#visage. will an angel of the lord stay my hand

[detectivechandler]

D.I. Joseph Chandler + compulsions. ↳ It's just something I do when I'm under stress. I'm not crazy.

#visage. will an angel of the lord stay my hand #whitechapel #di chandler #joseph chandler #whitechapel itv #flashing gif // #*my edits #when am i gonna chill? probably never. #flashing //

[yourdoorisunlocked]

ᴏɴʟʏ ʜɪᴍ

𝐀/𝐍: A very late oneshot for a cute request I got, I hope it's worth the wait! I'll try to be more consistent with posting, but life is throwing me actual curveballs rn, so patience is appreciated! And my LORD the wattpad-ass songs I keep picking out for these fics are always sending me- 💀✋ Also, Reader is AFAB in this one (since the wife fantasies this man has about Reader are UNTAMEABLE LMAO)

. . .

➺ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 | 𝐒𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖, 𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲, 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐫, 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠. ➺ 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝖉𝖔 𝖎 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖆 𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖜 | 𝖆𝖗𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖈 𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖐𝖊𝖞𝖘 ➺ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 𝟑,𝟐𝟔𝟐

“How long I’ve waited, darling. You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me...” 

. . .

There was something about Alastor that deeply intrigued you.  

He always seemed to carry suave, foreboding darkness dancing upon the edges of unpredictability with a smile as sharp as a razor. 

What others found unnerving, you labeled as charming and ‘eccentric,’ when it came to Alastor. You simply didn’t care about the worse aspects of him, or rather, you accepted them with such ease that it surprised even the most estranged of demons. 

And though he was wary of your intentions, at first, Alastor soon recognized your unusual fascination with him and determination to befriend him as quite flattering, from such an alluring young lady like yourself. So, Alastor decided to humor you and make nice with you, since it was... difficult to have a good friend, especially with his status as an Overlord, to say the least.

Apart from Rosie - who, mind you, was occupied with her Emporium most of the time - he didn't have much else in his afterlife that didn't relate to the hotel. And though this silly endeavor was proving to be quite the source of entertainment, the issue still stood.

Those below Alastor that didn’t turn tail and run at the first sound of radio static would only test his patience, whether that be at the end of Vaggie’s angelic spear or the punchline of a raunchy joke from Angel Dust. 

Suffice it to say, Alastor was grateful for your company, though he’d never admit it, and had grown terribly fond of you. 

Almost attached, one could say. Though one would be skewered and sliced open before they could finish that heinous accusation. 

Sure, Alastor had possibly grown a tender spot for you in his wretched, rotted heart, but who wouldn’t take a bit of an obsession liking to the tangles and locks of your hair that he could only dream of twisting around his red-tipped claws? Or the delicate curl of your lips as you lifted your face into a crooked smile that had burned itself into his memory, making his heart pound erratically within his chest? 

And, ah, there you are, now. Working the coffee machine and putting a polite hand to your mouth as you yawned softly, still in your pajamas with your hair amess and your eyes struggling to stay open as they fluttered, before landing on him. 

“Oh, Alastor! Good morning,” a glimpse of your small, tired smile made his heart jump to his throat as he stepped forward with his hands behind his back. 

“Good morning, my dear! And how was your night?” 

You brightened at the question, your smile growing. Yes. Give him more, give him more of your happiness, your smile-  

“Oh, it was a wonderful dream, Al’! I can’t wait to tell you all about it.” 

He leaned against the counter, preening at how his name rolled so perfectly off your tongue. “By all means, do tell, darling~." 

Alastor was none too ashamed, despite his reputation as a gentleman, that his eyes were solely trained upon your lips the entire time you spoke, his smile growing in size with each glimpse of your tongue that he could manage to catch. 

“Hm... That’s very nice, my dear,” he nodded along absentmindedly as you ranted animatedly, enjoying the brightness behind your eyes while you made yourself breakfast. 

How tempting and sweet was the visage of you, as Alastor’s sweet, doting little wife, making yourselves breakfast and waving him off to his radio tower with your delectable, kissable smile and a cup of black coffee. 

“Oh, and there was a- Al'? Alastor, are you even listening?” 

Alastor smoothly brought himself from his trance “I do believe you were going on about seeing a deer, of some kind? With fur-"

"Softer than anything I've ever felt? I'm surprised you were even able to hear me over your own thinking." You glanced over at him with concern. “You’ve been spacing out like that a lot, recently. Are you alright?” 

“Top of my game, my dear! Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d be worried over me~,” Alastor leaned forward against the counter, laying his chin upon his intertwined claws as he tilted his head up at you, grinning wider at your flustered blush.

“Well-! Of course, I’m worried about you. You’re my friend, after all...” you turned away, missing the way Alastor deflated at that cursed title that he’d seemed to acquire, despite being your closest confidant, your partner-in-crime, your partner, period.

But good things came to those who waited, Alastor supposed.

As the both of you continued to converse, you half-cringing, half-laughing at his onslaught of puns and ‘dad jokes,’ as you jokingly called them, a pair of excited hooves bounded down the hallway, and an excited princess of Hell jumped into the kitchen beside her tired girlfriend, who was still rubbing her drooping eyes. 

“Good morning, guys!” Charlie squealed as she ran across the room, collecting the different points for her plan of Project: Redemption that she had left for you to organize overnight.

“Hey, there,” Vaggie yawned softly as she slumped into the room, and You shook your head with a chuckle. Poor girl must’ve stayed up all night, listening to Charlie’s rants about her plans for the Hazbin Hotel, since its major renovations and redesign, courtesy of Lucifer himself. 

“Well, aren’t you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed? What’s got you so worked up, now?” You poured Vaggie a cup of coffee and she took it with an appreciative smile. 

“Well...” Charlie looked to Vaggie, who nodded encouragingly. “My dad’s going to visit the hotel again!” She bounced on her heels, oblivious to how Alastor stiffened beside you, and you inwardly groaned.

Here we go again, you sighed tiredly as you prepared for the radio host’s snark towards the King of Hell. 

Those two had been at each other’s necks since Lucifer had offered his help in advertising the hotel, and the mere mention of the Fallen Angel’s name would set Alastor off on an hour-long rant. 

“Is that so?” Static thickened his voice with malice as his ears swerved backwards, pointed and alert as you followed them with a stifled giggle. Alastor never seemed to notice the more adorable aspects of his demonic nature, being a deer demon. Then again, he probably chose to ignore them, trying to preserve his image more than anything. 

You took a slow sip of coffee as you glanced at his backside. I wonder if he has a tail, too. 

“C’mon, Al’. It’s her dad, you can at least be a little supportive.” 

His eyes widened towards you as you shrugged. “Not you, too!”  

“Hmph! I thought you’d have the sense to at least take my side on this one. Have I not been nothing but devoted to you?" Alastor batted his eyelashes at you, pretending to pout as you snorted.

“Well, it’s not like he’s going to move in, right? You still technically have the hotel all to yourself,” you rub his shoulder in an attempt to sooth him, unaware of the surprised glance that Vaggie and Charlie shared. 

“...I suppose you’re right. At least he won't be staying here, in that gaudy apartment of his!" He laughed, referring to the apple tower that Lucifer had built when the hotel was under re-construction.

“Um, ha-ha, about that...” the princess twiddled her fingers with a strained grin, and his smile tensed further. 

“No...” your eyes widened in disbelief. There was no way... She wouldn’t! 

But it’d make sense, wouldn’t it? I mean, the hotel wouldn’t be sporting that super-subtle apple-shaped tower for nothing, right? 

“Ɏꝋᵾ ᵯēⱥꞥ ⱦꝋ ⱦēłł ᵯē, ɏꝋᵾ īꞥꝟīⱦēđ ⱦħⱥⱦ ƀⱥꞩⱦⱥɍđ ꝋꝟēɍ ⱦꝋ ꞨȾȺɎ ĦɆꞦɆ!?-” 

“Alright, alright, take five.” You sighed and looked towards Charlie, who shifted nervously in her spot as Alastor stood off to the side with palpable anger.

“I’m sorry if it’s too soon, and I know you’ve never met my dad before, but I promise, he’s just trying to help the hotel. Just... give him a chance? Please?” 

“It��s fine, I’m fine with it, but I know someone who won’t be,” with a glance towards the self-proclaimed ‘Host of the Hotel,’ you took Charlie’s hands in yours. “I’m glad that you’re reconnecting with your dad, okay? Just... warn us, next time. Specifically, warn him,” you side-eyed where the Radio Demon was scrutinizing the both of you, small voodoo sigils floating around his form with an eerie glow. 

A soft smile graced her features. “Yeah, yeah, sorry, I was just so excited! Dad’s really trying, you know? And I promise, he really wants to help the hotel."

You turned towards Alastor. “Now, do you think you can settle down? For Charlie?” You avoided the word ‘behave’ for the sake of not being eviscerated on the spot. 

"Hm... Perhaps, but you must promise to stay by my side the entire time," Alastor gripped your shoulder for emphasis, and you rolled your eyes and reached up his collar.

"Alright then... I guess I can manage that."

His eyes trailed up and down your figure, and all his cultivated anger evaporated as you fixed his bowtie, clearly a bit jittery yourself. 

Lucifer may have had the hotel, hell, he could take Alastor’s place, for all he cared. He didn’t even want the blasted position in the first place, not before Lucifer challenged it. But the King of Hell didn’t - couldn’t - have you, and that alone was enough to pacify Alastor, for now. 

He shook away the confusion that came with the sudden bout of possessiveness from the thought of you so much as sharing an interaction with the Fallen Angel and dismissed you to retreat into the shadows until Lucifer arrived.

It was 1:00 P.M. on the dot, and the doors burst open as shimmering crimson light poured into the room, and the King of Hell, the infamous Fallen Angel himself stood before the newly furnished lobby with his arms widely outstretched for his much taller daughter to embrace her. 

“Charlie!” 

“Hi, Dad!” 

As the two Morningstars greeted each other with a tight hug, you almost gushed at how adorably similar they looked, despite the height difference. 

You also noted how Lucifer immediately narrowed his eyes at Alastor, gloved hands clutching his cane in a strangling grip, as if he were restraining himself from giving the radio host a beatdown with it. 

“Bellhop,” Lucifer spat without missing a beat. 

“Deadbeat,” Alastor shot back with a malicious grin.

You groaned and slapped your forehead. I just talked to him about this!

“And just who might this be?” Lucifer raised a dark eyebrow towards you, and you stepped forward – away from Alastor to his dismay – to properly introduce yourself to Charlie’s father. “A first good impression goes a long way,” as your mother liked to say. 

“Hello,” you smiled and gave Lucifer your name, side-eyeing Alastor as he scoffed heatedly at your misplaced politeness. But, in his defense, it truly was! There was no reason to pay any heed to that short-stacked, duck-loving ȼɍēⱦīꞥ!

“Oh! Yes, this is our newest resident at the hotel! She's been a big help, especially around the kitchen!" Charlie squealed with enthusiasm, practically singing your praises in front of her father and you blushed.

“It's nice to meet you," you held out your hand to shake his, and a soft smirk pulled at Lucifer’s pale features as he bent down at the waist at a perfect angle, laying a chaste, feathery kiss against the back of your hand. “Charmed, I’m sure~.” 

The king’s eyes trailed from up your waist before making heated eye contact with you, rising slowly from his bow.

The screech of a record player from behind made you flinch, but you attempted a clumsy curtsy and ignored Alastor’s rising temper, sigils flying about from the display of unearned affection. “Likewise, Your Majesty.” 

“Oh, no need for such formalities. Just Lucifer is fine, my dear."

“Oh, alright then... Lucifer.” The Fallen Angel’s smirk widened into a toothy smile that contrasted yet was quite comparable to Alastor’s terrifying grimace as he took you by the arm and pulled you along into the freshly revamped hotel lobby. 

"Charlie, you didn’t tell me such a doll was staying here! I would’ve visited sooner, you know,” the king laughed, and you chuckled along awkwardly as you glanced back at your crimson-clad friend, who was seething in his place as he watched you walk beside the king's sauntering pace, pure confidence and smugness radiating from Lucifer as Charlie smiled at you apologetically.

Alastor’s pointed ears were pinned backwards, and the raven tips of his hair sharpened as his lips rose slightly above his gums in an enraged sneer. 

“You know, I remodeled most of this place,” Lucifer grinned up at you while you looked around with appreciative eyes, and Alastor trailed closely behind the both of you, along with Charlie who looked up at him with confusion.  

“Is that so? In that case, I really must thank you for giving the kitchen a well-needed upgrade! It’s so much easier to work my way around it, now.” 

"Oho, of course, my dear! Anything for you~," he grinned devilishly up at you, chuckling at the soft blush that tinged your cheeks as the screech of radio static crackled and electrified the air.

Alastor hated it. Despised it. The way you were smiling at Lucifer like that, like you’d been friends for ages, like he’d been the one to bring you on delightful outings, make you laugh yourself sick over whiskey, pull you into spontaneous dances and be a shoulder to lean on whenever you needed it most.

Not like that you'd ever gone to Alastor in such a sorrowful state, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t the first that you’d go to for that kind of thing.

Why were you gushing over Lucifer? Weren’t you closer to Alastor? Didn't you like him better?

Oh, now this just won't do...

"Darling. A word?"

You nearly flinched at Alastor's seemingly cheery, yet short and clipped tone, clearly peeved at something, though you were completely clueless. Maybe Lucifer really pissed him off that much and he needed a breather?

Shaking off your nerves, you nodded politely and missed the way Alastor preened with approval, shooting Lucifer a smug glare as he placed his hand upon the small of your back and pushed you along towards a private spot in the middle of the hallway.

Alastor's ear turned in the direction of the two Morningstars as Charlie and Lucifer retreated down the hallway to his room. Once he was sure they were gone, he snatched your wrist and pulled you inside of a hotel room just left of you.

The door shut behind you both, and you tried not to tremble under Alastor's smoldering gaze while you stared up at him, confused by his sudden fury.

"So, care to explain why that pint-sized excuse of a king was cozying up to you?" The words shot like gunfire from his lips, his insults carrying the weight of bullets as Alastor towered over you while clutching his staff.

"I was only being polite..." you wrung your hands sheepishly as Alastor scoffed down at you, his smile becoming more of a curled snarl.

"And besides, why would you care so much about what Lucifer thinks of me? I'm still your friend." When your hand takes his in its warm grip, Alastor has to resist the urge to melt.

Because I don't want to be 'just your friend,' was what Alastor wanted to say. Because I want your beauty and laughter all to myself, I want you to be mine, you need to be mine-

"Because I-" Alastor took pause, as if the mere notion of caring about you more than he should stole the very breath from his lungs.

His claws reached up to caress your cheek, and you shuddered from the tickle of contact, keeping your gaze focused on him. "Because you're the only person who makes me question myself. The only person who I... who I want to call my own." The words tumbled from his lips, hesitant yet ringing pure truth and adoration for you, and Alastor looked away from you for a moment, unable to meet your gaze, impatient for your answer.

Slowly, scared that he'd disappear into the shadows and that glimmer of vulnerability would fade should you move too fast, you leaned forward into Alastor's touch, nuzzling against his palm.

"And... And if I happen to feel the same way? What would you do, then?"

Alastor's eyes widened slightly at the confession, and he took a slow few steps forward to push you up against the wall, his gaze darkened and yearning as his warm breath fanned against your lips.

"I'd tell you to be care of what you wish for, darling~."

Sharp, yellow teeth pricked, and soft, gentle lips sucked and kissed around your collarbones and neck, as Alastor shivered and rumbled ever so softly at the taste of you, the feeling of marking you as his own as you whimpered and shivered beneath him with want.

His shadow flew to the door, turning the lock with a definite click and trapping you inside with the man who'd fantasized of ravaging you since months ago, when a pretty little doe wandered into his office.

You moaned against Alastor, limply allowing one of his hands to hold your wrists above your head as his leg came between yours, and he rose to face you, lines of crimson dripping down the side of his lips.

Alastor's lips hungrily captured yours, and he made no hesitation to slip his long, black tongue beyond your lips and into your mouth, greedily swallowing your moans while wetness dripped between your legs, and his own made an obscene stain against Alastor's pants.

You panted as he pulled away, your arms coming up to wrap around his neck and kissing just below his jawline as he pressed his throbbing erection against you.

“How long I’ve waited, darling. You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me...” 

Alastor's hands ripped at his coat, hastily unbuttoning it from his vest before he pressed against you once more, eager to have you back in his arms.

His eyes darkened down at you as you started pulling at your blouse, desperate to pull him flush against your bare skin as he leaned over you, his slender arms caging you in beneath him.

"Oh, I'm going to devour you, ma chère... Show you just who you belong to..."

He inched closer as the sound of static grew thick in the air, tickling against your arms and making the hairs on the back of your neck rise as pure, carnal desire engulfed the both of you.

"P-Please..."

The doorknob rattled.

Knock, knock.

"Hey, uh- Is everything okay in there?" Charlie's concerned voice sounded through the door, and the both of you instantly froze, Alastor's hands still hovering over the belt buckle of his pants.

"Fuck," an irritated, animalistic growl rumbled from him, and he stood up to his full height as he glanced apologetically down at you, tilting your chin up to face him.

"I'm afraid we'll have to postpone this, darling."

Alastor planted a long, heated kiss against your lips, his tongue savoring every taste of you that he could manage before he brushed out his hair and pulled his coat from the ground and back onto his shoulders.

"Not to worry..." Alastor buttoned up your blouse, his eyes lingering on your cleavage for a few more moments than normally and turned on his heel and plastered his trademark smile back onto his face.

"We'll continue our little show, later."

. . .

𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: Bet ya'll didn't expect that, huh? Caught in 4k smh

Ok, so there is a LOT going on rn and I'm trying my darndest to keep up with a consistent schedule (I say after going radio silent - pun intended - for a goddamn week) BUT I SWEAR THINGS ARE GOING UNDER WAY, chapter one of 'What A Dish, What A Doll' is getting a rewrite, I'm trying to finish more requests and headcanons, and the VOX FIC NEEDS TO BE UPDATED-

it's just a lot lmao, but y'all's patience is super appreciated!!

. . .

➺ 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @starsformydarlingmazel, @chitter-chatter, @hazzbindarlingg, @darkangel582, @matrixbearer2024, @prosciuttosblog, @frog-fans-unite, @mysterypotatoink, @burgerflipper72, @chibikochannumberone, @strawberry-gothic, @roboticsuccubus83, @lulurubberduckie, @fangirlanxiety74, @viviannagiorgini, @localmsifan, @justtnat, @karolinda007-blog, @mglawwica, @wonderlandangelsposts, @saitisfied, @repostingmyfavs, @weirdflower2024, @montis-posts, @sirens-and-moonflowers, @theperfectmangovoid, @slytherin4ever, @i-love-jafar, @itzlochnessie, @mariaclarade-la-cruz1, @susvale, @valentique, @twismare, @robin-the-enby, @v3n7s, @forbidden-sunlight, @leathesimp, @matemor, @groovybear99, @frompeach, @moonmark98, @nyxnightshade7656, @sushigogo

➺ 𝑩𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝑪𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝑩𝒚 @cafekitsune - 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫!

#alastor x reader #yourdoorisunlocked #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor the radio demon #possessive behavior #obsession #oooh this was so fun to write!✨ #requests

[droogiesanddiscourse]

"Hellfire."

Pairing: Monsignor John Pruitt x F!Reader

Summary: You are called first to receive everlasting life from the angel's blood during Easter Vigil.

Warnings: Spoilers for Episode 6 of Midnight Mass and all the content that comes with it. Language. Taking some liberties with how the angel's blood works uhhh hehe. Millie who's that AU. Going off of the stream of consciousness / dream-like writing I am trying so hard to stay out of my head and just write what comes.

"Brothers and sisters,” Monsignor Pruitt concludes. “On this most holy night I come to you with good news. Not only the good news of the resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ who arose to forgive us of our sins after three days in the tomb. But, also the resurrection of ourselves."

He clasps his hands together in makeshift prayer, eyes sparkling an unfamiliar orange glow that you've never seen before. That of a feral black cat's eyes bouncing back light. The ones that hunt on the outpost of the island, all teeth and heat and hunger and sex and wild and and and--

Visions of nocturnal holiness.

"I ask you. Trust in me. And God will reward your loyalty heavily. Know that I would not ask of the ultimate sacrifice of your life if I did not have utmost faith in our God for the miracle he is about to bestow tonight."

The silence within the church is deafening. Not a soul rises for his offer, parishioners stunned to their seats. His eyes scan, searching for a familiar face. Finally focusing on yours.

“Please. [“____”]," his voice like liquid honey calls to you, echoing through the church. "I call upon you to take the plunge first, my sweet child. Show the good people of Crockett Island that there is nothing to fear. That there is paradise waiting for us all tonight."

He leaves his pulpit, descending down the steps towards you. His arm reaches out, using his slender fingers to beckon you to him with a "come hither" motion. White vestments flowing, covering his human visage as he moves, billowing out like an angel's wings.

Devils were once just fallen angels. Symbols of purity be damned.

He notices your trepidation.

"One moment of pain, perhaps. But an eternity of youth and love and worship in His name. We have been given a tremendous gift, sister ["____"]. Be brave.”

Beverly Keene remained tucked in the upper corner of the church, stirring the choice of death for this evening. She's always been a witch in your eyes; now the harsh comparison rings true more than ever as she concocts a deadly potion of sickeningly sweet liquid.

The smell reminds you of too hot summers and running against the shoreline as the waves lap against your ankles and buying popsicles at the general store and sticky raspberry juice running between your fingers. Familiar memories and tastes intermingled with rat poison.

“And so Jesus rose from the tomb, trampling down death. As will we. I am with you, and you are with me. There is nothing to fear."

Don't drink the kool-aid, the old adage goes.

But you wonder how vanilla and raspberry taste mixed together.

Jonestown redux is standing before you, with his hand outstretched for you to take; his body backlit by the illumination of hundreds of candles. You look up at him through your lashes, lips slightly parted. Your eyebrows upturned and eyes reposed.

"Monsignor. Forgive me, but I cannot," you swallow hard. Back yourself from that cliff, you have one leg dangling over the edge now! "For I have not taken communion as my sins have been too weighty, too difficult to ever be forgiven. I believe I did not deserve the body and blood of Christ at that time, which is selfish of me. Forgive me.”

John almost considers this for a moment, his thick eyebrows furrowing together as he stares down at you.

"There is no resurrection for me. I will die,” you state bluntly. Your words are finally registering. 

Back away back away, make distance between the cliff.

But he smiles, against your expectations. A tight lipped smile, his eyes kissing at the corners when his cheeks raise. Missed by the miracle of reversed age, not reaching the crows feet that reveal only when he's truly happy.

"My angel. You've taken more than enough of my seed in your womb, and down your throat. The blessing is already inside you."

