#an angel who was at peace with being wrath - now forced to be protector

[debtsunpaid]

thinking about john constantine, personification of a black hole, VS manny, personification of the sun.

a creature who by nature is lightless, whose assigned guardian is a creature who by nature is brilliant. an annihilator, an insatiable eater, a freezing thing that drags you closer, VS an eternal creator, an essential provider, a burning thing that can only nurture from a distance. collapse VS equilibrium.

like?? no wonder manny's fucking evil, god hitched him to a dying star and expected that to bring him peace.

[imagine-darksiders]

A gentle touch.

[Strife/Reader]

Summary: Set three years after humanity is resurrected. Strife shows up unannounced in your bedroom in the middle of the night, which would have been rude enough without him getting blood all over your cream-coloured carpet.

Tags: Blood, injury, PTSD, knife, protective Strife, whump, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, sharing a bed ;), bandages and cleaning wounds, how not to administer first aid.

-----

You have the apocalypse to thank for turning you into such a light-sleeper. 

Even though the nights of sleeping with one eye open are far behind you and Earth is back on the road to a long and arduous recovery, you'll still jolt awake if your unconscious mind hears something scuttle beneath the floorboards of your freshly-restored home, and God forbid a tree branch should happen to scratch at the bedroom window...

Waking up with the feeling that your heart is three beats from bursting right out of your chest is exhausting, to say the least. And it isn't just you who suffers from the onset of hyper-vigilance.

It was a decidedly cruel consequence that the resurrected humans were able to recall their lives before the end of the world. Crueller still, they woke up to remember exactly how and where they eventually kicked the bucket, and of course, nobody knew that a significant chunk of time had passed at all since the end of the world and its rebirth.

They thought they were still in danger.

In one moment, all they knew was immense and excruciating pain, and then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, they woke up again, screaming and writhing in the echoes of phantom pain that had occurred almost a century ago.

Three years down the line since ‘The Great Waking,’ and there isn’t a human alive who could claim that they’ve slept through an uninterrupted night.

------

The alarm clock on your bedside table has just ticked over to read '2:36am' when your eyes suddenly snap open and you fling yourself upright in bed, your spine ramrod straight and your ears ringing with a sharp, tinny note.

It isn’t a nightmare that wakes you. At least, not this time.

Worse.

It’s a sound.

An out-of-the-ordinary sound that isn't in keeping with the normal ambiance of your bedroom.

But where...? 

....It's coming from your window.

Tired eyes swivel to the curtains whilst your hand immediately flies out to blindly fumble with the drawer of your bedside table. Once your fingers find the cold, metal handle, you rip it open and plunge your hand inside, rummaging around until you feel the reassuring grip of your most precious possession.

Your trusty bread knife. Serrated edge, nine inch blade, perfect for cutting slices of toast in the morning and for tearing through the toughened hide of a hungry demon.

Peace between the Universe’s species had been declared once humanity was fully introduced to the connected realms, a decision that suited a vast majority of Creation. Hell, however, had offered up a fair amount of opposition to the notion before eventually conceding and agreeing – albeit begrudgingly – to honour the peace treaty alongside angels, makers, undead and the rest.

Even demon-kind knew not to incur the wrath of humanity's strongest and most ferocious protectors, the Horsemen.

But... there are always exceptions to the rule. Some demons just... hadn't gotten the memo.

It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had tried to make an assassination attempt on humanity’s envoy.

Heart in your throat, you grasp the knife securely in your dominant hand and peer through the darkness towards the window. 

Only a sliver of moonlight peeps through a tiny gap in the curtains. In another blink, the light suddenly disappears, and you know better than to assume that the moon has simply ducked behind a cloud. 

Something is standing at your window, blocking out the light.

You think you might actually be sick when you hear the sound again, claws scraping on wood – a sound you know all too well – well enough to send your head spinning into a panic.

Swallowing back the nausea in your throat, you brace yourself, instincts flicking between running for the door and knowing never to turn your back on a demon.

Sadly, the decision is swiftly taken out of your hands. Through the darkness and the deafening roar of blood rushing through your ears, you can make out the distinct sound of your window sliding slowly open.

The knife is a comforting weight in your hand. But it’s less than useless if you don’t calm down and try to remember the lessons that Death has taught you. If the eldest Horseman were here, he’d probably have berated you seven ways to Sunday by now for freezing up and missing an opportunity to better prepare yourself for an attack.

A dark silhouette pushes the fluttering fabric of your curtains aside and pulls itself halfway into your bedroom. 

Whatever it is, it’s big.

Breath catching in your throat, you clasp a handful of your duvet and get ready to fling it at the intruder as a distraction, hoping that it’ll be enough to buy you a precious few seconds to gain the upper hand. You've learned that humans are inherently weaker than demons, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned from Death, it’s that strength isn’t necessarily the deciding factor in any battle. You still have your wits. You only hope the demon has less.

Two luminous, golden eyes turn in your direction and you press yourself backwards into the headboard.

Several seconds drag by in perfect silence.

Then... 

“Hey.”

And just like, that tension leaves your body like a balloon deflating of air and you heave the loudest sigh you can muster, dropping the bread knife into your lap.

“Damn it, Strife! You about gave me a heart attack!”

With a 'whump,' you flop back against your pillows and take a second to breathe whilst one of the Four Horsemen drags himself the rest of the way through your bedroom window.

Strife.

It's only Strife...

Whilst certainly a dangerous being in his own right, you know you have nothing to fear from the Horseman who had all but appointed himself as your friend three, long years ago, all in an attempt to irritate his brother, Death, of course.

At least, at first.

Death was the one who pulled you from the dying Earth and preserved your life-force as you journeyed together on a quest to resurrect humanity, but after he made the jump to introduce you to his 'little' siblings, it had been Strife who'd taken a particular shine to you, and it had everything to do with a compatible, if terrible sense of humour.

That first meeting sparked what was sure to be an interesting friendship between the pair of you.

-----

“So, my brother went and got himself a human, huh?” Strife had teased, pointedly ignoring the withering look he received from Death to add, “Gotta say, I'm impressed, Kid. Didn't think anyone would have the inclination to willingly travel with my brother. But then, I guess...” He trailed off and you could almost see the smirk growing under his mask. “Deathperate times and all that, huh?”

At once, his siblings all groaned out varying noises of disapproval. Fury, the loudest, cocked her hip and shot Strife a frosty glower. “You are singlehandedly ruining our reputation, brother."

“She's right, you know,” you spoke up, trying not to flinch when all eyes snapped onto you once more, “That pun was pretty deadful.”

The brief, startled second of silence was soon blasted apart when Strife threw his head back and barked out a triumphant laugh, while Death slowly turned to look at you, utterly betrayed.

“Ha!” Strife's eyes positively gleamed with mischief, “You're right, human. Guess I should'a considered the reapercussions of a joke like that, huh?”

“I ought to have known introducing you two would be a mistake,” the eldest Horseman grumbled, earning a sympathetic look from War.

“Sorry, Death,” you said with a perfectly straight face, “You want us to get out of your scythe so you don’t have to look at us anymore?”

Strife had howled.

Death, however, merely heaved a long-suffering sigh. Fury's eyes all but rolled into the back of her skull and War just stood there, struggling to keep his lips from twitching at their corners.

And you had looked around at all of them, a little proud and blissfully unaware of what you'd just unwittingly signed yourself up for.

You'd had Strife's attention from that day on.

-----

Shaking off the fond memory, you tiredly will your mind back to the matter at hand.

You reach across your bed and drop the knife back into the drawer before leaning down and skirting your fingers over the wall in search of a switch. The next moment, there's a 'click!' and the room is illuminated by clustered fairy lights that you've draped around your ceiling, forcing you to squint blearily against the intrusion of light as Strife hauls his leg into your room.

“Honestly. How many times have I told you to use the door?”

“S'locked,” he grunts.

You're in the midst of rubbing your eyes to try and stimulate a little life back into your bones, so you miss the way he stumbles a few steps away from the wall and presses a gauntleted hand to his abdomen. 

“Yeah, it’s locked because it's-” You take a quick glance at the clock next to you. “-Two thirty in the morning! Strife, I’m supposed to be up at six to meet Ulthane! What do you need so badly that you'd-... Hey.. Are.. are you okay?”

At last taking a long, hard look, it suddenly occurs to you that the Horseman is... not entirely himself.

He's hunched over, his shoulders pulled in around his neck and his chest rising and falling in long, languid motions. The tattered cowl he wears around his neck hangs loose around his collarbones and it faces the very real threat of slipping off to the floor. At last, your eyes drop to the hand that's clamped over the left side of his abdomen and you blurt out a startled gasp.

In the paltry, pink glow of your fairy lights, you spot an unmistakably crimson liquid dribbling between his fingers, starkly contrasted against the steel-grey colour of his armour.

The next few seconds pass in a blur as you frantically begin kicking off your duvet and scramble out of bed, flying across the room to the Horseman's side.

“Strife! What'd you do!?”

“Oh, that's real sweet,” the Nephilim chuckles wryly whilst he collapses back against the wall and slides down it with a strained grunt, “Why're you – ung... assuming it's something I did?”

Without missing a beat, you snap, “This would hardly be the first time you got hurt because you're a wise-cracking jokester with a big mouth! Now tell me who you pissed off?!”

You drop onto your knees next to him and reach out, fingers hovering tentatively above his stomach. With your focus directed away from his helm, Strife doesn’t bother to hide the way his eyes dart from left to right before they settle back on the top of your head.

“Ah, it was... just some demon, caught me slackin', that's all,” he shrugs, letting you carefully grasp his wrist and lift it away from his torso.

At once, fresh blood gushes from a deep gouge cut into in the dark, leather under-skin he wears beneath his cuirass and you yelp, slapping a hand over your mouth in abject horror.

The sound draws Strife's gaze to you and once he spots the shocked despair on your face, he gives himself a mental kick.

He hadn't meant to... He... doesn't like it when you’re scared because of him.

"Hey, no, no – I'm okay!” he rushes to reassure you, “Don't worry about this. I've had worse!”

“That's not the point, Strife!” you argue, dropping his wrist and carding your hands through your hair, “You're hurt now! And I don't – there's so much blood, and you-” Cutting yourself off, you squeeze your eyes shut and inhale deeply through your nose, willing your pulse to ease so that you can rationally address this situation. 

Another lesson Death had taught you - stay calm in a crisis. Panic kills.

Releasing a long, hard breath, you peel your eyes open again and nod, jaw set. “Okay. All right. I need to.. I need water. A-and I need to see the wound.”

The interrogation can come after you've dealt with... this.

“There's a bowl and flannel in my bathroom,” you announce, getting to your unsteady feet and gesturing towards Strife's cuirass, “Think you can get that off so I can have a look?”

Huffing out a breath of laughter, the Horseman winks at you suggestively and drawls, “An' here I was doin' things the hard way to get your attention. You know, you didn't have to wait till I got myself gutted before you asked me to take my armour off in your chambers.”

