#because the world he’s in is already collapsing while also being just created. It’s eons old and was sprung into existence five seconds ago

[skhardwarevers1]

I know I call Cider an asshole a lot but all he really wants is a quiet life alone in his little cabin near the cliff side watching over his little world where time doesn’t really exist and maybe a cat

[ckret2]

Aku in an episode called "Aku's Fairy Tales" tried to brainwash children into liking him and hating the Samurai. I have to ask for your opinion why he never thought to shapeshift into the Samurai using makeup to hide his skin to make people resent the samurai or send a duplicate of the Smaurai to cause chaos . So what do you think on him trying to make people hate the Samurai not by sending an impersonator or becoming one himself to create destruction but using fairytales to try and brainwash kids?

i don't think aku cared about making the people hate the samurai.

his monologue at the start of the episode:

For eons I have terrorized this land. Every miserable creature trembled at the mere mention of my name. The pitiful people shrank before my awesome power. But now I am openly mocked by these measly urchins. Tales of the samurai's heroics have spread through the world like a virus! But I will cure the world of this plague of hope. I will unleash such evil that even the most innocent soul will be consumed by terror!

this is the problem as aku sees it: the people used to fear him; but now he's being mocked. his first plan? make them fear him again.

if people have already been infected with hope, what would slandering jack's name do? would destroying his reputation also repair aku's reputation?

or, when the children play their make-believe games, would they simply invent some other hero to beat up the child they've designated as an effigy of aku?

Their elders still fear and respect the almighty Aku. But this new generation... the seed of rebellion has been planted in them by these tales of heroism. Well, if they respond to stories, I have a tale or two that will turn Aku into the hero of their young hearts.

he doesn't say "that will turn the samurai into the villain of their nightmares." he doesn't care! they can think whatever the hell they want about jack!

but the people need to fear, respect, admire, and love HIM.

When Aku starts telling the children stories, he ONLY tells stories about himself. He doesn't even mention Jack until the children ask for a story about him. And so Aku made Jack sound horrible because he was grumpy the kids didn't like the stories about Aku.

Had they said nothing, he would've just kept telling stories about himself.

Given Aku's motives, he'd have no reason to impersonate the samurai

(and on top of the above answer, I have a totally separate rant that goes off on a long tangent about "why doesn't aku use makeup to impersonate people" so i'm putting it under a read more)

on a narrative level, I feel like "aku wears makeup to hide the fact that he can only do four colors" just... doesn't fit the rules of the world. the myth-like, fairy tale-like feel of the world. Jack is always good because He Represents Goodness, Aku is always evil because He Is Made Of Evil, Aku backstabs people helping him even when it undermines him because he must do evil, Jack's sword is capable of choosing who it can and cannot stab because it's an instrument of virtue, etc.

"Well can't the character logically just do this" doesn't fit the kind of story being told, here. if we're gonna start in on "why didn't aku make better disguises for himself" then we also have to ask questions like "why didn't Aku send Jack a couple billion years into the past where there wasn't yet enough oxygen for him to survive" or "why didn't Aku just get a ton of robots and force them to fight jack one at a time while the others waited so that after like a day of nonstop fighting he'd collapse in exhaustion" or "why didn't aku just wait until after jack was dead to tell the people helping him that he was gonna backstab them"

because the point is that the competence of the plans isn't the point. When Jack and Aku compete, the winner isn't decided by "which one of them has the better strategy," but by "which concept would win this fight: goodness, or evilness?"

so their plans can't be decided by "what's most sensible here" but by "what would Good do in this situation? what would Evil do in this situation?" "what fits the overall tale being told?"

and like... if it was "okay" for aku to disguise himself by putting on makeup, then he wouldn't have been limited to four colors in the first place. narratively there'd no longer be any reason for it.

His color scheme being constricted is a symbolic thing: no matter what form it takes, you can always recognize Evil if you know what traits to look for. makeup defeats the purpose.

... on the other hand the makeup's unnecessary because impersonating jack would've worked just as well if aku had been his usual colors. i mean—

jack's wanted posters aren't in color. most people who recognize jack's face still wouldn't know for sure that he isn't green.

[nikkywrites]

Cemetery of Power || Caffeine Challenge 30

Lila starts her ritual. A friend begs her to reconsider. Part two to this.

Used the dialogue prompt and picture sorta.

This is edited a fair bit. Some for flow’s sake, but I did tweak Lila’s spell/ritual and it changes a bit from there. No major shifts, but you may want to give this a glance over if you’re following in the transfer. This encapsulates the kind of changes that’ll happen to everything.

*****

Lila strides out of the bar, blade pressed against her side, bell dinging over her head like a toll for death. She walks around the side, to the cold, bricked, dark alley. Spray paint tags the wall, still wet, a swirl of colors that is abstract to any human that doesn’t know better, but more to those who do. It’s a doorstop for the portal she’d opened to get there.

It leads to the woods. Long grass curling around her ankles, hooked fingers from below trying to pull her in with old magic imbued and rotten. Spindly, tall trees reach for the sun, jagged branches thirsting for magic that no longer lives under it’s cover. Magic migrates, like flocking birds, to where it is easy to live, to where those who practice it reside. When the nest is left behind, empty, the twigs and dirt and sky thirst for what is now gone. These grounds were sacred, once. Lila was going to make sure that they were again, if just for a single moment.

The buildings were long gone, overtaken by nature as the centuries dragged on, but the magic they had been built with, tempered with, housed with, remains. It will take more then time and earth to remove that.

It thrums under her feet, desperate, pleading. Lila unsheathes the Soul Dagger she’d dealt Xia unfairly into relenting. It should corrupt her, leak poison into her blood that explodes her mind, taunting her with all her thoughts of death. Lila isn’t a Soul Keeper. She doesn’t have a drop of it in her past, in her ancestry. But the blade will cooperate nonetheless.

