#not even getting into angel she was without a shadow of a doubt abused to hell and every word he says about caring about her is pure shit

[apocalyptic-dancehall]

handsome jack may have a sympathetic backstory, but that's never enough to justify the atrocities he's committed.

[targaryenluvs]

OUR LITTLE DOVE

pairings: dark!lucy gray x fem!reader, dark!coriolanus snow x fem!reader, coriolanus snow x lucy gray

summary: you reunite with your dear songbird after the games, but it seems the capitol has followed her home, and taken an interest in the two of you. but it seems lucy gray is willing to share you with a certain peacekeeper, even if you aren’t.

warnings: crazy lucy n corio conspiring like evil doers, manipulation, chasing, primal play?? is that what is called idk corio enjoys hunting your ass down, kidnapping, drugging, forced into accepting a third partner?? nc touching, abuse of power (peacekeeper), power dynamics, kinda cheating (lucy n corio), guilt-trip, jealousy, threatening, self doubt and relationship problems, murder, betrayal

word count: 3.0k

a/n: lol i complain about wanting to write fluff but all my good ideas r so dark 😭 someone needs to give me tips on how to write girls cuz i have no experience would be easier if i was gay boooo!!

he was like a shadow, stuck to your back, always.

you’d complained to lucy numerous times that you didn’t feel comfortable around him when she played at the hob, knowing he’d be there, in the crowd. “sweetie, he was my mentor. he helped me so much in the games, i wouldn’t be here without him. you love me don’t you? so you need to learn to love him too, he’s a good friend a mine. i love you and i gotta get to the stage baby.” she explained as she ran around getting herself and the covey ready.

you were always front row. wanting to be as close to lucy as possible. she looked especially majestic tonight with flowers in her hair. as you listened to her sing you’d managed to forget about the certain blonde peacekeeper near the back. but he hadn’t forgotten about you, nor lucy.

you’d left to get a drink and you’d came back to an unfamiliar tune. you usually knew every song being played off by heart but this was new.

Everyone's born as clean as a whistle

As fresh as a daisy

And not a bit crazy

Staying that way's a hard row for hoeing

she sounded as angelic as usual and the crowd around you seemed entranced.

As rough as a briar

Like walking through fire

This world, it's dark

This world, it's scary

lucy smiled at you once, just once. which threw you off since you usually got a bunch. especially during new songs and songs about you. was this not also about you?

I've taken some hits, so

No wonder I'm wary It's why

I need you

so it is about me! you thought as you closed your eyes, allowing yourself to sway to the music and singing. you’d hoped you wouldn’t miss a smile headed your way.

You're as pure as the driven snow

your eyes flew open as you stared at lucy, she was looking past you and to the peacekeeper. to coriolanus snow. you’d always been a rational person, you prided yourself on restraint but that restraint was hanging on by a thread. you wanted to jam a beer bottle into his neck. lucy was your girlfriend not his. and yet he smiled stupidly towards her as she sang and you could feel your heart clawing its way up. best to leave now rather than stay and hear more of the ever so driven man.

your head was spinning as you slumped to the floor, in one of your finest dresses yet worst mental states. of course, something had formed between the two. she was in the goddamn hunger games and he was her mentor. trauma bonding? he quite literally saved her life, coached her and you did what? sat at home and hoped.

hope could only get you so far.

your hope and faith in lucy gray baird was dwindling as her lyrics swirled in your head. of course she loved him. who wouldn’t? the man was undeniably eye catching. a capitol man. but you’d always imagined lucy staying away from the capitol, despising them. but maybe it wasn’t the captiol part but the man part. maybe she wanted a true life, a home, marriage and children and everything she could wish for.

what on earth could you provide her with?

“y/n?” it sure as hell wasn’t lucy calling out for you and you knew that. coriolanus’s reflection was prominent in the puddle before you as he neared. great, you sneered, would love to get to know you mr peacekeeper. please tell me how you stole my lovely girlfriend from me!

your chest felt oh so heavy as you heard his footsteps in the gravel, determined and unwavering as he made his way to your slumped body. “what do you want? you wanna gloat?” coriolanus stopped in his tracks, gloat? “why would i gloat?” you looked up at him annoyed, “rub it in my face. you practically stole my girlfriend from me.” coriolanus laughed. actually laughed and it made you want to strangle him with his stupid dog tags.

“sweetheart.” vomit. you wanted to vomit. maybe choking and dying on your vomit would be less embarrassing then this. why on earth was this fuck head calling you his sweetheart. “fuck off.”

you didn’t see him coming. and you certainly didn’t expect his demeanour to snap. but the large hand tangled in your open hair was a big slap in the face to your unreadiness. “you of all people don’t get to talk to me like that. do you know who you’re talking to?” you could hear his perfect porcelain teeth grinding at your words. god this man couldn’t handle an insult. wuss.

“what the hell is your- ow! problem!” you yelped as he dragged you into an alleyway. “you need to learn how to respect your superiors. if you’re nice to me, i can make your life easier. doesn’t it hurt? not being able to fully provide for your family? seeing them struggle? do you really think disrespecting a peacekeeper is going to help? i suggest you straighten your act and thank me for even looking your way. there are plenty of other girls here.”

but he didn’t want those other girls. he wanted you. you with the teary eyes and messy hair. you who he’d been seeing in his dreams and during the day. you with the kind smile and curious eyes. you who were so sweet and pretty but mean when need be. the y/n who was stupid enough to spit such hateful words at a peacekeeper. but he’d teach you. whether it be with words and lessons or actions and bruises. you’d learn your place, by his side and lucy’s, and underneath. but with such fearful, brown doe eyes watering up infront of him, the girl he’d heard oh so much about from lucy. how could he refrain from indulging?

his hand reached out to wipe away the few stray tears that fell as his left extended towards your right, which was clutching your head, where he’d grabbed you. “shh, let me help you.” your hand slowly retracted as your heart ran a marathon. the man was obviously unstable, going from a deceptively caring man to violent. coriolanus smiled at your actions, and it freaked you out. he caressed your scalp in an attempt to soothe, “good girl.” he cooed as your apparent saviour approached.

“sweetie?” lucy called out to you as coriolanus withdrew from your personal space. he walked over to her and she let him. he held her hand and spoke with, love? his voice was soft and comforting, his thumb again caressing the back of her hand as they talked, whispered, plotted? god knows, all you wanted was to leave.

was this your chance?

you tested the waters, slow and calculated movements as lucy nodded in agreement with him. but by the time they were done speaking you’d bolted.

but you sure as hell weren’t getting far with these two on your tail, poor y/n l/n. a little dove trying to spread her wings but they were bound to be clipped.

your feet were throbbing and begging for you to slow down. but your brain was in charge for once, your heart which yearned for your dear songbird pushed to the side as your head screamed and urged you to go. she was in league with him apparently. her seeing him corner you and not even batting an eyelash. did she truly care for you so little? did she want to rid herself of you? she could’ve broken up with you and let that be it. maybe the games had twisted her head.

even as you believed yourself to be gaining distance from the two you could hear the not-so distant steps of determined pursuit, headed your way. how would they kill you? slow and intimate? hasty and brutal?

“if you stop running now we won’t be mad little dove!” lucy shouted in warning as you felt yourself momentarily slow at her words. traitor. you thought to yourself as your body involuntary listened, she still had an affect on you. “she’s right, we love you, we won’t hurt you. unless we have to, don’t give us our reasons.”

“shut up!” you screamed. god, i know we haven’t talked in a while. last minute efforts right? maybe he’d listen to you, save you from your tormentors. you should’ve kept your head clear, focused on running. focused on your surroundings and if you had, you would’ve noticed the nearing tree roots, thick and protruding from the ground, ready to knock you down.

you crawled behind the tree, trying to catch your breath as your hands worked tirelessly to provide some form of relief to your aching ankle.

crack.

you’d been found. you fucked up.

“our little dove, ever the sprinter.”

his words had you lurching forwards in an attempt of fleeing but lucy’s cold hand on your ankle dragged protests and cries from your throat as well as you, back to them. “you should’ve listened before, we would’ve been nice. given you some time to adjust, but you can’t sit and think for a second can you?” coriolanus mocked as his hand trailed up your un-injured leg, “that’s okay, you won’t be doing much thinking from now on. we’ll be taking care of you, since you obviously can’t take care a’ yourself baby.” lucy’s voice was saccharine, like honey, and her smile was even sweeter. the familiarity and comfort of her presence was intoxicating, you felt at peace on one side and the other wanted to jump off a cliff. she lowered your guard and coriolanus slithered right in.

the prick in the side of your neck wasn’t painful, but their words were. “you’re with us now, we’ll take care of you, we promise.” and you were stuck, stuck with them for god knows how long.

you blinked away the sleep in your eyes, adjusting to the room. maybe they had killed you? in their own twisted way they’d keep you forever, in their memories and soul. coriolanus and lucy’s voices swam around your head and blended together. you were wrong. yay.

“it’s a bit early for katniss, even if it’s one of her favourites.”

“she should eat something better.”

“better? don’t go all capitol on me now corio.”

he was smiling, you could tell.

“never lucy gray. but she’ll be weak for a few days, proper meals will help her regain some strength.”

you picked your head up and looked through the window, the lake was evident.

“alright, you go grab it and i’ll stay here.”

“why? so you can get more time with her? if anyone should get extra time it’s me.”

“now who was her partner first? oh that’s right, me. you’re acting as if i’m gonna pick her up and run away. if you’re that scared than we’ll both go. take her with us.”

coriolanus’s head whipped towards the cabin and you quickly flopped back down on the bed. you shut your eyes as you heard the door creak open. “gosh, doesn’t she look pretty?” lucy asked, knowing the answer already. “so calm, i liked her better when she was crying.” lucy hit him, “coriolanus snow!” he stroked the side of your face and you had to resist from turning your head and biting his fingers off.

“little dove.” your eyes opened again, turning your head his way tiredly. “we need to get some supplies okay?” you nodded as lucy went outside to gather the baskets she’d left out earlier on to dry. coriolanus’s hand dug into your cheeks as he forced you to look at him, “i told you i’d make you respect me. now listen, if you try anything when we’re in town i will never let you forget it. you’ll know who you belong to every single day. maybe i’ll pay your family a visit? an appointment with the hanging tree for being rebels? stealing?”

you shook your head violently as you began to cry, “you don’t want that? didn’t think so. you listen to me and everything will be fine. your family will get daily help and weekly groceries. they’ll never go hungry again. all thanks to their sweet little girl. lucy’s too nice, but don’t think for a second she’ll save you from me. you’re mine and if you try anything.” he leaned in to whisper, “i’ll strangle her with my bare hands infront of you.” his words were meant to scare you, and they did. but don’t you know? coriolanus snow doesn’t need a reason to do bad things.

coriolanus was wicked and ruthless when it came to what he wanted, if you had any hope of trying to get through this then you’d need lucy’s attention and help. so you nodded. “words sweetheart.” you swallowed your pride, your dignity, and you shook hands with the devil.

“yes, i’ll do what you say.” he straightened up, his white shirt a contrast to his dark thoughts.

“y’all ready to go?” lucy questioned as coriolanus grinned, “yes, yes we are.” he lifted you up and helped you dress, you hadn’t realised the fact that you were only dressed in his own white shirt, dress to you. he handled you like you were the most delicate object. as if he wasn’t hell bent on breaking you, over and over again. till you were fit to his standards. the captiol standards. the snow standards.

his, his, his.

with how obedient you were, he figured you’d do well in the capitol. which was exactly where he was meaning to bring you.

lucy walked in front of the two of you as you made your way through the woods. coriolanus’s hand was glued to your waist as he held you close, afraid to let go. you were at flight risk of course. his grip was tight and bruising. lucy’s humming distracted you at times, if you were delusional enough you could imagine it to be the two of you. your brothers far infront and the covey following. after an amazing afternoon at the lake, heading home for dinner, maybe a performance or the night shift.

your daydreaming was interrupted when you clocked coriolanus’s missing hand from your waist, and his arm now around lucy grays throat.

don’t you remember? you’d do well in the capitol! you were his! but not entirely, no.

not with her in the way.

you were frozen in place as lucy clawed at him before reaching out for you. a plea, a cry for help and aid yet you stood stuck in fear. a minute, two. she’d put up a strong fight, especially when you ran towards the two, pushing and shoving at coriolanus to let her go. but again, you fucked up.

here lies lucy gray baird, singer, victor, psycho.

obsessed? madly in love? you couldn’t think of another word, and as much as you wished to forget her, forget how she’d practically allowed another man into your relationship and let him kidnap you. her lifeless face and hollow eyes made your heart clench. but soon enough she was rolled over, thrown in a pre-made hole and buried. she’d survived the games but no one survived coriolanus snow.

“don’t forget what i said. don’t forget what you agreed to. you said you’d do as i say, i’m telling you to get up and follow me. we’re leaving district 12.” your face was painted with confusion as coriolanus clutched your face, “i’m going back, and you’re coming with me. don’t ask questions, just do as i say.”

and you did.

when he had you say goodbye to your family, a courtesy, a privilege he’d granted you. you kept it short and sweet, no questions just hugs and false promises of return.

when he ushered you onto the train and he wanted you to sit and be silent, you did.

through his time at the university, he wanted you close to him, living with him. and you did.

through his presidency campaign he wanted for you to charm sponsors and entice newcomers. you did.

when he wanted to marry you in a grand spectacle infront of the captiol and dress you up, you did as he asked.

when he held you down on your wedding night after tearing your dress off, biting and marking you down all over, pushing you down to your knees and took you all over the house, asking you to give yourself to him as if he didn’t take you anyways, you did.

you had no idea why at this point.

for your family? who hadn’t reached out in so long, even when they promised to talk to you every day? coriolanus had them all arrested, punished and hung for inciting riots and uprisings.

for your friends whom listened to your concerns of the capitol peacekeeper who hovered and didn’t make you feel crazy? each of them ended up dead in many different ways, hung, shot, a mugging gone wrong.

you didn’t know at this point and when you looked in the mirror you didn’t recognise the girl who stared back. a captiol sheep, dressed up in the finest silk dresses and slick heels yet the filth underneath the finery, jewels, and makeup weighed you down. each time he touched you, kissed you, fucked you, it felt like a peace of yourself was thrown away.

and as you clutched your swelling stomach, you couldn’t help but feel pity for baby number four.

maybe you’d grow up and find love.

maybe i’ll be able to take you all away from him.

maybe we’ll heal.

you thought, but in the back of your head, a little voice wouldn’t shut up.

you’ll always be his little dove.

[flowers-shouldnt-die]

Metamorphosis

Chapter 1

Pairing: Vilgefortz of Roggeveen/Tissaia de Vries

Trigger warnings: suicide attempt, depression, a "complicated" relationship, most likely some smut in the future, stockholm syndrome-ish maybe, angst, hurt/comfort, hurt/no-comfort. Some fluff peppered in somewhere.

Rating: M

Summary: When is love turning into an obsession? When does forgetting feel better than forgiveness? What are these two idiots doing?

He is spiraling; she has already spiraled. Witness him slowly embracing his obsession.

On the bright side, she is not dead.

Chapter summary: My man is getting even more mentally unhinged, Tissaia is having the time of her life and Yen is a hot mess.

Other people’s suffering never bothered him at all. Why would it? This was a cruel world, and in his experience, one either became the abuser or the abused. But this was Tissaia. His Tissaia. She looked so fragile, so small, so beautiful, and so intoxicating. He half-heartedly cursed her for, yet again, making him feel like never before. 

He brushed her hair behind her ears as she slept. She has been in his bed for the past week, and she hasn’t woken up yet. She lost weight, her cheeks were more pronounced, and her collarbone was too visible. He had to wake her before she faded away from him. Even in this state, she looked so breathtakingly exquisite. He could never imagine her with anything else than her brown hair; changing was never her strong suit. But this new white color had made her look otherworldly - an angel, something truly ethereal.

Vilgefortz prepared the potion that would wake her but had enough sense to let others give it to her. She didn’t need to see him just yet, especially not with his face burned. He would need to conjure up a really powerful illusion to make it disappear. The doctors and healers came again, as they did many times these past few days. He instructed them to truly, without a shadow of a doubt, make sure she was as well as she could be. Decide if she should sleep for a while or finally wake her. He wasn’t certain why, but he was hesitant to make this decision. He didn’t fear her reaction; he was well prepared for that, and yet something uneasy lingered in him. 

He left for his study and sat down at his table. The suite the Emperor graciously granted him had many rooms, and he used more than one for his research and experiments. This comparatively small room was dedicated to his artifacts, books, and scrolls. He smiled at how he retreated to a guest room as he, in his haste to save her life, had taken Tissaia to his own room, to his own bed. They had been there before, not too long ago, yet in completely different circumstances. If only - but he stopped the thought before it could end. He betrayed her, and the only thing left for them was to part ways again. It would have been so sweet to have her on his side, without false pretenses. Together, they would be unstoppable. They could take over the Empire and the entire Continent. But she has always clung to her old ways, never wanting to let go. He knew even then, that convincing her would be futile, so he enjoyed and cherished their borrowed time for as long as he could. Vilgefortz was half aware that if he listened to her plea to stop even a moment longer on that fateful day, his life’s work would have been jeopardized. He had spent the majority of his life to get to where he is now and so he couldn’t let her stop him. And yet, he couldn’t get rid of the echo of Tissaia’s voice, how desperate and painful it sounded. He heard it every time he closed his eyes, and as this new, unknown feeling spread in him, he buried it deep, only for it to burst forth a week later as he felt her fading away. 

She shouldn't have done it. After all that she has survived, she has given in. How could she? Even the thought of this world without her in it felt so much more dull. How confidently he walked away from her, never considering the emptiness that followed. He was always drawn to her, like a moth to a flame, and with one single act, he managed to burn that flame out. He won’t let her die. The world needed her; he needed her. Not that Tissaia would ever consider being with him again, but the thought of existing in a sphere where she was gone from was unbearable. She could go back to Aretuza after she was well enough, but he wouldn’t let her slip away. Perhaps in the meantime, he could try to convince her to join him, as unlikely as it sounded. He could always try. They were given another chance, and he wouldn’t let her go so easily this time.

Tap, tap, tap - his fingers played again on the edges of the table. Vilgefortz was getting impatient. If anything were to happen to her - then what? So many things have already happened to her. Despite his best efforts to calm himself, he felt a weight lift when he heard the soft knock on the door. The doctor explained to him that Madame de Vries was awake, albeit in a very fragile state. He did not recommend early visitation; she needed rest. He didn’t dare say the next part, but he heard it in his mind anyway: seeing him would just make her condition worse. Fantastic. Tissaia was here, just a room away, and yet she never felt more far away than now. But Vilgerotz was patient; he played the long game his entire life. He could wait a few more days before seeing her. He needed to master the illusion on his face anyway.

-

“Calm down!” Sabrina yelled at her manic friend. “She’s gone.” Her words did nothing, however, and Yennefer kept looking around Tissaia’s room - again. She picked up her bracelet and tried the spell to locate her. She did that as many times as she could in a day. She never got any results, but she refused to stop.

“She can’t be. She’s not dead; I know it!” 

“Maybe she wanted to get away from all this and left.” The blonde felt her friends' pain, but it did nothing to help them rebuild what was left of the Brotherhood.

“Explain all the blood then! And the suicide note!”

“Maybe it was just a goodbye letter.” Before Yennefer could answer, Rita laughed a little.

“Yes, that is exactly what a suicide note is.” She paused and walked up to Yen, taking the bracelet from her. “For all we know, this might just lead us to Vilgefortz.” She held up her hand when the younger sorceress wanted to cut her off. “I know. I would love to find out where he is and do all you want to do to him. But it won’t bring her back. She’s gone, Yennefer.”

The raven-haired woman sank onto a chair, her gaze a mile away. She felt Tissaia hurt herself; she saw all the blood that was in her room, and yet, “Where’s her body then?” Her friends lacked the answer, and their passive acceptance that their mentor was gone was infuriating. “We need to find her. Someone must have taken her; I know she wouldn't leave us after -” She couldn’t finish her sentence as she fought back a sob.

“Yen, if anyone was here, we would have known.” Rita knelt down to her and put her hands on her friends. 

“How can you believe that she was able to leave while bleeding that much? If someone attacked her, she wouldn't have been able to fight back; her chaos was still weak.”

“Then, how do you explain her letter?”

“Maybe it was staged. I don’t know. But I know she’s alive. I can feel it.” Rita sighed and stood up. She was quite busy these days; they all were.

“We have a council meeting in half an hour. We can discuss this there, again. But Yen, please concentrate. What do you think Tissaia would want you to do? Try and work on Aretuza or chase after ghosts? Even if she’s still alive, she wouldn’t want you to abandon the school again. Besides, it was your idea to start rebuilding.”

“I won’t stop searching for her.”

“Neither will we. But just as she did all her life, we have to put Aretuza first.”

-

Her recovery so far has been a miserable trial. Her world crumbled, she crumbled, and as a cruel twist of fate, he was the one to pick her up. No, that wasn’t correct—it wasn’t fate, not with him. Vilgefortz was a master of orchestrating everything exactly how he wanted it to. Maybe he even predicted her attempt at her life, and this is how he found her before it was too late. Tissaia couldn’t imagine why he would save her or why he did save her. He left her to fight, to die. He walked out without ever looking back. 

And here they were now. In his personal suite of the palace of Nilfgaard. The room was luxurious, gold, black, and white everywhere. He fit right in. She, however, never felt more out of place. Everything around her radiated power and strength, and she could barely get out of bed. When she sliced her wrists, she didn’t expect to be saved. She didn’t think of how grueling and slow recovery would be. Her body caught up to her exhausted mind, and every movement felt like the most challenging exercise she had ever done. She didn’t severe nerve endings, at least, so she still had use of her hands. Not that she cared. What was Tissaia de Vries without her magic? She could barely summon her strength to turn around; she knew trying to cast even the simplest of spells would be in vain. She lost her chaos, and she felt it. 

The circle was complete then. She has lost everything. Why didn’t he let her die? What use did he have for her? The Brotherhood was destroyed, so she hardly believed he would keep her as a political prisoner. Maybe he could use her to keep the remaining of her girls in line, but why? He could destroy them, just like everything else. There was no reason for her to be here. Did he want her to be in his bed - not just while recovering? Tissaia had to admit that while he might have been faking most of the things in their years together, there were a few things a man could never. Their nights of passion were both to their liking, and she knew for a fact how much he enjoyed it. How much she enjoyed it. But even this would be too much effort just to bed her again. He could find any woman and have his way. Vilgefortz was many things, but never someone without a good reason. And she couldn't figure out what his reason was now.

At the very least, he finally had the decency to come and see her. In the first few days, it was only servants. Lovely girls, but far too scared. They treated her like she was the finest porcelain, ready to turn to dust in their hands at any moment. She was in bad shape, but not that bad. So now, every morning, he came with a tray of light breakfast and tea. Why he bothered with it was something she couldn’t understand, but since she couldn’t do that with most of the events of the past week or two, maybe she should just stop trying to. The food was mostly untouched, but the tea was nice at least. After his failed attempts at making her eat, he would look at her hands and tend to them. Change the bandage. Clean the wounds. Apply medicine and creams. He rarely, if ever, looked her in the eye. 