A wise-cracking flirt with a big mouth.

As exasperating as he is though, you don't mind it in the slightest.

This is your usual rapport, after all. A friendly back and forth interlaced with the occasional, flirtatious comment. At first, Strife had only initiated it because it drove an over-protective Death up the wall. The eldest Horseman had almost threatened to 'remove Strife's libido' until you'd up and flirted right back, distressing the old reaper even further.

It's funny. It's innocent. But right now, it's reassuring, if only somewhat, that Strife is behaving just like his shameless, old self.

Besides, you can give back as much as you get.

“Well, I had to wait for a good enough excuse,” you retort, “Couldn't come on too strong and risk scaring you off, now could I?”

In response, Strife just chuckles fondly and watches you turn and speed away to your ensuite, oblivious to the warm, soft glow radiating from his eyes.

In less than a minute, you're briskly striding back into the room, a dripping flannel in one hand and a bowl in the other, and he suddenly remembers that you'd asked him to remove his cuirass.

Mission failed.

But you don't even bat an eyelid to find it still in place, assuming that the Horseman can't get at the catches on the sides in his current state. 

In one, smooth motion, you drop down beside him once more and set the cloth and bowl nearby. “Here, let me help..”

The Horseman's pulse sputters when your tiny fingers reach around his torso and fumble with the buckles and straps that keep his armour securely in place. It doesn't pass his notice that your hands are trembling.

“Hey,” he calls, catching your eye for a moment before you go right back to fiddling with the cuirass, “This is nothin’, you know that, right?”

You only press your lips together and hum, clearly skeptical.

You're working fast and in almost no time at all, the straps have been released and you carefully take the Nephilim's broad shoulder, giving it a tug, guiding him to lean away from the walls so that you can start to peel the bulky armour off.

“Nng, hang on,” he mutters.

Reluctantly, you sit back to let him tug his chest piece loose before he simply drops it onto the carpet next to his legs with a dull 'clang.'

Exposed to the soft glow of your lights, your eyes are instantly drawn to the gaping wound that stretches in a horizontal line across the left side of his abdomen. It seems that something really has tried - and nearly succeeded - to gut him. Several inches long and goodness knows how deep, even against the iron-grey colour of his skin, the gash is alarmingly obvious and the blood far, far too noticeable for your liking. It still comes as something of a shock to learn that the Horsemen, barring Death, can actually bleed.

Wordlessly, you pick up the flannel and wring it out into the bowl of water, wondering if he'll mind that you didn't wait for the tap to get warm before you soaked it. It shouldn't surprise you that the Horseman doesn't protest or even flinch when you gently press the wet cloth to the bloodied skin around his wound, nowhere near the gash itself, not until you've cleared away some of the mess around it and determined its real depth.

You don't notice that his eyelids flutter closed once you press the cloth to his skin, nor do you see when their golden light fluctuates in contentment as the fingertips of your other hand press gently to his stomach, the pressure barely enough for him to feel, but enough to keep you steady whilst you daub at his drying blood.

It takes a formidable effort to suppress the shudder that nearly races up his spine. This is the first time he's felt your skin against his without a single piece of armour standing between you.

Creator, you're so soft! Just like he always imagined you would be.

“Jeezus, Strife,” you whistle, abruptly snatching his focus away from the soothing strokes of your silky fingers,“You've made a real mess of yourself. Why on Earth didn't you just go straight to Death? I thought he was the best healer in your family.”

The warm skin underneath your fingertips jumps as the Horseman puffs out a quick laugh, gazing dopily at your temple whilst you wipe at the edges of his wound with small, careful touches. 

“He is,” Strife readily agrees, “But the moody bastard wouldn't be nearly as gentle with me as you are.”

You blow an unimpressed huff from your nose and glance up at him in time to catch his lazy wink. “I can always press harder if you like?”

“Nah.” The Horseman settles himself more heavily against the wall, knocking his skull back against it and mumbling, “Just keep touchin' me all gentle like that. S'nice...”

Quite abruptly, the chatty Nephilim goes silent and the glow from his eyes that had illuminated your face only moments ago suddenly disappears.

“Strife?”

He doesn't respond.

“Hey, Cowboy! Don't you fall asleep on me, you hear?”

There's a long stretch of silence, then, “Won't,” he mumbles, cracking one eyelid open to peer down at you.

Harrumphing, you promptly turn back to the gash in his stomach and wipe the last of the dried blood off his skin, still far from clean, but at the very least, better than it had been.

“Right,” you declare, pulling away to stand up and drawing a decidedly petulant whine from the Horseman on your bedroom floor. “I'm gonna go get the first aid kit from downstairs.”

There’s a shift in his expression and something that hinges on alarm suddenly whistles through his blood.

“I won’t be long,” you promise, "Be right – Hey, woah! What're you doing!?”

Darting forwards, you hastily place your hands on each of Strife's broad shoulders, trying to push him back down as he grabs the window sill behind him and begins hauling himself up to his feet.

“What's it look like ‘m doing?” he answers gruffly, slouching forwards as if the weight of his own head is too much to keep aloft, “Comin’ with you”

Sputtering out a few, incredulous noises, you try to make him see sense. “I’ll bring the first aid kit to you! You need to rest! It's bad enough that you already climbed in through my second storey window!”

But Strife, stubborn as a mule and much, much stronger than you, isn't deterred by your protests. Grunting, he curls one arm over his stomach and takes a step forwards, ducking beneath your light fixture and standing to his full, imposing height.

Even with three years of companionship behind you, you’re still frequently taken aback at how effortlessly the Horseman can make you feel small and fragile when you stand close to him.

Knowing full well that you’ll never be able to force him down again, you allow your hands to slip from his shoulders and fall against your sides like lead weights. You aren’t sure why he’s suddenly so hellbent on following you, downstairs, of all places, but you don’t dwell on it, especially given that you’re far more preoccupied with the fresh blood that has already begun trickling out of his wound to replace the stains you’ve painstakingly cleaned away.

Puffing out your cheeks, you raise a hand and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Strife, please sit down?” You aren’t so proud that you won’t resort to begging, tired as you are and exasperated with his obstinate behaviour. “I’m worried about you...”

All at once, the Horseman stiffens. ‘Oh, now she’s fighting dirty,’ he muses to himself.

Gradually, you lift your eyes to meet his and try your very best to glare up at him, pinning him down with all the stern authority you can muster. For several, slow heartbeats, the Nephilim peers right back at you and you’re almost certain that you’ll lose this battle of wills, which is why it comes as such a shock when his fiery gaze falters, wavering slightly before it promptly drops to the floor near your feet.

It's... rare for Strife to be looked at by someone who isn't ashamed to show that they worry about him.

But the way you're looking at him now? Hell, the way you've been looking at him since he clambered through your bedroom window? You're practically broadcasting your concern.

Strife just... isn't used to seeing that. So he glances down instead, finding the fibres of your carpet particularly exhilarating tonight. Slowly, begrudgingly, he sinks down to sit on the edge of your bed, heavy enough that the frame creaks and groans under the weight of a fully grown Nephilim and he has to hold back a contented sigh at the softness beneath his legs.

From the corner of an eye, he can see that your jaw is hanging ajar and remains so until you give yourself a little shake and throw him a satisfied nod. “Thank you,” you huff before turning on your heel and striding purposefully from the room.

Strife listens raptly to your footsteps disappearing down the staircase, unaware that his hands have curled into tight fists around your duvet.

'It's fine,' he assuages the insistent voice at the back of his head, 'She's fine.'

He took care of the threat. That demon asshole isn't coming after his friend.

You’re only downstairs. He can already hear you pushing open the door to your little kitchen whilst the rest of his senses remain trained on the sounds and smells of the night.

It isn't as though something bad might happen just because his eyes aren't fixed upon you...

Frankly, he thinks he’s being more than generous to allow a full, Earth minute to pass as he taps his heel impatiently against the side of your bed.

Didn’t you say you’d be right back?

...

“Fuck it...”

-------

Perhaps, in hindsight, keeping your first aid kit on the top of the fridge hadn’t been one of your brightest ideas, given that you need a chair to reach it. Then again, securing immediate access to bandages and plasters hadn’t exactly been on the forefront of your mind when you were rebuilding your old home from the ruins it had been left in.

With a grunt, you drop your rickety kitchen chair next to the fridge and clamber up onto the seat. “I have got to find a better place for you,” you grumble at an apathetic first aid kit that sits gathering dust near the wall. Stretching your arm out, you manage to snag it by the handle and drag it towards you-

“The hell're you doing!?”

The violent jolt that shoots through you like lightening nearly sends you toppling off the chair. You let out a yelp, just barely catching yourself on the fridge with your free hand before you whip about to see none other than Strife silhouetted in the kitchen doorway.

“Wh- the hell are you doing!?” you retort, knitting your brows into a frown and clutching the first aid kit against your heaving chest, “Why aren’t you upstairs?”

The Horseman’s glowing eyes are fixed unsettlingly on the chair beneath your feet and rather than answer the question, he ducks under the doorframe and thunders towards you in a few, short strides, leaving you with no time to protest before he suddenly sweeps you up off the chair and into his arms, caging you against a solid chest.

At once, you begin to struggle. “Strife! Your wound! Put me down, you'll hurt yourself!”

But the Nephilim is hardly paying attention. His glare lingers on the flimsy, wooden chair legs for a moment before he flicks his gaze towards the large window above your sink, noting with no small degree of distaste that it isn't even shut.

It’s like you’re inviting danger in.

If you had any idea of the fate he and his siblings are currently trying to protect you from, you might just try a little harder to take better care of yourself.

“Hey!” you continue to protest against his hold but manage to refrain from jostling about too much, mindful of his injury. “For god's sake! What's gotten into you?!”

He offers little more than a noncommittal grunt in response and begins trailing back towards the staircase, casting brief glances at the french doors leading out onto your patio.

'Structural weakness,' he registers, 'Perfect point of entry for anything smaller than a Trauma...'

Shaking his head, he turns sideways to fit you through the kitchen door and takes the stairs up to your room.

After a second, he lowers his eyes to meet yours and finds himself meeting a highly unimpressed scowl. “What?” he asks, the very picture of innocence.

Raising your brows, you snap, “Don't you 'what' me! The hell is all this about? I told you to stay put!”

“You were takin' too long,” he shrugs.

“Too long!?” Indignant, you flick your wrist and rap the first aid kit against his collar bone, “I was gone a minute, max! If you were so worried about me taking too long to fix you up, then why are you moving around and making your injury worse!?”

The light of Strife's golden gaze dims and he turns his head away, staring up towards the top of the stairs and your bedroom door beyond. “S'not me m' worried about,” he mumbles.

It's such an about-face from his usual demeanour that you can do little but blink dumbly up at him and fall still against his chest, your mouth hanging agape.

