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twistedbloodstain · 4 months

Note

I have two ideas for the marquis de framing that I think you’d do great writing!

1: where the reader is interrogating the marquis (meaning she kidnapped him) and through there, they start to get feelings for each other

2: reader (who had a relationship of some sort with the marquis) fakes their death because they couldn’t take the assassin world. The marquis is devastated (lots of angst hehehe). They meet again while the reader is trying to help someone (maybe John, lol)

3: reader who is part of the high table meets the marquis for the first time. Sorta like live at first sight.

vincent de gramont x reader: i could never give you peace | what’s meant to be is supposed to be

plot: the one where he finds you again.

warnings: the reader’s a medic/healer in here SORRYYY…, she knew john from before, he rats her out lolz, kidnapping except vincent doesn’t do it this time..(yay! cuz he forced someone else to do it!!!), anon im so sorry i focused too hard on one part, i will do an extra (i swear)

masterlist

“stay still.” you mumble.

mr. wick lets out a small grunt while you sew his wound back together, nothing too fatal (at least in his standards) but without the help of any anesthesia or alcohol to soothe the pain, the assassin had no choice but to follow.

“don’t worry, it's almost done.” you whisper almost finished with patching up the flesh on his back. “and..there..”

he immediately gets off his seat and reaches for his shirt stationed on a random desk scattered with medical supplies. he digs into his suit jacket and fishes out a coin and hands it over to you, you accept it eagerly and begin cleaning up.

“you need any help with transport?” you inquire while you discard your bloodied gloves and utensils.

“yeah.”

“on your way out turn left and find the guy with a gray jacket. he’s one of winston’s men, he’ll help you out. where are you headed?” you inquire while washing your hands. he hesitantly answers before offering a reply.

“paris.”

“oh.” you stop in your movements and look at him. he stands near the door way all dressed up with blood caking his temples, he still looks rugged and in no shape to do what he has to do in pairs but your opinion likely doesn’t matter to him.

“good luck, i guess.” you mutter.

“you’ve been there.” he says.

“i..have.” you hope he doesn’t press any further.

“what’s in paris?” he questions but doesn’t take a step further.

“for you?” you uneasily say, he doesn’t reply.

“a dangerous man. i..think you’ll die trying just to get what you want, mr. wick. but hey, who knows? maybe, it’s now him.” you explain.

“the guy who had the continental demolished, was it him?” he sternly asks.

“..yes, i think it was him.” you confess, avoiding his eyes.

it had been almost three years since you left that country.

three years since you left him.

you can’t even bear to say his name because if you do, all of it will spill out. how he met you, how kept you and how he loved you.

he nods, “and for you?”

“an even more dangerous man.”

ever since mr. wick entered and left your clinic. you've been in a constant state of anxiety. the mere thought and mention of him had you nervous, especially when you heard that he was in new york a few days ago. you thought it was all over, that he found you and was going to rip you from your freedom in this city.

the following news shocked you to your core, the new york continental being demolished was not in your bingo card as to why he’d be here. all because of an excommunicated assassin which you had tended to almost a day after the bombing.

although you’re horrified with the state of events, relief flooded you when you realized he wasn’t there for you. you’d still be safe from him.

but you can’t help but think what all of this means for him. at some point, you know that john wick will kill him, and you somehow played a part in it. you feel a tinge of regret for him but it’s quickly overshadowed with the horrors he’s done and you don’t feel as bad.

he did like you though, when you still worked at france for him as his estate medic. whenever he found himself wounded in the line of fire in an ambush attack, you were the one who tended to his wounds and saw him at his weakest. you don’t know why but a strong sense of trust was established between the two of you.

you thought it to be a friendship but fleeting glances of affection would seep through when you talked or when a large bouquet of flowers suddenly appeared in your clinic after patching him up.

you toyed with a pin he gave you, his insignia. only he wore it proudly on his coat and truly, it warmed you to him. he did make you feel appreciated, small touches on your back and sometimes fiddling with your hands whenever you sewed his wounds, gave you butterflies in your stomach.

with you he was just…vincent.

soft words and touches with soulful eyes looking into yours, just gentleness and affection present in him. it made you indulge into it too, that he isn’t the cruel man people made him out to be. he isn’t heartless, that’s just how the world is.

a naive perspective.

a perspective that was easily shattered when you’d hear a bloodcurdling scream from the barn, and he walks out with blood on his hands and a disgusted look on his face from his clothes being stained. gunshots echoing beneath the servant’s staircases and thudding bodies being dragged into the secluded forests of the estate. you whisper to yourself those very same words even if all his actions sent chills on your spine.

but the truth of it is that, he is heartless. he is the man people made him out to be and you’re a fool thinking he could be better for you but at the end of the day, he is still the marquis.

it made you think. what if this is all a game to him? what if the moment he finds you uninteresting you become another stain on his suit?

it’s not a secret that men like him love having delicate pretty things only to break them apart. that’s all you are his current delicate and pretty thing.

you decided to leave. you weren’t staying long enough to find out what would happen to you, feelings be damned when you’re easily replacable to him. you knew that the marquis was like a dog to a bone when he didn’t get the things he wanted, which only pooled fears into your stomach should he find you in new york.

he cannot have you.

you stare at the pin before chucking the pin somewhere in the room, you get up from your chair and begin closing the windows from your clinic.

a knock comes from the door, you chuck the remaining medical materials into a random desk and walk up to the door. wounded assassins aren’t a strange occurrence at this time of the evening but something…felt different.

your gut was telling you to ignore the person on the other side and stay still. you thought that maybe if you didn’t answer the person would go away. wanting to play things safe you don’t mutter a word that would alert them of your presence. it usually worked in some cases.

the knocking persists, much harder and louder now. your hands begins to shake and your eyes start looking around for an emergency firearm to help defend yourself, your actions frantically halt when you hear a voice through the door.

“doc?” a gruff voice asks.

you sight and put a hand on your chest. it’s just john wick. you eagerly open the door to let him in.

“john.” you greet, “come inside.” you invite him as you walk inside.

john doesn’t follow you and a confused expression takes your face, until you take a good look at him. for the first time, john wick doesn’t look wounded to you, his face and hands void of any blood, a new bulletproof suit adorning his body, a french one you notice but it still leaves you questioning things.

“i’m assuming france went successful.” you say.

“…it’s close.” he pauses before replying, seeming as if he’s finding the right words to say.

“what do you need?” you question.

“it’s winston. he’s been shot.” you freeze.

oh dear. you never really approved of the things he did but a soft spot was always present for him and charon. they helped you settle here in new york, but winston took you in even when he knew of your history with vincent. you swore to always help him in ways you could and now the opportunity presented itself.

the car sped down the street with you and john in tow. you hold your medical kit close to your lap, feeling uneasy with the thought of losing the old man. charon had been so recent and you don’t think you bear to lose the friends you’ve made along the way.

you glance at john and he looks calm and composed as usual, eerily so. a week earlier he was calm but you could feel his anger and determination simmering underneath his skin. now it looked like he was taking a walk in a park. you eye him carefully, uneasiness seeping in your stomach.

“did they give it to you?” you ask, he looks at you before clearing his throat.

“just an extension.” he answers, knowing exactly what you were referring to.

“to do what?” you ask again, john doesn’t budge and continues driving, ignoring your question. your eyes stay on him but he doesn’t look at you.

silence settles into the car and you lean back in your seat. you really wish your brought your gun with you right now. you don’t know why but you have a feeling that something is wrong right now, especially with john. he’s not telling you something.

or maybe it really is none of your business. perhaps he wanted to spare the bloody details of how he’s going to win his freedom back. you relax and try to forget the uneasiness, trying to remember that winston is the priority right now, you shut your eyes. all of your fears are gathering together and it’s making you overthink your interaction with john, everything’s okay.

the loud sound of drilling makes you open your eyes, you look at the window and you see a familiar street.

the new york continental was being rebuilt.

your apprehensiveness returns.

