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selfetishizing · 6 months ago

Text

the nearness of you

loid forger/yor briar | rated T | oneshot | 5.7k words

mild hurt/comfort, mutual pining, romantic tension, scars, tending to wounds, identity reveal (sort of)

A wife in tatters.

AO3

In the hour before Anya’s bedtime, Twilight had come to the startling realization that his daughter is growing up. The hem of her favorite onesie had hiked up to the bump of her ankle, bump of her wrist. Anya, heedless to many things, the intricate and crucial things—a father’s silent suffering, a mother’s concerning absence—hugged him good night, telling him that he’d be in “big, hugiant trouble” if she caught him staying past midnight waiting for Mama. Bond, whom he wished could speak and voice the wisdom that seemed to be held within his marble eyes, nudged his nose against his calf as if to show his sympathy for his companion’s indifference. Then, they had left him in a quiet apartment to fill the Yor-shaped spaces with his thoughts.

The first hour after the first snore, Twilight contemplated calling Yor, whom he presumed sat lonely at her desk, saving the country one file, one staple, one document at a time. It could be no one else. It had to be Yor to help carry this obfuscating weight that their precious girl was outgrowing her clothes—that they were becoming older themselves. That they were drifting apart.

Tomorrow, he'd tell her, they’ll go shopping together as a family for shiny new dresses, skirts, blouses, and pajamas. He will buy them in bulks—small, medium, large—so that he will never have to experience this silent heartbreak, this wearying awareness that he, shrewd and tenacious as he was, was powerless against the hands of Time. WISE would have to understand the incoming banknotes; this agony would last him for the entirety of Operation Strix.

Twilight dialed the phone and watched the numbers reel back and reset. He listened to each ring and hung up, assuming that Yor must have been on her way home.

He grieved the onesie in his lonesome. It would have been nice to hear Yor’s voice.

The second hour, he tidied up the apartment. Watered the plants. Wrapped leftovers in plastic. Played with his daughter’s toys. He created homes out of blocks, families out of plush—a fox, a bunny, a kitten.

Hearing footsteps outside, Twilight darted to the door, knocking the blocks over in his haste. His hand hovered over the knob. He listened a beat longer and knew by the slow drag of feet, by their unhurried stride that it was not Yor. Yes, he knew her by step, by breath. She would have silently stepped across the hall, keys jangling in her pocket. She would hum on particularly nice nights or mumble to herself when she was especially exhausted.

It was past midnight. Yor was not home.

Twilight wasn’t sure why he had decided to stay up that particular night. Yor had been late before. He knew that she could take care of herself. She had brought an umbrella to work that morning. She wouldn’t come home shivering. No colds would be carelessly caught.

As he cleared the rest of the dinner table—a silver candelabra, blown-out candles, unopened wine bottles—the answer he had swallowed whole made itself known. Somewhere, deep in the pit of his stomach, it was there anchored by reason. It would tremble at the raise of her lip, travel far enough to the heart where hundreds of buzzing bees would prick at his arterial lining for the chance of release.

Release had come close many times: mornings when she’d asked how he’d like his coffee; Saturday afternoons as she napped on the couch; nights he’d bandage the tip of her fingers after prepping dinner. It was a seed burgeoning into honeysuckles—honeysuckles that, as far as Twilight knew, had already grown in parts of his body and made his blood sweet as sap. They were honeysuckles that nearly sprouted from his mouth at the sound of his name or the touch of her palm.

Twilight could cut the vines and twine the flowers. He could dress up, slick his hair back, and have his shoes shined downtown. He could bow down like a gentleman, kiss each of his darlings’ dainty hands. A bouquet for Anya and a bouquet for Yor—their names written in his neatest penmanship on parchment. Anya would snap the honeysuckles from the vine and break their pistols off, supping them of their nectar. Yor would bring the flowers to her face and take in their scent, and Twilight, absently staring, would catch himself and clutch at his chest. Then, they would know everything. They would know all of the words he doesn't say.

It would be so simple to tie those feelings up with chiffon lace. Surely, it would save him the embarrassment of voicing those stubborn emotions that more often than not translate to knuckle biting, bedroom pacing, and worried, sleepless nights like tonight. But he knew by now that every day spent with them had watered the garden hardly contained within the bed of his skin. Giving each of them a bouquet would not capture even a fraction of how much he yearned to truly be on their side of the world.

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Yor returned home at three in the morning.

The rain had stopped two hours ago. She was drenched. Her umbrella, dry, dropped to the floor as she stumbled in her heels looking for her lost balance in the lightless apartment. Before Twilight could open his mouth to speak, she clutched at the breast of his shirt with the abject fear of falling, pleading with him through ragged breaths to hold her, to not let go.

He didn't. Twilight hugged her close, arms fastened around her back just beneath her coat. She winced. Her body burned hot from shivering, and her cheek, pale and wan, was cold on his collarbone.

Twilight called to her softly, called again to stir her. She could only sigh.

A hand slid from her back, up to her side, trailing to trace the curve of her face. Twilight hesitated. Yor pushed herself against him as if to feel for pressure, for validation that this warmth was his. The grip on his shirt loosened when she was sure that she had made it home. After a deep breath, Twilight stroked her jaw, coaxing her to spare him a look—just one—to know that all was right.

All was not right.

When she finally moved her head up to stare at him, Twilight nearly gasped. The color had wrung from her skin. Her eyes, usually so bright with curious wonder, had shrunk half a flame. The lip that would whisper his name could only quiver with dread. She shook in his embrace as she discerned his expression, anticipating a question and readying a stolid defense. Twilight would not have it. Yor, always so strong and resolute, felt so small in his arms. He absolutely would not have it.

He caressed her cheek and he swore his heart had stopped. Red smeared over her skin. But where? How? His hands cautiously slipped down the plane of her back. Yor mewled, and he knew.

All at once the corpuscles in his body rushed in surges to the tips of his fingers down to his toes, to the heart, the head. He must have been flushed red with how quickly the blood ran in his veins—how quickly rage consumed him. Twilight inhaled shakily, tempering those thoughts of twisted necks, mutilated legs, snapped elbows, and headless torsos; of bodies cold and ashen as Yor was now in his hold.

“Who?” he whispered sharply, using the last of his constraint as he eyed the front door. Ask, and she’ll answer.

“An accident.” Ask, and she’ll lie. But the eyes? No, they never lie. She smiled despite it all. This he knew was true. He slipped her coat off from her shoulders, letting it pool at her ankles. She held on tighter. “I’m so tired. I just wanted to come home.”

Twilight could have cried from the tenderness she seemed to have saved just for him. Gone was the wickedness in his body, relinquished to the dark, dark, night. He took her face in his palms, tucking the errant strands of her disheveled hair behind an ear. One of her earrings was missing. Twilight, shattered by this disquieting and crucial detail, waited for his tears to come. They never did.

“I’m sorry, Loid. You must've waited so long,” she murmured in his neck as he delicately lifted her up into his arms. “You even lit the candles for dinner.”

“How did you know?” Twilight asked, redirecting her guilt to the shadows where it could vanish alongside vice. He clung to softheartedness, to goodness, to kindness. Tonight, he'd give it all to her.

“I smell smoke on you.”

“You can?”

Yor cupped her hand over her mouth. “You haven't been doing anything naughty, have you?”

“Heavens, no.” Twilight forced a chuckle. “I guess I should have put on cologne before welcoming you home this evening. You're exhausted, and you come back to a reeking husband. How flippant of me.”

“Silly.” She rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as he carried her to the couch. “It’ll stain,” she rasped, too exhausted to put up much of a protest. Yor sunk into the cushions.

Twilight kneeled down to remove the heels from her throbbing feet. His fingers glided down the bend of her calf, noting the runs in her black stocking that weren’t there this morning. The heels, he imagined, had worn down from frantic mad dashes down crowded hallways to deliver reports and proposals. Yor must have tripped somewhere along the way knowing how clumsy she could be. It would explain the scrape on her right knee.

Twilight didn’t allow himself to think anything else of it. He'd crumble the very second he did.

“May I go into your room, Yor?”

She seemed to have enough energy left to flinch at the otherwise innocent query. “I’m sorry?”

“Your clothes. Surely you weren’t thinking of changing without me tending to your…?” He could not bring himself to say it. To speak the very thing into existence would mean acknowledging the suppositions he had previously dismissed as soon as they were conceived.

Twilight, insisting that she give in to his request, kept his hands on her knees as looked up at her imploringly. The more she turned his words in her head, the more flustered she became. The implication made the hairs on the back of Twilight’s neck stand. Surely, she wasn’t thinking something so unseemly.

He counted the moles dotting along the sides of her face and neck—five—as she pondered the question, connecting them to constellations he’d read about as a boy.

Cassiopeia—Queen of Ethiopia. Boastful and vain, she had boasted that she and her daughter, Andromeda, were more beautiful than the Nereids. Angered by Cassopeia’s remarks, Poseidon, god of the sea, had unleashed a disgustingly powerful sea creature, Cetus, onto her kingdom. Ethiopia would sacrifice Andromeda to the beast by chaining her to a boulder by the sea to restore order to the kingdom.

Twilight pondered the tale—the bonds between a mother and her child, the consequence of vanity, the peace offering that is a daughter. He thinks of Cassiopeia and Andromeda, Yor and Anya. The hero Perseus, who had rode upon the Flying Horse to save the princess, would cease to exist. Had Yor been Cassopeia, Twilight knew, she alone could have protected Andromeda. There would be no need for epic knights in shining armor. A mother would have been enough.

Twilight imagined a woman with Yor’s features—a pale woman with a black cape for hair, pursed red lips, crows feet at her eyes. He thought about a mother, about death, and the selfishness in succumbing to it. Does Yor forgive her mother? Does he forgive his own?

And perhaps Yor had been Andromeda this entire time, chained against a rock as the sea rages and tears her hosiery, her skirt, her skin. Her kingdom—the house she once knew with the iron fences and rose bushes— was reduced to rubble by manmade terrors unbeknownst to myths and their slithery beasts. Only a cellar with a frightened boy cowered in its dark corners remained, waiting for his dear sister to come back.

Yor didn’t need a Perseus to fight this battle for her. But maybe, Twilight naively supposed, it wouldn’t be so bad to have one fight alongside her. A Perseus to patch her wounds. A Perseus to listen and to hold her when words succumbed to sobs.

"There’s a nightgown folded on my bed,” she instructed carefully, voice hoarse, as if it were some secret mission.

“Alright.”

“My pillows and blanket too, if you could.” She bit her bottom lip, thinking a request as simple as that could be a burden to him. “I think I’d like to sleep here tonight.”

“I can carry you to your bed, you know.”

“I’m so heavy, and—”

“Light as a feather.”

“But if you touch me again, Loid, who knows what I’ll do? I could kick you, or, or… I could slap you! You’d definitely bruise or bleed.” She was hysterical. From blood loss? Fatigue? “And if I melt?”

Twilight raised a brow, amused. “Melt?”

“Yes. If you touch me again, I fear my flesh might slide right off my bones. Might turn to goo.” Yor looked down at her lap, making sure that she was still all together. Then, she imagined herself liquified—a wash of taupe and pinks sluiced over the carpet—and gasped. “It would take forever to clean me up.”

Yor shifted on the couch, letting all of her weight fall to one side. Her eyes fluttered shut.

The entire room stilled. An austere foreboding, cold and misty, crept into the chasm that separated them. Moonlight caught in the dark curtain of her undone hair, sanctifying her with faint halation. Twilight clasped his hands together and called upon the angels—pulled them down by those golden threads stitched to billowing clouds— to do everything in their power to keep Yor awake.

“You mustn't fall asleep,” he said. “Not until I’ve dressed you.”

“Just a little tired.”

“Yes, darling, I know,” cooed Twilight, slipping her hand in his. He rubbed the smooth swath of skin above her knuckles with his thumb, absolving her of the unspoken remorse that was written all over her, that was slashed onto her back. He would take it from her. He would bear it all. “It will only take me a moment.”

The fondness that he never knew he could possess with Yor shocked him, terrified him. What would be more difficult, he wondered? To turn his shoulder and leave this sentimental mood? Or for a subliminal confession he so desperately wanted her to understand to plague her mind?

Every red flag was raised and yet here he was, groveling before his fallen Madonna. One word and it would be done. Yes—Twilight took that risk, a leap of faith. He chose the latter—the novelty of infatuation, of being completely and thoroughly consumed by the off-chance that Yor, too, harbored symptoms of a heart starved of the kind of feelings reserved for two.

Yor swallowed thick and squeezed his hand weakly. She nodded, and Twilight, the ever loyal husband, obeyed her command.