In silence, the Horseman ducks through the door into your room and sidles over to the bed where, hesitantly, he lowers you down until you're sitting safely on the edge.

In the next moment however, just as Strife drops heavily onto the bed next to you, you slip away and settle on the floor instead, placing the first aid kit beside his boots and fumbling with the latches.

Despite blowing out a rough grumble of disapproval that sounds entirely too much like War for his liking, he lets you go.

Chewing on your lip, you stare at the contents for a moment before snatching up a pack of antiseptic wipes, tearing one out and bringing it up to his stomach.

“You want to tell me why you just exacerbated your injury to rescue me from my kitchen chair?” you ask him, adding as an afterthought, “This might sting a bit..”

When he doesn't reply, you glance up and quirk a brow at the underside of his chin, only to catch him peering back at you from behind heavy-lidded eyes. Then, with a weary sigh, he sags forwards and raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck, looking sheepish, of all things.

Unable to dispel your frown, you blindly begin brushing the wipe underneath his bleeding wound.

He doesn't even wince.

Strife tips his helm towards the bedroom window and slumps further backwards into your mattress, seeming so entirely out of place amidst the colourful duvet cover and frilly cushions.

“Okay,” he mutters, “I uh, I got a confession to make.”

Interest piqued, you make an acknowledging sound at the back of your throat and return your attention to his abdomen.

“Death didn't want us to tell you about this,” he continues quietly whilst you toss the now ruined wipe over your shoulder and pull out a fresh one, “And, to be honest, neither did I. We didn't want you to have to worry, y'know?”

You don't know. And you nearly ask him what you should be worrying about, but you soon let your mouth fall shut and settle for humming curiously instead, trusting that he'll tell you soon enough anyway.

There's a long pause, during which you find the courage to bring your fingers close to the edges of his wound and immediately have to withhold a gag when the motion sends another spout of blood oozing from the cut and dribbling down your wrist.

After a moment, Strife huffs and forges ahead, “Course, War and Fury did want to tell you-”

He's stalling, you realise belatedly.

“-War thinks you have every right to know. And Fury said there's nothin' for you to worry about anyway, cause we've got your back.”

“Fury said that?” you ask distractedly, dropping the wipe and rummaging around for a gauze pad. In response, Strife exhales, a tiny, hidden smile creeping onto his lips. “Fury says a lot of stuff about you that you don't know about.”

Gently, you unroll the gauze and press it against his wound. “Wow, you sure that's your sister?  Sounds like she might've been body snatched.”

“Ha!” The Horseman suddenly throws his head back. “Well, if she has been replaced, I sure as shit ain't going lookin' for the original. This Fury is... she's...”

He pauses, tipping his head in thought before eventually settling on, “She's learning.”

You blow out a long, impressed whistle and he nods his agreement, adding, “Yeah, s'weird for all of us too.”

The room lapses into silence once again as you stretch the gauze across Strife's abdomen and mutter, “Hold this,” before your hands are retreating and the Horseman's slide down to keep the bandage in place.

Reaching into the box once more, you take some bandages and begin to unfurl them gingerly over the top of the gauze. “Not hurting you, am I?”

You miss the soft expression he aims at the top of your head. “Never.”

You're more than aware that he probably won't tell you you've hurt him even if you were to stick your fingers in the wound twist them.

“Sooo~....?” you prompt.

Peering down at you, Strife cocks his head to one side and echoes, “Soooo?”

“What did Fury and War think I should know?”

“Oh. Right...” His reluctance is as painfully obvious as a slap to the face but you're slightly more focused on plunging your hand back into the first aid kit and rooting around for a roll of adhesive tape.

He observes you for a moment, growing more and more certain that despite your curiosity, you aren’t actually paying a great deal of attention to his words. Quite abruptly, he asks, “You listening?”

Emitting little more than a vague hum, you finally snag the tape and run your fingernail along the smooth surface, searching for the ever-elusive end.

“You sure?” Strife grunts skeptically, “Kid, this is kind of important.”

Without missing a beat, you nod your chin towards his injury and reply, “Yeah, well, you're kind of important too, buddy.”

Oh.

Oh, that's...

Strife wracks his brain, trying to pluck an appropriate response from amidst his tumbling thoughts. Part of him wants to scoff – of course he's important! He's Strife! The best, damn marksman who ever walked the realms of existence.

But then, there's another part of him that lurks deep behind the walls of hubris and brass he's been building meticulously for centuries, and it gives a little leap at the sound of your words, delighted beyond measure.

Averting his gaze, Strife lets out a chuckle. “You're getting soft.”

“Ah, I've always been soft.”

His heart thrums. “Wasn't talkin' about you, kid.”

You shoot him a smirk as you stick a piece of tape over the bandages covering his injury. “Well, if you're talking about yourself, then you're wrong again. You aren't getting soft. You've always been soft.”

The Horseman mutters something incoherent, but it's his distinct lack of an articulate response that speaks volumes to your ears.

The slight pressure of your fingers as they prod at the tape with tentative care leaves him mourning the centuries he's gone without knowing such a gentle touch. Rolling his eyes down to you, his smile droops and he sighs, sagging forwards to rest his elbows on his knees just as you attempt to place another strip of tape.

“Strife!” you complain, leaning back, “I need to put more tape on!”

He merely blinks at you languidly and says, “Later. I want you concentratin' on me right now.”

“I've been concentrating on you all night,” you huff, though you eventually concede and sit back on your haunches, peering up at the Horseman expectantly.

Studying your face for another moment, he breathes a long sigh and gestures to his stomach. "I told you a demon did this..."

“Uh huh...”

Solemnly, Strife continues, “So more specifically, it was a Shadow Caster. Been on her trail for a couple of weeks now. Finally caught up with her on some farmlands west of the city...” 

“Okay?” you nod, digesting the information, “And why were you on her trail?”

He hesitates, flicking his eyes between you and the window a few times before he quietly admits, “She was comin’ after one of my friends...”

“Who?”

The look he throws you is so pointed, you suddenly feel like a fool for missing the obvious.

“Ah.” Understanding, you slowly nod your head.

“Yup.”

“But, she's dead now, right?” You gesture to his wound. “You came straight here after killing her.”

Strife's eyes darken further and each time they try to land on your face, they seem to slide right off again and drop to the carpet. “Uh, yeah. She's dead.”

You heave a sigh. “She wasn't the only one who's after me.”

“... No..”

“I see.” Inhaling long and slow through your nose, you tip your head back and slap your hands on your thighs, rubbing at them anxiously as you gaze around the room. “So, do we know how many there are?”

The Horseman eyes you for several, silent seconds. Eventually though, he speaks up. “Got wind of a small group of about four of 'em. Demons mostly, one undead. You and I've got a mutual... uh, friend, who's been keeping his ears to the ground, and he reckons they’re aiming to provoke another war between Hell and Earth by killin' the human envoy.”

“Wow. Talk about sore losers,” you scoff humourlessly, “So, who is this mutual friend?”

Some of the tension bleeds out of Strife's posture once he notices that you haven't immediately flown into a panic. “C'mon kid,” he snorts, “You know I can't expose my source. He doesn't want you know that he cares about you. Thinks you might start askin' for discounts if you thought he was getting' soft.”

“Discounts, huh?” Your lips quirk up at their edges and Strife smacks a palm over his mask in mock distress.

“Ah, hell, I gave it away, didn't I?”

“I bet his name rhymes with Shmulgrim, doesn't it?” you laugh.

Chuckling, Strife leans back on his hands again and replies, “Hey, you came to that conclusion on your own. Technically, I never told you who my source was.”

With the atmosphere in your bedroom gradually becoming lighter and lighter, you follow the Horseman's lead and relax backwards onto your hands, stealing a surreptitious glance at the bandages adhered to his torso.

It's no longer as surprising as it used to be that Vulgrim is invested in the well-being of his 'valuable asset.' The Horsemen are perhaps his best clients, hence the vested interest in keeping himself in their good graces by looking out for their human ward.

Shaking your head with a knowing smirk, you push yourself up onto your feet and glance down at yourself, brushing off your pyjama shorts, only to grimace when your hands do nothing but smear Strife's blood all over the fabric.

“Sorry... for the mess.”

You raise your head at the sound of the Horseman's voice and find him glowering down at the stains he's dripped onto your carpet, his eyes hooded and glum.

Heaving a sigh that you hope conveys both exasperation and affection, you reach out and place your comparatively tiny hand on his shoulder to give the pauldron a reassuring squeeze, drawing his gaze back up to your face. “I don't care about the mess, Strife” you tell him matter-of-factly, “The carpet's just here to stop my feet getting cold in the morning. You're my best friend.”

Ever so slowly, his luminous eyes grow wide with wonder and he lets his jaw drop open to speak, but before he manages to utter a soft, 'what?' you give his shoulder a friendly jostle and add, “So long as you're okay, pal, that's the main thing. Now...”

Trailing off, you move back around the bed and let your fingers slide off the Horseman's arm, stepping up to the bedside table containing your pyjamas, oblivious to how swiftly and easily you've just swept the rug out from underneath Strife's feet. He twists himself around on your mattress to watch you, his eyes as wide as than dinner plates.

Did you mean to say... best?

He – well, he always knew that you considered him a friend! Hell, he'd even go so far as to say the two of you are close friends.

But best?

Best implies that there's nobody – nobody – that you hold in higher regard than him...

'How did I miss that!?' his psyche all but screams at him, 'When the Hell did I get so important!?”

You aren't even looking at him, too busy rummaging through your drawers, as if you have no idea that you've just pulled his heart right out of his chest and now you have it cradled in the palms of your hands.

You could crush the life out of him with hardly a word.

“So, you never did say!” you call out to him as you duck into your ensuite bathroom and flick the light on, hiding yourself from view whilst you change, “How does the master of marksmanship get tagged by a Shadowcaster in the first place? You’re not usually the type to get up close and personal. That’s more War’s thing, right?”

All at once, the threats that demon witch had made against you ring like klaxons in Strife’s head and he has to make a conscious effort to ignore his instinct to leap off the bed and barge into the bathroom just to be sure you’re safe. He hears the shuffling of fabric against skin as you pull off the bloodied shorts and begin to pull on the new ones.

Grinding his teeth, he spits out, “She just.. got me mad, is all. Made me wanna have the satisfaction of wringing her neck with my bare hands instead of filling her with bullets.”

“Wait, seriously?” Your silhouette suddenly appears in the bathroom doorway and and strife glances up, briefly enraptured by the halo of light glowing at your back. A fellow human might have likened you to an angel. Strife, however, knows that none of the feathery bastards could hold a candle to you. 

Garbed in clean shorts that smell distinctly of you, and not copper, you step out into your bedroom. “How’d a demon manage to make you mad? You’re like, the champ of not getting mad. It’s like your superpower.”

“Yeah, well..” he mutters, turning his helm away, “This time, she went too far.”