It knows what she is and what she’s going to do. It will listen. Cooperate. It’s going to do what it was made for, regardless that it’s not Xia wielding it anymore. Not a Soul Keeper. It knows this is important.

It takes souls. Cuts the bond between body and spirit. Is an astral blade forged by the Fates, eons and eons and eons ago.

There are few things older than a Soul Blade. This one, Lila knows, happens to have come from the Cutter of String. The final Fate, the lesser Fate, the one who held the shears.

She walks through the trees, pulling against the magic in the ground, in the dirt, in the trees. It obeys, with that blade in her possession. So few know of Fate’s connection with Soul Keepers. Lila knows.

She knows of it’s history while also knowing of the corpse that lays in the ground here. An old body, an old soul, old magic that powers the plants to this day, however dwindling it is. Secret knowledge. Deadly knowledge.

Kneeling, she digs her fingers into the soft earth, malleable with power. She hums a few notes of an old spell-song. She stakes the blade into the ground, to the hilt. Light spills from the edges and she drinks some in, allowing it to strengthen her throat. She begins the chant.

The tongue she uses is old. Ancient. Powerful. Forgotten. Monarchs had crumbled under the taste of a single syllable, a fraction of a word, of a sentence, of a declaration. Now, it burrows and grabs and tugs.

Bones rise from the dark dirt, shambling into a skeleton’s form. With words alone, she assembles one of the oldest skeletons, restoring it to it’s original form. To pristineness. To smooth white instead of craggled yellow-brown. When assembled, she stops. Slowly, reverently, she glides her finger along the clavicle, a sharp jutting point.

“Ward,” she breathes, running her gaze along the forgotten fragment of life. The skull tilts, in response, empty eye sockets turning towards her. “I’m sorry.”

For everything. What she’s done. What she’s doing.

Taking the dagger from the earth, she holds it in her hand. Resumes her chant, lets the power of her words shake the air. His bones vibrate. Her fist tightens and she severs the spine where it holds the skull. The bones sparkle into luminescent powder. She coaxes it into her palm. She blinks at the stinging in her eyes.

Closing her fist and pressing it to her heart, she says the part of the chant, the ritual, the spell, that’s actually draining. Important. The point of no return. Magic spears her. She opens her palm and blows the lackluster dust from her palm. The grinded remains of his bones, unneeded anymore.

It sparkles in the air, hangs still like a puppet on the end of a string. Blows away in conjured wind and becomes nothing that will ever be assembled again. Together.

Lila’s marrow burns.

“What are you doing?” A voice sounds behind her, a familiar one that is too late.

She doesn’t turn, instead aids the invading magic within her, infuses it into her breath, her being, her soul. As sacrifice, she trades three inches of her hair and a secret long passed. Her skin changes, rippling into a darker shade, adapting to a thicker epidermis, the skin of a boy who had changed magic. Who almost became a god. A true Ever. Unforgotten. Almost, almost.

Finally, she turns to her visitor, with the enchantment accepted and progressing. Changing her.

“You know what I’m doing,” she says, dual-voiced like a doubled edged sword, hers and something deeper.

Colin looks at her, pity in his eyes like a corpse from a noose. “You can’t do this.”

Her hair recedes into her skull, shorter, thicker, lighter. “You’re to late to stop me.”

“Stop trying to be him,” Colin says, a plea instead of an order because she’ll never listen to that. “You’ll never be him. He’ll take you.”

She stands, bones shifting under her skin, breaking and shattering, painful but welcome. “I’m not doing this for fun.” The feminine lilt is receding, a background echo to his deep tenor. “I’m adopting him so he won’t be lost. You can sense it. Traders are hungering for a piece of him. He was rotting. It’s too dangerous for him to lie dormant any longer. He’ll rot this forest.”

Colin steps forwards, hesitant, arms raised. “He will consume you. That tongue will only keep him bound for so long.”

His eyes, wide and green, are begging her. Please. Don’t. It’s hopeless. Already too late. He’s a part of her now and if she doesn’t get rid of him quick, things will stay that way. He will consume her. But she has to try. Too much is at stake for her not to.

“It’s not for forever. But no one can get their hands on him. Not even the company.” She fixes brown eyes that aren’t hers on her friend, steely and serious. “He’s too much. He could be used to destroy Nons. For eradication. War. It’s too much, Colin.”

Tears light his eyes. “The Garden is sealed. You won’t make it.”

The old soul bubbles within her own; a temporary extension, a temporary half. “Together we can do it. We have to try. It’s his best chance.”

His tears fall. His face collapses on itself in preemptive grief. “You won’t come back,” he whispers, voice breaking like she imagines his heart is. He steadies his breathing as her outward transformation completes. “Why is this your duty? Why does it have to be you?”

She doesn’t have any more time to spare him the answer. It’s not an easy one anyways. It has things she can’t tell him in it. Things she keeps only to herself. It’s a hard answer.

But the short of it is that no one else is capable. For reasons both in her control and not. She is Ward’s only chance at peace.

Taking a breath, first and new in this body, she stands over him. Taller, body thin and boney. Once, he had fostered all life, protected something doomed to death with his kindness, turned tides of extinction into tides of evolution. Much of magic would be dead and lost if he hadn’t sacrificed all he did. If he hadn’t created all he did. 

Unspoken, his name is just a series of letters to most, a category of spellwork to others, nothing in it’s entirety but something in fragments. To Lila, to long dead corpses, to something he bore that still remains, he is more. He belongs in the Garden, in the cage of ethereal vines that holds souls too powerful for Keepers to have and too powerful to sit in the earth he once breathed in. 

He is too much to let lie. Important in ways that don’t matter. Corrupted too much by time to be harmless and giving and true to what he was. He must be moved.

The forest would change. The Garden would change. Her and her magic would change. Stepping forwards, closer to Colin and not, her footprints sink below the mantle all the way to the core, to molten metal and chunks of forbidden, ancient magic.

