#My first disastrous run has already plagued my dreams so I have a very dark idea to contemplate 🤔

[mwolf0epsilon]

Not me for real having ideas for a Star Wars XCOM AU where clones are still a thing and the Jedi (and a select few clones) are Psi Operatives...

[birdhouse-of-shadows]

Hello everyone! So here is a fic that I left in my askbox for a hot minute lol. This was all submitted by an anon who you may or may not have seen a few times. This is a compilation of all of the asks and the whole story.

My comments will be in green, any notes from the author will be in blue and the rest will be in the normal text color.

PLEAAASEE be careful if you are sensitive to the following subjects:

Tw: Child Abuse, torture, multiple abusive foster homes, bondage(kinda, quirk inhibiting cuffs), Heavy injury, blood, smoking,

im currently running on no sleep and a bottle of pepsi, sour this is sloppy asf I apologize in advance 😗

im in an angst mood, so i come with this.

Tokoyami’s biological parents abandoned him when he was four. To this day he has no idea why, and has very little memory of them. All of his memories take place in one of the seven abusive foster homes he lived in before he entered U.A.. Over the course of that time, Fumikage has accumulated a large variety of scars, from deep, jagged scars, to cigarette burns, to just really, really bad bruises. Out of all the foster homes he’s been in, none of Fumikage’s foster parents have been fond of mutants, or mutant-type quirks. In several of the foster homes, Fumikage was forced to wear quirk suppressant cuffs 24/7, since his parents “didn’t want a monster running rampant in their house.” Between his mutation, and the violent tendencies of Dark Shadow, Fumikage was basically what nobody wanted in a child. His foster parents would yell every possible derogatory insult at Fumikage, saying he should’ve never been born, even though they weren’t even his real parents. Over time, the verbal abuse would mess with Fumikage’s mind. He’d stare at himself in the mirror, wondering why he was born the way he was, and why he’s the monster everyone says he is. And just when he thought the verbal abuse couldn’t get any worse, as he got older, his foster parents would resort to physical punishment. At first, it wasn’t that bad, at least, in Fumikage’s eyes. Just a slap here and there, plus some cigarette burns on his arms and shoulders. It was painful, but he fought through it, knowing no one would come to help him. But over time, the “discipline” would get even more brutal. It doesn’t matter what he did, every little thing seemed to set his parents off. From accidentally breaking something, to giving a snide comment unannounced, it wasn’t often that Fumikage went to bed at night without being beaten sometime before then. He would be pinned down by his throat and violently beaten with whatever blunt object was nearby. He eventually gave up trying to apologize, as it somehow only upset his parents even more. Once, when he was eleven years old, Fumikage was beaten with a glass vase after pushing one of his foster siblings. The glass eventually shattered, and the broken ends of the vase dug into Fumikage’s back, leaving horrible, jagged cuts all over him. Witnessing Fumikage being beaten day after day made Dark Shadow feel overwhelmingly guilty. Fumikage was in quirk suppressant cuffs ninety percent of the time, so Dark Shadow was pretty much helpless in most situations. Those damned cuffs made it feel like an invisible wall was put up between where Dark Shadow resided, and the outside world. A wall that agonizingly sat between Dark Shadow, and Fumikage’s safety. There were nights when Fumikage lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, his body numbed by pain. Whether he was laying in a bed or not, unfortunately varied by foster home. But it was on those nights where Dark Shadow would apologize profusely to Fumikage, saying that they’re nothing more than the monster that brought misery to Fumikage’s life. Saying that they’re the reason Fumikage gets beaten so often, and yet do nothing to help him. They vow that once they’re in a safer home, away from their abusers, that they will always protect Fumikage. Always. But by then…Fumikage had already fallen asleep.

Overall, Tokoyami’s home life…was nothing worth smiling about. Thankfully, his time at school was less painful. He often got comments about his looks, saying that he was ugly and all that, but by then, he was more than used to it. Eventually, he faded into the shadows (no pun intended) at most of his schools. He eventually was just forgotten about, which truthfully, didn’t bother him. It was a bit lonely, sure, but it was much better than constantly being beaten simply for existing. In Fumikage’s eyes, school was just a break from his disastrous home life. Though, he tended not to talk during class, and had very little interaction with his teachers, for…reasons. Even so, it was actually during his first year of middle school where Fumikage discovered his dream of being a hero. Just because he was spared from the excessive discrimination of mutants, others happened to be less fortunate. Fumikage would witness how his fellow mutants were treated by others. They had their work stolen, their bags dumped out, over were overall just treated like dirt compared to everyone else. So anytime Tokoyami saw a fellow mutant, or anyone really, being bullied, he’d go and help them, telling them that they don’t deserve to take shit for the way they look, or what their quirk is, and that quirks don’t make villains, it’s how those quirks are used, meaning that the people bullying them are more like villains than they will ever be. With his newfound motivation, Tokoyami decided that he wanted to become a hero to show others that they don’t have to fear who they were born to be, or, as he put it, “To not be daunted by their inner darkness. Instead, to embrace such, and with it, become your best self.” Love that for him honestly. One of the students he helped was a tall, slim girl with a head reminiscent to that of an elephant, her most notable feature being her long trunk that was about the length of her entire upper body. She was shy, and avoided any sort of conflict like the plague. At one point she was harassed by another group of girls, before Tokoyami came and stopped them. He gave his long winded, motivational speech to her, and saying she was grateful was quite the understatement, and the next day, as a thank-you gift, gave Tokoyami a red choker, saying that it was just like the one Dark Crystal wore, knowing how much Tokoyami admired the hero. (In other words, he never shut up about him) Tokoyami relayed his gratitude countless times to her, and the two agreed to become friends, even though they wouldn’t see eachother often. Reluctantly, the girl also pointed out the horrible scars and bruises on Tokoyami’s neck, and figured that he’d want to cover them. Tokoyami stiffened at the mention of his scars, but continued thanking her anyway. The two often saw eachother in the halls and waved at one another, on friendly terms, but strangely enough, they never spoke again.

It was also around that time that he became more interactive with Dark Shadow, and began to explore more darker concepts. He founded a love for reading, specifically horror novels and manga. He also became fascinated with poetry (specifically the edgy variety), both reading and writing it. He found that writing poetry gave him an outlet for expressing both himself, and Dark Shadow’s feelings, without having to risk angering his foster parents. Eventually, the tone found written by his favorite poets began to make its way into Fumikage’s speech patterns. He felt more comfortable with it, and it wasn’t something people easily understood, which ultimately meant his foster parents would just ignore him, thinking he was going through an emo phase. And miraculously, it worked. Although he was still physically and verbally abused throughout his middle school years, his foster parents eventually backed off, as Fumikage became more introverted. Now, he’d look in the mirror at all of his scars, and use his past trauma as motivation for becoming a hero. Though, it wasn’t easy. Those painful memories would always come flooding back whenever he looked at those scars. Since he spent most of his life surrounded by abusive adults, he believed that most adults were the same way, and refrained from speaking with adults at all, in fear of angering them. Hearing them yell would make him flinch out of pure instinct, and being stuck alone with an adult would make him an anxious mess. But he did his best to mask this fear with the brooding, edgy side of him. It was his best, and pretty much only way of coping with this fear. He tried his best to overcome his anxiety, but it was never that easy. But he managed to get through middle school mostly unscathed.