You’re quiet as you flop down onto the bed next to him, your eyes flicking between his downturned head to the fists that are clenched like vices at his sides, metal claws gripping fistfuls of your duvet so tightly, you’re worried he might end up poking holes in the cover.

Whatever had been said to him must have been bad if he’s this riled up.

Biting your lip, you let out a pensive hum and lean backwards, your fingers brushing over a soft lump near the headboard. At once, your eyes grow wide and your lips stretch into a sly grin as your hand closes over something fluffy and familiar.

Strife is still busy stewing when he’s suddenly brought out of his thoughts by a face that’s shoved promptly into his line of sight. He blinks, drawing his head away to properly see what you’re holding up in front of him.

He can’t contain a chuckle once he realises that it’s none other than your old, toy horse, dangling in front of him with its little, black ears flopping forwards to cover a pair of button eyes.

Allowing a smile to grace the edge of his mouth, the Horseman wordlessly relaxes his grasp on your duvet in favour of reaching out to gently take the soft toy out of your hands, lowering it down into his lap.

“I thought David Hasselhoof might make you feel better,” you tell him, bumping your shoulder against his companionably.

The Nephilim simply smiles, stroking his palm over the horse’s fuzzy mane.

“Hey, Strife?” 

“Mmm?”

You fiddle with your fingernail for a moment, dropping your eyes to the bed and taking a breath before you ask, “What did the demon say that made you so angry?”

It isn’t as though you want to pry. But having your friend turn up at your house in the dead of night with his stomach torn open warrants a couple of questions, in your honest opinion.

The Horseman’s brows knit together underneath his helm and he shifts slightly, twisting away from you further until you can’t even see the lights of his eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost dare to say that he looks shy. An impossibility, frankly.

When he speaks, his voice is gentle, a far cry from the normal, strident tone you’re used to hearing. “She, uh, she might’ve made a couple of threats about you.. Bad ones.” 

You wait for him to elaborate, but for some time, he doesn’t utter another word, prompting you to ask, “And?”

You very nearly reel backwards into your headboard when Strife whips around to face you. “And?!” he echoes, incredulous, “The Hell d’you mean ‘and?’ Isn’t that enough of a reason?!”

Taken aback, you lift your hands in a placating gesture and stammer, “Woah! I - I just meant... Well, it’s not like I haven’t been threatened before? Just seems like a weird thing for you to get so angry about.”

Without warning, the enormous Nephilim lurches to his feet, the cuddly horse left to tumble, forgotten out of his lap. “Did you not hear me?” he snaps, “She. Threatened. You!”

“A-and that... made you mad?”

“Did - Of course it did!” he all but howls, his voice cracking as it raises in pitch, “She made me listen to all the god damn, sick things she wanted to do to you when she found you! She said - she said, I’d never see you again!” Roughly, he drags his clawed fingertips through his spiky, black hair and exclaims, “Next thing I know, I’m droppin’ Redemption and Mercy, I’ve got her heart in my fist and I’m... I’m...” 

He trails off, knocked out of stride by his own admission. You remain silent, pressed up against your head board with the blankets clutched to your chest.

When he notices you staring up at him, small and wary amongst the sheets, the frustration saps from him like water circling the drain. “So... so yeah,” he huffs, his shoulders slumping and a great wave of shame crashing over him, “I got a little mad! I got a little pissed off. Cause I didn’t like hearin’ someone say they were gonna hurt my friend.”

And with that, he just... deflates, not unlike a punctured tyre. All the hot air inside him is dispelled with every heave of his mighty chest whilst he peers down at you, feeling the weight of your stare upon him. 

Guilt leaves a sour taste in his mouth, rancid and acidic.

You look so.. 

...scared.

Sometimes Strife forgets that to you, he’s an unassailable figure from biblical legend, a bringer of the end days and an ancient gunman with a body count higher than there are grains of sand on the earth. Of course you’re going to be scared of him when he’s raising his voice at you and towering over you like this. And all because he’d had the life scared out of him in the first place.

“I’m sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to -” The words die on his lips and he sighs, defeatedly casting his eye over towards your bedroom window. He doesn’t want to leave you, not without knowing that his siblings have dealt with the remaining threats to your life. But... “I’ll just.. I’ll go.”

Turning his back on you, the Horseman bends to retrieve his discarded cuirass and takes a step towards the window, but a voice, thin as the cobwebs in the corner of your room, stops him in his tracks.

“Strife.” 

The Horseman doesn’t move. he just stares at the darkness through your curtains.

Minutes pass without another word said between you. He remains stubbornly silent, hardly daring to breathe let alone respond to his name, until eventually, he hears a soft huff and rustling behind him.

Footsteps pad across the room and your scent grows stronger as you draw near, wafting over him like an intoxicating aroma before your hand places itself into his palm and he instinctively curls his fingers around it, shuddering at the feel of your soft skin pressed like silk against his roughened hide.

Your tiny, fragile hand... Creator, he really is just a beast standing next to you, isn’t he? The last time he felt this monstrous was..

No. Strife abruptly slams the shutters of his mind down around any thoughts of the Animus. Now is not the time to let dredge up old memories.

Luckily, your voice breaks through the haze and keeps him grounded. “Come on, big guy. Stay here, please?"

“You want me to stay?” he chokes out a laugh, “Even after I scared you?”

“Scared me? What?” It’s your turn to sound confused. “You didn’t scare me Strife, you shocked me. I’ve never seen you this serious before.” 

The Horseman half turns to face you, giving you a glimpse of his warm, golden eyes. “And, I’ve never had a best friend before.” he admits slowly, hearing a soft intake of breath behind him.

“Wait?... I’m your best friend?”

With your hand still in his, Strife steps around slowly to face you, shooting you a quizzical glance. “Uh, yeah? I mean, I don’t exactly have a plethora of friends to choose from, so the competition isn’t that fie- Oof!”

He’s violently interrupted by a soft, squishy body colliding with his. 

You fling your arms around the stunned Horseman’s waist and bury your face into his chest, momentarily forgetting about his injury. Strife, meanwhile, has to employ every molecule of willpower he owns to refrain from flinching, fearing that you’ll let go if he does. He can’t ignore how high his heart just jumped at the feeling of you pressed against him, nor the way his soul soars after realising that you still trust him enough to get this close. 

It’s something that both he and his siblings are all having to get used to, these impromptu hugs. 

Fury had almost flipped you over her shoulder and onto the ground the first time you came at her with your arms open wide, assuming you were going in for an attack. 

War had pulled the most remarkable face, a mixture of alarm and wary delight that caused Strife to keel over in hysterics when you threw your arms around his broad stomach.

Death... Well, Strife hadn’t been around to witness your first hug with his oldest brother, but he imagines it must have been like hugging a block of cold stone.

And Strife? Well, he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the first hug you gave him. It was so tight and comfortable, and for all of a moment, the only things that existed were the two of you. Inside the binding circle of your arms, his troubles couldn’t touch him, the anguish of his sins took a backseat and he became convinced that he could live happily and peacefully until the end of time trapped in your silent embrace.

The sentiment hasn’t dulled with frequency either. Every hug he receives is as powerful and intoxicating as the last. 

This one is no different. 

Strife's large, thickset arms carefully raise to your delicate back and shoulders, where he simply folds himself around you, pushing the nose of his helm into your soft, messy hair and drawing in a long, deep breath, earning your snort of amusement.

“You a big fan of coconut, then?”

“Is that what that smell is?” he mumbles, feeling the world settle around him as his eyes slip shut, “S'different from last time...”

“...Setting aside the fact that you remember what my hair smelled like last time we hugged.. I ran out of apple shampoo.”

“Mmm.” He trails off, humming into your hair, a sound that rumbles straight through you and leaves the top of your head tingling.

It takes your brain another few seconds to recall the injury on his torso.

“Oh, shit,” you hiss, leaning back and instantly finding your progress blocked by the Horseman's sturdy forearms. “I'm sorry, I didn't think -”

“- Eh, s'fine,” he cuts you off.

“It's not! I forgot, you need to be resting it!”

Strife grumbles his displeasure when you suddenly become very wriggly. “Strife, let go. You should be resting, not standing.”

Cracking one eye open, he roves his gaze over towards your bed. “Resting, huh? …. Not a bad idea.”

Without warning, he stoops down, and for the second time tonight, you find yourself suddenly swept up off your feet, bleating out a garbled squawk of alarm. “Stop picking me up! You'll start bleeding again!”

Smirking to himself, the Horseman takes two, loping steps towards your bed and lowers you down amongst the folds of the duvet, taking great pleasure in crawling over the top of you to get to the other side, armour and all. It isn't the first time he's rested in your bed, usually following a long night of playing your video games and catching up on all the human things he's been missing out on, and it likely won't be the last.

The bed springs creak despondently as he lifts his corner of the duvet and flops heavily onto his side next to you, grinning at the unimpressed glare you're shooting him.

“I like your bed,” he announces, burrowing himself deeper beneath the duvet, “You got a lot of pillows. And-”

His hand rustles beneath the covers for a moment before he winks... and slowly draws out David Hasselhoof, wiggling him back and forth in front of your eyes. “There's room for a threesome.”

“Oh my god. Goodnight, Strife!” Your lips quiver until you give in and crack a genuine smile, grabbing a pillow and whapping it softly down onto his helm. You get no resistance from the Horseman at all in retaliation. He merely lays there with his head hidden, black tufts of hair sticking out from behind your pillow as his shoulders bounce around a throaty chuckle.

Leaving him where he is, you roll over, turn off the fairy lights and plunge your bedroom into cozy, unassailable darkness.

A thick silence falls over the two of you, and the back of your neck begins to prickle, sensing without a shadow of a doubt that the Horseman's eyes are open and watching you. Sure enough, you peel your eyelids apart and find that your far wall is faintly illuminated by the golden light that emanates from his gaze.

Rolling your eyes, you resign yourself to a long night of fighting for your covers and kicking a wriggling Horseman back over onto his own side of the bed. And yet... if it's him, if it's Strife, it most likely won’t bother you in the slightest.

The alarm clock on your bedside table steadily ticks over to the three o'clock mark and you finally feel sleep crawl up behind your eyes. Just as you think you might nod off, however, the bed shakes ever so slightly, and behind you, there's the sound of shuffling sheets. It stops just as suddenly as it starts and you snort, chalking it up to a certain, restless Horseman trying to get used to the human-sized bed.

Several more minutes pass.

The shuffling starts up again, then it stops.

The same thing happens again a few more minutes later and your eyes snap open when something cool and solid nudges gently into the back of your head and you hear a quiet sniff before the whole bed shudders as the enormous Horseman laying upon it releases a monstrously low rumble of contentment.

-----

Strife leaves his helm right behind you all night, not that you'd know until the morning however, when you jerk awake to your bedroom door suddenly slamming open and Death thundering inside. He takes one look at his brother laying at your back and promptly begins a lecture that you're fairly certain will be the favoured topic of neighbourhood gossip for some time to come.