This is why today caught her by surprise. As he gently finished taking care of her self-inflicted wounds, he slowly looked up, and she forgot how to breathe. It wasn’t because of his half-maimed face and blinded eye. She got used to that. It was the still remaining one, the one that was still so mesmerizingly deep brown, in their happy days, she felt like she could drown in the depth of his gaze. Now, she still felt like that, but maybe for a different reason. She couldn’t make sense of it; she had to stop trying to, nothing made sense anymore. What was she supposed to do? She just stared back. Tissaia wasn’t hoping for anything; she was barely having coherent thoughts, let alone expecting him to... to what? She really had to stop doing it. There was nothing, inside and out.

“How are you feeling?” This had to be a joke. She blinked. How could she explain to him what she felt when she herself was not sure? The staring contest continued, and the only thing that kept her grounded in reality was his fingers tenderly caressing her hands. “Please. At least say something. You haven't said a word since you woke up.” If she had anything left in her to care, she might even be angered by his audacity.

“Nothing.” Her voice sounded foreign to her. Another thing that wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

“What do you mean?” How dare he? She knew he was one of the most brilliant men she had ever met. Even objectively, the turn of events on the Continent was a testament to his mastermind. So how dare he act like a fool? He knew everything; he always did, and now was not the time to play his games with her. 

“I feel nothing" was all she could whisper. She started to think that maybe she really should talk more. This was pathetic in a way. But it was such a chore, and sleeping, even while awake, felt so sweet and comforting. How she just wanted to lay back and forget the world outside of her - his - bed existed. Let me wither away. But, of course, he didn’t. He handed her the cup of herbal tea and held it in her hands to make sure she didn’t drop it. Fine. She took a sip, just wanting to get over with it so he’d leave.

Did she want him to leave, though? Everything in her contradicted itself, so once again, she decided to ignore all of it. She felt the suffocating loneliness and longed for the familiarity of his embrace. She remembered how she would be lost in his big arms, feeling safe, feeling home. The same arms that have shattered the very fabric of her existence. Well, at least maybe she didn’t want him to be here, it seemed. She wanted the man who made her feel like nothing could ever harm her while he was around, not the one who did just that and pushed her to the edge of no return. 

Maybe she was wrong - again. Maybe it was fate, with a particular taste for cruel jokes.

-

The mirror shattered into dozens of broken pieces. Vilgefortz didn’t know why he was this angry. After days of her silence, he thought her words would make it better. All they did was ignite a fire, so hot that he couldn't contain himself. When he saw his reflection, all of that rage came out like a volcano erupting. 

After Tissaia woke, the servants told him she wasn’t eating or drinking. He made the decision to personally tend to her, even if he was the last person she wanted to see. He didn’t have time to perfect the illusion on his face, and her condition was rapidly getting worse. So he put his pride aside. If he was completely honest, it wasn’t only that. He just didn’t want to scare her even more. But she didn’t react to his scarred face, and at first, he thought of it as a good sign. Very quickly, he learned that she didn’t react to anything. The only time he could hear her was during the night. He told the servants to watch her all day and report to him immediately if anything were to happen to her. Despite this, he had trouble sleeping, and some nights he was the one to check on her while she slept. Once or twice, he stopped before her door and just listened to how she wept. He would have loved nothing more than to comfort her and tell her she would be fine soon, but he knew it wouldn't sound very convincing coming from him. Even those nights didn’t set him ablaze, like their short conversation. 

There was something cold inside her. Vilgerotz sensed that her magic was weak, but it was something else. Her eyes were empty, and he sensed the feeling came from deep within her. Her body was improving, but her mind and spirit remained as broken as the mirror on the wall. He should have answered her, should have told her that she could feel again, that she would feel again. But her unexpected words momentarily caught him off guard, and he could do nothing but give her the tea and then leave. He should have told her that he intended for her to go back to Aretuza once she was well enough to get out of bed. Now, he wasn’t sure about it. Those fools let her do this to herself, and while he was to blame more than anyone, at the very least he kept an eye on her. Protected her, made sure she would never do something stupid again. 

Yes, he thought, she would be safer here - with him. Her so-called friends just left her there and did nothing, while he could sense across the Continent that her life was in danger. He nursed her back so far, and he would make sure she continued to improve. He couldn't trust the girls at Aretuza with this. His Tissaia’s life meant much more to him than he ever realized.

Vilgefortz picked up a broken piece of the mirror. It cut his hand a little as he did it, and he looked at the blood slowly falling onto the rest. Tissaia needed to be protected. He won’t let her drown in her pain again. She will rise like the sun and make his shadows disappear. He barely registered the servant girl as she knocked on the door and slowly stepped into the room. The poor girl looked terrified, and rightfully so. With trembling lips, she told him that his guest wouldn’t wake. Her fever spiked up, and she wasn’t responding. 

By the time he got to her, the doctors were already there. How quickly her condition has changed. She seemed fine; she seemed better. He was told it was most likely exhaustion; she would be fine in no time. They have told him this before. He told them all to leave and sat down next to her on the bed, pressing the cold cloth against her head. With his other hand, he caressed her face ever so lightly and wiped away the sweat that had already started to wet her face. He would stay with her tonight, and if her condition didn't improve, he would stay with her all the nights to come.

[jyou-no-sonoko19]

@lascylla I’m going to answer these in a post, else I’ll go mad trying XD A few of these things I’ve put in AfM, naturally, but I’m going to go by memory to answer these, and hope my brain is in good enough shape...

Do you have thoughts about Mary's resurrection by Lilith? We see her wandering into the café, all lost and confused, but where di she come from? Presumably Lilith didn't just remake her out of nothing. So, did she claw her way out of a grave somewhere? Or awaken at the bottom of a lake? None of that seems right, given that she's not dirty or wet, or dishevelled in any way when we first see her again. So perhaps Lilith did simply snap her fingers and make a new Mary.

 So, we know that canonically witches can bring back mortals from death, as long as you have a body (or, if you’re Sabrina, body-adjacent possessions, meaning that the body had to dig itself up). No matter how they died, for instance, being crushed in a mine cave-in, their bodies can be restored, and if you do it right, their souls will go back where they belong. (There’s also the fact that Lilith was part of resurrecting Tommy Kinkle, adding her powers to the ritual from the shadows where the kids couldn’t see.)

Because it’s by all accounts clear that Mary’s body was left intact after death, Lilith would have had to do something with it. I doubt she would have eaten it (she seems only partial to man-meat, for understandable reasons), so she would know where she put it, be able to fetch it, and refurbish it before putting a soul back in it. 

If she cremated it, then getting Mary back would be a greater feat. Except that she is, at that point, Queen of Hell, and with that comes the power over the lives and deaths of mortals. She can transfer a soul from Hell to Heaven with a flick of the wrist (ref 3.1), so between those abilities and the regular abilities of any witch with suitable experience, bringing back a fully functioning Mary wouldn’t be too much of a chore.

The trouble was, of course, she didn’t have all that much interest in Mary’s sanity (and was, understandably, a bit power-drunk at the time), so she didn’t put all that much effort into fixing Mary’s mental faculties, wiping it of hell trauma etc. I mean, Sabrina gets what she claims she wants, and it’s pretty clear Sabrina only has a passing interest in Mary’s health anyway. 

In those moments at the end of chapter 2, when Lilith is the new "Queen of Hell," she seems to have powers that we never see again (restoring Sabrina's magic, making a Mary). Simply toppling Lucifer doesn't automatically grant her additional power, as we see in chapter 3. 

Early on, the show made it pretty clear that Lilith, the literal First Witch, has immense power. They just kind of... neutralise her as is convenient. (s4 is the worst offender of all, though that’s a rant for another day) The only time you really get the sense that she’s out-matched is against Lucifer, and a great deal of that can be down to terror of her abuser. 

I do think that the power of Hell Monarch allows her a magical boost, just like Sabrina gets from being the Dark Lord’s Sword. But I also think that she’s feeling more confident in reaching into her own abilities at that point. It’s something of a healing that she’s doing there, to Sabrina, and she’s canonically an amazing healer, able to heal an extremely injured angel, injured either by his peers or God himself.

Part 3 is a weird one, because it’s clear Lilith has given the coven a certain amount of support, since Zelda calls herself the High Priestess of the Church of Lilith (for 5 minutes), and one can assume she granted the sort of boons they would expect. I think there was a bit of stuff on the chopping room floor, because there’s one scene where Minion tells Lilith that the Kings are coming to bother her again and she says something about being tired of having to prove her power to them, ie. she’s magically (or even physically) dealt with them multiple times, without too much trouble. (So now they’ve gone to build themselves a Clay Champion, because they’re sick of getting their own faces torn off)

Lilith had her own powers from early on, she didn’t get it from Lucifer, never signed his Book or whatever -- and I’m leaving s4 out of this because there’s waaay too much inconsistency with 1-3 to see it as anything but apocryphal -- so he couldn’t take her power. The thing that makes her leave is fear. 

If you’re referring to the bit where the demons say that everything is out of whack because Lilith isn’t a Morningstar, etc, I really do think that was more a manipulation tactic, to try wear her down. The only unrest in Hell is the fact that these misogynists are refusing to accept her, because they’ll always see her as beneath them, no matter how many times she fights them off. So they have to come up with some kind of vague, quasi-existential reason that she should just step down. If shit gets weird in the underworld, well, there’s any number of reasons why that might be (and I could posit in my right mind), but for their convenience, they point the finger at Lilith. She’s not buying it for a moment, obviously, but she sees the shaky ground for the multiple attempted coupes that it is, so tries to get strategic with Sabrina at her side. (mutter grumble missed opportunity etc etc)

So... my mind is begging me for caffeine, I hope this makes sense, and I’m more than happy to return to the conversation with a more solid grip on thought!

[flowers-of-io]

@eri-223​ you brought it upon yourself, now I won’t shut up c:

OKAY SO

I can’t really draw neat straight lines between the two, but there’s so much aesthetic similarity to me, particularly with Toland and the Hive-Ascendancy thing. Maybe it’s just me dying for the vibes (or loving POTO in general since I was 9), but it struck me today how Eris/Toland--when it’s made a Working ship--is basically everything Christine/Erik is not. There is so much to be said about Christine/Erik alone, but to me it’s an epitome of why gothic-novel-esque dynamics don’t really work in the long run when they don’t move past being just Gothic and Tragic. And hear me out. A goodhearted, elfin woman at her vulnerable point (grief over father) meets a honey-voiced stranger and has this secret thing with him, this music they share in the dead of night, and it’s intoxicating because music *is* her passion (and something she has deep emotions over in itself, the thing that is most hers in the world) and it’s secret, and a whole other world to what she’s facing in the daytime. The mystery is intriguing, and that’s intoxicating too. And there’s an uncomfortable power imbalance but it doesn’t bother you just yet, because there isn’t really any attraction between the two--not in the romantic-as-in-love sense at least, rather this romantic-as-in-romanticism pull all dark beautiful secret things have.

And here we can shout a fucking thank you at Erik for completely ruining that beauty by being an absolute creep. But Chrissie doesn’t know that yet. And so he leads her deep down into the dark, into his world of darkness and secrecy and yet twisted beauty, and she is living the mystery now, she’s in this nighttime world they would share in secret. And she’s close enough to take a peek behind the mask, something she was so violently curious about and attracted to, a glance into the dark abyss of his soul that is so intriguing. And so she does peek, and what she finds is terrifying rot.

And this, THIS is the best moment of the entire thing to me. This story could be well off without Raoul (whom I deeply love and cherish but he ruins the gothic) because he adds this romantic tension of a love triangle (which I absolutely loathe because ugh. love triangles.) to what could have been a tale of a girl torn between the world of day and night rather than two men who each love her in a different way. There’s so much of Persephone-sque struggle in Christine’s soul that has been shunned by the story imo, and would have made the whole thing better in the long run (and maybe less grossly-abusive on Erik’s part).

So let’s circle back to Toland, another pale, bony, possibly disfigured brunet in a dark coat with a living room full of skulls and candles (the vibes, huh. he probably owned a boat and a horse too). If we take Eris/Toland as starting off before the Hellmouth (I’m really starting to tentatively test my ground on this hhhng), it feels like the same story slightly to the left. Granted, Eris has more agency, but there’s still a huge power imbalance in her and Eriana coming to Toland--an exiled genius|madman with an evil black crow (Guren) perching on his shoulder--and asking him for help, laying their and their team’s lives at his feet - him, who could probably kill them in seventeen different yet equally fancy ways were he more invested! And there is so much darkness here already because how dark it must have been in Eris’ soul to agree on this revenge fantasy, what an abyss Eriana’s eyes must have been hiding; how desperate they must have been to come to him, to even consider this, to choose a possibility of painful, screaming agony in the Hellmouth over the ache they were feeling now. And so there’s vulnerability, too, in a way - because they’re desperate, because they’re hurting, because everything has been taken from them and they have nothing else to do but this ridiculous, mad plan. And oh he can abuse this void, he can make them do whatever he wants and they’d do it gladly, and I have a feeling both Eris and Eriana are aware of that.

And so they work, in secret, cracking secrets of the Hive, tasting the rot of the forbidden fruit, hiding from the daylight with their dark, heretic, nighttime folly. I think there is a threshold at wherever it is they are meeting--be it a room or a house, Eriana’s kitchen or Toland’s disturbing “lab”--in the doorway, between the bright but empty world of patrols and strikes and dead friends and this horrid, twisted, yet fascinating realm of promised vengeance. And I think Eris learns, hungry for secrets, hungry perhaps for Toland’s eyes on her because all dark beautiful secret things have a pull, and she can’t tell if she’s more drunk on the adventure, or the heresy they’re so blatantly committing, or him. And maybe he reciprocates in his own twisted way, maybe they talk or kiss over the parchment pages, and she cannot tell--she cannot tell if his eyes are truly for her or the Hive, the mystery, the thing they’re doing. I’m thinking of what you wrote, how “he wanted Ascendance as badly as she wanted him”. But despite that--or maybe because of it--she allows herself to be led deep down into the dark, into his world of darkness and secrecy and yet twisted beauty, and she is living the mystery now, she’s in this nighttime world they would share in secret. Is it the Hellmouth? Maybe, though I think it’s a process that spans between their secret studies of the Hive and the midst of their descent, when Vell is dead and maybe they’re all doomed, and Toland’s eyes twinkle in the dark and it’s such beautiful madness she cannot help staring. And the checkpoint has come, time to show cards--and she’s close enough to take a peek behind the mask, something she was so violently curious about and attracted to, a glance into the dark abyss of his soul that was so intriguing. And so she does peek, and what she finds is terrifying rot.

I think this is Ir Yut, or maybe a little bit earlier, but nevertheless the bubble bursts and Eris is left in the dark alone and betrayed. That’s of little concern, of course, when the Hive is hunting you down and all you hear is your friends’ dying screams, but it still hurts, it’s still bitter, it’s still so, so wrong. I like to think he comes to teach her then, maybe give her the journals, and it’s a whirlwind of madness and horror and fury and gore, but he’s whatever comfort she can hope for at this point. It’s twisted, it’s awful, it’s dark-gothic rotten, it’s as wrong and horrid as Erik/Christine is as a whole.

But then they’re given the chance Erik/Christine never got. They’re allowed to outgrow the rot. There’s so much dysfunctionality and disturb going on in most gothic-esque “love” stories because it’s not love, it’s attraction taken for a spin and often grossly abused. Love is growth. I like to think of what must have been going on in Eris’ head (and Toland’s too, perhaps, though I doubt he had one at that point) when they were exchanging the letters, the dearest Eris right next to did you watch me carve out each eye; now that she’s wiser, and scarred, and not so stupid anymore--but there’s still that dark pull she can’t help, now even scarier than before that she knows him for what he really is, now that she’s seen the rot. There’s so much hurt to be outgrown, so much betrayal, but she finds he’s yet again whatever comfort she can hope for (that entry *is* called A Light In The Darkness, huh). I could wax poetic about this whole process but I think you captured it so well in STM I don’t have much else to add.

I wanted to throw quotes into it but couldn’t quite fit them into this, uh, essay (which I didn’t absolutely re-read), and I guess Music of the Night would apply here but it’s ripe with uncomfortable sexual tension?? And aside from that (which is in its entirety a trip) just consider these ah

this whole moment

also this

He'll always be there singing songs in my head  Is this Eris in the letters phase? maybe. I performed a vibe check and it showed positive

Wandering Child for how unhealthy-twisted and beautiful it is (ignore Raoul, I have no metaphor for him in this au)

For either way you choose, you cannot win  It’s just a good quote y’all

Farewell my fallen idol and false friend / We had such hopes, and now those hopes are shattered 

Angel of Music, you deceived me / I gave you my mind blindly  (HOW SHE WHISPERS THAT LAST PART IN THE MOVIE OK)

Stranger than you dreamt it  now you’re stranded in the Hellmouth good job

What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn / Beyond the point of no return

The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn

Down that path into darkness deep as hell  but Toland smiles while he sings this

And of course the classic,  And in this labyrinth where night is blind / The Phantom of the Opera is here inside my mind

Wow! I didn’t even get to the Dreaming City! It’s way more vague than the whole Eris/Toland thing because of course ships take up 80% of my brainspace but idk I just find it so incredibly fitting when it comes to paralleling Savathun/Dul Incaru terrorising the Dreaming City with what Erik does to the opera. Like, everybody knows he’s There but no one can do anything about it, he sends vague threats and kills people but nobody can catch him, and the place is just a giant playground for him to have fun and achieve his personal goals in. And whatever the hell is going on in Masquerade, like

Masquerade! Seething shadows breathing lies Masquerade! You can fool any friend who ever knew you Masquerade! Leering satyrs, peering eyes Masquerade! Run and hide, but a face will still pursue you

wow that sure is subtle. Seething shadows breathing lies, huh. Run and hide, but a face will still pursue you :) And then he crashes the party in a fucking Red Death costume. If this doesn’t have huge Dul Incaru/Siren of Riven energy I don’t know what has.

And of course the shitshow only starts when we kill Riven but the seeds have been planted long, long ago. If you listen closely, you can hear Petra screaming in confusion somewhere under box five.

I know most of this second part is a stretch, BUT! this is my au. And for the record, I know there are very mixed feeling about the 2004 POTO movie but to me personally it was a formative experience, first watched on a very crappy TV in music class at the age of 9 and not even in its entirety, but I was already captivated and shaken to the core, and there’s still, after all those years, something that screams at my soul when I hear the first notes.

And, as a treat for those who suffered with me until the end of this essay,

[captainextremis]

I’ve had some more time to ruminate on the myriad of truths and speculations of Deltarune, so I’ll hit you with some theorizing.

specifically, what we know (and don’t know) about Dess.

Obvious stuff out of the way first, and to give context: Noelle tells Kris (and us, as the player) more about her older sister while we’re alone in Cyber City, specifically spelling out her name via pressure plates while she doesn’t even seem to notice it’s happening. For players going through Chapter 2 for the first time, this is an interesting little bit of worldbuilding, but ultimately it feels kind of off; the information we had about Dess before was sparse.

Then we get to Berdly’s (laughably) tragic backstory in Queen’s manor: how he was always only second best to Noelle until the spelling bee from years ago where the both of them were asked to spell “December.” This caused Noelle to shut down from sheer panic and/or trauma, allowing Berdly to win and become the smartest chicken nugget in school.

The question then remains: why did Dess’ name set Noelle off?

Well, something bad happened to her, obviously, and it either shamed her to the point to leave town and no one else is willing to talk about her or she is straight up dead. I think the most likely option is that she is, in fact, dead...but there is another possibility I’ll talk about in a minute. Anyway, why does hearing Dess’ name traumatize Noelle so much? It’s not because Dess was abusive toward Noelle, far from it; the Angel statue Rudy keeps by his bedside was made by her and Noelle, she wiped away Noelle’s tears with Asriel’s jacket one night, and if we cause mice to keep colliding with her in Cyber City, she’ll remark Kris is lucky Dess isn’t there to protect her.

The information we’ve been drip-fed for two chapters culminates in Noelle recounting the night that she, Kris, Asriel, and Dess snuck out into the forest behind the church graveyard one summer night.

It’s a pretty little story, all things considered, but it struck me as too intriguing to not look into, despite the fact we’re not exactly swimming in information. And first off, I’d like to direct your attention to this line:

Or as I’m calling it, “The futility of relative directions.”

There is a forest behind the church graveyard, yes, but I feel as if this line is being misleading. After all, if you’re standing in one place, and there’s a fence close by, anyone who passes by could say you’re either in front of or behind the fence based on where they are relative to where you and the fence are, right? So what if “behind the graveyard” isn’t from the perspective that we, the player, face it, but from the opposite direction instead?

Where the bunker is.

Now, this is the part where speculation comes in, but I’m almost convinced that the southern bunker, Kris’ connection to it, and Dess’ disappearance are all related, somehow, and it possibly happened on the night all four of them went off into the woods. At some point, they all went to see the bunker and hung around it long enough for Kris (most likely) to get it open somehow...or something noticed them and came out. Whatever happened to Dess, Noelle saw it, and it scarred her so much that she blocked it out of her memory...

And just hearing her sister’s name causes her to shut down.

Now, the part about her blocking something infinitely worse than what she remembers is kinda flimsy, but I feel like this part of the conversation is important, or is going to be important later on.

But we can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that there is something in the bunker. Something most likely related to Dr. Gaster, but also something Kris is involved with and might be aware of.

Snowy and MK mention that Kris has done something with the bunker before. Based on context clues of the conversation, I think they were dared to, at some point, open the bunker up and go inside, but in the end they chickened out. It’s not really important to my theories on Dess and how she ties into the world, because I believe that whatever happened at the bunker (if something did indeed happen) ended up killing Dess.

“But if she’s dead, why doesn’t she have a headstone in the graveyard?” Well, the Holidays are rich, and there are rich families that have private cemeteries on their own property. Or, y’know...she could’ve just been vaporized and/or cremated.

But back at the beginning of this post, you may remember I mentioned there might be a second possibility for why we never see Dess, and for the record, I do think she’s dead, but this other thought I had wormed its way into my brain and I...kinda like it????

Anyway, when you inspect the closet in the computer lab, the text reads “(...A large person could easily fit inside.)” Who would be hiding in that closet, then? Well watch this video first before you continue:

All done? You sure? Watched the whole thing and understood it? Okay, great. Now here’s my two cents:

Dess is the Knight.

Whatever happened to her didn’t kill her, but it sure looked enough like it did for everyone to try and forget about it, and the fallout was so bad, it gave Noelle PTSD, drove a wedge between the Holidays and the Dreemurrs, and even caused Asgore and Toriel to separate (I also have a feeling that whatever happened to Dess, Asgore tired to stop it, failed, and got kicked off the force, but since we have very little to go on, that’s kind of a stretch).

But she didn’t die.

And somehow, she’s able to move between the Dark World and Light World as the Knight, opening Fountains and causing chaos in general? But why?

...uuuuhhh, fuck.