Quickly, he minced to his room, careful to not wake Anya. Underneath his bed was his personal first aid kit of gauze, sterilized needles, tourniquets, adhesive plaster, tweezers, wound washes, and antibiotic creams in a worn cardboard box so cleverly labeled “TOOLS'' in hasty print. Somehow one of Anya’s pink star-printed bandaids had made its way inside. The alarms went off in Twilight’s mind before he remembered that he had absently slipped an extra band aid that was in his pocket in there after he had patched up Anya’s knee. (Just the other weekend, she had somehow fallen off a bicycle with training wheels. It was an understated art how kids seemed to find the danger in otherwise safe devices.) He gathered an arm-full of these things and pushed past his bedroom door with his back.

Then, Twilight’s hand hovered over the doorknob of Yor’s bedroom, bracing himself for the metaphorical crossing between flatmates and something more. Her room, steeped in the indigo night, pulled him in before he could reconsider. The lace curtains billowed out toward him, swathed him in dove white. Before he knew it, he was caught in a whir of Yor.

This room was indisputably her. It was furnished simply: a bed, a dresser, a cabinet, and a vanity. A patched pilled quilt Twilight presumed had been from her childhood was tightly tucked down under the sides of her mattress. Her uniform—an impeccably ironed button down, a green vest and skirt—hung from a hanger on the corner of her cabinet. Anya seemed to imprint herself here too; another fox plush toy sat against her fluffed pillows, waiting to be cozied up against a warm, beating heart. Adorned on the walls were not posters or prints, but rather Anya originals in crayon, pastel, pencil, and acrylic.

Yor didn’t seem to hold on to a lot of things—or perhaps there wasn’t a lot of things to hold on to—before she lived here, but he knew by the multiplying photo frames—water-stained shots of Yuri, Forger and Briar family portraits, picture day at Eden Academy— that slowly, she was carving a permanent home here.

Capless tubes of lipstick—reds, pinks, nudes— were strewn across her vanity along with ticket stubs to matinees they’d seen together after work. Lacquered dishes with tableaus of rolling fields and carnivals held her precious pearls, her golds, her handmade beaded bracelets. A green perfume bottle with a tasseled pump spray shimmered under starlight. Like a gem, its glean enchanted him into a sandalwood-induced stupor.

Twilight stared into the looking glass as a mirage of Yor nimbly braided her hair into a neat side-plait. She patted her face with loose powder and slid pink lipstick over puckered lips. Yor then dabbed the pad of her finger on rouge, dotting along the curves of her cheekbones and tapping the excess at the corners of her eyes. So mundane was the act, so effortless and easy, that Twilight felt apologetic for having peered into such a private ritual.

Clearly, he had overstayed his welcome. Twilight nearly tripped over his feet as he moved to gather her beige nightgown and pillows, refusing to let curiosity get the better of him. Beneath her pillows, however, was a familiar trinket.

His engagement ring to her—that grenade pin! Twilight was unsure why she had decided to keep it after all of this time: he had wedded her properly thereafter with golden bands and bridal bouquets. He blushed immediately at the prospect that Yor wanted him to see it. Though slim, there was still the statistical probability that her request for her pillows was a subtle declaration of love—that the ring signified everything she had locked away in her heart and in his own. Could she have planned this? Left the ring under her pillow that morning for him to find? Did she anticipate working off hours so late into the evening? Orchestrate this entire scenario down to the last cut?

It was no accident, this much he knew. But how else would one rationalize those injuries? Why was she soaked when it had stopped raining hours ago? If someone had attacked her tonight, did she not have enough trust to confide in him? If she did not care enough to tell him, then what was that grenade pin doing under her pillow?

Twilight all but stumbled out of her room. He was WISE’s most cunning agent—its most calm and calculated—yet his mind could not quite wrap itself around the idea of Yor potentially reciprocating the feeling he knew he had concealed in some taped-up cardboard box tucked away in his house of bones. There, compartmentalized, were all of the trinkets he thought he'd forgotten: wooden guns, jazz records, a bloodied eyepatch, and burned polaroids. Underneath the old items lay a letter with his heart, scrawled and signed with a name long discarded:

Yor,

I love you most ardently.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Rowan

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Wound wash in popcorn bowls. Heart-printed face towels for rags. Gauze cut by pink blunt-tip kiddie scissors. A wife in tatters and a husband desperately attempting to stitch the remnants back together.

“I have to—”

“You can't.”

And for five minutes, they exchanged various iterations of these very words. Yor had managed to unbutton the first three buttons of her blouse before stubbornly crossing her arms over her chest, refusing any treatment from Twilight.

Twilight scooted to the edge of the wooden table he sat on, close enough for their knees to nudge. Their eyes met briefly.

Yor much preferred the Moon’s gaze. Moonglow, Twilight figured, could not touch Yor in those damning ways she'd come to know about during the war or in cautionary tales. It could not bruise, breach, break skin. It could not promise her love but at least it gave her assurance of forever. And who was Twilight to contend?

“Yor,” he started futilely, voice softer than he would have liked, “you can trust me.”

The words, like steam, evaporated from her tongue. She clutched the bust of her blouse shut.

“I do.” She was red in the face. He could feel her jittering. “It's just—oh!—I don't know! You weren't supposed to… No, not like this.”

“I’ll close my eyes, touch you only where I should. I’ll be gentle, quick, so please,” plead Twilight, weary and desperate, “let me care for you.”

“You've cared for me the entire night—every day I’ve lived with you. You've welcomed me so into your home, your family, and yet here I am,” she rasped, voice caught on a chord, “proving time and time again that I—”

Twilight's heart dropped to his belly; he felt as though he ought to apologize. For what, he was unsure. There must have been some kind of shortcoming from within him if Yor was unable to articulate her troubles.

Her vagueness, though, seemed purposeful: she would trail off before giving him any indication as to where the root of her problems lay. Twilight secretly thanked her for it. They could, even for a while longer, keep up this charade. He could still love her with her back turned—love her in sight.

“You’ll hate me,” whispered Yor. “You'll despise me. I know it.”

“There’s nothing in this world that could ever make me hate you.” The statement unknowingly gave way to the garden tucked away underneath the surface of his skin. Could she smell the roses on him? The freesias? Yor could not be so dense to not understand his heart with the way he leapt at her assumption, fitting himself to the gentle carve of her profile. Twilight is close, so close that he catches the moon’s glimmer on her eyelashes. He resists the temptation to eclipse it with a kiss.

“You wouldn't understand.”

“Then help me to.” Twilight just could not stop at words, no. When did his hand connect with her knee? When did his fingers move to guide her face back to him?

Yor forced herself to look once more at his gaze, agonizingly adamantine. Resolute. She began the process of unbuttoning her shirt once more, keeping her eyes trained on him.

“Anya grew out of her pajamas, you know,” he droned—a distraction—as he anxiously watched the tips of her fingers. “Wrists and ankles and all. They’re poking out the sleeves. I was thinking,” Twilight swallows thickly, “we should all go out this weekend. Buy some new clothes for her.”

Yor stilled, staring at him with unblinking eyes. She bit her lip and, almost as if to present herself to him, laid her hands beside her thighs. The dark sweep of her hair fell over the hunch of her shoulders. Twilight followed its movement.

Anger was a lit match that burned through the sprawling cord that maps over the expanse of her skin. He stared at the curve of the chest, her heart. Twilight traced the long jagged line of white raised skin down to her right side. Pink stars exploded and dwindled down her hip, dying dust disappearing underneath the waistband of her skirt.

Twilight could stitch a disjointed timeline from the color of her scars alone: faded cat-scratches from her childhood, raised cuts from debris, bullet wounds red and unforgiving, and knife lacerations that had just begun to scab over washes of blue and purple.

Perhaps she could see it on his face, his steely countenance. He had become all hard edges and wrinkles as he scrutinized the marred canvas of her skin. The irony was cruel. Yor, always so gracious, so kind, was seamed with silvery stitches, stained with colors that belonged on sprigs. He was in pieces.

“They grow up so fast,” said Yor wistfully, almost as if to lament the skin she had no choice in claiming. “They come and they go, don’t they?”

Twilight knew all too well that her words meant much more. Yes, he wanted to say, we did. And he’d hold her the way his mother had when days were brighter—the way he holds his daughter now. He’d hold the girl as long as she needed to be held: late into the morning, late for work; in the afternoon when the sun laid over them thickly; into dusk with the stars shut off, dark and still.

There were things Twilight could never understand about Yor, things that she would never divulge to him. But there was nothing as certain and true as the kindness of skin, of a hand over hers, of a brush on the curve of her cheek.

“I’m going to take your…” Bra felt too vulgar of a word. He improvised. “This off.”

Resigned from her initial embarrassment, Yor simply nodded, moving to rest her chin on Twilight’s shoulder. She held onto the sides of his shirt, a half-hug.

Faceless women. Powdery perfume. Wine-stained lips agape, mouthing different names on the nape of his neck. Bodies full in contour, stuffed with down in all the places meant for squeezing. It was muscle memory at this point—the snap of a clasp, the inevitable plunge into passion, and the hangover in the morning. But when it came to Yor, he couldn’t help but feel as though it was an act most sacred. There was no other urge than to press her wholly against him, to feel the pressure of her entire being on him as he wraps his arms around her, merging into one. Deeper than lust, than desire. This much, he longed for Yor Briar.

The straps slid off her shoulders, leaving pink indents in her flesh. His mind blanked. He stopped breathing.

Hands moved on their own, wetting towels in washes, laving it over her back. She’d wince. He’d whisper something sweet. Rinse and repeat. He created a cage out of action, keeping all thoughts and emotion locked away.

“Is it bad?” she asked.

“Not so bad,” Twilight assured. “Nothing that needs stitches, at least.”

“Oh.” It was empty exchanges like this as more and more questions hung over them. Together they cowered under their weight.

“I know that this is… uncomfortable.” It was awkward, to say the least. He tended to her back, arms rigid so as to not touch her more than he needed to. She leaned forward, chest to chest, so that he could somewhat peer over her shoulder to see what he was doing. Skinship didn’t seem to bother her—rather, she was too exhausted to care or give it any deeper thought. The turmoil within Twilight, though, waged. “Just a while longer. I need to dress your wound. You’ve been a very good patient up to now.”

“I’ve been good?” It warranted a chuckle from Yor.

Twilight flushed, conscious of his entire existence. Too embarrassed by his words, he froze, hands dropping down to the small of her back. “Are you…making fun of me?”

“No. Not at all.” She laughed halfheartedly once more, pulling back slightly to look at him. “So this is what you’re like with your patients. You’re kind and your hands are warm. It’s hard to not like you.”

“Oh, please.” Briefly, he met her gaze, tore from her immediately once he remembered the precarious position they found themselves in. He looked past her. He would be a gentleman.

“That’s who you are. You’re warm wherever you go. You’re warm when you’re here, warm when you’re away.” He looked past her even as she moved to touch his face. “You’re warm even now, when I’ve been so cold. Yes, I’ve been cold to you, haven’t I?”

He said her name, so he thought. She closed her eyes. All it took was this for Twilight see her for who she was. Goodness, through and through.

“Sometimes I think… I think I was born like this. Cold-blooded. ” A beat of silence. “That I might be the way I am forever.”

“I know you, Yor.” He blazed a trail to the side of her face, flames lapping her skin. She shuddered as he whispered low against her ear, lips brushing with every word. “I know you. And if... If you're cold now,” Twilight said, “I'll wrap your blanket around you.” It sounded like a promise—one Yor was sure she would not be able to keep.

“That's the thing.” She shook her head. “I’m not so sure you do.”

This he could not refute. Her past was a mystery to him. Dead parents and a younger brother. She had only herself. Twilight often chose not to speculate about her life; he knew he’d go down a downward spiral coming up with many iterations of her girlhood—rather, lack thereof. What kind of jobs did she take to support her younger brother? Who did she meet? How did she remain soft despite it all—the war that had unknowingly brought them together?

How did she get hurt tonight?

Who had hurt her?

Her eyes, glassy, stared at him in resignation. “I’m scared, Loid. Terrified that one day, you'll come to realize who I truly am."

Yes, he did not know the crucial makings of Yor. Didn’t know the smell of her childhood bedroom. The names of lovesick suitors that, over the years, tried to win her hand. He didn’t know the stations she’d tune in to as a girl on lazy Sunday afternoons under the syrup sun when all the initial excitement of the weekend had worn off. But what Twilight did know was the scent of her shampoo as they drove down cobblestone paths, top down, hair tickling his face as she watched the scrolling scenery in awe. He knew the way her face would glow as she smiled, how everything about her flowered. The feelings Anya, he harbored were certain. Wasn’t this enough?