[obeymeaskme]

Obey Me!: Human and Demon Hearts!

A/N: I will be pinning a master list for ALL chapters uploaded, and adding links to said master list!

Chapter One: The Arrivals (2/2)

Word Count: 2213

Rating: 18+

Lights had filled the room. Purples, reds, greens, blues, yellows, golds, and pink flooded around the house like snakes searching for it's meal. Finding their targets still fast asleep, they coiled around their bodies until they were both covered head to toe. In almost an instant their bodies were swallowed whole, and the colored fog had disappeared as soon as they arrived. Leaving no one in their wake. Just the house. Empty of any breathing soul.

Through the closed eyes of the young girls, the colors still swirled. They were almost hypnotized by it. To each of their own the colors formed happy dreams, calming scents, and other promising visions. Even then, a black haze had started taking over. Though they were not awake their bodies had felt the shift and difference in their surroundings. Their skin no longer felt the soft warm beds. Now they lay flat on their backs upon two cushioned slabs. The air around them had grown hot, and uncomfortable. Their dreamy visions had finally faded to black, the panic set in, and they opened their eyes. Fully hoping their dreams turned into a nightmare. Concern and paranoia had set in as they shot up and locked eyes on each other. Fear evident in their faces.

Thoughts of cults and kidnappings came from their mouths as they tried so hard to figure out where they were. A loud and controlling voice echoed from nearby. They turned to the voice only to be met with seven uniformed men sitting under a high pedestal where another man sat, dressed in red. Noelle was first to stand up, her shaking feet feeling the stone cold ground that sent a shock through her body. Instantly, she stretched an arm out in front of Bella to protect her. The height difference between Noelle and Bella seemed comical to the seven men sitting at ground level, as various snickers and smirks were targeted towards them. The man above them speaking out again.

“Please, Don't be so afraid! You were brought here with good reason, and pure intentions!”

“What? Are you gonna brainwash us or something? Cause that would be the only "good reason" I can think of....”

Noelle spat back at the man, but shrunk slightly as he stood up, and frowned. Feeling looked down on, the girls tried to walk backwards for a door, but they only found the slabs they had woken up on.

“There will be no brainwashing, and you're more than welcome to leave at any time you desire. But only if you agree to change into more formal clothing, and listen to what I have to say...”

Noelle had yelped at the additional person who seemed to have been already standing by their side waiting, and holding on to clothing. A pleading look on his face had the girls silently agreeing to play along. Within the small amount of time they got dressed they seemed to have shaken off the general shock. Both of them seemed to admire the large banners decorated with different animals. They hung above the seven men in what was perceived as their rankings.

The silence that fell was broken too soon by the man in red who was obviously the leader of the group, and the silent servant who offered them clothes had stood next to him. Everyone now was on the same ground level.

“Let us try this again. I am Lord Diavolo, and you are the current hosts at the Royal Academy of Diavolo. Also known as RAD...”

“I knew it! It's a cult!”

Noelle exaggerated, and ruffled her nappy hair as a couple chuckles echoed around them. Her reaction almost lightened the mood.

“Not quite. I am the soon to be Heir of Devildom. The more civilized section of Hell's Layers. Or what some Humans tend to call the Underworld.”

The girls shook their heads in confusion. And for a few seconds they both looked at each other. Unsure if the truth was being told, but if it was...

“Wait... You said RAD. Oh dear god no. We tossed those out! We never gave them back to that creepy old lady! SHE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW US!”

Noelle seemed to panic as more and more irrational thoughts spewed out. A hand was placed on her shoulder, and she shrunk under the large man's touch. She reached back for Bella, but Bella had already backed away, fear seeping into her face.

“Those papers you filled out were connected to the ones in my office. As you filled those out, it carved ink into the papers here was well. Infused with my own magic. We call it Bleeding Applications. The main goal of my academy is to get an understanding of humans, demons, and angels in order to one day have peace between the three realms.”

Relaxing, Noelle nodded and looked back at Bella. Silently telling her that it's okay to get closer. She frowned as Bella shook her head no and opted to sit on the slab instead.

“Why us? We thought it was just a joke. What if we lied on those papers?”

“Well did you?”

“... No...”

“Perfect! I'd like to personally welcome you to the program! That is... If you agree to stay...”

A discussion took place about the new house they just bought, and their new lives they would miss out on. The teal haired servant that had guided the girls earlier was known as Barbatos. He was given the job to see that the newly acquired house would be taken care of as needed, and their payment would be completely paid off if they agreed to the program, and succeeded in staying. “But in hell?” Thought Noelle. “That's close to a death wish”. And as if her mind was read, they were introduced to the seven men who have been secretly judging them this whole time.

As the introductions went along it was revealed they were not just demons, or the school's council members, but they were all brothers. Lucifer. The eldest, who seemed to be the most put together, was the Avatar of Pride. Red eyes, and neatly kept black hair giving him a devilish charm, but an arrogant one as well. Mammon. The Second born who had made the most noise and laughter, and was obviously looking down on the girls. White hair, and unnatural blue eyes said trust, but he was the Avatar of greed. One to watch out for. The third born seemed bored of the whole situation, and would look away when either girl made eye contact. Dark lilac hair, with shiny orange eyes; the avatar of Envy. That was Leviathan. Fourth born, Satan, had given both the girls unwanted shivers as he was the Avatar of Wrath. The blonde hair and greenish blue eyes were comforting, but told them to run and hide. The fourth born, Asmodeus, was drilling holes into the girls with his own set of orange lush eyes. The mention of Lust made them both frown and slightly cringe as a quick wink was sent their way. Sandy hair was swept to the side flamboyantly. The last two were a set of twins. A redhead and a black haired male who's bangs were dyed white, and they shared purple eyes. Neither seemingly bored, or interested in the meeting. They were Beelzebub; Avatar of Gluttony, and Belphegor; Avatar of Sloth.

A bell rang out as soon as introductions were done, and everyone but the first born (Lucifer) had left. Stomachs growled and the girls looked around, avoiding his stare. Becoming impatient he walked by them. Nose in the air, and not bothering to even look at them.

“If you decide to follow me, I am heading to the cafeteria where we will give you a list of things you may want to avoid eating while you stay here. That is, if you have the gall to...”

Gulping they followed. The Cafeteria was empty, and it was no surprise to any of the demon brothers. As their food was handed to them, they both grimaced at the purple sludge consistency in front of them. They were soon forced to eat it, especially if they planned on eating any other foods that may contain poison. As much of the food in Devildom seemed to consist of. Soon after their crash course the girls were left to their own devices, and did their best to talk amongst themselves. Their decision to stay or leave weighed heavy.

Upon agreeing to stay, Lucifer seemed rather pleased with the news. The first genuine smile the girls had seen from him. It was then their task to talk with the brothers and decide who they chose as a tutor, who would also act as a guide.

Bella had immediately followed Noelle, and they first talked to the youngest, thinking that they would be the easiest to get along with. While they were not wrong about it, Bella seemed to relax more with the Sins of Gluttony, and Sloth. It became apparent that it was a two for one deal, and Noelle had stepped back to visually analyze her choices. By which she just looked at the remaining choices and their current activity. Satan and Asmodeus was almost an immediate no go. She feared she'd anger the wrath god, or be seduced. Neither of those were a good thing for her, or her mental health. Then her eyes laid upon Leviathan. The name stuck from TV shows she's watched in the past. Furthermore she couldn't help but recognize the hand held device in his hands.

Walking up to him with a bit more confidence, she sat beside him, and watched him for a few seconds. She recognized the sounds of Mario Kart being played. Perking up she waited for him to be seemingly done with his race.

“You know, I'm kind of a fan of racing games.”

Leviathan had rolled his eyes and gave her a frowning glare. It was obvious he didn't want to be bothered at this time. But before the conversation could continue, the bell rang, and Lucifer arose from his seat, his brother's watching him for instructions.

“I'm glad to see that you two have finally made your decision on your tour guides, and over all protectors-”

Noelle heard a quiet protest come from Leviathan, which was quickly shut down by Lucifer's glare.

“-Though they are now assigned to be your guides, this does not mean you must befriend them, or be attached at the hip. They have duties and hobbies of their own, and I expect you both respect that. Feel free to reach out to any of the brothers with questions. Now with that being said, you may head back to the council room, and collect your personal belongings, and devices.”

The bell had rung, but an eternity set in as Lucifer explained to them on how they were to settle in. Eventually they had collected a few bags of personal items, and enough clothes to get through the week. On top of that, they were given an allowance for other necessities, and any other luxuries they desired. It also turned out that the demons Bella and Noelle had been assigned were also key to their class schedule. Bella's classes consisted of study halls, history classes, along with a gym class. The final class earning a shared groan between Belphegor and Bella.

Noelle had a small bit of luck with more hands on classes such as dark arts, an actual art class, and potions. Though the tour between classes with Levi as her guide consisted more of him complaining about some 'Normie' having to follow him around. Noelle made mental notes of some complaints as to not make him mad.

The tours finally came to an end, and they were led to the House of Lamentation. A large Mansion where the Brothers lived, and where the Girls would be hosted for the school year. Dinner had passed by and soon the girls were brought to their rooms.

They hardly had time to admire the Gothic design of the home, as the girls split ways at the top of the stairs. Bella had taken a spare room closest to them, but Noelle had made her way down the hall. Leviathan had made a comment about how he's literally two doors across the hall from her room. He wasn't the nicest it seemed, as more insults of having to 'babysit' was made. An even bigger groan was made as he opened the door. It was a rather large storage room, that apparently Mammon was supposed to clean out before any new students arrived.

Arrangements were quickly made, and it seemed like Noelle would be staying in the living room until the storage space was cleared out. The darkness surrounded Noelle as Leviathan had left her alone rather quickly to go read Manga. Even though Noelle had expressed her fondness about the Japanese comics, it reached deaf ears, but was still greeted with a small 'whatever'. The night washed out the remaining lights. And Sleep was surprisingly attainable.

[bubbletimestories]

A good man (Vampire!Steve Rogers/Reader)

Summary: The super soldier's serum did not only give strength and endurance, Steve Rogers learned it at his expense and after decades of isolation, the vampire resumes service with the Avengers, hoping to be able to forget his nature to save lives. But your meeting risks destroying his hopes...or not ?

Warnings: blood, death, curses

Themes: vampire, transformation, love, heroism, choice

A/N. I don’t really like Captain America but...well, it was fun 

Translated with Google traduction, sorry ^^’

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23513203

******************************************************************

Chapter 3.

A wrathful voice echoes a few meters from the pasteboard decor and Steve puts down the files, intrigued and eager to change his mind. He pushes open the door, not at all surprised to find himself in a dark concrete corridor, and tries to find out where these vociferations can come from. In an adjoining room, much more austere than his bedroom, he finds a young woman waving sketches with an exasperated look under the worried gaze of the "nurse" who was at the soldier's bedside when he woke up.