And finally, after three agonizingly long paragraphs, Fumikage makes it into U.A.. Of course, that didn’t exempt him from any of his current foster parent’s rules. He had to keep quirk cuffs in his bag at all times, and if he came home without them on, he would be beaten. Tokoyami remained obedient, not wanting to show up to his first day at U.A. beaten half to death. Armed with his scars, his motivation, and of course, Dark Shadow, Tokoyami entered U.A with confidence. And everyone… was so nice???? Almost immediately after he sat in his designated seat in class 1-A, people came up to him, talking to him. He met a variety of different students, some more…mellow than others. But overall, he liked his class. But the teacher? Well…not so much. In Tokoyami’s eyes, the man who dubbed himself their homeroom teacher, Mr. Aizawa, was completely and utterly terrifying. ‘He probably has a machete hidden in that sleeping bag ready to kill us at any moment-‘ Dark Shadow said on the first day. Tokoyami couldn’t help but agree. But not in a comedic way. Something about Aizawa was all too reminiscent of one of his foster fathers, specifically the one who gave him all of the scars on his back, after beating him with a glass vase. Any time he was around him, he was anxious. But eventually, little did Fumikage know, this man who he deemed “terrifying” would eventually become one of the people he trusted the most.

okay okay I’ll stop for now, I’ll write more eventually, but I’ll wait until this is answered so I won’t be flooding your asks, and I promise I will never submit anything this long ever again 😖

part 2 yee yee

also, as you can tell, i have heavily observed canon, and elected to ignore it :)

Fumikage’s year so far was hectic. No, scratch that. It was hellish. It seemed like everywhere the class went together, they were attacked by villains. Aizawa seemed to be getting more and more tired by the day. Fumikage didn’t blame him, as he had a class full of trouble magnets. But following the skirmish at the forest training camp, and All Might’s retirement, things seemed to be looking up, at least a little bit. However, there was rumor going around that U.A. was planning to implement a form system, leaving Fumikage with mixed feelings. One on hand, he was ecstatic. He could finally, even if it was just for a short time, get away from his foster home. The training camp incident left Fumikage shaken more than he’d like, and having to deal with verbal abuse at the hands of his father wasn’t doing him any favors. After being released from the hospital, his father berated him four what felt like hours after hearing that he’d lost control of Dark Shadow. The day he got home, without any second thought, his father grabbed him by his shirt collar (which hurt more than it should have due to the fresh bruises on Fumikage’s back) and mercilessly screamed at him. Even though it only lasted about ten minutes, it felt like forever. He was forced to stand just inches away from his father, the thick smell of cigarette smoke emitting from his breath. Dark Shadow shrunk within him, trying desperately to drown out the heinous comments that they’re directly responsible for. Following the “lecture”, as his father like to call it, Fumikage was put back into his quirk cuffs, but this time, as what his parents described as a “precaution”, he had a thick, tight quirk suppressant collar locked around his neck. It dug through Fumikage’s skin, and it felt like he was being strangled. Even so, just like everything he’d been through up to that point, he had to bear with it. He tiredly trudged back to his room, or, well, it was a linen closet. He had a small pile of blankets that acted as his bed, as well as several books lined up neatly against the wall. He’d read most of them several times already, but other that his phone, it was pretty much his only source of entertainment. The closet was always freezing, and he was rarely allowed out. But Fumikage always forced himself to be grateful for having a roof over his head at all, since he knew there were always going to be people who were less fortunate. With a sigh, he lay down on his small pile of blankets. He curled up within himself, trying his best to keep warm. Normally, one of his siblings slip whatever packaged food their parents gave them under the door. It always tasted like it went bad two weeks ago, but at this point, to Fumikage, fuck it, food was food. But much to his dismay, Fumikage’s parents told him that he was “on punishment”. And while on punishment, he knew well enough, that they refuse to feed him. Over the last 18 months that he’d been living in that foster home, he’d been on punishment five times, and during that time, he lost a very unhealthy amount of weight, and his overall health tanked. But, like he said for every terrible thing that’s befallen him over the past 12 years, he was used to it. So, Fumikage went the next three days without eating a single thing.

But it was after those three days, when Fumikage’s life changed. Whether it was for better or worse, he was forced to wait and see.

One morning, or…was it evening? It was hard to tell when you’re stuck in a dark linen closet with no sense of time whatsoever. But anyway, Fumikage woke up shivering, not that he wasn’t used to that. But he did hear the faint sound of his parents talking. However, there was one other voice. Fumikage’s hearing wasn’t the best, with him being a bird and everything, but he knew that voice. He knew that voice from anywhere. It was Aizawa’s. Fumikage forced himself up. His back was stiff, and the thick collar around his neck weighed him down. His stomach was begging for food, but that wasn’t important. He smoothed out his feathers best he could, and quietly opened the closet door. He could hear Aizawa conversing with his parents, and they talked about the newly constructed dorms. Aizawa explained that for the Fumikage’s safety, he requested that Fumikage lives in a secure dorm system. He’d have his own room, full access to a kitchen full of food, and of course, he’d have a common space to mingle with his peers. To Fumikage, it sounded like heaven, but unfortunately, his parents weren’t having it. They went on and on about how Fumikage would put his peers in danger with his destructive quirk. Aizawa, thankfully, wasn’t willing to put up with them either. He went on to tell them about how Fumikage has excelled with the control of Dark Shadow. Fumikage felt a warm feeling in his stomach after hearing his teacher, that same one he’s so afraid of, speak so highly of him. But there was one thing that left Aizawa’s mouth that his parents really couldn’t respond to. “Well, why not let Fumikage have a say in this? Where is he?” he asked them. There was something about his teacher’s tone that showed that he knew exactly what he was doing. Fumikage looked down at himself. He was still wearing the same black long sleeved shirt and blue jeans that he’d worn three days ago. His quirk cuffs were tight around his wrists, and his collar, though he’d gotten used to the feeling, was madly uncomfortable around his neck. He had two choices. Go down there and let Aizawa witness firsthand the extent of Fumikage’s constant neglect, and risk being punished even further by his parents, or play it safe, and potentially let Aizawa find him on his own. But…the world was never that nice to him, so instead, Fumikage heard an irritated sigh, and footsteps coming up the stairs. Hurriedly, Fumikage shut the closet door and sat back down against the wall. Just moments later, he watched the closet door open, and felt his father’s sultry gaze fall on him. He grabbed his arm and pulled him up to his feet. He took the cuffs off of Fumikage, and let them fall to the floor. Before taking off the collar, he leaned down, glaring daggers at his foster son. “You say anything out of place boy, and I reopen those cuts on your back, god help you.” he said in a low growl. Fumikage stiffened, the memory of jagged glass tearing his skin open flashing through his mind. He nodded, and took a breath of air as the collar was removed. He really didn’t care that all he breathed in was cigarette smoke. That feeling of being strangled by a metal collar was finally gone, even if just for a little while. His father grabbed his wrist, and dragged him down to the living room, where Aizawa sat across from his mother.

Aizawa knew right away that there was something seriously off. Tokoyami had a few feathers out of place, and his shirt hung limply over him. He looked like he hadn’t eaten in a week. But what pisses Aizawa off the most, was something Tokoyami was clearly trying to hide, and that was the dark ring of bruises around his wrists. He really needed to confront his student about how these two were treating him. But for now, he just needed to get the kid to agree to move into the dorms. He watched the avian teen sit down between his two caretakers. The boy looked very uncomfortable, almost afraid. Aizawa felt his gaze soften upon seeing his student in the state he was, but he had to do what he came here for. So he directed his gaze to Tokoyami, and asked him his thought of moving into U.A.’s dorms. It concerned him hearing how fast Tokoyami answered. “I’d be glad to.” He responded almost instantly. “It would be a great opportunity to get to know my peers better, no?” He looked to his mother, who gave him an irritated look. Aizawa held back a smirk. The kid had a way with words, that was for sure. Aizawa cleared his throat, and spoke up. “Well, it seems he’s all for it.” he said, looking at the two adults in front of him. They looked very unamused. The boy’s mother rubbed her temples, and sighed. “Fine, fine.” she grumbled. “But if Fumikage has any issues with behavior whatsoever, so let us know.” She said, giving her son a pointed look. Aizawa nodded, and stood up. “I doubt that will be an issue, he’s very well behaved.” he said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. His eyes fell to his student. He once again noticed the loose feathers sticking out from the sides of the boy’s head. There were only about two or three, but Aizawa took the initiative anyway. He leaned down toward Tokoyami, and smoothed out his feathers carefully. The boy stiffened, but relaxed. Once Aizawa was satisfied, he stood back up. Tokoyami brought a hand to the side of his head, and gave Aizawa a dumbfounded look. The man gave him an amused look, and turned around toward the door. “I’ll see you in a few days, Tokoyami.” he said, laying his hand on the doorknob. The teen nodded in response, and Aizawa left the house.