Twilight gently wrapped around her. It was the best he could do despite the uncertainties that continued to gnaw at him. She melded into him, and, perhaps swept by the moment, did exactly what he had been thinking of doing the entire night.

They kindled, and the fire spread.

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It was relatively quiet as he cared for Yor. The small cuts she visibly had on her arms were covered in Anya’s pastel bandaids. He tied the wedding white gauze around her bust as if it were a ribbon to a gown. She was pink in the night, hot with pining much like Twilight.

Sucking on a breath, Yor raised her worn arms as Twilight slipped her nightgown over her head.

“You’re staying home tomorrow. No ifs or buts,” he directed as he slipped her skirt off from underneath.

Yor hummed in compliance, refusing to look him in the eye, refusing to acknowledge the audacity of that act of utmost affinity—the chaste press of lips.

Twilight was no better. He’d gone too soft, sappy. Too stupid. To make up for the many missteps of the night, he would be calm, collected. The anger and contentment conflicting within him would have to wait until he’s in the confines of his room where he could turn in his bed over thoughts of Yor.

He tossed the blood-soaked rags in the bowl and stood up, moving to position her pillow near the arm of the sofa so that she could finally lay. Twilight pulled the pilled quilt from her room over her body. She looked so small, so snug.

“You were out in the rain too. You most definitely caught a cold.”

“Definitely?”

“Yes.” Twilight swept his palm over her forehead. “Definitely. I’ll be here with you, though. I need you there with me this time. I need you strong when you see how fast Anya has grown.”

“It must have been hard on your own, seeing Anya grow.” Yor smiled with mirth and his heart swelled. He looked away, lifted his chin, and cleared his throat. “I’ve always been strong, though, so you don't have to worry—"

“No,” he interjected, a little too strongly. He kneeled down next to her, and he said, in the most tender voice he could muster, “Did you forget that you’re married? Married to me?”

“I didn’t,” she mumbled timidly. “But there's no one here to watch us. Nothing to prove to anyone.”

With a knowing smile, Twilight responded, “Precisely.” Yor blushed, turning to the other side to face away from him. He reached out one last time before retracting his hand out of contemplated bashfulness. “Get some rest. I’ll be in my room reading. Don’t hesitate to call out to me if there’s anything you need, alright?”

He waited ten heartbeats, waited for a last minute request. Waited to hear the inflection of her voice just before she’s taken by slumber—the voice that would lull him to rose-scented dreams.

As he got up, he imagined that she had said his name. Then, again, “Loid?”

“Yes?”

Her back was still turned away from him, face toward the back cushions.

“I’ve got so much to tell you, but I don't know where to begin."

“We’ve got the morning,” he told her, himself. “We’ve got the rest of our lives for me to learn all of you.”

Yor turned to him. Twilight bowed before her, laced their hands together. She squeezed.

"For now," Yor said, closing her eyes, "thank you."

He leaned down and tucked a flower behind her ear. A wind overtakes them. Pink petals flitted.

#my writing #fic #loidyor #twiyor #sxf #sxf fic #spy x family #loid forger #yor briar #this is an old fic #but i'll post it here anyway!#yknow. for The Archives #header is “a continent bridged” by franklin booth #listened to a lot of laufey for this one #fic named after laufey's cover of the song

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mimisempai · 10 months ago

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It's special because it's with you.

Summary

Aziraphale and Crowley are looking forward to celebrating Valentine's Day together, but they hadn't considered how exhausting being a florist can be on this day. Is their evening in jeopardy?

Notes

The first Valentine's Day for the florist and the bookseller

On Ao3

Rating G - 1315 words

Crowley sighed and looked at his watch as he closed the flower shop. He saw his reflection in the window and, seeing his drawn features, ran his hand over his face several times before walking toward the bookshop.

"Happy Valentine's Day!"

The florist's gaze was drawn to the customer coming out of the coffee shop who'd just shouted, then he shook his head and continued on his way, mumbling through his teeth, "Yeah, happy Valentine's Day."

Of course he was happy to share this special moment with Aziraphale, it was the first time he could do it with someone who really mattered and even more than that, but...

He sighed again.

It was his first Valentine's Day as the owner of his flower shop, and he hadn't anticipated the impact this day would have on his work.

Partly because of the reputation he'd built up working for Justine's restaurant, the parade of customers had been non-stop. There were those who had ordered well in advance and others who had come at the last minute, the special requests, the dissatisfied. In short, even with Muriel's help, he hadn't been able to take a break at noon, sacrificing his daily lunch break with Aziraphale.

Crowley smiled slightly, for that hadn't stopped his thoughtful lover from dropping off a plate of sandwiches for them.

It was also why he didn't want to disappoint him by canceling their evening at the Ritz, despite his exhaustion.

Arriving near the bookshop, he was slightly surprised to see almost no lights on, then shrugged, thinking that maybe Aziraphale had already turned everything off so they could go straight to the restaurant.

He opened the door and couldn't hold back a small gasp of surprise.

The bookshop was lit only by the warm glow of a few candles scattered here and there, while in the center stood a table for two, nicely dressed and decorated, lit by a candelabra and the gramophone was playing soft music in the background.

He called softly, "Aziraphale?"

His lover came from the back of the bookshop with a bottle of wine and two glasses in his hand, which he placed on the table before joining him.

He called out with a broad smile, "Crowley, there you are!"

Once in front of him, the bookseller planted a light kiss on his cheek before saying softly, "Happy Valentine's Day."

Crowley, still looking surprised, asked as he swept his arm around the area, "Aziraphale, what does this all mean?"

Aziraphale took his hand and said gently, "While I'm absolutely delighted to share this Valentine's Day with you, I'm certainly not going to do it at the expense of your well-being."

Crowley narrowed his eyes and asked, "Have you been planning this for a long time?"

Aziraphale shook his head and replied with a smile, "No, not at all, I improvised it when I saw the workload you had today."

Crowley looked embarrassed and said, "But you were looking forward to this special evening at the res--"

Aziraphale silenced him with a finger to his mouth and replied gently, "What is special is being with you, no matter where or how. I've been looking forward to this evening because it's with you. The rest is just details."

Crowley tried to protest, but Aziraphale would have none of it. He took the florist's hands and led him to the table, where he made him sit down.

He brought his hand to Crowley's cheek, stroked it with his thumb, and said softly, "You don't have to pretend with me. Don't force yourself because you think this is what I want. This. Us. The only way this is going to work is if we're completely honest with each other. The heart-shaped cards, the chocolates, the flowers, the fancy restaurant, it's all meaningless if we're not both into it. My greatest gift this Valentine's Day is just the two of us."

He grabbed the bottle and the two glasses and, after filling them, handed one to Crowley before raising his own and saying softly, "To us."

Crowley smiled and, clinking his glass against the bookseller's, replied in the same tone, "To us."

They took a sip and then, over a plate of hors d'oeuvres, they talked about their day, laughing more than once when Crowley talked about some eccentric customer or Aziraphale about customers who had left empty-handed because, Love Fest or not, he wouldn't part with his prized possessions.

The gramophone needle jerked a little before moving on to the next song, and as the notes began to play, Crowley pushed back his chair and stood up under Aziraphale's puzzled gaze.

Now standing beside him, the florist held out his hand and said softly, a small smile on his lips, "Mister Fell, may I have this dance?"

Aziraphale, now with a delighted expression on his face, placed his hand in the outstretched one and said quietly, "Of course, Mister Crowley."

Then he stood and placed his other hand on his lover's shoulder, who wrapped his arm around his waist and pressed him a little closer, leaving Aziraphale no choice but to rest his head on the florist's chest.

They began to sway gently to the sound of the singer's velvety voice.

From time to time, Crowley would plant a soft kiss on Aziraphale's hair, and Aziraphale would press himself a little closer in response.

Suddenly, Crowley put his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders and shoved him gently before rummaging through his pocket as the bookseller looked on in bewilderment.

He pulled out a small pink felt bag, tied with a small red ribbon, and handed it to Aziraphale, saying with a lopsided grin, "I know you said you didn't care for chocolates, heart-shaped cards, and flowers, but it would be a shame if this one melted. Happy Valentine's Day, Angel."

Aziraphale picked it up and, once the ribbon was undone, turned the little bag upside down over his open palm, revealing an adorable little white chocolate angel.

The bookseller, both amused and touched by the gesture, looked at it more closely, twirling it delicately in his hand as his cheeks took on a color that was no match for the pink of the bag.

Then he carefully placed the little angel in the center of the table and returned to Crowley, wrapping his arms around his neck. He brought his face close to the florist's and murmured against his lips, "Thank you. This Valentine's night is absolutely perfect," before closing the distance between them and pressing his lips to Crowley's in a tender kiss.

Crowley responded by wrapping his arms around the bookseller, deepening the kiss that lingered as the singer sang the last words of the song.

And as we kissed and said good night

A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square

I know 'cause I was there

That night in Berkeley Square

Lost in the sweet atmosphere of the moment, they continued to kiss and sway gently as the music faded.

**********

"Oh, did you hear that?"

Eric, raising an eyebrow, turned to Muriel and asked, "What?"

Muriel, looking excited, replied, "A nightingale, I'm sure I heard it."

Eric laughed lightly and replied, "That's unlikely this time of year."

Muriel nudged him on the shoulder and replied, "Don't always be so pragmatic, you know sometimes miracles do happen, after all tonight is propitious for it, isn't it?"

Eric's expression softened as he cupped Muriel's face in his hands and said softly, the worship visible in his gaze, "The only miracle I believe in right now is you."

Then he leaned forward and kissed them softly before taking their hand in his and leading them away to resume their walk.

As the young couple walked away, they didn't see the little nightingale come to rest on a leafless branch, nor did they hear its song as it watched them disappear around the corner from Berkeley Square.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story 🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

The florist and the booksellers series : here

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here

#good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #ineffable boyfriends #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #human au #alternate universe #flower shop

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monstersinthecosmos · 6 months ago

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okay I think we should take inventory of what we learned about Marius's house.

In fact, the impression was one of comfortable messiness.

(i think the tiktok kids started calling ADHD clutter clustering or something LMAO marius de romanus cluster girlie i guess. thanks i hate it)

Here's some stuff that Marius had on his island!!!!!!!

stone benches

a lighted oil lamp on a stand

a pair of heavy wooden doors

a sarcophagus with a plain lid, cleanly fashioned out of diorite

The lid plated in iron and contained

a golden mask, its features carefully molded, attached to a hood made up of layered plates of hammered gold.

a pair of leather gloves covered completely in tinier more delicate gold plates like scales.

a large folded blanket of the softest red wool with one side sewn with larger gold plates

Magnificent Grecian urns on pedestals in the corridors

great bronze statues from the Orient

exquisite plants at every window and terrace open to the sky.

Gorgeous rugs from India, Persia, China c

giant stuffed beasts mounted in lifelike attitudes-

--the brown bear,

--the lion,

--the tiger,

--even the elephant standing in his own immense chamber,

--lizards as big as dragons,

--birds of prey clutching dried branches made to look like the limbs of real trees.

brilliantly colored murals covering every surface from floor to ceiling

a dark vibrant painting of the sunburnt Arabian desert complete with an exquisitely detailed caravan of camels and turbaned merchants moving over the sand

a jungle warming with delicately rendered tropical blossoms, vines, carefully drawn leaves

creatures everywhere in the texture of the jungle-

--insects,

--birds,

--worms in the soil-

too many monkeys in the jungle,

too many bugs crawling on the leaves.

thousands of tiny insects in one painting of a summer sky.

a large gallery walled on either side by painted men and women staring at me

Figures from all ages these were-

--bedouins,

--Egyptians,

--Greeks and Romans,

--knights in armor,

--peasants

--kings

--queens.

--Renaissance people in doublets and leggings,

--the Sun King with his massive mane of curls,

--people of our own age.

droplets of water clinging to a cape,

the cut on the side of a face,

the spider half-crushed beneath a polished leather boot.

a library, blazing with light.

Walls and walls of books and

rolled manuscripts,

giant glistening world globes in their wooden cradles,

busts of the ancient Greek gods and goddesses,

great sprawling maps.

Newspapers in all languages lay in stacks on tables.