His aura, even in death and new not-life, is strong. Pungent. Trees bow beneath it, grass abating, life waning. Magic leaving the forest to die. To look the same but be hollow under bark and grass and sky. Sighing, she takes a step forward in the forest and finishes her next at the gate of the Garden. The cemetery of power.

Immediately, all remaining bits of magic left behind withers. Gone ebbs the fiendish pull of the call for blood, for death, for skin. Centuries among humans had turned his kind healing into vicious corruption. His magic had rotted over time and started trying to self-live, to sustain itself on outward life.

It had tried not to fade into obscurity. It knew what it was. What it did. It knew it did not belong where it was.

Haunted woods haunted no more, Lila brandishes his power and skin like a fleet of trained men. Tearing at rust, at vegetation, at gates made of celestial, intangible steel, she demolishes the veil of protection and starts lying his soul to rest among all the dead, among world domineering strength, among vile healing and kind destruction.

She takes an old soul and heals the world.

*****

I’m still proud of this. Apparently originally I wasn’t sure about it, but I like this piece. I have no idea how the core of it came in an hour, but this is something I’m proud of. A little big, maybe, in the scope of it, but good.

Poor Colin. He’s just trying to be a good friend, but he doesn’t understand.

[astyle-alex]

[FanFic] Start with Why | the Old Guard

You’d think, eventually, the excitement of posting a new chapter of something would simmer down a bit, especially when the chapter’s already live on other platforms, but nope. I’m still hyped up to share it here!

Start With Why

Fandom: the Old Guard Pairings: Background Nicky x Joe Characters / Focus: OT5 + Copley, reacting to Booker's betrayal Rating: Gen Audiences Warnings: None (well, language, because the team are all quite colorful) Total Word Count: 10,288 Chapter Word Count: 1,757

Summary:

The thing about betrayal is that it hurts. Sometimes it hurts too much to see the broader situation clearly. But after Booker's betrayal, the team has to look at themselves and see how every one of them is culpable. Booker may have done the deed, but his measly 200 years makes him a child to the others, especially Andy, and like babysitters are to blame when their charge sets the curtains on fire, the Family needs to ask themselves WHY and accept the honest answers. Why Copley, Why Merrick, and Why something made Booker believe that his choice was the right one for his Family...

-----

||  Read on Patreon  |  Read on Ao3  ||

Part III :: Nicky

           Nicky holds the middle ground.

           He provides a more ranged variety of support.

           It is the role he’s always had, the one he’s always volunteered for.

           He can be cold and objective when he needs to be, no matter what’s at stake.

           But this is a test like no other that he’s faced.

           He hurts for his little Family, for every member of it.

           Booker is his brother and yet he hurt the rest of them— hurt them acutely and intentionally in a way that he had to know would sting like nothing else ever could.

           And yet… Book is hurting so much as that and more, so lost in the despair as he was to have been unable to see things with any hint of clarity.

           Andy says he truly thought it would help.

           Nile says he never thought the others would be grabbed, that he’s worried for Nicolò and Yusuf’s future and the potential pain they’d face when the Almighty that brought them together eventually tore them apart.

           Joe is still too hurt and heartbroken to say anything he truly means.

           And Nicky doesn’t know where that leaves him. Where that leaves them, both the two of them and the four of them… and even the five of them, to be honest.

           Eventually, the argument lapses into silence, weighted and thick with too much grief to sort through the varied points of origin.

           Nicky stands.

           Joe nearly falls out of his seat as he stands to step in front of him— bodily barring his way toward Booker with a kind of heart-broke desperation that makes Nicky nearly crumble.

           And yet…

           Nicolò di Genova does not back down.

           Such is not a trait within his nature. His gaze is filled with sympathy as it meets Joe’s own despairing and betrayed one, but he does not back down.

           Yusuf is Nicolò’s heart and soul, his whole reason for being better than he was— for being a person who could overcome what Booker had not— but Yusuf is not all he is. Yusuf is not the piece of him that defines the limits of what he can be, but the start of his potential. He and Yusuf are still discrete entities, even after eons, they are their own people bound by Fate and love and history, but not merged in any way that makes their love banal or any less miraculous.

           They are not two halves of one whole.

           They are two hearts that beat in sync, two souls that sing in harmony, two minds that see and feel and know enough to teach each other— to show each other new things and new perspectives even after centuries of being in this world together.

           Joe cannot see what Nicky does, and Nicky won’t let his place at Joe’s side determine his ultimate loyalties without his own past-due evaluation.

           Nicky stares Joe down, implacable, until his lover deflates enough to sag back into his seat— heaving Nicky’s pseudo-betrayal off with a huff as he keeps his back firmly to the window.

           Nicky rests his elbows on the rail beside Booker and waits in silence until Book looks over at him— having heard the door open and braced himself for something louder and more final than a quiet conversation with Nicky.

           Nicky doesn’t deliver final verdicts.

           He’ll explain them if the initial delivery doesn’t get the message properly across, but he does not report the sentence first of all.

           If Nicky has a verdict for you, you’ll find it out when he’s put a bullet in your brain.

           Nicky also doesn’t ask. He demands the answers he seeks when he knows who has them.

           But here, he doesn’t know any questions that he actually wants to have answered, yet.

           He just wants Booker to explain, wants in turn to explain himself to Booker… because they are a Family, and none of them can possibly exist in true isolation.

           Book is the one who made the bad decision, but the rest of them are not absolved of all responsibility, as they were all party to creating what bleak circumstances Booker faced, to creating what dismay he believed was enough to push him into making his horrid choice.

           Nicky waits for Booker to speak his Truth, waits with his eyes on the restless sea.

           “I am so sorry, Nicky,” Booker says, looking at him with imploring eyes.