As soon as he shut the door, Aizawa clenched his fists. Of course he noticed Tokoyami’s disheveled-looking appearance. But there was one thing, one tiny little thing, that Tokoyami did. Since the moment he sat down, to the moment Aizawa left. Tokoyami rested one arm on his leg, and began tapping his knee. Aizawa didn’t think much of it at first, but then he remembered something he learned while he was still in training. Whenever someone did that, no matter the age, it was a warning sign. Tokoyami was trying to get his attention the entire time.

There was something seriously wrong.

And that’s it for part two I suppose. I feel like this part is significantly worse than the last one, but when it comes down to it, consistency isn’t my thing 🙃

i forgot to proofread part two before submitting it so uh….if there are typos to there aren’t <3

Its perfectly fine!! I never saw them~

part 3 let’s goooo

After Aizawa left, Fumikage relaxed his hand over his knee. He really hoped his teacher noticed his warning sign, but whether he did or not, he was still stuck with his parents until he moved into the dorms. A sudden wave of unease fell over him. He knew his parents were staring him down. And he knew they were not happy. He took at deep breath, and met his father’s gaze. The man’s eyes narrowed. “You got somethin’ to say, brat?” he spat through gritted teeth. Fumikage shrugged. He knew he wouldn’t be living with his foster parents for much longer, which made pushing their buttons much more tempting. He held back a smirk. “Me? Oh no. Although, judging by that look on your face, I figured you’d have something to say, no?” the teen hummed. He rested his elbows on his knees, and tilted his head. Fumikage watched his father’s eyelid twitch. It was quite amusing, really. “Just get your ass upstairs, brat. I don’t want another goddamn word outta you.” The man hissed. “And put your cuffs on too.” Fumikage let out a sigh, but nodded anyway. He’d best be obedient now, since, if possible, he’d like to make it to U.A.’s dorms in one piece. He stood up and shoved his hands into his pockets, before trudging back upstairs to his “room”.

After closing the closet door, Fumikage took another look at the cramped area he’s forced to call his bedroom. For the last eighteen months, he was stuck in this hellhole of a house. He had felt more alone than any other point in his life, even with Dark Shadow around. He had no freedom in this house. Hell, he can hardly think of a time he’s ever had any freedom throughout his life. He’s been chained down, locked in cages like an animal, abused in pretty much every way possible…he hated it. More than anything. For most of his early life, it was hard for him to tell if Dark Shadow was really his quirk, or just a voice in his head, given how rarely the two would be allowed to see eachother. But to Fumikage, quirk or not, Dark Shadow was his closest friend. His only friend. And the idea of them getting an entire room, bed and all, just to themselves, with no restrictions, made Fumikage feel more excited than he had ever felt before. Fumikage put a hand to his chest, letting out a relieved sigh, and couldn’t help but smile. Even if it was just for a little while, he, alone with Dark Shadow, could finally be free.

While he was lost in his thoughts, Fumikage’s eyes eventually fell to his quirk cuffs, laying menacingly on the pile of blankets before him, his collar just a few inches away. He felt Dark Shadow stir restlessly within him, not wanting to be trapped by the cuffs. Even though Dark Shadow never got the chance to come out while they were off, it felt liberating to not be bound by what was, in the long run, thick pieces of metal. They’d felt more relaxed for those tense twenty minutes during the conference then they had been throughout their entire time living there. But they knew, for Fumikage’s safety, that, at least until they moved into the dorms, that the cuffs had to stay on. With a sigh, Fumikage grabbed the cuffs, and, after lining them up with his already existing bruises, snapped them shut. Dark Shadow felt like chains held them back the second the cuffs came on. They let out an agitated whimper deep within Fumikage. The teen sighed, bringing a hand to his chest. He hated when his quirk felt like this, but he knew it would all be over soon. He picked up the collar, feeling the cold metal in his hands. With a huff, he threw it aside, and sat down against the wall. He looked up at the ceiling, and reached deep within himself. It was faint, but he managed to connect with Dark Shadow. “Just a few more days, Dark Shadow…” he whispered. “It’ll all be over soon. Not for long, but…things will lighten up. I promise.” That promise was a bit of a stretch, in Fumikage’s opinion. But it would be that promise that got them through the next few days. Fumikage laid down on his “bed”, and reached for one of his books. He didn’t care which one, since he’d read them all about a million times each, but he just needed a distraction. The book he’d ended up grabbing, he knew was more philosophical than he would’ve preferred, but hey, he wanted a distraction. So he opened the book, and proceeded to read.

Fumikage had gotten about 90 pages in before he heard the lock on the closet door rattle. The door swung open, letting a wave of light into the room. Fumikage looked up from his book, and low and behold, his father stood over him, an angry look on his face, as always. “Can I help you?” Fumikage asked, laying the book down on his lap. The man in front of him snorted. “Get up, brat. It’s bath time.” he said, an amused tone in his voice. If he could, Fumikage would’ve raised a brow. That tone in his father’s voice was never a good sign, but Fumikage didn’t have much of a choice. So he laid the book aside, and stood up. His father grabbed his wrist, and dragged him out of the closet. Fumikage had no idea what his father meant by “bath time”, but as the two walked directly passed the bathroom, Fumikage knew, that his parents had something else in mind…

and that’s it for part 3. i never actually have a set plan for these, i just go until I feel like stopping. These also aren’t written beforehand, I just chill in your asks for an hours writing these, making things up as I go along. I basically treat it like my notes app lmao

I'm glad my ask box has served well as your notes app! Just be careful that things save!!

part 4. this was so fucking hard to write you don’t understand 😭 and im too tired to proofread this shit so if you see typos no you don’t. enjoy.

You're doing great!!

Trapped within his father’s grip, Fumikage nearly tripped as he was dragged down the stairs. Being dragged around like a rag doll was uncomfortable enough already, but having thick quirk cuffs clamped around his wrists, digging into his skin, made the whole ordeal more painful rather than uncomfortable, but either way, whatever his parents had in store for him, like always, Fumikage wasn’t looking forward to.

Before Fumikage knew it, the two were in the kitchen. A metal bucket sat in the kitchen sink, hot water running into it. Next to the sink stood his mother, a sultry grin on her face. Thick clouds of steam rose from the basin, and suddenly it hit him. Fumikage’s breath hitched, and he froze in place. He stumbled back, pressing himself against the wall behind him. His father let out a low chuckle. “What’s the matter brat? You were all smug n’ shit earlier. Where’d all that giddiness go?” He asked, leaning toward Fumikage. The man gave a sultry grin, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke into Fumikage’s face.

Fumikage’s eyes fell to his mother, who had her hand laid against the bucket. The painful reality all started coming together. Much quicker than Fumikage would’ve preferred, given that he’s on the receiving end of yet another one of his parent’s grueling “punishments”. His mother had a heat quirk. Not fire, but heat. She could alter the heat of any object she touches, reaching heats of up to 315 degrees celcius. Fumikage has been burned before. Several times actually. It hurt like hell, but nothing he’d ever felt before compared to the searing, agonizing pain of being touched by anything heated by his mother’s quirk. And here he was, backed into a corner, at his parent’s mercy.