- Have you ever looked at a photo? Or even seen a movie from that period? No wonder he discovered the hoax so quickly, he could see the strap of your ... rhaaa! It’s stupid!

You are deeply annoyed that no one took the time to listen to you before launching this ridiculous masquerade. You would have taken the time to take care of the costume down to the smallest detail, to ensure that the underwear is also vintage or even that the agent's hair is tied. But nobody is listening to you, nobody! With a wave of your hand, you dismiss the young lady who fled by snapping her heels, her man's tie (another mistake) hopping at each step. Exhausted, you drop into a chair with a dramatic sigh, not immediately noticing the man with the impressive build who enters the room. Politely, he clears his throat.

- Hmm ... You seem to know a lot about 1940s fashion.

You jump and look up, detailing the newcomer for a fraction of a second (you couldn’t resist) before taking control.

- I ... I love a job well done. It was a very elegant period.

Agent Carter, she was a beautiful woman who should have served as a reference. But obviously, you will not make this remark out loud, already knowing the relationships that Captain America had with her. Instead, you stand up and reach out to introduce yourself.

- Agent Y/L/N, I am delighted to know that you are with us. - Steve Rogers, me too, ma'am.

His big hand presses yours very gently, as if he were afraid of having too much strength and you smile. You know a certain Agent Coulson who will be delighted to know that his idol is awake. But for the moment, you appreciate having a face to face with the hero, not knowing if you will see him again one day. With a gesture, you invite him to sit down, pushing away the sketches strewn across your desk, a set of notes on vintage outfits, decorations ...

- Waking up seventy years after the war must have shocked you…

You’re trying to imagine how the young man might feel as he thinks about what to say to corroborate Nick Fury’s version. He never liked to lie, but he had to learn in the last century. So he nods.

- At the beginning, yes, but I'm glad to know that Hitler’s butt was kicked.

You have a laugh and he immediately appreciates this spontaneous sound, he is not sure to find much sincerity in this nest of spies. You think that he must feel very lonely, all his loved ones having disappeared or died.

- I know that this must be very confusing and that SHIELD is not really a warm den but I hope you can count me as a friend from now on. If you need to talk or just want to have a coffee, don't hesitate.

In spite of yourself, you replace a wick behind your ear, it was obvious that you were not going to stay stuck in front of the angelic air of the young man on whom you did a thesis. Well, to be precise, it was on "American and German propaganda figures in wartime, the conflict of icons" but you devoted a huge part to him.

- It would be my pleasure, Agent Y/L/N. - You can call me Y/N.

It'll probably take a while, but you'd love to be able to get close to him, just as a friend, of course. Unfortunately, it is not today that you will be able to get to know each other, an all-black agent coming to warn Captain America that Director Fury wishes to speak to him. You say goodbye quickly and watch him leave, thinking with a touch of emotion that you have thawed America’s ass, and successfully.

Chapter 1.

Murmurs circulate in the crowd of high ranking officers and scientists gathered for this major military and genetic advance. A super-soldier is an innovation that will pay off especially in these times of world war. Some people talk about money, a lot about peace that this hero of a new genre will offer. Installed in his capsule, Steve Rogers is far from being as enthusiastic, the heart beating strongly in his temples at the risk of deafening the final recommendations that are addressed to him. Already, they strap him, they prick him, they stuff him with tools to measure his heart rate, the thickness of his muscles as if he were only a laboratory animal and for a second, the young man is worried that the experiment would fail or, worse, that he would only become a clever monkey in the hands of the powerful ones. In a falsely playful tone, he turns to Dr. Erkskin:

- You save me any of that schnapps? - Not as much as I should have.

Anyway, he is not allowed to drink alcohol for a dozen hours, to make sure everything is in order. With a distracted ear, he listens to the scientist interact with Howard Stark, his attention constantly returning to Agent Carter who constitutes a warm presence in this huge icy room full of white coats. Before she goes to join her superiors, she takes the time to give him an encouraging smile and Steve regains some courage. A nurse sticks a needle in his arm, the sensation lasting only for a moment.

- That wasn’t so bad. - That was a tetanus shot.

Erskine exchanges a look with the patient but adds nothing, letting the maneuver continue as several tubes filled with blue liquid are brought in. The cold plates make the subject's thin body shudder, concentrating on his breathing. A reassuring hand is placed on his shoulder as he tenses up when he feels the serum penetrate his body. That's it, it's time to become a legend or die in front of a hundred people, nothing to worry about. The cabin closes in on him and after a final attempt at humor, Steve grits his teeth and prepares for the worst, repeating why he is doing all this, thinking about this war that he can end, all these soldiers who are waiting to see their mother, their sister, their relatives. He thinks of Bucky, it's his turn to protect him.

The cabin begins to radiate intense white light as if Steve is turning into a being of light and they will need an angel to defeat the dark forces that are crushing Europe. Everyone holds their breath as the silence fills with the roar of the Vita rays pulsing in the metal box. The buzz is soon joined by a cry of pain that goes on and on, cracking the certainties of some of the spectators who look at themselves, worried. They scream to stop everything, they shout his first name but Steve refuses, he can still hold on, there is no question that everything fails because of him. He is strong enough to bear it. The devices crackle in sparks in a final cacophony then everything stops, humming, blinding light and breathing of scientists and soldiers who, all, watch for a sign of life in the cabin. Is he dead ? Is he alive? Even Rogers is wondering as the doors open and he regains consciousness, his muscles on fire as if he had been passed under a tank. If he is in pain, it is sign that he is still alive, but in what condition?

Abs, abs, abs ... This word goes through more than one spirit as the result of the experiment is revealed, tall, muscular, glistening with sweat : a success. Some officers find themselves feeling more aroused than they should, coughing seriously as they rush to get a closer look at this super soldier they've been promised. Steve lets himself be supported by Erskine and Stark coming down from the capsule, his mind still foggy and struggling to understand how much he has changed. He is just sure of one thing, to see all these people gathered and who measure for the most a good less head than him: he grew up. As they begin to applaud and congratulate themselves, another thought comes to gnaw at the soldier's birth joy: how much has he changed inside? While cheer is a must, Steve sincerely hopes to rise to the challenge and become the hero the world needs, not just another monster.

***

Captain America, a somewhat snoring name but one that the young man has been carrying better since he delivered his friend from the clutches of HYDRA. Their exploits are starting to make headlines and enemy troops are increasingly worried about seeing the man with the blue, red and white breastplate appear. It took the soldier a while to get used to his new body and new abilities, but now he has mastered his strength and his shield to perfection, much to the amazement of his companion, James Barnes. The latter is just beginning to understand that he is no longer the protector in their duo, even if he still looks down to look for his almost brother, before remembering. Today, as he walks amid the smoldering rubble of a Nazi base, the young man has definitely regained hope for the future, carried (in part) by a little guy from Brooklyn.

- Steve? Where are you ?

Bucky sets out to find his partner, moving away from his comrades who sing their victory in a mixture of German, French and English. His worn boots resonate as he sinks into the dark, his gun in his hand and his senses on the alert, watching for shadows in search of a possible enemy. Soon, he finally see Steve's muscular back, molded in his blue mud-stained uniform. Bending over something, the hero seems focused on his task and does not immediately hear his friend, realizing too late that he is no longer alone.

- Steve ...

The man's livid face twists into a painful mask as he meets a shocked look, the soldier tensing his hand on the trigger of his weapon even if he does not shoot, frozen.

- Bucky ... I can explain ...

His voice broken by fear contrasts with the vision of the inert body near him, his throat ripped and scarlet like the octopus on his uniform, with the blood flowing on the chin of the famous Captain America.

Chapter 2.

Alone in his bunk, Steve cannot sleep, constantly crossing and uncrossing his thin arms to try to get the anxiety out. Tomorrow, he will finally be able to serve his country as he dreamed and he is delighted but that does not prevent him from being worried. With his usual compassionate air behind his glasses, Dr. Erskine joined him with a bottle of alcohol, fully understanding how tense the young man can be. Himself is far from being calm, didn't his last subject become a monster? As Steve voices his doubts about his legitimacy, the scientist feels it is time to reveal some things, secrets that make the enemy even more terrible.

After grabbing two glasses, Abraham begins to speak in his soft, pensive voice, as if he were counting a story, his story. The best ideas can become weapons if they fall into the wrong hands, and if so, should we really blame the inventor who just works under the threat of a weapon? In a few words, Erskine paints a portrait of the head of HYDRA, this Schmidt obsessed with power and the occult arts, ready to sell his soul to acquire supremacy. Captivated and understanding what role the supersoldier formula could have played in this plan, Steve asks:

- Did it make him strong?

His friend looks down, the images going up in his memory, as vivid and burning as a brand with a hot iron. Whatever the outcome tomorrow, he can never forgive himself for his failure, only trying to compensate for it.

- Yes, but there were….other effects. The serum was not ready, but more important, the man... The serum amplifies what is inside. Good becomes great... Bad becomes worse.

Schmidt was bad, rotten to the core and the serum only exposed this darkness to everyone's. Each time Abraham closed his eyes, he saw the gray skin, the protruding veins, the pupils as scarlet as the blood that the Nazi was thirsty for, so thirsty. Here in the United States, the word "vampire" sneers but it is this, a terrible and voracious creature that will not stop until it has bled the world to the last drop. Chasing this image to return to the present, the scientist pours schnapps in the two glasses while explaining to Steve how important his physical weakness and his sense of justice are.

- Whatever happens tomorrow, promise me you’ll stay who you are. Not a perfect soldier...but a good man.

They cheer, but before the young man can take a sip, Erskine reminds him that he must be fasting for the next day's procedure. Docile, Steve hands him his glass and lets the genius scientist get drunk in his place since he doesn't need to be fasting. And, thinks the old man, it may be better not to be sober. Did Rogers even understand how much this experience was going to affect him? It's not certain, but Abraham doesn't feel strong enough to talk about it any longer. It may be a sign of cowardice but he prefers to leave his hopes to this young man so invested, determined and pure.

Chapter 3.

The war is over. Nazi Germany was defeated and the world slowly fell back to sleep in a peace intended to make people forget the horrors that were more than 50 years ago now. Forces continue to operate to seize power but in a much more subdued way, the fighting between Good and Evil is now held in the utmost secrecy. Housed in a replica of a 1940s hospital room, the man known as Captain America reads and rereads files for information. Obviously, he plays the idiots as he was asked, affecting not to have known the last decades. To his amazement, the idea that he could have been frozen in a block of ice comes as no surprise, and this version was swallowed by the agents who come and go in the corridors chatting. Perhaps it is a more acceptable vision of things than the truth.