“john?” you look at him once again, “who shot winston?”

“he got hit during the line of fire.” this time he replies.

bullshit. winston would have an emergency plan before the shooting started.

“in new york?” you press.

“yeah.”

another bullshit. you could see through his lies, he’s clearly fresh out of france. what was he trying to do?

“j-john.” you voice shakes almost as if you’re begging. something happened in france, something that saved both winston and john.

he looks at you with regret in his eyes. not enough to save you for what’s about to come.

“where are you taking me?” you sputter, your heart beating fast in anxiety, “i’ve done nothing but help you, please don’t do this!”

“he took winston with him and he found out.” he quietly defends.

“please help me, i don’t want to go back!” you begin crying, tears rolling down your face, “he’ll kill me!”

he makes no reply and continues driving. with no hope left with him, you try to open your side of the door. he immediately notices this and grabs your arm trying to stop you from leaving, you begin hitting him with your other arm.

you know that he doesn’t want to do this but it feels so unfair. you’ve saved his life only to throw yours away.

“let go of me!” you scream.

“i’m sorry.”

you feel a prick in your neck.

you feel a heavy sensation pulling at your leg, your eyes feeling groggy still wanting to keep your lids closed. however the sensation persists and this forces you to open your eyes and sit up.

a dark room welcomes you, only a small lamp helping you take a small look of where you are. specifically, on a plush bed and a decorated room. your body feels heavy from exhaustion which makes you lean back to the pillow behind you.

pondering what made you feel so tired when you haven’t done much for the night, you’ve sewn back together…a pair of assassins for the night? or was it three? two austrians and…who?a french? no…no..it was winston.

that’s right.

wait.

only you didn’t treat winston.

you bolt up, your body seemingly sobers from the realization.

john brought you here in exchange for his freedom.

you look around to see some sort of presence in the room but with the darkness it was hard to tell, nevertheless you hopped off the bed and bolted to the wooden door nearby. no wonder the place looked familiar, only the marquis would have a place as frivolous as this.

you need to leave right now. your hand reaches for the door until you find your body being slammed on the floor. a groan leaves your throat, in pain you massage your forehead and look around.

oh goodness.

a gasp leaves your mouth when you see a chain wrapped around your ankle, you inspect your foot before tracing the lines of chains, which were sourced on the thick foot of the bed you were on.

you tug it to check its strength and to see how long it actually goes. it was long enough to walk around the room but not long enough to reach the door. this is basically your fully furnished torture chamber.

fuck. fuck. fuck.

a loud creak echoes through the room.

you really hate how things are right now.

he’s going to kill you. kill you for leaving him, how you easily made him look humiliated for being abandoned.

feeling your knees weaken you sit back on the bed and your hands shake in trepidation. the marquis’ simple presence made you scared of him, you felt tears falling down once again and you lowered your head, not wanting to look weak right now.

his footsteps are heard through the room, the door loudly closes shut, a thud echoing. he doesn’t say a word.

you feel everything leave your body. hope,freedom and life mostly.

he walks up to you until you see his shoes on the floor, a blurry sight entering your eyes due to the tears, he touches you, tilting your chin upwards and you do everything not to flinch. was he going to snap your neck?

you look at him and he still looks the same, slightly more mature.

but the same man you met a few years ago, if you jumped back into your rose tinted glasses, you’d probably see the vincent you cherished at some point if you weren’t so frightened right now.

he inspects you, his eyes wandering through your face. searching for something that’s supposed to be there, his lips part almost as if he’s about to say something but you beat him to it.

“i-i’m sorry. i’m sorry.” apologies spill out of your lips, wanting to take the chance of saving yourself, “i-i’m so sorry! i didn’t mean to.” you cry. your hand reaches up to his hand that held your chin and you grip it for mercy, his hold on you weakens.

he doesn’t say anything and leans forward to you. you need him to say something, anything, whether it meant he’d simply say he wants yuu dead.

“please forgive me, just please don’t kil-“ he cuts you off.

with a kiss.

not a firm one but a surprisingly soft kiss on your lips.

he takes your hands into his and fiddles with it, trying to find his place in them just like before, he halts the kiss and leans towards your face. the man right in front of you wasn’t the marquis, it was vincent.

your vincent.

the one with soft eyes looking at you with relief and adoration. the gaze that looked at you as if you were the most precious thing on earth, he wipes the tears on your cheeks and the next thing he says dissolves all sense of worry out of you.

“i could never hurt you.” he whispers.

author’s note: this kinda doesn’t make sense bc im so braindead rn to expand things but basically vincent finds medic!reader through winston and in exchange for the continental and john’s freedom, john brings medic!reader back to vincent. so basically she got ratted out lolz. this would work better if i made a vincent pov would be fun but i have a bunch of prompts to work on…(tempting) + he literally chained her down to him (hshshsh marriage allegory…) i kinda want to be funky dynamic of obsessed man + “ngl what’s wrong with this guy but i vibe with it” woman

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rusmii · 3 months

Text

xoxo...BONDING WITH A MAFIOSO: ms. healer! - n. chuuya

chuuya x healer!reader/self insert (fem.)

[✦🥛]. . . another self-indulgent fic. idk why but I'm in the mood to make more friends... come talk to me if you guys want to (´,,•ω•,,) [pt.2 of xxx...mr. mafia! NOT PROOFREAD]

[syp]. . . when you meet up with chuuya at the coordinates, you're surprised to see that he's alone. what happens next is a moment of weakness and vulnerability between the both of you.

[cws]. . . flirty chu, reader has a weird thought abt chuuya for the entire fic, you guys flirt the whole time idk why, THIS IS FLUFFY GUYS!!!!, flustered chuuya, smoking, teasing chuuya, bickering/banter, nicknames/petnames

You shivered. Doubt began to seep in you, the cold air shriveled atop the thinly layered jacket you wore. You should've brought a thicker jacket. If not, then layer up more to protect yourself from the chilly atmosphere — Secrecy of the Port Mafia began to unshed itself in the depths of moonshine. Thoughtless images of your mangled body bloodied and beaten to the curve under the brash aggression of your recruiter were enough to rack fear into your veins.

You shook those reeked thoughts away. Death by the Japanese mafia is, and will not be on your 2024 bingo.

"What's wrong?" His slightly hoarse voice questions from across you. Shaking your head again, you push the question aside, "It's nothing – just.. cold." Noticing the hesitation in your voice, Chuuya gets up and moves around the room — said place was a dimly lit room, you could barely see anything past the four dark corners that the light didn't gaze upon. It was smaller than a shipping container, much like a small living room space with a kitchen right next to the couches. The bathroom was hidden by old paint, the door knob being the only indicator of its existence.

"Is that so?" Chuuya says from the kitchen area. "Want some hot chocolate? Got plenty stocked for the occasion," he flaps the flimsy packet up and down for you to see. He didn't really need to speak loudly. The silent room being so shrunk gave your guys' ears the benefit of even hearing hushed whispers. "Sure," you shrug your shoulders. Chuuya chuckled, amused by the act of your feigned toughness. "Well then, one hot cocoa coming up for my lovely lady tonight."

You wanted to roll your eyes at his blatant flirting. You knew that he was only doing that to soften up your interior, make it easier to invade through your exterior, slip through the cracks, and unwire all the tangled up complexities that mangled up your person. He wanted to; intended to; desired to break down your so carefully curated towers — but you weren't gonna fall, not with the strong resolution you walked in with today. Especially not when he's expecting you to open the gardens' gates so freely for visitors.