He knew what was coming. As much as he hated what was about to come next, there was no getting out of it. Not with both of his parents right in front of him. As Fumikage watched that bucket of water begin to boil over, and his mother’s grin grow wider. he felt Dark Shadow begin to tremble within him, helplessly. He could feel his hands begin to shake, and without even having to look, he could hear his father chuckle in amusement.

Fumikage clenched his fists. He couldn’t just submit himself to his parents so easily. But then again, at the end of the day, he was helpless. As always. There was no escape, because when has there ever been? Fighting back was pointless. It always has been. Because to him, this wasn’t torture. This wasn’t abuse. To him, this was just another punishment. Another, grueling, agonizing, painful, god-forsaken punishment.

He was used to this.

Fumikage felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He looked up at his father. What was this sudden burst of emotion? Fumikage had never felt like this before. Was it anger? Fear? Whatever it was, it made his head spin. Either way, he planned to use his sudden rush of negative energy for something he should’ve done months ago. And the consequences that came with it?

Fuck the consequences.

A twisted, pained smile forced it’s way to Fumikage’s features. Tears rolling down his cheeks, he locked eyes with his father. “Sick bastard.” he muttered. “You know I’ll be out of this hellhole in two days, so you take every opportunity you have to put me in as much pain as possible.” Fumikage wiped a tear from his eyes with his sleeve. “Sounds like you’re getting desperate, wouldn’t you agree?” Fumikage grinned upon seeing that irritated look wash over his father’s face. Oh, how much he loved that look.

Over the years that Fumikage has been in foster care, he was never liked by this parents. They blamed it on his violent quirk. Funny enough, almost none of them had even seen his quirk. Fumikage never got around to asking about that, since a lot of the time, talking ended up getting him in trouble. Looking back on it, Fumikage realizes just how stupid it was. Talking, of all things, got him in trouble. What was next? Breathing?

And this foster home was no different. If he “talked out of place”, as his father liked to put it, he was punished. It was hard to decipher exactly what was considered talking “out of place”, since it seemed like nearly everything Fumikage said warranted punishment. So eventually, he opted not to speak at all. But there were always those times, now included, where talking back just felt so right. When Fumikage is finally able to stand up for himself, despite the inevitable consequences that came with it.

And boy, were there consequences.

Before he knew it, Fumikage’s head was slammed against the wall behind him, beak first. With how sensitive his beak was, that pain rung throughout his brain, dazing him. Then he was kneed in the stomach, three times actually, right on one of his fresh bruises. Fumikage let out a choked sob as his breath left him. Even if it only lasted seconds, Fumikage felt as though he were suffocating. And as much as he hated the feeling of air leaving him, that just so happened to be the least painful thing he experienced that night.

Through his pain, Fumikage caught a glimpse of something shiny. Because of course he would. It looked to be metal, with a sharp tip. In his dazed state, he could only guess that it was his Father’s six-inch knife. And right he was, because that exact knife tore down the back of his shirt, exposing all of the scars that littered his back. Pinning him against the wall, his father ripped off his shirt, before kicking him to the cold hardwood floors. Just as Fumikage attempted to sit up, he felt another hard kick to the back of his head. The teen brought his hands to his head almost immediately, gripping tightly at his feathers in an attempt to ease his head’s throbbing pain. But at that moment, Fumikage realized, he had let his guard down.

Just seconds later, he felt it.

That agonizing, searing pain.

All over his body.

He let out a gut-wrenching scream as he felt blisters rapidly forming all over his back and arms. He found himself clawing at his arms, in a desperate attempt to ease the stinging pain, only for thin, deep cuts to form on his pale skin. He felt his quirk cuffs reacted to the heat, getting ever more tighter around Fumikage’s thin wrists. Any and all obscenities his parents threw at him were drowned out by this unbearable pain. Through his sobs, Fumikage began to wonder, was it really worth it? Was it ever worth it? He almost didn’t care. He just wanted it all to be over.

He just wanted the pain, the suffering, the torture, all of it, he just wanted it to go away.

Once the pain died down to the point where it was at least bearable, Fumikage forced himself up on his hands and knees, struggling to keep himself stable on the wet hardwood. Between both the burns, and the quirk cuffs nearly suffocating his wrists, his hands were blistered and swollen. Fumikage locked eyes with his father, who looked down at him, satisfied with his work. Fumikage’s breathing was slow and heavy, as he tried to fight through the pain. “Is…is that all you got?” he managed to choke out. “Two kicks and some hot water? Is that your last line of defense? Seems pretty lackluster if you ask me.” His entire body trembling, Fumikage managed to get to his feet. Steam emitted from his entire upper body, and he was throbbing with pain. That satisfied look on his father’s face suddenly turned to one of pure rage. Without a word, the man walked toward Fumikage, his knife in one hand, and empty glass bottle in the other. Pressing any further in this situation, with this many injuries, Fumikage knew, would be incredibly risky. But then again, heroes are supposed to take risks.

Fumikage forced his beak back into that same twisted grin he wore before, but this time, it was more reluctant. Either way, there was no turning back now.

“Bite me.” he muttered through gritted teeth.

It went dead silent. You could hear a pin drop. But that silence was short lived.

Fumikage heard the deafening sound of glass shattering. There was a sudden flash of bright light, leaving as quick as it arrived, and Fumikage’s world became black.

i dont plan on writing any more violent scenes, simply because they’re hard asf to write lmao, so the next part is basically an unneeded time skip because im lazy <3

I'm sure whatever you will write will be perfect!!!

part 5 bitches. or is this part 6? idk this feels like a part 6. anyway proofreading is out the window, it was a long time ago, but either way this might look at but messy. fuck it it’s 3am idc anymore. enjoy.

Fumikage’s eyes opened. His eyelids felt heavy, and his back was stiff, but other than that…he felt no pain. He sat up and looked around. He wasn’t in the linen closet. In fact, it didn’t look like he was in his foster home at all. He looked to be in an apartment. It was on the small side, but it felt…comfortable. The furniture wasn’t dusty, and the air was free of cigarette smoke. Beneath him, was a dark grey couch. He had to have been sleeping on it for a while, as he had shed a single feather onto the fabric of the couch. But either way, Fumikage somehow felt…safe.

Then, he caught something from the corner of his eye. Well, not something, rather, someone. A tall figure, their face and body obscured by shadow, stood in the doorway to the kitchen. The figure began to walk toward him. Their hands were tucked into their pockets, and they stalked toward him, almost tiredly. It felt so…familiar. But Fumikage’s world felt fuzzy. It was hard to tell if what he was seeing was even real. The figure kneeled down in front of him their obscured face looking him in the eyes. He watched their lips move, but there was no sound. Fumikage wanted to speak, but all he heard was his own confused, stuttered breathing.

The figure tilted their head, and their eyebrows furrowed. They reached a hand behind Fumikage’s head, ruffling his crown feathers gently. The figure spoke again, yet Fumikage was still met with silence. The figure’s face, as far as Fumikage could see, was painted with concern. But before Fumikage could make another attempt to speak, another figure appeared from a hallway. They were taller, slimmer, and just like the first one, their body and face was completely obscured. The second figure came over, kneeling next to the first, trying to get Fumikage to say something. Anything. But the world around him was completely silent.

Fumikage felt his vision blur at the edges. What was happening? Who were the people in front of him? Why did they look so worried? His mind was runny by a mile a minute, not knowing where he was, who he was with, and why any of them were there. Fumikage looked around desperately for anything that could pose as a distraction. In the midst of his panic, he saw one of the figure’s shadowy hands reach toward him. Fumikage swatted at the hand and tried to back away, but instead was blocked by the back of the couch. His gaze went back toward the two figures in front of him. Once again, one of them reached toward him, carefully grabbing his arm. The touch felt cold, and staticky, much like how Dark Shadow felt. Fumikage squeezed his eyes shut, and he felt tears run down his cheeks, afraid of what’s to come next. But, much to his surprise, he felt a pair of arms wrap around him, holding him tight. Through the haze, Fumikage could finally make out what this person was saying. It was a faint, hollow echo that rang through his ears. “It’s okay, kid. You’re safe.” They said.

