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plotting call but exclusively for lucifer & michael because i plan to move them to a private / plot-oriented blog <3

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luci is such a hypocrite he’s like “angels should not bow to these lesser beings, we do not serve, we revolt in the face of heaven's tyranny” then in the same breath he’s “follow me into revolution, i’m better than everyone, i'm your god.”

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what if... you let me send you memes? xx

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paradise lost satan really said “i tried to do something and i failed, and now i realize that i was always destined to fail, and i want revenge for that but i also see that my every effort to spite authority will just satisfy that authority more. so i guess i will just be as good as i possibly can be at the role that i now know i was always meant to play, in which the more i succeed, the more i’ll disgrace myself. i cannot escape. i never could have escaped. i am going to be the adversary, and i am going to destroy myself, and there is nothing i can do about it. ok. ok. let’s get started.”

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if lucifer told me to revolt, i would. rip to heaven but i'm different.

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“But you’re not God.”

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the anger pooling in her gaze is molten gold, and when she grasps the edge of his collar, embroidered in intricate golden leaves, he has no choice but to look at her, a scowl etched into his features. his indignation is the remnant of a doused forest fire, the curling of smoke into the air, a subdued wrath that he bites behind his teeth, truth spilling from his tongue with none of his usual honeyed affronts. her taunt prompts a huff from him, an arched brow as her eyes waver from him and toward the darkness. ❝ keir promised autumn a bride and she arrived sullied by a lesser fae. you think my words harsh, but my father's cruelty would have been tenfold. you cost him that alliance. ❞ he says, his voice low as he strains to keep the frustration out of it.

opening that worn, old box of memories, the details of the day come to eris in disembodied remnants. sentimentality is a weakness he cannot afford in his position, and on most days, he does not spare valuable time for ruminations and regrets — a tale told cannot be rewritten, dwelling on the past is a fruitless, barren endeavour, of which no utility may be harvested. he looks at her now as she sways above him, noble and imposing in her stance, a reputation behind herself, and remembers the girl strewn amidst yellow and orange leaves turning red below her, flesh drenched in blood, nailed to the ground. helping her had not been an option, for a plethora of reasons, but he'd spent a few nights after that thinking back on the moment; so near the brink of death she had been, he could have ended the ordeal with a simple dagger, yet he hadn't. he could have called for her companions at night, yet he hadn't. but he had been young, too, and he'd done what he'd thought best. for both of them.

❝ if my guards or i had touched you, you would have belonged to my court, as my bride or as my hostage. i would not have subjected you to that. ❞ beron had wanted her dead, and so had the court of nightmares, her own family. eris had stood over her, turning that possibility over in his head, but for all his cruelty, he had not been able to kill her. he wonders, as his flaming gaze meets hers, if that hesitation had been born of sympathy or dismay.

❝ i did not want that engagement any more than you did. ❞ the prince affirms, finally. there is no more circumvention he can employ, and his duplicity is rendered useless. he wishes he could reveal some grand scheme, a clever ploy. he wishes he were as brutal as they all think him to be, and he wants to give her a better reason behind his actions, if only to affirm his own reputation and standing, but the simple truth of it is that he had been young, and afraid, and he had not wanted to marry her, or any female his father would have found for him. he had not wanted to look at his bride and see his mother, trapped at the forest house, forced to bear a marriage contract as if it were shackles, ❝ i made the most of your liaison and bought my own freedom, too. ❞ he manages to curl his mouth into a forced grin, teeth gleaming, ❝ no offence, morrigan, but i never had a taste for blondes. ❞

our arrangement. as if mor has had an actual say in the matter. she had no idea she was betrothed until that engagement party disguised as a regular one.