"Relax," Chuuya's voice resonated around the walls. Despite his turned back, it seemed like he could read your face and very thoughts at the moment. " 'M not the type to bite – not that fast, at least." How he could tell you were still wary about him, you didn't know. Guess it was a perfected technique you had to acquire before becoming one of the top dogs in the Port Mafia. "So you still intend on toying with me before you make me one of the PM's bitch?" A snide remark escaped you before you could stop and think about what to say next.

He laughs, "Basically."

Chuuya hums, placing both his drink and yours on a tray, the cups rattling atop the metal. "Jus' kiddin'," he sighs when he sees your face. "Toying with my meals ain't my style – playing with food is Dazai's thing. I'd rather go in for the center of the plate, the best part comes first f'me." His smile never disappeared from his lips. Short and elegant, composed in a way you completely weren't. "So you were lying? And who's Dazai?" One by one. Chuuya's smirks widens as he slowly peels you bit by bit.

"Here ya' go, miss healer," he hands you your drink. "Don't worry 'bout poison, I'm supposed to recruit you not kill you," he reassures your next thought, but ignoring your question. You eye him as he sat down, taking the drink with cusp palms. You didn't know what to believe — there was one hell of a 99.9% chance of him lying to drug and kidnap you — but you wanted to believe in that 0.01% of him attempting to somewhat befriend you.

"Heh - miss healer?"

"What? What's wrong with it?"

You wave him off, "Nothinnn," blowing the top layer of your hot cocoa. "What made you think of miss healer, mister mafia?" A familiar smirk made its way back on his face. "Exactly that, miss healer." Taking a sip of his cup, he crosses a leg around his other one. Had he sat like a lady, you'd tease him, but unfortunately for you, he sat like he was waiting for someone to sit on his lap — the wide open space, his knee pointed to the side rather than upward like how normal cross sitting is, and the arm resting above the couch cushion — god he was tempting.

"Exactly like what sir?" Using his tactics, you were starting to recompose yourself. The same smirk Chuuya uses was the one donning your face at the very moment.

Chuuya doesn't seem to mind it however, the same bland expression showcasing his already high confidence. "An eye for an eye. A nickname - " he flicks his cup, " - for a nickname."

Wanting to reply sarcastically, you bit your tongue – not wanting to anger the calm mafioso.

"Keep blowing your drink, and it's gonna go cold." What Chuuya said made you snap out of your daze, urging you to gulp down a large portion of your drink. Bad idea — "fuck – !" you managed to gurgle out, the hot beverage burning your throat, your tongue feels like it burned off all it's nerves. When you heard Chuuya laugh, you had just about lost your temper with him. "You ?! – you tricked me?!" His chest rumbles, "Hey now! You drinking that shit wasn't my fault! All I did was try to warn you!"

An accusing finger points at you, "Tut, tut – miss healer can't handle hot drinks!"

"Wah – Yes I can!" You shout back, "It's just too hot! That's why I was blowing it for so long!!" You point a finger back at him. "If you hadn't said anything I wouldn't have drunk it so fast!! Besides! It's hot chocolate, you're supposed to wait for it to cool down if you want to drink it comfortably!"

"Oh really? Cause all I hear are – wait, what's that word..? Excuses!"

"Urgh! You have no point in trying to make fun of me! You barely even took a sip of yours!"

Stopping himself from arguing back, Chuuya takes a look at his brimmed filled cup and exhaled a deep breath of air before pushing the cup to his lips. What came next was a shock to you; of pure utter stupidity. Chuuya chugs down his beverage, some of it leaking down the side of his mouth. His adams apple bobbed with every quick gulp he took — "Dunno' whatcha talkin' 'bout," he swallowed the remaining liquid in his mouth and showed you his now empty cup.

"You..." Feeling speechless. Horribly confused. And just overall weirded out by this weird action, you placed your cup back down on the coffee table. "Actually never mind, I don't know what to say to that," you gave in, the perpetual defeat that Chuuya had paved out was inevitable.

"Don't weep now. We still have business to talk about." Quick and cut to the chase, the mood sours just as the lights dim impossibly so.

Keeping to yourself, you wait. The cigarette that the mafioso had pulled out to light was starting to burn; smell invading your senses. Covering your scrunched nose with your hand, you start fanning the contaminated fumes away from your air space. "Don't like the smell of cigs?" Chuuya puffs out, a fog of white smoke evaporating towards you. "Is it not obvious?" You cough, a glare wrenching it's away out.

"Oh," was all he said before putting out the cigarette and throwing it aside. "That better?" He asks again, wanting to ease you back into the mood before he makes any more advances. "Better," you confirm, still swatting fumes away from your face. Pulling out a lollipop from your bag, you handed it over to Chuuya. "Here, take this." Chuuya takes the candy before unwrapping it. "What flavor?"

"Dum dums show the flavor dumdum – look at the wrapper." He clicks his tongue in annoyance by your relentless back talk, but he didn't let it bother him for the most part. "Blue berry raspberry?"

"Yeah. Thought you'd like it."

"Hm? Why?"

You shrugged your shoulders, "Blue, like your eyes." Chuuya had to pause for a moment when you said that. His eyes slightly widening — his slightly pale complexion now brushed over with a light pinkish red — his composure faltering for just a split second, not even giving you time to witness what you had just done to him.

"Oh – uh, thanks. I guess..." Quickly revaluating himself, the slight loop in his expression fixed itself — making you miss your chance at teasing. "No problem!" Humming for his pleasure, you did take great delight in feeling appreciated. "Yeah, um," he fakes a cough to get you guys' back on track, "Tis' good. Thanks for the lolli." You can see the roll of the candy inside his mouth, his tongue moving around to savor the oncoming flavor. You hum again, a happy look washed over your face.

Chuuya sighs. You two were getting sidetracked — but for some reason, when he glances at your innocent, happy, so, so genuine expression, much unlike his, he feels the need to drag this meeting out for a bit longer. A little bit longer to talk with you as a civil person before he has to force an ultimatum.

belongs to @churuai DONT STEAL >:(((

taglist (free to join!): @luvan1 @bfdazai @asqmi @squigglewigglewoo @liviash @doonifox @ishqani

teeheeteeheetehheee hope u guys enjoyed! comments and reblogs appreciated <3<3

#[˚₊‧꒰ა🩰] — runi #FINALLY DONE WITH THIS...#might make a mr. mafia pt3 muahahaha #chuuya x reader #chuya x reader #chuuya x you #chuuya x y/n #bsd x reader

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tennessoui · 4 days

Note

18) waking up with amnesia au pretty please! I was delighted with how many of the prompts you've already done, it was a really fun bingo!

Best friends sibling = band au

knocking on the wrong door = actually name of the fic

Nanny/single parent au = Nannykin

Etc etc etc!

hello hello this was sent january 10!! hope you still want some waking up with amnesia au! this just demonstrates how long i can hold onto a prompt i have every intention of completing

(from this prompt list) (& this is the waking up with amnesia au prompt fill i did a few years ago when i first reblogged that prompt list!)

(3.5k)

(warnings: angst but not incredibly sad. more like. here there lies some future manipulation/mind fuckery because of angst established in this ficlet but not resolved in this ficlet but would be in the future)

(also warning: vader)

It is somehow both the hardest and easiest part of the day, every time.

It is easy to let his feet turn in the direction they beg to go during all his waking seconds. It is easy to allow them to lead the way. It feels as if a great and crushing weight has been lifted from his shoulders the moment that he sees the pillars standing sentry at the entrance of the Halls of Healing. It is so easy to give into his body’s desire to allow it to find its other half.

It is almost harder to stay away, to pretend to be the respectful and poised Jedi master he masquerades as during those long moments of the day that he is not by Anakin’s side.

But what is infinitely harder than journeying there or keeping his distance is arriving. Is what waits for him within the Halls.

“How is he today?” he asks the moment he sees a healer—it does not matter which one these days. They must all know him by now, know the series of questions he demands answers to.