Fumikage’s breathing slowed as he lay his head on the figure’s shadowy shoulder. “I’m…safe…” he repeated, almost hypnotically. Then he heard the second figure join in. “That’s right. You don’t have to be scared anymore. You’re in a new home, with a new family.” they said. Their voice was slightly higher, and had a softer tone to it. But those words…

Fumikage lifted his head slightly, just enough to see over the figure’s shoulder. His vision was hazy, and he felt as though he were in a trance.

“Family…” Fumikage whispered. That word…that word alone. ‘Family’. It just felt so…right. As though what Fumikage saw as paradise was finally coming to pass. He felt tears well up in his eyes. But unlike before, he felt tears of relief. For the first time in what felt like years, he really felt safe. Fumikage lifted an arm, and whipped away his tears with his sleeve. When his vision cleared, yet another figure appeared. However, this one was…small. Then Fumikage realized, it was a child. His head tilted as the obscure figure carefully walked over to him. They kept their hands in front of them, almost as if afraid to hurt him. Although Fumikage had relaxed, he still felt dazed, and somehow, his movements almost didn’t feel like his own.

Just like when he reached his arm out toward the child. They were just barely out of reach, but in response, they brought both hands to Fumikage’s, and a smile came to their obscured face. They looked…happy. And for the first time in what Fumikage felt like forever…so did he. He felt a small smile form on his beak. He hated kids. Normally, anyway. But right now…this wasn’t so bad.

He felt the older figure pull away from him, still carefully running their hand through his feathers. The second also leaned back, relaxing a bit. Fumikage lay back against the couch with a sigh, before looking over the three figure’s one last time. Was this really his family…? Hell, whether they were or not, he could get used to it. He just couldn’t help it. After years of pain, years of terror, a family, a kind, loving family, was what Fumikage had always dreamed of.

He eventually felt his eyelids, as well as his whole body, become heavy. He felt his grip on consciousness slowly slip, the world around him slowly swirling into a dark grey void. That same word echoed through his mind throughout, becoming more faint each time he heard it. Family. family….family….

Fumikage’s eyes slowly opened one last time, but this time, he didn’t just feel tired. He felt cold, he felt sore, but above all…he felt uneasy. That cold, painfully familiar feeling washed over him. And painful it was. The second he dared to move, Fumikage felt a sharp pain up his back. He sighed, letting his body relax. He looked up at the ceiling, but couldn’t stop the tears from forming in his eyes.

He was home.

and that’s it. i feel like i use too many commas, but fuck it im sleep deprived i do what i want :D anyway the next part will be done…whenever the fuck i feel like writing it idk lmao

Please sleep, you're doing great!! I too suffer from overuse of commas, but I don't think they hurt too much!!

sigh. part 7. maybe. idgaf anymore lmao

toward the end I pretty much forgot how to write, so this is uh, a mess to say the least. but enjoy I guess? yea

Fumikage slowly sat up, and let his hands fall solemnly in his lap. With his level of pain and exhaustion, it was hard to keep himself stable, and his quirk cuffs acting as six-pound weights wasn’t doing him any favors. Which, now that he noticed, wasn’t the only thing Fumikage was wearing. He felt his quirk collar clamped around his neck, even tighter than before. He was surprised that it hasn’t cut off his airflow by now.

Fumikage brushed off the pain, still in awe by his dream. As abstract as it was, it just felt so…real. Everything around him felt as though it were really there. And those shadow figures….he felt their words, their touch…as strange as it was, it just felt right. Fumikage leaned back against the wall behind him. ‘Dark Shadow…’ he whispered. ‘Did you…feel that? In the dream?’ Within him, Dark Shadow stirred restlessly in response to their host’s bewilderment. ‘Mhm…but…Fumikage? Would it be weird to say I…miss it?’ they asked. That restlessness quickly turned solemn as Dark Shadow deflated a bit, wrapping themself protectively around Fumikage’s rib cage. The teen hummed quietly to himself in thought. ‘Well, as weird as it is, you aren’t alone. I don’t know why but…that dream world just felt so surreal. It was…at least compared to what we’re used to, amazing.’ Fumikage replied. He lay his head against the wall behind him as he felt tears in the back of his eyes. Dark Shadow seemed to mimic his movements in a way, as Fumikage felt them curl within themselves, hugging Fumikage’s ribs tighter. ‘I just want a new family…’ they said, barely a whisper. Fumikage felt tears slowly roll down his cheeks, soaking his feathers. It feels like every day that passes, Fumikage feels more and more isolated. More and more alone. It’s just him and Dark Shadow. It always has been. Fumikage thrives off of his quirk’s company. Dark Shadow is the only reason he’s kept a positive outlook on life throughout his last few painful years. If not for Dark Shadow, Fumikage’s life would have ended long ago. But even with Dark Shadow around, Fumikage couldn’t help but feel lonely. He wanted someone else to talk to. A human to talk to, because let’s face it, Fumikage’s social skills are…underwhelming. He never speaks unless he knows exactly what he’s going to say and when. He comes off more confident that way, because otherwise, he’d let his anxiety get the best of him.

Having a kind, caring family around, and having other people in general around, just made Fumikage feel safer. Even his foster siblings. They all despised him, but when they were around, his parents were less violent with him. There was always less expected of him when there were others around to steal all of the attention. But that didn’t mean Fumikage didn’t want attention, he just didn’t want negative attention. And every foster home he’s been in, year after year, has been exactly that.

He just wanted to feel loved, was that so much to ask?

Fumikage slouched back against the wall, only to quickly regret it as he felt a sharp pain shoot up his side. He sat back up with a groan. What exactly happened to him? He knows he blacked out at some point, but it was hard to tell what happened after. His body was numbed with pain; his back and arms were covered in burns that sting when touched, and he had a large, dark bruise right in the middle of his abdomen.

His memory of the previous night was cloudy, among other things, but he does faintly remember that sharp glint coming from his father’s knife. Fumikage put a hand to the source of the pain, feeling around for anything of interest. The closet was nearly pitch black, and as good as Fumikage was at seeing in the dark, he couldn’t do much other than carefully feel his wounds to make sure there isn’t anything too serious. But at this point, getting out of a punishment unscathed would be a miracle.

Fumikage ran his fingers across what felt like a gash along the side of his waist, approximating the length. He winced at the stinging pain, but kept going nonetheless. The wound went from just above his waist halfway up his chest. Pulling away he felt something warm and wet lining his fingers, which he could only assume was blood, given the stinging pain that shot through his body right after.

The teen let out a low groan in response, before wiping his bloody hand on his jeans. Slumping back against the wall, Fumikage looked as his blood stained hand. Even in the dark linen closet, he could still see the dark, smeared blood stain his palm and fingers. Suddenly he felt a surge of negativity rush through him, and he clenched his bloodied fist. Was it disgust? Frustration? Or just pure, justified, rage? It was always so hard, just trying to identify this one, burning, unbearable emotion. Fumikage felt it so often but could never tell what he was really feeling. Dark Shadow growled in reponse to their host, growing increasingly larger, metaphorically, desperately wanting to break free and release this unbearable surge of negativity. It didn’t take long before Fumikage boiled over, and slammed his fist against the wall behind him, causing the paint to crack and a dent to form in the wall. Fumikage looked to the wall next to him, and the result of his outburst. And just like that, he deflated, completely, and utterly, defeated. Defeated from what? It was hard to tell.

The teen choked out a sob, curling up within himself, burying his face in his knees.

Just one more day.

yeah. that’s it. short and painful sweet. no comments, bc i cant think of any. next part coming in uh….idk like a month? who’s to say lmao

I absolutely loved this!! I am so happy you shared this! The writing was phenomenal and this is such an interesting take on Tokoyami’s past. It has the perfect dose of angst~

I hope everyone else enjoys this as much as I did!

