#my writing style is pretentious and im only half sorry for that

[obm-avenquire]

★ solomon ★

It's reassuring, somehow, that he could let himself die with you. You love the brothers, Diavolo, Barbatos. You love the angels. But they will outlive you. Somehow, you feel like they couldn't die, not properly, even if they wanted to, like Mammon could bleed out and go cold and be found the next morning wedged between the folds of a stranger's wallet, looking over the shoulders of stock brokers and investment bankers. They're like the old gods, you think to yourself, and wonder where that leaves you. Their strength comes from worship, just like any other. And sometimes worship is arrogance. Every act of wrath and greed and sin is worship, devotion, and every action is a demonstration of that faith, unwilling or otherwise.

To make a pact, then, is to take back some of that power one has given. Dividends.

He would die with you. Not for you, never for you, he's far too proud for that - any situation where he can save you, it will be you both, together. He's selfish like that. Have you sobered up yet?

Solomon, like all humans, is never satisfied;

He hammers away, and forges himself a new heart. A tinkerer. Another cog in his strange, strange machine. He turns back time. His soul is in pieces. Alloy.

He burns his fingers in the kiln, searing sigils into his body

He tugs at the threads, and only smiles when it comes undone.

"After 200 years or so, humans begin to forget," And so, though he's beaten age, beaten death - for now - Solomon still loses to the mind. Like many things, it's cyclical. He knows, and he knows, and he learns, and he grows, but he never gets any wiser, not really. He's equal measures frustrated and entertained at the prospect.

He remains awkward. He loves. He loves and loves again.

You lie across the sofa in his room, old manuscripts and scrolls he'd lent you sprawled across your chest and on the table next to you.

"...You're a Theseus' ship," His eyes flit to meet yours, expression blank, almost surprised for a moment before a smile tugs at his lips.

"You were thinking of me?" You purse your lips, far too familiar with this particular tone of voice.

"I was." You stare up at the ceiling. His eyes don't leave you.

"Explain it to me." He turns his chair towards you, crossing one leg over the over, hand against his chin in contemplation. But you know it already, you want to say, why bother, when you already know? But you know that's not why he's asking. It's the same as your magic lessons - like the one you were studying for just now, before you interrupted yourself. Are you being taught? Is he asking to see how much you’ve learnt? Or is he trying to learn something himself?

Ages ache through the heaving dark and he's strange, but it's a wonder he isn't stranger, mind stretched far too thin between the pins of age that pull his skin across the timeline, aging, aging still.

#my writing style is pretentious and im only half sorry for that #obey me #obm #obmswd #obey me shall we date #obm solomon #obey me solomon #obey me ficlet #obey me fanfic #prose #avenwrites