This time, the man he finds is healer Ramak, at least, one of the primary specialists on Anakin’s case. Rarely can Obi-Wan corner him. Ramak is incredibly busy both within the Temple and outside of it. He has numerous priorities.

Obi-Wan really only has one priority. Often this puts them at odds.

“Ah,” Ramak says, adjusting his robes. “Master Kenobi, hello.”

“Yes, hello,” Obi-Wan says. And then, “How is he today?” In case Ramak has missed his question.

“He is much the same, Master Kenobi,” Ramak replies. “As he was yesterday.”

Obi-Wan swallows. The words get stuck in his throat for a moment and he has to force them up past his teeth. “What does…what has he remembered?”

Healer Ramak’s face slides from reluctantly indulgent to pitying. It would grate against Obi-Wan’s rather impressive sense of pride if he did not already know exactly how pitiful he is.

“Memories are not stored within the mind chronologically, Master Kenobi,” Ramak says carefully. Obi-Wan has heard this before. Obi-Wan could recite this speech.

Obi-Wan listens to it silently anyway. Perhaps this time, Ramak will find the correct combination of words to explain his loss to him in terms he can understand. “Uncovering them again is not simply a matter of starting from the beginning of his life and moving forwards. We cannot simply recover and present him with all of his memories from age nine, from age thirteen, to now.”

Obi-Wan can feel a muscle tick in his jaw and he crosses his arms. Another healer crosses behind him, jostles him in their hurry to get to another patient. Differing priorities.

But Obi-Wan only has one.

“It is like…” Ramak trails off, thinking. “Picture the rain. What do you think of?” It is much too transparent, what Obi-Wan thinks of when he thinks of the rain. He thinks of Anakin as a youngling. The ashes of Qui-Gon’s body had not fully cooled before the skies of Naboo had broken open in a torrential downpour, and the boy, padawan braid that was both his and Obi-Wan’s newly weighing on his shoulder, had escaped from the palace in Theed, ran outside with arms raised up in wonder.

“When you think of rain, you do not recall your memories chronologically,” Ramak says kindly, as if he understands where Obi-Wan’s mind has gone. “That is to say, you do not immediately think of the first time you experienced it. Our minds store memories based on their significance to us, the meanings they hold for us, which makes mind-healing to this degree incredibly difficult. Not to mention, not only was Knight Skywalker stripped of his memories, tortured, and indoctrinated, he was held for several months. Long enough for new neural pathways to form, new connotations and memories to take the place of the ones he lost.”

“Master, please,” Obi-Wan says. When he holds up his hand to forestall the other man’s words, it is shaking slightly. “Please just tell me.”

Will he recognize me?

Will he hate me?

Will another day go by where he does not know me?

“He has a long way to go yet,” Ramak says finally, lifting his hand to stroke over his beard. “His time as Vader left scars—”

“His time captured,” Obi-Wan interrupts. “He was a hostage.” Ramak looks at him. Anakin, kidnapped by the sith, without his memories, trained to be deadly and taught to Fall, was more than a hostage. They both know that. Everyone in the galaxy knows the dangers that Darth Vader represented to the Republic.

Very few know that Darth Vader was Anakin Skywalker. It had been a terrible surprise. It had been the sweetest sort of relief too, to find him at all.

“Yes,” Ramak finally allows. “His time as a hostage left innumerable scars, Obi-Wan. Even after he regains all his memories, he will have a long journey ahead of him.”

“How is he?” Obi-Wan repeats, even though it is rather rude to cut the healer off. “How is he today?”

Ramak hesitates for a moment and then another, and his Force signature tenses as if at war with itself. “He requested to see you,” he finally says. “We’re not sure that’s a good idea.”

Obi-Wan’s breath catches in his throat. The Jedi saved Anakin Skywalker from the Sith five weeks ago, and though Obi-Wan has spent each of those days trekking from his quarters to the Halls of Healing and back, accousting various healers and Council members alike, desperate for any information they can give him…he has not yet been able to sit beside Anakin. He has not been allowed to talk with him at all.

It is for the best. That is what he’s been told and that is what he must believe. It is for the best. Anakin does not remember him. He remembers the word master—he does not remember that he used to say the same word with respect. With affection. He does not remember Obi-Wan at all.

He remembers his master, Sidious. He remembers his master on Tatooine. He does not—Obi-Wan doesn’t understand why he cannot remember him.

Anakin has never once asked to see him.

“I want to see him,” Obi-Wan says immediately, turning towards the wing where they are keeping Anakin.

“Master Kenobi, it is not a good idea,” Ramak says, but it does not matter what they think is a good idea. It is what Anakin wants and it has been so long since Obi-Wan has been something Anakin wants.

Something of what he’s feeling must flash across his face, because the healer sighs and rubs at his forehead as if he finds the whole ordeal incredibly trying.

“I will not hurt him,” Obi-Wan says quickly, and Ramak shakes his head, dropping his arms to his sides.

“That is not the concern, Master,” he replies, but his shoulders have slumped. His forehead is wrinkled, but his Force signature has relaxed. He has given in. Obi-Wan has won. “I—”

But Obi-Wan has won. And so he has already stepped away, intent now on seeing his padawan. He leaves the healer behind where he stands, pushing through the doors of the wing and finally—finally to Anakin’s room.

He’d been so volatile at first, when he was still Vader. The Jedi rescuing him probably felt more like being captured. Without his memories of the Order, of the Temple, of Obi-Wan, he’d Fallen so quickly as far as anyone knows. Sidious had taken him and twisted him and when he was found again, he’d fully believed in the Sith doctrine. He’d killed two Jedi before he was subdued.

So when he’d been brought into the Temple, into the Halls of Healing, they’d outfitted him with Force suppression cuffs. Given him his own room in order to protect the other patients.

Obi-Wan knows he still wears the Force bracelets and collar, but there’s knowing and then there’s seeing.

The seeing part takes his breath away. It looks so wrong, Anakin, his Anakin, wearing the cuffs and the collar.

Anakin, his Anakin, with yellow eyes watching him intently from the moment he enters the room.

“Anakin,” he murmurs, a reflex. The sounds are punched out of him.

He is thinner. His hair is greasy. There are dark shadows under his eyes. The skin around the collar is red, rubbed raw. He looks a thousand times older. Guant and hollowed out as if the captivity and the Darkness has leached away all of his youthful energy.

“Master,” Anakin says reproachfully. And it sounds—it sounds so much like him, like Obi-Wan’s Anakin, that he has the rather ridiculous urge to cry. Master, master.

“How are you feeling?” Obi-Wan asks, though it is a useless sort of question. He isn’t sure what to do with his hands. What to do with his tongue. He suddenly cannot remember the last time he asked Anakin how he was feeling. It was never a phrase that was part of their lexicon—for so many years, they shared a training bond. Obi-Wan was able to ascertain his padawan’s emotions with a gentle Force touch across the planes of his mind. More often than not, he was telling Anakin to search his own feelings. He was not asking him to interpret them for Obi-Wan’s sake.

Now though, their bond is severed and Anakin does not recognize him as anything more than another Jedi, another man who he once called master, and Obi-Wan stands across the room from him and does not recognize him either, save for all the ways that he does.

“Surely they have been giving you updates,” Anakin murmurs. “I know you have visited every day.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says because he will not lie to Anakin. He doesn’t think he remembers how. It has been—so long. Since he has last seen him. It is all he can do to stay standing now. To keep a respectable distance between them. To not fall to his knees. To not stumble forward and take Anakin’s hand in his own.

“What have they told you?” Anakin asks, and he tilts his head slightly. His golden eyes are as disconcerting as they are beautiful. They’re his. They’re his eyes, set in his face, and Obi-Wan has missed that face for so long. For months. He’d thought he’d never see it again, and he is just now realizing that he has no defenses left against Anakin. None at all. The boy could ask him for anything and he would fight to the death to give it to him.