Fossils,

mummified hands,

exotic shells.

bouquets of dried flowers,

figurines and fragments of old sculpture,

alabaster jars covered with Egyptian hieroglyphs.

comfortable chairs with footstools,

candelabra or oil lamps.

a forest of cages.

birds of all sizes and colors

monkeys

baboons,

Potted plants crowded against the cages-

--ferns and

--banana trees,

--cabbage roses,

--moonflower,

--jasmine,

--other sweetly fragrant nighttime vines.

purple and white orchids,

waxed flowers that trapped insects in their maw,

little trees groaning with peaches and lemons and pears.

a hall of sculptures equal to any gallery in the Vatican museum.

adjoining chambers full of paintings,

Oriental furnishings,

mechanical toys.

fine rosewood paneling with framed mirrors rising to the ceiling.

painted chests,

upholstered chairs,

dark and lush landscapes,

porcelain clocks.

A small collection of books in the glass-doored bookcases,

a newspaper of recent date lying on a small table beside a brocaded winged chair.

the stone terrace. where banks of white lilies and red roses gave off their powerful perfume.

a pair of winged chairs that faced each other

a dozen or so candelabra and sconces on the paneled walls.

brocade cushions

#marius de romanus #tvl quotes #the vampire lestat #marius's elephant tag #tag urself im worms in the soil #Vampire chronicles

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crudlynaturephotos · 1 day ago

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#california landscape #candelabra cactus #tree euphorbia #toxic plants #agave flowers #cacti and succulents #magnolia #mission valley #san diego

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valscigarette · 15 days ago

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Above All This Bustle

Summary: Sir Pentious can't help but feel like something's missing in Heaven. Emily helps.

Tags: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post Season 1

WC: 1k | AO3 | Art by @aflatfacedprick

Sir Pentious’ adjustment to Heaven has been mostly smooth thus far. His initial arrival was somewhat of an affair, having spent the entire first day being questioned by a gigantic angel about things he didn’t remember, but his days since then have been paradise. He has endless time to work on his inventions and his pickup lines alike, an infinite supply of hard candy that never makes him sick, and the softest blankets in all of creation for his nest. By all means, he should be overjoyed from the time he wakes up to the time he falls back asleep, but there’s a constant voice in the back of his head insisting something is missing.

A little under a month after his arrival, Pentious works up the courage to mention it to one of the angels. The blue girl with long white hair and a perpetual anxious tilt to her eyes–Emily–spends most mornings on the promenade, checking in with Heaven’s residents, giving him an opportunity to ask her about it.

“Emily!” he hisses from his doorway.

Her head shoots up, swiveling in search for a second before she sees him. “Oh, Sir Pentious!” She glides over with a smile and a flutter of her wings. “It’s so good to see you! Sooo, how are you liking Heaven?” She scans the stoop of his house, cluttered by spare parts and potted plants. “Is the house okay? We can change anything you don’t like.”

She’s so nice. Everyone is, even picturesque souls that set Pentious’ double hearts aflutter, but it doesn’t comfort him like he suspects it should. He has this emptiness in him, undefinable and inescapable, that only deepens each passing day.

“The house is lovely, my dear,” he assures. Emily visibly sags in relief before he’s done. “I just… well…”

Looking into her big doe eyes, Pentious’ meticulously crafted courage collapses.

“Nevermind,” he finishes lamely.

Emily shakes her head. “No, please,” she insists, “you can tell me anything!”

“It- it’s stupid.” He’s in Heaven. If something feels wrong, it must be Sir Pentious and not Heaven itself. “Forget it. I do not wish to trouble you.”

He turns away, but Emily grabs his wrist before he can slither back inside. “You’re not, I promise.”

Sir Pentious is sure she’d release him if asked, but the warmth of her fingers on his scales washes over him like a thousand hugs, and she doesn’t let go when he gives in to her gentle tug. Some of the other angels, Sera especially, intimidate him, but Emily’s presence always sets him at ease. She’s familiar, but in an offset way, like she reminds him of somebody, though he can’t recall who.

“Okay,” Pentious sighs. “I have this… feeling? I cannot explain it, I simply feel as if I’m,” he pauses, searching for the best words before settling on, “forgetting something. And it was important.”

Tears well up in Emily’s eyes, but she hastily swipes them away before they can fall. “Right, of course. That’s-” she sniffles, “that’s pretty normal, Sir Pentious, don’t worry. I might be able to help, if you want?” Suddenly, she leans in close and drops her voice to a whisper. “You can’t tell anyone, though.”

Pentious nods seriously and draws an x over his heart with a claw. “You have my word, Miss Emily.”

With her hold on his arm, Emily leads Pentious down the promenade to the gigantic golden building he emerged from on his first day, minus all the hustle and bustle of a busy summit. She leads them through empty labyrinthine halls paved by glowing marble until at last, they come upon a gargantuan set of double wooden doors where Pentious can’t help lifting his free hand to the intricate carvings of angels, tracing the curve of one’s head.

“Okay,” Emily mutters.

She pushes open the door just enough for the two of them to slip into the massive auditorium, and lights the candelabras with a wave of her hand. After dragging Pentious up to the pillar in the center of the stage, she releases him at last, giving him a moment to take in the grand room. The array of seats all aimed down at them are no less nerve-wracking than they had been when he arrived.

He shudders and looks back at Emily right as she conjures a shimmering bubble.

“I should warn you before I show you this,” she says.

“Yes?”

“You don’t remember them.” Another choreographed gesture turns the bubble to a swirling portal of red smog and distant city lights. “But I think you might miss your friends.”

Sir Pentious slithers closer as the bubble hones in on a scarlet building emblazoned with the phrase Hazbin Hotel. It nags him with its familiarity. He should remember it, he thinks, but as he continues to watch, the image fades through the walls to reveal a sitting room full of creatures. His eyes land first on a pink-haired cyclops woman tossing a hacky sack from hand to hand. Without hearing her voice, without knowing her name, Pentious can feel that he’s missed her.

“Who is she?” he asks, reaching toward the bubble.

“Her name is Cherri,” Emily answers softly. She knocks his hand away before he can touch the surface, then rubs his back to comfort him over the denial. “You died saving her life, all of their lives. They miss you too.”

Now Pentious is the one about to cry. He didn’t know he could do that as a snake. “Do they really remember me?”

“Of course they do!”

The bubble’s view swerves to display an oil painting of Sir Pentious himself, a valiant and proud snake in a Napoleonic hat, with an egg-shaped creature in his lap and dozens more around him. Every stroke of paint is magnificently placed, every color is vibrant under the beam of dedicated spotlights, and every inch of the tableau radiates affection. All Pentious can do is sob.

“My-”

His voice catches around a wheeze. Emily hands him a handkerchief and assures him, “It’s okay, let it out.”

“My Egg Bois!” Sir Pentious wails, falling to the floor as the memories begin to flood back.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction #sir pentious #sir pentious fanfic #emily hazbin hotel #usershady #usershadyfic #shadyteacollabs #shadydecember

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orqheuss · 1 year ago

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For whatever we lose (like a you, or a me)

(Ominis Gaunt/Sebastian Sallow/GN!Reader ANGST)

Pre!Parenthesis Universe

Summary:

“Oh for the love of—” Sebastian cut himself off, quickly drawing his wand from his sleeve and pointing it at your chest. Images danced behind his eyes; Solomon destroying the plant that could have cured Anne; The blurry image of the goblin that had cursed his sister running from the house, cackling in villainous mirth; finding his parents bodies in the cellar, thick plumes of colored toxic smoke spewing from their cauldron. His vision faded to a striking black. White hot pokers stabbed into his temples, and he cast his wand at you in a blind rage. “Crucio!” *** The Scriptorium called your name, and who were you to ignore its song? At least, that's what you told yourself as Sebastian pushed you and Ominis deeper and deeper into the mausoleum.

Word count: 9k

Tags: arguing, violence, cruciatus curse, dark!sebastian (kind of), sexual humor

AN: I’m moving all of my fics over from Ao3 to make them more accessible! These are my fics.

Not a sound could be heard in the moonlit, desolate hallways of Hogwarts. The distant star casted a haunting glow over the courtyard and shone through the grand windows of the Great Hall. Figures long lost to time danced through the paintings lining the hazelwood walls, waltzing to an imaginary concerto. The ghosts floating about chatted quietly about their history, telling tales of cadences forever forgotten in old textbooks. Their whispers shivered the leaves in the trees on the campus grounds, leaving them humming at the fall winds cascading from the sky and turning their once vibrant green spires into a burnt orange. Lanterns lined the Grand Staircase at the heart of the castle, a paragon of regality and the wisdom of the great wizarding school. Baroque styled banisters basked in the glow, expelling person-shaped shadows on the enormous walls lining the mystical architecture. Down the stairs laid an ornate stone door, its architrave adorned with a cosmic silver snake. Two freshly lit braziers framed the entrance and swayed in the steely breeze of the dungeons, its smokey ash pirouetting in romantic couplets towards the ceiling.

A third was sparked to life just down the way. The line of light seemed to lure in anyone who were to walk the halls past curfew; beckoning them with the promise of mischief and pleasure. Standing before the final brazier, basking in its luminescence, were three young students. One leaned against the far wall of the corridor, arms crossed tightly against his chest with a sullen look adorning his features. His eyes seemed to catch the light and shimmer like frosted glass on a winter morning. Another stood in front of the boy, directly under the cold stone of the giant candelabra. He was beaming with elation, his eyes glittering with waywardness and intrigue. His brown irises seemed to reflect the fire back in challenge, almost daring it to blaze brighter than he did. Between the two was the final student. A slight frown quirked the corner of their mouth, glancing back and forth between their two friends in trepidation. They could feel each emotion emitting from their companions like a thick fog, coating the hallway and leaving the braziers the lone match shining through the storm. Each felt something different about their quest— had different motives for the scintillating adventure. They all heard the distinct call to the Scriptorium before them, and felt more than compelled to answer. With a great rumble, the stone wall sloughed away and opened up to a chasm leading downward. A spiral staircase slithered from below and attached to the ledge, hissing out a stream of steam in its wake.

The three friends stood in awe at the display, amazed at the grandiloquence of the long dead wizard who made this place. They were about to enter Salazar Slytherin’s Scriptorium, a feat very few could claim as their own.

Sebastian Sallow turned on the balls of his feet and beckoned his friends over, a giddy look twinkling in his eyes and stretching his smile. The prospect of finding a cure for the curse that plagued his sister heavily outweighed any unease he may have had at the daunting entryway. He nearly vibrated with excitement— the need for thrill buried itself deep in his bones. He could taste the tombs of secrets hidden in the enigma before him, feel the leather bound books worn with oil from the fingertips of his house founder. The forbidden magic thrummed in his veins and set his blood aflame like the brightest sunlight. Something unfamiliar flashed in his eyes, something dark.

Ominis Gaunt, the heir of Slytherin himself, flicked his wand from his large robe sleeve and sparked it to life. A red light pulsed from its tip, and the hallway came more into focus in his mind. He pushed himself off of the wall and walked towards the imposing archway, closer to his family history simmering below. He looked striking, noble even, with his even, strong steps. Only someone close enough to be in his own skin would notice the slight tremble in his hands, the sweat that beaded at his brow. Anyone else with his condition could hear the steady hammer of his heart against his rib cage, the fast but even beats swimming in his ears and resting behind his eyes. He thought of his dear aunt Noctua, the last of the Gaunt’s to enter the foreboding mausoleum— how she had disappeared soon after finding its entrance. A shiver ran up his spine and something akin to fear lodged itself in his throat.

You looked on at the two boys. You had no feelings for this moment, nothing to go off of but the words of your two comrades. You peaked down the chilling stairs into the never-ending darkness. It seemed to hiss in contempt at being awoken. This metaphorical pit of serpents had fangs, and each dripped with a deadly poison befitting the strongest men. The blackness crept up your arms and buried itself in your hair— it whispered sweet nothings into your ears, enticing the ancient magic flowing under your skin. You inhaled the titillating aroma of devillment and stored it deep in your lungs. Excitement and worry crashed against your soul and swirled like a hurricane in your stomach, sending ripples of anxiety through your very bones. You truly didn’t know how you felt at that very moment, but you knew, more than anything, that you wanted to protect your friends. Something inside, though, felt familiar. Something was calling out to your magic, and you felt inclined to answer.

You pushed the anxiety aside for now. The two boys, now standing next to you, both had things they needed to learn from the Scriptorium, and you were going to help them find it. The idea of adventure took over your senses at that moment and spread heat through your chest, glowing as bright at the braziers you had just lit.

Even Ominis, a very stoic and reserved boy to most, seemed to have a gleam about his face that shimmered in eagerness. Not many knew, but he most definitely had a taste for chaos— he had to with the company he kept. There was something so intriguing about the Scriptorium to him. Maybe it was something forged in his very being, him being a Gaunt after all. Either way, the young wizard turned his attention towards his companions in a silent confirmation that he was ready to go. You cleared your throat hesitantly, drawing the attention of Sebastian away from the dark hallway before you.