His hand grazes your cheek, and Hellfire reigns down as the finality of his reveal sets in across the room. Hot and prickling at the back of your neck. High pitched buzzing of bees in your ears. Whore of Babylon comes to Crockett Island. Mary Magdalene weeps. Hundreds of eyes descend upon your form, fragile and ready to break at a moment's notice.

Hell has a special place reserved for you for tasting the most unholy fruits. You wear guilt like a halo.

John positions his index fingers and thumb underneath your chin, tilting it upwards. Your eyes dart away, unable to face him. For sure your very skin would burst into flames if you stared too long.

"Look at me," he demands. "Look at me, angel. Do not be ashamed.”

Oh, you’re more than familiar with this position.

Your eyes tilt back, big and yearning and scared yet wanting more. More of John, more of his smell on your bedsheets, more of his fingers in your mouth more of the salty bitter taste of his skin more breaking the boundaries between heaven and hell more more more more flesh more blood no sin no death no guilt.

Hell has a special place reserved for you in due time.

But real hell is living without him. You slip your hand into his, rising from the pew.

The church is silent, conversations about your unforgivable sin now hushed to murmurs. Somewhere in the distance you hear the gentle song of night crickets that intermingle with your delicate footsteps across decades old wood. A resounding creak and moan of the floorboards that echoes through the small church that makes it become an entity of its own, ready to swallow you whole.

Someone is crying, quietly muffled pathetically behind a cloth. A woman blesses herself using the sign of the cross as you pass.

A dead girl walking, and this is the sound of your funeral march.

Your toes bump into the first step leading up to the chancel. Guiding you by your waist, John spins you to face the congregation. Expressions of the crowd are unreadable.

Are you Joan of Arc or a witch about to be burned at the stake?

Blasphemy, blasphemy stood before your friends, family, acquaintances.

A light. The vision of John blocks you away from their watchful eyes as he stands before you, cupping your face within his hands. Your eyes lock together. Gently, he presses a chaste kiss to the center of your forehead. Lips just barely ghosting over your flesh. You tremble before him.

Bev stands behind you, both arms outstretched forward, bent at the elbow. You’re smart enough to realize she’s ready to catch you for when you involuntarily start seizing, your body putting up its final fight against the poison coursing through its veins.

Life. Death. Rise. 

A sob starts in your larynx, unable to burst fully to the surface The warmth of his hands removed from your face, now reaching for Bev's as he takes the small plastic solo cup of juice from hers into his.

"I am with you," he whispers as he holds the cup up to your lips. "As you walk through the valley of the shadow of death I am with you, and you will come out on the other side anew. Whole. Pure as a reward for your devotion to Him."

Raspberry and vanilla threaten to break the seal of your lips, the cup tapped against it. His other hand snakes his way up your back, weaving his fingers within your hair. The digits tug against your locks slightly, tilting your head back.

"Open."

Saliva gathers at the back of your throat.

You can't, you can't, you can't.

You cannot dare to lose the chance to miss another one of those too hot summer days where the children of Crockett island throw their books haphazardly into their backpacks basking in their first hours of summer vacation and the salty water clinging to your hair making it curly and sticky raspberry juice dripping between your fingers–

But oh the visions of him with and the way he whimpers into your neck when he thrusts into you, his hot mouth on your pulse point, the way his hand pin down your wrists forcing you to stay still. Murmured praises and bedroom hymns whispered as the moonlight coats both of your bodies in a ghostly blue glow. Was it truly ever living without him? No more hiding no more secrets you are his and he is yours. A boundary death cannot even cross–eternity is a beautiful thing to imagine.

A tear slips out of your eye, rolling down your cheek. The pad of John’s thumb gently rubs it away. Sympathy for the condemned.

"Drink."

And you do.

#father paul hill x reader #monsignor john pruitt x reader #midnight mass #hamfam #father paul x reader #monsignor pruitt x reader #hamish linklater x reader #hamish linklater imagine #Caitlin loses their damn mind over the fucking hot ass priest cant keep living like this I am literally so insane and feral #please send help #Caitlin go to hell challenge (real) #a/n: rat poison supposedly tastes like vanilla so that is where the reference comes from if that was confusing at all

[mythologyfolklore]

No rest for the wicked

There were no words to describe the agony of falling from grace.

It was impossible to paint the picture to a non-fallen being, impossible for a not metaphysical being to imagine, and be they ever so imaginative or wise.

How could one possibly describe the feeling of the sacred light of God, the blessedness and holiness being ripped from your body and soul? The feeling of your angelic purity burning away, as you slowly and torturously turned from a creature of God to something vile, unholy and evil? Having to watch, as your white wings were set ablaze and burned, only to reappear later, tainted and pitch black …

Lucifer woke up screaming.

He spent the next approximately thirty minutes hyperventilating and shaking like a leaf, before it finally dawned on him, that it had just been a dream. He was fine, the Fall had been 6000 years ago, he was in his own king-sized bed, in his bedroom, in his palace … in Hell.

He had just been sleeping.

Demons technically didn't need to sleep, but sometimes chose to.

However, every time Lucifer chose to sleep, he was haunted by the memory of his fall. The flashback dreams were so harrowing, it was impossible to get used to them. Of course he was. It wouldn't be much of a punishment, if he was able to forget, would it?

Eh, whatever.

He didn't care. Of course he didn't care!

He was the King of all Demons! Leader of the Fallen! Head of the Council of the Seven and the Prince of Pride!

“I'm fine”, he mumbled to himself.

He was not shaken.

He was not crying!

He was not curling up under his covers, trying to convince himself that a stupid nightmare had reduced him to such a state!

That was just preposterous!

“I'm fine”, he repeated to himself again and again, like a mantra.

Until he actually believed it.

.

Asmodeus awoke with a start.

It took zir a few seconds to realise, that ze wasn't sleeping anymore.

It became obvious, when ze saw that Lilith was sitting next to zir in their marriage bed, her owlish eyes full of concern.

“That dream again?”, she guessed.

“As always”, Asmodeus groaned frustratedly. “Six thousand years and the only improvement is that I don't wake up screaming!” Ze stopped short. “I didn't scream and thrash around in my sleep, did I? Are you hurt?”

Lilith shook her head. “No. You just groaned in your sleep and stirred a lot, but not violently. But as you know, I have sensitive ears. I was about to wake you up, but then you woke up by yourself.”

The Prince of Lust sighed and leaned zir human head onto zir wife's.

Her giant owl wings enveloped zir and she hooted quietly.

Asmodeus sighed once more. Ze was just so tired! “You know, Lilith … as stupid as this sounds, I think I need a vacation.”

“Damn right you do”, Lilith agreed, “You're so overworked, because you and Beelzebub are the only ones actually doing their work, that you actually fell asleep next to me! Even though demons don't need sleep! That's how exhausted you are! Tell you what …” She wound herself out of zir embrace and looked zir in the human eyes. “I bet your partner is just as much of a nervous wreck. How about you and Beelzebub take a vacation together? We both can have some alone time, you and I, and I can take the kids and your work, while you're gone.”

Asmodeus smiled. Ze loved one – one – human turned demon queen.

“Have I told you lately how much I adore you, my queen?”

Lilith laughed and told zir to turn around.

She spent the next hours preening Asmodeus' enormous six wings.

.

“Beelzebub … Beelzebub … Beelzebub, wake up!”

The Lord of the Flies screamed and thrashed around in the grip of the claws that were gripping zir arms.

“Easy! Easy! Calm down, my pretty! It's only me.”

My pretty?!

Only one person had the nerve to call Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies and Prince of Gluttony pretty; not just, because ze was a Prince of Hell and member of the Unholy Trinity, but also because ze the very opposite of pretty.

On top of that, this smooth and sultry feminine voice could only belong to one person.

Beelzebub opened zir eyes and recognised zir own office. Ze was hunched over zir desk and at some point the candles must have burned down. In the darkness ze could make out a red-eyed, red-lipped and deathly pale face smiling with the gentleness only one Prince of Hell was able to muster (even though that person was far from actually being tender).

“Aeshma Daeva¹?”, ze choked.

Asmodeus nodded gently. “Of course it's me, Baal Zevuv². Settle down now, my pretty. It was a dream and it's over now. Everything is fine.”

“What are you doing here?”, Beelzebub asked.

“I was taking a walk. I passed by your office and heard you groan, like you were in distress. It had me worried.”

The Prince of Lust snapped zir fingers and the room was lit by floating hell flames.

Beelzebub was a bit embarrassed, because surely zir eyes were all puffy and zir face completely tear stained … not that it was that noticeable on zir pitch black skin. As if on cue, the flies crawled out of zir floating white hair and buzzed around Asmodeus.

“Hello there, little pretties”, the Prince of Lust cooed (again, being the only one to ever find Beelzebub's flies pretty).

The buzzing and Asmodeus' smile were soothing.

But then the latter saw Beelzebub's tear-stained visage and frowned. “Oh! Oh, my pretty …”

The Prince of Gluttony leaned into the clawed hand that was caressing zir face.

“Go ahead”, Asmodeus coaxed the other. “Let it out, Beelz. It's okay to hurt.”

Beelzebub leaned into the taller archdemon's shoulder and allowed zirself to cry.

“I dreamt of it again”, the Lord of the Flies whispered.

“I know”, the Spirit of Anger responded and rubbed the smaller one's back. “We all do. Whenever we choose to sleep. That's why I almost never do.” A bitter smile. “Good thing we demons don't really need sleep, hm?”

“Yes”, Beelzebub croaked. “But I'm just so exhausted …”

“No wonder”, Asmodeus grumbled. “We're both overworked, because we're the only ones with a work ethic.”

“To Heaven with it!”

“Indeed. Hey, how about this: I'll stay with you for a while. You know, give you a massage and all and just generally diverting you. And tomorrow, we both will waltz into the council, give the others Heaven and demand a vacation. It's what we deserve, don't you agree, my pretty?”

“What about your wife and children?”, Beelzebub objected. Trying to keep the jealousy from zir voice at the reminder, that Asmodeus was hitched and leading a successful marriage, despite zir notorious promiscuity – that a mere former human, a being of clay, had put a ring on the Prince of Lust and could say with pride, that they were husband/spouse and wife.

Beelzebub heard the smile in the other's voice, as ze answered: “Don't wreck your pretty head about it, Beelz. Lilith can handle the kids without me for a while. Most of them are big enough to care for themselves by now anyway. And Lilith will be happy to have some quality time to herself.”

The Lord of the Flies sighed and leaned further into Asmodeus' shoulder.

A vacation … that sounded wonderful.

.

As Astaroth awoke, she screamed, but her scream was silent.

Without her voice, which God had taken away, she couldn't scream like all the others could.

Her screams, her tears, her laughter, they all were silent.

So was her sigh of relief, when she realised that it had just been a dream.

With annoyance she realised, that she had fallen asleep completely, whereas to the simple dozing she normally did, when she chose to rest.

Dozing was a way of getting some rest without having to suffer those horrid flashback nightmares, but sometimes …

She pressed her face against the pillows, curled up and wept.

It wasn't fair!

She had done nothing to deserve this!

She had done nothing to deserve her fall from grace and the loss of her voice!

She hadn't sided with Lucifer back then, even though he had freed her from the house arrest/de-facto prison God had put her in before!

Her only crime had been … knowing too much.

As the angel of time, she had known past, presence and future (still did) and therefore also the Ineffable Plan. However, no one was allowed to know God's plans (aside from Satan, maybe, but even he didn't know everything – not to the extent Astaroth did).³

But still … she was innocent … she just wanted to …

Astaroth cried harder.

That went on for a while, until someone knocked on the door.

The Princess of Hell wiped her tears away and wiped her tears away.

She whistled, as a sign that whoever was out there was permitted to enter.

A minor demon came in.

“Your Royal Highness, Princess Astaroth – their Highnesses Beelzebub and Asmodeus are calling for a council meeting in two hours”, the demon announced.

Huh.

That was weird.

And rather short-term.

But Astaroth nodded and the demon bowed and saw themselves out.

Two hours … that was time enough to take a nice bath to relax from the nightmare and to freshen up a little.

And half an hour before the meeting she would kick Belphegor out of bed, just to lean back and enjoy him run down as hastily as a lazy boy like him could, thinking they were under time pressure.

.

Belphegor also awoke screaming.

When he realised, that he was awake, he groaned and ruffled his blue hair.

“Fuck this shit … I must've fallen asleep completely.”

Contrary to what people believed, he and Astaroth never truly slept – ironically, as they were the demons of sloth. Instead they dozed for a while, never really quite asleep. It was a loophole to avoid those traumatic dreams. Astaroth was a lucid dreamer to boot, but that didn't work on the retrospectral dreams.

Damn it, Dad! I wasn't even on their side!

He hadn't been.

But he hadn't been on Heaven's side either.

He had been too cowardly to choose a side and remained neutral and that had been his ruin.

Belphegor grumbled sullenly, before lying back down and resuming his nap.

Unfortunately it didn't last long, because soon someone ripped him from their dozing slumber.

Upon opening his eyes, he saw Princess Astaroth glowering down on him.

“Wake up, lazy boy!”, she signed (would have snapped at him, had God not stripped her voice away before the Fall). “Get your demonic ass to work!”

“Who're ya callin' lazy”, Belphegor slurred, but stood up.

Astaroth shared his position as Prince of Sloth, but as she was Lucifer's left hand, a former Seraph and member of the Unholy Trinity, she outranked him by far. It was too dangerous to resist her. And even though she lacked the capability of speech, she had a lot to say – and certainly didn't need speech to be intimidating!

“Beelzebub and Asmodeus are calling in a council meeting”, she signed. “So wash and get dressed. You have half an hour.”

“But that's too little time!”, Belphegor whined.

Astaroth snarled menacingly.

“Alright, alright! On my way, your Royal Highness!”, the Prince of Sloth grumbled and dragged himself away to do as told.

Fucking bitch!

.

Mammon hadn't actually been asleep.

They had just hit their head and passed out, but that had been enough to make them relive the horrid memory of the Fall.

The Prince of Greed came to themselves, cursing up a storm; swearing usually made them feel a little better.

“Okay, fuck this shit”, they muttered, “I'll just finish this paperwork, then go rob a bank or something-”

A knock on the door.

It was a mook demon, informing them that there was going to be a council meeting.

“Right, I'll be there”, Mammon replied.

Once they were alone again, they smirked: “Hmm … wonder if Asmodeus will join me afterwards – go shopping, gamble and rob some casinos … it's always more fun with zir!”

.

Leviathan and Satan were never haunted by that kind of dream, as neither were fallen angels.

Leviathan was a giant sea monster and Satan was an entity God had created before all others, specifically to oppose Him, yet in a way be His right hand.

But they knew of the others' nightmares, of course they knew.

It had once slipped out of Lucifer and Satan hadn't left the fallen Morning Star alone, until he had been told everything.

“They're collectively having nightmares, these six”, Satan reported to the sea serpent, when he was on the phone with her.

The Adversary knew that, because his presence was everywhere but Heaven, thus he always knew what was going on in the entirety of Hell (which belonged to him, by the way, no matter how much Lucifer acted like it was his).

Leviathan chuckled at the other end of the phone: “Well, that'ssss nothing new now, issss it?”

“It's funny”, Satan laughed, “How they still haven't got over it after such a long time! One would think that after having the same dream every time they sleep, they would have got used to it!”

“Well, look at it thissss way”, Leviathan hissed into the phone, “It's fun to sssee them suffer like thissss from time to time, issssn't it?”

Another laugh from the Adversary: “You're so delightfully cruel, my friend!”

A hissing laugh from the other end of the phone.

“By the way”, Satan continued, “There is about to be a council meeting. Will you attend or shall I find someone to step in for you?”

“No need. I'll turn humanoid and teleport mysssself to Hell and it'll be good.”

“Cool! We need to connect again! This is going to be interesting, I can tell!”

.

---

.

1) Aeshma Daeva (Avestan: "Spirit of Anger/Fury") is a demon from Zoroastrian tradition, which embodies wrath, murder and greed and is armed with a bloody mace. While Aeshma and Asmodeus are not the same being, it's thought that the latter's name is derived from/a reference to the former.

2) Ba'al Z(e)vûv/Baal Zebub (Hebrew: "Lord of the Flies"), a derogative pun used towards the Philistine god Ba'al Zebûl ("Exalted Lord/Lord of the dwelling") and towards that god's worshippers. The Septuagint later transcribed it into Baalzebub, which later morphed into the Beelzebub we all know.

3) Just to make this clear: this is a headcanon. The idea that Astaroth is a former seraph and guardian of time, rendered mute because he/she knew God's Plans, comes from the German Wikipedia article on Astaroth (once again proving that one should never trust Wikipedia about facts), but since no sources were stated for the things written there, I will treat it as a headcanon and not as actual canon. It's really annoying, because I can't even credit the person who actually came up with this, because the part stating it was quoting no sources, so I don't know who it was. Please don't kill me.

#christian lore #demonology #lucifer #Beelzebub #asmodeus #astaroth #satan #leviathan #mammon #belphegor #lilith

[juminly]

Hide and Seek (Mitsuhide x Reader) Part 1

I’ve been wanting to write a piece featuring some hot sexy time with my favourite kitsune otome husband. Thank you anon for sending in the request for some Mitsuhide smut! Things kinda got a bit... out of hand so I’ll be posting this in parts <3 So stay tuned and hope you enjoy the read.  Warning: This part is only the prelude to all the smut. So I’m still marking this as NSFW xD.  Tagging: @yunohawkeye​ @kylor​ ------------- There was no point. No point at all to any of this… Taking up the challenge of the smartest and most cunning man of the Oda forces? You were definitely crazy. Absolutely, positively crazy for him. It all started with a simple game, yet, it was nothing but a very… very taunting scheme. “Say, (Y/N)” the softness of his lips tickled your ear, his deep voice swept softly into your mind, his low whisper lighter than a swift summer breeze, grappling onto your heart mercilessly. He was a cruel man but that only made you love him harder. “I’d like us to engage in a little game. You need not fret over the details. However, I assure you, it’ll certainly make our trysts even more stimulating.” More stimulating? Was that even possible?

With him, everything was possible. Nobody in the palace had discovered that you and Mitsuhide were lovers and you knew there was a reason for that. But that was the least of your concerns. His words and his voice held such deep promise that you knew would leave you breathless and wanton. Warmth crept up your cheeks as your mouth went completely dry, the thrums of your beating heart almost making your chest ache. Your lover had dared to deprive you of his warmth as he sat up from your bedding and cleared his throat, bringing your attention back to him and away from your wicked thoughts. “When have I ever done anything that wasn’t for your pleasure?” The corner of his thin lips tilted upwards, drawing an impishly tantalizing half-smile on his visage as his fingers laced through your own, bringing them to his lips so he could place a soft kiss on each bone of your knuckles. Something about the scene before you played on your heartstrings. The song it played was slow and heavy, from a smooth lento and a precise andante, building into a chaotic crescendo that had not occurred...yet. There was so much more to come, the foretold eruption of the music within you was still simmering. You couldn’t decipher what the feeling… or the feelings that roused within you. The tingling sensation that vibrated through your body was but a prelude initiated by the simple touch of his lips that would earn him your accord to his challenge, whether you wanted to or not. “Your pleasure is my own, even if you may find my methods disagreeable at times...” His shoulder shook lightly, a deep chuckle resounding in his chest when he noticed the slight arch in your brow. You couldn’t help but marvel at the beautiful sound, reflecting in his expression. This side that he didn’t show to anyone but you. It would take absolutely everything in your power and will to resist this man’s charms and you wouldn’t even bother.“I’m a man of my word and I’ll reward you appropriately, little mouse.” Again, with that infuriating mouse analogy. Before you could even respond with a quip of your own, Mitsuhide’s slender fingers slipped away from your own and he pushed himself gracefully off your futon before he towered over your lying form in all his blissful glory. Teeth sinking into your swollen lips, a welcomed memento of what had transpired between you on that fateful evening, your eyes could never defy the power that his gaze held on you, keeping them locked in place until he willed otherwise. His demeanor, sly by nature, was even more so as he nonchalantly slipped his arms into his kimono, covering the skin and you ached to touch, the teasing smile on his lips not leaving his face. Unable to hold the silence, you almost growled in frustration. “Mitsuhide. What is this little game that you’re dragging me into? It’s not like you haven’t been using me as a plaything since the day we’ve met. I’ve always kept you entertained. At least, that’s what you always say.” An exasperated sigh escaped your lips as your eyes glazed over his lithe yet muscular form, your mind wandering to far and shameless horizons. As if he read your mind, his tongue lazily swept over his lower lip, golden eyes almost glowing from his sudden radiating heat. “Catch me if you can, little mouse… And good things are bound to happen.” Your eyes widened and followed him as he slipped out of your room, leaving you all alone with your burning heart. Deep inside, you knew that Mitsuhide would never get caught unless he wanted to be found. That wouldn’t stop you from trying. --- And… it’s already been two weeks since then. You attempted to devise a plan, searching for him as methodically as you could, aware that it would almost be impossible to outwit the kitsune of the Oda forces. Nonetheless, you were not one to turn down a challenge and definitely not miss out on the excitement and thrill of a hunt. Your love for him chasing through your veins, driving you senselessly and purposely toward any hint or trace of him. Hope bloomed in you as the remnants of spiced sandalwood, a fragrance that was characteristically his, only to wilt to dust when you found a blue bellflower laid carefully on the veranda near the Oda force’s council room. A blue bellflower…Your hand unconsciously reached out to touch the hairpin adorning your bundled tresses. You never cared to ask if it had any meaning but now, curiosity gnawed your mind. It was peculiar and definitely not a coincidence that you had seen bellflowers in so many places yet, the realization just came crashing down on you. The day you were stuck trying to decipher war strategy from Mitsunari’s thorough explanation of tactics that Mitsuhide had previously endeavoured in the past. You could still taste the bitterness of that sweet clueless angel on the tip of your tongue and shuddered while you giggled softly. That one time you happened to pass by Hideyoshi’s castle, hearing his usual effervescent chastisement. It couldn’t be directed to any other person but him. You were absolutely sure as your feet fell assuredly on the ground as you flew through the halls of Nobunaga’s right man’s palace, only to find him leering over a parchment with exquisite handwriting on it, signed with a delicate drawn sketch of a bellflower. Your hunt had turned out to be more intriguing than you thought. Mitsuhide had devised plot after plot: kidnapped Uri for the sake of a mission that only she could do and had created a crown of bellflowers for Wasabi that the shy deer wore with such childish joy, earning Ieyasu’s wrath and jealousy. The more time passed, the more you realized that Mitsuhide was truly enjoying this game. As he left you small tokens of his presence, he was finally doing something for himself. Little pieces that he shared for his sake. Not for his Lord, not for his country. It was ironic and almost… almost funny and completely ridiculous how Mitsuhide was capable of disappearing from the face of the Earth, if he wanted to. That’s how expertly skilled he was, and didn’t that just excited you even more. The only bit of hope you could hold on to was his scent, which was unmistakable and rather intoxicating. Not that you would admit it to anyone, unless they coaxed it out of you. They being Mitsuhide, of course. If only you were immune to his wiles… Desperate times called for desperate measures and the time had finally come to put an end to this wicked game of his. As much as you loved seeing his humorous charades follow through, enough was enough. Your patience was running thin and you missed him terribly. You even started to wonder if he would hide in the ceiling of the Palace in a very Sasuke-like ninja way. You wanted your daydreams to finally become a reality and catch the fox by its tail and let him bestow his malicious benevolence on you. That was how you found yourself hidden in his closet, waiting for him to come back from his meeting with Nobunaga. He had spent hours in his Lord’s tenshu, the anticipation of laying your hands on him was too much to bear. Time and time again, he breezed past you, a ghost of a sly smile on his face and the murmur of his sweet nothings falling on your eager ears while he reminded you that the hunter was supposed to catch the prey, and not the other way around. As long as he found you first, that counted as your loss. During this entire time, he never thought of claiming a win by passing by your bedroom, like on your usual nightly escapades. Breathing out ruefully, you continued to wait in the confined space that you creeped into. Luckily for you, Kyubei and his retainers were as secretive as he was and would let this one pass. You promised them all a special feast from the one and only masterchef Lord Masamune if they kept her presence a secret from their Lord. The brusque slide of the door knocked the wind out of you, clasping your mouth frantically before the sound of your rapid breathing could be heard from your love. In poised strides, he lit two candles and burned a stick of his sandalwood incense before seating himself on his desk. His movements seemed almost systematic as he opened one letter after another, attending to his business and oblivious to your presence. Now was your chance. The door was gingerly pushed open, only the rustle of paper filling the room. Thump. Thump. Thump. Your heart beat so deafeningly in your ears, you were afraid he could hear it. “You found me.” a full-bodied melody strum from his throat. You blinked your ears. Once. Twice. He knew you were there. He knew you would be there. He planned for this to happen. Everything went according to his plan. You lunged forward and kneeled behind him, your hand twisting in tresses of brightened mercury, strenuously pulling his head back and crashing your lips on his, nipping and sucking on him almost violently. An inaudible grunt escaped him, joined by a pleasant sigh as he willingly allowed you to subdue him with your fervent assault, welcoming it with his innate and haughty slyness. You could feel the mirthful twist of his lips pressed against yours. It made you want to scream, your body shaking from the release of all the anticipation that you had of finally being near him. Your hesitant fingers clenched his soft hair to reluctantly pull him away from your grasp, the air in Mitsuhide’s room sucked out from the heavy gasps emanating from both of you. “Why do you look at me so, love?” Did he just call you… love? You could already feel your resolve shattering and dissipating into nothingness as he so easily roused your deepest desires. “Your face is twisted in an expression that doesn’t suit you, adorable little creature that you are.” Reaching for your face, he smoothed the furrowed skin between your brows, mimicking the caress of a master to his clingy kitten, beseeching his attention and affection. The flush adorning your cheeks became darker, your sensations heightened as you locked your seething gaze on the peaceful expression of your prey. “What is the purpose of all of this, Mitsuhide?!” you pleaded gravely. “You knew that I was here all along yet you came here… walking in here, fully aware that the moment you walked in, you would lose. I know you. You’re not one to forfeit any victory and miss the chance to bask in triumph.” Your slender shoulders shook and chest heaved with your sharp inhales filling the silence in the room, your frustration and anticipation becoming one, rendering you incapable of any other thoughts but him. You were a sore winner but you didn’t even care. Opportunistic plots and schemes defined this man’s motives yet his eyes of weathered gold laid upon you, emanating an unholy tenderness that made your hand shake and loosen from his silver tendrils, allowing him to sit back up. “You enjoyed it as much as I did. The hunt. The chase. The blood rushing through your veins as I surrounded you. Tauntingly so, if I may add.” you could hear him lick his lips matter-of-factly before he continued. “Your welcome was more than stimulating, my little mouse. It appears that our little game has been fruitful. I believe it’s time I reap what I’ve sown.” -----  I hope you’ve enjoyed it so far! To be continued here.  If you enjoy my work,  Please feel free to like/reblog and leave comments/feedback!  💜  Masterlist