The Force is in flux in the air around them, bucking up, riled, in a way Obi-Wan usually interprets as danger. But the Force could be screaming a death knell and Obi-Wan, in this moment, would only be able to hear a sweet cry of wild joy.

Anakin, this is Anakin. This is his Anakin and he is here. Back—partially. Back, incompletely. But back. Obi-Wan…he’d stopped hoping he’d ever get him back.

Instead of answering his question, he presses the backs of his fingers against his mouth to try and stop their shaking. Every day he has walked here, accosted the healers, demanded to know the latest. And he has never once realized how incredibly difficult it would be to lay eyes on Anakin. How incredibly difficult it would be to maintain his composure, to hold himself in.

Anakin’s eyes glow gold, but Obi-Wan’s eyes are that of a starving man. All he can see is honey.

“Come here, master,” Anakin says, reproachful. “Did you not miss me?”

The words move him forward where his own feet could not. “Of course I did, Anakin,” Obi-Wan whispers. Hoarse, too hoarse. Too trembling and old, but it has been so many months. He had thought him lost forever. Dead and gone and one with the Force, and for the first time in his life, that had given him no comfort.

Anakin holds out his mechno hand, palm up, fingers slightly crooked. He’d built them that way on purpose, Obi-Wan remembers. At fourteen, he’d broken his index and middle finger in a duel, bones shattering under the blow of another padawan’s sabor. A lucky hit, an unlucky outcome. Though they’d healed near perfect due to bacta, they’d always remained slightly bent out of place. When he lost his arm to Dooku five years later, he’d fiddled with the replacement until the mech digits tilted the same familiar direction.

Obi-Wan stares at them, caught up in the tide of the memory.

Had Vader ever looked down at his mechno hand and wondered about the imperfection? Had he thought to fix it once he had the time? Had he spared a thought for the black spots in his memory, the cavernous gaps in his past?

His fingers fall to rest against the sensors of the mech tips. They’re sensitive enough that he can see Anakin shiver at the touch.

“Did you not miss me, master?” Anakin asks again, and his hand closes around Obi-Wan’s tightly, pulling him forward another few steps.

Obi-Wan nods, then shakes his head. Yes, he missed him. No, missing—missing is not a vast enough word.

“You asked for me,” he hears himself say. “Do you—what do you….”

Do you remember me?

You must. You call me master. And you want me close.

But they pulled the memories of the word master from your mind days ago, and you hated me then. You did not want me near you. What has changed? What have you remembered?

“I wonder if they would treat any patient like this,” Anakin says. He uses his hold on Obi-Wan to pull him even closer, til his thighs brush the edge of the bed. “If it is the war that makes me special, if it’s my own power. Or if it’s you.”

Obi-Wan tenses. Him? He doesn’t—

“They’ve tried everything they can think of to trigger my memories of you, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Anakin says. When Obi-Wan tries to move back, take a step away, find the air in the room to breathe, Anakin tightens his hold and pulls him forward until the only option is to either topple over onto his padawan’s chest or sit on the bed at his hip.

He sits.

“They debated for many days, you know,” Anakin says. His mech thumb begins to sweep over the inside of Obi-Wan’s wrist. “If they should trigger the connections my mind has made to the word master. It’s a weighted word for Anakin Skywalker. Surely you know that.”

“I do,” Obi-Wan says carefully. When he tries to breathe, he can only do so shallowly as if his entire chest has shrunk to half its capacity.

“He was enslaved before he was a padawan,” Anakin explains as though Obi-Wan has not spoken at all. Maybe he hasn’t. For the past several months he has not been able to speak to Anakin aloud, could only talk with him in his mind—could never hear a reply. Perhaps he has forgotten how. “They were worried that after ten years studying under you, after two years fighting side by side with you, my strongest connotations to the word master would still be to slavery.”

Anakin ducks his head slightly, tilts it to the side to give Obi-Wan a small, private grin, as if the healers’ concerns are so unfounded that they are amusing. As if the concept that something could outweigh Obi-Wan’s importance to Anakin is so foreign and preposterous that it’s funny.

His smile knocks into Obi-Wan’s chest like a punch to the solar plexus.

“But they decided to risk it,” Anakin says. His voice is light as a feather. Airy and unconcerned. “Perhaps they should have started with smaller things. A light saber. A braid. A pear. A planet. But they wanted to re-establish my firmest conneciton to the Light as quickly as possible. And they thought that was you.”

Obi-Wan holds his breath, eyes leaping from their connected hands to the yellow of Anakin’s eyes. He has still fallen. He has not been healed. He is still—he is still—

“So they gave me back my masters,” Anakin pitches his voice low. “All of them, though I suppose I remember Sidious well enough. But they gave me back the Toydarian. And they gave me you.”

“They said you did not want to see me,” Obi-Wan whispers. “Why, Anakin, if you remember, why would you—”

“Because I hate you,” his padawan says as if it’s the easiest thing in the galaxy. “Because they could give me back Master Kenobi, but wherever Anakin Skywalker kept his love for you, it was not in your title. He hated your title.”

Obi-Wan flinches back so violently that his forearm slips from Anakin’s grasp. Before he can move from the bed completely though, his padawan’s hand lashes out and curls around the fabric of his tunics.

“No,” Obi-Wan says because he must deny this—he cannot stand to hear it and not deny it. No, Anakin—there was love there, in the way he pronounced the word master. The way he looked at Obi-Wan: admiration shining in his eyes when he was younger, cooling off over the years into acceptance and affection. They had their arguments. They had their—misunderstandings, but Anakin did not resent him for his role in his life as his old teacher. His master. “You’re wrong.”

“He hated it more than he hated his actual slave master,” Anakin murmurs. Lightly, airily. As if his words are not landing devastating blows on all of Obi-Wan’s softest spots. “Do you know why?” “I don’t believe you,” Obi-Wan whispers because he doesn’t because he can’t. Because he’d have known. Because this is Anakin, this is his Anakin, but there are still cavernous dark spots and gaps in his mind. This is not entirely his Anakin. He is still missing things. Thousands upon thousands of memories and moments and learned contexts and—

“I think you know why,” Anakin says as if he has not spoken. Funny, as Obi-Wan had thought he was screaming.

“I assure you I do not,” he snaps, spitting the words out as quickly as he can so that his voice cannot break between the syllables.

“Because Anakin Skywalker believed til the day he died that if you had not been his master, you would have allowed him to kiss you. To take you. To be taken by you. Don’t you remember, Master Kenobi?” Obi-Wan tears himself away from the bed, from the boy in it. Just a boy. Not a man. Not when he was seventeen and drunk for the first time, slinging his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck and pressing his face into his chest, whining and begging and pleading—and not when he was eighteen either, bold and staring at Obi-Wan's lips, not when he was nineteen, on the verge of his Knighting ceremony and demanding to be given into.

Just a boy, just his boy. But never—never anything else.

“Like I said,” Anakin but not Anakin murmurs. Anakin, but Vader too. “Wherever Anakin Skywalker kept his love for you, they have not yet been able to find it in my mind. I can only assume he loved you at all.”

Obi-Wan flicks his eyes over the familiar face, the beloved face. The stranger’s face. If it were anyone else sitting before him, he’d have a retort already on his tongue. He’d have raised his shields, gone on the offensive. There are few people left in the galaxy that can land a blow on him, and many have tried.

But this is not anyone. This is Anakin. This is his Anakin and this is something for which he has no defenses prepared.

“How ashamed did you make him feel for loving you, master?” Vader asks, tilting his head in cruel curiosity. “That he compressed all of it into something so small that a whole Temple of healers have been unable to find it?”