In conclusion, Dess is an extremely important character, possibly more important than Asriel, and only the next few chapters will tell us just how involved she really is thank you for coming to my ted talk.

[theodora3022]

Goddess(Yandere Mirio)

Posting again because weird internet connection last night ate it...

Pairing: (yandere?) Pro hero! Mirio x Villain? F!reader

Summary: You were once a powerful young hero with a wind quirk. After refusing Endeavor’s proposal, you were blacklisted from the hero community. Having no choice, you begun to work as an assassin. Slitting throats without hesitation as long as it is lucrative. That is when you run into Mirio, your former classmate again. You two were not close friends, although mirio is always friendly. He was ordered to take you down, so you expected a fierce fight. What you did not anticipate is how he invited you to come with him.

Notes: Yeah this is a Mirio take on the “Fairy” concept. I recently recieved a request for this, and I just want to say I am so happy you guys love this stupid little concept. Mirio still have his quirk in this fic, and Sir Night Eye is still alive. Reblogs are comments are greatly appreciated!!

You can also see this contains an pathetic attempt to write Endeavor, but I’m not cut out for that LMAO

Warnings: slight nsfw for hcs, abuse of power(not Mirio), stalking, non-con touching, suicide attempt, drugging

They say the loveliest angels make the cruelest demons, and my darling

You were so beautiful

Before they dragged you into hell.

“You’re going to regret this decision.” That was what Endeavor said when you hand him the resignation with a straight face. However, You do not feel any regret whatsoever. You stayed silent as you began to walk out of that damned office, that courrpted agency. Paying no mind the flame man’s burning gaze on your back.

When you first started at Endeavor’s agency, you were excited. As a fresh UA Graduate, it is unusual for a top hero like Endeavor himself to offer you a position as a sidekick. It almost feels too good to be true. Well, turns out it is.

Used to loose clothing, you were shocked when your boss requested you to change your hero costume to a tight bodysuit. Being the good employee you were, you obeyed without questions. Then there are those little things, how Endeavor seems to favor you over his other subordinates, how he finds excuses to keep you near him at all times, most alarmingly, how he looks at your breasts and hips when he thought you did not notice.

You had doubts, but your boss is the No.1 hero! How can he possibly have sexual desires for a little girl like you? So you choose to ignore those red flags and carried on. Until he cornered you against the office door one day, when you came to report a minor robber you took care of earlier.

That is when you realize how you naïve you were. “Fire and winds, they go well together don’t they? I’m sure a child with those two quirks would be a powerful hero.” “Don’t touch me!” You said, almost screaming. He was pressed to a corner of his office by sudden strong currents, banging on the bookshelf that occupies it. Several books fell off, but he did not seem to bother. Even with his strength Endeavor cannot move forward a step. That pissed off look scares you, but you did allow yourself to flinch despite your trembling hands.

“You have no idea how many woman would die for an oppertunity like this.” 

“Then go find them, Sir. Sorry but I will never accept this offer.”

And that is how you ended up as a sellsword, instead of a hero. You work to get paid.

Your friends use to muse about how your impeccable speed would be perfect for an assassin, and that is what you are now. Slithering in the shadows, taking life for gold. Heroes and villains alike commissioned you due to your stealthy quirk and your incredible speed.You would not exactly count yourself as a villain, although the LoV had made offers to you in the past. You walk in that grey area of society, neither good nor bad. After Endeavor blacklisted you, no agency dared to hire you. None of them are willing to evoke his wrath. This is all his plan to make you submit, to accept the position of his compliant trophy wife, his personal baby factory. But you did not give in, even that means rejections and pity from those other heroes.  At last when your saving run out, you took up the LoV’s commission offer. The pay is generous, and you were in need. It is a win-win deal. Ever since you have been taking up jobs from both sides as long as the pay is good.

Your fifteen-year-old UA freshman self would never imagine becoming an assassin, but here you are, shaking hands with Kurogiri as you take the rest of the payment. They wanted you to join them, but you politely declined. You liked Toga and Spinner well enough, but some heroic part of you still cannot stand the idea of becoming a villain.

Regardless of being a mercenary, you still have your principles and morals. Aside from those contracts, you never took a life. You would still give up your seat to pregnant and elderly on the train, still picking up trash in parks. After finishing a job, you would hum little melodies as you pull the hood of your sweater over your blood-stained hair, fly home, maybe getting groceries on the way. You are merciful at what you do, always strike one lethal blow so the target would have minimal pain. Life is not easy, but you are certain this is so much better then being trapped in a manor as a housewife. Occasionally, some sketchy bounty hunter would manage to get to you, although you can always outrun them.

Mirio has a problem. It was...about a mission, concerning you.

What lies on his desk, is a detailed file of you. You in the picture were still a hero back then, smiling at the camera. How can Mirio ever forget that sweet smile?

“If I’m not mistaken, (y/n) is your old schoolmate, correct?” “Yes, Sir.” “She has been lending strength to the League of Villains as a mercenary. That makes her a criminal, even though she takes up jobs from the commission as well. We need to get her back to our side, as her winds are strong, we cannot let the villains have that. Endeavor seem to be particularly enthusiastic about this idea, oddly. I think you should be the one to do it. You can pass through anything, even her winds. Find her, bring her back, use force if possible.”

Mirio always wondered what made you leave hero life, now he got the perfect opportunity to ask you! He has not seen you in forever, this could be a little cute reunion! To be perfectly honest to himself, Mirio had a minor crush on you back w in UA. But as students you both just focused on your studies, and he never confessed.

It took him a while to track down your whearabouts, but for Mirio it was not a hard task, as the Commission has your address of the bar you frequented to take up offers.

It was a cold night, you just finished a job in the rural area of Mustafu, cleansing your daggers in a little stream in the woods when he appeared before you. Damn, how did he approach you without the winds noticing?

To Mirio, how you crouch down by the stream, how your black clothes hugs every curve of your body and especially how you focused on washing the bloodstains off your knives were absolutely stunning. You were like the huntress goddess Artemis from the Greek legends, with how the moonlight gently pooling over your frame. It might sound weird, getting turned on by a girl washing her daggers, but Mirio somehow accepts the fact that his juvenile crush has not gone away. On the contrary, it has become stronger, strong enough to be classified as love or obsession.

Now he knows why Endeavor has been so enthusiastic about the idea of capturing you. Mirio can hardly take his eyes off you himself! You were even more breathtaking in your pitch-black assassin attire compare to your hero costume. As he always loves a good mythology story, seeing you like this awaken something in him. A beautiful goddess, through and through.

You are his goddess! How can you taint your hands with blood while you can be worshipped in the temples? Being a mercenary does not suit you. 

“Togata, what a surprise.” Seeing your old classmate again, you are more concerned then happy. This is a remote location, far away from any population, and he just sneaked up on you without notice. He laughs as he sees how you work up a defensive wind barrier, knowing it has no effect on permeation. Back in your schooldays he has always been a pain to defeat, since Mirio can even pass through air, your usual push away methods fail on him alone. Thankfully, he cannot fly. “Long time no see. Well, what brings you to this part of town?” Putting away your daggers back into your leather pouch, you managed to put up a polite smile even you dreaded his answer. If he is one of those bounty hunters-

“I came to see you, of course! You are so beautiful in these clothes.” Without warning, Mirio stepped close, the wind barrier does nothing to him. If this has been a normal reunion party, his words might just make you flush a bit. But this is a secluded forest.

Before you can think of a counter strategy, two big strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close towards the grinning blonde. You let out a scream as you try to wiggle out of his grasp, but it was futile. As a ranged combatant with high speed, strength was never your forte, neither is close up combat.

Why are you screaming? Don’t you see how he just want you to be treated well? This life is not for you! You deserve a loving family life, and Mirio is determined to provide that.

“Love, please do not scream. I don’t want to use a gag on you.” When you were distracted by his loving nickname, Mirio quickly slid a pair of quirk cancelling handcuffs on you.

“Let me go! Togata why are you doing this?” You are sure he has taken up the role of a bounty hunter. To your surprise, he released you from his clutches. But you were horrified to find your quirk has been restricted by those damned cuffs.

“Did Endeavor send you? I always know he is a piece of garbage, but you? Who can make my quirk useless?” Slowly backing away, trembling, you knew there is no change you can outrun Lemillion without your winds. Guess that is the end of free life. You rather be dead then be in Endeavor’s home. A quick slit can get the job done.

However, Mirio would never allow you to die. Before you can reach for your blades, he snatched the pouch out of your hands. “Endeavor? No, no. I’m not taking you to him. Don’t hurt yourself, angel.”

A wave of relief wash over you, then you hear Mirio’s words: “I’m taking you home, the commission has ordered me to make sure you don’t make any more deals with villains, and I agree. You deserve a peaceful life.”

Those are the last words you hear before blacking out from a strange, sweet scent. “Sorry to do this, my sweet, but you need to calm down and come home with me.”

As he held your unconscious body in his arms, Mirio promised himself that he will treasure you and give you the treatment you deserve. He finally found his goddess, he is not going to let go, never.

Bonus head canons:

You would wake up in Mirio’s fancy apartment, quirk cancelling collar around your neck, with mirio hugging you from behind in bed. His breath tickles your neck in the most terrifying way.

“Love, you’re finally awake! I was worrying about you overdosing.” That big smile, used to be a sign or reassurance during school days, now is a sight worthy for nightmares.

You would start kicking and screaming, wanting to get away from him.

“Togata let me go!” Your squirms are less then useless without your winds, but you have to try.

“It’s Mirio, lovely. Now how about we get you changed? I got you some pretty lingerie~”

You would shake your head and bite him, which...would result in him getting mad.

“I know it’s not right to use drugs, but you got to understand I did this all for you! That life is too dirty for someone like you, you deserved to be cherished. Lucky for you I am here to tend to all your needs.”

“But I- “ “No buts, sweetness. Now how about you get into one of those pretty outfits and show me how grateful you are? I did spare you that awful mercenary life, after all.”

You were not given a choice. Well, at least he cannot be worse then Endeavor, right? You can only gulp and comply, terrified of the alternative.

“My precious goddess...” He pulls you close, buring his nose in your hair. “I’m going to worship you so well that you forget about everything else.”

[occasionalrpmemes]

Will Wood: the Normal Album Sentence Starters

lines taken from the 2020 album.  edit as desired.  tw: violence, disordered eating, gender dysphoria, mental illness, substance abuse, suicidal ideation, death

01.  Suburbia Overture: Greetings from Mary Bell Township! / (Vampire) Culture / Love Me, Normally

“Trick or treat.  Merry Christmas.”

“Howdy neighbor!”

“Thank you Jesus!”

“It don’t look like survival, but buy now or die.”

“You’re not alone.”

“The lights are on, but no one’s home.”

“Takes a village to fake a whole culture.”

“Home is where the heart is- You ain’t homeless, but you’re heartless.”

“It’s the safest on the market.”

“You still gotta watch where you park it.”

“Give me your half-life crisis.”

“I can tell that you know where paradise is.”

“Parasites don’t care what your blood type is.”

“A snowflake only matters in a blizzard.”

“Everyone knows that nobody knows that.”

“Well, word gets around on hit number stations.”

“Smile and wave, boys, kiss the cook, live laugh and love, please pass the pills.”

“It’s only culture.  It’s only culture.  It’s only culture.”

“Didn’t they want your blood?”

“Why apologize when you turn blue and cold?

“Hey, fuck your culture.”

“Do you know the difference between blazing trails and slash-and-burn?”

“Hey, you’re only mortal.”

02.  2econd 2ight 2eer (well, that was fun, goodbye)

“The devil made me do it, but I also kinda wanted to.”

“Forget bored stiff, I got rigor mortis.”

“My third eye’s open and I like what I see.”

“If you knew what I knew, if you saw what I see- ”

“But I got facts and I’m not afraid to use ‘em.”

“I’m getting better one forever at a time.”

“If sick is defined by what’s different, well then pull the plug out and let me die.”

”Who I am, I choose through all the things I do.”

“If it rhymes, it’s true, but I hate poetry.”

“Well that was fun, goodbye.”

03.  Laplace’s Angel (Hurt People?  Hurt People!)

“Have you ever died in a nightmare?  Woke up surprised you hadn’t earned your fate?”

“Have you ever felt like Atlas, threw your back out on the axis, and collapsed and threw the planet away?”

“Nobody dies agnostic.”

“Nobody dies agnostic, but we still dial 9-1-1.”

“Am I really that bad?”

“Whatever you think of me, if you were in my shoes, you’d walk the same damn miles I do.”

“With my head up in the clouds, I can see so much ground.”

“From up here, you look like ants in a row.”

“It doesn’t take a killer to murder.  It only takes the reason to kill.”

“The difference twixt fate and free will is whether you’re singing.”

“You wash your hands of where you’ve been until you flood the second floor.  Neatly fold your skeletons, but still can’t shut the closet door.”

“The only ones in need of love are those who don’t receive enough.”

“You could break an angel’s fall, and ignore the Devil’s call.”

“It’s a small hell after all.”

“Man, no more than animal, is made of moral chemicals.”

“If you were in my shoes, you’d see I wear the same size as you.”

04.  I / Me / Myself

“I’ve been feeling lightheaded since I lost enough weight to fit back in my skin.”

“Am I pretty now?”

“For some reason, I find myself lost in what you think of me.”

“I wish I could be a girl, and that way you’d wish I could be your girlfriend, boyfriend.”

“Am I pretty enough to lie to?”

“Just little old me in a big, big world.”

“I’ve been feeling lighthearted since I gained enough weight back to cover my bones.”

“You’ll be walking out early, but the show must go on.”

“No, I know that I’m wrong.  But I love how you’re on my side when I cross that line.”

“It’s been a point of contention between myself and this body that they stuck me in.”

“The privilege of being born to be a man.”

”I am quantum physics; my witness brings me into existence.”

”Am I pretty enough to love back?”

“Am I pretty enough to fucking die?”

“I wish-”

“Don’t you think that there’s a chance that you could live without it?”

05.  ...well, better than the alternative

“My daughter’s growing up.  She’s gonna be a lot like me, but I don’t wanna be at all like me.”

“I don’t wanna be at all like me.”

“You’re telling me I’m holding up eleven fingers.”

“Stranger things than death can happen.”

“Everybody knows that nobody knows that.”

“Everybody’s in on everybody’s business.”

“This isn’t my first Christmas, I know mistletoe when I see it.”

“Baby, could you play along with me?”

“Baby, would that be alright with you?”

“When we find out what’s wrong with me, could you tell me how I’m right for you?”

“Could you tell me how I’m right for you?”

“Could you tell me if I’m still pretty?”

“If they could see the future back when times were simple...”

“If everyone’s sick, well then, nobody can catch it.”

“Everybody’s all up in my god damn business.”

“This isn’t my first kiss.”

“It’s better to be lost than loved, now, isn’t it?”

“Everybody’s all up in my motherfucking business!”

“This isn’t my first anything.”

“After all of that’s been done to me, could you tell me how, could you tell me how, could you tell me—”

“What’s so wrong about what’s wrong with me?”

“I’m just trying to do what’s right by you!”

06.  Outliars and Hyppocrates: a fun fact about apples

“Did you know that the hole in the apple didn’t come from the outside in?  It was eaten from the core and out to the skin, and that’s why you’ll never find the worm in it.”

“The disease is defined by its treatment.”

“You people make me sick.”

“Who’d want to be human anyway?”

“Why’d you come into this world or come out that way?”

“Isn’t it funny?  Well, not "ha-ha" funny, but y’know, funny.”

“I doubt that you would even if you could change.”

“You think it makes you special, but it makes you strange.”

“The things that make you special are the things that make you strange.”

“I am the shadows cast aside by gallows, and you the red-hot sky.”

“And if you’re believers, then why would you grieve for the dead, instead of a devil that you never prayed for?”

“Too weird to love, too scared to die.  Too alien to take you home.”

“Who’d want to belong to anyone?”

“I mean, what do people even do?”

“If you love me, let me let you go.”

“Five more minutes, please?  You wouldn’t believe the dream I just had.”

07.  Black Box Warrior - OKULTRA

“Bless the torpedoes!”

“For what?  For what??”

“For what it’s worth, if it was going to kill you, boy, it would have by now.”

“There’s no more looking back, it’s looking up or looking down.”

“Wonder if Christ-Consciousness would charge a cancellation fee.”

“Auf wiedersehn!  Au revoir!”

“Hello, welcome.  Why don’t you take a seat?  Get comfortable, relax, take a second if you need to.”

“Now, what’s bothering you?”

“Well, why don’t we start at the beginning?”

“Growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence?”

“Did you die before your day?”

“You got a better idea?  It’s about the best we could come up with.”

“What, you think ideas spread because they’re good?  No, they spread because people like them.”

“So here we are once again.  Holding, as it were, a mirror up to your mirror.”

“I guess it’s just something people do!”

“You learn to be an animal instead.”

“I never did think you better than this.”

“It’s you who are the problem.  Not the things you do, but something sick inside.”

“Boy, you really is defective.”

“Offer up your innocence, please ignore the side effects.”

“You’ve lost your mind and almost lost your life before, so you’ll be fine!”

“Why would you want to look back?  I mean, it’s no good looking back. So try to look forward now.”

“For what it’s worth, if they were gonna get you boy, they would have by now.”

08.  Marsha, Thankk You for the Dialectics, but I Need You to Leave.

“They could prescribe you any illness you’d like if you define the terms of your ailments.”

“A crow don’t know the smell of carbon monoxide.”

“How many years have you been on that couch?”

“Your draw a line in the sand where it ends and you begin, but the tide rolls in, so who knows?”

“A little identity never hurt nobody, but lately you’ve been focusing too much on yourself.”

“How many milligrams of you are still left in there?”

“Back in my day, we didn’t need no feel-good pills and no psychiatrists.  We just drank ourselves to death.  And god damn it, we liked it!”

“What’s a symptom, what’s a flaw, can it be both?”

“Well, I suppose that’s an answer.”

“Would you give up your humanity for just a touch of sanity?”

“They’ve discovered a cure for the symptoms of being alive.  It’s a painless procedure with a low rate of failure, but very few patients survive.”

“And a little conformity never hurt nobody, but lately I’ve been worried that you’re losing yourself.”

“What’s my prognosis?”

“Disease is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Tell me ‘so it goes.’”

“Better safe than sorry, and we both know the danger.”

“So doctor, could you run another test?”

“If our harmonies don’t sync, we can change our voices.”

“Don’t heed no evil wills of moral nihilists.”

“Don’t you make me waste my breath.”

“GOD DAMN IT!”

“Does aspirin kill you with the pain?“

“You’re not your thoughts, you’re not your brain, you’re just the character you’ve made.”

“What seem like separate body parts come together to believe they’re you, and not just chemistry.”

“It’s not the way that you were raised, or what the advertisements say.”

“It’s not what you pay for, what you pray for, what you want, or what you say.”

“Something tells me that you need, forgive me now if I misspeak--”

“Something tells me you prefer to be sitting there flipping through those old issues of People.”

“Well, that’s our time.  See you next week.”

09.  Love, Me Normally

“In lipstick on the mirror are the lyrics to my obituary.”

“Crossing my eyes, dot my T’s.”

“I was delivered holding scissors.”

“I live deliberately, I’m a quitter.”

“I never agreed to participate in this game.”

“Won’t follow my dreams, cause they all got me waking up screaming.”

“I’d rather be normal.  Yes, so normal.”

“I suggest that we keep this informal.”

“A normal human being wouldn’t need to pretend to be normal.”

“Well, I guess that’s the least that I owe ya.”

“C’mon, c’mon, and love me normally.”

“If I could live in third person, well, I don’t think life would be much worse than it is.”

“Is it courageous or escapist to leave the quarantine when you’re contagious?”

“It may just be a cold.  And besides, I don’t wanna get old.”

“I drank myself to death to be the afterlife of the party.”

“When the afterparty came, I was rolling in my grave.”

“Now, this is the part of the song where I talk to my audience.”

“There’s something I want from you hepcats tonight.”

“I want you to look to your left.  Look to your right.  Your twelve o’clock, three o’clock, six o’clock, nine o’clock, rock around the clock tonight–”

“I want you to find those points of no return, those singularities, those burning rings of fire in the beautiful pupils and the beautiful eyes of the beautiful boy, girl, neither, both, or in-between that you brought with you tonight.  And I want you to tell ’em how you really feel!”

“Jam that square peg in the round hole in their hearts!”

“You love them exactly the way that everybody else is.”

“I was nothing before, so I couldn’t have asked to be born.  I’ll be nothing again, so what am I between now and then?”

“Is there nothing to fear?  Cause shit’s getting weird.”

“So to God who made this man: you better have one hell of a plan.”

10.  Memento Mori: the most important thing

“If you’re lucky you’ll be surrounded by the ones that you love, when the lights in your eyes fade and life flashes by.

“One day you’re going to die.”

“Heaven, hell, nirvana, nothing, no one knows how it ends.”

“Rest in peace— or pieces.”

“Read your horoscopes, your palms and tarot cards.  But either way your destination ain’t very far.”

“You could drown, or choke, or burn, or be hit by a car.”

“What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but something will eventually.”

“One day you’ll look back at the life that you lead.  No more future left to fear that you’ll have the past to regret.”

“But your worries will be over if you truly realize— one day you’re going to die!”

“Take it away, hands!”

“In the fabric of time and in the vastness of space, a billion amounts to nothing in infinity’s face.”

“Your life never mattered, so who cares if it's a waste?”

“Well, one day you’ll be not even a faint memory.”

“You’ll never know what it all means.”

“Just keep this in mind: that everything and everyone goes with the passage of time.”

“No need to fear, ’cause when it’s here, you won’t be alive.”

“Try not to think about it!”

“So if you only have one chance, you oughta try your best to live as you like.”

[identityonfilm]

Character analysis - Lucifer Morningstar

Staying true to my chosen topic, identity and the importance of representation on cinema and TV, I decided to analyse one of my favorite, most complex characters from TV. I went through this based on watching the episodes of the show, watching and reading interviews from the creators and the cast of the show, theories and also talking and debating with friends who have watched the show and can relate to him and his experiences, putting in evidence the importance of representation.

Being such a complex character that represents and normalizes a lot of stigma, he allows me to explore trauma, coping mechanisms, sexuality, mental illness and above all, identity.

Lucifer Morningstar is a character from the Lucifer TV show (originally from FOX and found a new family on Netflix after being canceled in 2018) based on the DC comics by the same name.

Lucifer is, quite obviously, the Devil. We’ve since our childhood been taught to think he’s terrible and to fear him, but that’s practically impossible with this fictional satan. If anything, he shows us the biggest, hardest path to redemption humanity could ever witness and that if he can, so can we.

Even though this Lucifer isn’t completely based of the Bible, his origins are. Lucifer Morningstar, born Samael, is the son of God and Goddess, the favorite son, the Poison of God, the Lightbringer. His task was to light up the stars. He and his siblings were neglected from a young age, since Dad was too busy with humanity and his only contact with his children was to command them. Our hero got enough of the neglect and, fascinated by the free will humanity possessed and angels lacked, started a rebellion against his own Father. In result, he got thrown out of Heaven and into Hell as his sentence, becoming its ruler. In the Underworld he created his own identity: Satan, the Devil, detaching himself from his angelic nature. From there, he commanded demons and gave out punishment to the most rotten, guilty souls that got into his realm. There, the demon Mazikeen became his friend and protector, until both of them left to Earth for a “vacation”.