#mitsuhide akechi #mitsuhide x reader #ikemen sengoku #ikesen #ikesen mitsuhide #one shot #Smut #ikesen fanfic #fem!reader #ikemen series #ikemen sengoku mitsuhide

[indiavolowetrust]

I really love your prompts!! I would like to try to give you one : "- You don't have to fight for me. - Darling, I would burn down the three realms for you." For the obey me character of your choice! Thanks in advance!

Hullo, thanks for sending in an ask! And also thank you for loving my prompts. I had way too much fun with this one.

I took this one as the following: a war has broken out between all three realms after a millennium of political strife and unsuccessful acts of peace. You fight on the side of the Devildom amongst the brothers, despite being a human, and are tasked with fetching an artifact that will turn the tides of war. In a divine temple, you stare up at the blade of an angel.

TW: Blood, Violence

You had wondered what an angel had looked like, once. Before you fell into the Devildom, before the terrible war between the Devildom and the Celestial Realm began, you had expected them to look much like those in the baroque paintings you had seen in museums. Chubby, rosy-cheeked cherubim, each one flying over the cradle of some blessed babe. Plump, beautiful women, their arms splayed out in a tasteful garden. Arresting figures composed of light. Wonderful beings with immaculate wings, golden halos, and a gaze that burned with the justice of the heavens.

And all those things just so happen to be true. Perhaps if you were not staring down the halberd of an angelic priestess at the moment, you might even appreciate the beauty.

“State your name and regiment, traitor,” demands the three-faced angel, all facets of her visage contorted in disgust. The fiery rings that encircle her head blaze with the fury of a thousand lesser divine creatures, each one spinning in perpetual motion. Her alabaster body is poised before you in a perfect fighting stance. “Do this, and I shall consider sparing you.”

You swallow. The tip of her halberd is so close to your throat that it grazes the skin there as you do so, drawing blood. Your armor blossoms with the drop of blood, the crimson staining itself deep into the fabric. You make a note to request Lord Diavolo for a cake of soap whence you return to the Devildom. If you survive this, that is.

Despite your fear, you hold all three of her gazes. She huffs with impatience.

“Out with it!” she snarls. “Or do you prefer that I --”

An uproar comes from behind her. It appears that the battlefield has encroached deeper into the lands of the Celestial Realm, judging by the shouts of soldiers and clashing of metal. She turns her head instinctively, her attention captured by the disturbance for a moment.

It is an opening.

You shove the shaft of her halberd aside, rolling just in time to avoid her thrusting strike. The metal embeds itself deep into the white marble, providing you another opportunity, and you procure your own sword from the scabbard at your side. The angel scowls at you. She wrenches the halberd from the marble with inhuman strength, levelling it at you once more -- but this time, you have the advantage of distance between yourself and the divine being. While you may not have any skill in sorcery like Solomon or the raw strength of a demon, you have more than enough determination and deftness to make up for it. You have more than enough stubbornness than you should have as well.

And so it is with this confidence that you face the angel. Neither of you dare to make the first move. A long moment passes, the sounds of the battlefield only coming closer and closer. The angel knows this, her senses much sharper than yours, and she smirks.

You’re running out of time. If you don’t incapacitate her soon, your efforts in stealing the divine artifact will be in vain. The divine artifact could very well be the catalyst of the war -- and here you are, barely able to fend off a divine priestess. It is no wonder that you were not allowed to join the fray.

You need to think, and you need to think fast. The war will not be won without the artifact. As demons cannot enter such a holy place without endangerment, the mission of fetching it was entrusted to you. The tides of war will change in the demons’ favor the moment you take it outside of the divine temple. You scour your panicked thoughts for something, anything that should or could work.

And then you decide. It is a wholly stupid, brash idea, but it is an idea.

“What’s wrong?” you taunt the angel, flourishing your sword before her. “Scared you’ll lose to a human?”

Her grip tightens on her halberd, nearly cracking the shaft. All semblance of the priestess’ restraint seems to have dissipated in the span of a moment. All three of her faces twist in what can only be described as blinding rage. You prepare yourself.

“Why you -- you --” the divine fire of her halos intensifies, nearly singeing the edge of a tapestry, “-- YOU INSOLENT BRUTE! WORTHLESS ANIMAL! BURN!”

She lunges forward. Again you manage to dodge the blow, shifting to one side, but the priestess angles herself at the last moment. The tip of her halberd pierces the flesh of your thigh, preventing you from moving further in the direction of the artifact. You cry out in pain. The priestess plants a kick on your sternum to release your body from the blade, treating you as if you were truly a mindless beast, and it is only a second before you feel your body crack against the stone wall behind you. The world goes white.

When your vision finally clears -- perhaps after a second or so -- you discern the angel standing before you as she had before. This time, however, her halberd is raised much higher in the air, and her eyes burn with murderous intent. Whereas she may have spared your life before or left for you dead, you are sure that she would much rather burn you alive this time. The entirety of the halberd ignites, divine flames engulfing the weapon. The blaze is reflected in all three of her gazes.

The angel looks upon you with terrible disdain. Your body seizes with cold, abject fear.

“May you rest in peace.”

And then she thrusts the weapon downwards. Your skin can already feel the kiss of the heat. You close your eyes and accept your fate, readying yourself for the impact.

It never comes.

There is the sensation of air. The sound of unfurling wings, the scent of rose water, the silhouette of a slender, almost girlish body pressed against yours. You hear the crack of a blade colliding into marble once more, spat-out curses of the angel, and the soft laughter of one that you know so well. The flame of your pact burns, signalling the proximity of one of the demons. Unlike the holy fire of the angels -- which only devours and takes -- this one is much more similar to the gentle warmth of a candle. A small, unobtrusive wick, ignited.

You open your eyes to see a very, very familiar face.

Asmodeus grins down at you. “Came just in time, didn’t I?”

“Asmo, you -- you shouldn’t be here!” Your eyes widen at the realization of the pain that Asmodeus must have subjected himself to -- a fact that is only proven by the divine air nibbling at his flesh. The wounds burn and knit themselves over and over again as you regard him with horror. “Get out of here! If you stay here, you’ll --”

Asmo silences you with a kiss. Hushes you. Despite the excruciating pain he must be in, he only continues to beam at you. A finger brushes away a stray lock at your cheek.

“You don’t have to fight for me,” he says softly. “Darling, I would burn down the three realms for you.”

You discern the shape of the angelic priestess standing to full height somewhere behind Asmo. Asmo follows your gaze before placing you gently on the ground. A book -- the artifact, you realize -- is pressed into your hands. You can only watch as Asmo turns to face his opponent, a demonic weapon already materializing into his hands. His palms are blistered and raw.

The angelic priestess regards Asmo with pure, unfiltered hatred, slamming her halberd against the ground. “Disgraced, wretched creature,” she addresses him. “If only He could see you now. If only He could see how putrid and repulsive you have become. We were all sure you and your brothers had perished when we cast you out from the heavens, demon. I see now that you have suffered a much worse fate.”

Asmo only laughs. “I believe this human here would disagree on the repulsive part,” he says, now brandishing his own weapon. “In my opinion, I’m much more beautiful now than I ever was up here.”

Asmo catches and parries the priestess’ halberd in an instant, doing his best to maneuver her away from you. It is a decision that costs him: the divine blaze of her spear singes his skin, causing him to wince -- but he does not relent. With a well-placed attack of his own, he is able to push her away from both you and the exit of the temple. Given that the priestess has made no move to stop you, it seems that she has not realized yet that the artifact is in your possession.

Asmo casts only the barest of glances towards you and the exit. You need no further encouragement.

Time passes in a blur. Yet you are able to hold onto the sensation of your pact with Asmo, the sign burning as brightly and vividly as a flame. As long as you can hold onto that part of your conscience, the proof that Asmo is still alive and fighting, you can push yourself forward. And so you clutch the artifact to your chest and run forward, your vision becoming blurry and unfocused from the loss of blood. You stagger to the exit of the temple and feel your body being pulled to some hiding place by an ally, your thoughts still concentrated on the flame. Even as the war rages around you, the shouts of angels and cries of the devils hammering in your ears, you are at peace with the sensation.

Something is pressed and tied around your bleeding thigh. You begin to fade in and out of consciousness.

Your leg twitches. A demon -- Mammon, perhaps, or Beel -- says something to you, soft and encouraging. You can’t discern the message.

A rattle shakes you nearly to waking. You can’t feel your leg anymore. Perhaps it has fallen asleep.

There is something wet next to you. Something is being taken away from you, something important, but a nagging feeling at the back of your mind tells you that it would be better not to resist. You allow the object to be lifted from your hands.

Your body is being moved elsewhere. You have long lost the ability to fight it. Your incapacitated form is carried and given to someone else, the ground moving beneath you, and then --

And then.

Your eyelids flicker. The fire of that pact that had once burned within you becomes extinguished. You reach for it, desperate, but it only fades to nothing. A flame, smothered. It fights again and again, struggling to keep itself ignited -- but then there is a final show of force. The air of an execution.

And just like that, the candle goes out.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me asmo #obey me asmodeus #asmo #asmodeus #obey me! #ask #obey me fanfic #obey me writing #obey me oc #obey me mc

[luvsavos]

just one kiss, is all i ask for -- raiden x shang tsung

this ship is cute okay shut up. au where shang didnt die in mk9 and he and raiden have had a secret relationship for like, a while. oh also liu and lao didnt die either </3 dont ask how this au works i dont know

-------------

"Shang Ts-"

"Raiden!" Ths overjoyed voice of the sorcerer cuts the Thunder God off, as he runs to his arms and embraces him tightly, in a show of affection, longing, reunion and so much more. Bewildered and pondering eyes lingering suspiciously on the pair, Raiden is much more hesitant in returning the gesture, but Shang nonetheless seems to be pleased either way, nuzzling his face into the crook of the god's arm and almost seeming to melt in his arms--a stoic demeaner immediately turned to delicate, sweet whipped cream; so beautiful and yet so fragile and sweet. Shang's eyes close, and Raiden holds him, so gentle yet so firm--what an angel he seems, such an unassuming frame with that innocent, darling look of contentment upon his face (not that Raiden could forget the true nature of the sorcerer which he holds so close, and yet in times like this is it so easy to forget such a grim truth, albeit not a truth which the sorcerer had full control over).

It's the Shaolin Champion to first speak, to break that moment of bliss; with a rather accusatory tone and sentence--"What is the meaning of this?"

Shang's eye twitches open, immediately revealing within those unassuming hazel depths some sort of malice; a cunning, dark sort of intelligence--and a burning sort of anger at such a brazen question.

"What think you it?" He grumbles, pressing his face closer against Raiden's torso, right side of his face squished against that wonderful soft, yet lusciously thick cloth. "Shao Kahn is dead--we are all free to do as we wish to, yes? Thus I exercise my free will as I so shall please; and you are no one to halt me."

Kang's lip arches in a show of perhaps disgust, or annoyance, or perhaps both. "Yet you were our enemy. What changed?"

"Ha!" The sorcerer laughs, and withdrawls his face from that warm crook he'd so snugly nuzzled into, only to look up at Raiden, one thick eyebrow arched and a plainly amused expression upon his serpentine features. "Care to have your say in this?"

"I would prefer there to be no bickering nor fighting," Raiden simply sighs, allowing his arms to go lax around Tsung's hips. Shang grunts, and presses flush against him, glaring at Liu Kang from the corner of his eye with quite the malicious glint about them.

"Lord Raiden--you yourself stated Shang Tsung is our enemy, and yet now you embrace him?!" Liu Kang shoots back, with the same heated glare aimed right back at Tsung, who simply snickers, the corner of his mouth twitching in the faintest of smug, wicked smirks.

"Perhaps at the time he was, but he is no longer so." Ever the patient one, Raiden's tone stays level and calm, but Shang sighs in annoyance, rolling his eyes as he makes to slip free of that oh so lovely embrace that he could simply get lost in--but Raiden holds him back, earning a grumble from him and a scowl.

"Enemy not by my choice, boy--and were I you, I would watch my tongue; lest it be cut," he bristles at the acclaimed Shaolin Champion in place of whatever he had planned to initially do. Raiden lets out a soft, but audible, huff, and Tsung forces himself to calm, though it takes every fiber of his being to do so and to not simply snap at Kang then.

"You have better things to do than to hound Lord Raiden and I, yes?" Shang chides, "Go, then--complete whatever duties you have. Your presence sickens me."

Liu is quick to react, however a glance from Raiden lulls him to shut his mouth and instead nod and turn, muttering quite heatedly under his breath.

It is no sooner than the Shaolin has left than a complete change of demeanor overcomes the sorcerer--once again does he seem to be an unassuming, gentle fawn; gazing up at Raiden with nothing but gentle softness within those dynamic hazel eyes, and he smiles just slightly.

"I must admit, I didn't think this day would come. Shao Kahn, dead... It seemed impossible; and yet here we are. Thus, are we free."

Raiden nods, and gazes upon that gentle, innocent visage--that which looks it could do no harm and yet he knows perhaps better than anyone just how many it's owner has slaughtered. Yet he does not fear nor despise the man; instead he pities him. "Indeed," he speaks in that resonate, soothing voice that makes Tsung melt. "Despite the odds; we are both here."

The mere concept seems to make Shang giddy, and he bounces on his heels, grinning as he does. "I missed this. Us. I miss the taste of your lips. May I remember the gentleness?"

Raiden appears uncertain at the offer. "Shang... You are aware that I much prefer to limit such to privacy."

"Yet we can embrace in front of your beloved champion?" Tsung protests, a hand snaking up to rest on the side of the god's neck (not as if he would be able to reach any higher--he is a great deal shorter than Raiden himself). Raiden sighs, perhaps for a moment considering relenting before yet again persisting.

"If we were to be seen--"

"A single kiss, that is all I ask for," Shang whines, giving Raiden a pleading look, and Raiden's resolve breaks in that moment with the pitiful, pleading look which the sorcerer had given.

"Very well," so he sighs, "but only one k-"

He cannot even finish before Shang has tugged him down, and crashed his own lips against his; squeezing his eyes shut and cupping Raiden's face as though if he did not touch him he would simply disappear--or perhaps as though it is all but a myth, an illusion. Raiden finds himself surprised at Tsung's boldness, but carefully after a moment does he slip a hand back around the small human's waist--the other hand coming to rest carefully upon the back of his neck.

Perhaps one kiss was not so bad after all.

#my writing #mortal kombat #raiden #shang tsung #raisung #im coining that as the ship name i thought it was common but apparently only my friends and i call it that #raiden x shang tsung #ok to rb #actually please do i want this to get noticed

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

When Love Must Die (chapter 5)

Link to chapter 1 (masterlist)

Tagging  @armaggedidnt @oh-hamlet @foxyfoe-reblog @s3dgy @butttteeerrrrrr @swanheart69 @giulisetta 

If anyone else wants to get tagged, let me know. :)

------------------------------

Chapter 5

The walls of the throne room tremble and shake, bits of rock falling down with each heavy, deliberate step the Lord of Hell takes in his direction, each one reverberating through the uneven rocky floor, echoing sharply in his broken ribs.  Beside him he can feel the other two demons shift away, moving further out of the range of their Master’s anger.

 Crowley is not so lucky.

 A large clawed hand wraps around his neck, and he is raised high into the air, his back slammed forcefully against the wall.

 “Raphael…,” Satan growls out, two bottomless pits of blackness glaring at Crowley from a giant Hellfire-singed face.

  It’s a name Crowley hasn’t heard in millennia; has done his best to forget both that God-forsaken name and everything that was attached to it when She cast him out into a pit of boiling sulfur, letting everything he ever was burn away until nothing but a tiny spark of his angelic essence remained, buried forever deep within a revolting snakelike frame.

 It is Her ultimate idea of a joke, he supposes, that, now that he’s sacrificed all of himself for his angel and allowed the poison to burn away and destroy his Hell-given powers and his demonic essence, She let his long-forgotten, brutally discarded and obscured angelic essence become exposed once more… and left him,

 as he was,

 in the clutches of Hell.

He knew She was a vindictive God. (If the Fall alone did not convince him, he had plenty of other vivid examples of Her Wrath or Her equally destructive Indifference over the millennia to know better).  Still… this felt like a particularly vicious, low blow. Even for Her.

 “I was… pleased,” the Great Beast snarls into his face, interrupting the bitter flow of his thoughts, “when I heard that the demon traitor who thwarted MY plans for Armageddon AND his subsequent execution was finally back in my domain to receive his just deserts.  I had instructed my loyal subjects to inflict appropriately delicious torment on your worthless soul.”  

 The Lord of Hell leans closer, black lips pulling back to reveal a row of jagged, dagger-like teeth.  Hisses out, low and menacing, his sulfur-rich breath wafting over Crowley’s face, thick and suffocating, “But to learn that the double-crossing snake is my wayward baby brother…”  The grip around his throat tightens, the hand yanking him briefly forward before knocking him forcefully back into the wall to punctuate the angry spit of words, “My own brother! Plotting behind my back.  And for what? Humans? The Earth? That fat excuse of an angel you’ve been fraternizing with all these years?”  

 He shakes him, roughly, as if Crowley were one of those souvenir toys he’d seen in a store once – ones filled with liquid and tiny bits of glitter that, when shaken, imitate the downward float of the falling snow. Snow globes humans call them.  Crowley’s head, too, feels very much like a thoroughly shaken snow globe, and he squeezes his eyes shut as the room swims around him in twisted, nauseating patterns.  

 And opens them with a strangled cry only moments later as Satan’s other hand presses against his chest and the five claws extend forth, razor-sharp and unnaturally long, tearing through him like knives through paper.  The hand around his neck lets go, and he is left suspended on these five clawed blades – a pinned butterfly on display.  His body trembles and spasms under the brutal onslaught of pain, as he gasps uselessly, convulsively for air.  

He only ever got in the habit of breathing just to blend in with the humans – never really had the need for it otherwise.  But in this moment, now, he suddenly feels a desperate, terrifying urgency to do so, because he feels like he’s drowning, suffocating in his own blood, his chest rent apart and caving in under the awful pressure.  

 There’s a loud roaring that fills his ears, growing louder and louder the longer he stays there, dangling helplessly off Satan’s claws. He tries to focus past it, tries to fix his wavering vision on the enormous sharp-toothed mouth that swims before him, close, too close for comfort.  The black lips move once more, words spilling out in a hiss, and Crowley squints, trying to process them, trying to understand.

“Betrayal is one thing, little brother.  But you? You have disappointed me.  And I reaaalllly hate being disappointed.”