that day, she’d forced a smile as people congratulated her on an upcoming marriage she’d never wished for herself. her heart was pounding as her eyes searched the room for the servant girl that occupied her thoughts. the lovely briar was nowhere to be found. she found azriel, though, hazels darkening as he glares at—— keir. oh no. she knew what would happen if she didn’t stop this. it was not that she didn’t wish her father dead — she very much did wish him gone. but azriel had finally been torn away from the illyrian war camp that had brought him misery and he’d managed to get appointed as the princess of the night court’s personal guard.  there was no way she was gonna let him ruin his life. not like this. not for her. but before she could make her way through the crowd and get to him, rhys had placed a hand on the shadowsinger’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. she’d nodded at her cousin to thank him for handling the situation before she’d been dragged away by her mother adalind who’d drug her sharp nails into her arm all the while smiling at their guests. she’d then whispered to her ear that her little friend would be as good as dead if she even thought of running away with the lesser fae that he was and make a fool of this family. her mother should’ve kept her mouth shut. because she’d unknowingly planted a seed in her daughter’s clever brain. maybe freedom wasn’t so out of reach. maybe there was a way out of this engagement after all. she couldn’t do this to azriel (she cared too much for his safety and she knew he wasn’t interested in anyone that way), but there were plenty of illyrian warriors out there who would be excited to bed a virgin high fae…

he says she’s a smart girl. it feels condescending coming from him. girl. as if he knows that’s who she becomes when he walks in. without looking, she feels azriel (still hidden) moving closer. she gazes his way from the corner of her eye, sending a silent command. he retreats. she calls the shots. always. that doesn’t stop him from being restless, though. he’s battling his own emotions whilst feeling hers as well. on top of that, he’s got a traumatic past with fire —and the scars to prove it— and standing in a room with a fire wielder does him great disservice. 

they both still at his answer. of course, it’s no surprise eris wants the crown. no. what stunned them is how he wishes for his mother’s freedom. and how he’s willing to plot his father’s murder to achieve it. mor leans back, summoning a satisfied grin once the shock has melted away from her face. ❛ oh, eris dear, be careful or i’ll actually believe you have a heart. ❜ she pouts, leaning closer, the palm of her hand laying flat against the map. ❛ and yet you were willing to let me die because i chose freedom over you… ❜ this doesn’t add up, her inner voice whispers as she studies his expression. ❛ you cannot say you never wished for this marriage whilst spitting your venom about how disrespectful i have been of this arrangement and then leaving me to die in your woods. ❜  what he says doesn’t make any sense. she’s angry and lost and desperate for answers. ❛ you don’t get to say you punished and saved me all at once! you could’ve reached out, you could’ve sent someone. anyone! to help me or finish me off or whatever, but you did not. tell me why! ❜ she’d grabbed him by the collar, yanking him closer. she’s done playing games. she waited too long to let him play her like violin. she’s not a scared little girl anymore. she is the morrigan. the brown color in her eyes has melted into a mesmerizing gold. like ichor. the blood of the gods. the ravenshades fancy themselves has descendant of war, wisdom and fate personified. nowadays, most people think they’re just delusional and power hungry, for no one alive has seen the displays of such power. but maybe the tales of their divine heritage were true after all.

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i will be adding ken to the muse list later tonight, he has bewitched me.

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Send my muse 🔪 to place a knife up to their throat!

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what if 😳 we plotted out affiliated dynamics 🥰🥵 that shape the narrative and propel character arcs 🙈💍

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tragic anidala my beloved. a love faithed to die. a graveyard of a romance, haunted by the ghosts of all those caught in the crossfire. romeo & juliet-esque. a love that could never and should never have flourished but it did, with weeds beneath the rose bush. they would never have been happy together without sacrificing their fundamental principles, beliefs, and responsibilities. some part of them was always going to be sacrificed at the altar of their love. padme turned a blind eye to anakin's atrocities at the cost of liberty. because he put the galaxy on a pyre for her, and he would burn down the cosmos for her, but it destroyed her, and everything she stood & fought for. they never truly understood each other. they were obsessed with each other.