“Don’t call me that,” Obi-Wan snaps and this time he does not get the words off his tongue quick enough. His voice breaks in the middle of the demand, ribs cracking and parting to reveal the heart of him. “Not if—” not if you do not know what it means for him. For me. For us.

“Why not?” Vader says, and he raises his flesh hand to tuck a piece of greasy hair behind his head before allowing his fingers to fall to rest against his collarbone, ghosting against the Force suppression collar around his neck as if it’s a diamond encrusted necklace. “After all, am I not wearing your chains, master?”

#asks #prompt fill #obikin #vaderwan #so you know vader's number one priority is going to be to manipulate obi-wan into freeing him #because he can probably remember a little bit of anakin's love for obi-wan #it's not as gone as he says #but he also probably remembers the obsession with his master first #and that's tinted even darker by being a sith now #so within the next few weeks his priorities shift from torturing obi-wan for sport #to wanting him to free him so that he can kidnap him and keep him #and get away from the temple and all the memories the jedi are trying to give back to him #he doesn't want those #he wants obi-wan kenobi #hate and love and all

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cassiaratheslytherpuff · 2 months

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james lives AU prongsfoot bingo pls? 🥺❤

Thank you for asking! This is one I've been working on recently and hope to finish at some point🤞

It's about what might happen if, instead of dying, when Voldemort came that Halloween, James was temporarily separated from his body and just had to watch what happened without being able to interact or do anything. (Which is probably not good, I think it was supposed to be a fluffy prompt and I made it super-angsty)

November 7th 1982 The Janus Thickey Ward is always quieter than James feels it should be. They moved him here after two months on Spell Damage, and he’s still not used to it after almost a year. He sits on the bed where his body rests and tries to figure out how long he’s been gone this time. It’s happening more often now – and for longer each time. He blacks out, loses time, and wakes up beside his body. It's the only time he comes back to the hospital. The rest of the time he spends with Harry or Sirius, though every moment breaks his heart a little more. When he manages to get back in his body, he’s going to murder everyone responsible for him having to know how long it took Harry to realise no-one was going to come when he cried, to curse them with the pain he felt when he watched his son quiet his own sobs and curl up on himself. James hasn’t heard him cry since, and it breaks his heart with every passing day. He’s going to make them scream for the way he felt watching Sirius turn into Padfoot to howl with grief, because his human voice was too ruined by screaming. He’s going to make them scream for how James sobbed when he realised Sirius wasn’t coming back. He’d been the dog for six months now, and James desperately misses the sound of his voice. Misses how he used to talk to James and Harry to keep sane in his cell. Because James did hear, even though Sirius thought he didn't. James goes to stand from the bed, and for the first time in a year he feels resistance as he does. He looks down at his own face and has to let himself hope. Because that’s the way his existence goes. He watches the people he loves suffer, he mourns Lily, and he forces himself to hope. Forces himself to keep trying, because if he gives up – he can’t give up. So, he has to bear the disappointment when it doesn’t work. He lies down in bed, letting his form line up perfectly with his body. He makes himself focus, matches his breathing with that of his body’s. Tries to feel the sheets under his body, or imagine an itch on his nose. A tiredness beyond words washes over him and he lets it, lets it pull him down until he knows he’ll pass out again if he lets it pull him deeper. And then he strains. He forces his eyes open, forces his chest to draw breath. The tiredness doesn’t abate, and he sighs. He wills himself to Harry’s side, but he stays put. Confused, he sit’s up, fighting the exhaustion. But something is different. He can feel the bed as he braces against it to sit. He hurts. Because his body hurts. And when he looks down at the bed, nothing’s there. An alarm goes off, and in seconds the Healer that checks in on him most days comes rushing through the doors. “Mr. Potter,” he says, eyes wide. “You’re awake.”

#prongsfoot #ask #angst #cw: child abuse #cassiwrites #wip game

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isa-beenme · 9 months

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Hi! For bingo: nightmare with Helion, fluff

Ladies and gentlemen, here I state: I am a monster

Yes, you asked me fluff, I did it, but with A MAJOR ANGST

IM SO SORRY 😭😭😭😭😭 if you want me to do it again without the triggers ask please, I just got carried away with this

For some ideia: this one has trigger warning, oh yeah, we are THAT bad

It's a bit shorter than the other ones too, but meh that's all I can get sorry

I think I'm still deep into the pregnancy trope, apologies

Trigger warning: miscarriage, nightmare, self hate thoughts, Helion being supportive king (it's not a trigger tho)

Baby Mine

You remember the scene perfectly. You heard the motion in the room, smelled the blood, and saw the red covering a good part of the sheets. You heard Helion's scream for help, saw the healers entering the room, and then everything felt empty, you even distinguished Lucien's face in the middle of the fuss. Helion was silently crying at the side of the bed, holding your hand and praying. For you, you realized.

But you were numb.

You didn't feel pain, you actually felt cold. You remember asking for someone to close the windows. But they were closed, weren't they? Day Court was supposed to be hot at that time of the year.

You felt wetness, but where was it coming from? Was it raining outside? No, it wasn't the rainy season. What was happening? Why did you feel so numb, so sad, so empty?

It took you more than a week to get rid of the fever, the infection almost killed that time. It hasn't killed you, but it definitely killed a part of you. Every part of that day and of all the ones that followed was a mess inside of your mind. When you first woke up and finally realized what happened you refused to sleep for five days in a row. You knew the nightmares were going to follow you everywhere you went. When Helion cried so much one day and begged you to sleep you knew what was coming for you that night.

Blood, screams, wetness, cold, cries, prayers, emptiness.

The same process happened over and over again for the next year, each time less and less. Somehow you felt like you needed those nightmares, it was a reminder that you indeed had a pregnancy, you had a child. It didn't matter if the baby came out too soon. It was yours, it was your baby.

Sometimes you just want to forget. Want to forgive yourself for not being enough to hold the baby inside your belly. Want to forget the pain it felt afterward. Want to forget Helion's sorrows and Lucien's pained face when he realized what had happened.

Sometimes you think you deserved it.

Sometimes you think no one deserves this pain.

It stopped after some time, months of talking with your mate until you could finally find peace of mind and keep going with your life. You both made a little grave for the unborn baby. It didn't have a name yet, or a face, or anything at all, being out too early in the pregnancy. And yet, you loved it with everything part of your being. It had been ripped out of you.

But now it was back, you could feel Helion shaking you softly to wake you up. But you didn't want to, you wanted to see it, see your baby, apologize once again.

Blood, screams, wetness, cold, cries, prayers, emptiness.

You hold onto those memories with your dear life, you wanted to see its face. But did it have a face? The healers said it didn’t, being so young that nothing was formed yet. But sometimes you like to imagine, its skin, eyes, and voice. Anything.

Blood, screams, wetness, cold, cries, prayers, emptiness.

Suddenly it stopped and everything was gone. You felt the sweat on your skin, felt the chill air of the opened windows, saw the different walls, felt the different beds, and realized how full you were. You feel full.

You got up abruptly, feeling the gentle shaking of Helion's hand on your shoulder and the worry that flew through the bond. As your senses gradually returned, you realized the nightmare had dissolved into the cool reality of your bedroom. Beads of sweat adorned your skin, a stark contrast to the chill air that crept in through the windows.

- Babe, are you okay? - Helion's voice sounded on your side, his face calm and serene, but his eyes holding the worry and pain you know he also feels.

- I'm fine. I'm fine now - You don't know if it's true or if you are just trying to calm yourself down. But it works. It might also be Helion's hand traveling up and down on your back, warm and soft as always, pushing away the cold, filling you with heat.

- The same nightmare? - He grabbed your waist and pulled you to him, holding you for dear life.

- Yes. It's back. But I'm fine - You reassured him again, your voice quivering slightly - I'll be fine now - You hoped the words would turn into truth to the both of you, even if you weren't entirely convinced yourself.

