same time I learned how to walk. Do you really think I’d be afraid of the bloody ocean?” He glared at the man, who shrugged.
“Then why do you hate going to the beach so much?” A small voice piped up from the rear of the cart. It was Aidan, an orphan they had picked up in the market. He must have been around thirteen, or fourteen at the most.
“None of your business.”
Aidan pouted and turned away from him. He sullenly took a bite out of the apple slice he pulled out from his pocket, and the rest of the whalers rolled their eyes. They were used to his sulking and the mock arguments that he and Daud usually had. It was a daily occurrence that didn’t really bewilder anyone anymore.
Eventually, they arrived at the beach. Fortunately, not many other people were there at the time. But the few that were, had their eyes trained on the former assassins as they stepped into view. None of them knew what they were of course, but that didn’t stop them. They watched from afar, subtly staring from beneath parasols, above handkerchiefs and behind fans.
Daud realized how menacing they must have looked. Fifteen well-built men who moved with an unintentional predatory grace, walking down the beach front. What a sight they must have made. The heavy silence was broken by the sound of Aidan whooping and running to jump into the water. The others soon followed suit, leaving Daud alone with the food and discarded clothing, for people to gawk at. He sighed exasperatedly.
Several hours later, everyone, even Daud, was soaked to the bone. The sun was setting on the horizon. Their laughter and chatter caught his attention, and despite himself, the corners of his mouth turned upwards. It was hard to imagine that only a few months ago, these men were assassins for hire. Now they seemed completely different people altogether.
Muffled footfalls pulled him out of his thoughts. Out of pure instinct, he whipped around and-
“Ack!”
He received a faceful of sand. He spluttered and choked on the dry, salty, material even as the others began to laugh. It took him a while to finally get rid of the sand, and even then he could still feel some moving in his clothes. Aidan stood a long way away from him and had the nerve to even giggle. The cheeky little-
“You-” Daud began, and glared at the child. Aidan immediately took off in the opposite direction, leaving Daud to roll his eyes and mutter, “I hate sand.” and run off after him. The whalers’ laughter followed the two as they played a game of cat and mouse around the beach.
Castiel never thought it would come to this. Somehow, he expected for everything to right themselves on their own. But not this time. This time, Dean's gone too far. And he's the only one who can put a stop to it.
The dilapidated building loomed, filling him with a sense of foreboding. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Almost immediately, the scent of sweat and blood and dust hit him. He wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the doorway. He slipped his blade into his hand and gripped it tightly. The weapon felt cool against his skin. It provided a sense of comfort and security, but he knew that in a fight, he only had his own skills to depend on. This didn't mean well, considering who was waiting just beyond the dark.
Castiel stepped through the doorway as his right hand palmed the wall in an attempt to search for a light switch. It was too dark to see anything and his heart pounded in his throat. He swallowed the fear that was slowly building up. His hand finally felt something on the wall. A small, smooth protrusion that he flicked upwards. A light bulb flickered to life, shedding a soft, yellow glow around the place. The bulb hung from a low ceiling. The entire room was in bad shape. It was evident that nobody had lived here for years.
Dust covered the floors, cobwebs hung from the corners and old boxes were scattered everywhere. Some had been destroyed while others were covered with a fine sheet of dust and mildew. It was then that he noticed that the entire floor wasn't covered in dust. There was a clear trail leading to the stairs. Someone was dragged. There were small stains on the trail. Some had seeped into the cement, giving them a rusted and brown look. He knew better of course, than to assume that they were just rust. These stains had been here for some time.
He walked around them, taking care not to step on the stains or disturb the trail. A door at the back had caught his attention, and he would go and investigate before going on to the second floor. He had to be thorough. He didn't want to miss anything, not this time. There wasn't any room for mistakes, not anymore. The door was even worse than the one at the front. It had a broken doorknob, its paint was peeling, and to top it all off, it was jammed. He had to force it open, by bashing it open using his shoulder.
The doorway led to an overgrown garden. Weeds and various shrubbery were left of what might have once been a beautiful garden. Moonlight cast a subtle glow over the place, giving it an ethereal feel. He spends a few more seconds gazing at the garden. A quiet groan echoes throughout the house behind him. It would have gone unnoticed if not for his superior senses. It catches his attention and he freezes. He listens. He can hear the rustle of leaves, the cool wind, and the dripping water. Then, he hears it. Another indistinct groan which seems to be coming from within. Walking back into the room, the door closes behind him. He walks slowly, trying not to disturb the stillness. It comes again, another sound. It seems more like a whimper this time. The sound came from above. Panic fills his being and he begins to run. The haphazardly placed boxes topple over as he pushes past them. He dashes up the stairs, taking two at the time.
He rounds the bannister and the scent of blood becomes more pronounced. A dark hallway greets him. There are two doors on each side. The door at the far right is slightly ajar. He makes a beeline for that entrance. He grasps the cool metal handle, and for one moment, he hesitates. A dozen thoughts pass through his mind. Anything and everything could happen. But he had a duty to fulfill.
The door creaks open. He almost gags as he enters the bedroom. There are two corpses piled on top of each other in the far side of the room. Their skin already held signs of decay, giving explanation for the terrible stench. He was already too late for them. But perhaps there was some hope yet. A woman lay on the bed. Her wrists were bound to the headboard, as well as her feet. A blindfold covered her eyes while some kind of cloth was inside her mouth. She was in terrible shape. Wounds and bruises littered her entire body. Blood seeped into the sheets. Despite all this, she seemed to be alive. Almost. Her chest rose up and down in slow movements, as if it was painful to do even that.