Lucifers backstory is tragic and clearly traumatizing. The Lightbringer went from being the purest angel, God’s favorite son, to being the Devil, owning up to his original name’s meaning, the Poison of God. Lucifer became violent, impulsive, frustrated and, under his carefully crafted layers of confidence, a very insecure creature, full of self hatred. He’s an immensely relatable character to a lot of viewers, for a multitude of reasons. Along this post i will explore these topics.

 Daddy issues: The root of all of Morningstar’s issues is undoubtedly, God Himself. His own father, who’s supposed to love and protect His son, failed, abandoned and vilified him. Throughout the series Lucifer vents and rants about the pain He caused, His injustice and unfairness. His family is the root of all his trauma and the abandonment from a parental figure is something a lot of children and teens unfortunately go through and seeing this strong, seemingly indestructible character breaking at the thought of his Dad, just like they do, is extremely important.

 Trust issues: Alongside the daddy issues blooms his trust issues. He was wronged by his family, everyone he’s ever met and even has been vilified by all of humanity. In the 13 billions of years he’s been alive, he has learned how to build his walls up and close himself off from possible friendships and even relationships. He doesn’t completely trust anyone, not even himself, but we see his walls crumbling down throughout the seasons, especially with Chloe Decker, his partner and eventually, his lover, and Linda Martin, his therapist.

 Interpersonal difficulties: As mentioned before, Lucifer has his walls way up, which doesn’t allow him to have healthy relationships. Most of his relationships are rocky and unstable, big part of that due to difficulty in communication. While his most toxic friendship is with his oldest friend Maze, his rockiest is possibly with co-worker Dan, all the way through his growing relationship with his only present brother, Amenadiel, sweetest sibling-like relationship with Ella, a very awkward friendship with the detective’s “spawn”, Trixie, to the most focused on relationship of the show - “Deckerstar”- his relationship with Chloe Decker, his co-worker becomes friend becomes best friend becomes lover. Chloe is Lucifer’s soulmate, the one who makes him emotionally and physically vulnerable, the true love of his life. The key to his path to redemption. But his most important friendship is, without a shadow of a doubt, his therapist, Doctor Linda Martin. The normalization of therapy is such an important point of this show. Lucifer starts therapy in the beginning of season 1 and continues throughout the show, where she helps him breakthrough most of his issue and teaches him how to deal with his emotions and himself. His character is full of denial. He refuses to be seen as weak, fragile, “human”. He sees emotions as a flaw and weakness. His sessions with Linda help him open his eyes to a new reality and to connect with and embrace his vulnerable side.

 Self-destructive behavior/unhealthy coping mechanisms: Lucifer often falls into unhealthy behavior when something somewhat tragic happens. That unhealthy behavior ranges from excessive use of drugs, abuse of alcohol, sex, self-harm, cutting his wings off often because they’re a symbol of divinity that represent his loyalty to his Father), all the way to being completely reckless and attempting to get himself killed. His complete disregard for his own life and well-being is a constant in the series, going as far as dying to protect/save someone, but in these moments of despair, it goes from a place of protectiveness for the ones he loves to suicidal behavior rooted on his self-hatred and guilt.

 Hypersexuality: As mentioned above, one of Lucifer’s coping mechanisms is engaging in sexual activity. This is often linked to childhood trauma, either by abuse where victims need to reclaim the power over their own bodies or by neglect and lack of physical affection in formative years. He chooses to numb his pain and emotions with pleasure.

“They are addicted to the neurochemical and dissociative high produced by their intense sexual fantasy life and ritualistic behavior.” by Robert Weiss on Psych Central

 Isolation: Due to depression, trauma and spending years alone in Hell, Morningstar tends to isolate himself when things get rough. While he craves love, friendship and affection, he denies that to himself, he doesn’t understand that he can be loved, fully, for who he is, both angel and devil, without it being a manipulation from his Father.

 Sexuality: Lucifer Morningstar is a canon bisexual character, and the best part about it, is that it’s normalized. There isn’t a big storyline about his sexuality or homophobia, he just openly talks about and is shown with both women and men. And it’s normal. Actually, most of the characters on the show are canon LGBTQ+, which is one of the reasons the show is so loved by many. Representation is so important and seeing ourselves and our experiences represented on TV is immensely important in helping us feel more normal and seen. As of 2020, the actor Tom Ellis has won two bisexual representation awards for playing Lucifer. (x)

 Upon this analysis, we can confirm that his trauma, behavior issues and his identity as we see on the show is widely shaped by his childhood and his background story, mainly by his Dad, Mum and siblings. According to the NSPCC, some effects of neglect are:

 l “taking risks, like running away from home, using drugs and alcohol or breaking the law.

l getting into dangerous relationships

l difficulty with relationships later in life, including with their own children

l a higher chance of having mental health problems, including depression.”

 However tragic it may be, his story and his path to redemption and happiness is extremely inspiring and shows the audience that no matter where you came from, your past does not define you. No matter what you’re going through, it gets better. It’s a message of hope, love and identity.

 References:

 Weiss, Robert. (2018). Hypersexuality: Symptoms of Sexual Addiction. Retrieved from https://psychcentral.com/lib/hypersexuality-symptoms-of-sexual-addiction/#:~:text=Sexual%20addiction%20or%20hypersexuality%20is,of%20at%20least%20six%20months.

NSPCC. Effects of neglect. Retrieved from https://www.nspcc.org.uk/what-is-child-abuse/types-of-abuse/neglect/

Feser, Madison. (2019). The Doctor Is In: Therapy Is The Medicine Of Choice In Fox’s ‘Lucifer’. Retrieved from https://studybreaks.com/tvfilm/lucifer-fox-therapy-mental-health/

https://lucifer.fandom.com/wiki/Lucifer_Morningstar

[alloftheimagines]

billy hargrove | heaven-sent | part eleven

masterlist | series | part ten

words: 1.8k

warnings: swearing, mentions of abuse, angst

summary:  she’s an angel. he may as well be the devil. one would not exist without the other.

Billy has been driving around Hawkins for the better part of two hours. He couldn’t sleep, his thoughts tossing between his father’s abuse and everything that has happened with Frances. The night is pitch-black, the Camaro speeding past orange streetlights and merging shadows—and it’s peaceful. He doesn’t have his music turned on, doesn’t need it so much in the dark. All he needs his the whir of the Camaro’s engine whispering to him softly and the feeling of farms and forests passing him by. He can almost pretend he isn’t in Hawkins anymore in the darkness, almost pretend that the grey, uneven concrete beneath his tyres is that of a Californian road.

His headlights catch movement in his peripheral vision, breaking him out of his daydream. A silhouette is walking down the road, body half concealed by trees. As he gets closer, he recognises the brown, knotted hair and tattered, loose denim jeans. Frances. Her breath is visible against the blackness, her face washed out by the car’s lights. Of course he can still stumble across her here, in the middle of fucking nowhere, where there isn’t even a side-walk between the woods and the road.

“For fuck’s sake,” he curses under his breath, pulling up at the side of the road and opening his door. The cold bites at his fingers, and he shivers.

She doesn’t so much as look at him, continuing her determined tread, though there's no way she hasn't heard the Camaro.

“Frances,” he calls irritably, stepping out of the car and leaving the door to swing open as he follows her. She spares him a scowl over her shoulder, her arms wrapped around her torso tightly. “Frances, what the fuck are you doing walking out here at 3 am?”

“It doesn’t concern you,” she hits back, her voice hoarse.

“Frances!” he yells louder, stopping in his tracks and dragging his hair through his curls in frustration. “Will you fucking stop and talk to me? What are you doing? You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

“Like you care,” she spits, finally turning around to face him. Her eyes are glassy, numb, her cheeks and nose flushed a bright red from the cold and her lips an unhealthy shade of blue. “Were you following me or something?”

“Oh, yeah, I was following you,” he mocks, rolling his eyes. “What else would I be doing at 3 am?”

She doesn’t answer, blinking dumbly.

“I was drivin’, okay? I couldn’t sleep.”

“Well, you can carry on drivin’,” she mutters, burying her face further into her scarf, “and I’ll carry on walkin’.”

“No, you won’t,” he counters, gesturing to the car still sitting with the driver’s door wide open. “Get in.”

“No.”

“No?" he repeats in disbelief. "You gonna carry on walking until you get murdered or freeze to death?”

“Oh, give me a break, Hargrove.” Her upper lip curls in contempt as she takes a step towards him. “You wanna drive me home again, see if it’ll be a case of third-time lucky? Whatever this weird fucking act is where you pretend to give a shit, just drop it. I don’t trust you. I’ll never be stupid enough to trust you.”

“I don’t care if you trust me, Fran. Just get in the damn car and let me take you home. You can be mad at me for whatever imaginary scenario you’ve made up in your head tomorrow.”

“It’s not imaginary and I’m not stupid.”

“Coulda’ fooled me,” he spat back, anger beginning to simmer in his stomach.

“Oh, fuck you,” she says, about to turn away. “I’ve seen how you are with other girls. I know exactly what game you’re playing.”

His voice brings her back, unbearably loud in the otherwise silent night even to his own ears. He hopes to fucking God there are no houses nearby, because they’d be sure to hear their screaming match.

“No, Fran, fuck you. If you pay as much attention to me as you claim to, you’d realise there’s no one else’s bullshit I’d put up with like this. You think I go out of my way to take other girls home when they're drunk? Huh?” he questions, his voice thick with passion now. “You think I break into cars to get their shit back from their boyfriends? You think I’d even be here right now if all I wanted was to get in your pants? You’ve made it perfectly clear that that’s never gonna happen and I’m still fucking here. I still give a shit. Fuck knows why, but I do.”

The words are slipping out of him uncontrollably now, words he’s imagined saying, words he wishes he could have said earlier. “Maybe I’m a dick and a man-whore and whatever else you think of me. You wanna push me away and hate me for it? Do it. Hell, I’ll even let you, but you are not wandering around the fucking woods at 3 am in the freezing cold, no matter how much you hate me, so get in the damn car before I make you.”

He’s breathless when he finally finishes, and for a moment, so is she. Her eyes are shiny in the moonlight, cloaked by her damp eyelashes as she looks up at him. Somehow, they are closer together than Billy had noticed before. “But you tried to kiss me,” she whispered, almost as though trying to convince herself rather than him. “You said you wanted rebound sex.”

His hands slap his sides in frustration. “And you rejected me. I could have left it at that, ran off to some other chick who wanted me, but I didn’t, did I? I’m still here. You think I like stickin’ around when a girl throws me through a door and rejects me?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about you.” Her expression flickers with doubt, but her voice is weak, now, and he can tell she wants to believe him.

Billy’s eyes lower to his feet as he replies, “I think you know a hell of a lot more than most.”

Frances sighs, her arms tightening around herself as the wind picks up. Billy uses his denim jacket to guard himself from it, but it cuts into his clothes and whips his hair across his face.

“I’m not getting in your car,” she says again finally, her gaze locked on something past him.

“Jesus,” he exclaims, “have you got a death wish or are you just being stubborn on purpose now?”

“I need to find them!” Her voice rises in frustration and panic.

Understanding dawns on Billy slowly, and his expression softens. “Fran—”

“No, Billy, you don’t get it.” She takes a step back from him, and just like that, they are as far apart as they were to begin with, the moment of quiet lost in the wind. “Please. I need to find them.”

Her eyes flash golden, and he wouldn’t have caught it if he hadn’t been looking. He knows to expect it now, and though he doesn’t react, his stomach twists. “You’re right: I don’t get it, so talk to me. Who’s ‘them’?”

“Him, I mean. My dad. I … I can feel it again,” Frances stutters, her hand pressing against her chest as though she is desperate to make him feel it, too. “The feeling in my chest, the dread. I felt it the night that Barb was killed and I ignored it. I can’t ignore it again now. Something is wrong. My dad … my dad is all I have left. If I lose him—”

“Alright,” Billy nods, knowing already how that sentence might end. “Alright, how about we look for him together? I’ll drive you anywhere you wanna go.”

Her attention darts hesitantly into the woods beside them, her teeth chattering as she shrinks into herself. “You wanna help me?”

“Yes, Fran,” his voice is pleading now, “I want to help you.”

“Alright,” she agrees. He can hear the exhaustion gnawing at her in that word alone. “Okay.”

“Alright.” A breath of relief slips from him as he reaches for her shoulder and guides her small frame to the car. Her cheek is like ice even through his shirt as she presses herself into him for warmth. “Jesus, you’re freezing. Have you been out here all night?”

She nods against him as he leads her to the trunk, popping it open and pulling out an old, flannel blanket. He wraps it around her quickly, and to his surprise, she lets him. Her focus is no longer on him, but on the mound of sleeping bags and pillows in the trunk.

“Do you sleep in here?”

Billy can feel his cheeks heat with embarrassment, and he closes the trunk with a slam, guiding Frances to the passenger side. “Sometimes. My house is a shit-show.”

She closes the door, and he can feel her eyes following him as he rounds the car and slips into the driver’s seat. He turns the heater on full-blast as Frances relaxes into her seat, head pressed against the window.

“Where we headed?”

“I don’t know. I’ve looked everywhere … twice. I don’t know where he could be.”

“You been home since earlier today?”

She nods solemnly, clicking on her seat-belt as an afterthought. “Yeah. Twice.”

“Alright,” he sighs, putting the car in gear. “Let’s just drive around, see what happens.”

She seems satisfied with this, and already her lips are gaining back their colour as her shivering resides. “Billy?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” she says.

“Yeah. No problem, angel. ‘S nowhere I’d rather be at 3 am.”

* * *

He pulls up in their usual spot overlooking the ravine. The sky is a murky blue as it prepares itself for sunrise, a gentle shower of rain pattering against the windshield. He glances over at Fran, who fell asleep about an hour ago and hasn’t stirred since.

He thought about taking her home and carrying her in, but he knows he’s a clumsy shit when he’s not trying to be, and he doesn’t want to risk waking her. She needs to sleep; it’s clear by the deep purple crescents forming beneath her eyes and the way her lips are pursed into a thin, permanent line.

Carefully, slowly, he reaches over to the backseat and pulls out another blanket, draping it over her. He can’t help but admire her, though he knows he’s stupid for doing it; her freckles, peppered in random places across her forehead and jaw, her neck; the way her eyelashes flutter as she dreams; the way her breath falls rhythmically, in sync with the soft breeze rustling the leaves outside. The soft light paints her skin indigo, and he can just make out the small cut across her cheekbone. His fingers tingle with the need to touch it, but he doesn’t, can’t.

Instead, he shakes his head at his own stupidity, as if that might empty his brain of the thoughts—only it’s not his brain that’s the problem: it’s that knot in his chest that makes him feel as though he is either falling or flying. Either way, he closes his eyes to free himself of her. It doesn’t work. He can smell her, still, lavender and pine buried in his nostrils and clinging to his car, his skin.

It consumes him, and he falls asleep wrapped in her.

part twelve

[elodiegarner]

ELODIE CAMILLE GARNER  ⁏  thirty-three  ○  investigative journalist for crystal city times  ○  mystic point.

❝ WATCH YOUR TOUNGE AROUND HER. SHE WILL BEAR HER FANGS AND TEAR YOU APART WITH ALL THE GRACE OF A QUEEN. ❞

⇨  aesthetics ⍮ dresses of black lace and velvet, the scent of chanel perfume lingering in the air as she floats past, blood-red fingertips coiled around the grip of a fountain pen, red-bottomed heels clicking against marble floors, rose gold highlighter shimmering along the height of prominent cheekbones, a svelte frame that is shrouded in an air of mystery and intrigue, peach roses in a vase on the window sill, a sense of freedom and carelessness when dancing, deft fingers stained with charcoal and oil paint, the melodic chime of piano keys, delicate digits adorned with moonstone gem rings, a coy smile spread across full rose lips, long chocolate locks blowing in the cool breeze of a summer’s evening, battered books with dog-eared pages, the silvery glint of old scar tissue, ripped leather jackets and worn jeans, & ribbed turtlenecks.

HEYOOO !! s’up buttercups ?? ‘tis i, your friendly neighbourhood loser chrissie, and i’m super duper excited to be here among all you fab human beings !! this here is my precious bby angel elodie and i adore her with my whole entire being. she’s a rather feisty, sassy ball of curiosity and mild rage, oop ?? excuse her blunt nature ; she’s a genuine softy deep down inside. she’s sassy, classy and a lil badassy. also beauty, grace, will punch you in the face. plot-wise, i’m 100% down for literally anything and everything so come at me with whatcha got !! i’m always diggity down to spit ball ideas and form some dope connections so pls feel free to invade my ims or discord ( chrissie.#9606 ) to brainstorm. if ya wanna, go ahead and light up that lil grey heart and i’ll shimmy my irish butt into your ims to discuss plots and all that good stuff. anywho, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty, shall we ??

FUNDAMENTALS.

full name. elodie camille garner.

nicknames. el / els.

current age. thirty-three.

birthday. february 6th, 1987.

gender. cisgender female.

pronouns. she / her.

nationality. french.

religion. catholic.

hometown. paris, france.

past residences. marseille, france, & manhattan, nyc, united states.

current residence. mystic point, crystal city, united states.

sexual orientation. heterosexual.

romantic orientation. demiromantic.

education. journalism degree obtained from nyu.

occupation. investigative journalist at crystal city times.

CONNECTIONS.

birth mother. adelaide garner. †

birth father. edward garner. †

full blood siblings. louis garner.

maternal grandmother. celeste dupont. †

maternal grandfather. alexandre dupont. 

paternal grandmother. stephanie garner.

paternal grandfather. gary garner. †

maternal aunts. amelie dupont.

paternal aunts. rebecca garner.

maternal uncles. raphael dupont.

paternal uncles. n/a. 

significant other. gabriel bonneville. †

children. n/a.

pets. n/a.

PROFICIENCIES.

spoken languages. english, french, spanish, italian, & german.

negative traits. flighty, obstinate, assertive, brazen, & destructive.

positive traits. sagacious, alluring, headstrong, elegant, & vehement.

strengths. etiquette, resourcefulness, knowledgeable, quick-thinker, original, brainstorming, charismatic, & energetic.

weaknesses. argumentative, insensitive, intolerant, finds it difficult to focus, & dislikes practical matters.

skills. memory recall, investigating, physical stamina, able to use initiative, & excellent problem-solving abilities.

talents. violin, piano, languages, writing, & photographic memory.

APPEARANCE.

eye colour. light brown with hazel flecks.

hair colour. natural, dark, chocolate brown.

height. five feet, seven inches.

weight. 57 kg.

build. she is considered slightly above average height for a female and is both slender and toned, with slight curvature.

scars. a rather noticeable one across her clavicle and a few others in less visible places.

tattoos. n/a.

piercings. earlobes.

glasses. yes, but usually wears contacts.

prominent feature. full, plump lips.

MISCELLANEOUS.

zodiac. aquarius.

element. air.

house. ravenclaw.

myers briggs type. entp-a.

alignment. chaotic good.

enneagram. type eight.

temperament. choleric.

intelligence type. interpersonal.

character label. the orphic.

past mental disorders. acute stress disorder, depression, & anxiety.

current mental disorders. undiagnosed.

addictions. tobacco, & alcohol.

vices. lust, greed, & wrath.

virtues. temperance, kindness, & humility.

allergies. penicillin.

diet. vegetarian.

accent. french with an undertone of american.

dominant hand. ambidextrous.

blood type. o negative.

felonies. n/a.

vehicle. red 1966 shelby 427 cobra.

BACKGROUND.

TRIGGERS. childbirth death, child abuse, infertility, domestic violence, poison, murder, & death.

Born in the winter of 1987, an innocent baby girl entered the capital of France to a French mother and an English father. Though she’d come into this world placid and silent, her birth was far from being an ode to her future. Instead of the welcoming arms and loving smile of her mother, the first sight Elodie witnessed was the weeping of her father. It wasn’t long until his tears turned into angry fists and hatred shining in dark eyes. This was the only form of her father that Elodie knew — he only element of him she could recall. From the instant she was old enough to figure it out, she knew that her father despised her just as she knew her mother had died giving birth to her.

     Despite leading an obscenely lavish and excessive lifestyle, Elodie was a lonely child; starved of love from her father or even companionship from her brother. As a result of her father’s hatred toward her, Elodie spent her days alone — roaming around the vast house, occupying her childish mind with simple games of hide and seek. Except, she knew no one would ever look for her. Elodie was an outcast in her own family and often wished she had died in place of her mother. She’d spent her entire childhood into her teenage years aiming to please her father. She could play various instruments, speak a handful of languages fluently, recite every Victor Hugo poem word for word. Yet, still, she went unnoticed and neglected by him. All Elodie had ever wanted was to find her place, to fit in, to be cared for. Instead, all she’d got was left behind, disregarded and deemed a burden.

     By the time Elodie turned thirteen, she had begun to develop a deep-rooted hatred and resentment for her father. A loathing so strong that bubbled up deep inside her following years upon years of unfair treatment. Soon, she started acting out — going against her father’s wishes, rebelling and causing trouble. If he was to hate her for no reason, then she would give him a reason. It was through the girl’s behaviour that she found herself shipped off to Marseille to live with her aunt and uncle. It was during this time that within a blink of an eye that Elodie turned hostile and indifferent. As if she had transformed into the polar opposite version of what she’d always been; converting into an alternate version of her former self.

     Comparatively, Elodie’s life with her uncle had been no different to her life with her father. Her time in Marseille had been no walk in the park. Her aunt was a vain, unfeeling woman, unable to conceive a child of her own. Her uncle: an angry, offhand man who often resorted to acts of violence toward his wife, and, eventually, Elodie. From no age, all the girl had known was neglect, hatred and the feeling of being unwanted. Naturally, this was all it had taken for Elodie to turn into a cold, less vibrant girl who became void of emotion and attachment. At least, until she’d turned twenty and had fallen in love with a young accountant named Gabriel.

     At first, their relationship had been innocent and genuine. Gabriel had been the first person to show Elodie an ounce of affection and admiration. Most importantly, he respected her. Without a shadow of a doubt, it was Gabriel’s kindness that had reeled her in; rendering her unable to see the change in his behaviour until it was too late. They married quite quickly — both twenty-two at the time. For the first few months of their marriage, things had been as tranquil as they’d ever been. Gabriel had showered Elodie with love and gifts; treated her the best that she’d ever been treated in her entire life. Then, suddenly, and swiftly, things had taken a nosedive and soon, Gabriel had turned cruel and merciless. He’d hurt her then he’d be the one to shed the tears — claiming his sincere apologies and promising never to lay a finger upon her ever again.

     Fast forward, two more years and countless beatings later, Gabriel had failed to maintain his promises. If anything, his actions had grown much more violent and ruthless. Then twenty-four and having suffered years of her husband’s abuse, Elodie had grown weary and slowly — that deep-seated rage began to boil inside her. It was only a matter of time before she retaliated. Whilst Gabriel left for a while on a business trip, Elodie managed to breathe a sigh of relief at her husband’s absence until a week later when he arrived back in her life. And in that same instance, so was her brother, Louis, with news of their father’s passing.