[lady-divine-writes]

The Deadly Doubts of Aziraphale: Chapter 3 (Rated NC17)

Summary:

After they survive the Holy Water and Hellfire, Aziraphale and Crowley find it hard to be away from one another, constantly plagued by the paranoia that they'll lose each other again. But now, at this new stage in their existence, mostly free, something has started to trouble Aziraphale, something that manages to unearth every single one of his fears, driving him down paths that make him question everything he believes about him and his relationship with his demon.

Warning for this chapter: some horror imagery and violence.

Read on AO3.

“About a week had passed, and the position had begun to grow more complicated.”

“Hmm, what …? What was that you said?”

“I may mention in passing that I suffered a great deal during that unhappy week …”

“Aziraphale? Mmph … who are you talking to …?”

“… as I scarcely left the side of my affianced friend, in the capacity of his most intimate confidant.”

“Aziraphale? What in the Devil …?”

“What weighed upon him most was the feeling of shame, though we saw no one all that week, and sat indoors alone. But he was even ashamed before me, and so much so that the more he confided to me the more vexed he was with me for it.”

“Aziraphale.”

“He was so morbidly apprehensive that he expected that every one knew about it already, the whole town, and was afraid to show himself, not only at the club, but even in his circle of friends.”

“Jesus Christmas …”

“He positively would not go out to take his constitutional till well after dusk, when it was quite dark.”

“Please, no …”

“A week passed and he …”

“Aziraphale!?” A hand sneaks over the top of Aziraphale’s book and covers the page he’s reading. “What are you doing!?”

Aziraphale sighs dramatically, sliding the book out from under the offending hand. “You were asleep, so I decided to read.”

“You should be asleep, too. That’s why we came back here, remember? To sleep?”

“Technically, angels don’t need sleep.”

“Demons don’t need sleep, either, technically, and yet, here we are … in bed.”

Aziraphale assesses the disheveled demon – hair stuck up all over like chaotic licks of flame, the bulk a disastrous mess atop his head; creases from the pillowcase carving a map on his left cheek; his eyes, golden in this light, half-lidded and bleary from exhaustion. Aziraphale shakes his head, his eyes returning to his book. “I think you might be sleeping enough for the both of us, my dear. Why did you wake up, anyway?”

“You mumble when you read. Loudly. Plus the light you read by has gone from subtle glow to Death Valley in August. My eyeballs are charring through my eyelids. Not a very good look, if you ask me.”

Aziraphale glances around and notices, as Crowley had, that instead of a warm radiance focused mainly on the pages of his book, his holy aura had dialed up about seventeen notches, making the room look like they were trapped inside a gigantic tanning bed. “Oops. Sorry about that. I’ll turn it down.”

“What are you reading?” Crowley snatches the book out his angel’s hands and squints at the spine. “Demons?” He snorts. “I suppose I should be flattered but Dostoyevsky? Darling, it’s only Thursday.”

“It was either this or Crime and Punishment.”

“Stellar choices. Remind me never to ask you to read me a bedtime story.”

“That’s fine. I’m not sure I have a copy of The Little Engine That Could readily available anyhow.”

“Nice. Just so you know, since you’re taking pot shots at me, that one in particular did not land because The Little Engine That Could happens to be one of my favorite books. A remarkable work of literature, if you ask me. Brimming with nuance and symbolism,” Crowley grumbles, pulling the comforter over his head and burrowing underneath like … well, like a snake, if Aziraphale is being honest.

Aziraphale looks at the long lump of demon lying beside him and smiles. Even when he’s grumpy, he’s too adorable for words.

And Aziraphale loves him.

He snaps his fingers and the light that surrounds him blinks out.

“I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from sleeping,” he says in a voice Crowley feels more than he hears. It’s melodic, slipping through Crowley’s ears like a whisper of wind in Aziraphale’s attempt to not disturb him too much more. “I know how much you enjoy it. I’m sorry to say that I haven’t as of late.”

“Is it me?” Crowley asks, voice muffled by the thick blanket he refuses to climb out from under to continue this conversation. “Do I snore?”

“No.” Aziraphale gives his lower lip a nibble. “Well, you do snore a little, but that doesn’t keep me from sleeping.”

Crowley finally does peek out. He’s eyes, nose, and a mouth with the blanket still wrapped around him because that’s all he’s willing to expose. “Then what is it?”

“I …” Aziraphale’s last two nightmares scroll through his head like a reel to reel film set on fast forward. From the scenes that stand out, he sees Gabriel’s face grimacing at him, the rage that filled his eyes as he grabbed hold of Aziraphale’s wing and tore it off; he sees Michael and Uriel wedging him between them on that park bench, mocking him with thoughts of Crowley using lust to tempt humans … and all that that would entail; he sees that book with no words, just bugs and marks and scratches with no meaning, cradled in his arms. He wants to talk to Crowley about it. He desperately wants to talk with him. But how does he do that without sounding off his rocker? “I’d rather not discuss it. Not just yet, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It is all the same to me. I care about you. I want you happy. Happy here with me. We’ve spent thousands of years apart. I don’t want to be apart anymore.”

“Neither do I,” Aziraphale returns softly. “But I just … can’t.”

Crowley looks at his angel dressed in his two piece pajamas, sitting ram-rod straight with a book in his hands. He’s basically the same as bookshop Aziraphale, but here in his flat, distinguishable as relaxed only by virtue of his clothing choices.

“If you want, I can move to another room,” Aziraphale offers, “that way you can sleep in darkness. I know you prefer it.”

“That’s not what I want,” Crowley says. “Not at all. I want you here with me, light or no. But I think I can help you out, if you’d let me.”

“How’s that?”

“First of all, let’s close the book and put it away, shall we?” Crowley slides out of the comforter and puts out a hand for Aziraphale’s book. Aziraphale stares at the beckoning hand, reluctant to give it up, but only because he doesn’t want to sleep. He doesn’t even want to try. But there’s more going on here than just sleeping. They’re weaving their lives together. Normally, lying in bed with Crowley is something Aziraphale would enjoy. He knows Crowley enjoys it, too. Looks forward to it even.

They’re never going to get back to enjoying it together if Aziraphale doesn’t work things out.

He hands the book over. Crowley sets it carefully on the table beside him. Then, on second thought, he sticks it in a drawer and snaps his fingers to lock it.

Aziraphale tuts at the absurdity of that gesture since he could simply snap and unlock it again. Counteracting Crowley’s magic is as easy to Aziraphale as eating. Crowley knows that.

Crowley is sending Aziraphale a message.

If he wants his book back, he’s going to have to climb over Crowley to get it.

Crowley rolls back on his side facing his angel. “May I touch you?” he asks, the words catching in his throat,

Aziraphale’s right eyebrow shoots up. “That depends on how you intend on touching me, I suppose.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. Aziraphale is stalling. He just wishes he knew why. “Do you trust me?”

“Against my better judgement,” Aziraphale teases.

“You’re full of zingers tonight, aren’t ya, angel?” Crowley tugs on the hem of Aziraphale’s shirt till he slides down the headboard and joins Crowley beneath the comforter. He positions Aziraphale on his side facing away from him, then wraps his arms around him and holds him tight. He adjusts, then readjusts until they both lay comfortably, Crowley’s nose buried in Aziraphale’s hair, breathing softly against his scalp. “There. How does that suit you?”

“It … it suits me just fine,” Aziraphale replies, overwhelmed by a dark but powerful sensation of love bleeding through his back where Crowley’s chest touches.

Aziraphale was flabbergasted the moment he realized Crowley loved him, when he realized how long Crowley had loved him. Lately, it’s how much Crowley loves him that leaves him speechless. He feels it now, filling his body with its warmth, pooling inside his stomach like a cup of rich cocoa.