           “I cannot give you absolution, Basti,” Nicky tells him, gaze still on the ocean. “And I cannot yet bring my own self to forgive you, no matter what reasons you bring to bear.”

           Booker falls silent, defeated like a kicked dog.

           “We failed you too, however, in letting you face your despair as we did,” Nicky tells him after a long moment of solemn contemplation. “We failed you in how we brought you into our Family, failed you every bit as much as we’ve ever failed the civilians that we cannot save. But we also did not pull the trigger on this, as you did, and I am finding it difficult to reconcile such divisive and complementary guilts.”

           They always think of Joe as the one to give the pretty speeches, and his Yusuf certainly deserves the epithet, but Nicky appreciates those speeches not because he is incapable of wielding words himself, but because he is more economical with how he states his feelings.

           He pulls no punches, leaves no ambiguity.

           When he is confused, he says so, and when he’s not he states it clear.

           “Yusuf is my heart, my soul, my mind’s only true peace,” Nicky tells his little brother with the cool detachment of age and sympathy. “We have let you bear 200 years of misery and let ourselves forget, nigh even then, how truly young you still are. Nile helped me to remember it, her saying how you had called her so young. A ‘neighbor with a dead pet’, she said. It goes for comfort, too, Basti— it goes for certainty and calm.”

           “You’ve never been a father, Nicky, even as old as you are,” Booker pleads, half frantic to have his reasons reconciled. He wants to be clear, to give himself over unto the others’ understanding, to be heard and truly listened to… He is desperate for it, desperate to be understood, in a way Nicky has, unforgivably, realized he hadn’t the patience to fully see before.

           “And you’ve never had a love grow warm inside you over eons, to feel the Faith in Truth it brings,” Nicky replied, not ceding any ground.

           Booker bites his tongue— cutting off what was sure to be a sour retort, a snap of love turned too bitter to bear. Of trust that feels betrayed as what he feels should be a valid point is just summarily dismissed.

           “You loved them very much, your wife and children,” Nicky states, confident that his words will not be taken as any kind of understatement. “You loved them until it consumed you like a fire, as you believe Yusuf and I love. But you are still so young in how you see things if you think the love either of us has could ever die with the ones to whom we give it.”

           Booker blinks, equal parts surprised and hurt, Nicky thinks.

           “Your family hurt you at their end,” Nicky goes on, “They levied accusations, and you have let yourself descend to meet them. This man beside me is not the one they loved while living, and you do them disservice by believing you could become the monster that they made you. Their love is pure and powerful, tainted only by mortal concerns that I have Faith their immortal souls regret. But if they were first to meet you now, they would not be able to abide it.”

           Booker is retreating, sliding away from Nicky, inch by inch, along the rail.

           “If Yusuf dies, I will despair,” Nicky confesses. “I will ravage lands and wreck vengeance on all villains I can find, killing countless in his name. But the grief will ebb in the face of what good I can still do in his name, what good I can lay claim to having had his heart inspire. It will hurt, and I cannot bear to think of what horrors I may commit at the apex of it, but I cannot believe I will forget the goodness of my Yusuf, the good-work he had, in all his life, strove to create. I cannot believe I will dishonor my own love for him by failing to carry his work on.”

           “ ‘This is what we do’, you say,” Book says with a keening sort of hollow voice. “It’s a mantra, not true belief. You want to believe it, but you have no proof and you want it.”

           “You say Copley has proof, say you’ve seen it, yet you do not believe any more than I that what we do day to day affects things,” Nicky counters. “It is a mantra, and it is belief. The belief is more robust on some days than on others, but there is nothing that will break my Faith. I am a thousand years old, Basti, and the world has been awful for every single one of the years I’ve lived. But there are people who have lived longer lives because of my presence in the horrors of their worst moments, and I have found a way to let that be enough.”

           Booker doesn’t speak— can’t speak.

           Nicky turns his gaze away, looking back to the violent roll of the ocean waves.

           “Tell me why, Booker,” he demands, voice soft and smooth and inescapable. “Tell me what it is you want. Tell me what will help you, or will help me see you.”

           Booker half-collapses.

           “I don’t have excuses left,” he manages eventually. “I don’t have good reasons, or bad ones…. Or anything. I don’t have anything. Just the grief and the regret.”

           “You have us,” Nicky promises simply. “I cannot forgive you yet, but I can promise you that my inability is due only to the freshness of this hurt. You will be forgiven and welcomed back into the Family with no further stipulations, once you have paid your penance.”

           “I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve you.” Booker knows Nicky cannot disagree.

           But he feels his test of faith has been suddenly decided.

           “Love does not care what you deserve,” Nicky says pushing off the rail to return to where the others wait inside for his assessment.

- - - - -

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[river1983]

Did It Hurt When You Fell?

Hello again! Sorry I’ve been gone for a while, been kind of busy! Anyway, here’s another aziracrow fic, because if you can’t tell I love this ship oof. I also love writing about Crowley’s fall, soooo. This fic is based off of @evilsausageflavouredpretzel ‘s post, which is here.

There’s kind of a trigger warning? I want to put it just in case:

Self-Harm.

Self-Hatred.

Descriptions of mutilation.

Please don’t read if any of these trigger you. 

--

Someone once hit on Crowley with the line “did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?”.

He kept it together for just long enough to get back home and then had a breakdown.

He yelled at his plants. Pulled at his wings. Screamed. Cried. Relived that moment again and again and again.

It wasn’t till Aziraphale turned up, hours later, that he was finally able to ground himself.

--

Crowley sat in a bar, an hour before he was supposed to meet with Aziraphale for lunch, sipping at his rum and coke to pass the time. He had decided to only have one, as he would probably be drinking wine with Aziraphale at his bookshop later like they usually did these days.

Someone slid into the stool next to him, leaning toward the demon, elbow on the counter.

“Hey there,” He said. The demon glanced at the human, then turned back to the bar, unfazed.