“Alright boys,” you gestured towards the entrance with your hand, “shall we?”

The two nodded in your direction. Sebastian turned to you with a cheeky grin decorating his features. “I haven’t seen a tunnel this big since your mum.”

Another thing about the Sallow boy: he very rarely took anything seriously.

At the unimpressed look you gave him, he held his hands up in a placating manner, chortling to himself, “Aw, come on. That was a good one—”

You reached your hand towards his face and promptly thumped him on the forehead with a flick. Sebastian dropped the troublesome smirk and quickly brought his palm up to rub at the affronted spot, hissing through his teeth in pain.

You looked at Ominis next to you, and as if sensing your disappointment he shook his head while looking up at the ceiling, muttering to himself, “Merlin, help me,” before beginning to walk down the daunting staircase.

You and Sebastian fell into step behind the young Gaunt, trusting his instincts and sentient wand better than your fleeting eyesight. The tunnel was unequivocally dark, even the lumos dancing in front of your face barely pierced the surface. Your shoes made a distinct squelch sound on the wet cement with each step deeper into the pit.

Down,

down,

down you went.

The stairs seemed to go on forever, descending into the fathomless unknown. Each sound echoed off the tightly packed walls, bouncing back and forth like a well crafted game of wizards chess. The seconds ticked by slowly, cascading around you like the steady stream of drips coming from above. The piping loomed imposingly above your heads and drizzled along the black-stone walls. You must be truly under the castle, you supposed. You felt tightly packed like a tin of sardines— three fish wiggling together towards the unknown fate of the stew pot. Ominis could smell your discomfort behind him, and quite honestly, he was inclined to agree. He couldn’t sense the end landing, if there even was one, in the infernal devilry that was the accursed sepulcher. The scent and taste of mildew and stale air coated his nasal cavity and larynx, making it impossible to determine anything else from the two orifices. He would gripe about his lack of sight in situations like this, at least normally, but he doubted that it would make much difference at the current moment. There was truly nothing around them.

Sebastian could taste the unease in the air from his two companions, and he detested the feeling greatly. It was of the utmost disrespect to the boy to turn down adventure; there was absolutely nothing in this world that he didn’t want to poke and prod, to know how it ticked. If there was one thing that his parents passed down to him before they died, it was that. He understood that it was a daunting task, and a very large ask of his dear friends, to take this journey with him, but for Merlin’s sake, it was Slytherin’s Scriptorium! He had only ever read about this monumental library, hiding deep in the caverns of the Hogwarts underbelly. How could he say no to this journey, this discovery? If it helped Anne along the way, what was the harm of it all?

Just as you were beginning to think you would never leave the Hadean staircase, it finally puttered off to a smooth path of river-stones and a dimly lit concourse. Ominis stood at the forefront of the group, his wand casting a small bale-fire and illuminating more of the imposing hallway. Sebastian chuckled lowly behind him. Wrapping his arm around the smaller boy's shoulders and leaning his head towards you, his eyes focusing deep into the darkness before him, he hummed.

“Hmph. Dark, ominous corridors. My favorite!” He cheesed at your bubbling laugh, snickering to himself at the obvious annoyance of the other boy.

Ominis bemoaned the statement, groaning and throwing his head back minutely. A hand raised to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “No comment.”

You turned towards your blond haired friend, placing your own hand on his shoulder and leaning in next to his ear, a dangerously coy simper tweaking up the corners of your mouth.

“I certainly love one of Ominis’ corridors.”

The wiry boy wiggled out from under your arms, making a sound of disgust at the comment as his cheeks turned a bright fuchsia. Sebastian desperately held in giggles behind his hand, watching as the boy made an obscene gesture with his middle finger in your general direction. The taller boy stepped closer to the other, gently grasping his arm by the wrist and redirected the gesticulation to face more fully at you instead of a little to the left where it once was pointed. Both of you paused, looking between each other's eyes and the offending finger with barely contained mirth, before combusting dramatically into boisterous laughter. Sebastian leaned against the wall in support, nearly screaming around the laughs that wracked his body. You still stood across from Ominis, doubled over with your hands on your knees. Gasping breaths left your lungs as you teared up in humorous pain. Ominis’ scowl somehow got deeper, and once again he turned away from the pair of you and began to walk down the hallway himself— screw you two hooligans to the sticking place for all he cared.

“Yes, yes. Hardy har, laugh at the blind fellow. Incredibly mature, you both are.”

Sebastian walked up to your hunched form, patting you gently on the back before grasping at your shoulder and helping you stand. You both leaned on the other for support as the last of your giggles tittered into the air around you. Taking a deep, cleansing breath before shakily releasing the air, you began to walk after the tiffed boy. His haunches were raised above his ears, only the tips poked out and were flushed a light pink. You quickly ran to catch up with his quick steps, waving your wand around in front of you to avoid any obstacles in the low lighting. Your arm landed on his shoulders once again, and you sniggered jovially,

“I do apologize. That was terribly coarse of me, my dear Ominis.”

Sebastian slid up on the other side of the boy, wrapping his arm around his other shoulder and resting his hand at your elbow. He accentuated his accent, adopting an incredibly posh vernacular. “Indubitably. Frightfully uncouth of us. Please forgive us, dear friend.”

Ominis growled in the back of his throat, mumbling curses under his breath and shrugging off both of your arms. “Go lick a leprechaun taint, the both of you.”

You both gasped in outrage.

“How dare you, good sir!” Sebastian cried, a hand fluttering over his heart and a scandalized look decorating his visage.

You took a similar stance. “We are children of God! Deviant behavior such as that must be saved for one's wedding bed.”

The two pureblood wizards paused and turned towards you, confusion laced in their eyebrows. The brunette leaned closer to you, arms now crossed in befuddlement, and glanced at you from his peripheral vision like he was about to share a secret.

“What’s a ‘God’?” Sebastian whispered out of the side of his mouth.

You turned towards the boy, finger raised and mouth open with an explanation at the tip of your tongue. You quickly decided against it, though, as you knew it would just confuse them more. Best not try to explain muggle religion to two boys who have never stepped out of their small towns until it was time to go to school. You sighed, lowering your hand and about facing the end of the hall, ambling along ahead of the pack. The two boys shrugged and continued after you.

At the far end of the hallway stood two imposing stone walls, an ostentatious doorway slid into the space between. Looking at the entrance, embellished in the texture of scales and decorated with serpent imagery, you felt a sense of dread wash over you. Each turn in this maze of a catacomb seemed to linger with a foreboding aura, flooding your senses and raising the hairs at the back of your neck. You turned to look at Sebastian, now at your elbow just behind you. He was gazing at the door in pure curiosity, his eyebrows pinched together in contemplation. He ran his hand along the intricate carvings, tracing each snake with delicate precision.

Ominis slowly entered the room, his head tilted left and then right with a pensive look adorning his face. He stood in the center of the room and closed his eyes, seemingly listening to something that only he could hear. Soft hisses slithered through the room from the pipes above, adding to the dreadful vibe. Each hiss caused him to twitch in one direction to the next. If you didn’t know any better, you would say that he was possessed by a snake itself.

His eyes suddenly snapped open, startling you with his ferocity. He quickly paced towards the door, running his hand along the carvings with Sebastian. The homing signal at the tip of his wand cast an eerie glow on the wood, mingling with the green fire torches lining the walls. He leaned his ear on the door, listening closely to the whispers in the walls. He tilted his head towards the pair of students, gesturing with his chin at the entryway.

“It’s speaking to me.”

You quirked an eyebrow at the boy. “The wall is talking to you?”

He nodded, pressing his ear against the wall once again. You walked towards the blond, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead in puzzlement.

“Are you feeling alright, Ominis? Are you ill? How can the wall be ta—”

“Shush!” He gently grasped your arm and lowered your hand to your side. “No, you numpty. It’s speaking parseltongue, the language of snakes.”

Sebastian leaned away from the door, snapping his fingers in excitement and pointing at the blind boy.

“I forgot you could speak parseltongue!”

Ominis huffed to himself, trepidation coating his tightly spoken words, “Well, I don’t particularly enjoy it. Parseltongue is notoriously associated with dark wizards, something as you know I have tried very hard to disassociate myself with.”

He leaned away from the door, instead resting his hand on the wall beside it. He looked up, unseeing, at the grand archway decorating the edges of the room and listened carefully once again to the hissed whispers.

“I think I need to speak to the door for it to open. Please step back, the both of you. I don’t want you hurt if something goes awry.”

You both took a noisy step back, making sure to alert him since he briefly put away his wand in favor of leaning on the stone wall with both hands.

Ominis sighed to himself, blowing upwards and dislodging part of his hair from his styled quiff. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this.”

From his mouth came a series of lethargic hisses, stringed together as if in a sentence. The sound seemed to fill the entire room, echoing off the stone walls and bouncing back at you from all angles. It amplified steadily as the hisses from above answered in turn.

Three of the decorative serpents came to life within the wood, slithering through the holes of the door and gliding along the edges of its carved trenches. A stream of mist puffed from its outer ridges, silencing the voices floating around you with a defined burst of powerful air. It blew the hairs dangling around your face backwards, tickling the tips of your ears and the back of your neck. Every hair on your body stood on edge and you suppressed a shiver.

The three of you stood silently for a moment, basking in the sudden quiet. It was like a bubble that had mysteriously appeared around your heads spontaneously popped, sending a rush of startling stillness pulsating directly into your ears.

Ominis was the first to break the spell, clearing his throat around the tightness that rested there, his cheeks glowing with a soft rosacea, and gestured through the now open doorway.

“After you.”

Your face broke out into an animated grin. “Ominis, you truly possess a rare ability, indeed!” You gently brushed your hand on his shoulder as you passed through the archway. Ominis’ cheeks blushed a darker red, and he reached his hand behind his head, rubbing softly at his neck in embarrassment.

“Oh, er, it’s nothing.”

Sebastian stayed in the back of the group, a scowl on his face and his arm crossed tightly across his chest. He glowered at the door like it affronted him, cursing it for allowing his friend to show his rare gift. Stalking towards the next room, irritation heavily prevalent in his steps, he muttered to himself the phrase you had just spoken in a mocking tone. He wasn’t sure which of you he should feel jealous of— you complimenting Ominis, or Ominis getting complimented by you.

Both, he decided. He was jealous of both.

The three students passed under the bend and entered into the next room of the monolith-lined maze. Once fully inside, the imposing door behind you closed with a loud slam. Sebastian ran at it, pulling desperately at the carvings and pushing with all his strength. Ominis joined him, throwing his weight at it with a grunt. The door didn’t budge.

“Shit!” Hissed the brunette, punching the door one last time before taking in the room behind him. “Guess we’re stuck in here until we find the next room.”

The blond leaned back against the wood, an annoyed puff of hair leaving his mouth. “Until we find the next room? How do we even know that there’s a next room? We could very well just be stuck here until we inevitably die of thirst or hunger, whichever happens first.” Ominis turned his head towards the sound of the pacing boy. “Sebastian, we’re eating you first.”

Sebastian stuttered in outrage, “Why me?!”

“Because it was your idea to come here in the first place!”

“Say that to my face you—”

Tired of listening to the boys argue, you lit the tip of your wand and began to explore the new area you had unlocked. It was a large stone room with a gunmetal gate at one end, a giant lock decorating the middle. Spiderwebs covered every corner, starting from the very far bottom corner and stretching to the upper corner across the room. You shuddered, thinking of the large arachnids you had fought not that long ago. You hated spiders. Making your way closer to the gate, you traced your finger along the lock, noting strange shapes in the metal. It seemed like it wouldn’t take a key like normal, it was a puzzle of some sort.

Turning towards your friends, you tuned back in their argument. They were face to face, arms crossed, with indignant expressions.

“It’s your ancestor that seems to like puzzles so much!”

“Look in a mirror, Sebastian.”

“How dare you!” He stuttered for a moment, wracking his brain for a suitable comeback, “Were you dropped on your head as a child?!”

Ominis scoffed, a sarcastic grin stretching his lips, “Oh, bold of you to assume I was ever held—”

“BOYS!” You shouted for them from the gate. “Can you have your lover’s quarrel later? I found something.”

Their faces instantly softened a fraction at the sound of your voice. They stepped away from each other, embarrassed by their squabble, straightened their cloaks, and walked over to where you stood.

Sebastian came up to the gate, running his fingers along the lock like you did, before grasping at the bars and giving it a good shake. The gate rattled against the ground, scraping at the concrete below, but refused to budge. He took a step closer, craning his head around and looking through the small slits in the metal. His collar dug into his neck uncomfortably. Growling, the boy tugged on the offending cloth.