 The black lips twist into a moue of disgust and Satan steps back a bit, the claws that skewer Crowley shrinking back to their normal size, slipping abruptly out of his body with a sickening wet slurp.  Their unwelcome support removed, Crowley drops to the floor in a broken heap – a discarded marionette with its strings cut.  And Satan’s words continue to flow over him, low and gleefully vengeful, spelling out his doom.

 “It was so very kind of Mother to deliver you to me without your demonic disguise.  The demon Crowley would have been tortured by my subjects for centuries for his role in stopping the Apocalypse.  But he would eventually have been wiped permanently from existence.”

 The horned head looms closer, the fire-reddened visage wrinkling with hatred.  “But you, dear brother, you will be mine forever.  For all eternity.  You will be bled; you will be flayed; you will be torn from limb to limb, your wings ripped off your body; you will be burned; chopped into bits; boiled in the Pit for years on end.  And each and every time you will be put back together again, so your torture can start all over.  

And you will never… EVER be given the mercy of death.”

 ***

It is nearly two weeks before Aziraphale finally crosses the threshold of Crowley’s apartment.  

 He spent most of those weeks getting thoroughly, deplorably sloshed.  Because facing the reality that Crowley was well and truly gone (and he was, Aziraphale was dismally certain of that fact: could no longer detect even a hint of his demonic essence, no matter how far he let his powers stretch), facing that reality sober was not something he was prepared to do.  And so he drank, and he drank, and he drank, hoping for the smothering fog of intoxication to dampen at least some of the pain that Crowley’s absence left behind.

 With the amount of alcohol he managed to consume over that near fortnight he would have probably succeeded in discorporating himself (an outcome he would have quite possibly willingly embraced), if it were not for his human hosts.  As patient as they were with him – allowing him that time to grieve (drink himself to oblivion), that patience, as with everything else in life, had finally come to an end.  

 He can’t say he was overly surprised when Anathema burst into the spare bedroom of her cottage that he’d been using as his own private liquor-steeped hell, yanked the latest bottle he had just miraculously refilled moments prior out of his hand, smashing it with visible satisfaction against the nearby wall, and proceeded to yell at him using language that, he’s pretty sure, would have made even a demon blush.

 But it was the quiet, disappointed words that she threw at him after her angry tirade was over that cut through the self-pitying, alcohol-thick haze.  Made him sober up quicker than any miracle would have.

 “Your friend went through all that pain, all that torment… to save you.  And this is how you choose to honor his sacrifice?”

 He could’ve have argued, he supposes.  Could have objected that his life didn’t matter, that nothing mattered now that Crowley was gone.  But Crowley’s sacrifice deserved better. Crowley deserved better.  So the angel drained the alcohol out of his system, miracled away the stench and stained rumpledness of his clothes, and forced himself to move on.

 He didn’t dare go back to Soho.  Couldn’t bear the thought of setting foot inside his bookshop. As irrational as it was, his books now served as a reminder of a cursed weakness that allowed some foul fiend to so easily exploit him; a weakness that led to his dear Crowley’s death.  

No, he couldn’t go back there, and so the shop remained closed.  Until further notice, as the sign, newly miracled to hang above the doorknob, announced.

 Crowley’s flat, however… Crowley’s flat was another thing entirely.  And as much as it hurt Aziraphale to walk into that forever empty, forever cold and soulless place, he owed it to Crowley to take care of it, to take care of his plants. It was his penance, the punishment he deserved for letting something so wonderful, so precious slip away from him. Over a cursed book!

 He lingers in the threshold, Newt and Anathema hovering protectively just behind him – his two ever-present personal guards, appointed to that role by Crowley himself.

 It was Anathema who told him, haltingly, grudgingly, about Crowley’s final request for her and Newt to look after Aziraphale, to protect him.  And Aziraphale doesn’t know what to do with that information, with the knowledge that even then, at that awful moment, in the face of certain, excruciating death, his demon’s final thoughts were only of keeping Aziraphale safe.  He doesn’t know if he will ever be able to handle the weight of that knowledge.  It makes his metaphorical heart twist with sharp, echoing pain; makes him long for the artificial relief of a wine bottle. Makes him regret so, so many things he’d said to Crowley over the years.  Makes him regret even more all the things he hadn’t.

 He closes his eyes briefly, digs deep to gather himself.  

 “Would you two mind…?” he starts, then stops, his too-dry throat catching painfully on the words.  Swallows, tries again, glancing back at them over his shoulder.  “I’d like to go in alone… Please?”

 His humans friends hesitate, a worried look shared flash-like between them.  In the end, Anathema nods, reluctant.  “We’ll be right outside if you need us.”

 He nods and steps fully inside, letting the door fall shut behind him, heavy and loud like the lid of a coffin.  He shudders at the morbid comparison, his eyes watering despite himself as he takes in the unbearably empty, oppressively dark flat that seems even more desolate now, shrouded in shadows and coated in days-old dust that its owner was no longer here to simply imagine away.  

 He forces his feet forward, past the hallway, past the office with its enormous lacquered desk and its ostentatious golden throne with cushions of dark red velvet – both looking smaller somehow, crushed by the overwhelming, lingering darkness.  And stops, hovering in guilt-ridden shock at the threshold of Crowley’s indoor garden – the only area in the flat where some light filters through the blind-covered windows, lingering in the dust-filled air, pooling over the plants.

 The plants.  Oh, dear Lord, the plants….

 Unsteadily, he steps inside, trembling fingers running over the leaves that stretch weakly, pleadingly toward him – some still miraculously, beautifully verdant, while others ….  

 Oh, Crowley, oh, what have I done

 “I’m sorry,” he chokes out miserably, tears of anguish and remorse rolling down his cheeks as he drops to his knees beside a formerly luxuriant rubber plant, whose now brown-spotted leaves droop hopelessly to the ground.  Reaches a quivering hand to softly, reverently trace the dying brown veins. “I’m so, so sorry.”

 Crowley wanted him to take care of them.  He was told as much by his human hosts (not that it truly registered at the time in the alcohol-soaked brain of his).  Crowley wanted him to take care of his garden.  And instead he all but neglected it to destruction.

 But he will fix it. He will fix every last one of them. Restore them all to their previous lush beauty and keep them that way for as long as he lives.  

It’s the least (the only thing) he can do.

 ***

Time passes differently in Hell.  It warps and stretches, collapses in on itself, then erupts with all the fury of a supernova, speeding up to some unknown end.  Crowley couldn’t keep track of it if he tried.  

 He doesn’t bother. Focuses on other things instead, simpler things: the sound of approaching footsteps outside the door of his cell; the stench of his own burned flesh – constant now, despite the merciless healings that are forced on him after his every plunge into the Pit; the equally constant ache of torn limbs fused carelessly back together to be torn apart again at a future session; the sting of his skin, flayed to thin red ribbons that would hang off him like pieces of a shredded shirt and restored haphazardly long after he’d lose consciousness; the unbearable, ever-increasing pressure in his arms and shoulders when he’s forced to hang by his wrists for an interminable amount of time; the sharp spasms that jolt through his brutally broken, shredded wings – the one part of him they never bothered to heal (“You ain’t ever going anywhere, CrAWley. You won’t be needing these anymore.”); a steady drip-drip-drip of his blood as it hits the floor below him, pooling at his feet….

 He doesn’t sleep much here. Sleep is a reprieve, a luxury that he is simply not allowed.  And whatever brief respite he does get between the end of one round of torture and the start of the next one, he spends either fully unconscious or drifting numbly in a thick fog of pain – his thoughts, his memories, his very consciousness stifled by it virtually to the point of nonexistence.

 Today… today is different somehow.  Today they finish early, earlier than usual.  Leave him alone in his cell while he’s still coherent enough to track their movement back toward and out the door.

 He blinks after them sluggishly, lets his too-too heavy eyelids slide closed.  Breathes, raspy and labored, past the uncomfortable vise of a broken ribcage, past the pain of dislocated shoulders that are forced to bear his weight, past the burning sting of fresh bleeding welts that criss-cross his back – imprints of a whip doused in Hellfire.  

And for the first time in what feels like forever, he manages to cling to consciousness long enough to let his mind drift back to the memories of before: to the bookshop with its warm, inviting clutter; to the Ritz with its crisp white tablecloths and the soft clinking of glasses; to St James’ Park with its rain-splattered sidewalks and its brazen, ever-present ducks…; and to Aziraphale.  Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale.  Right there beside him.  Always. With his stupidly soft, fond smile and his blue-blue eyes and those shy longing looks and the hand that sometimes lingers in Crowley’s….

 “Zira…,” he exhales, dry, blood-spattered lips twitching into a smile, parting just enough to release that tiny breath of a name, a reverent prayer, an impossible dream.  

 His body sags, boneless, his consciousness succumbing finally to the relentless onslaught of pain. But the faint, blissful smile remains.

 ***

Miles and miles above him in a Mayfair flat in London an angel, sitting slumped in post-healing exhaustion beside a newly verdant rubber plant, straightens out suddenly, his red-rimmed eyes flying open, a gasp of a name falling from his lips.

TBC

___

I’m not quite satisfied with the way this chapter turned out. Kinda anxious to see what you, guys, think.

#good omens fanfiction #good omens #crowley/aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale #hurt/comfort #angst #somethingjustsouthofbrilliance writes #sjsob good omens fics

[detectivechandler]

d.i chandler + scenes that i love / 3.01 ↳ do you do this every night, sir?

#visage. will an angel of the lord stay my hand #*rattles the bars of my cage* i love him sm #di chandler #whitechapel itv #di joseph chandler #rupert penry jones #just realized this isnt my edits blog. too lazy to care.

[kmomof4]

Time and Again A new fic by @kmomof4

It’s HERE y’all!!! I’ve been working on this fic since May and I am soooo excited to share it with all of you!! This was inspired by a romance novel I read in high school called Time After Time, by Billie Green. Canon dialog and the characters, of course, belong to Adam and Eddy. Much love and all the hugs to my besties and brainstorm/beta/encourager team of @hollyethecurious​ and @winterbaby89​. Extra special shout out to the CSSNS discord ladies for repeatedly bailing me out when I got stuck, listening to me whine, a LOT, and constantly encouraging me not to give up! I hope you all enjoy my next foray into writing CS fanfiction. There are two types of line breaks contained in the fic. The ones that go all the way across are scene changes, while the short ones signify a change of POV or a time jump within the same scene. The story is complete and I’ll be updating on Sundays and Thursdays for the next five weeks. 

ao3 link Rated M for violence and smut. There will be trigger warnings for the appropriate chapters.

Tagging my crew: Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed. @snowbellewells​ @stahlop​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @jennjenn615​ @kingofmyheart14​ @profdanglaisstuff​ @thisonesatellite​ @ultraluckycatnd @flslp87​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @let-it-raines​ @shireness-says​ @kymbersmith-90​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​ @bethacaciakay​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @teamhook @aprilqueen84​ @qualitycoffeethings​ 

Emma Swan stepped off the elevator and walked into the busy foyer of Jones Brothers Advertising. Waving to Belle at the front desk and wishing her a good morning, she started toward her office before she heard Belle calling her name.

“Emma.” Belle waved her back over to the desk.

“Hey, Belle,” she replied. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to remind you about lunch today with Mary Margaret, Ruby, and the new girl, Tina Bell,” the brunette said. “Just to welcome her to the office.”

“Oh, right,” she responded. “I forgot she was starting today. Okay,” she said, glancing at her watch, “I have a meeting with Mr. Jones at nine about the Neverland campaign. We’ll be done before twelve, because I know he has a lunch meeting with their CEO today.”

“That’s great. I’ll let the others know and we’ll see you then.”

Emma continued on her way to her office to get ready for the meeting with her boss. The Neverland Cruises campaign was finally winding down after almost nine months of revamping their advertising strategy. The launch date of their new campaign was less than a month away now, and it was crunch time. Emma, as a Senior Executive of Marketing, reported directly to the younger of the Jones brothers, Killian, and she found herself in almost daily meetings with the man going over the numbers that her team had gathered as the launch date loomed. Very particular in his tastes and in his expectations of his employees, Emma knew that she needed to be ready for anything he threw at her.

Greeting her secretary, Ariel, Emma grabbed her appointment schedule for the day and pushed her way into her office, secretly thrilled with the fact that she had her own secretary, even if she did share her with the two other Senior Executives. After looking over her schedule, her eyes landed on her desk and the pile of papers that spoke to the fact of her late night at the office last night, and the late night she’d have tonight as well. Not here, she thought. Everything’s coming home with me tonight. At least I can have a glass of wine with my dinner. Satisfied with her plans, she sat down and started one last review before she was expected in Mr. Jones’s office.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Killian Jones finished replying to an email and looked up at the vintage nautical clock hanging on the wall across from his desk. Emma Swan was expected in his office soon to go over the final results of all the research that her team was responsible for in the Neverland Cruises ad campaign. She was always exactly on time, so he knew that he had a few minutes to indulge in thinking about the golden haired goddess who so often haunted his dreams. Only a few minutes though, so I’d better not get too carried away, lest she finds me in a… he cleared his throat, less than professional situation, he thought as his pants already started to tighten. It was a good thing he was at his desk. I’ll just have to stay here until things calm down. He looked around his office, at the wooden and nautical accents throughout, trying to bring his libido under control before she graced him with her presence.

It wasn’t always this bad. He had become well practiced in hiding his attraction to his beautiful employee over the years. Burying his desire underneath strict professionalism at all times. Never letting go of his iron control when it came to his subordinate. Given the situation they were in as boss and employee, he couldn’t afford to try to pursue something with her that might end with her no longer working at Jones Brothers Advertising and him never seeing her again. Not to mention the fact that she was the leading candidate for the Vice-President of Marketing position for the new Los Angeles branch that would be opening after the new year. It was that thought that finally did the trick in bringing his ardor under control just as she entered his office.

“Good morning, Mr. Jones,” she greeted him as she strode confidently into the room. Her lithe figure was adorned with a black check printed ruffled top with black pencil skirt that ended just above her knee. With her long blonde curls loose over her shoulders and her three inch heels, Killian had to remind himself that she wasn’t his, had never been his, and never would be his as he struggled to not stride over to her, pull her into his arms, and kiss her senseless. Fitting his professional mask in place, hopefully before she got a good look at him, he answered her.

“Good morning, Miss Swan. Are we ready with everything?”

“I have it all right here, sir,” she replied, setting the papers before him on his desk. As she did, the scent of vanilla reached him and he had to fight to keep from staring into her beautiful green eyes. Looking down at the first document of a rather large pile they would need to get through this morning, he resigned himself to his lot of being around the, thankfully oblivious, object of his affection.

*~*~*~*

Emma thought back to when she first entered Mr. Jones office. After greeting him, she thought she saw a flash of… something, in his eyes before his countenance settled into the professionalism she was used to.

His appearance was as professional as ever, but she still had to suppress a shiver of awareness as she took him in. His black hair was artfully mussed with just a few strands falling down over his forehead. Black scruff with just a hint of ginger lined his strong jaw. His suit jacket was missing, but the gray waistcoat and candy striped dress shirt, whose sleeves were rolled to his elbows, showing off muscular forearms, accentuated his trim physique. Even hours later, she still couldn’t help but wonder what those arms would feel like wrapped around her, or what that scruff would feel like in certain places on her body.

She mentally gave herself a shake, mind out of the gutter Swan, and got back to the business at hand, determined to put aside her unprofessional musings. There was never any chance anyway. He only saw her as a work machine. And if she messed up, she was a broken machine in need of replacement. If she got the promotion to the new LA branch, she’d still be answering to him, but she wouldn’t be in the office with him every day, battling and hiding her attraction day in and day out. She stuffed the inappropriate thoughts down into that area of her heart and mind where all of her illicit thoughts of him resided. Hopefully, never to see the light of day again.

*~*~*

“What is this?” His bark brought Emma back to the present and made her jump just a little. Looking up from where she had been perusing the final numbers tracing the demographics they were targeting for the campaign, she took in the stormy visage of his brow simply known as The Frown.

Yes, it actually had a title.

That’s because it was the one that completely transformed his normally serious, but still handsome face into one that had earned him the nickname Vulcan, behind his back, of course, after the Roman god of fire. It was the look that left the Senior Executives shaking in their boots and scrambling to find and fix whatever it was that had displeased the Senior Vice President of Marketing and sent the underlings scurrying to get out of his way.

“What is what?” she responded. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she rose and joined him on the other side of the conference table. Leaning over his shoulder, she could immediately see what the problem was. She shook her head as her eyes widened then sent a chagrined smile his way. “Walter couldn’t find his own ass with both hands and a flashlight,” she murmured before looking back down at the document measuring the rating for the campaign.

The loud laugh that made its way out of her boss’s mouth had Emma looking back at him, completely startled. His head was thrown back, jaw open, the chords on his neck standing out, eyes shut as his body shook from unhindered mirth. In that instant, all the attraction that she had felt from the very first day of her employment that she buried deep down, came roaring back to the front of her mind. She stood there, dumbstruck, as her boss, Vulcan, the always professional, reserved, never ruffled man, the one that she had worked under for closing in on a decade, that never smiled, much less laughed, howled as if his sides would split. When he finally got his mirth under control, he opened his eyes which were now sparkling a dazzling blue. Dear Lord, she thought, the man isn’t just handsome, he is gorgeous! She continued to stare at him after that startling revelation until his still unusually bright eyes landed on her.

“What is it, Miss Swan?” he asked, forehead beginning to furrow in prelude to The Frown.

“N- nothing, sir…” she stammered. “I just don’t think I’ve ever heard or seen you laugh before.” She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the stray thoughts his amusement had generated. Not to mention, the arousal.

“Well, considering that I’ve never heard you say something funny before, we can call it even,” he quipped.

Flustered, she picked up the document from the table as she checked the time on her watch. It was nearly time to meet the others for lunch. “I’ll take this home with me tonight, and have the correct figures on your desk first thing in the morning, sir.”

“See that you do,” he responded. “I’m meeting Peter in twenty minutes for a business lunch. I’ll just have to skim over this portion of the update. I’ll expect your report before 9am. That will be all, Miss Swan.” It was a dismissal if she ever heard one, and she knew she had her work cut out for her this afternoon and evening.

“Yes, sir.” Gathering her other documents, she put them all in her case and hurried out.

Making her way back into her office, Emma found Ruby Lucas sitting in front of her desk tapping on her phone with her blood red manicure.

“Emma,” she exclaimed, jumping up from her seat. “We’re ready! Let’s go to lunch!” Her friend looped her arm through Emma’s and started to drag her to the door.

“What! Am I late?” she questioned. She glanced at her watch. “I’m not late, it’s only 11:45. Let me at least put my stuff down and make a couple of notes on what I’ll be working on this afternoon, then I’ll be ready.”

“Ugh, fine,” the woman huffed, sitting herself down again. “I’m just ready to get out of here for a long lunch. I’ll be so glad when this campaign is launched and over. Even Granny is starting to feel the pressure. She’s been on a terror this morning.” Emma smiled with affection at the thought of “Granny” Lucas. Not actually related to Ruby, she was a matronly figure that insisted everyone call her Granny. She had raised the Jones brothers after their parents were killed in a car accident and had been in charge of HR, Ruby’s department, since the office opened.

“There. Done. Now I’m ready,” she declared, straightening up and coming around her desk. “Where are we going? Where are M’s and Tina? I saw Belle was still at her desk.”

“They went on ahead to get a table at that new bistro that opened up, Down the Street Cafe,” Ruby replied. “If the rumors are to be believed, if they hadn’t gotten there by 11:15, we wouldn’t get a table until after 1.”

“I see,” she murmured, as Ruby looped her arm through hers again, leading her toward the door. “Well, lead the way, my friend. Can’t leave them waiting any longer than we already have. M’s will dish all the gossip before we get there.”

Ruby threw back her head laughing as they made their way over to Belle waiting for them at the elevator.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finally entering the crowded restaurant, Emma could see Mary Margaret waving frantically at them to join them at the table. Taking their seats, Emma reached out to shake Tina’s hand as Mary Margaret made introductions. Once their orders were taken, Ruby drawled, “So, now that we’re all here, we can get down to business.” Her green eyes danced. “Gossip.” The others all laughed at Ruby’s wolfish grin, as she looked affronted with their glee. “What? We all know that’s why we’re here,” she asserted, “besides welcoming Tina to the office, of course. And what better way to welcome her than letting her in on all the office goings on?”

“Did you see Frederick and his new girl?” Mary Margaret asked. “I think her name’s Abigail, from Accounting.”

“Oh, yes,” Ruby replied enthusiastically. “She’s pretty, but very standoffish. They were locked in his office for two hours yesterday!”

“And guess who found her,” Belle nodded toward Ruby, “with her ear against the door?”

“No!” Emma squealed as the other ladies dissolved into hysterical laughter while Ruby dramatically faceplanted onto the table.

“Yes,” Ruby groaned, her voice muffled by the table. Looking up, she turned to Emma and grabbed her wrist. “He gave me The Frown Emma, and I froze. I literally couldn’t move. I found myself hoping there was a history of heart attacks in my family so I’d at least have a chance of dying on the spot. And do you know what he said?”

“What?” Emma was still having trouble bringing her giggles under control.

“‘When you’re done praying, Miss Lucas’ you know in that deep silky voice of his, ‘I need Tina Bell’s personnel file on my desk.’ I thought I would die,” she finished with her usual flair.

“Oh, tell me about Mr. Jones,” the young blonde sighed. “He’s so dreamy.” She had a far away look in her eyes and a soft smile on her lips as Emma rolled her eyes at the swooning of the young woman.

“Which one?” she asked, “There are two of them you know, but one’s taken,” she continued, cutting her eyes to Belle as the woman blushed furiously.

Understanding dawned in Tina’s eyes as she caught sight of the blushing woman who was looking everywhere except at her companions. “Oh! I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed. “I meant Killian. Is Liam yours, Belle?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call him mine, exactly,” Belle protested, as her companions made various sounds of laughter and disbelief, “We haven’t been dating that long and we’re not calling it anything, I mean.”

“Oh, honey,” Mary Margaret said, placing her hand on Belle’s arm, “That man is so head over heels for you, you don’t have to call it anything for all of us to see exactly what it is. Soulmates.” The dreamy expression on Mary Margaret’s face had Emma rolling her eyes again.

Emma snorted. “Soulmates, huh?” She could almost hear her mother telling her that her eyes were going to get stuck like that if she rolled them any harder. “There’s no such thing.”

More sounds of laughter and disbelief erupted from around the table, with poor Tina absolutely indignant at Emma’s assertion. “Of course there’s such a thing as soulmates,” she exclaimed. “My parents have been together for thirty years. And they are as happy today as on their wedding day. If that’s not soulmates, I don’t know what is.”

Ruby cackled with a wide grin. “Ohhhh Tina. You just waved a red flag in front of our Destined True Love Destruction Bull, also known as Emma, over there.”