- Do you want to talk about it? - He inquired softly, his voice laced with tenderness and concern. He pulled you closer, his arms encircling your waist, creating a cocoon of safety and warmth that only he could provide to you.

- Yes, please - You nodded, a shiver coursing through your body when the memories threatened to pass by - I'm scared - You admitted, your voice barely a whisper.

- It was just a nightmare, you are healthy and safe - Helion pressed his lips against your forehead, his touch as gentle as a feather - I'm here, my love. I'll always be here. We'll be together as I promised you, I won't leave your side ever again, we'll face whatever comes our way.

Tears welled up in your eyes, emotions threatening to spill over. The weight of your shared grief and your unspoken fears were heavy, but in Helion's embrace, you found solace. His unwavering support had become a beacon of hope in the darkest of times. The warmth of Helion's touch, his unwavering presence, helped anchor you in the present moment.

Amidst the fragile vulnerability that lingered in the room, you found the strength to share your deepest apprehension. The truth lingers in your tongue along with the fear of finally pronouncing the words that you kept to yourself for such a long time.

- Helion, I... I'm pregnant again - You confessed, your voice trembling with uncertainty, the tears ready to roll down your face at any moment - But I'm so scared. I'm afraid that I can't hold the baby like last time. I don't want to lose another one.

His eyes widened with a mixture of surprise, joy, and concern. As much as he didn't want to show it, you could still see the spark that ascended in his eyes when he heard the news. Helion's grip tightened around you, his voice filled with raw emotion

- My love, whatever decision you make, I will stand by you. We can face this together, but please know that I'll let you decide. If you think you can't go through this then you don't need to, but you are strong, stronger than you give yourself credit for. You are capable of holding life within you, of raising it with your love and tenderness - He caressed your face while saying every word, not looking away from your eyes while saying it - The last time you caught a disease, it wasn't your fault and it would never be. You did everything right, it just wasn't meant to be. You decide now.

His words pierced through your fears, cutting through the darkness that clouded your mind. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you clung to him, overwhelmed by a surge of love and gratitude. Helion's own tears mingled with yours, cascading down his face as he approached you.

- I want it so bad. I want to be a mom. I want to give you a child for you to hold. I want to give Lucien a sibling - You proceed every word with hope and love, snuggling closer to your mate as you imagined your future with him and a new child - I'm ready to try again if you stay with me.

- I will. You will probably have to ask Lucien to take me away from you when I stick to you from now on for every second of the day - You laugh as he proves himself right by squeezing you in a tight hug, pecking your face and neck numerous times - I can't wait to be a daddy with you, to create a life together that will be a testament to our love.

Through tear-streaked smiles, you both decided to keep this precious secret to yourselves until you were certain the baby would make it to the end. The road ahead was uncertain, but with Helion by your side, your heart was filled with renewed hope and the conviction that you were not alone.

In the tender embrace of your mate, you allowed yourself to bask in the sweetness, love, and softness that enveloped your being. Feeling more confident than ever for the path you were about to follow. The journey of healing and new beginnings had just begun, but with each passing moment, you grew stronger, especially together. And in the depths of your love, you found the courage to believe in the miracles that awaited you.

#spotify #acotar #helion acotar #helion x reader #high lord helion

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sectumsempress1 · 7 months

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Good Omens Season 3: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Sectumsempress1, Hag

I am once again going through my Good Omens season 3 predictions bingo and explaining why I think the things I think. Today I want to talk about Metatron's memory meddling, or more specifically why I think Aziraphale is the Archangel Raphael and why I don't think he remembers.

Once again, I know I cannot be the first person to think of this theory. I'm just adding my two cents. Here we go.

I know there is a fairly popular theory that Crowley was Raphael before the fall, but putting aside the fact that it simply wouldn’t work for television to give them a name that similar to Aziraphale, I just disagree with that assessment. I like to think that Crowley was Jophiel before they fell and Aziraphale’s original name was Raphael.

I think we can answer this theory very quickly by noting that in The Book of Tobit, Raphael disguises himself as a human on earth, acting as a healer and guardian under the name Azariah. I honestly just think that Neil and Terry took the name Raphael and his human name Azariah and landed on Aziraphale.

Furthermore, Raphael (“God has healed”) is literally the archangel of healing. He is also known as the angel of protection and keeping people safe on their journeys. God gives Raphael a mission in The Book of Enoch, verse 10:10 to:

“Restore the earth, which the [fallen] angels have corrupted; and announce life to it, that I may revive it.”

Aka ‘thwarting evil wiles.’ In The Zohar it’s also stated in Genesis chapter 23 that he:

“is appointed to heal the earth of its evil and affliction and the maladies of mankind.”

If I were to go over every single instance of Aziraphale fitting the bill for these descriptions I would be here all day, but some I can think of off the top of my head are:

Giving Adam and Eve the flaming sword to assist them on their journey

Healing Anathema’s broken arm and bike

“Actually, I encourage humans to do the actual- [thwarting of evil wiles]”

Fixing that man’s phone in the graveyard in Scotland

Insisting that he wants to heal wee Morag

Protecting ‘Jim’

This stunning scene in the Job memory:

He is very clearly shown as a healer, protector and guardian of humanity, more so than any other character.

Raphael is also known as a matchmaker, which is funny when you think about the Nina and Maggie situation but also makes total sense. Aziraphale loves love. Also he blows the trumpet to announce the Day of Judgement, aka the second coming. I guess Metatron needs Raphael back now huh? He even told Aziraphale himself that he is the only one qualified for this job. Aziraphale is Raphael.

Or… he was.

I believe that Raphael was demoted following the fall, and Gabriel’s story is meant to mirror his. This scene says SO much:

“You have refused to exercise your celestial authority, and are henceforth removed from office”

I think something similar absolutely could have happened to Raphael. We all saw how immediately drawn Aziraphale was to Crowley in ‘before the beginning,’ and it makes sense that Metatron could have seen that connection as a liability when he fell. He cannot have an Archangel in Heaven who is sympathetic to one of the fallen, it would be a ticking time bomb for another revolution. Aziraphale being sympathetic towards Angel!Crowley before and during the fall would make him question the fall as a concept, and Heaven could not afford that.

“For one Prince of Heaven to be cast into the outer darkness makes a good story, for it to happen twice makes it look like there is some kind of institutional problem.”

I think the first prince of Heaven Metatron is referencing to is Crowley, and I think he had this same mindset of making sure there was no perceived institutional problem during the time of the fall. So I think that is one of the reasons why Raphael wasn’t cast down; it would look bad. I think the other reason is; Metatron wanted him and Crowley separated, even then. Even then there was some glimmer of their potential combined power, the love and danger that could be born by having them both in the same place with neither of them on Heaven’s side. The most logical option would be to cast Crowley out and make Aziraphale think he deserved it. Because Metatron is smart. He knew that keeping an angel like Crowley in Heaven—an angel who unapologetically asked questions and wasn’t afraid to go against the status quo, even before he fell—could only end badly. The smart move was to keep an angel like Aziraphale on—an angel who wants to believe, who needs to believe, that heaven is fundamentally right and good—and feed into his faith by manipulating his fear.

(Editing to add- it’s presented as an either or. We will not send you to hell, we will wipe your memory and demote you. We will do A or B. This is why I think Gabriel’s story mirrors Aziraphale’s more than Crowley’s, because being cast down to hell and having your memory wiped was never on the table here. It’s either or.)

“Although as a kindness, your memory of your time as Gabriel will be erased. You will be demoted.”