     Since the death of their father, Elodie’s brother had taken over their family business and out of their father’s clutches, Louis sought his sister out; soon realising the abuse she had been enduring. In fact, it had been her very brother who gave Elodie the poison that she would later use to kill her husband. Concocting a plan to murder Gabriel with the aid of the ricin her brother had provided her with, Elodie had taken action a couple of weeks later. Lacing a glass of red wine with the toxin, Elodie sat back and watched her husband guzzle the liquid down; hours later falling into a severe illness of which she offered to nurse him through all the while knowing that his impending death was inevitable.

     Rendered unable to lash out, Gabriel slowly but surely declined in health until finally, his lungs and kidneys reached failure — resulting in his imminent death. But before this had taken place, Elodie’s brother had helped her flee France mere days before her husband drew his last breath. In fear of falling under any kind of suspicion should Gabriel’s poisoning become uncovered, Elodie wound up in New York City where she laid low for the first few months. For the first year of her residing in the city, Elodie worked as a barmaid whilst attending university, studying a journalism degree.

     After she graduated, Elodie wound up moving to Mystic Point where she moved into a home near the water; working as an investigative journalist at Crystal City Times. Luckily, her secret has remained undiscovered thus far and for obvious reasons, Elodie would prefer to keep her wrongdoing under wraps. Her life might not be ideal but it has given her a second chance, offering her the security and monetary gain she’d lacked throughout her life in Paris. Although she’s been through a lot of adversities, Elodie doesn’t let any of the incidents from her past define her or hold her back. Throughout it all, she learned to look out for herself, to stand up for herself and how to continue surviving even if she was going through hell. She’ll never call herself a victim or bend to anybody’s will ever again.

WANTED PLOTS.

give me all of the connections from friends, frenemies, enemies, hookups, exes, rivals and everything else in between. added bonus if there’s angst or drama. if you have anything in mind feel free to throw it at me, i’m open to the majority of things and have zero triggers so come at me bro !! below you can find some connections i’d love for my bby :

when friends become enemies. maybe this person and elodie were friends from paris that she hung around with and got involved in reckless behaviour with. or maybe this person was someone elodie befriended during her university years. or they could be someone that elodie met when she moved to crystal city. under whichever circumstance they met, one fact remains: the two are no longer on friendly terms. they were once close and trusted each other with anything but now, there is obvious hostility. perhaps there was a betrayal, blackmail, a breach of trust, lack of communication, a simple misunderstanding. whatever it was that cracked this relationship is set in stone and is unlikely to ever go back to how it once was. some things are just too broken to be mended.

you’re in my veins. elodie has always had bad habits. has always gravitated to toxicity like a moth to a flame. thus, it would be safe to assume that 90% of her relationships have also been bad for her. the broken element inside her always found itself magnetised to the darkness in people. more especially, attracted to people she knew were no good for her. though, in the end, elodie would always manage to break free and leave these people behind. however, there was always this one person she couldn’t seem to stay away from. she met them when she moved to crystal city and instantly she knew they would break her heart yet it didn’t deter her from continuing to crawl back to him. these two have what can only be described as a toxic relationship. neither is good for the other yet neither can seem to walk away.

if you don’t have enemies, you don’t have character. of course, it goes without saying that elodie is the kind of woman who could make enemies for herself very easily. due to her sarcastic and distant nature, it would be safe to assume she has quite a few enemies and rivals. though this particular person would be the enemy of all enemies. somebody that she cannot abide and someone who cannot abide her either. they can’t stand the sight of each other and refuse to share the same space unless absolutely necessary. otherwise, there’s a massive chance of a fight outbreaking between them. there could be a history between them that has brought about their hostile nature toward each other. or they could simply dislike each other for no real known reason other than a sense they get from the other. bonus points if they’re crime affiliated!

[myulalie]

Malec & Bridgerton AU

Thank you for this challenging prompt anon, I had a lot of fun! Read on AO3 here, else here is what I came up with ♥ Hope you like it!

Days we shall not soon forget

The sun lays a gentle caress on Alec’s back, one he hopes will not leave an angry mark between his shoulder blades. The light leaves a delicious sheen on the expanse of smooth skin beneath him, like the most precious quartz, smoked to a gorgeous radiance Alec cannot grow tired of. Green and yellow grass cradles Magnus’ body and Alec’s as he lowers his head and swallows around his lover’s length.

He runs his fingers over Magnus’ abdomen, flat and mellow, nothing like Alec’s, Magnus is warm beneath his hands, his shirt hanging from his chest like slowly melting snow in the field of dried grass. Magnus arches his back, pushing his hips up to press his erection deeper in Alec’s mouth, and gives a breathy moan when Alec bobs his head obediently.

The rustle of leaves above them reminds Alec of the passing of time, and he glances at the clock ticking in the grass next to them, a silver pocket watch that ticks too close to the time of the social gathering. Alec will be late. He can feel Magnus writhing beneath him, spread under the oak tree, both of them half naked from fooling around in the field and laughing.

“Alexander. One day I shall seize that watch and take it apart bit by bit,” Magnus pants above him.

“That belonged to my father,” Alec breathes out, pressing a kiss to Magnus’ hip, “should it disappear, I would miss it sadly.”

“Then you shall know precisely how I feel every time you disappear.”

Alec snatches the hand crawling up his sideburns and to his dark hair before Magnus can mess up his already unruly curls, and kisses the bright stains of red and blue and green paint, a blend of yellow and orange on the edge of the artist’s knuckles. Sunlight flashes off his rusty rings, and Alec shifts uncomfortably in the grass, willing his own erection to disappear. There is no time left for him.

“Stay with me today,” Magnus pleads.

“I’m afraid I cannot, my sister must be chaperoned at the Morgenstern ball this evening.”

Magnus throws his head back when Alec laps at his length, and falls silent as Alec swallows down around him again. Alec lets go of Magnus’ hands to brush the artist’s thighs and slide up to the sensitive skin beneath, and Magnus comes with a muffled cry when his length hits the back of Alec’s throat.

Alec swallows, letting go reluctantly, and kisses Magnus’ stomach, making his way up to nip at the exposed throat, throbbing with the breath Magnus has yet to catch. He covers Magnus’ body with his when they kiss, and tangles his hands in the artist’s charcoal hair, too long for the current fashion in the aristocracy. It suits Magnus’ strikingly handsome features though, with his slanted eyes and sharp cheekbones, the glow of his eyes like black tea.

“What might be like, these grand affairs you must attend?” Magnus sighs, wrapping his arms around Alec’s shoulders.

“You would hate them,” he chuckles, and feels the familiar, throbbing sting on his shoulder blades. Alec blames his pale complexion for the sunburns, “Every eligible lady of breeding dressed in some lavishly trimmed frock, bloodthirsty mamas at their sides and wary fathers making arrangements for only the most advantageous of matches. And of course, without my father here, that responsibility falls upon me.”

“A significant duty, no doubt,” Magnus agrees with a stifled laugh, nodding wisely.

“Someone must guard my poor sister from the bucks and pinks, ensure her virtue remains free of any kind of defilement.”

“Isabelle, yes?” the artist interrupts, arching his eyebrows, “She is fortunate, although I doubt a woman of her stature is in need of such gallant protection.”

“Isabelle is a lady,” Alec shrugs and sits up, grabbing the pocket watch.

“Of course, my lord.”

Magnus gathers his shirt around him, though he does not quite button it up and adjusts his pants on his waist with a sigh. He avoids Alec’s eyes, no doubt in an attempt not to overstep, Alec knows that Magnus doesn’t care much for the intricacies of high society, and the artist would probably be in jail if it weren’t for his protectors, ladies and gents alike, and their influence. There are twigs in Magnus’ hair and on his shoulders, so Alec reaches to brush them off, and ducks his head in order to meet the artist’s eyes.

“Magnus,” he starts, but it goes unanswered, “angel, you have me, protecting you. I will always protect you.”

Finally, the artist peers at him, and Alec leans in to steal a kiss, savoring the wet slide of their lips and the taste that is distinctively Magnus. The wind sends a handful of leaves swirling down, and the clock is ticking in Alec’s hand, so they part reluctantly. Alec’s horse awaits him, attached to a nearby tree, and he winces as he buttons his shirt, the fabric suddenly rough against his abused back.

“Have you worked on that oil painting of my family joining the Queen for dinner like I requested?” Alec asks as he unties the reins.

“Of course my lord,” Magnus lies smoothly, his lips tilting up at one corner.

“Be sure you have something ready for me when I visit.”

Magnus gives a mock military salute as Alec gets on the horse, and the artist saunters through the field, back to the apartment Alec pays for on the other side of town. The lord cannot help but spur his horse on until they catch up with the artist, and offers Magnus his hand.

“May I show you to the main road, at least?”

The artist gives Alec’s horse a wary look. A beautiful animal, with a black coloring, lustrous, that flows over powerful limbs and a muscular body. Magnus is not around horses as much as Alec, of course, and to commoners, horses are more likely to trample them than carry them around. Yet, Magnus trusts Alec, and takes hold of the lord’s offered hand so Alec helps him up, and gives Magnus a second to settle behind him before spurring the horse on once again.

Magnus holds on tightly to Alec’s waist, plastered to the lord’s back, and Alec winces at the pain from his sunburn coming back with a vengeance. He cherishes the proximity though, the smell of sandalwood that surrounds him every time he holds Magnus close. Alec loves Isabelle dearly, and he would never leave her alone at the Morgenstern ball, but he wishes he did not have to leave Magnus alone either.

They send dust flying as they come up to the main road, and the horse slows down to a stop in the shade of a nearby plane tree, snorting. Magnus doesn’t relax straight away, still holding onto Alec, and it takes a little nudging before the tight embrace loosens enough for the lord to glance over his shoulder.

“Will you be alright, angel?”

“Yes,” Magnus shakes his head, strands of dark hair falling over his eyes, “thank you, my lord.”

Magnus tightens his hold on Alec’s waist again as he flings his leg over the horse and slides down to the ground, before looking up to Alec. Long eyelashes throw dancing shadows on his cheek, and Alec wishes he could kiss them, alas the clock is ticking inside his breast pocket. He nods once, and Magnus steps back, off to the side and out of the way of a fancy carriage.

Alec scowls at the carriage, and races it to the Morgenstern’s townhouse. A beautiful building, covered in anemone flowers, and when Alec dismounts swiftly the sound of his heels hitting the cobblestone echoes in the yard. The Lightwood’s carriage comes round just as he leaves his horse with a groom, and Alec bows deeply as Lady Maryse steps out of the white and gold flame work on the carriage.

“Mother.”

“Alec!” Isabelle interrupts before Maryse can scold him.

She hurries out of the carriage as well and Alec barely has time to offer his hand to her as she steps onto the cobblestones in a white frock, the white fabric luxurious and immaculate. Her hair curls beautifully over her shoulders, leaving her face and doe eyes on display as Maryse tied the long strands of dark hair back on Isabelle’s head with a brand new silk ribbon.

“You came,” Isabelle goes on, grinning.

“I could not possibly leave you to fend for yourself here,” Alec replies.

“Yet, you are late,” Maryse scowls.

She wears a frock and a dark blue Spencer, her hair, dark like her children, up in a tight bun, and Alec ignores his mother to escort Isabelle inside. His sister looks very proper, nothing like the girl Alec knows, he used to tug on her pigtails and shove dirt in her hair, but she’d knock him out with a single punch if he tried now.

The Morgenstern town house is dimly lit for the ball, and Alec leads Isabelle across the polished wooden floors as around them, young women offer to show their suitors watercolors, and their mothers add a little something about pianoforte and flowers. Alec moves past them without a glance, holding Isabelle’s arm firmly when she makes a grab a drink.

“You are not allowed near this table,” Alec whispers, and she huffs.

“He is rather pleasing,” Isabelle comments as they move past a man carrying a monocle.

“He is rather here to shuffle about hunting fortunes. Trust Mr Lewis knows of your sizable dowry, leave him be,” Alec dismisses.

“I presume you know him too?” Isabelle goes on as though Alec has not spoken, pointing at a blond man.

“Mr Blackthorn, second son,” Maryse replies, scowling at Julian Blackthorn, “we shall find better.”

The Carstairs girl will probably end up with Julian, and Alec agrees with his mother. He has no intention of leaving Isabelle with the oldest Blackthorn either, Mark is a cheat, a man of any honor ensures his debts are fully paid, but Mark left an unpaid balance on the gentlemen club’s betting books last winter.

They veer out of the way of the Morgenstern children, Jonathan and Clarissa, they look nothing alike, him with a head of golden hair and stark features, her with a mane of red hair and freckles. She cleaned up well, Alec notices distractedly when Isabelle makes to pause and introduce herself, but he keeps walking, Maryse following. She pushes Isabelle forward.

“He is of dubious parentage,” she whispers in her children’s ears.

Alec has heard the rumors that Valentine frolicked with his domestic, who looks strikingly like Clary, when his spouse revealed unable to bear children. Alec himself is wary of Jonathan, whom a few ladies have been caught with, unchaperoned.

“I shall not have you making a life with a poet, heaven forbid,” Alec mutters to himself.

“Nor an eccentric,” Maryse adds.

Isabelle rolls her eyes and they chastise her for the unladylike behavior, when a polite cough attracts the Lightwoods’ attention, and Alec comes face to face with Lady Morgenstern. She is sickeningly pale in a silver gown, her beady eyes are dead black, cold and empty and her hair looks like a nest of snakes, yet they all bow respectfully to their host.

“Good evening, Lady Lightwood, Miss Lightwood,” she pauses disdainfully, “Lord Lightwood.”

“I believe you have already been introduced to my daughter Isabelle,” Maryse replies evenly.

“Indeed. You look rather,” another pause, “lovely this evening. Is there a reason I have yet to see you on the dance floor?”

“All in good time, Lady Morgenstern,” Alec cuts in smoothly.

“Allow them to come to you,” Maryse comments offhandedly as their host leaves them be.

The rustle of fabric is overwhelming for Alec, and he hides a wince when someone slaps his back, right over the sunburn. The strong palm belongs to a familiar individual, with fair blond hair and bright eyes, the man is shorter than Alec, clad in white and gold like a knight in the old legends.

“Alec!” the blond exclaims, beaming.

“Jace!” Alec replies excitedly, momentarily letting go of his sister.

“Come here, old friend,” Jace exclaims again, slapping Alec’s back one more time.

Alec conceals his wince of pain and slaps Jace right back, over the head with the size difference, which sends Jace’s blond streaks of hair flying and some people give them odd looks, displeased with their behavior, Alec’s mother among them.

“I heard news of your father, you are no longer a Wayland nor a Morgenstern,” Alec says, lowering his voice.

“Herondale, Prince Herondale, can you believe it?”

Jace smiles again, and his joy is infectious. Raised in the Morgenstern manor, among the grooms and servants of his late, adoptive father the humble Sir Wayland, many believed Jace to be another son of Valentine as he grew up pale and fair like Lord Morgenstern, until he was revealed to be the grandson of the Queen, Imogen Herondale herself.

“Right,” Alec smiles until his cheeks hurt, “have you met my sister? Isabelle, Jace and I know each other from our days at Oxford.”

“Days we shall not soon forget!” Jace adds.

“Yes, I am well aware of the company you keep, son,” Maryse interrupts, and makes to shoo Jace away.

“I am certain your days with His Royal Highness were most civilized, indeed,” Isabelle chimes in.

The blond grins at Izzy, ignoring Maryse, as he very well can, and Alec admires his mother and her social standing for doing such a thing, as Maryse is not only inferior to Jace, but also a widow. He misses Lord Starkweather approaching them as Isabelle steps aside to fetch a glass of lemonade, and by the time Alec notices, it is too late, especially when Maryse who has laid a warning hand on his arm, holds him back.

“Good evening,” the older man greets Izzy, “small glasses.”

“Lord Starkweather,” Isabelle replies and Alec turns around at the tension of her voice.

Jace slaps Alec on the back one last time before bidding him goodbye, and Alec takes the opportunity to move away from his mother, ready to fly to his sister’s rescue. The lord is a small man with a beaky nose that appears even more prominent because of the scar that runs down his face, Starkweather is a close friend to Maryse, and both her children have met him several times growing up.

“Tiny little things, are they not?” Hodge insists.

“The glasses? I suppose,” Isabelle agrees.

“Then the matter is settled.”

“I’m not entirely sure the matter in which we discuss, my lord,” she deflects smoothly.

Alec praises his sister internally, Isabelle is clever, and she can handle herself, but he’s seething. The nerve of this man! He hates the smile on Hodge’s face, and in the dim light of the reception room, Hodge looks even more predatory.

“You’ve always amused me, Miss Lightwood. Ever since I was a schoolboy and you were...”

“All but five?” Isabelle replies innocently. This is the last straw, Alec steps forward, and Isabelle scurries away from Lord Starkweather, “My brother, he summons me!”

Isabelle flings herself at Alec’s arm and he leads her towards the exit in spite of their mother’s protests, the most perfect thing would be to let Isabelle dance, leave her suitors all wanting more after holding her in their arms, but Alec has not intention to marry Isabelle off to one of them, and his sister would step on their feet anyway.

They leave the Morgenstern townhouse behind and Alec helps Maryse climb into the Lightwood carriage, the yard is empty except for them, music playing in the house still, and echoing against the cobblestones. Isabelle hides behind his back when Maryse glances at them, fiddling with her brother’s shirt.

“May I ride back with Alec?”

Maryse sighs and waves them off as a groom brings Alec’s black horse forth. He goes first, and helps Isabelle climb up as well, they can afford a new frock, and her laugh when he spurs the horse on is worth Maryse’s disapproving gaze as they race the carriage back to the Lightwood townhouse. The wind rushes past them, tangling Isabelle’s hair as it comes undone, and above them, the night sky is speckled with stars.

The Lightwood townhouse is alight with candles and Lydia, the governess, her hair pulled tight over her scalp with a silk ribbon that looks suspiciously like one of Isabelle’s, welcomes them at the door. She keeps Max, the boy is much younger than Alec and Isabelle, from running outside and ruining his night clothes, and their brother shrieks in delight at the sight of them dismounting.

“How was the ball? I cannot wait to go and court a lady!”

Alec smiles, ruffling his brother’s hair on the way inside, while a groom takes care of his horse, and the carriage Maryse just came out of. Max rushes past Isabelle and Lydia to throw himself at Maryse, and the matriarch freezes on the doorstep as the boy buries his face in her white and blue skirts.

“Mama! I want to marry Miss Madzie,” Max tells her, his high pitched voice muffled by the fabric.

Madzie is a distant cousin of Lady Loss — Catarina is a spinster and kind enough to take the girl under her wing— and Lady Loss’ ward is rather dowdy, in no way the potential prospect Maryse wishes for, but Alec will gladly arrange the marriage if Max so desires when he comes of age. Lady Loss is a dear friend of Magnus, and Alec himself cares for Madzie deeply.

Max emerges from his mother’s skirts, his dark hair at disarray, and Lydia holds her hand out to lead the boy back inside as Alec nods politely at the governess. He would trust her with his siblings’ lives, Lydia is a woman of duty and responsibility.

She is Isabelle’s confidant too, and ever since she became the Lightwoods’ domestic, she has done nothing but good in honor of her late fiancé’s memory. John tried and failed to save Robert Lightwood’s life when he went hunting, and a horse made a mad dash for survival upon facing a sounder, but the wild boars trampled both Lord Lightwood senior and his groom.

Alec sighs at the memory and offers Maryse his arm to lead her inside. Isabelle follows along, moving with ease among mahogany furniture covered in family heirloom, but as Alec makes his way towards his father’s study, Isabelle veers towards her bedroom instead. She cannot bear the sight of a red velvet and mahogany wooden chessboard, that brings forth memories of Robert, a loving father, but distant husband. Maryse and Robert had one single thing in common, their desire to spare Isabelle the misery of a loveless marriage.

“You were a reasonable mother until your daughter came of age,” Alec says, keeping his voice low, “this matchmaking scheme you rather transparently concocted, it will not work.”

Alec pats the silver watch in his breast pocket at the sight, and trails his fingers along the back of beloved books, their servants dust the shelves every so often, but it has been a long time since Maryse laid a hand on the precious collection. Even Max avoids the study, he who used to sit on the desk chair while Robert perused their family’s account books.

“I can think of worse matches for Isabelle than Lord Starkweather,” Maryse replies tightly, “we are good friends.”

“He will not make her happy!” Alec argues.

“Your father-”

“Do not bring Father into this.”

Maryse and Robert did not love each other, and Isabelle deserves better, this has always been the consensus among the family. The matriarch steps away from Alec, and turns her back on the bookshelves to pace the room instead, her skirts a flurry of white and blue around her, not unlike her silent fury.

“Do not make this any more difficult than it already is,” Alec adds, whispering.

“I wish to know something, Alec. Tonight, when you leave this study, are you to return to your bedroom, that you continue to keep at your family home, or will you pay a visit to a certain artist that you tend to, in an apartment that you pay for, on the other side of town?” when Alec denies his mother of an answer, Maryse stops pacing, “You like to speak of responsibility, my dear son, of duty, pray tell, what should we do about this?”

“I am in possession of something most are not, a brother,” Alec loses patience.

“So you’re merely an older brother, and not the man of this house?” Maryse cuts in, “Relying on your younger brother to one day do the job that you cannot-”

“Enough!”

Maryse startles and Alec storms out of the study, there is no use in arguing with his mother, she does not have the power to make decisions anyhow. Someone snuffed the lights in the withdrawing room, but Alec has grown in this house and makes his way to the stable without trouble, where he saddles his horse. They leave running, and disappear into the night.

The streets are busy in the evening, and the horses’ hooves echo on the cobblestone as Alec slows down to a stop in front of the apartment. He spies Lord Fell coming out of a carriage with soprano singers on both his arms, and Alec shakes his head to hide a smile. He is not the only bachelor in town, and Fell has been unattached for the longest time.

The front of the house is covered with Daphne flowers, shades of white and purple Alec can’t appreciate in the evening as he ducks inside. The rickety staircase whines beneath the soles of his feet and Alec smiles as he pushes the door open to reveal Magnus reading by candlelight, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Lady Loss and Lord Fell’s combined efforts to teach young Magnus how to read are a story Alec much prefers to listen to than Magnus’ occasional attempts to play some sort of instrument, which are the most unpleasant. The lord snort inelegantly at the thought, and Magnus finally takes notice of him, looking up.

The artist looks delightful in the glow of dancing flames, and Alec pauses to take him in, enjoy the shades that linger on Magnus’ cheeks and throat, the way his clothes, more comfortable than expensive, hang down his lithe frame, snug and inviting. Alec rubs at his sideburns, unable to conceal his smile. There is nowhere he would rather be.

“Alexander!” Magnus exclaims.

He tosses the book over his shoulder and Alec conceals a grimace, hoping this is not a priceless edition of the volume. There are half completed paintings stacked against a wall, and glass jars dangle from a peculiar garland above their heads. Alec peers at them with interest even as Magnus steps up to him.