“This bloody collar—”

The freckled boy stood back, looking at the gate once more for a moment before undoing his robe and tossing it unceremoniously to the ground. He shrugged off his jacket and vest next, leaving him just in his white button down and tie. He quickly pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, shaking out his arms in the process, and loosened his tie before undoing a few buttons near the top of his shirt. Grasping his wand between his teeth, Sebastian took hold of one of the horizontal metal rungs in the gate and pulled upwards with all his might. Still no movement.

A blush began to creep up your neck at the display before you, and you averted your eyes from the very attractive boy. You turned towards Ominis, only to find him in a similar state of undress. He was in the process of carefully undoing the buttons around his cuffs and folding the sleeves to his elbow. You noticed he had neatly gathered his jacket, vest, and robe and placed them atop one of the assorted rocks littering the ground. He began to walk towards the other boy, listening to his struggling grunts of effort. Your blush somehow got brighter.

“Let me try.”

Sebastian took a step back and waved his hands in a “have at it” motion. Ominis approached the gate in a similar stance to the other boy, flexing his forearms and pulling upwards once again. You could see his muscles straining under the material; he may have been slim, but he certainly wasn’t unfit. Eyes skipping from one boy to the other, one with his hands on his hips, panting at the effort he had just exuded, and the other now pondering the gate before him, a finger resting on his chin and hand resting on his other elbow across his chest, you suddenly felt like the room had gotten at least ten degrees hotter.

In your flustered state, you took a step back away from your companions. You bumped into something just behind you, a piece of sharp stone slicing through your shoulder. Releasing a hiss in pain, you grasped at the wound and quickly turned around, looking for the offending object. Just over your shoulder stood a large stone statue of a snake poised to strike. It was resting on two circular bases, one atop the other with just enough space between to twist them to different directions. You noticed symbols decorating the rims of each— they were the same shape and style as the two on the gate lock. You quickly crouched down and took hold of the stone, turning it until both bases lined up with the ones on the lock. A loud click sounded through the room and the gate before you opened.

The three of you quickly turned towards the sound, wands poised in front of you ready to strike. Seeing no danger, you all lowered your weapons and turned back towards the statue. You crouched yet again, running your fingertip along the other symbols.

You spoke to the boys over your shoulder, “It’s a puzzle. You have to match the gate symbols to the ones on the snake.”

Sebastian barked a laugh, coming up behind you and gazing at the sculpture. “Absolutely brilliant, you are! Bet I could do that just as well, eh?” He patted you on your shoulder with pride, not noticing your new injury. You clenched your teeth, a pained hiss escaping through the gaps. The brunette drew his hand back in alarm, looking at the small streak of blood on his palm. He took your arm gently, eyebrows furrowed at the medium sized cut in concern.

“Stars, you’re hurt! What happened? Are you alright?”

You placed your hand over one of his, looking at him over your shoulder and forcing a laugh. “That’s how I found the statue in the first place. I’ll be fine, it’s just a scratch.”

He looked at you with doubt, but let it go, releasing your arm and taking a step back. “If you say so.”

You stood, shaking out your arms and shoulders. His hands felt like small fires against the cool air of the mausoleum.

“Okay, Ominis and I will stay here and look for more of these puzzles. Sebastian, you go look in the other room and see if you find anything. Call out if you need backup.”

Sebastian saluted two fingers in your direction before running at the open gate, grabbing at the taller ledge of the other room and heaving himself up. You watched him disappear onto the other floor. You and Ominis spread out, each taking a different corner of the room. It was bigger than you originally expected, going on for at least the length of a classroom. There was another gate at the very center of the room, the same as the other. Your eyes scanned each corner of your side for the distinct shape of Salazar’s sculpt, calling to Ominis on the other side of the room.

“So, why does Salazar Slytherin like snakes so much, anyway?”

Ominis shrugged, “Some legends say that he was an animagus— that his form was a basilisk.”

You whistled lowly, “That’s a big snake.”

The boy chuckled softly, going back to the original silence directly after. Ominis bit his lip, chewing it over what he should say next. He didn’t like the silence, it made him feel like he was back home. The ambiance of the Scriptorium certainly didn’t help, either.

He took a deep breath before speaking. “Are you truly alright?”

You smiled, moving over to his side where he was feeling along the wall. You rested your hand on his shoulder, a feather light touch that felt like a heavy weight because of his nerves. “I am, I promise. Please don’t worry about me, everything is fine.”

He turned his face towards your voice. “I always worry. About the both of you.”

Your face softened at the confession, bringing your hand up to gently caress his cheek. He leaned into your touch, eyes closing at the contact. Brushing your thumb against his cheekbone, you felt a surge of nerves in your stomach; butterflies bumping around in the inner lining of your gut. You opened your mouth to speak.

“Ominis, I—”

A short shout cuts through the quiet. You both whip your heads in the direction of the open gate, calling out to the boy on the other side.

“Sebastian, are you alright?”

You hear him fumble around for a moment, calling in return, “The statue bit me! Be careful not to get it wrong!”

Ominis gently grasped your chin, turning it back towards his face. He listened to you expectantly, patiently waiting for you to continue your thought from before. The blond was incredibly nervous, hoping that you couldn’t tell that his hand was shaking. You hesitantly flick your eyes from his irises to his lips, soft and inviting. You wet your own, taking a shaky breath in.

“What were you saying?” Ominis whispered, his face a hairs length away.

Your eyes quickly slid over to the left, feeling incredibly hot under the collar all of a sudden. A strange shaped rock caught your attention, curved at the base like a worm. There it was, the final puzzle. You gasped, fumbling out of Ominis’ hold on you and quickly scurrying over to it, turning the dial to the shapes on the other gate. Just as yours slotted into place, a second click could be heard from the room over. The second gate opened with a loud, rusted creak, leading into a third, and what you hoped was final, room.

Sebastian made his way back over to the two of you, an elated grin stretching across his face as he gazed into the next section of the crypt. Ominis had dropped his arm when you de-tangled yourself, now crossing both in front of his chest with an expression similar to someone who smelled something foul.

The three of you crept into the room, wands poised for any danger that may come forward. The gate slammed shut behind you once more, trapping you there like before.

“Salazar Slytherin isn’t done with us yet,” Ominis whispered, a grave seriousness adorning his visage.

You quietly make your way to the other side of the room where a large, disfigured door lay. It was covered in carvings; scratches marred the corners, flowing dangerously into disturbing images of screaming faces. You felt the air around you grow even colder than before, a shiver running down your spine. There was a flutter of paper to your right, and you swung your wand towards the sound. The tip illuminated an old piece of parchment, covered in dust with sections of it nibbled away by rats. You gently pick up the letter, afraid it would fall apart at the slightest movement. On it was a journal entry of sorts, big looping cursive depicting the fate of the last explorer to make it to this room. You carefully scanned the note, each word filling your chest with dread. Gazing down at the ground near your feet, you quietly gasp at the sight of a decaying skeleton. Its bones were a stark alabaster against the gray concrete floor; spiderwebs weaved throughout the skull and down to the rib cage.

Noctua Gaunt.

You quietly ushered Sebastian over to where you stood, handing him the final journal entry of the woman before you. He scanned it, his eyes growing larger by the second and his face adopting a grim expression. The freckled boy looked at you for confirmation, and you gestured to the skeleton below. He gasped quietly in his throat, looking over his shoulder at the other Slytherin quietly pacing by the gated entrance.

You quietly spoke, sympathy lacing your tone, “Ominis, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. There’s a note over here, next to a body.” You cleared your throat uncomfortably. “It’s Noctua.”

The boy froze his movements, head tilting down towards the ground in sorrow. “What happened to her?”

“The note says she was stuck in here, and that she could only open the door with an unforgivable curse. She didn’t have anyone else in here with her, so she was unable to escape.”

You walked up to the now shaking boy, his hands grasping at his opposite elbows to ground himself. You gently moved your hand to his shoulder, stroking the joint with your thumb. He roughly shrugged your hand away, returning to his pacing; his face morphed into a look of pain. His hands ran through his hair in anguish, mussying it up into a wild mane.

“She died stuck in here, and we will suffer the same fate. We will be stuck down here forever— the next person to enter will find our bodies like we found hers.”

Sebastian bent down to pick up the note you dropped, studying it closely again. He quickly paced towards you both, anxious nervousness rubbing off of him in waves.

“Don’t give up quite yet. She says that she couldn’t leave because she was alone and had no one to cast the spell on. There’s three of us— we can get out! We just have to cast the unforgivable.”

Ominis threw his hands down in agitation, spitting at the other boy, “That’s dark magic, Sebastian! Unforgivables are unforgivable for a reason. You can’t just cast one, you need to mean it, and I don’t particularly want to hurt either of you. Do you?”

Sebastian’s eyebrows knitted together in irritation, “If it means getting out of here alive and finding a cure for Anne, I’ll do anything I have to.”

You stepped between the two squabbling boys, holding your hands aloft to keep their distance from the other. This argument was getting heated fast, a darker, more dangerous aura rested under the surface than the argument in the prior room. You spoke to the brunette to your left, “Sebastian, which spell is it? What do we need to do?”

He scanned the note for a third time, eyes alight in a combination of rage and panic. His expression grew grave, and he felt something lodge itself in his throat. He forced the words out from around it, slightly choked with emotion, “We need to cast the cruciatus curse.”

Ominis’ wrath was palpable in the air, filling the room like a thick fog. “Absolutely not! There must be another way out. There is no way in Merlin’s name that I’m letting either of you cast that spell!”

The taller Slytherin growled, throwing the note down on the ground and pacing back to the horrifying door. He ran his hand along the faces, each twisted in pain. He sighed, pushing his anger back down into his chest. It would do them no good to argue with each other.

“I understand that you’re scared, Ominis, but there isn’t another spell. This is the only way out.” He took a deep, steadying breath, before finishing his thought. “You’re the only one here who knows the spell. It should be you who casts—”

“Are you soft in the head!? I would rather die than cast that spell again. I question our friendship just at the fact that you would ask that of me.”

Sebastian pressed his forefinger and thumb against the bridge of his nose, pinching it in exasperation. He turned on the balls of his feet towards where you were, silently watching the fight with fright in your eyes. He walked towards you, placing both of his palms on your shoulders and looking deep into your eyes.

“It’s up to us, then.” He paused, searching your face for something. His eyebrows creased in concentration and something else that you couldn’t name. Fear? Anger? Assurance? You weren’t sure. You weren’t sure you wanted to know. He quickly spun away from you, beginning to pace the length of the room while muttering to himself, tapping his wand against his leg in a sporadic rhythm. You watched from your spot next to the door. It seemed to glow with evil energy, spreading its wicked tendrils around the room like a well-fed devils snare. You could almost feel it crawling its way into your nose and mouth, wrapping around your throat and squeezing the air from your lungs. Rapid breaths escaped from your lips, your heart pulsing rapidly in your chest. Your wide eyes, absolutely swimming in terror, refused to leave the daunting door. You open your mouth to speak, before a resolute voice cuts you off from your thoughts.

“Cast it on me.”

Your breath caught in your chest, freezing in your veins as your blood ran cold. Surely you didn’t hear him correctly? He wasn’t asking you to—

“Cast it on me, it’s the only way.”

You slowly turned in his direction, meeting Sebastian’s beautiful brown eyes, normally filled with warmth but now cold and hard. He stood directly across from you, the glow of the door casting a striking shadow on his youthful face. His demeanor was all straight lines; tight and unmoving in discernment. There was no changing his mind, he had made his choice— his figurative bed. He would rather take the curse himself than have to cast it on either of his closest friends. You saw the determination in his eyes, in the thin line of his lips and jagged edges of his clenched jaw. He was an immovable force, and who were you to try and bend physics to your will? You closed your eyes, gathering your resolve, before meeting his eyes once again. The fire behind your irises burned brightly, a blazing inferno ready to take the entire world into its flames.

“Alright, if you’re sure. Do you know the spell?”

He looked at the door again in trepidation before meeting your gaze, something unknown still swirling in his irises. “In theory. I can teach it to you.”

The both of you moved through the motions of the spell, repeating it a few times to make sure you knew what you were doing. The movements in itself felt dirty— wrong, even. Like you weren’t supposed to be privy to this kind of knowledge. Your wand arm felt numb, like the cold was seeping into your very bones and inducing hypothermia. You swallowed thickly, before raising your wand to Sebastian’s chest. You stared into the other’s eyes, both filled with intense worry and fright.

“Are you ready?”