“Listen to what I’m saying,” Emma responded. “I’m not saying that love doesn’t exist. Or that there are not good, happy, long lasting marriages. What I’m saying is that the whole idea of soulmates or fated by the stars or destined doesn’t exist.” The contempt dripped from her lips as she put air quotes around the cliched phrases. “Love and marriage are hard work,” she continued, “and it takes two to make it work. It’s a matter of choosing someone every day. Of choosing that relationship above all else. For the rest of your life.” A cloud of melancholy settled on Emma’s brow as she remembered her own heartache. Her own experience of not being chosen every day.

She met Neal her sophomore year in college and fell in love as only a nineteen year old could. She did Neal’s cooking, she did Neal’s cleaning, she did Neal’s laundry, she helped him write papers, she helped him study. She gave 150% to the budding relationship. Until she found out that the one who she thought was the one was sleeping with her roommate, and her lab partner, and the RA of her dorm.

Mary Margaret spoke up, bringing her back to the present, green eyes blazing with sincerity, “Yes, you’re right, Emma. Love and marriage are hard work, and it does take two, and you do have to choose that relationship every day, but when it’s with the person you are supposed to be with, it makes the effort and the fight that much easier and more rewarding.” She turned her eyes upon Tina then. “My David is absolutely my soulmate.. He is the one my soul loves. The one I would be lost without. To borrow a phrase from Forrest Gump, he completes me. And the fact that he’s gorgeous certainly doesn’t hurt,” the petite brunette finished with a smirk.

Belle snorted before replying, “That wasn’t Forrest Gump, M’s. That was Jerry Maguire.”

“Pfft,” she blew out, “Whatever. The point stands.”

“If she decides to wait for her destined soulmate, she may never find love. She needs to have realistic expectations when looking for a lover or spouse,” Emma interjected. “There will always be something wrong with the other person. Something that drives you crazy. Something that consistently irritates you, like leaving the toilet seat up. Throwing away a good relationship because of small issues that in the big picture don’t matter, is just stupid! ‘He can’t be my soulmate, because my soulmate would never…’ fill in the blank. And staying in a bad relationship because ‘Oh, he’s my soulmate’ is just as bad, if not worse.” Emma crossed her arms over her torso, thoughts of how close she came to doing just that sending a chill through her body. “By all means, Tina,” she continued, “fall in love. But be realistic about it. Be prepared to fight for it, even when the going gets tough, which it will. And don’t lose yourself in the process. Falling in love doesn’t mean that you are no longer your own person. It simply means that you are choosing to join yourself to another.”

“Well, of course there will be things about him that irritate you,” Mary Margaret responded. “But having that soulmate connection makes it easier and more worthwhile to fight through those tough times.”

“Having a soulmate does make the struggles more worthwhile in the end,” Belle argued. “I like to believe there is someone out there just for me, and maybe that’s Liam. I do care for him deeply,” she looked away again, blushing, “and I am starting to see a future with him. A happy one.” There was a collective “Awwwww” from around the table. Even Emma joined in.

“Well, anyone with eyes can see how much Liam adores you, Belle,” Ruby acknowledged. “And if anyone deserves love, it’s you.” Ruby pulled her friend in for a sideways hug.

Tina looked far away and dreamy again. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind waking up to Killian Jones’ face every morning. Anna in payroll said that he’d been married before, but that she died seven years ago and he hasn’t so much as looked at anyone since. I must have looked a little starry eyed when he walked me over there.” She looked at her tablemates a little sheepishly and sighed.

“Oh, speak of the devil,” Ruby blurted out, eyes wide, “Crap, I hope he didn’t hear us,” she whispered to her companions.

Emma turned around and saw none other than Killian Jones approaching their table with the CEO of Neverland Cruises, Peter Pan, right in front of him. A quick gasp kept her laughter at bay at the sight of the CEO. He looked like he was about twenty years old and yes, his name really was Peter Pan. When the trust fund baby had inherited the family cruise line business at the age of twenty-two, he promptly renamed it Neverland Cruises to take advantage of the family name and literary notoriety. That was eight years ago and his former CEO had nearly run it into the ground before Peter took the reins, hiring his Rice University roommate Killian Jones to revamp his advertising campaign to turn the business around. As Killian passed their table, he smiled and nodded congenially to them as he spoke, “I hope this place is as good as I’ve heard. Enjoy your lunch ladies.”

A chorus of ‘goodbye’ and ‘you too’ followed the men as they continued on toward their table.

“Yep,” Tina sighed, turning back to her new coworkers, “I definitely wouldn’t mind waking up to his face everyday. Even if he did leave the toilet seat up.” The rest of the table erupted into laughter as their food was served.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Emma had ordered a large entree at lunch earlier fully expecting to finish it at home that evening. She didn’t like cooking for one, so when she knew she’d be working late, she either ordered a large lunch to bring home with her or raided her takeout menu drawer as soon as she walked in the door.

Tossing her briefcase on the sofa, she walked into the kitchen and pulled out the bottle of wine that was left over from the weekend girls night she had hosted last weekend. After pouring herself a glass and taking a sip, she made her way back into the living room, turned on the tv and pulled up her Netflix queue. On nights that she worked late, she didn’t even pay attention to what she was choosing, simply clicking on the first thing that came up. She never watched it. She only wanted the background noise, the sound of another human voice in the otherwise quiet apartment. She pulled her papers out of her briefcase and opened her leftovers, diving in to her dinner, her wine, and her work.

Hours later, Emma looked up and noticed that she was finished with season two of Black Sails. Well, she thought, I’ll have to go back and see what I missed. Stretching with a mighty yawn, she could feel her vertebrae realigning after so long looking down at her work. It was nearly midnight and she was ready to go to bed. I’ll definitely sleep well tonight, she thought.

Moments after her head hit the pillow, Emma blinked in the bright sunshine and realized that the reason for her blinking was the fact that she was above the clouds and there was nothing between her and the blinding rays of the sun beating down on her. She also became aware that she was holding onto something big and green, and that she couldn’t see the ground below her. She screamed and clutched at the vines before her for dear life, just before she heard a very familiar voice to her right.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise.” Emma turned toward the voice and found herself face to face with none other than Killian Jones. Her stomach did a little flip as his blue eyes met her terrified green ones, but whether it was from the scare or just being this close to him, she really couldn’t tell. “But honestly Swan, it’s only a dream, you’re not gonna fall, so there’s no reason for the theatrics.”

“Theatrics?!” she exclaimed, “You think my reaction is…” she shook her head, trying to clear it, “theatrics?” It was only then that she realized what her boss was wearing. A leather greatcoat that if he were standing, would fall below his knees, black, skin tight, leather pants, a black billowy shirt with most of the buttons undone underneath a red waistcoat. The guyliner surrounding his eyes, rings on his fingers, a dangly black earring, and artfully mussed black hair completed the picture of a rogue pirate captain. “And look at you! What are you wearing? And how do you know this is a dream?” she questioned.

“Well, as you so helpfully pointed out,” he smirked, “there is the matter of the way I’m dressed. I’m not aware of owning any such clothing, although these leather pants are quite comfortable, if I’m honest,” he said, shrugging. She looked over at him and perused the garment in question. They certainly fit him well. The pants hugged his hips and thighs and what she could see of his calves. Her heart stuttered in her chest. “There is also the matter of your appearance. I’ve dreamt of you before, you see, quite often actually, and you are usually… a little more bare than you are now,” he admitted, eyes roaming up and down her form. Emma tried very hard to ignore the shiver that ran through her at his assessing gaze.

At that very moment, Emma’s baby duck pajama bottoms and yellow camisole she wore to bed that night disappeared, giving her a very good idea of the kind of dreams Mr. Jones usually had of her. She was as naked as the day she was born, but she couldn’t let go of the vines in front of her to try and cover herself. “Put them back,” she screeched, “put my clothes back right now, Mr. Jones!”

“As you wish, Swan,” he replied. Her clothes were instantly back in place as he looked away with a bright flush to his cheeks that reached down past his ginger scruff onto his neck. “And third,” he continued, still looking away from her up the beanstalk, “there is the matter of our location. I have no idea how we got here or what we’re supposed to do now.”

“Let go,” she said, as an idea came to her. “Let’s let go, Jones. Then we’ll have to wake up.” Her eyes twinkled with her seemingly brilliant plan.

“Uh, no,” he argued, “People die in their sleep Swan, and if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to actually wake up from this dream. And given our circumstances, maybe you should call me Killian.” He looked away again, the flush back in full force as he looked up. “I think we should just keep climbing, see where we end up.”

Since he wasn’t willing to let go with her, and she definitely wasn’t going to do it by herself, she realized she didn’t have a choice but to follow him up the beanstalk. Because that is exactly what it was, a beanstalk. What even is my life? she thought as she started to climb.

Some time later, Killian looked over at her. “You know, most men might take your silence as off-putting, but, I love a challenge,” he commented, black eyebrows waggling.

“I’m concentrating,” Emma replied. “I’d really like to actually make it to the top and not fall to my death as you so helpfully pointed out,” she grumbled.

“No, you’re afraid to talk, to reveal yourself,” he pointed out. He was silent for a moment as he continued to climb. “Well, I don’t need you to share. You’re something of an open book.”

“Am I?” she asked.

“Quite,” he answered. “You have the same look in your eye that I have. The look of someone who’s been left alone.”

“What do you mean, ‘left alone?’” she asked, confusion and alarm furrowing her brow. “Weren’t you raised by Granny? And you have your brother, too.” I didn’t have anyone, she thought, not until Ingrid, anyway. And that was almost too late to count.

“Aye,” he replied, “but Granny didn’t take us in until after our mother and father died in a car accident.” Emma could see the pain of his revelation plainly written on his face. “So yes, I’ve been left alone by two of the people who are never supposed to leave. And while I do have my brother, an orphan’s an orphan. One recognizes another.” He looked away from her then, clearly uncomfortable with his revelation as he gazed upwards. “Love has been all too rare in your life, hasn’t it?” he asked, looking back into her eyes. “Have you ever even been in love?”

“No,” she answered him, slightly breathless with exertion and the intensity of his gaze. “I have never been in love.” She turned away from him then and continued climbing. She’d be damned if she was going to let him know how much he affected her. And how close to the mark he really was.

They finally made it to the top of the monstrous plant. Emma’s arms and legs felt like jelly, as she let go and landed on concrete. As Killian joined her on the ground, he grabbed her arm and turned her toward him. “Come here,” he said, “Give me your hand. It’s cut.”

“What? No, no,” she argued, trying to pull back from him. “it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” he argued right back. “Let me help you.” He pulled a flask out of one of the many pockets in his coat and uncorked it. “Ah.” He took a sniff. “I thought that’s what it might be,” he remarked. “Rum. Goes with the costume anyway.” He shrugged and started pouring the liquid over her hand as she screeched and tried to snatch it away from him.

“Ah, ah, AHHH!” she exclaimed, still trying to get her hand out of his. He held her firmly however as he pulled a large scarf she hadn’t noticed before from around his neck and started to wrap her hand with it. Holding her close with one arm, Emma felt the tingle of awareness trickle down her spine. She was also aware of the increase in her heart rate as she watched him work. When he finally finished wrapping the scarf, he was left with only one hand to secure it since his other was still occupied with holding her still. Arousal flooded her and she let out a small gasp of surprise as he finally took one end of the scarf in his mouth as he looked up at her through his dark lashes while he pulled it tight and tucked it into the wrap.

“See now,” he whispered, pulling back and patting her hand, “all better.” He looked deeply into her eyes, daring her to look away. She stood transfixed at what she read in the azure blue depths. Her mouth hung slightly open as she shook herself out of her stupor. Finally looking around at their surroundings, his penetrating gaze and her arousal were completely forgotten. They appeared to be in the courtyard of a gigantic castle. Much larger than anything down below on earth. The dimensions were mind boggling. The courtyard was the size of a football field. The parapets above were at least a hundred feet high, and the door, for lack of a better word, had to be at least seventy feet high, even from this distance. “Well,” her companion commented, wryly, “I guess that answers that question.”

“What question?” she asked.

“Where we are, darling,” he answered. “Given the size of the castle before us, not to mention the way we got here, I’d say we’re in a land of giants.”

At that moment, the concrete of the courtyard started to shake as evidence of Killian’s speculation became visible on the other side of the courtyard. It only took the giants moments to reach them as they struggled to keep their balance amid the shaking of the ground. “Halt! Who goes there?” the smallest of the giants asked.

Killian stepped forward and to the side as he reached out toward Emma trying to draw her behind him. “I’m Killian Jones, and my friend here is Emma Swan. We’re strangers here, and we’d like nothing more than to leave you and your land in peace.” Emma was no fool and she knew there was no way they could successfully fight their way out of the situation.

“Oh no!” The largest giant laughed. “We know who you are, pirate.”

“Pirate?” Killian exclaimed, “No, no, no. I’m no pirate.”

Emma spoke up behind him, “No! He’s my boss. He’s not really a pirate. This is a dream, you see-” But the giant cut her off.

“A dream?” he asked, incredulous. “No, this is no dream. He is a pirate, here to steal our magic beans. And I can only guess that you are here to be used as a distraction. So you both will be taken to the dungeon.” As the giant made to reach for Killian, he shoved her back towards the beanstalk they had been slowly and surreptitiously moving towards since the beginning of the encounter.

“Run, Swan!” he shouted, turning just fast enough to evade the giant’s grasp. They both made a running leap onto the beanstalk and started making their way down it as fast as they could. They could hear the giants up above them shouting and the entire beanstalk shook violently as two giants started climbing down after them.

“Well, it looks like we’ll have to try my idea after all,” Emma shouted, looking up towards their rapidly descending pursuers.

“Aye, that it does, love,” Killian replied, chagrin lacing his tone. He looked over at her, his blue eyes unusually bright as he reached his hand out to her. “On three?”

“On three,” she agreed, taking his hand in hers. “One. Two. Three.” They let go of the beanstalk simultaneously… And Emma woke up in her bed with her alarm blaring.

Damn, what the hell was that dream? Her foggy, sleep addled brain unhelpfully asked. And who in the world was that with me? Someone else with Jones’ face. Because there is no way that was my boss. He was forward, but a gentleman. He was open, perceptive, and protective too. Yep, definitely not my boss. She shook her head and, determined to put the dream out of her head, got out of bed and got herself ready for work. But not before noticing a scar on her palm that hadn’t been there when she went to bed the night before.

#time and again #CS fic #krystal writes #art by krystal #captain swan ff

[thefragileblackdahlia]

Lazarus Rising: Final Part

Chapter Summary: Dean wakes up in a pine box, freed from Hell. He has a joyful reunion with Sam but they wonder what pulled Dean from Hell – and why.

Pairing(s): Eventual Dean x Archangel!OFC, Castiel x sister!Ariel

Warning(s): Typical Supernatural violence, Mild Language, Self-loathing(i guess)

A/N: This story will be in 3rd person cause it makes sense. I hope you enjoy! Feedback is welcome. Italics without quotations are summaries. The episodes will get more immersive as we go along but for now, the first episode will be like the show except for a few subtle changes, like I will be skipping Sam exorcising with his mind cause it doesn’t add to the story. It still happened but I just didn’t write it. Beta’d by no one so if there are any errors I’m sorry.

Word count: 2,198

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"Castiel, these vessels are..." Ariel looked down at her shoulders, then at her wings.

Their fight in hell had taken a toll on her self-image, the white of her wings were scorched with hell-fire. The tips of her feathers were now a deep, dark black that faded into a pearl white and then a blood-red at the marginal coverts and scapulars... Castiel's once bright wings were both now scorched and black. He didn't mind though, he seemed unphased by the change.

She ruffled the feathers as she continued after the long pause, "Constricting." She peered over to her side as she watched Castiel gaze at the wall with intense focus. He appeared to be evading eye contact. Did her vessel make him uncomfortable? She glanced down at her nude figure, taking in all of the curves of her new body.

Castiel cleared his throat before making eye contact with his older sister, "Ariel, We must hurry. Humans don't like waiting." He notified the red-head. He peeped at her vessel's body, inhaling sharply as he saw her slip-on lacey white thongs and then a silky, baby pink gown.

"I am hurrying, Castiel. No need to rush me. I like to look good during my time on earth, unlike others..." She jeered, giving him a slight nudge with her elbow as she strutted past him into the bathroom.

Ariel grabbed the hairbrush and moved it through her copper, wavy tresses, styling it in a 40s wave and side part style. She flashed herself a soft smile and then turned to her companion.

"Castiel, It's time." She set the brush down as she spoke and fluttered her wings as best she could to get the feathers all sorted out. It didn't exactly matter if her wings were presentable, humans could not see them with the naked eye, but other angels would and she felt as snd archangel...she had to look her best.

Meanwhile, Dean and Bobby sat for almost a half-hour waiting for the mysterious Ariel and Castiel to show.

Dean let out a hefty sigh, swinging his legs like a child. "Bobby, you sure you did the ritual right?" He glanced up at the hunter, only getting a bitch-face in return. "Sorry. Touchy, touchy, huh?" Dean chuckled but it soon subsided after the shutters on the roof began rattling and swinging open.

Dean leaped from the table, shaken, he lurched for a shotgun and Bobby did the same. Dean yelled over the noise, "Wishful thinking, but maybe it's just the wind." Dean quipped, clasping the barrel of his shotgun.

The doors of the warehouse were flung off its hinges. Two shadow figures stood in the distance as rain and thunder began to pick up outside. Dean could make out that one was a man, the other, a woman. As the two had advanced forward, the light bulbs above their heads began exploding one by one, intimidating the two hunters.

Dean pumped his sawed-off, directing it at the man. He wasn't sexist but he felt like the woman in the pink dress wasn't a threat. He shot Castiel twice but it did nothing to slow him down.

Castiel smirked at the human's feeble attempts at defense. They had no idea who they were dealing with and he figured it would be hard to convince a faithless man like Dean to believe in something like him and his sister.

Dean kept his eyes on the woman, her ginger locks swaying in the thunderous wind. Her dress was soft silk, pink, strapless and off the shoulder. The sleeves were long and formed a bell shape a the hems. It resembled something a 21st-century princess would've worn. It was nice.

Dean reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, white-knuckling the demon-killing knife as he followed Ariel and Castiel with his eyes. Dean took a step back as Castiel moved to his side, overlooking Bobby completely.

Ariel stood 5 feet from Dean, her icy blue eyes settled on his gorgeous emerald gems. She didn't appear that very tall, maybe about 5 foot 3 inches. She was small but still, Dean was cautious of what she could be.

"Who are you?" The righteous man demanded as he slowly paced around the two, in an effort to at least have an advantage.

The man in the trench coat spoke first, "We are the ones who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition." Castiel motioned to him and Ariel.

"Uh-huh, Yeah thanks for that." Dean quipped as he lunged at Ariel, closing the distance between them. He grabbed her left shoulder as he plunged the demon-knife into her heart.

Ariel looked down, slight concern seeped through her emotionless facade. she pulled the knife out of her breast and dropped it to the floor.

As this went on, Bobby went to swipe at Castiel with a sword and without even looking at him, he seized the weapon and used it to swing Bobby around to his front. The soldier placed two fingers on his forehead and watched the surly hunter crumpled to the ground.

Ariel spoke, a softness in her voice, "We need to talk, Dean. Alone."

Dean stared at two with wide eyes. He yielded at the sound of his name rolling off her tongue. He locked his eyes on hers, furrowing his brows. What were they? He looked to Bobby who lied on the ground. Was he dead? No, he couldn't be, nothing happened.

Dean squatted beside Bobby, intuitively checking his pulse which appeared fine. He glared at Castiel, jaw clenched tight.

Castiel wandered over to the books that were on the table, flipping through the pages as Ariel treated her knife wound, a pinkish glow pouring out of her hand as it hovered over the top of her left breast.

Castiel looked up at the wall, slightly annoyed. "Your friend's alive." He grumbled. He looked back at his sister, watching as she healed herself. Ariel looked up immediately catching Castiel's gaze. They stayed that way for the remainder of the minute.

He watched as the two conversed silently like they had a telepathic link. "Who are you?" Dean questioned again.

"Castiel," The rough Angel responded but was rudely interrupted,

"Yeah, I figured that much I mean what are you?" Dean motioned to Ariel who had now finished healing herself.

He rose to his feet, reclining against the table but not completely letting down his guard. He occasionally peeped at the Ariel.

Ariel lifted a brow at the hunter. Why did he keep looking at her? What did he want? Ariel parted her lips to speak but decided not to.

Castiel looked up from the book to study Dean. "I am an Angel of the Lord."

"And her?" Dean signed to Ariel. "Is she an Angel also?" He interrogated, waving his hand in a circular motion, signaling that he wanted more than a few words.

"I am the Archangel Ariel." She finally spoke up. She offered the human a friendly smile.

There wasn't much light that could make out her features but the light that there, bounced off of her ivory skin, casting a soft cerulean glow.

"Yeah and I am the Easter Bunny, Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing." Dean sneered, picking up the demon knife and wiping the blood off on his jacket sleeve.

"That is your problem, Dean Winchester." Ariel took a step toward Dean, frustration in her voice. "You have no faith." She continued as the lightning outside struck the roof. A soft red glow emitted from her vessel, a bright pink light, emitting over the graffiti-covered walls.

Dean's eyes darted around at the display in front of him, his mouth agape as he saw the silhouette of two very large wings projected onto the wall. The wingspan almost reached the back wall. As suddenly as the light appeared, it dissolved, leaving Ariel standing in her gown.

Dean closed his mouth, doubt still on his mind. Dean adjusted his jacket before he spoke bitterly, "Some Angels you are, You burned out that poor woman's eyes."

Castiel stayed on the side, meddling with some of the things on the table. He figured it was best to let Ariel carry the rest of the conversation, she seemed to have grown restless.

"Castiel warned her not to spy on our true forms, I'm surprised she is alive after getting a peek of me. It can be uh... overwhelming to humans, and so can our real voices. But you already knew that."

The archangel's voice held a sultry tone that was filled with disappointment, hoping Dean was as smart as they said.

Ariel inched closer to the faithless man, the sole of her flats dragging against the ground.

Dean shifted onto the other foot, rolling his head as he recalled the Gas station and motel incident.

"So at the gas station and the motel... that was you talking?" Ariel nodded. "Sweetheart, next time, lower the volume." He laughed half-heartedly, "Not that I mind a woman being as loud as she can, but I nearly went deaf." He appended.

Ariel was taken aback by his flirtation. It wasn't unusual for humans to flirt but she didn't expect anyone to flirt with her. She furrowed her brows as she thought of a better reply, "That was my mistake. Certain people, special people, can perceive our true visage."

She chuckled lightly as she brought her hands to her front, interlacing her fingers.

"I thought you would be one of them, Dean. I was wrong."