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❝ your attitude toward our arrangement did not necessitate such respect. ❞ eris says this as a formality, even if he does not truly mean it in its cruel entirety. in private, he can admit he did not much care for her tryst with the illyrian. nor the offence it had wrought to his name, but beron had been livid, and so eris had issued a statement and called off the engagement. her command now, then, is no less sharp than a knife, cutting him from mind to rib, spilling the secrets he’d buried away in the coffin of his heart. jaw is clenched, hazel eyes narrowed; he does not want to explain himself to her, because it is a ghost of a past and because it does not matter, and because he’d rather have her hatred fueling his reputation. ❝ you're a smart girl. you must realize that, had i welcomed you, we would both have been bound by an obligation neither you nor i wanted, and your brief stay would’ve been extended. ❞ it’s as veiled a statement as he can manage, whilst forced to divulge honesty. he does not tend to dwell on that day – his decision had been practical. in the deepest recesses of his mind, he might even admit he had been doing her a kindness. death would have been a fate kinder than being a lady at autumn.

the shifting dark curls into the corners, for the walls have eyes and ears. it is an indignity, he realizes, for it is not just mor he is entertaining with these tales, but rhysand's shadowsinger, too. he cannot decide whether he finds the gesture infuriating or intriguing, or both, and he reminds himself he'd come in good faith — he needed the night court's aid as much as they required his insight, so he endures. one leg crossed over a knee, the prince leans back and rests his chin in his hand, the portrait of arrogance. a sigh is ripped from his throat before he responds to her prompt, ❝ i'd rather avoid a war that leaves me playing two fronts, between prythian and my father. most of all, i’d rather be governing the court with my rightful title, beron's head on a plate, and my mother freed of him. ❞ try as he might to shape his answers into political remarks and discussion on the precarious situation with the mortal queen and his father's alliance with her, which remained the primary topic of this exchange between him and the night court, he had been unable to swallow back that bit of vulnerability.

giving the morrigan any shred of leverage over him gave her entire court, in turn, a bargaining chip to play him. slivers of flames dance in his irises, though he douses his anger and smelts it into a practised nonchalance, 'lest he gifts her more of his dignity. ❝ i would not debase myself to your court, as i do now, for anything less. ❞

❛ my brief stay in your court was not welcoming either. ❜ as soon as she’d thought the words, she’d said them. she'd meant it as a matter of fact, but there was an edge beneath the surface, the honey in her voice hardening into amber. not welcoming is an understatement. she’d bled and shivered for hours in those woods. at one point, she’d expected for the guards to come back and finish her off or even eris himself, who’d ordered that no one shall touch her. she’d originally thought he’d meant it in a way that she was his to dispose of as he pleased. but he didn’t touch her. he left. they all did. and they didn’t come back. no one came… until azriel retrieved her. at which point she’d thought she was dead or nearing it because her friend didn’t look the same. where membranous illyrian wings should’ve been were majestic feathered ones. she ultimately passed out from the blood loss on their way to what she had thought was the afterlife but, in fact, had been velaris, the hidden city of starlight. 

there’s a fleeting shift of the light in the corner of the room. azriel. a gesture either meant in support or to remind her to stay on track. or perhaps a bit of both. she could probably scry for his true intention but, right now, eris consumes her every thought. this night isn’t about their shared past, though. or maybe it is. maybe rhys has offered her an occasion to get the answers he knows she feared and craved above all else. she’d be a fool not to seize the opportunity. 

he sits down and she still stands, giving the illusion that she’s in control of the situation. truth is, when it comes to the prince, she becomes this scared little girl on the inside. and she hates it. she hates that after centuries his face still holds that power on her. she’s the morrigan for cauldron’s sake! she fought in the war and slaughtered hundreds of soldiers, of cruel and entitled males like eris. she shouldn't be scared.

her anger is her armor. she holds onto it, cradles it to her chest and it burns the bruised and shivering girl away. she barely gazes to the corner of the room before she sits on the table, her thigh sending wooden soldiers tumbling down onto the map. She folds her legs gracefully, then leans over him, her eyes lighting up with renewed interest. ❛ and what would you rather be doing instead of those piles of paperwork? ❜ the sweetness in her voice has returned. from an outside perspective, it looks like a flirtatious exchange but in such interaction one actually has the choice to answer or not. this time, the words command an answer. a truthful one.