Castiel darted over to her side and removed her blindfold. Her eyes were filled with terror and she began to struggle the moment she set eyes on him. He tried to comfort her.
"It will be alrig-"
A gunshot sliced through the silent night air. The sound reverberated in his ears and rang throughout the house. A bullet wound appeared between her eyes. It was small, precise. Blood oozed and marred the woman's face. Her eyes were still open in one final declaration of fear. He stepped back in surprise, only to feel a warm hand through the back of his coat. His fear returned in full force. Forcing himself to turn around, he met sparkling green eyes. Eyes he had grown to love. Dean's eyes.
"So you found me. Good job Cas." His voice was low and mocking, He carried a pistol in his right hand. Dean smirked at him. He wanted to vomit. This wasn't how it should be. They should be in the bunker. They should be researching, hunting, doing anything but this.
"Dean." Never had he put so much emotion into a single word. Grief and horror, anger and shock, fear and concern, they were all intermingled. "What have you done?" Castiel was shaking. His ears were still ringing from the gunshot. "What the hell have you done?" He wanted to scream, to yell, to make Dean understand. To make him stop.
Dean cocked his head in reply and raised his eyebrow. That malevolent smirk was still on his face. Completely unaffected by the angel's horror. "I've already told you Cas. You didn't listen. I'm doing this just because I can. Simple as that." His voice was calm. Condescending. So unlike Castiel's.
"These people did you no wrong. They were innocent. They all were!"
"And so?" Silence. He left the question hanging in the air. Castiel had no reply. He could only stand and stare at the person- no the thing that had once been his friend. Was this how far Dean had fallen? It didn't matter. No matter how far gone Dean might be, he didn't care. He was still going to save him. Nothing else mattered, now.
"Dean. I know you're still in there. Somewhere deep inside, you're listening to all this. So please, I'm begging you, fight this. It doesn't have to be this way. Sam and I can help you. I can save you. You just have to let me help."
The two stared at each other for what seemed like years. Deep blues stared deep into those enthralling greens. Those eyes, they belonged to the old Dean. His Dean. Unfortunately, as soon as the moment began, it ended, And those green eyes gave way to so bleak, dark ones. They were unsettling. The demon laughed and laughed, and by the time he finished there were actual tears in his eyes.
"Hah! You should hear yourself speak." He wiped away the tears and continued. "You still actually believe you can save me. Well sorry to burst your bubble Cas, but this," He gestured to his eyes. "Ain't goin' anywhere. That's here to stay."
"No, we can still fix this. You just-"
"You can't fix what isn't broken." His voice was firm, final. It left no room for argument. None of the mocking tones were audible anymore. Castiel's shoulders drooped. He was losing hope. It was ebbing away with each passing second. He tried to muster any hope that he had left, but it was as if he was trying to hold on to sand. Useless.
In one, final, last ditch attempt, he dropped his blade and rushed forward. The weapon clattered to the floor. He sidestepped the punch that Dean threw his way. Instead, he grabbed the lapels of Dean's jacket and pulled him close. He threw all caution to the wind and finally did what had long been overdue. He only wished that he had managed to do this in another time. A better one.
Castiel forced his lips onto Dean's and kissed him roughly. He put everything into he'd ever felt for this broken shell of a man into the action. His fear, his despair, his affection, his love. Dean was so startled that his eyes flickered back into their original color. He struggled to get out of the angel's grip but soon realized that it was futile. He melted into the kiss and responded with as much passion as he received.
Soon, they had to part. Both were out of breath. Dean had an undecipherable expression. For a short, brief, moment, Castiel was hopeful. He could still save him. Everything would be okay. He could solve-
An excruciating pain shot through his entire being. Everything began to fade. He looked down and saw the First Blade embedded in his stomach. Dean pulls it out and there is just so much blood. He fell to his knees, gasping and choking, as Dean laughs. His eyes were that abysmal shade of black. He'd never forget that image. He collapsed, and everything went dark.
Here are some of the guidelines for requests! Just some things to remember to keep everything organized.
1. You can submit a request for any fandom, though I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to write for it if I’m not familiar with the fandom. I don’t want to do them injustice, so you’ll have better luck requesting pieces from fandoms within this list, as I am personally a part of them.
2. For now, the fanfics will be confined to one-shots or multi-chapter fics involving one to five chapters only.
3. When submitting a request, kindly add your preferred length of words for the fanfic. I am willing to write a fic up to 10,000 words.
4. Your request for a fic can be as detailed or as vague as you want. Just be sure to add everything you want to appear in your requested fic in the ask. Things like the fandom and the characters involved will be needed of course, so don't forget those!
5. I will not be writing any smut or explicit content.
That’s about it. Now that you’re fully informed, go ahead and throw me a request!
Hello! Ever wanted to read a fanfic, but can’t find one with the plot you want? Or maybe you’re part of a fandom so small, that there’s next to no fanfiction at all? Well, the time for despair is over! This blog is dedicated to accepting fanfiction requests and writing fics specifically tailored by the asker :D
I’ll do my best to write what you request, within a reasonable time frame. So long as you follow the rules in requests, we’re all good!
