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Vessel has more than he could ever dream of. A successful business, a loyal congregation. Not one, but two partners who would do anything for him. So why does he feel so empty? And why does Sleep seem so unhappy?
Sleep doesn't need another vessel. It's too late for him, too late for his pack, but it's not too late for the one She wants to claim.
Vessel will make sure of it.
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A/B/O coffee shop AU with a sprinkling of cult stuff, anyone?
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Windward Research Facility was one of the few places in the world invested in the research and exploration of artificial gods, although Sam was entirely unaware which other facilities could equally as invested in such research. Knowing that was far above his pay-grade, and probably ends with him getting executed.
He hadn’t thought it was real at first, until he’d been face to face with one.
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An AU where the Numerals and Vessel are artificial Gods created in a lab.
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Soulmate AU: Where upon meeting for the first time, one of your eyes will forever change to match the colour of your soulmate’s eyes.
Wounded and discharged from the military, omega Soap finds himself abducted by an elusive, masked serial killer - a ghost who has terrorised the streets of Manchester and evaded capture for years.
He fully expects to die, but he takes one look into his would-be murderer's eyes -
And finds his soulmate looking back.
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Soap is an annoying brat of an omega getting on Ghost’s last nerve.
Ghost’s a ticking time bomb that Soap’s just dying to set off.
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Ghost enters his rut, and Soap joins him for the ride. -
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Soap is having a perfectly pleasant holiday at his grandparent’s cottage, up until he runs headfirst into a mythical sea creature seemingly hellbent on luring him to a watery grave.
He thinks being deployed will save him from their monstrous clutches.
He never could've guessed just how wrong he was.
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Simon the Siren imprints on Soap, and it all goes downhill from there. -
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Omegaverse AU where alphas have been extinct for decades, their mere existence relegated to a distant, poorly remembered myth.
Whilst on leave in Scotland, omega Soap quickly realises that he's being stalked – not by a man, but a monster made real.
He’s about to learn that when it comes to alphas, the lines between being hunted and courted are razor thin.
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Post-MWIII: When Soap is killed by Makarov in the tunnels, the 141 are overrun and forced to leave his body behind with the enemy.
They never anticipate the mad, masked monster wearing Soap's face to come crawling back out, shaped and reborn by Makarov into weapon tailor made to destroy them all.
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Omegaverse AU: Where it’s common for alphas in the military to regularly engage the services of omegas, in order to prevent ruts interfering with their work.
When alpha Ghost invites alpha Soap to share an omega for that very reason, Soap expects a night of awkward, one-sided sex that he’ll inevitably regret. Because even alphas as close as they are can become dangerously territorial, when omegas are involved.
Maybe it’s a good thing, then, that the omega never shows up at all.
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But Your Love Was Unmoved by enderspren for MildLimerence
Fandoms: Call of Duty (Video Games)
15 Dec 2025
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“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me, Johnny,” he murmurs. Soap can’t breathe. Doesn’t even react when Ghost leans down and presses a kiss to his slack and pouting mouth. Tears spills over his lashes again, dark spots forming where they land on Ghost’s shirt.
“I’m sorry,” Soap mumbles.
There’s a gleam in Ghost’s eyes when he looks down at Soap, mask hitched in that funny way it does when he’s grinning underneath. “I guess I’ll have to seduce you, won’t I?”
“Again,” Soap says, a smile pulling at his own mouth.
Ghost doesn’t reply, just hums and pulls Soap against his broad chest. Soap melts against him immediately, the action feeling like second nature. It’s hard to believe he would have forgotten Ghost, but maybe he really did.
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Soap wakes up, weak and confused, and his memory's got more holes than his nan's doilies. Things get worse when Ghost tells him that they were together and Soap's mind is curiously blank on the subject.
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Soap, the human Crown Prince, has been arranged to be married to the mysterious and secretive Fae King since birth.
When their kingdoms go to war, Soap thinks their betrothal contract will be forsaken.
But no petty mortal conflict is enough to stop Ghost from taking what's rightfully his.
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Chaos Theory is in full swing: instead of creating Epictale Papyrus when Epic was in his twenties, Epictale Gaster grows impatient in ushering humanity's destruction and creates Packs when Epic is thirteen -- more than a decade earlier than canon -- and decides to implant the Eye into Epic at this age. The repercussions of this action will echo through time and space.