“Good. Now try to get some sleep, will ya? Leave the heavy political dramas till sun up.”

***

“Hello, Azzziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s brow crinkles as an oppressive buzzing assaults his ears, encapsulated within a voice of indeterminate species. But he’s heard that voice before. It brings with it memories of Evil and destruction.

Satan and end-of-the-world level matters.

Crowley threatening several times to run away from Earth and leave Aziraphale to face annihilation alone.

It travels down his spine like a Bentley ablaze, held together only by a demon’s imagination, much in the same way that demon should be holding Aziraphale together now.

“Beelzebub?” Aziraphale turns, utterly perplexed. He’s not in Hell. He’s outdoors. But he’s not at the park this time. He’d suspected that if he managed to fall asleep, which he obviously has, he’d end up some place. He’d hoped for no place – a void of solitude behind his eyes he could slip swiftly into, hide himself inside of. He knew that was farfetched. He hasn’t been searching for these dreams; they’ve been coming to him, holding a mirror to his eyes, forcing him to confront his fears. The park as a setting makes sense because it means something to him.

It means something to them – him and Crowley.

This is plain confusing.

He’s at Tadfield Air Base, the book he’d been carrying in his last two dreams replaced by his unlit sword. He has to admit both are a pleasant change, but he doesn’t understand. Why would he come here? Their mission in Tadfield finished after Adam thwarted the Apocalypse. He’d never even heard of the place before then, definitely never had an occasion to come here. And after, it became but a small denominator in his conscious.

He breathes in through his nose. The air smells damp, pungent, bitterly sweet, like freshly cut grass mixed with steer manure. The realism of it shocks him. The park hadn’t smelt like this. It hadn’t felt like this either. It had felt real, yes, but he chalks that up to how often he’s been there. This feels hyper-real, beyond three-dimensional.

So real that logic dictates it can’t be.

He knows he isn’t in Tadfield. He’s lying in bed with Crowley. As he drifted away, he could have sworn he felt Crowley kiss the back of his neck. He’d held on to that feeing, made it his anchor in the hopes that it would keep him from wandering too far. That is reality, not this. Aziraphale doesn’t have lovely dreams when he sleeps. He doesn’t need lovely dreams. He has a lovely life, a lovely future.

Or is he wrong? Is it the other way around?

He doesn’t know and that frightens him. It had been so clear before, so solid.

How does he decide?

Trying to sort it out is causing a pain between his eyes and in his chest.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, figuring that getting to the bottom of one mystery might help him unravel the other.

“I’ve come to make you an offer, Angel of the Easzzztern Gate,” Beelzebub purrs with false sincerity. “An offer you’d be ridiculouszzz to refuszzze.”

Aziraphale stands defiant, his sword lowered but ready to draw if needed. “Try me.”

Beelzebub starts slowly, metering their words, the way one would when speaking to someone inferior to them. “I would very much like for you to come work for uszzz.”

Aziraphale’s eyes pop like overheated kernels of corn. “Work for you where?”

“Why, downstairszzz, of course. In Hell.”

Aziraphale chuckles but it’s not born of humor. It’s a nervous, incredulous sputter. “Are you … are you serious? What makes you think I would ever agree to such a preposterous thing?”

“Think about it, Azzziraphale.” Beelzebub takes a casual step toward him, not minding at all the large blade in the angel’s hand. They don’t even spare it a glance, and that makes Aziraphale wary. “You do realizzze you’ve been working for our szzzide all along.”

“I …” Aziraphale’s voice trembles, Beelzebub’s statement hitting at the root of his deepest fear “… n-no, I haven’t.”

“Yeszzz, you have. I know it, Satan knowszzz it, and Gabriel knowszzz it, so the Almighty must know it by now. That’szzz why I’m here. To invite you to take the next step. Make it official.”

“O … official?”

“Fall, Azzziraphale,” Beelzebub says, the closest thing to a smile Aziraphale has ever seen on their face nudging up the corners of their mouth, “and become one of uszzz.”

Aziraphale’s head twists on his neck. “What? No! I … I can’t do that! I’m an angel! I was put on Earth to do good!”

“But you also tempt. You’ve been doing it for Crowley. You do szzzome tempting, and he doeszzz some blessing. You know …” They lift a finger to the side of their nose and wink “Your Arrangement?”

Aziraphale’s hands shake, the sword he’s clutching vibrating in his grasp. “How … how do you know about that?”

“Demonszzz are a hive mind. For the most part, what Crowley knowszzz, we know aszzz well.”

Aziraphale feels a sudden unsinkable cold pass through him as 6000 years of secrets he thought they’d been hiding expertly cross the demon’s eyes and settle in the cruel twist of their smile.

“And in regardszzz to you, angel …” Beelzebub lowers their voice along with their eyes, looking at Aziraphale through stunted lashes “… I know quite a lot.”

“What … what do you know?”

“Join uszzz and I’ll tell you.”

“I … I can’t.”

“Yeszzz, you can,” they press, annoyed the way they had been with Adam. Adam had stared them down with collected calm, the wisdom of ages by his side. But Aziraphale doesn’t have Adam’s calm, and he doesn’t have backup. “Think of it. You’d have power, Azzziraphale. More power than they grant you upstairszzz. And reszzzpect. You and the traitor …” Beelzebub pinches their lips together and recovers “… I mean, the demon Crowley, could work in concert. You could still do …” They stop again, swallow hard, skewered by the next words they speak “… good deedszzz, just with an evil twiszzzt. The way you have been already. No need to make too large a change. That should szzzuit your needszzz.”

“Not too large a change?” Aziraphale chokes. “You want me to become a demon! A … a Fallen angel! That sounds like a rather large change to me!”

“Crowley must have told you about hiszzz Fall, hmm?” Beelzebub nods knowingly, theorizing the reason behind Aziraphale’s hesitation. “How devastating it waszzz for him? Fell szzztraight from Heaven, he did. He waszzz one of the Almighty’s favoriteszzz, too.”

“Sauntered vaguely downward is how he puts it,” Aziraphale corrects. He feels the need. He doesn’t like Beelzebub talking on Crowley’s behalf.

“You’re already on your way though, aren’t you? You’ve been inching down gradually over the centurieszzz. For you, it’d be more like a skip than a Fall.”

“Why are you making me this offer? What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” they say, but behind their dead eyes, something shrewd lurks. Calculating. To put it bluntly … Evil. “Hell needszzz numberszzz. Face it, you’re a mediocre angel at beszzzt, Azzziraphale. But you’d be a Duke in Hell. Higher in rank than Crowley. He’d answer to you.”

“What makes you think he’d listen to me?” Aziraphale says with an honest to God laugh this time. “He barely listened to you.”

“I can make certain of it. I’ll keep him under constant szzzurveillance. In chainszzz, if you prefer.” That thought, the image they’re building in their head of Crowley under lock and key, makes them grin so wide it splits their face in two. “Think about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it! What you’re proposing is literally unthinkable!” Aziraphale lifts his sword threateningly but it doesn’t ignite. Because Aziraphale isn’t being entirely honest. The thought of Falling isn’t as abhorrent to him as it once was. He’s thought about Falling once or twice.

So he can be with Crowley with no complications.

Beelzebub drops all pretense of pleasantry the second those words pass Aziraphale’s lips. “We will have him back, angel. We will have the traitor in our rankszzz once more, and then you’ll never szzzee him again. Never, ever, ever szzzeee him again. But if you Fall, the two of you can be together forever. Beszzzt to decide quickly. I’m not a patient demon.”

“No! I won’t join you!” Aziraphale yells, his sword finally bursting into a pillar of orange flame. “And neither will he! He won’t serve under Hell’s thumb again!”

Beelzebub shakes their head, the expression in their eyes murderous. “You have made the wrong decision, Azzziraphale. And now, you will suffer the consequenceszzz.”