“As a kindness, your memory of your time as Raphael will be erased. You won’t remember the Starmaker, you won’t remember the fall, you won’t remember the injustice. All you will remember is the war, the divine plan, God’s will and your undying faith to carry out that will. You will remember what not doing so costs, but you will never remember why. All you’ll remember is that you had better not ask, because look where that got the others. Oh, and you will be demoted to earth. You will not remember the incredible power you wield as an Archangel. Because if you hand power like that to someone with a powder keg of repressed questions it may spark an explosion, and we cannot afford that. Not again, Aziraphale.”

Now I want to talk about two specific scenes that relate heavily to this theory.

Before The Beginning

I think this memory has been altered, and there are two ways of looking at it.

Aziraphale remembers it just as shown on screen.

But in Eden he genuinely seems as though he is meeting Crowley for the first time, and then when he introduces himself as ‘Crawley,’ Aziraphale consistently messes up and calls him that even after he changes it to Crowley. So I can deduce from that that if Aziraphale had known Crowley by another name for millennia before Eden he would very much struggle with remembering to call him Crawley to begin with. The fact that he doesn’t struggle at all makes me think that it truly is his first time learning this person's name, his first time meeting them.

Aziraphale does not remember this moment, it’s only shown to the audience for a season 3 payoff.

But during the confession, Aziraphale says “like the old times, only even nicer.” re: Crowley becoming an angel again, which implies that Aziraphale remembers ‘the old times’ with him. He also says “I know the angel you were” during the Job scene.

We are at a bit of a dead end here… or are we? A possible solution is that Aziraphale does remember ‘before the beginning,’ but that memory has been altered to remove Crowley’s involvement, à la Frozen (“I recommend we remove all magic, even memories of magic, to be safe… but don’t worry, I’ll leave the fun.”) The ‘magic’ in this instance being anything that would paint Crowley in a sympathetic light and the ‘fun’ being the actual events that transpired. That would also explain why he remembers it the way he does, aka why Crowley’s angel name is omitted and why he introduces himself as Aziraphale and not Raphael, but he still recalls the actual string of events. Because Aziraphale can’t just have large gaps in his memory. He has to actually remember the cold hard facts. Metatron is far too refined of a villain to leave holes in his soldiers’ minds, especially giant star-shaped love holes. Where was I going with this? Okay anyway…

So when Aziraphale says “like the old times, even nicer” he is not specifically referencing the Starmaker scene, but instead a more general ‘memory’ of Heavenly life, which makes total sense considering Aziraphale’s apparent blindness to the true detailed atrocities of Heaven. All he sees is the big picture anyway, that’s all he’s ever seen. Because… ‘even nicer’ ??? What do you mean NICER? A bureaucratic job will be nicer than watching the being you love build a universe?? Okay.

Same goes for “I know the angel you were” from the Job scene. The wording is important here. He didn’t say “I knew the angel you were” or “I knew you in heaven.” It feels like he is a step away from saying “I know of the angel you were.” Which, in the context, makes sense. He is trying to use a personal plea as a last-ditch attempt to get Crowley to do what he thinks is right, he is not reminiscing on their time as besties. He’s already cycled through:

“You don’t have to do this!”

“You have free will!”

“I don’t think God wants this!”

“I don’t really think you want to either!”

And when Crowley asks “what do you know about what I want?” in that bitter tone, Aziraphale reads it as an in. He thinks a personal plea may be the thing to get Crowley to stop, so he uses it. It’s a tactic.

With all that in mind, I believe ‘before the beginning’ to be an altered memory. I believe that Aziraphale remembers the creation of the universe in general terms but does not remember the Starmaker or the feelings that were already beginning to take root inside of him.

In The Beginning

I believe this to be an authentic memory, and if you look hard enough (aka are delusional and also insane) there are clues to support my ‘Aziraphale doesn’t remember' theory, starting with their first meeting.

Aziraphale does a few confused double takes (which, sure, could be interpreted as ‘oh fuck it’s you’ but I am choosing to not see it like that :)) and then politely smiles and laughs at what Crowley says before asking for clarification. This is absolutely giving ‘awkward first meeting with a stranger’ energy and not ‘oh fuck it’s my old bestie who is now damned.’ This is not a face of recognition, even fearful or reluctant recognition:

This is very much just giving ‘who the hell is this?’ Especially because it is then followed up with:

Aziraphale flat-out does not know who that is. He even closes his eyes for a second in what looks like confusion, as if he’s trying to remember. As if he’s trying to look where the furniture isn’t. And if I think he’s confusedly pursing his lips for a millisecond as if he wants to say a J name that’s my damn business.

They look sorrowful. I don’t know how I didn’t catch it the first few times I watched the show. This is the face of someone who just slithered up to an old friend and started having a chat as if it was the most natural thing in the world only for that friend to have no idea who they are anymore. Even as their face moves into a smile, it’s not real.

Babygirl looks like he’s experiencing the most haunting, ancient melancholia behind those lovely snake eyes. It’s actually quite striking. David Tennent you are on my hit list.

Anyway Crowley then goes on to question the ineffable plan in a way that’s very reminiscent of ‘before the beginning,’ which I believe to be intentional because they remember, and Aziraphale doesn’t. So Crowley is thinking to himself that maybe Aziraphale’s memory could be jogged with familiar behaviour.

Crowley also goes on about the flaming sword, which I believe used to be theirs when they were the angel Jophiel, so the emphasis on it makes sense.

They really said “what the fuck did you do with my sword?” But then when Aziraphale says he gave it away we get the most genuine display of emotion from Crowley that he’s shown during this entire sequence.

He is impressed. He is remembering the angel who refused to exercise their celestial authority and got his memories stolen as a result. They are thinking there may still be hope after all.

Okay now let’s briefly talk about why I think Crowley does remember. I feel like this is a pretty easy one to get through as there are plenty of moments where Crowley references heaven and the fall in a very clear way, some of which I will drop right here:

All well and good, but one big question still remains: if Crowley knows, why the fuck did he not tell Aziraphale in six thousand years?

Well… why did Elsa not tell Anna about her powers? I know this analogy is a little silly and trust me I’m losing my mind right now, but hear me out. Elsa doesn’t tell Anna about her powers because she thinks it's in her best interest not to know. She thinks that knowing will put Anna at risk and that she will be to blame for that risk. Now look back on Crowley and Aziraphale’s history, terrible communication aside, they don’t tell each other things because they both think that they can handle it on their own and they both don’t want the other to be in danger. They both consistently hide important and dangerous things from one another. For example:

Crowley didn’t tell Aziraphale about the Hell Hound for 11 years

Neither of them realised that both of their team of human agents were Shadwell’s men

Crowley didn’t tell Aziraphale the details of his execution

Aziraphale didn’t tell Crowley that he met Shax on the way home from Scotland

Crowley didn’t tell Aziraphale that he got dragged to hell and offered a promotion from Beelzebub

Crowley didn’t tell Aziraphale about The Book of Life threat

You get the point. It’s a pattern. And the details of the fall, stories from their distant past… these are lethal pieces of information. And we have to remember that both of them are essentially under constant surveillance. They never know when they’re truly alone or not, as we can also see with how much they side-step and rationalise their relationship away. They are both constantly terrified. Why would Crowley share information like this when they know how the acquisition of knowledge ended for the last group of angels? After all, Aziraphale wouldn’t like it in Hell.

Now there is also another very plausible explanation: Crowley is simply assuming that Aziraphale already does know and is following his perceived unspoken lead to never discuss it. Which again makes sense considering how fragile every aspect of their relationship is. It’s largely unspoken with a shared handbook of unspoken rules that they use to maintain the little bubble of companionship that they’re permitted to have. They have presumably never had a real conversation. So when would this ever realistically come up?

In conclusion, I need a lobotomy. But I want this to be true so badly as it does genuinely make sense in my sadly un-lobotomised little brain. As always, Neil Gaiman, I am in your walls.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #good omens theory #good omens analysis #aziraphale is raphael

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