“I hope the painting is ready,” the lord can’t help but say, knowing the commission is nowhere near complete.

“No, but I built something the Queen has never seen, or imagined!” Magnus pipes up.

The artist points at the garland, turning away from Alec for the briefest moment, but a grin obvious in his voice and Alec smiles, glancing at the glass jars too.

“What are these?”

Magnus brushes past him to move near his cluttered desk, rummaging to find a tinderbox to kindle a fire, and he brings a spark to the end of the garland. The fire crackles as it goes up, then flashes along the garland and suddenly all the jars light up like fireflies. Alec blinks slowly, surprised, and swivels around in wonder, staring at the garland like fireworks in the sky. The wooden floors sigh tiredly when Magnus steps closer, touching Alec’s waist, and the lord relaxes into the embrace, watching the display of lights above them.

“This is quite magical,” he breathes out.

The artist chuckles, kissing his cheek, rubbing his face against Alec’s sideburns with what sound suspiciously like a purr, and Alec turns slowly, bringing his hands up to cup Magnus’ face. They kiss in the amber glow of the fire trapped in glass jars, and Alec cannot believe, for one second, that he made the wrong choice.

This is all he needs.

[hollandroos]

Heaven and Hell | Pt.3

 PART 1  | PART 2

Summary: Who would’ve assumed that heavens little angel was the king of hells soulmate?

Words: 5.4k

Warnings: Violence, some indications of past abuse. 

Collaboration with another author but she deleted, so I took to editing it and changing a few concepts so bare with me!  

THIS CHAPTER WAS EDITED / PARTS WERE REWRITTEN AND REPOSTED ON 15/06/2019

This entire chapter is dedicated to @sithskywalkers ok

The castle was vast, with hidden corridors that led to more rooms then you assumed you’d be able to count on both hands and feet – and yes, even if Hell, if you explored far enough you’d reach bone-chilling cold.

That was probably why Tom didn’t go down there much. That, or the fact that no one dared to provoke him. People were far too afraid to taunt the king, wallowing in their fears of one day getting on his bad side from their assigned spots in the underworld.

But now, Tom stared down at the two fallen angels who looked scared out of their minds. Good. His heavy footsteps had woken them from a deep, most likely uncomfortable sleep against the concrete flooring and pulled them up abruptly, wings stiff and standing in a defensive stance. Though there was no point, they had no power down here.

“This can go one of two ways.” He begins, refusing to look the two petrified angels in the eyes. “You can tell me what I want to know and leave with your wings still attached to your flesh, or you can stick to your confidential bullshit and remain down here with the rats and let me tell you… they haven’t been fed in a very, very long time.”

The words slip from Toms' mouth with such ease. He could’ve gone on if he really wanted too, but Tom was already agitated enough and impatient as it was. He wanted answers and he wanted them the second you had arrived. Now, it had been three days and he was still as clueless as before.

The angels tremble in fear, lips wobbling as the demon paces.

One swallows, his blonde hair stuck to a sweaty forehead. “What do you want to know?”

“I want information about a certain angel and I want to know everything that you know. Don’t hold back, because I surely won’t if I decide you’re dragging this out.” Tom clicks his tongue, wanting to escape the eary cold. “Y/N Y/L/N, tell me about her.”  The angles freeze, trembling halting and their eyes widen. Tom smirks to himself.  “You know something and I want to know what, then you can go.”

“We can’t–”

Tom seethes, his eyes growing a sick shade of grey – damn near black. “Heaven didn’t want you, they spat you out and expected me to kill you, to rip the feathers off of your back and make you beg for mercy. But instead, I took you in, fed you and provided you shelter. I didn’t do so much as touch a hair on your neck. Do you really think that if you keep your mouths shut they’ll come running back because you proved your loyalty? They don’t want you.” Tom was being truthful and he watches carefully, seeing their faces shift. “Now, tell me and you can go. It’s as easy as that.”

They share glances, cold fingers forming clenched fists. Tom knows that he’s got his way – in fact, he had no doubt in his mind that he’d get his way the second he marched down concrete steps.

With parted lips, the angel speaks. “We don’t know much but they were always scared of her.”

Tom interrupts, “Who’s they?”

“The council.” They reply hastily, wanting to get back to the homes they had been provided. For a moment there’s silence. The beating of their hearts can be heard over the eary nothingness. “They would keep her isolated, exclude her from things and just make sure she never felt like she was a part of anything. We were never told why but… they made sure we never got too close.”

Tom didn’t blame them for wanting to leave. This floor was cold and dreary. Every sound could be heard from the halls across and maybe Tom had heard the rats scurry across the floor just a couple minutes ago. He resists the urge to shudder.

Checking for any sign that they’re lying or holding anything back, Tom decides that he can’t find anything and groans – but it comes out as more of a low growl. Sharp teeth pierce the skin of his lip, drawing blood.

“What else?” He demands, knowing there must be something.

The one that was yet to speak opens his mouth and Tom leans forward, waiting intently. “She was engaged for a bit but he wasn’t very nice, a right asshole if I’m being honest.” The angel looks down, his cheeks tinting red. You were never allowed to swear in Heaven, but Hell was another story. Glancing up, he looks at Tom for a split second before glancing back down at the floor. “Is she here?” He hesitates.

Tom nods his head once, a stern look on his face as the angels await an answer.

“She is.” Tapping an impatient foot on the rocky floor, Tom clicks his tongue once. “Is there anything else you’re not telling me?”

“Be careful… with her, I mean.” The dark-haired angel– whose name Tom hadn’t bothered to learn swallows sharply, choking on his own words. “For whatever reason, the council didn’t want her to escape and they always kept her under lock and key but I swear – that’s all we know. W-we were never allowed to ask.”

Tom grunts, finding out that he didn’t know much more about you then before. He wanted to know about every moment of your life in Heaven. From the size of the house you lived in and what your favourite breakfast item was – the one you’d rush to every morning without fail He was itching to know about whether or not you had a pet, like a dog or a dove and if you named them.

But he did learn that you had a fiance. And one he wanted to meet, at that.

The stupid prophecy had him wrapped around your finger. Some kind of soulmate shit that made him screw his face up. Now he saw what Harrison was talking about.

-

You move around the dark hallways, your ragged wings moving behind you. Shadowing your every step. They were healing slowly, but they were still sensitive to the touch. You were never used to using your wings much anyway, giving them the ability to heal slowly and at their own pace.

Everything was dark and a thin layer of dust lined the single window you managed to find. It was somber, really, or at least this part of the castle was. Everything else you’d seen had been done to perfection – walls painted dark hues without a dent in sight and there wasn’t a speck of dirt to be found on the floorboards. For the king of the underworld, Tom surely kept his kingdom tidey. Even the way he held himself was spotless. There was never a single crease adorning his raven suit.

You’d learnt by now that he never wore colours besides black, grey and red. And that he always had his hair styled. The curls were mostly always slicked back.

Your eyes catch the fire burning on the candles that line the walls, creating an orange shadow all the way down the hall. Continuing your journey, your fingers run through the flames much like they had the other day. You enjoy the warmth, feeling that familiar rush of power rush through you.

It’s addictive.

The feeling can only be described as the one a child gets when going down a slide of the first time, a comical smile taking over their features as their arms fly over their heads. Or even the moment you take your first bite into a Cadbury's bar and feel the smooth, milk chocolate melt against your tongue.

The feeling floods your veins and you let it. Slowly but surely, you were starting to feel less like the weakling Heaven had made you out to be. Transitioning from the person they had turned you into and more like a member of the King's palace – even if it was only a temporary stay.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

The source of the voice lets out a growl behind you and your wings stiffen, the pain as a result of the fall making a sharp ache run through your spine as they stand in a defensive stance and you turn around, almost knocking the candle down as you move hastily.

That wasn't Tom, no. His voice was softer – at least when he spoke to you. Just two days ago he’d spoken with ease from his place at the dinner table, politely offering you what foods he had. You had been shocked to find that your mouth hadn’t burst into flames upon taking your first bite.

This person's voice wasn’t like Toms. Instead, his dripped with venom and hatred, sounding as putrid as nails on a chalkboard and before coming to Hell, you hadn’t known what to expect when it came to demons. You had relied on stories and teachings, but truth be told there wasn’t exactly a clear way to prepare yourself – and there was never a reason to up until now.

Demons weren’t all the same. Just like humans and angels, their eye colours ranged from brown, blue and green. Only switching to a bloody red or raven black when they feel threatened or exasperated. Demons had hair much like humans and angels too. But their wings were definitely hard to miss. When they were out, the things seemed to loom over your head engulfing you in a dark shadow – the charcoal feathers standing threateningly close to your form.

Demons, much like angels, could blend in with humans and no one would think twice.

“I’m exploring,” You reply, taking a careful step back as to keep your distance from the stranger whose teeth bared, greasy hair slick and stuck to his scalp.

“Angels aren’t meant to explore here.” He speaks bitterly. “Angels aren’t even supposed to get past the front gates, let alone explore inside the castle.”

You stand politely, hands intertwined at the front and muster up the courage to speak. “The king let me, he said I could go wherever while he had some business to attend to.”

“Bullshit.” He snarls. You grimace, feeling warm spit hit your cheeks. “I thought angels weren’t meant to lie.”

Shaking your head, you feel your patience wearing thin. “I told you, Tom told me–”

Upon hearing his King's first name slip past your lips – a major sign of disrespect, the demons fists clench. Still, the only thing that overcame the shock he was feeling was the pure excitement for whatever reward was to come for finding the angel.

“Tom? You have a death wish.” He tells you, the corners of his lips curling up wickedly. As he reaches for your arm, you step back, only just escaping his grasp. But sharp nails make contact with your skin, just scratching the surface.

“I wouldn’t touch her if I were you.” Harrison snarls the last word, eyes flicking to a threatening shade of black. “The king wouldn’t like that.”

The demon ignores the fact that this was his king's right-hand man and chuckles darkly. “The King wouldn’t like an angel being nosey around his castle. Believe me, mate, I’m doing him a favour.”

Harrison didn’t like being spoken back to. In fact, he hated it.

The entire time this was going down, you were backing away slowly until your back hit the wall with a thud, earning the attention of both Harrison and the demon. But neither cared to look over as their dangerous gazes linger on one another.

“Crickey, mate, you just don’t want to listen to you?” He replies with grit teeth and anger coursing through his veins. But he was a demon, he always had anger racing through his veins at a wicked pace. It was anger that he could turn to power. And power he could use to ruin this son of a bitch.

All the right-hand man has to do is tilt his head for the demon with slick black wings, smaller then other demons you’d seen to be gasping for breath, hands wrapping around his neck as he tries to release an imaginary grasp. But nothing was happening – at least not for you, because the demon continues to kick and wince and screw his eyes shut in shock in pain.

“Let me go, what the fuck!” He wheezes, face turning a deadly shade of red as the air is pulled from his lungs.

Your throat runs dry as you attempt to form a proper sentence for the first time since stepping into that hallway. And there’s nothing. Nothing but racing thoughts running through your head. As much as this guy made you uncomfortable, you didn’t want someone to die.

That was the angel in you, the part that wanted everything to be good and pure and serene. But there’s nothing good about this as the life slips away from the male ahead of you – and Harrison's wild smirk grows. No one was going to die today – at least not because of you.

“Enough!” You boom, voice echoing down the hall. It’s the loudest you can muster and luckily, it gains the men's attention just fine.

Though, you must’ve done something else because in an instant the creature that’d been up against the wall, gasping and flailing as if his life depended on it… which it had, is now on the floor in a ball of pure fear. He’d been thrown, but Harrison hadn’t done anything. In fact, the king's friend turns and gives you a curious look and all you do is try and sink back into the wall.

“Please, enough.” You let out a breath, looking down at your feet instead of into the demon's eyes. “Let’s just forget about this, can we?”

Glancing down at the cradled form again, Harrison nods his head. Only this time the man doesn’t begin gasping for breath. This time, he scrambles to his feet after one single word slips from Harrison's lips. The word is go – and boy does he go. He races down the hall, still struggling to regain his breath but sprinting for his life nonetheless.

There’s nothing left but the distant pitter patter of desperate feet as you turn to the other demon and you intake sharply, feeling your hands quiver.

“I’m Harrison.” He says once the other man is out of sight. The boy was acting normal, as if he hadn’t just cut off another demons air supply and even hesitates before extending a hand, offering to shake yours.

“Y/N.” You reply, feeling your name slip so easily. You take his hand, smaller one clasped tightly in his.

“I know who you – ouch, fuck.”  He hisses, retracting his hand at such a speed you jump back slightly. “Tom was right, you’re hot. I mean your hand is… it’s hot.”

You watch your hand, clenching your fists. The heat burns but only for a second before it’s bearable. For you, at least. “Is that normal?”

Harrison shakes his head, “Nothing about you is normal to me, you’re an angel to begin with but this…” He holds his hand out and flames instantly dance in his palm, bright hues of red and orange attracting your gaze. Harrison nods his head and you extend a hand, fingertips tickling the flame. “This gives the word ‘strange’ a whole other meaning.”

-

Tom was on a journey, slipping behind his palace gates and exploring the depths of hell. A place he admits he hated exploring. Tom felt safer behind his walls – more in control of his kingdom.

He made his way to the small shed he'd refused to enter for a long period of time maybe it’d been centuries, if he remembered correctly. Which he always did.

No one dared to talk to the king, all simply bowing in his presence and in return, Tom would flick a curt nod before moving on with one goal in mind. To reach the prophet, to ask about his love. So maybe, he could find out why she arrived when she did and why she didn't feel the connection that he did.

Tom was drawn to the girl. He wanted to be close – arm in arm and hand in hand. Tom was filled with a nearly sickly amount of love. It floods his veins, consuming his mind at all hours of the day. But she didn’t seem drawn to him and it frustrated him to no end.

Hastily, he knocked on the door, wanting to get this over and done with so he could get back to his place of solitude and comfort. Hauntingly enough, the door opened itself with a bone-chilling creek and Tom stepped inside. The man could feel a presence beside his own and oh god – the smell. The wallpaper was peeling and fading, the floor and sickly stains painted the floors.

Spinning around, he meets the elder's dark eyes that ran on like train tracks. So many secrets were hidden behind those eyes, that man knew more than he'd ever let on and it frightened Tom to no ends.

The prophet spoke first, his grim lips parting.

"My king, what can I do for you?"

Tom wants to ask why he’d even bothered to ask that question – because of course he was already aware of what Tom wanted. He was aware of every aspect of the universe.

"I think you know." Tom begins. "The girl-, Y/N. The angel."

He had gotten all too used to saying that word lately. Angel. It troubled him less then it once had.

"I felt her the second she arrived, she's a strong one, I'll tell you that." The prophet spoke wearily. His frail figure struggled to reach the couch, but Tom put all of his trust in this man.

Tom knew that he spoke the truth, she was strong if anything. Despite her almost weak exterior and the way she'd acted around him so far, (afraid, fragile and on edge.) that inside she was strong, holding a power that others would go insane trying to earn.

Tom sat down on the dusty, century-old couch, arms folding across his chest. "If you feel her energy then you must've gotten word about why she's here now of all times, and..." He trailed off, finding the words stuck in the back of his throat.

"You have another question, my boy. What is it?" When Tom didn't speak up, the prophet continues. "Speak, Thomas."

He was weary, not wanting to express that actually-, he had feelings. The king of Hells seemingly nonexistent heart swelled at the thought of the angel that'd only days ago, found herself in his kingdom. "Why she doesn't feel the same?"

The older man stares down, confused.

"I knew the second I saw her that she was the prophecy but she doesn't know me, it's like she feels nothing and-, it's like she's scared of me."

The prophet cleared his throat, squeezing his eyes shut and remembering all of the thing's he'd been told. "She knows you, Thomas," Tom furrowed his brows. "Everything you feel for Y/N, she feels for you. She feels it, I promise it."

"Then why-," Tom was cut off.

"She’s been hurt. Give her time, space. But be there and eventually, she’ll return every ounce of love you wish to receive.” 

"What do you mean." He stares in confusion, beginning to feel frustrated with his lack of answers.

"I can't tell you anything else, but it will all work out in the end.”

A low growl escapes the back of Toms' throat as he stands up in anger. The prophet's words made no sense. Tom knew the angel had been hurt-, maybe not the full extent but he had an idea.

Why didn’t you show that you felt the same?

-

Tom sits at his desk, the papers in front of him containing jumbled words. Nothing he could make any sense of as he stares, squinting.

It’d been at least thirty two hours since he’d opened the thing and his back was beginning to ache from leaning forward in the leather chair, muscles begging him to stop and walk around after hours of straining. His foot had been tapping annoyingly against the floorboards, bothering those who were on the floor beneath him but the king was frustrated and tense and his negativity could be felt from outside the gates.

There’s a creaking and a heavy huff that pulls him from his endless thoughts. While Tom doesn't say it straight away, he’s grateful for the distraction. He turns, his gaze finding a figure at the door. ar.

Tom lets out a swallowed breath at the sight of you and the fire in the palm of his hand that lights up the words, helping him see disappears. The crisp book pages fade as your eyes move toward Tom's.

"I'm," You swallow. "I'm a little hungry." You state, stomach growling to back you up. "I didn't know who to ask." You look away, eyes floating around the office.

"You could have asked one of the cooks." Tom stands up, the wooden chair creaking against the floorboards. "They can make you anything you want, my love." He speaks carefully, far too afraid that he'd snap again and scare you away once more.

Your cheeks grow hot at the small nickname. You’re still unaware of why the King is so infatuated with you, and why the mere sight of him could send your wings into a fluttering frenzy. You deny everything you feel towards the King, ignoring your bodies signals and turn your head the other way.

The small signals you were becoming a pro at ignoring went right over Toms' head.

"I wasn't sure." You reply, silently admitting that just coming to his office door had taken enough courage to last a lifeline.

There’s a thick pause while Tom looks away.

He wet his lips. "I'll get something for you."

Tom moves through a mighty stack of books before stepping past you, nodding his head for the angel to follow which you do, making sure to keep your distance from the man who both terrified you and intrigued you. Your eyes search his black wings as he moves down the steps, his thick, black boots thudding with every step-down.

Tom moves through his hallway with ease, hands at his sides and every step causes his tee to budge. From behind, you can make out the tufts of hair that haven’t been slicked back or styled in any other way then what was natural. They’re a beautiful shade of brown, like an acorn or an oak tree. Maybe you expected the king to look different – ugly even, with wicked sharp teeth and hollow eyes. Maybe you expected sharp tufts of hair and wings that could cut.

But Tom was pretty.

He was pretty like the roses that snaked themselves around the gates outside, and pretty like the array of glimmering dresses lining your wardrobe you were yet to so much as lay a hand on.

You two reached the kitchen and with a nod from Tom, the staff in gear the colour of ash disappear out the door with their heavy wings trembling behind them, merely giving their king a nod as they move hastily.

The kitchen is huge – truly a kitchen for a king. Treats line one side of the marble bench, other discarded items sit untouched. There are hardwood chopping boards and fancy cutting knives and a ginormous stack of spotless plates. There are grey walls adorned with splashes of blacks and reds and you’re instantly in awe of the place, plush (yet still healing) wings flutter in joy and excitement.

Toms' eyes roam over the pantry, cursing to himself when he has trouble deciphering one food from another. They all looked utterly different then the one before it and he scratches the top of his head in confusion. There were cans and bags and little pieces of fruit. Tom tended just to eat whatever was served to him, never paying much mind as long as it was checked by his tester but actually glancing into his pantry was something else.

"Look, darling-, I really don't know what you do and don't eat." He laughs softly, inching away from the open door that extends into an array of food. "Why don't you jump up and make yourself something? take whatever you want."

Of course you'd cooked before, you use to cook for your fiance all the time but you'd never actually cooked for yourself... the suggestion seems wild and you stared wide-eyed which doesn’t go unnoticed by Tom. Your mouth begins to water at the sight of so much food – mind reeling with all of the things you could make and experiment with.

Already you could see foods you’d never seen or tried before. His cupboard was giant.

"You don't have to. I can easily get the cooks to make you something-,"

"No!" You interrupt, somehow forgetting all the manners they taught you up in Heaven. "Sorry, no, It's okay." You tell him, coughing to regain yourself. "I can cook, I'd love too."

You walk behind the counter, popping away into the pantry for a moment. Tom takes a seat on one of the bar stools and watches intently as you pull out foods he'd never seen before. His reading was forgotten, the words he’d been so desperate to indulge in sitting at the very back of his mind because watching you make food sounded just that much better.

The food was colourful, orange, green, red etc and he adored the way your face lit up when you examined the objects. What you'd seen and experienced earlier was forgotten. You seemed in awe, feeling that sense of freedom that came with being able to do things for yourself. Who knew Hell could be... good?

"Do you enjoy cooking?" Tom asks, folding his arms and leaning forward to watch as you looked through the drawers.

"I do." You began. "I use to cook a lot in Heaven for my-, my partner at the time, but I didn't get to try new things if you know what I mean?" Your voice was soft, competing with the knife as it hit the chopping board.

Toms' nails dig into his hands, piercing the skin of his palms. "Partner?"

"Yeah, Ryan." Your voice was cool, casual. You even shrug. As if even just mentioning his name had no effect on you but on the inside, you were drowning in sudden nerves.

"What was he like?" Tom had to remind himself not to snap or grow too angry. You were with him. Maybe not in the way he'd like, but you were in Hell.

You think for a moment, trying to come up with the right words to say. "He-, he wasn't very nice. He was on the council though and none of them were very nice." You sigh. "If I were still in Heaven I think we'd be married by now."

"Did you love him?" Tom knew exactly what made him ask, his jealousy.

You shake your head vigorously, adding a few ingredients into a ceramic dish. "Gosh-, No, not at all. That’s… gross.”

Tom chuckles

You used the word gross to describe your own ex-fiance. The laughs erupts from his mouth before he can stop it. Tom feels a sense of relief wash over him, some of his anger melting away and seeing him laugh makes you smile, the corners of your heavenly lips curling up. There’s no frustration or pressure. You both just find the placement of the word amusing – or at least Tom does. You find the laughter slipping from the Kings mouth fascinating.

“Then why were you with him?" Tom asks, coming down from his high.

He had slipped into the habit of forgetting that you had a life before this. That you probably had friends and family up in Heaven. Loved ones you may be missing and a fiance who had kissed your skin, muttered gentle words and even loved you before him.

“We just had to wed, I don't know why though. But he was a real twat, if you know what I mean." Your gaze remains on your dish, senses reeling at the sight of a hearty meal. You snort and Tom chuckles.

To Toms surprise, you sit next to him. So close that he can hear the racing of your heart in your chest – each thump more prominent then the last. He vividly smells the lavender perfume on your neck as you knock his leg with yours, the slightest contact causing him to tense up.

Stupid heightened demon senses.

"That looks disgusting." Tom screws his face up in distaste, and you let out a small, barely audible giggle.

"Have you ever tried vegetables?" Tom shakes his head, indicating no.

You place a little on the edge of the fork, moving it close to his mouth. "Try it, it's good."