The brunette took a deep breath through his nose, clearing his mind and attempting to calm his rapid heartbeat. He nodded his head, not trusting his voice, eyes squeezing shut in preparation for the unimaginable pain he was about to experience.

Your shaking voice spoke, mouth feeling weird around the accursed word.

“Crucio.”

A slight red spark shot from the tip of your wand, but no pain came to the Sallow boy. His eyes shot open, looking at you across from him. You were shaking like a leaf, staring confused at your wand and then at him. He knitted his brows in angered confusion.

“What happened? Why didn’t it work?”

“I-I don’t know.”

Ominis spoke from the back corner where he had sat himself, head leaning heavily on the wall behind him and his arms resting on the tops of his knees. His face was riddled with resignation. “I told you, you have to mean it. You have to want to inflict pain on the other person.”

Sebastian growled loudly, his teeth clashing together harshly as he clenched his jaw in anger. “If you’re not going to offer anything helpful, just be quiet.”

You stood in stunned silence at the boy's ferocity. He quickly rounded back towards you, teeth clenched in a near snarl. He pointed at you accusingly,

“Why aren’t you angry? You need to be furious! Yell at me— tell me this is all my fault! Let me have it!”

You stuttered at the boy, hands shaking even more forcefully now. You knew what he was doing; he was trying to make you hate him. He wanted you to be so angry at him that you could easily cast the curse. Unfortunately, the tactic seemed to have the opposite effect on you. Your heart ached for the boy, listening to each word he said and knowing somewhere in your heart that he thought this of himself. Apologies filled your mouth and spilled out like a waterfall of dismay. They splashed against the ground and the droplets sprayed everywhere, bouncing harshly against the echo chamber walls.

Sebastian continued yelling, rage pouring from his being, “Stop apologizing! I brought us down here, it’s my fault we’re in this situation to begin with! I’m the reason you have to cast this spell! You didn’t want to come here at all before I basically forced you and Ominis. Look at him, he’s petrified! I did this, cast it on me!”

Tears gathered in your eyes, horrified terror coursed through your body because of the boy across from you. He was breathing heavily, eyes ablaze and nostrils flaring like a bull. You had never seen him like this before. The anger poured from him and swirled around the air like a dense cloud, permeating every inch of the desolate cavern. Ominis hesitantly stood from the corner, intense worry spreading across his face. He slowly approached the two, steps soft and slow, hands outstretched in front of him like he was dealing with a raging animal. He could smell the tension, feel the red hot heat of fury and agitation.

He hesitantly spoke, his voice shaking with a soft timber, “Sebastian, take a step back. You’re scaring them.”

The frenzied boy rounded at his friend, snarling and gnashing his teeth, “No, they have to do this!”

You continued to spew apologies, the words getting swallowed by the thick, maroon fog and evaporating into vapor. Tears cascaded down your frightened face, staring unblinking at your rampaging friend. He was nearly foaming at the mouth in outrage, his eyes wild and hardened. He didn’t look like himself, a complete stranger in his own body. All Sebastian could feel was anger, extremely hot and branding his very soul with a wave of wrath. He could hear your pitiful cries, Ominis’ begging for him to stop. He wouldn’t let you both stand in the way of curing his sister.

“Crucio!”

Your screams filled the small room, ricocheting off the walls and burying inside the duo's ears. Ominis slapped his arms around his head, bending over in pain, his sensitive ears amplifying the violent outburst tenfold. His heart shattered in his chest at the sound of your pain, crushing his soul in its devastating grasp. The sound snapped Sebastian out of his trance, his face morphing into one of absolute horror and revoltion at what he had just done. He dropped his wand in shock, stumbling backwards into the nearest wall and sliding down it. Tears welled in his eyes as he watched you writhe on the floor in never-ending pain. He brought his hands up to his mouth, covering it in distress, and whispered curses and pleading apologies against his skin.

“Oh Merlin, what have I done? I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.”

Pain— that’s all you knew. Your blood was boiling under your skin, the veins feeling like they were going to burst out of you in a shower of blood at any moment. You clutched your abdomen in agony, nails biting into your arms in desperation. Blood ran down from your hands, coating your sleeves and staining them red. Each organ felt like it was dying slowly, decay seeping deep into your body and coating every surface. Your heart pounded harder than ever before, threatening to combust right through your ribs and out of your chest. Every nerve ending fired off in rapid succession, blazing through your body like a wild inferno and leaving intense burns in its wake. Your head was the worst. It felt like someone stabbed a freezing ice pick through your eye socket, retracting it and pushing back in with each pound of your heart against your skull. Bile rose into your throat, evaporating around the force of your wails of pain. You were curled on the ground, arms tight against yourself in protection. It felt like you would never be happy, be well, again. The torment went on for what felt like years, centuries even, wracking your body with heaving sobs and otherworldly screams.

In an instant it was over. Sparks of residual magic shot against your skin, shaking your body to its core. The world around you was dark and silent, your senses absolutely fried. A heavy weight was resting against your back, pressing against you with a relieving, grounding pressure. Your hearing returned first, flooding in like you had just rinsed the water from them.

“Come back to us! Are you alright? Damn it, please say something!” The panicked voice of Ominis filled your electrified brain, the sound grating against your ears. He pressed his palms against your cheeks and raised your head from its spot on the cold ground, wiping the tears from your face. He rested his forehead against yours, listening closely to your shuddering breaths. “Please, give me a sign that you’re still in there.”

A groan eased its way out of your tight throat, pushing past the damage your screams had done and croaking through like a toad. Ominis sighed in relief, pressing a soft kiss to your temple before gathering you gently in his arms. He stroked your hair, letting the last of the tremors make their way out of your body. Your consciousness faded in and out, lids fluttering open and closed around the blackness resting just behind your eyes.

“Shush now, don’t push yourself. Everything’s going to be okay.” Ominis gently coaxed your head to rest against his collarbone, his cheek pressing against the roof of your head. He continued his movements along your hair absentmindedly, lulling you into a soft sense of security.

The blond spoke to the distraught boy behind him, voice devoid of any emotion. “We need to get them to the infirmary.”

Sebastian broke out of his morose stupor, panic rising in his voice, “We can’t! She’ll know that we’ve used an unforgivable! Not to mention, we’re out past curfew. We’ll likely get expelled, or worse!”

Ominis sighed inwardly, his head leaning back and smacking against the wall behind him with a dull thunk. He knew that Sebastian was right, no matter how much he wanted to throw the boy to the wolves at that very moment. If they were to bring you to the hospital wing the nurse would ask all three of them questions, and none of them were prepared for that. There wasn’t a single lie in the world that would be that convincing. With a final growl of agitation, he made a decision.

“Fine, the Undercroft, then.” He leveled the taller boy with a harsh glare. “Go get whatever you’re looking for and meet us down there. I hope this trip was worth it, Sallow.”

The clock tower sounded three times, signaling the beginning of the witching hour. Two students rested against the chaise lounge conjured up out of an old shipping crate. Your shoulder had been dressed, the bandage peeking out from under your ripped blouse. The same was done for the indentations on your arms, half moons lining your biceps in a circle from your sharp nails digging into your skin. Ominis gently stroked your hair from where your head rested on his lap. You had fallen asleep not long ago, your quiet whines of pain tempered out and gave way to startling silence. Anger festered under the boy’s skin, warming him to an uncomfortable degree. It burned in the back of his mind, boiling against the memory of your screams and whimpers of immense pain. He had half a mind to curse Sebastian where he had stood in the Scriptorium. Ominis heard his panicked breaths and whispered apologies after he brought you to your knees, truly realizing the damage that he had done and the dangers of dark magic. Good, he thought. Maybe he’d finally stop moving down the dark path that he was so set on. He deserved to beg for your forgiveness.

The metal gate of the Undercroft squeaked open, the sound of heavy footfalls following after. Ominis gently picked up your sleeping head, standing from the chaise and lowering you onto one of the many pillows lining the cushions. He quickly paced towards the brunette, eyes blazing with barely concealed fury. Sebastian paid no mind, flipping through the large tomb he had collected from Salazar’s Scriptorium. He looked up and saw the approaching boy, not noticing the very prevalent anger on his face.

“Ominis, you’re not going to believe what I found—”

The smaller boy slammed into him, pressing his forearm against his neck and shoving him harshly into the nearest wall. His wand was pressed against his chin, glowing menacingly in the candlelight of the hideaway. The blond’s mouth was twisted into a gruesome snarl, teeth looking like fangs in the dim lighting. Sebastian gulped against the arm pressed against his larynx. He dropped the book in surprise, a cloud of dust puffing up from the ground at its harsh landing. Even though Sebastian knew that Ominis couldn’t truly see him, the boy’s heated glare seemed to set fire to his very soul.

Ominis growled at the taller boy in a gravely low voice, his teeth gnashing around each word. “If you ever hurt them again, you will be dead where you stand. This is the last I want to hear of dark magic, Sebastian. You’ve gone too far; people have gotten hurt. Promise me that you’ll stop— you’ll find some other way to heal Anne, or this friendship will continue no longer.”

Sebastian nodded as much as he could around his friend’s arm, squeezing the words out of his crushed throat, “Yes, I understand, I’m sorry!”

The anger seemed to evaporate from the smaller boy in mere seconds, his arms dropping to his sides and his shoulders slumping. He grasped the front of the freckled boy’s shirt, leaning his forehead against his chest with a heavy sigh.

“I almost lost you both today. I can’t do that, don’t make me live through that again. Please, I can’t lose anyone else, I can’t bear the thought.”

His shoulders began to shake, tremors rocking his entire body and sending the tears gathering in his eyes down his pale cheeks. He softly cries into the shirt of his friend, grasping harder at the cotton between his fingers and burying his face even deeper. The freckled boy stands still for a moment, startled by the sudden emotional whiplash. He hesitantly raises his arms and circles them around the shoulders of the crying boy, looking over to your sleeping form with guilt swirling in his eyes.

He had hurt both of his friends today over something he thought was so trivial, so insignificant. He just wanted to find a cure for his sister, not cause undeniable pain to those he loved. He truly was turning into a monster; the dark magic he was so fascinated by had begun to circle around his heart, squeezing it with its thick tentacles. Sebastian buried his head into Ominis’ neck, deeply breathing in his scent. The mildew of the cellar was thick against his skin, but reminisce of his expensive cologne and natural scent, something musky and rich, still lingered there. He focused on it, the familiar smell warming his insides and bringing his heartbeat to a slight increase.

He hadn’t promised the boy that he’d stop exploring the dark arts, instead twisting his words into something that sounded like agreement. Sebastian knew that he would come to regret that decision, but he couldn’t give up on Anne. She was his flesh and blood, his twin sister. She was everything to him. He knew that he would hurt his two closest friends more than words can express with his decisions, but deep in his heart he believed that he was doing the right thing.

With a heavy heart, Sebastian basked in the comfort of the Undercroft and the arms wrapped around his waist, praying to anyone who would listen that this wouldn’t be the last time he felt this safe.

AN: Did I make an "Ominis gets pegged" joke? Yes, yes I did.

***

like what you read? here's more!

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xiaosonlybeloved · 2 years ago

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~how would they propose to you~

featuring- Childe, Ayato warnings- use of the name 'dearest', fluff , a kiss in Ayato's (giving yall a break before i write the TRUE angst ;P) a/n- yes yes I am writing the zhongli angst but gimme some time for that, ill be posting that uh in march end sometime.

masterlist

CHILDE

-the type to book an entire high-end restaurant -he spares no expense on the atmosphere of the date where he's gonna propose -the dim yellow lighting, tablecloths, candelabras, every possible type of dish you'd love, all your favorite desserts, everything (u can tell i love those kinda dates) -by the time you arrive at the restaurant, Childe is already waiting there for you with a bouquet of your favorite flowers. To say he looks gorgeous in his expensive suit is a freaking understatement. -he'd charmingly give you the bouquet, before proposing old style, the way royals did it and all- he'd go down on one knee, take out a small box from his front pocket which contains the most beautiful and elegent ring you could ever hope to receive from anyone -he want to make sure he isnt outshone by anyone else in your life -he wouldn't go into a long speech or smth, but he would clearly express the utter love and adoration he held for you before asking you to marry him, hope and uncertainty evident in his gaze. This man has a way with words I tell you -how the hell could you not accept -after that he's the happiest man alive as you two share your first dinner as an engaged couple

AYATO

-you know how pretty Chinju forest is at night, right? with all the glowing plants and stuff -well his would be a night date. firstly Ayato would make sure that every monster camp that could possibly disturb their date was sent into oblivion -then with Thoma's help, he'd find this cozy little grove of trees covered in those luminescent plants -he'd set it up like a small picnic/resting spot, with blankets and LOTS of cushions and pillows and delish food and whatnot -it would be the perfect spot to just bask in each other's presence -he'd obviously dress up to his best that night, and he'd escort you all the way to his special place to ensure your safety - as the night goes on, the plants around lighting up a light blue and the stars filling the sky and the glowbugs all around, as you both simply relish each other's warmth and presence, he suddenly turns to you -taking each of your hands in his, he stares into your eyes for a few moments before quietly speaking up, expressing how much he loves you, how you're the brightest light in his life and other romantic mushy stuff -it's not too long tho, and in the end he says, "So, my dearest, would you do me the honors of marrying me?" -as he says that, his hands leave yours to open a small ring box that was resting in his pocket till now. There is doubt in his eyes, that perhaps you'll refuse, but also hope that you'll accept -after you get over your shock, you give him a bright smile and ask him how could you possibly not accept his proposal. -with a smile that matches yours' brightness, he slips the ring onto your ring finger before cupping each of your cheeks with his hands and pressing a soft kiss onto your lips.

whew i just keep disappearing dont I? likes comments and reblogs are always appreciated! (not me writing this literally at midnight) Anyways I'm planning to write a Childe x reader enemies to lovers skater smau, what are your opinions? also omg help me im dying bc of my final exams i swear-

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gamerwoman3d · 1 month ago

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Magus as the Goetic Demon, Bifrons: A Duh Moment.