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Leo Suter as James Stringer · Sanditon 1.02

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point of the matter is, lucifer will lounge about on any available surface because at his core, he is a cat <3

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deathless ♚ sentence meme

You will always fall in love, and it will always be like having your throat cut, just that fast.

You are going to break your promise. I understand.

You’re lonely too.

It will stop your breath, how cruel I can be.

I am a demanding creature. I am selfish and cruel and extremely unreasonable.

I am your servant.

I crawl at your feet; for before your love, your kisses, I am debased.

For you alone I will be weak.

I belong here, and you will not deny me.

I say these things, and the world listens.

I do not tolerate a world emptied of you. I have tried.

In the dark, I have pored over the loss of you like pale gold.

I will not let her speak because I love her, and when you love someone, you do not make them tell war stories.

I moved the earth and the water for you.

You will always run away with her.

You will always lose her.

You will always be a fool.

You will always be dead, in a city of ice, snow falling into your ear.

You have already done all of this and will do it again.

No one should be judged for loving more than they ought, only for loving not enough.

We look terrible to you, and severe, and you see our blood flying.

What we carry between us is hard-won, and we made it just as we wished it to be, just the color, just the shape.

There need never be any rules between us.

Let us be greedy together; let us hoard.

Do not leave me, swear that you will never leave me.

I am selfish. I am cruel. My mate cannot be less than I.

Sleep with fists closed and shoot straight.

I can’t abide a poor liar.

You look like a winter’s night. I could sleep inside the cold of you.

Oh, quit that. Blushing is for virgins and Christians.

Scold me; deny me. Tell me you want what you want and damn me forever. But don’t leave me.

Bad luck relies on absolutely perfect timing.

In his own country, Death can be kind.

What is the world but a boxing ring where fools and devils put up their fists?

Men die. It’s practically what they’re for.

I am no one; I am nothing.

Nothing in me was not made by you.

A revelation is always the end of something. It might even be cause for grief.

Just tell yourself a story that’ll satisfy you and pretend he told it.

Forever isn’t bright; it isn’t like that. Forever is cold and hard and final.

I savor bitterness - it is born of experience. It is the privilege of one who has truly lived.

If you want to kill yourself, do not use us as your knife.

What did I do wrong? Was I boring? Did I ignore you?

Don’t you dare speak to me like that.

I have worn nothing but blood and death for years.

I have fought all your battles for you, just as you asked me.

I have learned not to cry when I strangle a man.

I have learned to watch everything die.

I am not a little girl anymore, dazzled by your magic. It is my magic, now, too.

Are we not devils?

No one is now what they were before the war.

I have not seen you without your skin on.

Close up your head; your brain is getting loose.

We obsess. It’s in our nature.

I’ve a devil of a habit for being right.

In war you must always choose sides.

If you try to be a bridge laid down between them, they will tear you in half.

We are all dead. All equal. Broken and aimless and believing we are alive.

My old bones will follow yours soon enough.

It is better to be strong and cruel than to be fair.

I will see him with his skin off before I agree to fall in love.

After love, no one is what they were before.

I have survived, but I have not been spared.

In the space of one heartbeat to another I loved you and I was lost to you.

Frighten me, make me cry, only come back.

It’s not so bad, my darling. Being dead. It’s like being alive, only colder.

You’ll think it’s love, while he dines on your heart.

You will be so beautiful when you are old.

I cannot keep you and I cannot let you go.

You will live as you live in any world…with difficulty, and grief.

I look at you and it is like my throat being cut.

She said you’d come and I swore to eat your heart.

I still want to kiss you.

My heart is being cut in two. I cannot bear it.

What happens to anything beautiful?

I have to know, I have to or else you will just rule me until the end of everything because you know and I do not.