"I..." Tom trailed off, looking at you with a soft smile. "Doesn't look good." He remarks, screwing his nose up.

"I promise it is." You bite your lip in anticipation and Tom swears he can’t say no, not when you look hopeful that he’ll at least try your food. Until you arrived Tom hated trying new things. Now here he was, allowing you to place whatever slodge you claimed to be so divine on the centre of his tongue.

His mouth closes around the fork and Tom expects to gag. He has a napkin ready to spit the food out and screw his face up in the utmost distaste.

What he doesn’t expect is for an array of flavours to erupt in his mouth – the perfect combination of sweet and sour. It’s smooth, the flavours gliding across his taste buds and suddenly Tom swears he wants you to make every meal – not that he’d ask. No, that wasn’t your job.

He hums, eyes closing in delight and a proud smile takes place on your face because Tom looked stuck in a state of pure bliss, savouring every flavour that dances on his tongue.

“Good?” You ask, showing off your pearly whites.

“That was incredible.” Tom beams. “How did you– what, how?”

The king feels his heart swell slightly when you hand him a fork, shoving your bowl over a little bit offering him more of your food without hesitation. He surely wasn’t going to say no, in fact, his stomach growled, hinting it wanted more.

“I’ll teach you one time if you’d like,” You offer, taking a forkful of the food and eating it yourself. You hum and Tom waits, watching. “If you don’t mind! If you’re not into that then that’s cool too.” Your cheeks run hot, hands balling themselves into awkward fists when you realise that this was still the king you were talking too.

Tom ignores the fast-paced beating of his heart. “I’m sure I could find the time.”

He was positive he could find the time – absolutely certain.

The two of you go back to eating, taking turns to take fair bites in an easy silence. Tom finds himself coming to a realisation. He notices that you carried bits of Heaven – the very best bits. The parts that weren't corrupt and wrong. It’s there in the way you speak so gently, and how you move without a step out of place. Delicate wasn’t the right word.

And you'd finally seen a side to Tom that didn't terrify you, or put you on the edge of the seat. Without hesitation, you relax, allowing the heat to comfort you. Not the heat from the endless torches or the dress enveloping your figure, but his supernatural body heat.

Tom stares lovingly, adoration and desire flooding his eyes as he looks down at the angel that seemed to suddenly be comfortable beside him. Him, the King of hell.

He asks himself how anyone could dislike such a being-, one so pure and utterly kind and he almost felt... blessed, to have you be his gift from the gods.

"What is it?" You asked, cheeks heating up under his almost burning gaze.

"Nothing," Tom murmurs, shaking his head. "You're just really special.”

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[cesabutterflywrites]

The Biggest and Most Common Lie

Part [2] in An Angel’s Smile Series

“We are all conditioned, no matter how untrue, to tell one another ‘I’m fine’ until the day we die.”

Summary: Janus Ethan Dannecker starts college with only a box, backpack, $300, and a ton of emotional baggage that is overwhelming. The broken home he came from cast a shadow on him that he refused to let anyone see. The scars on his body were no match for the scars on his soul. He made it his mission to never let anyone see where he came from. See what he was really made of. See how messed up he would always be.

That is, until Patton Mavers smiled at him.  Ao3 [First Part] [Previous Part][Next Part] [Spotify Playlist]

Word Count: 1744

Story Warnings: past abusive childhood, angst, untreated/undiagnosed mental illness symptoms, detailed descriptions of abuse, cursing, implied/referenced substance abuse. Rated M for Mature audiences. Let me know if I need to add more, and read with caution!

The Biggest and Most Common Lie

The evening had been going well. He had expected it to be awkward as the outsider to an obviously close friend group. Though somehow they helped him feel included. He allowed himself to relax the tiniest bit. Just enough to make the night go smoothly.

 Roman had been very curious about him, which made Janus’ skin crawl. He wasn’t sure if he liked Roman, but wanted to give the boy the benefit of the doubt. Normal people were curious, right?

 “So, Janus,” Roman started after he took a bite of his pasta. “Why the odd name? Were your parents mythology nerds, or something?” 

 Virgil smacked the back of his boyfriend’s head. Roman coughed, then glared at the assailant. “What? I just want to get to know him.” 

 Patton had been sitting next to Janus, so he gently patted the top of Janus’ hand. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” he murmured. 

The contact was nice. He didn't flinch away. It helped that Patton was making his movements slower and easy to see. Janus wondered if it was because he flinched in the dorm room earlier. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or concerned if that was the case. 

 Janus cleared his throat. He didn’t want to be rude to the people who were so kind enough to let him tag along for a good meal. “No worries,” he told the fake story with ease from years of practice. “My dad was always obsessed with Mediterranean history, specifically Roman mythology. My mom was the same, except she loved the Greek sides. When I was born, they both wrote out their choice of name and flipped a coin. My dad won.” 

 “What name did your mom choose?” Virgil asked. They all had been paying attention to him with what seemed like genuine interest. 

 He wracked his brain for the other name. It had been a while since he had to tell this story, especially with people so curious. “Morpheus.” He decided that would be the other option. 

 “Wow. My parents just named me Roman because we’re all mostly ‘R’ names,” Roman chuckled. He went back to eating his food. 

 “Well, I like the name Janus,” Patton told him with a grin. “I don’t know you very well yet, but it suits you.” 

 Janus should not have held onto the word ‘yet’ from that sentence, but that word had him soaring through the rest of the night. He felt his shoulders relax after hearing that the angel was willing to keep him around. 

 “I was named after the Roman poet, Virgil.” the shaggy haired boy piped in. “My mother is an English teacher at our old high school.” 

 “Oh, I will be forever pissed that she had the audacity to give me a C on the final,” Roman exclaimed a bit loudly. He brought the back of his hand to his forehead for effect.

“Well, yeah, Ro. You didn’t study.” Virgil rolled his eyes. “Just because she loves you doesn’t mean that you were going to get an A without effort.” 

 “Janus, where did you go to high school?” Patton turned to face him. He was making a point to include Janus, even though the lovebirds were bickering about the grade. 

 “Oh,” Janus had this lie prepared, “I went to a private school in California.” 

 “Wow, you’re a long way from home then,” Patton observed sympathetically. “Well, then we’ll make sure you get settled here so you’re not alone.” 

 Janus felt guilty for lying about his previous school, though it was true he used to live in California. Seeing someone be so genuine in their fondness towards him made him feel uncomfortable, yes, but he couldn’t help the feeling that this was a place for him to fit. At least, the identity he had carefully constructed so no one would see how ugly he truly was. His outside self fit with them well. Meaning he had to be even more careful with his words.

 The night continued well. Patton had caught on that their questions were making Janus uncomfortable, so he effortlessly changed topics but still kept it casual. He and Janus met each other’s eyes a few times during their meal. Each time Janus felt his heart flutter while rushing blood to his cheeks. They brushed shoulders a few times; which caused real, though small, genuine smiles.

 After they finished their meal, Roman and Virgil decided to go on a walk together despite it being dark out. This left Patton and Janus alone together on their walk back to the dorms. It was chilly out, and the town looked beautiful in the night. That may have been the influence from his companion though. 

 Patton was definitely a bright individual. He was so personable. Janus couldn’t help but be drawn to him. He looked stunning in his outfit-a grey cardigan, light blue polo shirt, and tight fitting khakis. He hadn’t stopped smiling, and Janus wanted nothing more than to keep that smile there. 

 That radiance made a light on his soul that for the moment made him feel close to normal. 

 Janus and Patton walked together slowly. Neither of them were in a rush to get home. Janus suspected that Patton, too, didn’t want the evening to end. They walked together in silence. The only noise between them was a comfortable quiet as the warm night blanketed them. 

 Patton did interrupt the quiet, however, when they were within eyesight of their building. He stopped underneath a streetlamp. There was a bench nearby that he made his way to sit on. He looked up at Janus and wordlessly patted the space next to him. 

 Janus sat down, curious as to why they had stopped. He could see that Patton had something on his mind, though, so he waited patiently for the words to come out. 

 “Janus,” the angel started with a gentle tone, “I don’t want to imply anything’s wrong.” Patton looked at his hands as he spoke. 

 Janus felt his defenses go up. He was ready for the rejection. He had been too awkward at the dinner. Patton was just being kind enough to tell him that this was a one time thing. He was going to let him down easy. 

 He let the boy continue, though, knowing full well that interrupting was not a good idea. 

 “I just want you to feel like you have family, here, especially since you showed up alone.” Patton sighed. He brought his hands to his face to rub underneath his glasses. His blue streak looked darker in the yellow light of the streetlamp. “I didn’t want to say anything at dinner, but…” 

 Here it comes

 Patton looked at him with a watery smile. There were tears in his green eyes that nearly broke Janus’ heart. Please don’t cry, angel.

 “You don’t have to pretend around us. There’s no need to lie.” 

 The screaming in his mind picked up again. It had gone quiet as the evening went on, but being caught in the facade gave it more volume. His breath started to quicken. The mask started to crack enough to let water fill his eyes. He looked away to wipe them. The nerves of the day hit him all at once. 

 He jumped when he felt Patton rest his hand on his shoulder. Patton pulled away just as quickly. “Sorry, force of habit,” he apologized. “Could you look at me, Jan?” 

 He wanted to run away. To escape the terror of the moment he was stuck in. He shouldn’t have let his guard down. He was going to be rejected for deceiving them. Tricking the group of close friends that he was deserving of their companionship. 

 He looked at Patton. The screaming quieted as soon as he looked into the angel’s deep green eyes. There was nothing but full trust in those eyes. Patton’s soul was an open meadow for him to take refuge in. He could hear the whisper of a promise of loyalty when they gazed at each other. 

 “You can trust me, hon,” Patton whispered. “I know you don’t know me well, but once I care about someone I stay dedicated to that care.” 

 Janus smiled. It was genuine. He was grinning at this stranger offering up his love so easily. It was ridiculous. He laughed bitterly. “I believe you, but you also don’t know me very well. If you did you’d choke on those words.” 

 He stood up swiftly. The screaming voice in his mind begging him to run. To save himself from heartbreak. “Thank you for inviting me out to dinner, it was fun.” He brushed off his jeans to avoid looking at Patton. He ignored the fact that his voice cracked on the last word. 

 “Janus, wait I-”Patton started to beg. Janus could hear the threat of tears in his voice.

 “Don’t worry about it, Patton,” Janus looked over his shoulder with a caked on smile. “I’m fine.” 

 Without giving the other a chance to respond, he walked away hurriedly. He was both pleased and offended that Patton didn’t chase after him. He got to his room quickly. He sighed in relief that Virgil was still out on his walk with Roman. It gave him a few minutes to release the tears he wanted to release since he first arrived on campus. 

 He wasn't fine. He was on his own in a place where no one knew him. He gripped the sheet in his hands as he remembered how hard it was to lie about how he felt. 

 Who was this angel? What power did he have over Janus that compelled him to be honest? Why was it so easy to forget that he needed to lie about being fine? Why was it, at the point in the evening when their hands touched, did he feel like a normal person? 

 Who was this angel who seemed to see through his disguise? 

 Patton and his friends included him, and he ruined it because he had alluded to how damaged he was already. No facade could withstand the observant green eyes.  

 Virgil returned after a time that was way too long to have just been a walk. He probably was engaged in amorous activities with Roman like normal couples did.

 "Hey, you okay? Sorry if I woke you up," his roommate whispered. 

 Janus smiled even though it was dark for Virgil to see. "No worries," he whispered back, "I'm fine."

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TAGLIST: @omgsomeonesomewhereonearth , @deceits-left-glove ​ , @louistownsmyass

Let me know if you wanna be on the taglist for this story or any of my other ships! 

[lailannajacobs]

Not About Angels

Pairing: bucky x fem!reader

Prompt: "I'm not human. I never was. So why are you expecting me to act like one?"

Warnings: Angsty with mentions of physical abuse

Word Count: 4.6k 

A/N: So this is my submission for @sourpatchkidsandacokecan​ mystery Au challenge, and like a complete idiot, my brain couldn’t find inspiration for an Au but came up with this instead. Who knows what happened, I sure don’t! Hope you enjoy it regardless! <3 

September 5th, 2020

The hallways were too clean. It was strange that, despite every single change that had happened in your life over the past year, minor and drastic alike, the one change you couldn’t get used to was the hallways. That, and the cheery faces. Everyone was so damned happy to be here; to be heroes. You’d wipe the smiles off their faces if you could. Deep down, they were no different than you or anyone else. Behind the supposed moral codes and the fancy suits, they were no different than you, hiding in the shadows from the pain of doing what no one else wanted to do.

You supposed it was the reason they decided to make you a part of the team instead of taking you to the Raft. You could do what no one else wanted to do. But that wasn’t what they told you. They told you that you were here because you were the victim; that you were forgiven. You doubted your own victims would see it that way.

Some days, especially the first month they’d kept you here, you would have preferred prison. They’d kept you in a room without electricity, and the first time he’d walked in you’d almost killed him just to feel that familiar buzz in your veins. By the time you realized who he was, you were so weak the only thing you could do was wish you had.

There had been too many people asking you questions, not only about intel on Hydra, but also about how you were feeling. No one had ever asked you that. They hadn’t needed to start either. Every day the suffocation made you want to scream. Now…now their questions no longer held as much weight. They gave you space, eventually letting you train and go on missions with them. You’d changed your alliances because you knew they weren’t going to let you go back, but you hadn’t expected not to miss it. You hadn’t expected to stop wanting to run away so quickly; for everything to feel almost normal again. Or at least, almost as normal as it had been when you were working as an assassin for Hydra. Almost. The hallways were too clean.

Everything was too clean - too perfect. Most nights you slept on the floor because it was the closest thing to your bedroom back home. Only the longer you stayed here, the more you realized that it wasn’t a home - it wasn’t even a bedroom. You had never noticed before. For as long as you could remember, you had stayed in that dungeon cell, only taken out for training and missions before being locked back in. You’d been told that to be exceptional at what you did that you had to forgo the weaknesses everyone else relied on. You became exceptional.

Steps coming down the hall caught your attention and you stilled, waiting to see who it was. Wanda Maximoff approached with sure and easy steps, not one to be afraid of you, your skills or your powers. None of the Avengers were, but this inhuman had every right not to be. You were powerful. She was something else.

“You’re needed in the briefing room,” She said, not coming any closer than she had to.

You appreciated the distance more than she would ever realize. Out of every extraordinary being in this place, she was the only one who had an inkling of understanding where you came from. It was probably the reason you didn’t completely distrust her like you did everyone else.  

Nodding, you followed behind.

“You’re not going to like this mission,” She began, her voice serious and free of any fake pleasantries others would have used to soften the blow, “There was no one else we could send with you.”

She didn’t have to tell you who you were being sent off with. There was only one person you despised enough in this place that it would merit a warning. Because a warning was all this was. You wouldn’t beg for a new partner or cause a scene, not when you might risk getting kicked off of the first mission you’d had in a month. You’d withstand his company for a moment of freedom; it was worth the price.

But as soon as you walked into the briefing room and saw that messy head of dark hair, you almost backed out on your promise and demanded to go with someone - anyone - else. He looked up at the sound of your approach, his piercing blue eyes following your every move as you took a seat at the far end of the table. He said nothing. He’d learned a long time ago, after a black eye and a broken nose, that you wanted nothing to do with him. He’d been lucky then that you hadn’t done worse. After taking you away from everything you’d known and having brought you to this place, there was nothing he could say or do that would ever make up for it.

“Is this going to be a problem?” Fury demanded, glancing between the two of you.

You and the Winter Soldier shook your heads.

“All right then. Let’s begin.”

Fury went on with the briefing, but you were only half listening. Most of your concentration was on the flow of electricity in the room, the constant hum calming your nerves. This room was surrounded on all sides by currents big and small, and every breath you took in was slower and longer than the last.

“YN!” Fury barked.

You reigned in your surprise too late, a bulb overhead shattering. You didn’t flinch or apologize.

“Yes, sir?”

“Were you even listening?”

You blinked slowly, “You want us to extract military files kept in a Hydra base off the coast of Maine. We leave tomorrow at 21h sharp. Should be a simple job. You want it done as efficiently as possible.”

Fury sighed, “Next time, there’s no need to blow apart another one of my bulbs. It’s getting ridiculous.”

“At least it was a bulb and not your hearts,” You replied, somewhat honestly and somewhat hoping to make them uncomfortable.

“You know,” He began, that one all-seeing eye dissecting you, “It gets a little hard to trust you when you say things like that.”

“I didn’t ask you to trust me,” You shrugged, “I didn’t even ask to be here and quite frankly, I’m still not sure why I am. But maybe you should ask the Soldier. He’s the reason I’m here, maybe he knows something we don’t.”

You stood and walked out of the room before either of them could respond. Everyone knew why you were here. Your skills and your knowledge were more useful than most of them would admit. That sure as hell didn’t mean you had to be friends with any of them.

March 4th 2020

When Bucky walked out of the emergency room hours later, he found Steve still waiting for him.

“How is she?” Steve asked.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, exhausted, “Stable. Though they don’t know how much she’ll remember of the last 24 - 48 hours. Apparently she was dosed with a some drug that impaired her short term memory. The doctor said that with the amount she was dosed with, it’s impressive that her brain can function at all,” Bucky shuddered but continued on, “We might have an active Hydra agent on our hands when she wakes up.”

“Let her get through this and then we’ll see what happens.”

“I hope so,” Bucky sighed.

Steve didn’t need to see the look on his friend’s face to know that some part of Bucky would always be trying to atone for the things he did before. Saving this woman was just one of those ways. Sadly, Steve was pretty sure she wouldn’t want or appreciate their saving. He’d read her file. She’d been a part of Hydra from the moment she’d been handed over by the foster system, barely able to walk ye.t. That wasn’t something you just walked away from.

Steve put a hand on his best friend’s shoulder, “She might not make it out of this, Buck. And if she does, there’s no guarantee she wants our help.”

“She’ll get through this,” He affirmed.

Steve nodded, though he winced on the inside. Buck would do whatever it took to save this woman. They were tied by something Steve would never be able to fully understand. The only thing he could do was stand beside his friend and hope she didn’t tear Bucky apart.

September 6th 2020

The documents were nowhere to be found. You didn’t know if Fury had gotten false information or if they had seen you coming, but neither of you had found anything close to the documents you were looking for. You knew Hydra well enough to know that if you hadn’t found them by now, they weren’t here. Hydra was too arrogant to hide their information. They firmly believed they would prevail, regardless of how many hits they took. Cut off one head, two more will take its place.

“What do you think?” He asked, breaking the silence for the first time since you’d broken into the base.

You shook your head, “It’s not here.”

He nodded his agreement and motioned for you to follow him out.

Jolting the electric currant in the building, the buzz hid the sound of your steps as you snuck back out of the compound. It was so loud, you almost didn’t notice the familiar hum of a human body seconds before the man’s dagger came at you. You managed to turn at the last second, catching the man’s dagger in the sleeve of your combat suit. The blade didn’t pierce the skin and you flipped the man over, breaking his wrist to make him drop the dagger into your hand.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where the files we’re looking for are, would you? You asked, sending tiny shockwaves down his body.

He squirmed under your grip, eyes widening as he recognized you. All of Hydra knew who you were, even if you couldn’t recognize any of them to save your life. His eyes darted to Barnes for help, but quickly recognized him as well. You couldn’t help but see the irony in the pair of you, even if he was last person you wanted to be here with.

He was about to dislodge the pill they all kept in their fake tooth, the one the Avengers had taken from you the moment they’d brought you in, but you weren’t going to let him off that easily. Your current was faster than his movement, interrupting the signals going to his tongue and jaw. They’d made you do terrible things to perfect that kind of skill, it was only fitting that it be used against them.

“Please,” The man begged, the words garbled but clear enough for you to understand, “Have some humanity.”

“I’m not human,” You grinned, recognizing his badge as one of the many researchers and scientists, “I never was, remember? Don’t expect me to start acting like one now.”

You tried to plunge the dagger into the man’s chest, but Barnes grabbed your wrist before you could get close. He pulled you toward him so that he was the only thing you could see, those metal fingers a vice grip.

“You are human, YN,” He practically growled, “I don’t care what they’ve told you. You. Are. Human. But if you keep doing this, doing what they want you to do, you won’t be.”

“Who are you to judge?” You snarled.

“Someone who’s been there,” He murmured, loosening his grip, “You choose.”

You shook your head in disgust, “Stay out of my way, Soldier.”

You sent enough electric current through the man’s heart to knock him out cold, watching as he crumpled to the ground with a resounding thud. You didn’t know whether or not Barnes followed you out, but you didn’t care. He could do what he wanted. At least someone here could.

March 4th, 2020 - Hours before

“What’s going to happen to her?” Bucky demanded, trying not raise his voice.

He had no right to get angry at the doctors. They weren’t responsible for what had happened to her. A small part of him knew that neither was he, but it was hard to believe. If he’d gotten there sooner…If he’d been a little faster, more efficient, then she wouldn’t be in this mess.

“She’ll live, Sergeant Barnes,” The doctor replied, “But you need to get out the way and let us do our job.”

He was about to leave, but couldn’t help himself and blurted out, “She’s inhuman. I don’t know what her gifts are, but she’s inhuman.”

A nurse shoved him out of the room, “We know.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, pacing outside the double doors. He needed to do something else, focus on anything else, but he couldn’t. He knew what it was like to be at their mercy, flashes and glimpses of memories flickering through his mind, their seizing grip on his heart suffocating. He refused to let someone else die at their hands.

“Buck, I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Steve approached, a file in his hand, “You might want to take a look at this.”

Bucky sucked in a deep breath and took the file. The few sheets inside were about the woman they’d pulled out of that hell hole. An inhuman, gifted with the ability to control electrical currents and an active Hydra agent from the age of five, under their control from the age of three. There was no known family listed, nothing connecting her to the living other than the people who’d locked her up and used her. Bucky grit his teeth.

A shock blast blew out one of the doors, glass shattering everywhere. Bucky ducked to the side, shielding his face with his arm. He searched for Steve, only reassured when his friend turned up on the other side of the hallway, nodding that he was fine.

Shouting came from inside of the room, and Bucky was moving before he knew what he was doing. He burst into the room, only to find her convulsing on the table, an aura of yellow current surrounding her body.

“Rubber gloves,” He directed, weaving around the scrambling doctors to reach her, “Now!”

Recovering quickly, the followed his orders without hesitation. He stopped at the side of her table and took in a deep, steadying breath. He was about to reach for her hand some someone held him back.

“You’ll get electrocuted,” The nurse warned.

“I’m used to the pain.”

Bucky took her hand in his metal one.

The pain was excruciating but familiar and Bucky winced his way through it, trying to provide as much comfort as he could. Hydra had tried to make him weaker and compliant, but the constant pain had made him stronger, exactly for moments like this.

The pain began to ease when his breathing shallowed and hers evened out. With their rubber gloves, the doctors injected her with a clear liquid and moments later, the current vanished completely.

“You can leave now, Barnes,” The doctor stated, taking off his gloves and signalling something to the nurses.

“No,” He adjusted his grip, interlacing their fingers even tighter, “I won’t let her do this alone. Not after you’ve just taken her abilities.”