“Hey.”

“Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

Crowley froze, glass halfway to his lips, the liquid sliding against the shape of the cup. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe, all of it hitting him at once. He never really dealt with it, you know. Just stomped the trauma down deep inside himself, nestled right in his ribcage where it grew and grew, and now it just exploded inside him, because of a pickup line.

But Crowley couldn’t force him to laugh it off or shrug it off. He had to get out, get out, away from the pain and the memories before it tore him apart. 

Without responding, Crowley downed the rest of his drink and pushed away from the bar quickly. He had to get out, he couldn’t stand it.

He stumbled out to his car, opening the door and hitting the gas so hard his head hit the back of the car seat as he took off in his Bentley. 

He felt tears, tears, make themselves known as he drove. He couldn’t make them stop, so he just drove and drove until he made it home, stumbling inside the flat and closing the door, leaning against the frame.

Then he fell apart.

--

Do you know what Crowley remembered the most vividly about the Fall? The smell. Not the pain, but the odor of death and sulfur and salt and evil that engulfed everything, that became his world. He Fell for days, for eons. Or maybe it was just hours. But the smell. It was so distinct and strong it seemed to become part of Crowley, melding into his skin and his clothes, his hair and every atom of his body. It stung his nose and made his eyes water. He hated the smell the most.

Then there was the pain, the feeling of Falling. It burned, burned like someone was just pouring hot lava all over you. Not just outside but inside, erasing every bit of Holiness from him, from his very essence. His eyes burned like acid as they melted from green to yellow and black. His feathers didn’t fall, both of his wings did, forcing themselves to detach from his body, ripping skin and flesh and part of his soul away. The grew back, pushing past raw, bleeding flesh as black as a hole in space. His entire back burned and ached for weeks after.

How he saw the world changed, too. He couldn’t, couldn’t, see the world as good and bad, as right and wrong. He could only see it as people trying their best, people being curious, people who obeyed, disobeyed, fought, cried, loved, existed. Pure and simple. 

His entire being changed, the moment he fell into the pit of sulfur and lost everything, his home. They deemed him Crawley, the snake, meant to drive humanity to sin. 

But he couldn’t be what they wanted, just like he couldn't be what Heaven wanted.

--

Crowley fell against the door, tears streaming down his face without his permission, without his consent. He screamed, yelling at his plants as he crossed the room.

“GROW BETTER! BE BETTER! DON’T SCREW UP LIKE I DID! DON’T--”

He collapsed in his chair, hugging his sides as he curled up. He didn’t even notice how his wings were out.

His yellow eyes stared at the things. He suddenly hated them even more than before, their deep dark color mocking him louder, screaming at him how much of a failure he really is.

He tore at the feathers, ripping them out in tufts. Blood and feathers fell on the floor in pools, his hands covered in the deep red substance.

“All I ever did was ask questions!” Crowley wailed, letting his hands fall, worn out. “I just wanted to know why. Why create humanity just it destroy it? For amusement? For a reason to go to war? Why is it so bad to ask?”

Crowley fell to the floor, weak with exhaustion and anguish. He laid there for Satan knows how long, tears still streaming down his face, his self-hatred still burning in his ribcage, blood and feathers still littering the floor.

He heard the door open but didn’t dare get up.

“Crowley?”

--

Aziraphale stood at the door, gaping at the sight of Crowley. His heart immediately broke and his eyes widened in worry at the sight of him, covered in blood and feathers, crying.

The demon had missed their usual date, and the angel had gotten worried. He thought Crowley might have been too drunk to think straight, as he never missed a lunch date.

“Crowley!” The angel rushed toward the demon, kneeling next to him carefully.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley muttered, remembering the lunch date. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry--”

“My dear boy, what happened to you?”

Crowley closed his eyes, tears threatening to fall again. “I did, the Fall did...”

Aziraphale softly cradled Crowley’s head in his hands. He couldn’t miracle this away, he might do more harm than good.

“Oh, love. Let me help you.”

He gently lifted the demon, who hissed in pain. Aziraphale heart lurched at the sight of Crowley’s wings, wanting so badly to miracle the pain away.

“I don’ deserve you, angel. I’m sorry you have me, I’m sorry--”

Aziraphale quieted him softly. “Save your breath, dear.”

He laid him down in the tub, now miracled full with hot water. Crowley gasped as the water hit his fresh wounds. He gripped the edge of the tub in pain, closing his eyes. Aziraphale rubbed his arm. “I’m sorry, love. I have to clean these wounds.”

He grabbed a rag and gently ran it down the demon’s wings. Crowley hissed and yelped, arching his back. 

Once the angel was done, he miracle bandages into his hand and wrapped Crowley’s wings up, the blood already starting to soak them.

“Alright, dear. Up you go.” 

He helped the demon out of the tub and made him sit on the bed, laying on his stomach. His mutilated wings draped on each side of him, hanging heavily.

“Talk to me,” The angel said firmly.

Crowley shook his head. “S’stupid.”

“It’s not stupid if you’re doing this to yourself, Crowley!” Aziraphale insisted. “This is serious! I’m worried about you, dear.”

Crowley didn’t respond, but Aziraphale waited. 

“A man came, at a bar I was at. Asked me if it hurt when I fell from Heaven,” His breath hitched. “It all just...came crashing down on me.”

The demon looked down. “I asked questions. Heaven didn’t like it. I didn’t deserve to fall. But I did anyway. It hurt, more than you can know.”

“I was cast out of the only home I’ve ever known, into another place where I didn’t really fit it. I didn’t fit well in heaven either, but it was all I knew.”

Aziraphale squeezed the demon’s hand, listening like he always did.

“I’ve...hated myself ever since. For asking too many questions. I don’ deserve someone like you, angel. I don’t deserve...this.”

Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s chin so the demon looked him in the eyes. “Crowley,” He began. “You are so in the wrong. You deserve everything you have here. You didn’t deserve to fall, to feel pain like that, love. But you do deserve happiness, content.”

“Who knows who I would’ve been without you, dear. You taught me to question, and we saved the world because of it. You care, Crowley. And that makes you deserving of what you have right now, and more. I would not be me without you, dear.”

Crowley was crying again. “How can you love me? A demon? Scum of the earth, Aziraphale? How can you think--”

“I don’t think, dear. I know. Crowley, it is I that don’t deserve you.”

Aziraphale kissed the demon on the lips, proving his words true in just a small touch, lip to lip. 

“Please, promise me you won’t do this too yourself again.”

Crowley paused and nodded. “I won’t, angel.”

Aziraphale sighed deeply, laying down next to the demon.

And Crowley finally felt at peace.

--

!!! I hope this was okay. I really liked the prompt and was inspired to write more about Crowley’s fall, because I like thinking about different ways Crowley could have fallen. :) Anyway, thanks for reading!

- river

[cinnbar-bun]

To the Void (Lucilius x Oc)

Pairing: Lucilius/Oc (Luna)

Genre: ANGST ANGST ANGST IM A HORRID MONSTER ANGST ANGST TURN AWAY 

Disclaimer: I really don’t think I need to mention this but due to how this pairing is, obviously some things don’t relate well to canon/would most likely never happen in canon. Lucilius would probably never have a lover. Lucilius would probably have a different motivation for his whole ‘destroy the world’ thing. I KNOW. I KNOW VERY WELL, AND I AM DOING MY BEST TO CREATE A STORY AND BACKSTORY, IT HAS NO BACKING IN CANON BECAUSE ASTRALS/LUCILIUS HIMSELF WAS NEVER FULLY DEVELOPED. PLEASE KEEP THIS IN MIND BEFORE READING. Also, a lot of my other friends’ ocs are in here as well, because I love them lol. 

With that out of the way, please enjoy this???? And also please let me know if you like these things and wouldn’t mind seeing more for Lucilius/Luna, since I have plenty more for them!

Lucilius worked continuously in his lab. Even Belial was starting to get worried about his behavior.

“Listen Cilius, you can’t keep-“

“Quiet you!” Lucilius would snap back, thrusting his scalpel towards the brunette. He was breathing heavily and the bags under his eyes seemed to have gotten worse than before. “I told you I’m busy working!”

Belial clamped his mouth shut and nodded, leaving the astral to continue his work.

Lucilius furiously scribbled notes on a scroll before he growled and snapped his quill in two. He slammed his hand against his desk and cursed loudly.

“Damn it! Damn it all to hell! What good is this world? What use is there to a place where I am denied my dreams? How long must I suffer alone before you give me back my life?!” He yelled to no one in particular. “I don’t care anymore! I don’t care! Useless! Useless! Useless! This is useless!”

He chucked some of his work across the room and screamed into his hands. He was never good at dealing with emotions. Especially not something as intense as grief. Being this hateful, sad, repentant, and guilty had placed a heavy burden on himself.

 Normally, his wife would’ve comforted him. Her sweet words and soothing touches would’ve eased the beast within him, and he found solace in being wrapped in her arms. Then again, if she were here, he wouldn’t be feeling this suffering. 

Tomorrow would be their anniversary. But it would not be a happy celebration. It would not be a joyous occasion spent in each other’s arms and lips. It would be desolate, cold, and dark. It would be a constant reminder of what he had lost, and what he never could get back.

A hundred years have passed by. But they all melded into the same day. It was suffering just getting up to an empty bed, where the soft feel of her lips and her melodic voice would wake him up and tell him good morning. It was exhausting to remember to eat, drink, and clean, all things that seemed trivial and even more meaningless than before.

Existing was hard. So hard, and so painful that he wished to rid of it all. If he had to suffer through the pain of losing his only love, then the others should too. It was only fair.

He saw his children were grieving, but a part of him couldn’t help but feel angered and jealous of them. They looked to her as a mother figure. But they would move on. They had their own lovers and things to attend to. But him? Oh no, he’d be back to being absolutely, completely, utterly alone. They wouldn’t understand the desperation for literally anything to just end his misery, or for his wife to suddenly spring back to life.

 No, they’d cry for a bit before forgetting. Their pain would be temporary. Simply because the bond they shared was completely different from the one he shared with her.

 They already seemed to be getting their lives back together, continuing their work and jobs as if everything were normal. He wanted to scream. They should be in as much pain as he was. It was only fair.

 He gazed up at the clock and noticed it was late evening. He sadly nodded before he crept to his room.

 “Father, there you are, I-“ Astra began, but Lucilius was unresponsive. He couldn’t hear her. He just continued walking. Astra lowered her hands to her side and nodded. “A...alright...”

Lucilius closed his door behind him and struggled to his bed, where he laid down and curled into a pathetic ball. For thirty six thousand five hundred days, he had to sleep alone. People said time heals the pain, but he felt as if he’s gotten more bitter and emotional as time went on.

 He was angry one of the few people who mattered so much to him had to die. He was depressed his wife was no longer there to love him and make him feel whole again. He was numb as he registered that the good times would not come back. He was alone again. This time, it was even worse, he was surrounded by people who just couldn’t understand how traumatizing it was to finally receive the love you craved, only to have it taken away from you.

 He clenched his eyes shut.

 He was not good. He would never be good. He was only good when his wife was there, who taught him how to be like that. But now she was gone, and he was a wreck.

That’s right, I was never good to begin with. Why should I pretend any longer?

In the hundred years he’s been grieving, he’s missed out on a lot of things. His kids would struggle to get him to come out, but after a while, they too gave up when he was practically catatonic. It was like he was a dead corpse.

He closed his eyes.

I’m not good. I’ve only ever been bad. Why should I stop now? Who’s gonna stop me?