For a moment Castiel looked up at his sibling, watching her interact with Dean. He watched her body language as she spoke the last line and for a small moment he could hear hope in her voice. Hope for what? He didn't know but it was obvious she had hope. Promptly after that, he went back to fiddling with the books on the table.

"And uh... what visage are you in now, huh? What, a victoria secret model?" Dean continued to flirt.

"This? This is...a vessel." Ariel spoke slowly, inching closer to Dean. Now only 3 feet from Dean.

"You're possessing some poor girl?" He asked in a bothered tone, almost as if he was accusing her of forcing the woman to be her vessel.

"She's a devout woman, she actually prayed for this, Winchester." The redhaired gentlewoman corrected, holding out her arms and turning in a complete circle.

Dean swallowed slowly before subconsciously licking his semi-chapped lips.

Dean shook his head in disbelief. "Well, Lady, I'm not buying what you're selling, so who are y'all really?" He waved the hand with the knife in it, point the tip at both of the two.

"Dean...I told you" Ariel scowled, inching closer to the man, soon closing the three feet gap. A one-foot gap separated the two, tension thick in the air.

Of course, Castiel ignored the whole debacle, Ariel was a fearsome warrior, she didn't need to be looked after. Besides, Castiel was too enveloped in the Latin he was reading to even spare a passing glance at the two.

The green-eyed beauty mocked, meeting Ariel's glacier blue eyes. He furrowed his brows as he vocalized, doubt in his tone. "Right... And why would an Archangel rescue me from Hell?"

His question seemed genuine, almost like he believe he didn't deserve to be raised. Dean swiveled his head, looking at the back wall then at the shotgun on the table. Suddenly the shotgun seemed interesting to him.

"Good things do happen, Dean." Ariel's voice was melodious, it was the exact opposite of Castiel's who spoke roughly. It was like his voice went through a cheese grater and then he smoked a pack of cigarettes. But if Dean could describe her voice, ironically, he would describe it as heaven or a children's lullaby. When she spoke it spontaneously relaxed him, he wasn't sure if it was some spell but whatever it was, nothing good would come of it.

Dean shook his head and turned to face the gentlewoman, but keeping his eyes down. "Not in my experience." He mumbled, he clutched the table.

He didn't blink once, not since he turned to her. He just stared at the floor almost as if he was reliving a war flashback.

"PTSD," Ariel thought. She placed her right hand on the table and stood now five inches from the man. She made sure to get in the line of his sight so he could snap out of his fugue state.

"What's the matter, Winchester? You don't think you deserve to be saved?" She said in a hushed whisper. She searched his eyes for hope, but sadly there was none.

"Why'd you do it?" He choked out.

Castiel felt like it was time to cut in. It was annoyed him how someone could be that faithless. He closed the book, a loud thud echoing and breaking the silence. Ariel stepped back from the individual, returning to her position next to her younger brother."Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you." Castiel affirmed with determination in his voice.

Dean's eyes darted to Castiel, worry written all over his face.

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#dean winchester #dean x ofc #dean winchester fanfiction #dean fanfiction #sam winchester #sam and dean #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural archangel #castiel #bobby singer #spn fanfiction #spn #spnfamliy

[not-a-space-alien]

Into the Unknown, Part 9: Satan, Redefined

Art by @petimetrek (link)

Prologue | Dramatis Personae | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

Series masterpost

On AO3

AN: before reading this please know I promise everything will be all right in the end okay oHo

Hell was different.  There was no blood, no torture, no fire and brimstone.

But the strange thing was, it wasn’t better.  Everything was still underground, but the cave aesthetic had been replaced by sterile white walls.  And eyes, eyes everywhere; he felt that ever-present gaze on him from the necks and arms of his fellow demons, from eyes imprinted above doorways, from watchful sentinels at the enormous stone gates.  It was oppressive, the constant feeling of being scrutinized, being judged, of being directed and controlled.

The demons here were much, much more inclined to be helpful to one another because they seemed to work as a hive-mind.  It was staggering and horrifying in a way Crowley hadn’t expected. There was nowhere to hide in this Hell, nowhere to escape and scuttle away to be alone.  It was open, empty, and brightly-lit.  It was the polar opposite of what he was used to Hell being like, and Crowley had always thought that would make it better, but it didn’t.

Was this what Heaven had always been like for Aziraphale?  What was Heaven like here, if this is what Hell was?

Botis could tell vaguely that Crowley was unsettled as they entered the gates, but he had no idea why.  They were like ants from two different species meeting, sensing some level of familiarity and sameness between each other, but utterly uncomprehending as to what could be the cause of the ever-pervading sense of difference there was between them, trying to use their limited map of the world to guide their interactions with each other and failing to understand each other properly.

The gates of Hell boomed closed behind them, and Botis escorted him to an elevator cart.  Crowley had the horrifying realisation that the light emanating from the walls came from disembodied human souls shoved into compartments at intervals like a filing system, each one tagged sorted.

Crowley was understandably distracted.  He had already thought up a lie to try and dig his way out of this situation as fast as possible, but it was slipping out of his mind repeatedly as he tried to take everything in.

Botis held his arm out to an eye on the door of the elevator, and a red light shot out and scanned his tattoo like a bar code.  A pop-up display read ACCESS GRANTED TO NINTH LAYER.

The elevator doors slid open, and Botis corralled Crowley inside.  The doors shut, and the cart began to sink along with Crowley’s stomach.

The screen in the cart showed their current floor, which began to tick towards nine.  Crowley scrambled to secure his slippery lie, like he was chasing a fish on a dock that kept flopping about.  “Botis?”

“Yes?”

He desperately tried to think of what scrap of information he could glean that might arm him in the coming encounter.  “What was Satan’s—”

“Our Lord Satan.”

“What was Our Lord Satan’s angelic name? Before she fell?”

Botis’s lip peeled into a sneer.  “You forget yourself.  Do not speak with such impudence about our Lord.  Remember that she is always listening.”

Crowley zipped his lips.  The eye on Botis’s wrist flickered to life and made eye contact with him, staring straight through him.

He didn’t dare say anything else on the ride down.  It seemed like it took an eternity for the cart to reach the bottom floor.

The car finally jolted to a stop, and the doors slid open, revealing a chamber with hallways radiating off like spokes in a wheel.  It was reminiscent of the ninth layer of Hell with which he was familiar, but the elegant red carpet leading up to the throne room straight ahead was laid upon a marble white floor instead of the traditional stone-grey architecture that had always dominated Hell.

The whole place smacked of the way Heaven was, too bright, too sterile and bare.  The Satan he knew would have never built something like this.

The eye on Botis’s arm flared to life again, and the disembodied voice rang out, “Escort him to me, Botis, and stay for a few minutes.”

This time, Crowley could hear an echo of the voice faintly nearby, as though the speaker were physically present somewhere here.  It was coming from the throne room.

“Yes, lord,” Botis answered, and prodded Crowley to step forwards.

As Crowley did so, the doors to the throne room slid open, not a booming set of ornate, stone-carved monstrosities as they always had been, but a simple, functional blockade that opened nearly silently on greased hinges.

The red carpet ran up to the throne of Hell, which was a simple white pedestal.  On the left side of the throne was a demon wearing the face and aura of the archangel Victoria, a hardened, sneering simulacrum of Heaven’s most noble warrior. On the right of the throne was the archdemon Mykas in his most bestial form, a hunched over bear of a figure. He looked exactly as Crowley was used to him, except his body was knotted with the scars of a thousand battles which hadn’t been kind to him.  His left eye was clouded under a gnarled white tear that didn’t seem to have healed quite right, and a heavy metal collar kept him chained to the throne. Both of these archdemons had the eye tattoo on their necks.

And in the center, sitting cross-legged on the throne, was Satan. She was dressed in a plain white sash, which contrasted sharply with the ribbon of black hair tucked over one shoulder. In place of a crown, an eye sigil pulsing with occult energy sat atop her head, radiating power.

The space between her nose and forehead where her eyes should have been was smooth and unbroken.  Instead, the pair of silver wings spread out behind her was lined with eyes from joint to tip.  They were all lolling to the side in every which way, unfocused, until Crowley’s footsteps echoed in the chamber at which point all of the dozens of pupils snapped to him attentively.

“Fuck,” Crowley whispered, because now he had the answer to his earlier question.  The aura was unmistakable, even tainted as it was by the Fall.

Satan’s smile spread wide, too wide, and this visage of eyes and cruelty and blinding perfection said, “Welcome.  So good to finally see you with my own eyes.”  Said eyes fluttered and blinked rapidly as she fanned her wings slightly, spreading them wide to look at him fully.

“Uriel,” whispered Crowley.  “You?  But…How…?”  Now he regretted not running when he had the chance, Botis’s reaction be damned.  Uriel and Satan, combined into one.  Uriel as Satan, instead of Lucifer.  It was unthinkable.

Mykas leapt forward until he slammed into the limits of the chain around his neck, barking and growling madly, mouth foaming.  Crowley took a terrified step back.  Botis didn’t flinch.

“Heel,” Satan commanded, snapping her fingers.

Mykas, hackles still raised, mouth crunched in a snarl, slunk back to his spot beside the throne.  The archdemon who bore an uncanny resemblance to Victoria eyed Crowley curiously and critically.  

Satan unfolded her legs and stood on the pedestal, towering over Crowley, who at least had the sense to kneel.

She did not seem impressed by the unprompted display of supplication. With a small leap, wings extended, she drifted down to the floor in front of Crowley.  Even without the pedestal, she still stood head and shoulders above him.

“What a strange anomaly you are,” said Satan, exposing her mouth full of perfectly pointed, needle-like teeth.  “All of my demons have been marked since the very beginning.  You could not have fallen, could you?”

Crowley shook himself and dug up the lie he had thought up on the way down to put up some semblance of a passing story, finally catching the slippery thing. “Yes, Lord.”  He hadn’t addressed anyone as lord or master in decades, and it tasted foul on his tongue. But he swallowed it as a necessity. All he had to do was get through this so he could get back up to Earth, where he stood a better chance of getting away. “I’ve abandoned Heaven and fallen. I wish to join your ranks.”

Satan pivoted and gracefully sat herself back on the pedestal, legs crossed. She swiped the air in front of her, and a huge, huge book materialised, settling itself onto her lap.

Crowley gaped.  It was the Book of Life, turned infernal.

No, that wasn’t right.  Was it? The book pulsed with magical energy, sure, but it didn’t seem to have the gut-wrenching, reality-altering power that the true Book of Life had.

Crowley watched as Satan leafed through the Book.  “This represents a deviation from the usual Order,” said Satan. “Surely you must understand that.”

“Er, of course, lord,” said Crowley.

“So how do you explain yourself, then?” Satan demanded.  A quill appeared in her hand, and ink dabbled from the tip of its own accord.  She pressed it against the page, ready to write.

“Ah…” said Crowley.  “Um, upon what detail, exactly, would my master wish me to give further explanation?”

Archdemon Victoria snickered.

He felt Botis showering him with a hateful glare from the side.  “Don’t be stupid,” he growled.

Crowley sweated, wanting very badly not to be stupid, but having no real idea how to keep the charade going.  He felt the glares of Botis, Fallen Victoria, and Satan burning into him keenly.

Satan inclined her head.  Her wings fanned once, the eyes blinking out of sync with each other.  “No new demon has fallen in six-thousand years.  It is unprecedented for an angel to be kicked out after the rebellion.”

“Ah, yes,” said Crowley, palms moist.  That made sense, considering Uriel was the one who kicked people out.  Maybe nobody could touch the Book of Life up in Heaven anymore?

So then he had to spin up a lie to explain how he had fallen if he wanted to stick to the same story.

He was about to weave a tale of Heaven appointing a new Keeper of the Divine Aura before Satan interrupted him.  “Tell me, what was your name before you fell?”

Shite.  If he gave his real name, Satan might find out he hadn’t just recently Fallen as he’d said.  If he gave a fake name, he risked it not being in Satan’s book at all.  Either outcome had the potential to make everyone in the room angry at him.

He could give the name of an angel he knew hadn’t fallen yet in this universe.  It would be in the Book, but not recorded as already having fallen during the rebellion. “My name was Aziraphale.”

He was relieved that Satan seemed to swallow the lie, the pages of the Book whizzing past under a wave of her hand.  It snapped open to a certain page, which Satan scanned.

She inclined her head.  Crowley didn’t know why she kept doing that.  Eye contact was impossible.  “That’s very interesting, newcomer, because according to my notes, Aziraphale is a field agent class principality currently stationed in Great Britain.  While you were obviously a healing class angel.”

Crowley sweated.

“Did they change your class when they kicked you out?”

Crowley opened his dry mouth to answer.

“I’ll give you one more chance to tell the truth.”

Crowley swallowed.  “The truth is, my name before I Fell was Cralael.”

The pages of the Book whirred around again.  Uriel scanned another page, then sneered.

“Now that’s also interesting, because according to my notes, Cralael fell at the beginning of time, and was killed by his angelic counterpart—who, interestingly, happens to be named Aziraphale—several hundred years ago via holy water.”

Crowley let out a shaky breath.

“And yet here he stands before us, alive and well.”

Botis eyed him strangely.

Satan snapped the Book shut, and it disappeared under a wave of her hand. “You may leave us now, Botis.”

Botis bowed, turned on his heel, and exited quickly, leaving Crowley alone to face the three nightmares on the other end of the room.

Satan stood once again, hovering a few inches in the air.  “Your opportunity to tell me the truth has passed, little demon.  Vycra, hold him.”

Fallen Victoria—Vycra—marched forwards towards Crowley.  He backed up, holding his hands out.  “Now hold on a minute, we don’t have—"

He shut his mouth as Vycra grabbed his arm, yanking him down.  He tried to worm his way out of her grip, but he knew in his heart there was no way he could fight his way out of here.

Satan fluttered down to the ground.  “I shall pick the answers directly from your brain.  Lower your defenses so I may make the connection.”

Despite Vycra’s overwhelming aura right on top of him, Crowley managed to slam his aural defenses shut, as high as they would go.

“That was not a request,” Satan said.  Crowley felt a tendril of her aura reaching outwards, prickling the back of his neck.  It was the same aura he had felt when Uriel was on the verge of tearing his wings off.

What had always made Uriel worse than any of the other archangels was that she could just manipulate aura directly.

Crowley whimpered as his defenses lowered without his consent, exposing him.  Satan reached out and brushed a gentle finger on his forehead.  He felt the aural tendril creeping into his brain.

It stung a little, but not quite as much as when Camael had done it to him all those many years ago.  This Satan had a practiced hand, surgical in its precision.  Crowley gasped at how fast she came in and retreated.

Satan’s rows of eyes along her wings betrayed her bewilderment, rattling about like craft googly eyes in an earthquake, despite her impassive facial expression.  She lowered her hand from Crowley, folding her arms in front of her body.  “Hmmm….”

Crowley panted, sweating a little.

“Let him go, Vycra.”

Crowley felt himself deposited summarily on the floor.  He curled his legs under him as Vycra strode past him back to her place by the throne.

Satan strutted back to the simple pedestal that served as the throne and sat, petting Mykas on the head a few times.  “Now that was very interesting,” she said, voice low like a rumbling storm cloud.  “Do you care to explain what I just saw?”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut.  He wasn’t entirely sure what she had seen, but it had definitely included his most recent memories about meeting God and falling from the sky for sure.  How much further back did she get?  Had she seen his love for Aziraphale?  All the way back to the beginning of time?

What would she do if she found out about the other universe?  If she reached it?  Did Crowley have to doom himself to keep it secret and protect his home?

“I’m waiting,” Satan growled.  “You have one opportunity.  Do not lie to me.”

He didn’t have much of a choice.  He shakily got to his feet, straightened his suit, and looked Satan in the face.

“I come from a better world,” Crowley said.  “One where angels and demons don’t have to fight anymore. There is no war.  We worked hard to make peace with each other.”

Vycra’s stare on him was hard.  Her face contained a frightening amount of hatred.  Or…jealousy?  “That’s absurd.  Angels and demons are hereditary enemies.  They’d never make peace.”

“It’s true,” Crowley said.  “Where I come from, Vycra, you’re still an angel, and Mykas—”

Mykas’s bestial face was still crunched to expose his massive teeth.  He wasn’t hearing a single thing Crowley said, he realised.

What a damn shame.

“Vycra is right,” said Satan.  “The natural order of the universe is such that angels and demons will always be diametrically opposed.  You’re still lying to me.  I want the real explanation.”

“You saw it,” said Crowley.  “In my head—you got snatches of Aziraphale, surely.  You—Satan—where I’m from, Uriel never fell—”

“That’s enough,” Satan snarled.  “If you won’t tell us the truth, I’ll have to decide on my own what to make of you.  I don’t know who you are, or what you are, or where you came from and how you got here, or if you’ve tricked me—”

“I’m not—”

“—and if so, how, but you are now under my control, and you will be silent unless I tell you to speak.”

Crowley clamped his mouth shut, tears threatening to well up in his eyes. This wasn’t going well at all.

Satan’s chest heaved with rage.  “You are a demon, and as such you belong to me, you are under my control, and all my servants must have a mark. Vycra, hold him.”

Vycra’s hands were gentler this time, probably because Crowley wasn’t desperately trying to fend her off.  Satan waved her hand and materialised a pointed implement, dripping with ink. “Since I am feeling generous today, I will even let you pick where on your body it will go.  You may choose from your neck or either wrist.”

She hovered over to him, dabbling the excess ink onto her own hand. Crowley’s eyes darted around her body and the room.  “Hold on a moment, can’t we—”

“If you do not pick, I will pick for you.”

“Wrist,” Crowley spluttered, thinking that body part would be easiest to lop off.  “Wrist, please.”

Satan peeled Crowley’s right arm off from his defensive posture and began to draw on his wrist.  The ink sizzled into his skin like a brand, but it was curiously painless.

The ink still glowed red hot when Satan removed the tattoo gun, leaving the crisp image of an eye on his skin.  The molten pupil began to move about in sync with one of the eyes on Uriel’s wing.

Crowley bit his lip.

“There we are,” said Satan, sounding curiously relieved.  “Now you are as you should be.”

“Um,” Crowley said.

Satan waved the implement away.  Her anger had all but dissipated instantly, her cool smile returning, at ease at being in control.  “I’ll make sense of what you are eventually, little demon.  I’ll have to think about this a little more.”

She stared at him with all dozens of her eyes, this time including the one on his wrist.

Crowley began, “Lord, if I may—"

“You may not,” said Satan.  “The time for your input has passed.”  Satan floated back over to the throne and sat on it primly.  “The only question that remains is what should be done with you.”

“Perhaps he could be employed in the field as a healer,” said Vycra. “Field post thirteen is short one healer.  It would even out the numbers.”

“Yes,” said Crowley.  “That’s an excellent idea.  I would be a great asset in the field.”

Satan stared at him, head tilted onto her first.  “How many times do I have to tell you to be quiet?  No.  You are an anomaly in the Order.”

Vycra looked at him with pity.

“You should be kept down here with the other anomalies.”

Crowley did not like the sound of that at all.  “I would be much more useful up on the surface.  I saw how many wounded there were up there.  Is where I came from really such a big deal?”

Satan’s face was mild now, as though she were relaxed due to the impending resolution of something troubling her.  “No…You shall stay down here, where I can control you.”

Vyra strode over and plucked out a handful of Crowley’s feathers.  “Ow!”

Satan swiped at the air, and a row of jars appeared, moving so fast as to be a blur, until it came to the end of the line.  The last one was labeled “Anomaly #392” and had a handful of green feathers in it.

Another jar appeared next to it, labeled “Anomaly #393,” and Satan took Crowley’s feathers from Vycra and deposited them into it.  She screwed the lid shut, then swiped to dismiss the collection.

“That is plenty of feathers for a summoning spell,” said Satan.  “This way, I may call you up from where you’ll be stored if I need you.  Otherwise, you’ll be safely quarantined from the order of Hell where you can’t mess things up.”

“Uhhhh,” said Crowley.

Satan crossed her hands, and a yawning black portal opened in front of the throne.

Crowley’s eyes widened.  “You’re going to throw me into the Pit?”

The Pit was where demons went when you needed them to be locked away forever. There was no escaping from the Pit without concerted effort from someone on the outside of it.  It was where the misbehaving archdemons under Maltha’s rule went when they refused to cooperate.  Even she disliked using it and only threw anyone in there as a last resort.

Crowley pivoted and made a break for the elevator.  Vyra was behind him immediately, yanking him back by the arm, pinning the limb behind him and forcing him to his knees.

“I said you shall speak only when spoken to,” said Satan.  “And yes, that is where all anomalies go.  You have no place here in this world, so you shall be kept separate from it.  But first you must be cataloged.”

Satan summoned the Book again, and she flipped it all the way to the end. She materialised a quill and began to write.  “Anomaly number three-hundred and ninety three.”

There was silence in the room for a few moments while Satan’s pen scratched on the paper.

“What is she doing?” Crowley said in a strained whisper.

“She is merely writing down all the details about you to reference later, if needed,” said Vycra.  “Since you’ll be in the Pit and not convenient to retrieve if we need to reference you.”

Crowley’s arm was still twisted behind his back, forcing him to look at the floor.  A few tears dripped from his face onto the white stone.  “I haven’t done anything.  This isn’t fair.”

“I wish life were fair, anomaly.”

“At least give me a trial.  We sometimes at least got a trial.  I don’t deserve this.  I don’t deserve punishment.”

“This isn’t punishment,” said Vycra, almost gently.  “It’s just where you belong.”

Crowley stared down into the gaping blackness of the Pit, heart wrenching. “No.  That’s not—”

“And I’m taking down a note that you simply will not be quiet,” said Satan, with an excessive motion of the quill.  “‘Continues to argue ad nauseum.  It really is quite counterproductive.”

“I belong…”  The arm Vycra didn’t have pinned behind his back was curled against his chest.  He extended it, looking at the silver ring there. “Aziraphale…  Home.”

“I’ll have to do some further investigation into this matter,” said Satan, snapping the book shut.  “But we’re done with you for now.  You are dismissed.  Vycra.”

“Please don’t do this,” Crowley wept.

“Sorry,” Vycra said.

She hauled Crowley up by the belt and tossed him into the abyss.

#Good omens #my writing #my good omens fanfic

[dukeofishgard]

#FFxivWrite2019 Prompt #2 - Bargain

i’m 2 for 2! hurray! however I only managed (1) day before I immediately went back on my angst bullshit.

thank you again @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast for this challenge! 

so this is something that I’ve always head cannoned as happening but never actually wrote out. this prompt made perfect sense for it however so I finally decided to actually write it out.  I was actually pretty excited to do so, as this is the catalyst for Duke being cursed- and also the explanation behind his white hair. 

Takes place roughly thousand years ago, pre-curse and before Duke was ever called “The Duke of Ishgard.” 