Slowly, the young man raises an arm in front of his face, the rays of a false sun hitting his skin as he thinks of what he is, a supernatural and immortal being that people are once again seeking to enlist to save the world. Although he was told about a team, made up of Tin men, Nordic gods and greenish monsters. This Nick Fury must be crazy to want to surround himself with such fairground phenomena ... or a genius. The vampire's blue eyes veil slightly when he thinks of Dr. Erskine, who died far too quickly before he can guide the young man into his new life. So far, Steve has refused to join civilization and its wars: Vietnam, Korea, he has avoided all of them but what would his mentor say about the next? Would he encourage him to join this SHIELD and his hero program?

- I don't care about the rush, you could at least have put on a suitable bra! Round cups, I don't believe it!

A wrathful voice echoes a few meters from the pasteboard decor and Steve puts down the files, intrigued and eager to change his mind. He pushes open the door, not at all surprised to find himself in a dark concrete corridor, and tries to find out where these vociferations can come from. In an adjoining room, much more austere than his bedroom, he finds a young woman waving sketches with an exasperated look under the worried gaze of the "nurse" who was at the soldier's bedside when he woke up.

- Have you ever looked at a photo? Or even seen a movie from that period? No wonder he discovered the hoax so quickly, he could see the strap of your ... rhaaa! It’s stupid!

You are deeply annoyed that no one took the time to listen to you before launching this ridiculous masquerade. You would have taken the time to take care of the costume down to the smallest detail, to ensure that the underwear is also vintage or even that the agent's hair is tied. But nobody is listening to you, nobody! With a wave of your hand, you dismiss the young lady who fled by snapping her heels, her man's tie (another mistake) hopping at each step. Exhausted, you drop into a chair with a dramatic sigh, not immediately noticing the man with the impressive build who enters the room. Politely, he clears his throat.

- Hmm ... You seem to know a lot about 1940s fashion.

You jump and look up, detailing the newcomer for a fraction of a second (you couldn’t resist) before taking control.

- I ... I love a job well done. It was a very elegant period.

Agent Carter, she was a beautiful woman who should have served as a reference. But obviously, you will not make this remark out loud, already knowing the relationships that Captain America had with her. Instead, you stand up and reach out to introduce yourself.

- Agent Y/L/N, I am delighted to know that you are with us. - Steve Rogers, me too, ma'am.

His big hand presses yours very gently, as if he were afraid of having too much strength and you smile. You know a certain Agent Coulson who will be delighted to know that his idol is awake. But for the moment, you appreciate having a face to face with the hero, not knowing if you will see him again one day. With a gesture, you invite him to sit down, pushing away the sketches strewn across your desk, a set of notes on vintage outfits, decorations ...

- Waking up seventy years after the war must have shocked you…

You’re trying to imagine how the young man might feel as he thinks about what to say to corroborate Nick Fury’s version. He never liked to lie, but he had to learn in the last century. So he nods.

- At the beginning, yes, but I'm glad to know that Hitler’s butt was kicked.

You have a laugh and he immediately appreciates this spontaneous sound, he is not sure to find much sincerity in this nest of spies. You think that he must feel very lonely, all his loved ones having disappeared or died.

- I know that this must be very confusing and that SHIELD is not really a warm den but I hope you can count me as a friend from now on. If you need to talk or just want to have a coffee, don't hesitate.

In spite of yourself, you replace a wick behind your ear, it was obvious that you were not going to stay stuck in front of the angelic air of the young man on whom you did a thesis. Well, to be precise, it was on "American and German propaganda figures in wartime, the conflict of icons" but you devoted a huge part to him.

- It would be my pleasure, Agent Y/L/N. - You can call me Y/N.

It'll probably take a while, but you'd love to be able to get close to him, just as a friend, of course. Unfortunately, it is not today that you will be able to get to know each other, an all-black agent coming to warn Captain America that Director Fury wishes to speak to him. You say goodbye quickly and watch him leave, thinking with a touch of emotion that you have thawed America’s ass, and successfully.

Chapter 4.

Rubbing your hands covered with dried blood on your pants, you finally take a break after several hours caring for the wounded, civilians and agents. What the media already calls the "Battle of New York » will not have lasted long, a few hours at most, but the damage has been immense, the victims numerous. However, these are happy mines that flourish in the streets because the crowd has found new protectors and a whole team! No doubt that the coming days will be devoted to these heroes and their courage, you are looking forward to them.

Exhausted, broken and dreaming only of sleeping for several weeks, the Avengers finally return to base to take rest and you resist the urge to throw yourself on the neck of the man in a starry blue suit who is chatting for the moment with the famous Tony Stark. He has managed to drag the whole little troop to a shawarma restaurant and he is very proud of it. After giving the billionaire a friendly pat on the shoulder, Steve manages to slip away, promising to taste, next time, this dish stuffed with onions which he could not touch because of a nasty blow to the jaw. The poor man is exhausted from having fought for so long and if the sun, contrary to legend, does little to affect his vampiric nature, he does not like to stay in broad daylight for so long. It is therefore with joy that he finds the dark corridors of SHIELD and smiles sincerely when he sees you.

- Not bad for a start, Captain.

You can't help but tease him, enjoying seeing an amused glow light up the blue eyes of the nonagenarian. Even if you will not admit it in front of witnesses, this day was rich in strong emotions and not only when you came to the aid of the injured but also, and above all, because you only had one fear: to see the young man tragically dying in battle. Once out of sight, you do not hesitate to let out a sigh of relief, leaning against the wall receiving the backlash from all this accumulated anguish.

- It was fuc…so scary...

You who imagined keeping your calm in front of him, you feel your legs swaying, as if you had only just realized how lucky you were. It must be said that you were far from being prepared for a threat of this magnitude, an unimportant little agent that you are. Seeing your trouble, Steve reaches out with a shy hand to support you, holding you by the arm in case you want to fall. - We have succeeded, Loki will be judged on his planet, New York will rise again. You can catch your breath.

- I hope you're right ...

You straighten up, a little calmer, and raise a hand to spread a lock of hair in front of your eyes, by reflex. When he sees your palms dirty, your friend is worried but you reassure him with a gesture.

- It's not mine, I just healed a lot of wounds today. I'm going to go clean up.

The advantage of SHIELD is that they kept the old water fountains in the corridors as if we had never left the 80s. So you only have a few steps to be able to rinse your hands, conscientiously rubbing your palms to remove the brown plates. Maybe it's the sight of the water turning pink or the tiredness accumulated but Steve feels the hunger start to burn his throat like a fire and he tenses up behind you. Isolated in concrete basements, it is not certain that someone will pass by there for several hours and if the young man acts quickly, you will not even have time to shout before losing consciousness while he will drink.

- Casually, seeing you fight like that, it made me want to do something. - What?

Captain America shakes his head, chasing away the terrifying thoughts that had started to plague his reason, shocked by his own darkness. How could he have considered hurting you, especially you who are always so nice, so warm ?! Tetanized by shock and a devouring thirst, Steve does not make a gesture when you approach him, sliding your hand into his before standing on tiptoe to reach his lips, depositing a kiss of which you have been dreaming for a long time (maybe even before they thaw him, we all have a historic crush ...). The gesture is so surprising, so sweet, that the young man feels his vampiric impulses fade as the wind would chase a dark cloud from the sun. Without thinking, he hugs you with one hand and gives you your kiss. How long has it been since he tasted a woman's lips? Since Peggy, probably. You’re far from being the same, you don’t even have anything common, but it’s just as intense.

Too fast for your liking, you move away from each other and you touch the bruise that already marks the chiseled jaw of the hero before you step back, pink with pleasure and excitement.

- We will have to treat that... Rest, soldier.

Your face lights up with a big smile and you slip away like a teenager, displaying surprising joy for a SHIELD agent. Left alone, Steve still analyzes what has just happened, the reddened cheeks bringing out his surprised pupils. One thing is certain, he loved this kiss from start to finish, so much that you made him forget his thirst for blood…

Chapter 5.

The detachment sent by Fury to Sokovia has only time to deploy as the robots begin to attack from all sides, not hesitating to target the buildings to make them collapse on the fleeing crowd. While evacuating entire families, you have to shoot androids like video game characters and you are not alone in finding this surreal. However, you have had time to prepare for the past three years, as your intensive training has made you much more effective on the field. As a gas cylinder explodes a few meters away, carrying half a dozen Ultrons, a colleague takes the time to joke.

- When it’s all over, Thor should invite me to dinner. - In that case, do you think Wanda Maximoff will be free for a coffee? I don't know yet if I want her or want to be her.

You laugh at your own remark before dodging a projectile, refocusing on your task to help everyone go to safety. The terrified screams mingle with the explosions and the rumbling of the buildings which are falling apart but you are not afraid, you do not have time to be afraid. You run through the streets, adrenaline pumping through your veins and making you more confident. A robot appears between you and a couple who remains paralyzed by fear, the two men taking each other's instinctively by the hand when they see their last hour arrived. Without waiting, you draw your weapon, aim the metal head where there is a chance of finding a weakness. Your bullet penetrates the metal without succeeding in destroying the attacker but it has the merit of attracting his attention.

- Run!

You are ordering civilians without trying to find out if they will understand, relying on their survival instinct to take off as quickly as they can. The android rushes towards you by launching a projectile that you avoid justice, the impact tearing off a section of wall that falls to dust. By reflex, you strike where you can to unbalance the machine, shooting without having time to aim. An iron fist closes on your wrist and twists it to make you drop your weapon, two expressionless eyes darting on you a blue gleam. Taking advantage of being lifted by the android, you band your muscles and throw your legs into the robotic chest, hoping to make him let go. You succeed and your opponent impaled on a metal rod protruding from the wall before dying out. No time for a well-felt response to the dangers of tetanus, you catch your breath and pick up your gun. A deafening roar suddenly sounds, filling the whole space, louder and longer than a thunderclap. In your headset, the officers panic, shouting that the ground is cracking under their feet, the city splitting in half like a cookie. You can feel the vibrations, see the buildings lose their height and your confidence falters slightly. How to save a city that is falling apart?

- I'm going to do my best ... I have to.

With this decision, you return to combat, hoping that SHIELD will quickly send something to evacuate the civilians. As for the heroes who are currently fighting the origin of this chaos, you can only pray that they come out victorious and all alive. You refuse to worry about them and for one in particular, it would only slow you down. But that doesn't stop you from threatening in the wind, without fear of being rebuked for your language.

- Steve, if you die, I summon your ghost and kick your ass.

He is busy on his side, issuing orders, hitting enemies with his shield, working as a team with Agent Romanoff when their paths cross. His superhuman strength is very useful in destroying robots, but he can do nothing if the city crashes. It is out of the question that Ultron causes more losses, the hero will prevent it by all means. Like you, he is determined to do everything, until he has no breath of life. Between two attacks, he thinks of you, your smile, your jokes, the feeling of your body under his. If he survives, he'll admit certain things to you, you've been waiting too long and you've offered him so much ... he has to be honest. But for that, it is still necessary to stop the demonic puppet created by Stark.