An idea formed in his head. For once, he thought of nothing. The idea brought him comfort he hadn’t felt in eons, as he went into a dreamless sleep.

As morning rose, he quickly scurried to the middle of the garden where his wife lay. Her casket wasn’t to be buried, and Lucilius was grateful for that. She lay in the crystal coffin, dressed in all white and with a small smile on her face.

Lucilius loved her smile.

He couldn’t help but tearfully smile back at his wife. Seeing her smile almost made it seem like she was comforting even in the afterlife. She always was a faithful and devoted wife. He really wouldn’t be surprised to see her fight out of the underworld. That’s just the type of woman she was, and one that he loved with all his heart.

He rested his head against the glass and closed his eyes.

“My love...happy anniversary… I have a gift for you. You might not like the sound of it. I know, I know. But this is one I wish to give. It’ll be better for the both of us, and the entire world.” He whispered. 

“I’m going to do something so big. For our ‘Big Finale’, if you will. You won’t understand until you see it. And when you do, I will be there by your side once more darling. We will be joined again, and you won’t ever have to feel pain. You will never have to watch anyone suffer. You will never have to bear the weight of my mistakes again. This time, we can have our own paradise as everything disappears. Won’t it be nice?” He cooed. 

The corpse did not answer. But he smiled. 

“I hope you’ll love this gift when it comes to fruition. I will begin working on it immediately. For your sake, and mines, I will complete it. I will allow nothing to stop me. Not even our children can stop this finale. It’s just too important to me. I will make you smile again. Once we are reunited, I will hold you close and never let go. My dream will come true again, and we can live out our days in nothingness.” 

The wind billowed softly against the piles of flowers surrounding the casket, tickling Lucilius’ legs. However, he could not feel a thing, too caught up in the newfound euphoria at this idea. 

“Please be patient for me love. Guide me to that place where I can be in your arms. I will take the world’s evolution into my own hands and start it over from zero.Wait for me, until then, when I am worthy of seeing you and holding you.” 

He heaved a sigh, and droplets of tears flowed down his cheeks. 

“I’m crying but...I feel so happy...is this your doing? Is this your way of telling me not to do it? Gods...I can’t just quit. I can’t quit, not when you and I are merely inches apart. I want your eyes to open again. I want to feel your warmth. My love, don’t you get it? You’re the only thing that can provide me that. Please...don’t stop me. Don’t tell me I’m a good man, that I don’t need to do this. You know very well I am no good. I am not nice. I have never been nice. I have never been good unless I was with you. Please, don’t tell me it’s fine the way it is. Soon you’ll be forgotten and-” He choked out a sob and collapsed against the casket, tearfully hiding his face in his sleeves. 

“-What if the others forget you? What if I forget you? I don’t want anyone else. I don’t need anyone else. I need you, just you. Please don’t deny me that. Please. I can’t continue without you.” 

Lucifer, Stella, and Sandalphon quietly peeked their head into the gardens through the door and saw their father crying and pleading for Luna to come back. 

“One hundred years…” Lucifer murmured. 

“Should we...talk to him?” Stella worriedly asked. 

“I don’t know if that’s the best. He nearly stabbed Belial and I for asking if he was alright.” Sandalphon shook his head. 

“It’s so unfair. He’s...he’s suffering like this. Can’t we do something?” Stella pleaded. 

“Unless you can bring our mother back, he’s going to unfortunately be like this.” Sandalphon grumbled, folding his arms and looking away. 

“Can we get Mari to-”

“I had tried that, my love.” Lucifer sadly answered. “Primals do not have a soul. Only a core. And...it was destroyed.” 

“I don’t believe it.” Stella shook her head. “I don’t believe that’s all we can do.” 

“I want to believe, I really do. But it seems pointless here. Our mother is dead. And Lucilius has to accept it just like we-” Sandalphon choked, heaving until Lucifer placed a hand on his shoulder. “We did. Just like we did.” 

“Sandalphon…” Stella whispered, before hugging both of them. “I know it hurts. I know.” 

“Stella? Sandy? Lucifer?” A tiny voice called out. Aurora tugged on Lucifer’s pant legs as Stella and Sandalphon quickly rubbed their eyes. 

“Yes, Aurora?” Lucifer bent down and smiled as best as he could to his baby sister. 

“Have you seen papa? I’ve been looking everywhere, but everyone’s been avoiding my question.” She pouted. 

“Oh he’s-” Lucifer cut himself off before he smiled again. “I think he’s coming in soon. He’s just taking a small walk.” 

“But I think someone’s behind you-” She tried to peek but Lucifer held her down by her shoulders. 

“Heh, no, it’s just Sandalphon and his bad allergies. Here, how about us four go and make some tea?” 

“Oh! Yes please!” She grasped onto his hand and followed him, with Sandalphon and Stella sharing a worried glance back at Lucilius before they walked in. 

Lucilius had stopped his crying and tried to calm his breathing. 

“My love. I’m sorry. This is one of the times I cannot do as you say. Please, understand, this is for the better. Our children will not have to learn of suffering any longer, and we...we can be together. You can hate me all you want after that. I don’t mind. You can curse me, make me feel pain, I don’t care. I just want to see you one last time before we disappear.” 

“I want to return to the Void with you.” 