September 6th, 2020

“What do we tell Fury?” Barnes asked as you walked into the compound.

“Not my problem,” You grunted, shoving past him, “Tell him whatever you want.”

You left without another word, not caring that you wouldn’t be there for Fury’s debriefing. You hadn’t found anything. Did you really need to be two people to tell him that?

When you made it to your room, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and stopped. That was another thing you hadn’t gotten used to yet; seeing yourself in the mirror. They hadn’t given you one in your room - your cell. It was almost as if you and the woman in the mirror weren’t the same person. The woman staring back at you looked tired. She didn’t look like she’d been eating three regular meals a day, exercised for hours each week and had a clean room with a bed and a bathroom all to herself. She had bags under her glossy eyes and looked like the only place she wanted to be was curled in bed until everything wrong in her world faded to black. She looked like someone who kept fighting but didn’t know what enemy she was fighting any more. She looked…sad.

You almost punched the mirror but held back. There was no reason to get sidelined from the next mission because you couldn’t control your anger. But you couldn’t stay here; not in this perfect room. You didn’t even bother with shoes and you walked out the door, your feet taking you to the one place on the compound you felt like you could actually breathe. You’d found it during one of your escape attempts the first month you were here. It had been the reason you’d turned around and come back.

When you pushed open the door to the small roof on the back section of some useless wing, you took in the first deep breath all day that didn’t feel like you were fighting against your lungs for more air. The leaves surrounding the immaculately kept lawn were brilliant shades of reds and oranges, set aflame by the setting sun. Here, you could pretend that you lived in some different world where the sharpest knife you’d ever used had only served to cut steak.

The door creaked open and you whipped around, combat ready even though they’d told you multiple times that you were safe here. Barnes stepped out and all that earlier peace turned to tension in your body.

His eyes widened when he saw you. You stared back.

“Sorry,” He ran a hand through his hair, “I didn’t think anyone else came up here. I’ll go.”

“No. I’ll leave.”

Your mood had already been ruined. You could use a shower and then your bed. Unlike the other Avengers who spent their nights chatting away like one big family, there was nothing left for you to do but sleep. He nodded and walked to the far end of the roof, giving you space.

Your hand was on the door handle when he spoke up, “I made a promise to you, do you remember?”

March 3rd, 2020

You shivered, the stone floor cold beneath your skin. You tried to lift your head, but your whole body felt like it had gone through a meat grinder. Even opening your eyes was a task, the blurry slit barely enough for you to know you were in your room. Everything was grey and cold. Nothing felt right.

You couldn’t remember how you’d gotten here. Where was your bed? Where were your clothes? All you could feel was a flimsy nightgown over your underwear. Even then, you weren’t sure. All you knew for sure was that your body was howling in pain, blocking out almost everything else. You tried to clear your mind, but it was like a fog was settling over and you could barely form a coherent thought. You’d just been on a mission…What the hell had happened? Something had gone wrong, very wrong.

Instinctively, you reached for the electric hum inside you, but you couldn’t find it. Panic set in and you desperately reached deep inside, looking for that energy that was a much a part of you as your arm or leg was. You almost blacked out, but finally you found a small kernel of current, its energy fading by the second.

With every inch of strength you had left, you sent a jolt of electricity through your body. The fog cleared, but the pain came in with a black haze of its own. You were aware enough to realize that you’d been dumped on the ground, your bed nowhere to be found. You had done something wrong. This was what happened when you messed up. The thought took you by surprise, memories that didn’t seem to belong to you flickering through your mind.

A resounding bang sent you scrambling to the corner, terrified by what was coming, but you didn’t get far. Your leg didn’t work, and your arm felt like it was on fire, the pain making it hard to breathe. What little you could see, blurred and spun.

“Shit. How the hell is she still conscious?” A deep voice asked.

You tried to get further away, knowing that even if you didn’t recognize the voice that you had to fear it. Odds always were that you did.

“Hey, it’s all right,” A different voice murmured, sounding much closer than the last one. You flinched at his proximity, but he continued on gently, “We’re here to help. I know you have no reason to believe us, but I’m going to need you to trust me. We don’t have much time and I really want to get you out of here.”

You couldn’t be sure that this wasn’t another one of their tricks, but the man’s voice was so soothing and kind that you let yourself believe him. There wasn’t much fight left in you anyways. Not even the sound of gunshots rattled you; not when you were losing a battle to stay conscious.

“I’m going to pick you up now, okay?” He asked as if you could answer.

He waited a moment then slid his hands behind your knees and around your back. The movement made you cry out, but all that came out was a pathetic whimper. He pulled you close, his comfort and warmth enveloping you tightly.

Unable to hold on much longer, you began to slip away, resting your head on his chest. The last you heard before you blacked out completely was his whisper, “I promise you’ll be safe now.”

September 6th, 2020

Despite how much you wanted to leave, you stopped anyways, but refused to turn around, “You never promised me anything, Soldier.”

“The doctors told me that you wouldn’t remember, and I understand that you don’t,” He paused as if he wasn’t sure he should continue, “I promised you that you were safe now. You should know that I did what I did today because I don’t intend on breaking that promise.”

Your breath caught on his words as if you remembered, but you never did. There were blank spots in your memory you’d never get back.

Not wanting him to see the effect of his words, you scoffed, “That’s hard to believe when I’ve put myself in danger multiple times on missions.”

“You can take care of yourself in the field,” He clarified.

You whirled around, “I can take care of myself. Always.”

“I know,” He stared at you, that look filled with more than you knew how to decipher, “But that doesn’t mean you have to.”

“And who put you in charge of me? Because it certainly wasn’t me,” You spat stomping over toward him, “You took me from my home and everything I knew.  I was fine before you came along. You had no right.”

He met you halfway, eyes an icy flame, “I did. I did what was right because I know you. I know you don’t actually want to go back. I see past that anger.”

“Shut up,” You whispered, heart dropping in fear of the direction he was going.

He didn’t back down, “The only reason you think you want to go back is because you don’t know how to live with the guilt of everything you’ve done - of everything you think you’ve become.”

“Shut up,” You snapped, louder this time.

“You hate me and blame me because it’s easier than blaming yourself,” He pushed on, “You hate me because it’s the only steady thing you can hold onto.”

“Shut up!” You felt the panic taking over, your control slipping.  

His voice dropped to a whisper, “I told you that I’d keep you safe, YN, so I’ll take the blame. I’ll let you hate me so that you don’t hate yourself.”

You reacted on instinct, sending electric currents through him like a taser that brought him to his knees. His head bowed between his shoulders, gritting through the pain. When he looked back up at you, he nodded slowly, almost as if to say it was okay and managed to choke out, “What’s a little bit more, right?”

His pathetic little laugh at the end shattered your anger and the current vanished. You’d seen the look in his eyes before - seen it in the mirror whenever you walked past one - that self-hatred for things you knew you’d done and for the ones you couldn’t remember but that you knew could only be worse. You’d known his story. Known he carried all the same things you did. Except you’d refused to believe it at the sight of his smile and the easy way he walked among the Avengers. You’d refused to see that he carried some of your weight for you, knowing perfectly well how crushing it could be.

His blue eyes never dimmed as he watched your intently. They never had. Not from the pain or from every burden he carried with you over the past six months because you couldn’t carry it alone. You didn’t know how to carry it if he wasn’t there helping you. This man…this man you thought of nothing more than your enemy had been the one person fighting for you when you didn’t think you could anymore. He’d gone through what you had and yet you punished him for making it out.

What the hell did that make you?

Your legs gave out, but he caught you before your knees could smash into the ground. He pulled your close, holding you tight in his arms, and for the first time in your life, you let yourself cry; cry for the people you’d hurt, for what you’d done to him and for the person you could have been.

You mumbled apologies over and over even though you knew it would never be enough. He stayed silent, listening, pulling you in even closer whenever he knew you were about to fall apart. A small part of you wanted to push him away, to stay strong, but the woman in the mirror was tired. There was no fight left in her. Not at the moment.

Eventually, when your mumbling was no longer coherent and you were utterly exhausted, you felt him stand, his grip on you never loosening.

You must have fallen asleep because he was placing you on your bed what seemed like seconds later pulling the cool sheets over you. The lack of warmth was jarring, and you curled into a smaller ball, your body shivering from all the crying and the hurt.

“Barnes?” You murmured, stopping him before he could leave your bedroom.

He turned, eyes scanning your body from head to toe as if he could physically see what was wrong, “YN?”

“Stay?” You whispered, your voice raw, “Please.”

He looked at you for a long time, a strange look on his face, “Are you sure?”

The only thing you could manage was, “I’m sorry.”

Barnes nodded and walked over to the bed easing himself onto it, staying far along the edge.

“Please,” You whispered again, unable to tell him exactly what you needed.  

But you didn’t have to. His chest pressed up against your back, his arm draping over your torso and pulling you in closer. Relieved, a shattered breath escaped your mouth at almost the exact moment one did his, and within moments you fell into the deepest sleep of your life.

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

Too Weak to Fly (chapter 7)

This was supposed to be another short chapter, but it grew a bit out of control,so I had to cut the action somewhat earlier than I had originally planned. 

TW: somewhat graphic descriptions of injuries and violence

Well... godspeed.

Back to chapter 1

Tags:   @cosmic-malarky @swanheart69 @boysinperil @agentlokii 

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Chapter 7

 Nobody stops him.  Not at the entrance when he steps off the escalator, not in the obscenely white, pristine hallways as he strides purposefully toward the large meeting hall.  

It doesn’t surprise him, really.  Heaven, for the past six thousand odd years, has been a forbidding, inhospitable place. Empty.  And for his purposes right now it suits him just fine.

Yet he can help but think back to when Her presence was still felt around this place; when these walls were filled with warmth and compassion and LOVE, instead of the frigid burn of indifference he feels here now.

 Lord Almighty, how could You allow this to happen?  Do You not see? How can You possibly approve of what Your children have become?  This emptiness, this coldness, this… this cruelty that I have witnessed with my own eyes… This isn’t what You taught us to be back when we basked in Your presence and listened as You told us Your will. Was this Your plan all along? Is this the Heaven of Your legacy?  Is this why You see this and do not wish to intervene?

He wonders briefly if this is what Crowley felt like all those millennia ago when he saw what Aziraphale and the others were too blind to see and he dared to ask Her about it. And if simply asking Her questions then – before the terrifying viciousness of the punishment for the wayward angels, before the inexplicable cruelty of the Flood, before the plagues, before the wars, before the uncaring silence in the end of days…– if that was all it took to Fall, then, should She hear his questions now, he would surely not remain an angel much longer.  Strangely, the thought of Falling doesn’t terrify him anymore.  Not after everything he’s been through, everything he’s seen.  No, he’s not afraid to Fall.  Which is quite fortunate, considering that what he is about to do will more than likely damn him.  And that’s fine.  If Falling is what it will take to make things right, then he is more than willing to pay that price.  But, first, he needs to make sure that Crowley is safe, and he can’t risk having Her hear him and brand him a rebellious angel just yet.  Not until he’s done what he’s come here to do.  So he grits his teeth, clamping them tight against the rebellious thoughts, and he keeps walking.  

 It is only when he nears the massive double doors bound with celestial gold that he stops, his path blocked by two young angels with poleaxes held at an angle.  He recognizes them instantly – the same two nameless, unimportant angels that have, on Gabriel’s order, destroyed Crowley’s beautiful wings with such callous indifference.  He stares at their hands, hands clasped around their holy weapons, hands that held the buckets steady as Holy Water poured down onto the bound, writhing demon….  

 His jaw ticks, fists clenching painfully tight at his sides.  “If you would kindly step out of my way,” he tells them, voice tight with barely controlled anger.

 “You have no business here, traitor,” one of the angels responds with a tone of affected boredom that reminds Aziraphale a little too much of Gabriel.  

 The smile he gives them in response – a sharp, predatory thing that feels awfully, unnaturally tight on his face – makes them falter, a shadow of consternation flickering over their expressions.

 “You know who I am then,” he nods matter-of-factly.  “Good.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, pulling out a long, thin vial.  Holds it out, making sure the vial’s deadly contents are perfectly visible to the now decidedly nervous-looking angels.  “And I assume you know what this is as well.”  He rolls his wrist a bit, grinning unkindly at the way the angels’ eyes track the bright orange tongue of flame that twists gracefully behind the glass wall that traps it.

 “You wouldn’t dare,” the same angel speaks up again, but there’s no trace of the earlier self-assured smugness in his voice, doubt creeping in.

 Aziraphale’s smile falls, blues eyes narrowing ever so slightly.  Cold, ice cold, like his voice when he speaks next.  

“Do you, actually, believe that an angel who dared to walk into Hell to pick up this,” he nods toward the vial of Hellfire that seems to glow brighter in his hand as though fueled by his growing anger, “would then hesitate to use it?”  

He watches them digest his words, their gazes flickering nervously between his face and the vial. “I’ll be honest with you,” he says, drawing their wavering attention back to himself, “I have bigger plans for this particular vial, and I’d rather not waste it on two foolish little angels. But make no mistake…” He steps in closer, teeth bared.  Breathes out – a low whisper of a warning, a promise of retribution yet to come, “…you two hurt someone I care about very much, and if you dare keep me out here another moment longer….”

 He doesn’t finish his threat, he doesn’t have to.  The angels step aside without another word, the shafts of their poleaxes scraping dully across the floor as they move.

 Aziraphale doesn’t spare them another glance as he walks swiftly past them to push open the heavy door and slip inside.  

 Gabriel is the first one he sees, the archangel standing with his back to the door, head tilted down in concentration at whatever it is he’s holding in his hands.  The archangel’s hand jerks suddenly backwards in a sharp pulling motion, and Aziraphale’s ears pick up a strained, muffled groan that follows the movement.

 That pained, hopeless sound is like a cursed blade through Aziraphale’s heart.

 Fingers clenching tighter around the vial, he takes a long, determined step forward.  

“Gabriel!”

The archangel startles, turning toward his voice, revealing the huddled figure that stands kneeling on the ichor-stained floor before him.

 The room blinks out. Or so it appears to Aziraphale, at least, because, for a brief moment, everything around him seems to dim, the edges of his vision swimming out into a churning, nauseating blackness.  

And at the center of it is Crowley.  Him he sees perfectly, in every stark, cruel detail.  His body, naked and shivering in the too-too cold room.  His eyes – a bright, acidic yellow, blown wide with fear and pain.  The black ichor that stains his lips and chin. The horrible, weeping burns everywhere his skin has come in contact with the floor that virtually pulsates with holiness.  The golden manacles around his wrists and the collar around his neck with just enough chain length to allow him to stay on his knees where he is, but prohibiting him from moving any further.  Those knees, bleeding and blistering from being forced to bear his weight on the hallowed ground for Lord knows how long.  His left arm, hanging limply at his side, ichor dripping to the floor in a steady morbid rhythm from the empty, ravaged nail beds.  His right arm, trembling in Gabriel’s vise-like grip….

 “It’s a very annoying habit of yours, Aziraphale, to interrupt me while I’m working,” Gabriel cuts in, casually shaking off the bloodied pliers-like tool he holds in his free hand to discard a recently ripped out nail to the floor.  Turns back to his task with an aggrieved sigh and an eye roll. “I still have four more of these to remove.”  

 The room comes suddenly, sharply back into focus.

 “Release him.” He rocks forward on rigid, wooden legs, words twisting into a growl through the awful, mounting pressure in his chest.  “Now!”

 There must be something in his tone that gives Gabriel pause.  The archangel stills, lets out another long, frustrated exhale.  Glances once again at Aziraphale over his shoulder. And Aziraphale can see the exact moment that Gabriel notices the vial in his clenched hand, for in that instant a look of startled shock flickers across the normally impassive features, and the archangel turns to face him fully, releasing Crowley’s arm as he does so.  

The demon chokes out a broken, sob-like breath, pulling the arm toward him as much as the chains allow him, hunching over the injured limb in a pitiful attempt to shield it from further abuse.  But his eyes, wide and unblinking, continue to stare up at Aziraphale with an inexplicable expression of horrified despair.  He has yet to utter a single word.

 “Oh, is that how it’s gonna be?” Gabriel murmurs, purple eyes flashing as he shifts his gaze from Aziraphale’s face to the golden tongue of flame moving restlessly within its glass cage.  A beat and his expression shifts back into one of disdainful superiority.  “Do you think I’m a fool, Aziraphale?”  He tsks mockingly, nods back toward the kneeling demon. “Do you not think that if we dragged that creature up here to douse him in Holy Water that we already know about the trick you pulled?”  He takes a slow, deliberate step closer to Aziraphale, towering intimidatingly over him even at a distance.  “That we know you’re no more immune to,” he nods at the vial, “that thing than we are?”

 “I have no intention of getting you to believe that I’m immune to Hellfire,” Aziraphale objects, holding the surprised purple gaze.  “I merely wish to inform you that I have come to take my friend away from here, and I want you to believe me when I say that I will use any means necessary to do so.”

 Gabriel regards him silently, grim, assessing.  A moment later his face splits into a shark-wide plastic smile.  “Did you know that it takes a single diluted drop of Holy Water to melt a demon’s tongue?” he asks in a seeming non-sequitur that makes something very, very cold churn unpleasantly in Aziraphale’s gut.  “Just found it out myself yesterday.  Incredible, isn’t it?”  

 Aziraphale’s gaze flickers over to Crowley, to the thin lips pressed together into a twisted line of black-stained pain, to a wide streak of black ichor running down his chin and neck. He feels sick, the burning at the back of his throat added to the now nearly impossible pressure inside his chest that begs to break forth in a spectacular, wall-shattering scream.  How, he wants to shout.  How could an angel, a being of Light, even think to inflict such torment on another creature, let alone speak as though they enjoyed doing so?  How could anyone?

 “I was gonna go for the eyes first, you know.”  Gabriel keeps talking in that perfectly casual, conversational tone that sets Aziraphale’s teeth on edge, “but then I realized that, if I did that, he wouldn’t be able to see what else I’ve got in store for him. And what would be the fun in that? Am I right?” He throws his arms out, his smile – a fixed, frigid mask of exaggerated enthusiasm, as he invites Aziraphale to appreciate his reasoning. “Plus, this way I don’t have to listen to him profane these hallowed walls with his foul tongue.”

 Aziraphale really needs him to stop talking.  

 “Is there a… point you’re trying to make?”  He’s trembling, he realizes.  Vibrating with anguish and fury, his hand gripping the vial so hard, he can feel tiny spider cracks form along the glass surface.  A little more, and the deadly flame will burst free to devour him whole.

 “The point, traitor,” Gabriel responds darkly, all pretense of joviality gone, “is that Hellfire latches on to the closest source of holiness, no matter how…,” he gives Aziraphale a look full of disappointment and disdain, “pathetic and corrupt it may be.  And if it only took one diluted drop of Holy Water to turn that serpent’s tongue into liquid goo, it won’t take but a lick of that flame to burn your worthless self into a pile of equally worthless ash the moment you open that vial,” he concludes with a condescending smile, certain in the knowledge that he’s just called Aziraphale’s bluff.

 Aziraphale’s answering smile is strained around the edges, cold, deadly.  “Crowley and I have played quite a few ball toss games with our godson over the years.  I assure you, my throwing aim has gotten quite good.  I’m fairly sure that I can douse you in Hellfire flames without getting so much as a singe.”  He raises the vial higher, thumb poised over the cap.  Pointedly ignores the desperate, mewling, gurgling moans coming at him from Crowley’s direction.  “I’m willing to risk it.  Are you?”

 Gabriel frowns, seeming unsure for the first time. Watches Aziraphale’s face intently for some kind of tell, his own face souring at whatever it is he sees there.  His mouth twists in a grimace of displeasure and he raises his hand reluctantly, the chains holding Crowley captive disintegrating with a snap of his fingers.  

Released from their hold, Crowley slumps forward with a whimpered sob of relief, trembling fingers of his less mangled hand grasping at his neck to brush the red, painful-looking welt left behind by the golden collar.  

 Aziraphale lurches an aborted half-step toward him, the vial burning in his hand as Hellfire itches to get out, spurred on by the raging emotions that roll off the angel in wave after turbulent wave.  For a moment, for a brief, tantalizing moment he wants to abandon his plan, wants to run to his demon, to pour Hellfire onto the worst of the wounds, to soothe, to shelter, to heal….

The door creaks open behind him; before him, Gabriel’s face splits once again into a supercilious, contemptuous sneer, his eyes flashing triumphantly as he flicks his gaze from the door back to Aziraphale.  

The moment is over.

 “So, what is the plan now, then, Aziraphale?” the archangel inquires with sickly, saccharine sweetness, as he slowly begins to advance on him, hands folded regally behind his back. Behind him, Crowley mewls in distress, scrambling to rise on unsteady, wobbling legs. “Do you hope to fight your way out of here, get past all those angels,” he waves a hand toward the door, “with that pitiful bit of Hellfire at your disposal?”

 Aziraphale doesn’t bother turning around to look. He lets his gaze find Crowley’s instead.  Locks eyes with him for one interminable fraction of a second – an ocean of ice-blue calm against an amber-bright sea of turbulent panic.  Trust me, he mouths.  And then he rips his gaze away and lunges for Gabriel.

 The archangel stumbles backwards at the unexpected attack, tries to twist out of Aziraphale’s grip, but Aziraphale holds fast, arms clamped in a steel-like vise around Gabriel’s form.

 “I don’t need to fight,” he insists, pressing the vial against the archangel’s neck.  “I just need to know where to aim my weapon.”  He presses the vial harder, eliciting an alarmed hiss from the squirming archangel.  “Crowley will walk out of here now, and you will let him. You won’t interfere, and you will make sure that no one else does either.  Or I will uncap that vial right down your throat, and it is, as you said,” he bares his teeth, whispers into Gabriel’s ear a mocking echo of the archangel’s own earlier words, “Hellfire latches on to the closest source of holiness, no matter how pathetic and corrupt it may be.”

 In the periphery of his vision he sees the other angels hesitate by the doorway, throwing nervous glances Gabriel’s way.  He sees Crowley, frozen still where he’d last seen him, staring at Aziraphale with confusion and horror.  Move, he wants to yell to him.  Get out of here, move!

 “You’ll Fall for this,” Gabriel snarls, thrashing uselessly in Aziraphale’s grip.  “I’ll cut your bloody wings off myself!”

 “I have no doubt,” Aziraphale nods, and the simple, calm conviction in his voice momentarily stuns the entire room to stillness.  Aziraphale’s voice, when he speaks next, rings loud and clear in the ensuing quiet, the words – thoughts, rebellious, anguished thoughts he’d carried with him these past few days – pour forth, releasing him from their unbearable burden. “But when you do, you better pray that I don’t survive it.  Because if I do, I swear to you right here, right now, that I will come back here with all the Hellfire at my disposal, and I will burn this place into the Nothing it came from.  Because this here isn’t the Heaven that I remember, and none of you are worthy of being called Beings of Light.  If She were paying any attention, She would have done it Herself long ago.”

 The shocked rumble of voices that erupt in response to his words is overwhelmed instantly and completely by a blinding explosion of brilliant white light that floods the space before him.