All that being said, under a cut because!

TW/CW: Abuse, Suicide mention. 

The Bellefleur manor fell silent as dawn arose, it’s halls silent after the night of chaos that had erupted upon the return of it’s Lady the night prior.

 Blood painted the walls of the master bedroom, furniture broken and cracked, strands of matted black hair stuck to bloodied scissors that had been stabbed into the door, leaving splintered wood in its wake.

Despite all this, the Lady of the House lay peacefully in bed a self-satisfied smirk gracing her sleeping face even as she was surrounded by the feathers torn from the bed and pillows, and her fingers bore the telltale signs of blood beneath the nails.

In the room opposite, the Lord of the House stood in front of a cracked mirror, staring at his bloodied reflection with eerie quietness, gazing upon his visage without a hint of emotion as he began to dress himself. His fingers shook as he wiped at the blood coating his lips, poking gently at the bruises and punctured skin on his neck from the Lady’s fingers. Red eyes surveyed his broken and battered face, gently tracing the bruised skin that blossomed into petals across his cheeks that bore the streaks of his tears cried the night before.

A knock drew him out of his reverie, and he winced as he turned his head stiffly towards the sound feeling the ache run through his body, “Enter.”

The manservant trembled as he carefully opened the door, eyes closed as he took in an apprehensive breath before sliding into the room and dipping into a bow, “Milord-” he stopped as he drew upward- eyes opening to see the state of the Lord before him, “My…. My Lord! Your… your hair…”

The Lord stared at him with weary eyes- framed not by the raven locks the famed son of House Bellefleur was known for but by shocking white jagged strands of hair with nary a single strand of black to be seen- though the servant’s eyes stared in horror at what could only be dried and cracked blood clinging to the man’s now whitened hair.

“Be at ease Ofrault ,” he said quietly, his voice echoing the fatigue written across his face, “I can still very well see. I know what has befallen me…”

He turned again to look into the mirror, uttering a laugh that shook Ofrault to his bones, a laugh he would later describe as the laugh of death itself made manifest.

“Tis what the chirurgeons would likely diagnose as shock,” he finally said as the laughter died away, “The Lady Antoinette took me by surprise is all. I am fine.”

“My Lord Lucien,” Ofrault lowered his voice, furtively glancing across the hall before quickly shutting the door behind him, “Milord, I beg your pardon for speaking out of my place but this has simply gone on for far too long. We have all kept quiet for your sake and pride but please milord, we are worried for both you and the little lady and lordling.”

Lucien Bellefleur turned to look at him, Ofrault taking a step back at the deadened eyes that made his blood run cold, “You are right,” he said simply, “It has and now I end it, one way or another.”

--- The Lady Antoinette sat smugly at the head of the table, icy eyes staring at the maids lips curled into a cold smirk as they began to lay out the breakfast before her. Long fingernails tapped the wood impatiently as she stared at the door, awaiting her husband’s arrival to the dining hall.

The door opened slowly, bringing first Ofrault in who bowed deeply before speaking, “The Lord Lucien-” his voice was quiet as he moved to the side, allowing Lucien to walk in- stopping just short of his chair on the opposite end of the table of Antoinette.

“You may leave Ofrault,” he said softly eyes staying trained upon his wife across the room, “Please ensure Minette and Alitte take all their meals in their own quarters and have all their food tested for any unpleasant additions. Their lessons are canceled for today. Please let them know their guards will be doubled for the foreseeable future and they are to take no guests save for myself.”

“My lord-”

“The Lady Antoinette in particular is not to be allowed into their apartments,” his gaze did not move from the dark-haired woman even as her face twisted into anger, hands balling into fists, “Even if she says I have given permission, she is to be denied. If she raises issue she is to be arrested on the spot. If she resists…”

“If I resist?” her lips curled into a cruel sneer, voice full of mockery, “Whatever shall you do to me, your wife, my Lucien?”

“If she resists she is to be killed.” he responded as he swiftly sat in his seat, eyes watching her carefully as her face went blank in shock, staring at him with unease, “You may leave Ofrault. Let the House know of my orders and tell them we are not to be disturbed during our meal.”

Ofrault stared between the two, finding his throat bereft of any moisture before nodding quickly, “Y- Yes my lord. At once. Please… please enjoy your meal.”

As the door shut with a bang, Antoinette blinked, coming out of her shocked reverie- eyes slitted as she watched Lucien begin to quietly cut his food up, “You would have me killed?” she whispered, voice full of venom, “Do you really think you could?”

Crimson red eyes lifted to meet her icy sapphires as he set his fork down- keeping his knife tightly grasped in his other hand, “Yes.” he said simply, “You are a murderer, deranged and lost. You are lucky I do not call the Heavens Ward right now or strike you down where you sit myself, Antoinette.”

She let out a shrill laugh, pointing a finger at him accusingly, “Your poor hairs gone white my love, did your senses go with it? I am no murderer- poor Etienne simply fell to his death and I did all that I could to help him but unfortunately Halone herself decreed him a filthy heretic,” she smirked, leaning back in her seat before giving him an innocent look, “Is all I need to say before any Inquisitors to allow them to set me free.”

“You are right…” he said softly, “Attempting to kill you or bring you to justice would result only in more pain…”

“Ah… now you finally see reason my love,” she cooed, pushing herself from the table- moving to stand beside him, trailing her fingers down his bruised and cut face, “I knew I would get through to you… even if I had to get rid of all obstacles in our way.”

He smiled at her, bringing a hand up to brush her cheek with uncharacteristic softness before his fingers twisted in the fabric of her collar, pulling her down close enough to feel his breath against her skin. His other hand brought the knife up and for a brief moment panic seized her as she saw the metal glint in his hands- fingers moving to clutch at his face, uncaring as her nails once more dug into his skin, blood dripping down his face as though he were crying crimson. But she did not feel the sensation of cold metal against her throat- eyes widening as she saw where he placed it instead.

At his own throat.

“You are far too slippery to be killed or brought to justice, you monster,” he hissed- the eyes she had so loved for their warmth and love were gone and she felt seized with fear that she was not staring into the eyes of her angel- but that he had instead been replaced by a beast at it’s limits.

“L-Let go of me Lucien…”

“Tis my own fault,” he said softly, tears forming at the corners of his eyes, “I saw the signs but I believed, I believed, if I could love you enough Antoinette you would stop. Your darkened heart would brighten and this pain you inflict upon this world would cease, but I realize now that you have a sickness that no mortal could ever heal and there is nothing that can stop you in this world from gaining what you desire. Me. It’s me you want. Always me.”

“Yes… you…” She dug her nails further into his skin before releasing her grip, hand brushing down his cheek and smearing his blood as she stroked him gently, “Now you see why I had to kill him. You are the only one who can soothe me, my love. Please… take the knife away… I promise I will be good. We can begin our life anew again, just you and I-”

“You say it with such conviction, I could almost believe you speak the truth. But I know now that you simply say what you wish for me to hear and do as you please anyway. And so long as you live, you will view my children as threats to be removed to capture my full undivided attention. It is only a matter of time before you put them to the blade of your delusions,” His hand moved to the back of her head, fingers clutching at her hair as he pulled her in closer- noses touching and she watched horrified as she saw the knife dig into the flesh of his throat further, droplets of blood beginning to form on the metal, “So know this Antoinette. If you kill them, I will have nothing. You think you are what I live for? You are free to believe such delusions, but I assure you… if you kill Minette and Alitte, you forfeit your claim to my life. To make it crystal clear to you, Antoinette Sauvage- if you harm them, you harm me. You maim them in any way and I shall enact the same price upon myself. You kill them, and you shall come home to a corpse.”

He began to laugh then, making the blood in her veins turn to ice as she heard the underlying conviction in the sound, the look in his eyes reflecting unto her the same insanity she knew all too well- an insanity she saw every day in her reflection.

“You wouldn’t…” she breathed, “Are you truly bargaining for those pathetic wretches lives? A-And with your own life?! H...How are you! How dare you!”

She struggled against his hold finally, ripping herself away from him and clutching her hands against her chest as she stared at him- watching as he dropped the bloodied knife onto the table before picking up his napkin to wipe at the thin cut now etched on his throat.

“I am quite serious,” he said evenly, “And of sound mind. My parents are dead. You have murdered Etienne, the only person in this world I have ever truly loved. All I have now are my children. What purpose in life would I have if you killed them, Antoinette? None whatsoever. Now do you see the predicament you have put yourself in? You believed yourself to stack the cards in your favor but you have done nothing but dealt yourself a losing hand.”

“Me!” she screeched, hands moving to clutch at her dark hair as she let out a moan, shaking her head wildly, “ME! You live for me! Me and me alone! You cannot, no… you will not die- I won’t let you!”

Lucien shrugged, picking the knife up again and pointing it at her- uncaring as his blood dripped onto the table, “And yet you would be powerless to stop me,” he said, voice suddenly filled with resigned tiredness, “I bleed as any mortal man, as I think you know all too well from your outbursts. I cannot gain any revenge against you for murdering the man I love while I live, but perhaps in my death will he find peace with me.”

She let out another shriek, falling back against the wall as she stared at him in disbelief, “Be quiet!” The words came out in a hiss, “I will not let this come to pass! You belong to me, and me alone… If I must move the stars and heavens to prove this to you, then so be it. I will prove to you that you and I are the same soul torn asunder- that we are meant to be. I will never let you be with that disgusting demon again! Not in life, and never in death!”

She drew closer again now, cupping his face in her hands, nails reaching the top of his scalp where his now silver hair began, digging in and slowly dragging them down, leaving behind thin lines of blood on his skin as she spoke, “Enjoy your time with your precious pets while you still can,” she snarled at him, pulling away and delivering a sharp slap across his face- head turning from the force, he could only stare down at his forgotten breakfast, head buzzing unpleasantly as she spoke, “There is nothing in this world that shall stop me from having you, my angel, my Lucien. It is clear Etienne corrupted your purity before I could kill him. I shall remove your burdens and then… then you will understand.”

She stared at him, waiting to see if he would reply, but he simply continued to stare down at the table dully and wordlessly,- not even blinking as blood dripped into his eyes. With one final strangled scream, she departed from the dining room- slamming the door behind her.

As soon as she left, the Lord of the House crumpled against the table- arms curling up to cover his head as though he were a child again- fingers seizing the white strands of his hair and pulling at them incessantly in his grief as he sobbed in the now empty room.

#FFxivWrite2019 #holy moly this is longer than i thought lmfao #the duke #antoinette sauvage

[queenofcats17]

The Acolytes

@startistdoodles did a new picture where Mary Jane is a Lost One instead of Wanderer, and mentioned that MJ would probably be Sammy’s little prophet in training. And since I have a character who’s an avid devotee of Sammy, I thought I’d write something. 

A post has also been made about Lost One MJ

Featuring, briefly, @pipesflowforeverandever ‘s Gingie and @aceofintuition ‘s Snowy.

Sammy had two people in his congregation that he trusted above all else.

The first was Cordelia Bell, a recent addition to their fold. She had been given the role of Sammy’s definitive acolyte due to her connection to him. Apparently, when the studio had still been running, she’d been Sammy’s assistant. She’d just arrived with Sammy one day. He’d announced that his acolyte had returned and that she would help them in their quest of spreading the word of their Lord. Cordelia followed Sammy with a sycophantic devotion, like a little lamb being led by its shepherd. His word was gospel to her. She would do whatever he asked.  Some of the Lost Ones liked to joke that Cordelia was sweet on their prophet. 

The other was Mary Jane Drew. Although she was the daughter of the man who’d put them in this position, none of them held any malice against her. Joey had killed her, same as the rest of them. She was a Lost One too. Sammy had taken her under his wing upon finding her and was trying to train her to become a prophet as well. She was considerably more coherent than many of the Lost Ones and Searchers, as well as having a slightly unique appearance. She was one of the most devoted of the bunch, a little prophet in training. But there was one area that she was a bit lacking in. 

That of sacrifices. 

Mary Jane wasn’t at all comfortable with sacrificing living creatures. She tried to sacrifice living targets, but she just couldn’t do it. Something about it just didn’t sit right with her. So, if there was a sacrifice Sammy needed to be made, he sent Cordelia to do it. 

“Do you think my devotion is strong enough?” Mary Jane asked one day. She and Cordelia were setting up cutouts near the Angel’s domain. Sammy liked doing that, especially given how angry it made the Angel.

“Why do you ask?” Cordelia glanced back at her. 

“No reason in particular.” Mary Jane set the cutout up against a wall, staring into the smiling visage of the Dancing Demon. 

“You’re special.” Cordelia walked up behind her, placing her ‘hands’ on Mary Jane’s shoulders. “Sammy said so. And Sammy’s never wrong.”

“Yes, of course.” Mary Jane nodded. 

“Besides, you give the others hope.” Cordelia continued. “When they hear you and Sammy speak, they’re saved! Their eyes are opened to the will of our Lord!” She was just regurgitating what she’d heard from Sammy before, and they both knew it. But her words still comforted Mary Jane.

“He did say there’s hope for me.” Mary Jane allowed herself a small smile.

“Of course there is!” Cordelia said brightly. “You have been blessed!” Cordelia was a little strange sometimes, but she never failed to brighten Mary Jane’s spirits. 

Like a court jester.

“We should be getting back now.” Mary Jane said, turning away from the cutout. “The Prophet has to be waiting for us.”

“Oh, yes! Of course.” Cordelia made a motion of hitting her head with her hand. “It completely slipped my mind! Silly me!” Mary Jane sighed and shook her head. Together, the two of them headed back to the safe room. Sometimes they stayed in the Lost One village, but Sammy moved around quite a bit and they tended to move with him.

Sammy was leading a sermon when they arrived. His voice swelled, filling the room up to the rafters as he spoke. 

“You’ve all heard him above us! Crawling! Crawling!” Sammy raised his hands. “He will save us! He will set us free! Through our devotion, he will free us from these inky shells!”

“He’s really something, isn’t he?” Cordelia said, clasping her hands together. 

“Yes, yes he is.” Mary Jane nodded. She’d been so lost when she’d woken up in this place. Her memories and feelings had been jumbled, but she’d known she was scared. She’d known someone had done something terrible to her. Then Sammy had found her. He had found her and he had given her hope. He’d given her a purpose, something to believe in. 

“How did it go?” Sammy walked up to them once he’d finished his sermon. “I hope the Angel didn’t give you much trouble.”

“There was no trouble, my prophet.” Mary Jane said. 

“There was the usual cursing and vowing to cut out our hearts, but nothing more than that.” Cordelia beamed at him.

“Well, I am glad that neither of you had your hearts cut out.” Sammy patted their heads. “I shudder to think of what I would do without the both of you.”

“You’re too kind, my prophet.” Mary Jane bowed her head, secretly beaming at the praise.

“Is there anything else you need done?” Cordelia asked. Sammy’s expression immediately darkened, causing both girls to stand up straighter. 

“We have an intruder.” He said. “They’re walking about the Music Department. I think they will make an excellent sacrifice for our Lord.”

“Would you like me to take care of it?” Cordelia immediately asked. 

“Yes,” Sammy said, and she started to leave before Sammy stopped her. “But I don’t believe you should do this alone.”

“Should I go with her?” Mary Jane asked tentatively. The idea of having to perform a sacrifice still bothered her. But if it would please their Lord, then she would try. She would always try. 

“That would be best, yes.” Sammy nodded. “Something tells me that this one might be...troublesome. I would go myself, but something else has come up that requires my attention.” 

“The stranger in the top hat?” Mary Jane and Cordelia asked together. There was a strange man in a cream suit and top hat who appeared occasionally. He seemed to know Mary Jane, as he always called out for her when he arrived. Her or someone called Wanderer. Something about him felt familiar to Mary Jane, but she stayed away from him. His presence upset their Lord.

“Not this time, thankfully.” He said. “I just need to get rid of some pests.” Occasionally, the Butcher Gang clones would start congregating in certain areas, prompting the need to clear them out.

“It must be really bad this time if you’re doing it yourself,” Cordelia said, clicking her tongue. 

“Yes and no.” Sammy shrugged slightly, grabbing his ax. “They will provide ample sacrifices for our Lord if the intruder gets away.”

“Of course.” Mary Jane bowed her head. She felt shamed tugging at her heart. Did he think she couldn’t do it? Did he think she would fail?

“I have the utmost faith in you both.” Sammy nodded curtly before disappearing into a puddle. Cordelia and Mary Jane began to leave but were stopped by one of the Lost Ones. 

“I-I’m sorry to bother you, my prophet.” The Lost One said quietly. “I just...My friend is having a crisis of faith. I thought, well, maybe you could talk to her.”

“Of course.” Mary Jane nodded. 

“Thank you.” The Lost One bobbed their head, gently leading Mary Jane to their friend. Mary Jane liked being a part of Sammy’s religion. It gave her purpose. The others depended on her. 

“She’s here.” The first Lost One paused in front another who was crying in a corner. 

“Why are you crying?” Mary Jane asked, kneeling beside them. The Lost One didn’t look up, just kept crying. 

“It doesn’t matter. None of it does!” They sobbed in the voice of a young woman. “This religion doesn’t mean anything!”

“Of course it means something.” Mary Jane said. “Our Lord will set us free. We just have to be patient.” The Lost One looked up at her, swatting her hand away when she tried to touch their shoulder. 

“Don’t you get it?” They snapped, stumbling to their feet. “Bendy’s never going to save us! All of this.” They gestured around the safe room. “None of it means anything! We’re just trying to distract ourselves from the reality that we’re trapped here! We’re never going to be able to be human again!”

“Leslie-” The Lost One who’d brought Mary Jane over tried to calm their friend, but Leslie just pushed them away. 

“He’s brainwashed all of you into thinking that we can fix this!” They continued to scream and shout, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “We keep killing people to satisfy something that doesn’t even care! Last week Ralph wandered out and it destroyed him!” 

One of their flock had ventured out into the halls to retrieve a possession from his human life and he hadn’t come back. Mary Jane remembered that another Lost One had been with him. Evidently, it had been this one.

“Leslie, accidents happen.” The first Lost One tried again to calm their friend. “We don’t even know if it was our Lord.”

“I FUCKING SAW IT!” Leslie shrieked. “I SAW THAT BASTARD WALK OUT OF A WALL AND MELT RALPH LIKE A FUCKING POPSICLE!”

“Then Ralph ran afoul of our Lord.” Mary Jane said calmly, hands folded demurely in her lap. “Everything he does have a purpose. If your friend was returned to the puddles, it was because he did something wrong.” Leslie stared at Mary Jane for a moment, rage burning in their eyes. 

“He wanted to get the picture of his daughter he kept on his desk.” They finally spoke, voice cold. “He missed her. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“We have to have faith if we wish to return to our families.” Mary Jane remained calm. “We must be careful of our actions. If our Lord punished him, it was for a reason.”

“There isn’t a reason! There’s never a reason!” Leslie stomped their feet. 

“There’s always a reason.” Mary Jane’s reply was firmer this time. She was quickly losing her patience with this Lost One. Behind her, Cordelia's grin had widened to consume most of her face. It looked like Bendy’s smile.

“Would you like me to take care of her, my prophet?” She asked, leaning toward the offending Lost One. She was dripping onto the floor, her proportions becoming distorted and horrifying. Mary Jane flinched a little.

“No, it’s alright.” She shook her head. She didn’t like resorting to violence when she didn’t have to.

“I’m so sorry.” The first Lost One murmured, wringing their hands beside Mary Jane. “I don’t understand why she’s acting like this.” The other Lost Ones were started to gather around now, stunned and horrified by Leslie’s words.

“What do they think they’re doing?”

“They’re lucky Sammy isn’t here. He’d set them straight.”

“I’m sure they just need to get this out of their system. It’ll be fine! I’m sure it’ll be fine!”

“They were making so much progress...It’s a shame they’ll be sent back.”

“I’m right. You know I’m right.” Leslie said, glaring down at Mary Jane.

“So?” 

This simple answer stunned Leslie, and they took a step back. They had expected the prophet in training to get angry, to yell. But instead, she did nothing.

“E-Excuse me?”

“So what?” Mary Jane stood up. “What happens if you are right? What do we do then? Sink into despair? Suffer here alone?”

“We need to face reality.” Leslie insisted, but their voice was weaker now. Mary Jane’s gaze was cold and detached, almost robotic. 

“And how will ‘facing reality’ help us?” Mary Jane asked, sardonically using finger quotes. “What use is it to follow your lead? What right do you have to take hope away from all these people?” She gestured behind in a wide sweeping gesture.

“I...” Leslie took an instinctive step back.

“Well?” Mary Jane’s singular visible eye bored into Leslie’s. Leslie flinched back, whimpering at the expression in the younger Lost One’s eye.

“That’s what I thought.” Mary Jane turned away, nodding her head to Cordelia. “Let’s go deal with the intruder.” 

“Of course!” Cordelia glanced back at Leslie, her Bendy-esque smile beginning to fade into a more normal one. The two of them slipped out of the safe room and into a puddle, heading for the music department.

“I suppose Sammy will send them back to the puddles later.” Cordelia hummed as she and Mary Jane traveled. “Even if we don’t tell him about this, the others will.”

“It’s sad, but they need to learn.” Mary Jane sighed. “That sort of attitude is unnecessary.” The Lost Ones needed hope. She needed hope.

“I’m glad you and Sammy are here.” Mary Jane looked over, surprised by how soft Cordelia’s voice suddenly was. They had exited the puddles in the band room, right outside Sammy’s sanctuary. In the dim light, Cordelia almost looked human. She stood up taller, her form much less goopy. She had a soft smile on her face. 

“I’m glad I can help.” Mary Jane nodded, moving past her. When she looked back, Cordelia had returned to her normal Searcher-like form. As they approached the door leading out into the music department, they could hear two men bickering.

“I’m telling you, Snowy, something doesn’t feel right.” Mary Jane recognized this voice as the one belonging to the man with the top hat. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her.”

“Maybe you messed up and stumbled into some universe where she’s not here.” Another man said. Mary Jane didn’t recognize this voice. It sounded similar to that of her father’s, which instinctively made her hunch her shoulders. 

“Just because you can’t find her doesn’t mean she’s here, Gingersnap.” The new stranger continued. 

“She’s here.” The top hat man insisted. “Sammy, this universe’s Sammy, told me to stay away from her. He called her his little lamb.” There was a beat of silence before the stranger sighed heavily.

“Alright, fine. Maybe she’s here. What do you want to do about it?”

“I...don’t know.” The top hat man admitted. “But if a version of her is trapped here, then I want to save her.”

“And if she doesn’t want to be saved?”

“What are you saying?” The top hat man sounded taken aback, almost horrified. 

“I don’t know.” The stranger sighed again. “But you know what Prophet Sammy is like. If she’s close to him then...She might not be in her right mind.” 