[thefetalcure]

We could all be one organism in theory, but we’ll always conjure another half just for the sake of ‘holding on’…not to mention, two always beats one. And once one eye notices what the other eye also sees, that’s when you’ve entered a predicament, a disruption, a startle, a quarrel. Something good against evil. Something so unfit that it needs complete looking after in hopes that it may not grow worse. A ‘consciousness’ being the vessel of the denial of bliss once remembered and then removed; that’s the realm of God’s plan being currently inaccessible. God looks after us because we are so lost enough as it is, that the fear of letting us truly go burdens God the Father to even passively consider ever even eternally leaving his creation/children. God chose and then denied His own creation/children, yes. He became aware to His own choice amongst the design and chose to flee instead of finish it, but soon realized by Him aimlessly fleeing the scene, leaving man alone and unfinished, it left Him, by law, bound of further purpose never to leave His working station until He could finish what He started, and upon looking back, Man was already awake and instantly, for a moment, without a creator to instruct it. God saw that His creation was found innocent in the presence of ‘new-found awareness’ and He immediately felt regretful for ever even considering denying His own creation. He figuratively runs over to comfort and kiss Man hoping that Man will forget ever even considering that Man’s own God could have left His own creation to be damned as garbage. God never wanted us to even fathom the concept of forgiving him. So, now, God is only holding onto His creation because it’s the only way for Him to get out of His troubled position in order for us to fully get out of it as well. The only Devil in sight is God’s guilt of new found sin and He has tried so hard to cover it up {as if Man was NEVER supposed to even consider eyes for the opening as He blissfully unbeknownst to Man was taking care of Man but then something went drastically wrong}, that it’s left man longing eternally empty of void left to continuously wander as our now desperate God looks for compartments throughout eons of eternal rendering storage space to place Man in for satisfactorie’s purposes involving Man’s cognition until that time comes, because ‘matter’ itself sparked nonrefundable unforgettable recognition; a mistake, the feeling of familiarity, existence, presence, atmosphere, weight, the reference of repeated notions (as if Ego asked Contentment for ‘stillness’ and in wretched return, as if Contentment itself was insulted, gave the Ego ‘Chaos’ instead for something to consider yet Contentment allows there to be a firmament of ‘Pondering’ implanted within the vessels assorted and categorized amongst the ‘Chaos’ within ‘Contentment’. God tried to control, play and make these energies possible in a physical construct with the space given only to have it break, tear, or collapse ultimately 'revealing its form to the one it wasn’t meant to show; Man’). 'Recog’ being a thought-to-be controlled element borrowed from the dark side (for reasons unknown) accidentally granted the gift of grasping at concepts 'innocently knowingly’ simply by being exposed to the already established 'matter’ igniting 'consciousness’ in the mind’s eye. God being so ashamed of his own damned but beautiful creation (involving dark elements) keeps the light glowing only because He was nice enough to lead Man out of His own mistake…His mistake being He tampered with Darkness, felt doubtful and nearly backed out of his plan which led to the outcome that we so all currently and curiously perceive. By unfathomed means, God’s choice for Man’s perception with what man can recognize and obtain can be justified because God wanted Man to eventually contradict himself in order to find Him, because it was the last card He could possibly play with an accidental Devil made from His own hand in order for man to see Him through all of the chaos. The card that only the individual can see for themselves; knowing that God is who He says He is swimming past every drowning soul in this bias sea of 'feeling’ shouting “Choose me when your time is up!” as if we can’t for our own damn self as if slipstream unaltered consciousness was turned on its side to have Man’s soul peer at the chance of escaping God’s Love only to slip into that void and forever be condemned in Darkness. When we find this same route in death, only then will the individual 'know’ their own true path, do they choose what was strongly whispering truthfully the whole time in the mind’s eye, God, or will they seek weak earthly surface things of torment and repetition, Darkness? He ultimately never wanted us to choose. He never intended there to ever be a confrontation (or 'roadblock’) 'en route to God the Father’ but since consciousness is on the string of every living thing in a field of play that is oddly unwarily consciously off of God’s turf apparently, there seems to be no other choice. It seems as if God himself unbeknownst to Him never fully grasped what ground He ever stood on and was doomed from the start. As if our God himself was willed into slavery to make planet Earth in the form of a mockery of a 'God’ 'creating a perfect world’. A theme only the naive would dare pursue unbeknownst of consequence. The Overseer may show concern but will never step fully into God’s choice. God 'risked’ with complete impulse and naïveté in the grace of His Father’s name in order for puny vessels to open their mind’s eye to Him in order for ALL to be saved, therefor God is equally trapped in His own realm just as His own people are trapped on planet Earth, but He did all of this just so that way we could exist in order to eventually acknowledge that reality in order to unlock and embrace Him with open arms in his sake. A savior, God, is nothing without His people, therefor God will need to prove to The Overseer, when that time comes, that He, Himself, God is worthy of being redeemed from His fault in turning his back on unfinished man just as equally as Man being redeemed by their own faults on Earth and asking God for guidance in those processes. The Overseer would hopefully approve which would then break the unison of mete-physical mimicry between God and Man between realms making God and Man now separate wholes no longer intertwined but now hand-in-hand fully aware to never leave what it knew all along yet felt could easily lose, God the Father and the intuitive realm considered the Kingdom of Heaven. Think of it this way, God didn’t follow the blueprints correctly from the one who told Him to build it as if He drank halfway through the process and gave up, but He’s doing the best that He can to make sure that all ends meet for each and every one of us. There’s so much wrong on planet earth, it only wise to see what other terrible things come of it for objective research as to what further not to do next time. Earth was a bad project to begin with therefore it will always have negative and positive forces, but to destroy it destroys God’s people, all of the unborn vessels amongst the excitement, the fun to be experienced in its sporadic and expressive potential, being the dark side continuously expanding alternate ways of consciousness on a massive scale using entities to control the masses through means of artistic practices convincing all of the naive as blissfully as God’s guilt allows, but only just. For the energy must go somewhere, therefor it finds and feeds relentlessly forever looking for a place to spiral into that nesting feeling of eternal rest. God sees us feasting on the physical while his 'knowledge’ is right in front of us. With this knowledge, He holds a giant eagle talon out for you to embrace. All you have to do is call Him yours. The work on earth is not our own to judge. But until then and above all, since all that we have is this space to succumb to for the time being in this life, we must hold humor at the highest, because it all ends with a laugh one way or another contradicting us as we leave its grasp.