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Fallen Memories

John Price x Demon User – 1.3K words – Angst, Fantasy, Redemption Arc

Backstory: John’s not perfect. He’s made split-second decisions that put lives at stake. His hands are bloody, names plague his mind, skeletons fill his closet. But he can put that all aside. That's until you showed up—perched on his office desk, head cocked as you eye him. He still remembers the charred, smoky scent you brought that filled his office. You’ve taunted him, he spat at you, that was your relationship. You remind him of the past, how it led him here, where it will lead him. The devil on his shoulder who knows all his secrets. What he doesn't know is you have one of your own, and it's the cause for your recent behavior.

CW: cursing, violent expressions, mentions of manipulation and torture

Staring at him—piercing ember eyes meeting slate blue—you finally soften. He’s drenched in sweat, hair matted to his wrinkled forehead, chest heaving like a drowning man. Only you get to see him like this: raw, ruined. You, his demon. Yet now, you almost pity him. Maybe it's because you know him better than he knows himself.

His glare sharpens. Daring. “Go away,” he snaps. You don’t, just slide off his battered dresser and step closer. He scoffs. ‘Of course it didn’t listen. Stubborn thing…’

With a small flourish, a battered stuffed elephant appears in your hand. The tight black fabric of your tunic strains as you offer it gently, unusually kind. “Elly,” you murmur. “Lost him during primary.” His eyes narrow with cynicism. The air grows taut as he looks at you with growing suspicion. You place the toy in his hands anyway, despite his stare telling you to shove it. “Just take it, John.” No venom this time, just quiet sincerity. Your fingers twitch behind your back, fidgeting.

His hand closes around Elly’s leg on instinct. A flicker of emotion crosses his face—pain, fear, something long buried. Then his fist clenches, making the scar on his knuckles rise. Deep in his mind, something is screaming to take his pistol and shoot, that this is an elaborate trap. “I don’t need comfort. Especially not from you,” he growls, emphasis on the pronoun like a slur, throwing the toy at you with defiance. Elly hits the blinds that crunch on impact, then falls with a soft plap.

You don’t flinch. Just stare back, ignoring his toddler-like tantrum. He watches the toy longer than he wants to, as if it’s a ghost from his childhood he’s tried to forget. The bedside lamp casts strange shadows on your face. It's unsettling, and he hates that it doesn’t scare him. Not anymore. In fact, he hates that you used to scare him. 

A glint of something passes through your eyes—grief, maybe. He sees it. He knows you, your quirks, your rhythms. He knows how you’ve been... different lately. Quieter. Unsettled. And now it clicks. His voice, when it comes, is almost a whisper. “Why are you doing this?” He leans back against the wall, wincing as it aches down his spine. Regret creeps in, forcing him to hold back a sigh. He rubs his face, debating whether to take the question back and tell you to bugger off.

He has to get to the bottom of this. He knows why you showed up that day, up to no good with a shit-eating grin on your face. But why’d you have to 86 the whole dynamic all of a sudden? A storm of emotions flickers across his face before settling into cold indifference. It’s too late, he decided, time to find out. 

You flinch when his question sinks in, then scowl, trying to hide behind sarcasm. “It’s my job, John. Demons get assigned—”

“Why are you being weird?” he interrupts, eyes sharp. Jaw clenched and teeth grinding, hands gripping the thin sheets below him. “You’ve been acting… fuckin’- like a damn bootlicker! What the hell is this? Some kind of psychological warfare?” He accused, voice growing sharp as rage bubbles up in his chest. 

You freeze at the use of your name, causing your cheeks to flush with embarrassment. “No—!” It escapes too fast, too raw. “I don’t want this for you, John.” You grit your teeth, digging your fingers into your palm. “You deserve better. Better than this…” You make a wide gesture, throwing your hands out beside you. “better than me.”

The confession hangs in the air, impossibly heavy. John’s eyes flick to you, unsure if he heard right. A demon. Feeling guilty? A flicker of surprise crosses his features before being quickly masked with a slight shake of his head and a braced breath. He wants nothing more than to curse you, maybe even fight you. But when he studies your face, he decides to see where this goes. “What do I deserve, then?” he asks, almost too quiet to hear, still staring at the fallen toy.

Your voice cracks when you reply, “To be happy.” You turn away, shoulders slumped, retreating like a child who broke something precious. Standing before the mirror, you stare at your reflection—longing in your eyes. Yearning like a wife waiting for her husband to come back from war. The eerie quietness gives him chills, gooseflesh spreading across his skin as he stares at you with guarded curiosity. “I want the best for you,” you whisper. “But I’m not… not anymore.”

Then something shifts as your imagination displays itself. The room transforms—walls dissolve into a clear blue sky, hardwood floor replaced by wildflower-dotted fields. A stream glistens, hydrating the rocks it pours over. John blinks, stunned, watching the dreamscape ripple around you. Has he gone mad?