Beelzebub snaps their fingers. Aziraphale anticipates, snaps his fingers to counter, but it’s not as easy deflecting a Prince of Hell, he discovers, as it is Crowley. Beelzebub doesn’t budge but Aziraphale flies backward, hitting the rust-infected wall of a munition’s paddock some hundred feet behind him.

“If you refuszzze to Fall on your own …” He hears Beelzebub’s voice follow him as he soars up and gets flung, hitting the same wall a second time and leaving a dent “… then I will make you Fall!”

He flies up again, climbing higher and higher. He balls his fists, braces his form, and tries to stop himself. He’s powerful enough to slow down but not to stop. He soars up above the clouds then stops short, hovering miles in the air. There he floats, trapped inside some other entity’s power, praying that another angel, or maybe even God, has intervened. But a second later, he free falls, the air underneath him battering his back, causing it to bend like a bow. When he lands, instead of impacting the metal shed, he hits the asphalt with a dizzying thud, skidding across the ground like a stone on the water.

“You could have had everything, Azzziraphale!” Beelzebub bellows. “Everything you’ve ever wanted! Power! Reszzzpect! That diszzzhonored, traitorous demon for your own! But now, you’re going to Hell a priszzzoner! No! A szzzlave!”

“Over … my … discorporated … body …” Aziraphale groans, wondering briefly (when his mind stops reeling and everything makes sense again) how in the world his body hasn’t given out on him already.

He’s tossed across the tarmac and lands on his stomach, the rebound forcing his face to hit after. He can’t see himself, but he knows he’s bruised badly. One eye socket and his nose might be broken. He may be missing some teeth. Nothing he can’t fix but still. His sword, knocked from his grasp, bounces away, then shatters into a hundred pieces, its fire going out in each one as it separates from the whole. Aziraphale could miracle it back together in a snap, but what good would it do? Beelzebub is too fast for him, too powerful. Aziraphale rises to his knees, determined to get to his feet, but a pair of black derbies and fishnet socks comes up on him and kicks him to the ground.

“Over your diszzzcorporated body, you say?” Beelzebub snorts. “Aszzz you wish.”

Aziraphale peers up at his tormentor. Through swelling lids he sees Beelzebub transform, confronting Aziraphale in their true demon form – boil-ridden flesh dripping from their face as shimmery black skin pushes to the surface; liquid eyes, round and black, soulless to their depths, grow and segment, becoming a brilliant blood red; spindly arms sprout from their sides, thin translucent wings from their back. Their lips purse and stretch forming a long proboscis, which emits a dreadful slurping when they breathe in. The buzzing that surrounds them increases ten-fold when they beat those wings. Aziraphale throws his hands over his ears to keep his mortal eardrums from bursting.

“Aszzz the humanszzz szzzay …” Beelzebub buzzes, their voice ringing with a high-pitched whine that makes Aziraphale’s head pulse “… szzzeee you in Hell!”

They put a foot to the small of his back and shove down, forcing him through the cement quicker than he can react. Through layers and layers of rock he’s driven. A violent, air-sucking heat forms around him, creating a vacuum that pulls him through the Earth, straight to its core. The churning, broiling magma blinds him. His hair sizzles, his skin burns, his clothes disintegrate. His screams, his prayers, his calls to God and the angels for help, his pleas to Crowley, go unheard. Unanswered.

Deep inside his soul, he seethes with anger, a hatred to rival the molten iron that’s begun to envelope him. He feels his human form meld with the metal in a vulgar flesh and blood soup, but he has yet to discorporate, yet to return to Earth, or to Heaven. His bones and muscles render down to molecules and float away, but his consciousness remains, confused as to his fate until he realizes this is it. This is where he’ll be remanded - the core of the Earth his prison.

One place Crowley might never think to look for him, and where God, apparently, is content to see him rot.

***

When Aziraphale wakes, he’s no longer lying on the mattress, but sprawled on the marble floor. He scrambles to his feet before he even registers that he has a corporeal form again. His heel hits a wet spot and he nearly falls backward, but he stops himself before his feet catch air.

“Wha---what … what’s happening? Where am I?” he mutters, his brain taking longer to catch on before his body, which finds the edge of the mattress and sits. Shivering with cold after having been a primordial stew for the past who knows how long, Aziraphale takes a moment to reset and rewind, starting with the simple and working up from there.

“Where … where am I?” he mumbles, staring at his reflection in the polished floor, his eyes burning blue. “I’m at Crowley’s flat,” he answers himself. “In his bedroom.” He swallows, relaxing after that correct response. “What am I doing? Well, I’m supposed to be getting some sleep.” He looks up at the ceiling and chuckles. “Good job I’m doing with that one, huh?” He says it louder than necessary, hoping Crowley will answer, ask him if he’s had a nightmare. This time, he’ll say yes. He’ll climb into his demon’s arms and tell him everything. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back – Aziraphale sees it. This is where his other dreams were leading him. It’s one thing to have doubts about his relationship with Crowley. Those are easily fixable. All he need do is look at Crowley, catch him staring at him over his morning coffee, go out of his way to hold Aziraphale’s door open for him, drive him to the latest estate auction in search of his fifteenth copy of the same first edition, take him to lunch at his favorite restaurant.

All he has to do is tell Crowley he loves him, and hear Crowley tell him he loves him back like a reflex, no thought required, and those doubts will go away.

But doubts about his purpose on this planet, about who he is, who he’s been all along – for that he needs guidance. He’d kneel down and pray about it, but if these past few nights have proved anything it’s that the Almighty doesn’t seem too concerned with his nightmares or his doubts.

But Crowley doesn’t answer, doesn’t chuff, doesn’t snore, and Aziraphale sighs. Let the poor boy sleep, he scolds himself. The nightmare is over. Aziraphale has no wish to go back to sleep so it won’t be returning tonight. No need to wake him up. They have all day ahead of them. He can talk to him then.

Aziraphale climbs underneath the comforter, shimmying back in search of Crowley’s body. He doesn’t get too far when his frazzled brain comes up with a masterful idea. He’ll sneak over his wily serpent and retrieve his book. Won’t it ruffle Crowley’s scales to wake up and find Aziraphale has stolen his book back? But Aziraphale won’t let the boy seethe for long. He’ll cross the divide, offer up his nightmare in apology for defying his fiend’s wishes.

Then they’ll go from there.

He slides back out of the bed, deciding the best course of action would be to tiptoe around the end instead of climbing over Crowley and risk waking him up. He peeks over his shoulder to make sure he’s still asleep.

But the demon lump that should be snoozing by his side isn’t there.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale pats Crowley’s side of the bed, checking to see if he didn’t become a snake unintentionally while snatching a few z’s. It’s rare, but it has been known to happen.

He feels nothing but bunched blanket and the mattress.

“Crowley?” He hops out of bed and searches the flat, leading with his mind, his powers extending to every wall, every room, every conceivable crevice. But the angel can’t detect him – not a thought, not a hair of him, not the signature his power leaves behind, not his smell.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale races from the bedroom to the bathroom, then down the hall to the office, his aura a blinding beam guiding him. “Crowley … Crowley … Crowley!!”

Aziraphale checks every closet, which he admits is asinine, but then he checks them twice. He looks out the window and spots Crowley’s Bentley parked by the curb, waiting patiently for its owner. As a last, desperate resort, Aziraphale tries summoning him, reciting the demonic spell Crowley taught him that should only be used in case of an emergency. It’ll bring me back from anywhere in this plane, Crowley had told him. But be careful. It will attract demon attention so only use it when you have no other choice.

Aziraphale never has till now.

Aziraphale recites it repetitively, playing Russian Roulette each time he does, but it doesn’t bring Crowley back.

Which means his demon isn’t simply gone from the flat, or Earth.

He’s gone from their dimension entirely.