Like Epic and Packs finding themselves in the middle of Timeline X of XTale, for example
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It's a delicate balance, really, to give Epic what he needs without him leaning into his LV, while simultaneously refusing to let him act like an untrained dog. Epic's father had taught him well, but cruelty and negative reinforcement never stuck. Gaster refined what Epic's father had started with what his poor spymaster really needed. He could provide the father figure Epic's father had never been.
If in an unconventional way.
(Royaul adjacent)
Series
- Part 3 of Royaul fics
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While he didn’t mean to snoop into Epic’s personal business, seeing his roommate return battered and bruised every couple of weeks from his shift as a night guard in a nearby amusement park didn’t sit right with him. He was worried, plain and simple. Even more so because his friend side-stepped his gentle coaxing whenever he tried to get him to rest and recover. Every time, he would only give him the same sardonic smile and beg him not to concern himself with his mistakes.
Well, too bad for him, because Cross was greatly concerned!
(...)
The eye Epic always kept firmly shut was open and glowing a bright wine red. The light wafting off of it seemed to have a calming effect on his assailant, who soon collapsed against him. Epic didn’t bother to support his weight for long, instead electing to let him fall by the side and straddle him. His canines grew in size and sharpness as he did so, and he quickly sank them into the side of the dog monster’s neck with a satisfied sigh.
“What the- Epic…?” Cross found himself muttering. He stumbled back a couple of steps, unsure whether to run or stay put and demand an explanation.
Epic was a vampire.
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or, what has Cross gotten into?
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Pierrot is relatively inexperienced in a situation like this, but Harlequin has no shortage of advice and direction to give— but only as long as he doesn't touch you.
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You are an artist who has finally found their muse in the shape of a cute but awkward clown who would do anything to keep your gaze on him and only him.
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“What in the freshest grocery aisle of hell is THAT?!”
Harlequin merely shrugged, legs spread and pants down, sitting on your clean duvet with his usual wide grin.
“My dicks.”
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The Pierrot has gone missing for nearly a month. A fact that you may or may not be aware of.
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"You know that unhinged shit you say to me when you think I'm asleep? Well… I wouldn't be.... adverse...to having some of that in the bedroom, you know?"
Not for the first time, you thought you might’ve broken The Pierrot.
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Shadow Milk had felt it, even then—the doubt. Buried deep, but still present. Like a line of tension held behind the heart.
Pure Vanilla had feared for the world. Shadow Milk had tasted that fear in his pulse, smelled it in the way his body tensed before the end. He had wondered—of course he had—what would become of everything once the Light of Knowledge returned to its rightful God.
Wondered if ruin would follow. If blood would fall like rain.
And maybe, in another world, he would have acted on that fear.
Maybe, in a world where fake kindness didn't lull him into selfishness, where the promise of rest didn't make him yearn, where his God’s claws didn't feel as comforting… he would have asked.
(“What… will you do with your power back?”)
Maybe he would have spoken.
Maybe he would have fought.
But not in this one.
Not in the world where Shadow Milk’s palm cradled him like a shrine.
Not in the moment where his head was gently stroked by a claw that could tear through mountains.
In this world, he was selfish.
Series
- Part 2 of Deceit's Sacrificial Lamb Works
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The God of Deceit was once a god who danced through truth like a flame through old parchment—destructive, beautiful, inevitable. But that was before the fae turned their backs. Before they bound him in this tree, with chains etched in runes that gnawed through flesh and soul alike.
Now he is stillness. Now he is silence. Now he is Shadow Milk—the god no one remembers, watching the world like a man at the bottom of a well watches the light too far above to reach.
And so he waits.
Through the thin membrane of reality, where the veil is weakest, he sees the world. He sees the golden fields stretching in humble simplicity, dotted with the flicker of sheep. He sees the hill, where wildflowers bloom with such audacity they seem to challenge the sky.
And there, in the middle of it all—white as a breath, still as a prayer—is the shepherd. Pure Vanilla.
...
Pure Vanilla thinks of his flock as he dies. He thinks of Dandelion. He thinks of warm bread and honey. Of sun on his face. Of the feeling of grass beneath his feet.
Death is not merciful, it is not quick.
The shepherd bleeds, and The God of Deceit does not intervene.
Series
- Part 4 of My Cookie Works
- Part 1 of Deceit's Sacrificial Lamb Works