“I used to be beautiful,” you murmur, touching the mirror, as if willing it to change you. “I was beauty itself.” John moves slowly, slipping out of bed and moving toward you with calculated steps. “I was… an angel, before I threw it all away.” The image of what was, and what could have been disappears, falling to sand with a drop of your head.

He stares, trying to reconcile this truth. Not to mention he’s hung up on the unicorn-fairy-land that suddenly vanished. You, his tormentor, were once divine? “I don’t get it,” he mutters, voice dry. “What happened?” Putting firm hands on your shoulders, he turns you to face him.

Your breath catches, looking up at him like a deer in headlights. After a painful moment of stammering, you finally manage to choke out an answer, “I broke the law to save a soul. Made a deal... with a demon.” You nearly flinch, the truth hurting to admit aloud.

His jaw clenches, tense, but he doesn’t step back. His hand, rough and calloused, touches your cheek with surprising gentleness. “You broke the rules for someone else.” For some reason, his blunt reiteration cuts you deep. Perhaps it’s that look in his eyes that says he understands.

Tears swell up in the corners of your eyes, your bottom lip caught between your teeth to stop it from trembling. You nod, barely holding it together. “She was marked for damnation. I tried everything, and failed, so I offered myself instead. I manipulated him,” you confess. “Used his affection for me as an advantage.”

The longer you loiter like this, the more your brain taunts you—the anxiety of holding up your end of the deal, how the Gods grimaced at you and other angels condemned you. But the worst part wasn’t the centuries of being broken down and reconstructed into the opposite of your truth–no. It was being stripped of your wings, one cut at a time. Those sneering demons pinned you in a bruising grip, feeding off the melody of your cries. 

His eyes widen, shocked and in disbelief, but he doesn't let go. “That’s not monstrous. That’s… noble.” The intense look in his eyes is for once it’s not scrutinizing, but filled with a newfound respect for you. And the weight of that realization breaks you. 

Your intentions were pure: save her from a lifetime of torture. But that’s not how it works—you knew that. The rules were engraved into your bones and you still went against them. How could you? You tried saving someone and only hurt yourself, now you’re stuck taunting a man who locked away his kind heart for the sake of war. He’s the noble one, you should be the one telling him that. Not the other way around.

“No…” You sink to the floor, tears falling freely. He follows after a moment of delay, knees cracking with a grunt. Vulnerable, you lean your head against his chest, seeking some form of solace. “I’m sorry for everything, John,” you say, pawing at his shirt like a cat wanting to be let indoors during a storm. “It’s all my fault... I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

John pulls back to study you, pushing the hundreds of questions in his mind aside. “You’ve demonized yourself,” His forehead pressed against yours, grounding you as he wiped away tears. “But no one’s flawless. Not even the Gods.” His fingers trace the faded scars on your back—where wings once spread. “You’re still an angel,” he whispers. “This is just... camouflage.”

This isn’t what I’d usually post, but it had so much potential so I wanted to give my hand at writing fanfiction. Please offer critiques and let me know what you think :) Also! There’s actually more to this story that I cut out, so if you want the second part (it's much more positive!), please tell me! Thank you bunches, muah <3

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Too Fast

Stubborn as they come, he

Determined to win me,

A trophy to put on a shelf

Boy only cared about himself.

I spoke, he didn't listen,

Cursed with the roar of a kitten

He's set in his own way,

I hardly keep the flood at bay.

Soon the dam cracks and breaks,

"I am not up for takes!"

Puzzled now, he is,

Asks, Why can't I be his?

"Know me like the back of your hand,

And maybe we can withstand.

But if I don't know you like my own way home,

I stay free to roam."

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Nostalgia in Coconut Chapstick

Windows rolled down, fresh air filling the cabin as I catch a whiff of something old,

Sweet, full of longing

Glancing at my friend as she swiped it over her lips, I was taken back to forgotten memories

To years ago,

Day Care, where my hands clasped before my closed eyes as I pray over my food, done as told,

Rich dirt, for homemade mudpies with my big sister, too maternal, lacking her own sense of belonging

Cold dinner, as I picked at my food, parents bickering at me for being difficult, ignoring my mumbled apologies

Curled up, the tightest and most vulnerable little thing, refusing to let my tears show.

To years ago, where I hardly remember a positive moment.

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Born-to-be Angel

Watching as people to flock to me, desperate and pleading at my feet,

Treated like a God, high upon a throne time and time again.

I found out the hard way: nothing I can do will fix them,

Instead, I retreat.

Shrunk back into my big heart, I wait for my wings to sprout, to fly.

Naught will I settle, as done best, I will wait,

The one who hesitates to touch, as if I'm too sacred and pure, as if I am too fragile.

But finally they will treat me right, fulfil my wishes, and to the darkness, I will bid goodbye.