“Nonsense.” The top hat man scoffed, although Mary Jane could hear a quiver in his voice.

“I’m just saying.” The stranger said. “You better be prepared.”

“Why are you hesitating?” Cordelia asked quietly. 

“I wanted to hear what they had to say.” Mary Jane whispered back. She didn’t know why these men knew her. They shouldn’t know her. She didn’t recognize their voices, nor the top hat man’s face. She had never met these men before. So why did they talk as though they knew her? Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and exited into the main hall of the Music Department. 

Standing there were two men. One was the small man with the top hat. He was dressed in a white suit, as usual. The other man was tall, with dark skin and snow white hair. He was dressed smartly in a dress shirt, dress pants, and a vest. Both men turned upon hearing her walk up. The man with the top hat looked distraught when he laid eyes on her. The tall man just looked resigned. 

“Mary Jane, my darling girl.” The man in the top hat almost wailed. “What happened to you?”

“My father happened to me.” Mary Jane replied, Cordelia at her back. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“You don’t...recognize me?” The top hat man took a step back, his eyes wide. Mary Jane could see tears glittering in those brown eyes. 

“I recognize you, yes, but that doesn’t mean I know you.” Mary Jane said. “You’ve come here before, always asking for me. Why?” The top hat man was at a loss for words, simply staring at her. She supposed he was in shock. Obviously, she didn’t fit whatever 

“So, are you Sammy’s disciple or something?” The tall man asked. “Gingersnap here says every time he’s showed up, Sammy’s told him to stay away from you.”

“He’s teaching me how to be a prophet like him.” Mary Jane tensed a bit at the mention of her mentor. “Someone has to help give the others hope.” 

The tall man nodded, gaze shifting to Cordelia. “And who’s your friend?”

“I am but a simple acolyte,” Cordelia replied, her smile stretching to become the Bendy one. “Nothing more, nothing less.” The tall man’s nose scrunched in what might have been disgust. 

“Oookay.” He said slowly, looking back at Mary Jane. “I’m guessing you’re not really in the mood to be saved, are you?”

“It’s rather arrogant of you to assume you could save me.” Mary Jane narrowed her eye. “Only our Lord can save us from this inky Hell.” 

“How did this happen?” The top hat man whispered, beginning to pass his cane from hand to hand.

“I told you, my father happened.” Mary Jane snapped. Her patience with these men was growing thin. 

“She was so sweet before. So innocent.” The top hat man wrung his hands on the cane. 

“Gingersnap, I think you should stop.” The tall man’s voice held a sense of urgency. Mary Jane was quickly starting to lose her temper, and behind her Cordelia’s form was growing increasingly terrifying and goopy.

“Well, I’m sorry I’m not what you think you remember!” Mary Jane snarled. “But I’ve been stuck in this hellhole for years! You have no right to judge me!” 

Before she could say anything else, Cordelia launched herself over the girl’s shoulder and at the two men. The tall men scooped the top hat man off, just barely managing to get him away from the deranged acolyte. The top hat man still seemed to be bemoaning Mary Jane’s change, barely noticing as the tall man took off with him. Cordelia didn’t give chase. She knew, somehow, she wouldn’t catch these men. So she turned her attention back to Mary Jane. 

“Are you alright, my prophet?” She asked, pulling her form together so that she could cup stand tall and cup Mary Jane’s face in her hands. The younger girl had begun to cry, trying to wipe her inky tears away.

“I’m fine.” Mary Jane hiccuped. What right did those men have to judge her? It wasn’t as though she wanted to be this way. She wanted more than anything to go back to being human, to go back to the person she had once been.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Cordelia clicked her tongue, pulling Mary Jane to her chest. “It’s going to be alright. You and Sammy will lead us to salvation. Our Lord will set us free.” Mary Jane closed her eyes, trying to calm herself. Bendy would set them free. He would set them all free.

#bendy and the ink machine #fanfiction #sammy lawrence #cordelia bell #mary jane drew #the lost ones #the searchers #joey drew #joey snowy drew #snowy drew #gingie drew #the acolyte

[tallestsilver]

001: "You're really soft." E/C

This was the second time Christine had come down deep into the cellars of the Opera House. She couldn’t quite remember the first time. No, that time was surreal, remembering it was remembering a long ago dream that one visits many times; each slightly different from the last, but with a lingering familiarity that one can’t quite place.

This was more steadfast and concrete. No hypnotism led to her arrival here, no half-truths. She was perched on the sofa in the sitting room, the air sparking with tension like an oncoming storm.

But why?

She couldn’t quite place it. Maybe since her imagined Angel of Music was a flesh and blood man everything had changed. Maybe because their current circumstances were just so… bizarre, she didn’t know what to expect.

Her fingers picked at the seam of the couch cushion, feeling the bumpy hem against the embroidered upholstery. Would Erik be in a foul mood, or had his disposition lightened since their last… debilitating encounter? She could not handle him screaming again; it was an awful sight, his ghastly visage wailing in a torment she couldn’t fathom; both agony and anger, directed at her.

Christine gave a small gasp as she realized her fingers were manipulating a downy cotton in the stead of the courser upholstery. She looked down at the small hole she had picked unthinkingly. She fluffed her petticoats to cover the imperfection and smoothed her skirts down just as Erik returned to the sitting room, tea tray in hand.She swallowed her nerves and offered him a small smile that did not reflect how she was truly feeling. She felt a stab of envy that he could hide so easily with his mask. He mercifully wore his white face-mask which was far less intimidating to her than his entirely black one. His eyes seemed more expressive. Perhaps the sockets of the mask where wider?

He set the tray down on the table in front of Christine, adjusting it ever so slightly. He sat on the opposite end in an armchair that did not quite match the rest of the furniture. Christine glanced around, trying to avoid Erik’s gaze, as he poured her tea silently.

As she looked at anything but him, she noticed something so quaintly peculiar: none of his furniture properly matched. Oh, certainly there was similar styling, but they were rather old fashioned and the mismatch seemed endearing.

That was the peculiarity above all else that unsettled her: Erik’s normalcy.

“Is something the matter?”

“No!” Christine was caught quite off guard as Erik broke the silence. She had visions of monsters in dank, cold cavernous tombs or amongst the catacombs with skeletons as housemates and decor. Terrifying spectral and toothsome creatures that craved blood and flesh living on steep mountaintops or deep down to drag victims to the depths. Erik had fit some macabre expectations of her wildest stories, and yet, diminished all of the fancifulness. She shook her head gently to shake those notions from her mind. “I was just thinking… how cozy your home is.”

Erik’s mask provided no change of emotion, even if he had one. His posture maintained its rigidity. His long fingers slipped into the teapot’s handle carefully -‘it even has a lace cozy’ and poured the liquid into Christine’s waiting cup. When he didn’t respond, she felt the need to elaborate in case he took her words as an insult.

“I mean to say, that is, I would not have assumed lace and florals to be your in your taste, nor pastels,” she stumbled trying to find the words without giving insult to what was surely an injury she had provided. Blush creeped along her face as she realized her honesty was fairly insulting, or could be taken as such. She did not know what sort of temperament Erik held, if he would even consider such remarks to be course and inappropriate. Or even worse, what his reaction would be.

Erik continued his measured silence as he poured himself a cup of the steaming tea.

“Everything here was once my Mother’s,” he said, matter-of-factly, “I suppose I never thought of redecorating. It just seemed more convenient this way.”

Christine released her breath in slight relief. “It does seem a little old fashioned,” she commented lightly, but stricken how brazen her words were. She raised her cup with its saucer to occupy her mouth so she wouldn’t embarrass herself further.Erik did not move to drink his tea. He sat, straight-backed, hands on his knees, staring at Christine. “Indeed.”

Christine sank deeper against the sofa, clutching the saucer and cup with her hands. Guilt stabbed at her. Why did she have these intrusive thoughts about Erik? He was just a normal man, after all. No, nothing about Erik was normal. They were five stories underneath an opera house for God’s sake. She sipped her tea, only to find it still too hot. She held it to her lips, blowing profusely on the steam that drifted towards her. The coolness of his gaze was piercing, and she felt terribly childish. His penetrating eyes were unyielding in their judgement and she hastily placed her cup back on her saucer the on the table with a small clink. She cleared her throat and looked to the fireplace, flickering with warmth.“And what would you think my fashioned style would be?”

The Voice returned and Christine’s shoulders eased down into a more relaxed state. Erik’s Voice curled around her and the dancing fire provided a soothing distraction.

“It is difficult to say,” Christine said softly, her voice leaving her body without her realizing it. She was captivated by the emergence of the Voice as well as the fire. She could see shapes emerging from the flames; shapes that merged into forms as they licked against the wood and brick of the fireplace.

Erik brought his teacup to his mask, carefully tilting it up to take a sip of the darkly steeped liquid. Despite his mouth being occupied, his voice still murmured in her ear. “You have more of a vibrant imagination than that. Tell me, Christine, how did you originally imagine my home?”

The fire’s glow along with Erik’s soothing voice entranced Christine, the light reflecting in her blue eyes. As the fire flickered, the shapes turned into a lord and lady, bowing before each other and dancing around the charring wood. Wisps of smoke flowed off of them as they began their promenade. They swirled in the warm haze, casting their spell over Christine.

“Heaven,” Christine said, barely above a whisper, “white marble and gilded edges, with puffy white clouds all around,” she sank deeper into the folds of the sofa, warm contentment spreading over her body. Something in her voice felt like something was left unsaid.“And then-?” Erik leaned closer to her, his hands grasping his knees, his body rigid and demanding. She didn’t notice, her gaze never faltering from the fire. A particularly large flame licked towards her. She saw Jörmungandr, the serpent of Midgard, break free from its tail and swallowed the dancing couple. “Hel, A tomb,” she mumbled, “or a cave perhaps.” The fire hummed and crackled as it began devouring itself. “Lots of black, and bats…. And spiders and skulls-” she gasped and clamped her hands over her mouth as she realized what she said. Christine looked to Erik fearfully, afraid of how he would react with his Death’s head. His grip on his knees released and he sat quietly in his seat. “E-erik, I didn’t mean that, you know I didn’t, it just slipped out, I don’t know what had come over me-” Christine stammered, trying to rectify the situation.

To her shock, Erik simply began to laugh.

His laugh began slow and quiet, sending chills down her spine, until it escalated to where he was almost yelling. Christine nervously laughed along, casting a sideways glance over to the front door of his house. A long, gloved finger slipped behind his mask and wiped a tear from his eye.

“You are far more astute than most people give you credit for, my dear,” Erik replied coolly, unfurling to his full height. Christine clutched at the couch and tried to swallow her fear when he approached her.

Erik uncurled his gloved hand to her, and she wearily took it, as he helped her to her feet. Her legs did not seem to want to work, preferring to stay stationary, as Erik lead her to an area she dared not spy: his room.“Erik, please, I’m sorry, I did not mean anything by it-” her voice quavered as he stood behind her, hands on her shoulders as he propelled her forward.“Tut, tut my dear!” He exclaimed, “Erik knows how curious you women are!” They stood at the threshold of his room and he loomed from behind her, his hand grasping hers to make her open the door. “We wouldn’t want to have another experience like last time, do we?” A touch of sinister malice dripped from his voice. Christine stood helplessly, feeling like a doll as he controlled her arm. She whimpered in response.

“No!” He answered for her, “Erik will not have that! His Christine wept such horrid tears, that Erik will show her instead!” He pressed his hand against hers on the handle, the leather feeling no longer smooth, but unyieldingly false. Her hung limply and she shook her head.“No, no, please Erik, I don’t want this I-”

He sneered at her pleas and flung the door open with a triumphant flourish. She shut her eyes and bumped against his bony chest. “I’m sorry Erik, I didn’t mean to-”

“So much of the world ‘never meant to-’” he sneered. He gripped her harshly, unable to relish the fact she was trying to seek comfort against him in a minimal way. He spun her back around to face her fate and shoved her forward.

Christine gasped, clutching her arms around her chest, terrified of what Erik might do now that they were in his room. She could never assume his underlying intentions. He strode in past her, the entirety of his bedroom shrouded in shadows, as he moved toward a wall to illuminate the gas lamp.

Harsh, choking sobs spilled out from Christine as she tried to hold them back, when she felt the glow of the lamp. She opened her eyes to find continued blackness. Her eyes had to adjust that, no, the lights were on, just everything was black or a deep crimson. Curtains draped around the entirety of the room. The canopy made it feel very intimate enclosed, but entirely luxurious. Bedside tables were intricately carved in a black wood that Christine could not place, but she did see images of woven spiders and bones. She swallowed her fear as she took tentative steps inward, in awe at the splendor of Erik’s room. A large armoire, no doubt holding his variety of suits, had a death’s head with angel rings jutting out tastefully. Her heart skipped a beat as the detailings of the macabre were at every turn. Erik stood in the doorframe, his shadow spilling into the room, as he watched her reaction. She ventured forth, inspecting all the intricacies that either took an extraordinarily large amount of work or payment for such creations.

An organ was situated against a wall, with depictions of Hell and demons at its base. Christine even spied a three-headed dog with victims of the Underworld in its biting jaws while swirls of fire licked at skeletons.

Her breaths came out in harsh pants. Christine did have a fascination with the macabre, and she was torn between horror and admiration. One thing she was curious about, where was Erik’s bed?She moved towards the middle of the room, where it should have been, to find something hidden with blankets and cloth. She took one corner of the dark satin - some of the finest she had ever felt- and stripped it away from what it was hiding. It slithered away onto the floor as she gasped in shock.

A coffin, cold and foreboding, lay before her, raised on a platform to present itself as a horrific imitation of a bed. Its wood was matte black, the lid raised to reveal its satin cushion interior, which all things considered looked rather full and soft. It was creased and worn, showing signs of use, only able to fit one body.

Christine’s eyes rolled instantly to the back of her head as blackness consumed her vision. She crumpled down as her legs gave way, and Erik instantly caught her as she fainted.

Erik’s temper had instantly cooled as he held the lifeless Christine in his arms.“Foolish child,” he murmured, his heart aching as he considered he had done this to her. Her pale skin was now stark white, her lips even losing their rosy hue. He scooped her up in his arms, carrying her over to her own private room.“This is why you must never pry into Erik’s horrid life,” he murmured softly to her as he brushed against the button to open her door and slid inside. “It is too gruesome for you. You deserve sweetness, kindness and-” he maneuvered her in his arms as he pulled back the downy covers of her pastel bedding, “everything I cannot give you…” He delicately placed her down on her bed, removing her shoes very carefully so not to disturb her. He covered her unconscious body with blankets and leaned in to kiss her head softly. Before his lips could make their mark, he stopped himself. “I will try, Christine,” he vowed to her sleeping form, “I will move heaven and earth to try and be the man you deserve. You are so gentle, so kind, it makes me want to be a better man, to be a proper suitor for one such as yourself.” He straightened up, knowing he could not kiss her, not like this, but instead brushed a delicate golden curl away from her face. Even through his gloved hands, he sighed.“You are really soft.”

#a belated prompt #but a prompt nonetheless #prompt #You're really soft #writing #E/C #Phantom of the Opera #It's not actually romantic #oops #oh well #Anon #phanfiction #Phantom of the Opera fanfiction #I try to keep them in character #and just fill in the pieces from the novel #Gaston Leroux #definitely Leroux universe #fanfiction #Christine Daae #Erik #my writing

[tuneoftyourdeath]

So I wanted to show people this

I wrote this story some while ago and never really showed it to anyone, but I’m somewhat proud of it. I miss writing so much and I guess I still cling onto the old stuff I’ve written BUT ANYWAY I hope you (whoever is reading this) enjoy it!!

A Report of Time 

By mightytime.

      I’ve always been impressed with the abstraction with which people define me. The use me, make the most of me, throw me away, and some don’t even know what to do with me. I can go by faster or slower; therefore, they keep on trying to keep me organised. Pathetic. For some, I’m the most precious thing in the world; for others, I’m just a heartless bastard weighing on the shoulders. But not this fellow in particular, whose story I’m about to tell you. This one simply couldn’t make up his mind.    

      John was his name. Not very tall, not very rich, not very lucky, not very much of anything, really. He lived in London, God Save the Queen!; and despite looking like an ordinary man, worried about the weather, the traffic, the bath temperature; only two things took hold of his thoughts: Alice and me.    

      Each minute of each day he thought of us two, his thinking about her entwined with his thinking about me. It’s a funny thing, I’d say. It had been quite a while they hadn’t seen each other, John and Alice; they met at school years ago when I was still an ally and my permanence didn’t seem to interfere. Naivety, I’d say; allowing yourself into such substantial feeling, regardless of the damage that my prolonged stay might cause, is one of the sweetest innocences I’ve ever encountered.    

      She was, humbly saying, what you’d imagine an angel looks like: Beautiful, generous, caring, delicate and strong at the same time, clever and cautious, capable of making any lad fall head over heels, and specially John. He felt lucky. “How come me?” he thought; “Why me? Why the shy, unnoticed, so messed up me?” Maybe she was just as misunderstood as him, or maybe she regarded a sense of wholesomeness in him that fit perfectly into whatever was missing in her life. It doesn’t really matter, what only did matter was that they must have found something in each other that made my presence insignificant, till then, the war.    

      John had been sent to war, Vietnam. He had left Alice in tears but he had no choice. Two years in combat had been inflicted to him and it was the best offer he got, believe it or not. There was a goodbye party, friends, drinks, lots of speeches and hugs. And as before the altar and God himself, Alice and John promised themselves to each other for as long as they were apart. The makeshift wedding ring, a brooch that was gently threaded upon Alice’s coat, vouched for their hasty, yet true, vow.    

      Bombs, chaos, unceasing firing and fear. John had never seen anything like it; he’d never been capable of imagining how far the eyes could behold such horror. I’ve seen worse, in all my raging unstoppable existence, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t turn my guts or makes me sickly miserable; but to him it was immeasurably worse; to bare it all, the sweet tender John; and I must admit that my having been there didn’t help him very much.  

      John counted me, constantly thinking and avoiding thinking about me. He couldn’t decide whether to ignore me or if to just endure my lingering about would make it hurt less. Which somewhat made me upset, because it’s not nice at all to know you’re part of someone’s suffering.   

      In spite of always mailing letters to each other during their separation, as to help with coping, he had been yearning acutely to see her again since the day he left. In his words, he’d put it the same way: “Still alive, still for you”. And every night he used to sit on the edge of his bed, looking at the brooch, flipping it through his fingers, imagining her smile and the soft warm touch of her lips pressing onto his once again.    

      Given that I never, and could never, stop, he eventually came back home, thank The Lord. He had a rendezvous with Alice in a nice charming restaurant downtown London. He could just picture it: She would walk in through the double doors and ask the waiter for John, but no answer would be necessary, because before the waiter could even conclude his sentence, Alice’s eyes would meet John’s. She would then rush to his arms, and dive into his embrace; finding in it again the ease and reassurance of John’s clasp; and like in a movie, they would kiss as if it were the last time.    

      It was around midday and John was already there. He had bought her flowers. Daisies; her favourites. Even forgot to throw the receipt away, so it was still in his pocket, staining his pound notes. He was dressed up in a military uniform, sharp, and even had a dog tag tangling down his bruised neck. Was he trying to prove something to himself, to make up for the war frenzy, or was it just pride? Go figure... And again, he insisted upon thinking of me, awful things really; that I was stalling Alice’s arrival; that I had some sort of problem with him. Not fair, for neither John, nor me. They say I can drive people quite unhinged, and there are a few times I do believe that, the way they derange themselves around me.    

      By the table, John was a grenade with its pin pulled off. He would explode at any moment. Affliction took hold of his senses. At the table behind him, an old lady tried to convince her husband that The Bahamas were the best place to spend this holiday season. A bit ahead, a mother was hopelessly trying  to make her fretful baby stop crying. To his left, two parents were telling their daughter off for getting home late the night before.  

      There was a silent nervous breakdown. The shrieking sound coming from the coffee machine when filling another cup hit his ears the same way a bullet does when it grazes the scalp. Each piece of cutlery dropped onto the floor made him shiver; they reminded him of a projectile brushing the surface of his helmet. The yelled words between waiters and cooks were as unclear as those between soldiers and their commanders resonating midst the disarray of bloodshed.     

      He was back in the battle field, sifting through in his head, instructions he had received whilst in training, searching for an evasive manoeuvre: In case of running out of ammunition, check the bottle temperature before giving it to the baby. No, wait. If an air raid menaces, then we won’t have to buy any presents this year. What? What was it again? “AH!! LOOK FOR SHELTER!! “But dad I’m already fifteen!” “AH!! HELP US!!” 

      He couldn’t bring himself to hearing himself think with so much going on around. Praying for the mayhem to cease at once, he glared at his watch, that stupid little thing people use to... how is it again? Oh, right, measure me. He swore he could hear me laughing at him through it. And how heavy it was, it trapped and squeezed him like a handcuff, straining him away from his girl... 

      ...his girl.     

      Suddenly it all went mute; John could only but hear his heavy breathing when his gaze fell upon her visage. There she was, waiting across the street for the lights to go green, distracted, almost ditsy-like; and staring wistfully at a piece of paper in her hands. Alice looked beautiful, gorgeous, flaring; the breath-taking usual Alice. She’d had her hair cut, and a locket was perfectly visible around her neck. The sun reflected vividly on her golden locks, aiming straight at John’s astounded eyes, who had broken free from the trance he was deep plunged into and was now moving towards the door.    

      Stepping out onto the pavement, he tried to come up with what to say to Alice, but there were no words to express what he felt, what he had been feeling, how bad he missed her. His feet led him while he crossed the street.  “That’s odd”, he thought, “Why haven’t you seen me yet? I mean, I’m right in front of you, and the lights are already green! Why are you still looking at that silly piece of paper? What on earth is it!?” And then he saw. It was a picture he had given her before going away, so she could remember what he looked like, in case she’d come to forget it.    

        She looked over, her distracted feature was instantly undone into such a smile I swear, not even I could ever forget it. John stuffed his lungs with air: 

      - Alice! I…    

      He was swept off his feet as his legs were disassembled by a sudden bumper, tossing him away, making him soar in the air like a leaf adrift in autumn. Alice was speechless for a moment, and I must admit, so was I. People who were passing by turned at the scene. Some were shocked, some disgusted, some dismayed; but they all felt sorry for the dead man and the sobbing girl who lied hunched forward on what was left of him.  John’s soul, and then of course, his body, was withdrawn amongst the cars, that opted to just swerve the mournful scene, rather than to properly stop and demonstrate a shred of respect for our unfortunate lovers. All because they couldn’t wait; apparently, they were also worried about me...

...but that’s never done any good to anyone, has it? 

Well that’s about it, folks! :)

#story #originalstory #shortstory #chronical #1960s #lovestory #time #war #love #fiction #:) #lightreading #dreaming #distance #longing