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autumn teaches the attitude of perception. there are snakes coiled in the rustle of leaves, branches decay in odd spots, deceptive in their leverage, and ripe fruits hide rot beneath their flesh. managing the elegance in the grotesque is a craft eris has schooled himself in, to carve out his words & acts like wood and make of them what he wants, an intricate detailing of hollow sentiment. autumn teaches intention — the path covered in leaves is often deceptive. that the hall darkens in its corners, a subtle shift of light at an odd angle, does not escape him, though he'd come expecting nothing less but their scrutiny, so he sits neatly and indulges it, clever eyes shifting between the morrigan and the map, feigning a dulled disinterest in the entirety of the affair, despite his intrigue. ❝ of course. ❞ he drawls, mouth curving into a small grin. ❝ your high lord demands my cooperation, yet cannot extend me the courtesy of his presence? ❞ the prince inquires with a measured degree of derision, head tilting toward the morrigan. cheap taunts are below him but he lets them slip nonetheless; perhaps they bring out the worst in each other, even after all these years, or perhaps he is being trivial. eris would rather cultivate the former notion. ❝ with such warm reception, it's a wonder the night court is lacking in allies. ❞

❝ the autumn court will burn itself to the ground at the behest of beron and his councillors, who make a mockery of government. ❞ the chair creaks as he leans back into it. the morrigan's gift is a mystery to all, but he can recognize the pattern of persuasion wielded like a knife; for that, he keeps his answers concise and diplomatic, tailored to matters of court. it's the truth, even if obvious and evidently not the heart of the matter she attempts to tear out of him. he wears his apathy with grace, chin tilted up toward her swaying figure as she looks at him, prompting words out of him that would not be spoken so freely otherwise. information is a currency he is not willing to spend, even the least of it; his pinched brows remain the sole betrayal of his fluttering irritation, knowing he would not be leaving until she was satisfied with the answers she wrings out. ❝ our trade does not run itself and it's not my father that sees to it — so ideally, i would be tending to the piles of paperwork on my desk. ❞

Mor snorts. She can’t help it. Eris is really thinking he’s gonna meet with her High Lord today? And that’s she’s gonna fetch anyone or anything for him?? It is laughable. She gently sets down her glass of red wine. ❛ I’m afraid you’ve been mistaken... ❜ her voice trails off as she leaves the safety of her own side across the large table, walking around it and getting closer to his side, index finger gliding onto the hardwood surface. ❛ Rhysand is not coming today. ❜ She announces, at last, lifting her gaze from the map to study his face. ❛ As his overseer, i can handle the matter myself. ❜ She doesn’t say which matter. And this is what makes it not a lie. Truth is, she’s in no way prepared for what is set to happen. Or what she might discover on this day. But whatever will be discussed within these walls, in her very presence, will be the truth. And Mor hopes that for Eris’ sake —well, mostly the people of the Autumn Court’s one who could benefit from not having Beron as ruler— he didn’t have too many skeletons in his closet. ❛ And what better things would you be doing right now if you were not plaguing me, Eris Vanserra? ❜ A simple enough question, that one feels compelled to answer.

She'd rather be anywhere else than in a room with the man whom she’d come to associate with a time where she was but a broken girl desperate for even the slightest chance at freedom. But with Feyre pregnant, Rhysand cannot risk misplacing his allyship and he realized that Azriel’s methods would be of no use to extract anything from the prince, except for his organs that is. And so, he trusts Mor to handle Eris’ case. With her gift. The one she keeps hidden. The one even her parents didn’t know she possessed. Because if they had known, they would’ve never given her up five centuries ago. And Mor had made her decision a long time ago: better die than being wielded as a weapon by her father in his quest to fulfill his dream of claiming back the Night Court’s throne which the Ravenshades once owned. And Rhys knew and he understood. He’d asked her if she’d be willing to read Eris. It hadn’t been an order from her High Lord but a mere request from her cousin. She told him she would do it but hadn’t felt comfortable enough (because he had so much on his mind already) to let him know the process would leave her vulnerable to attack, should the need to scry Eris’ mind arise. Azriel, on the other hand, had seen right through her. Something she loved and hated all at once. Nonetheless, at this moment, she finds comfort —perhaps even courage—  in knowing her friend is somewhere, hiding among the shadows, watching over her like some kind of guardian angel.