Because Magus is a man I would have married when I was 12.

Above image credit here

[Personal note 📝 eep.. sometimes I suspect that my crush reads my blog or that my posts influence his algorithm at least. Can't help but worry that posting about demons and blasphemy kinks is gonna be the thing that finally makes him "nope" out. "Pray" for us, y'all.]

Okay so.

For funsies, I've been reading about the Goetia/Goetic "demons"[1],[6], and their angelic counterparts, the Kabbalah/Kabbalistic Angels of the ShemhaMephorash. It's a complex set of 144 beings. Supposedly these beings are organized by zodiac/time. So I choose to read a little about each angel and their corresponding demon during the time that a particular website[2] says the angel commands/physically manifests during.

The current angel is Ariel. The counterpart to Ariel is the goetia, Bifrons.

⚠️ ⚠️ ⚠️ WARNING: Any links I post past this point may lead you to some charlatan bullshit. Don't buy shit from these links and claim I endorsed it. Use good judgment and proceed with caution. Spoilers, GIFs⚠️ ⚠️ ⚠️

The dancing lights and flowing hair and cape made this pile of pixels the sexiest thing ever according to 12y/o me.

According to Black Witch Coven[3], Bifrons is the demonic Earl of Hell, commanding legions of demons. He is associated with graveyards, necromancy, geometry, astrology, and his name originates, without any doubt, from the Roman god Bifrons (Janus). Bifrons was also one the names given to the baphomet allegedly worshipped by the Knights Templar, and which description was as a statue with two heads, one looking towards the left to tell the past, and the other looking towards the right to tell the future. Bifrons can transport corpses from their original grave into other places, sometimes putting magic lights on the graves that seem like candles. He appears as a monster, but then changes his shape into that of a man. He teaches Astrology, Geometry, other Arts and Sciences, the Virtues of Precious Stones, plants, woods, herbs, astrology and planetary influences. He excels in geometry. It is he who lights the strange corpse lights above the tombs of the dead.

Magus just chillin' with a Baphomet.

So let's break that down a little bit. Bifrons is...

Janus. BIFRONS IS JANUS. Magus is also named Janus. Roman Janus had been renamed Bifrons, which is just a fancy word for Two Faced gods (Two-Fronts.) Chrono Trigger's Janus had been renamed Magus, which is just a fancy word for a Magician. Both are associated with time, time travel, the past, and the future. Both are associated with the Baphomet.

Baphomet is a statue of a demon with the naked torso of a man but a horned, goat-faced head. The statue is usually depicted with an exposed hard-on, or a wand/rod where the hard-on would be. The phallus or phallic symbol is often wrapped with snakes, depicting the caduceus, or healing rod of Hermes. Here we see a stylized candelabra used as a censor for Magus' four-armed Baphomet.

Bifrons is the guy who lights strange dancing candles and "corpse lights" in and around tombs and gravesites. Magus has these dancing lights all around his place, and each light sometimes turns into a skeleton monster. There are tombs, coffins, corpses, all over Magus' lair, associating him with gravesites and necromancy, just like Bifrons. And Magus' powers are based on GEOMETRY and ASTRONOMY and PLANETARY INFLUENCES. Just. Like. Bifrons.

Magus commands monsters in the game and is effectively treated like the king of monsters. Bifrons commands legions of demons and is effectively treated like a king of demons.

Bifrons and Magus are both royalty: Bifrons is an Earl of Hell and Magus' is revealed the son of Queen Zeal, the young Prince Janus.

Image credit: gamerant[4]

According to GameRant, The name Magus itself has several meanings aside from the obvious allegories to magic. It's the singular word for the term "Magi," which lends further weight to his allure and proficiency as a spellcaster. Magus' Japanese name, Mao, is far more sinister. It effectively means "Demon King," which was pretty much Magus' identity before Crono and his friends have the chance to rope him into their quest to save the world.

Ooh. So, "Demon King," you don't say? Hm.

In addition to this, Magus was sent to the past, and is constantly aware of the future and looking forward to it. Janus is far far into the future, staring into the past. if we think of Bifrons' baphomet having one face looking to the left to see into the past and one looking to the right to see into the future, we get further inclination that Magus might have been based on Bifrons.

Image credit, almarockero

If that's the case, then imagery of Magus could in fact be a fairly effective, and attractive, altar image to utilize in pathworking, if you believe in such things. But what do practitioners of those crafts say about Bifron's appearance?

We know Bifrons first appears as a monster, but depending on the bravery and the request of the practitioner, he will "take the shape of a man well versed in astronomy and geometry." So how does Magus appear to us?

As far as game logic is concerned... Magus first appears to us as a monster! Then depending upon the bravery of Frog and the decision of the player, he either [spoilers ahead] remains a monster and does not help you...

Or [spoiler] joins your party, effectively becoming a man by game logic. He's a player character, no longer a mob. It's fascinating to me that this is so parallel to Bifrons.

Once he's in your party, you can literally have him help you save Chrono's life by [spoiler] having him transport a kind of doll of Chrono and swap places between Chrono's corpse and the "corpse" of the doll. Very Bifrons energy.

According to Pitch Black Craft[5] Bifrons changes the placement of the dead and puts them in another place.

Bifrons is a necromancy demon and he can help you to communicate with the dead. This spirit can be called upon during a funeral, because he can help the dead to leave the physical plane faster and more easily.

Bifrons can be called upon during rituals to honour and to keep in touch with dead ancestors.

He rules 6 ( but actually maybe 60) legions of spirits. [Also says 26].

So we have a guy that can swap the dead's places swapping the places of a man who is about to die with a "man that is already dead" or a doll.

Image Credit [6]

"Wait whaddaya mean already dead" I hear you asking. Well, this is a theory so we're off the rails, but I'll explain. Take the following with a grain of salt because it's just a headcanon.

The Chrono doll came from Norstein Bekkler's creepy ass tent - the one with the skull-shaped entryway. Inside this silent creepy space, you can play games with creations of his, such as a type of 3 shell game featuring identical Guardia Soldiers, Biggs, Wedge, & Piette. Or another game that utilizes a creepy clone of you... That you have to pay 30 silver for... just like you'd pay the devil in certain contracts... and he accepts no other currency. For a doll of you. That IS you. And can/will be delivered directly to your house no matter where in time and space the house is, instantly. Bekkler is therefore another time traveling "devil" with a creepy front door to a creepy lair and a wicked widowspeak hairline.

I've always suspected Bekkler and Magus could be the same character, as Magus can be anywhere at any time. Bekkler's Biggs, Wedge, & Piette dolls function like the guardia knights that turn into skeletons in Magus' lair. If I'm correct, then the cloned "dolls" from Bekkler's lab are some kind of similar necromancy, possibly of closely related similar looking ancestors, such as Leene to Marle. Magus even made a Leene clone for you to fight in his castle.

MAGUS, not Bekkler, cloned Lucca's dad and Chrono's mom. Instantly. In a completely different era in time. Just to harass Chrono and friends in the castle. So as far as we know, only Bekkler and MAGUS have this unique necromantic cloning ability.

Meaning... what if the dolls you win at Bekkler's are made out of the characters' own ancestors bodies, using Magus' necromantic and time-bending magics? What if Marle's doll was made out of Leene somehow? With the same kind of necromancy that Magus used in his castle to make skeletons and monsters look like healthy Guardia citizens? With the ancestor's body being swapped out or graverobbed shortly after death?

This guy can by anywhere everywhere all over the place at once anytime all the time. Image collage done in phone app with game recources.

It's not cannon to the game, but would certainly link Magus more closely to Bifrons, if Magus were to have swapped a "corpse" with Chrono's body at the point of Chrono's death.

But it is not my headcanon alone that I will be using; I will also cite the goetic artist coffeeatus[7], who describes Bifron's human shape as "the Tall man with the very long blond hair." Which sounds enough like our man, Magus to me. (Marle in game describes him as the blue-haired one, and Ayla asks if the blue-haired one is more tasty. But in many arts, he appears platinum blonde to lilac.)

“Bifrons who appears as a wolf like monster, but at the Will of the Sorcerer, will change shape to a human male. Bifrons is a necromantic spirit, who governs the realm of shades; he may bring one close to various shades of the dead, but often they are not who they claim to be. Be cautious but be indulgent with this spirit as well. Bifrons may change the place of dead bodies, being the binding of ghosts to various fetishes or pots, and lights witch fire on the graves of the dead.”

~From the Luciferian Goetia by Michael Ford[8]

Similarly, I think certain pots and objects in Magus' castle had monsters in them of some sort. He also turned 4 children into shadow monsters who were guarding a treasure. The children, and in fact all of the "people" in Magnus' castle were shades of some sort, and "not who they claimed to be."

And finally...

“Another necromancy demon. Work with Bifrons to communicate with the dead. This would be the daemon invoked for a funeral ceremony to help usher the dead on their journey. Also invoke during rituals to honor ancestors or to learn to accept death.”

~From the Daemonolatry Goetia by S. Connolly[8]

Magus is a character who simply cannot accept the death of his loved one. So it is interesting that Bifrons is a psychopomp who also assists others in accepting death.

Magus' character design is top notch, thanks to Akira Toriyama. I can only assume he was aware of the lore surrounding demonic royalty like Bifrons. He did put demon kings in many of his works, such as Go! Go! Ackman which was all about demons, and DragonBall which features Piccolo as a demon king.

Should Toriyama have intentionally modeled Magus as an homage to Bifrons, that could make his artwork one of the best-known and most powerful representations of this entity. Theoretically his image would make for powerful meditative pathworking and spellworking ⚠️⚠️⚠️I'm giving links below, DO NOT get sucked into a cult goddamnit⚠️⚠️⚠️ for magics involving astrology, geometry, herbs, plants, necromancy, arts, sciences, or possibly curses[9].

But as for me, I just wanted to bang him in the middle of a giant glowwy summoning circle because I thought that was hot. Whether I write smut on the topic might depend on interest- Chrono Trigger is a fairly inactive, old fandom.

Below are a handful of links to some good fanart, followed by citations and links. Thank you for coming to my ted talk.

ART SOURCES:

GIF SOURCES:

WARNINGS CITED:

[1] ["Demons" is in quotations because some claim they are not demonic but angelic in nature. Some may claim they are fallen, or demonic, or simply refer to them as "goetic spirits." I have no preference.]

[2] [Not linking that site because I believe they're charlatans; the website changed fundamentally recently from a normal wiki style site to a more commercial website that appears to be re-built with AI, just using the data scraped from the wiki.]

CITED SOURCES:

[3] https://blackwitchcoven.com/demons/bifrons/

[4] https://gamerant.com/chrono-trigger-trivia-magus/

[5]https://pitchblackcraft.com/2019/08/27/demon-bifrons-from-goetia-and-how-he-can-help-you/

[6] https://www.occult.live/index.php/Kabbalistic_angel

[7]https://www.72goetia.com/2020/04/bifrons-earl-of-hell.html?m=1

[8]https://demonsanddemonolatry.com/demon-of-the-night-earl-bifrons-night-demon/

[9]https://www.tumblr.com/caidenthewitch/762443442631720960/how-to-set-a-curse-upon-anyone?source=share

#magus #chrono trigger #bifrons #ars goetia #goetia

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