Nick Fury's rescue vessels arrive, deploying all around town to collect civilians and transport them to safety. When you learn this, you breathe a sigh of relief even though there is still a lot of work to be done. Around you, the world is nothing but metallic ruins and wrecks as the ground continues to shake. Robots fly over your head, shooting everywhere at once, increasing panic. Officers disperse to guide the crowd toward the rafts, their orders hardly covering the hubbub. You run everywhere, supporting the wounded, redirecting groups to keep them safe. Many people have been knocked down and trampled on in panic, they must be helped by trying to remain calm despite the calls, the terrified screams, the explosions.

- Помощь!

A child drums against the window of a car, coughing and crying at the same time begging you to come to his rescue. On the driver's seat, the one who must be his mother is unconscious, her forehead bloody. You rush and try to open the door but it is pushed in, the twisted metal preventing any opening. Not speaking Russian, you put your hand on the glass to reassure the little boy before telling him to step back as far as possible with gestures that you hope are simple but clear. It takes a little while for the child to obey, but when you shatter the window, he has the reflex to protect himself with his arms. You slide into the passenger compartment to take the little guy against you, whispering comforting words while trying to keep a soft and calm tone even if you see the smoke starting to escape from the car. You are running out of time, you cannot save the mother and if you delay too long, the three of you will die. Despite the child's screams, you start running towards the lifeboats, telling yourself that there is nothing more you can do, that you are saving a life.

The breath of the explosion hurls you forward and you hit the pavement covered in debris as you roll with the little boy hugged, absorbing the shocks. Stunned, you try to get up but something lifts you off the ground and takes you away immediately, so fast that you barely have time to realize what is happening before being placed in the midst of the survivors with your precious load. A young man with white hair gives the mother of the child to whom he can provide care, taking the opportunity to catch his breath. You get up with a painful, relieved grin.

- Thank you, Mr. Maximoff. - Pietro. Or Quicksilver, if you get me a drink.

He winks at you and starts off in a flash, disappearing as quickly as he came. You decide to do the same, you don't have much time left to evacuate the population, the city is already way too high in the sky. Ignoring your limbs screaming in pain, you leave the ship by drawing on your last reserves. A real hero fights till the end.

***

Sokovia collapsed in a rain of stones and dust but its inhabitants are unharmed, taken in by SHIELD for time to be treated and placed in a safe place. As the debris continues to fall into the sea, Steve Rogers circles the heliporter to reassure civilians, taking the time to offer comforting words to those in need. But seemingly, his blue eyes are looking for a particular shape, and he feels divided between anxiety and relief by not noticing you. Although, he soon smells a familiar but oh so terrifying smell: that of your blood. Hidden out of sight like a dying animal, you are seated against a wall, your hand pressed against your black, sticky side.

- Y/N! - Hush... there are some who rest here ...

You stick out your tongue, happy to see him even in these circumstances. Seeing his gaze slid towards your wound, you shrug with detachment.

- There are already far too many injured people to be treated, I am not a priority.

The young man cannot blame you, he would have exactly the same reaction if he was injured. And if he were mortal too. Suppressing his urge to give you a sermon, he kneels down to be at your height, running a hand over your livid, already frozen brow.

- What happened ? - Oh you know, you walk in the street, you come across a robot, you fight, you are injured. Routine…

You’re proud that you’ve managed to get the words out in a coherent order, your mouth becoming mushy and your ideas muddled by draining your blood. You vaguely wonder if you could touch your guts by slipping your fingers into the wound, but it's an idea far too twisted to express it out loud. Instead, you smile at your lover, hoping that his presence will warm you as usual.

- Mission accomplished, Captain ...

It would have sounded like a good sentence before dying tragically but you still have a little strength, a little time maybe. Because you know it is no longer useful, you release your arm, dropping your hand without trying to compress your injury. You look at the hero's tight jaw, his mouth on which you have placed so many kisses, his eyes that fill with tears. Even like that, he's sexy, almost annoying. For now, you can read in his eyes how desperate he is but also the internal conflict that eats away at him. The young man loves you deeply and he has a way to save you and keep you with him forever but the price is too high. He cannot inflict this on you who knows nothing.

- Y/N… I'm sorry… - Do it, Steve.

You look him straight in the eye, very serious, while tilting your head to keep his hand on your cheek, taking advantage of this contact as long as it lasts. Your reply surprises the hero who widens his eyes without understanding. Poor little man so innocent, you really have to put the dots on the "i".

- Transform me, honey, you have my permission.

If he could hurry a little, it would work out, but Steve is too shocked to react, opening his mouth several times before stammering.

- You knew ?! - Of course... but that doesn't change anything for me.

You smile, obviously you knew, you read his files and then you have been around him long enough to be aware of certain things. Nick Fury is also aware and it even makes sense. He’s the head of SHIELD, he wasn’t going to welcome the first guy with a flashy costume on the pretext that he would have saved the world. Your body no longer supports you and you slide on the ground as a black fog fills your head, obscuring your vision, vaguely feeling the blood soaking your clothes.

- Shit ... I put blood everywhere ...

You pass out before Steve can blame you for your language, your last words being neither grand nor elegant. You become a pale and bloody rag doll in the arms of Captain America, this man who has already lost so much. He whispers your name by caressing your icy skin, half cradling you without succeeding in driving your request from his mind. He can save you, he has the power but he refuses, it would not be fair to inflict such a life on you, made of blood and insatiable appetite.

No ... what is not fair is that he is still forced to sacrifice his happiness, that yet another person dies before his eyes. Erskine, Bucky, Peggy, he has given up on so many loved ones over time... It is not fair, he has done nothing to deserve so much pain. A rebellious anger swells the heart of the hero who furiously wipes the tears on his cheeks while looking at you. He always obeyed orders, did what he thought was right. This time he will act neither for America nor for a noble cause but for you, for him. At least you, he'll keep you by his side, he can protect you.

- I love you, Y/N.

Determined, Steve takes whatever he can to cut his throat, resting your mouth on the wound hoping that you still have enough life to taste his blood. The ferrous liquid falls on your lips and into your throat while the young man bites in your wrist as gently as possible, simply piercing the skin to collect a few scarlet drops. Let's just hope that the serum will change your metabolism as it upset Rogers' metabolism years ago. But it is too late for scientific considerations or logic.

***

- ... and it was because he was covered with the blood of his enemies that he was nicknamed "Red Skull"? - Yes, a very morbid nickname but which he wore wonderfully.

Sitting on your bed, Steve looks at you with tenderness as you ask him a multitude of questions, lying on the mattress and completely recovered from your injuries. Tirelessly, you pass and pass your arm in a ray of light, surprised not to fall to dust. You have to believe that legends are wrong about vampires, they don't really fear the sun.

- I haven't changed physically, I can go out in broad daylight ... It's easy to be a vampire, I don't see why you make a big deal of it! - It seems that you are a good woman, Y/N.

If it had not been the case, you would have become a bloodthirsty creature like Schmidt or, in the best of cases, you would have died and you would have been buried like any SHIELD agent who died during his service. Fortunately, everything is now arranged and you can lure the famous Captain America against you to kiss him with passion. After all, you have all of eternity before you.

Hope you liked it, don’t hesitate to send a nice comment. Take care, stay safe, you are wonderful 

[bextus-a]

The Things That Shape Us - Event: The Irrevocable | Drabble

Part 1: The Signs Not Seen

He knew there was something off. It was an unexpected change, not quite noticeable but there never the less. Raphael was there, connected to him like they had been since they had been created but it didn’t feel right. It felt like talking to someone through static, like seeing the light of a lamp through the fog, listening to music while submerged in water. It makes him uneasy, nervous. And so, he looks for his counterpart but he can’t seem to pinpoint his exact location. Raphael is still part of him but they are distant, something has changed and Michael can’t understand what.

“Michael….” A cherub says, interrupting his search. “We need you.” And as duty calls, he puts the matter on the back of his mind, to be solved when he has dealt with whatever needs his attention, trusting that Raphael is okay. There is no pain, there is no fear so perhaps, Michael is just being paranoid, perhaps he is overthinking things.

“Michael…..” A guardian angel says, right before he could go looking for his sibling down on Earth. “We need you.” He feels uneasy, he wants to ignore the guardian and focus on finding his sibling. The other angel looks at him with distress in his eyes and Michael knows he has to put Heaven’s needs first. There is no fear, there is no pain; Raphael must be okay. Perhaps their connection is weak since they have not talked in a while, perhaps Raphael is muting it purposely, perhaps there is nothing to worry about.

And then everything seems to go back to normal. The connection is clear as clear as it had always been, like the interference never happened. It gives Michael peace of mind and he is foolish enough to believe that everything is okay, he believes that Raphael made the choice to mute their link for it’s the explanation that makes most sense. Perhaps they were with someone special, perhaps they wanted privacy, perhaps it’s nothing and so, he doesn’t think more of it. He doesn’t check. He doesn’t make sure. He doesn’t ask Raphael.

“Michael, we need you.” Duty calls again, he is sure that Raphael will understand.

Part 2: The Inevitable Consequences

It happens suddenly. A Divine Wrath shakes Heaven, storm clouds form on the Earth’s sky. Dark and threatening, causing humans to tremble and wonder if the end of the world is near.  And the pain of a broken heart is felt though all angelic ranks, shaking them to their core, bringing all of them to their knees, averting their eyes from the ache of the divine, tears shed from a pain they couldn’t begin to understand, the weight of Holy Wrath making them feel like they are being crushed under an invisible force, paralysed. Hearts heavy with terror, reverence and grief.

Michael, however, is stronger. Despite being the one most connected to God, he does not fall to his knees, he does not freeze in place, he does not cry tears that are not his own. Instead, he grabs his sword, tightly in his hand, the blade covered with Holy Fire and he runs towards the source. God shining bright like a the sun, calling for him, guiding him. He is Heaven’s Champion, he is The Protector and The Prince, he shall die defending his Father from harm if he most. It’s his purpose, it’s his choice and then…..

Forgive me, Father…. It comes softly and yet, loud through the wrath and the heart break. It’s both a prayer and plea, a sob of sadness, of pain, of fear all in one. Michael feels the divine hand on his throat, holding him in place, digging into skin and bone, making him stay where he is. He gasps for air, even if he doesn’t need it, reaches to try and pull the hand away but there is nothing there, not even the faint sensation of grace flowing through the air. Forgive me, Father….The panic in his stomach is not his own, not yet but it slowly becomes part of him as the voice registers properly in his mind, duty pushed aside, melted into nothingness at the realisation.

“Raphael….” It’s a whisper, a thought, a gasp in the air. He runs faster, flies through the thick air, crawls closer to his destination. He can feel his heart beating in his ears, divine blood pumping fast through his system. The fear is poisonous, mixed with the rage of a heart broken God. Michael doesn’t know what he is feeling. Can’t tell if he is looking through his eyes or Raphael’s or even Adonai’s. Boom boom boom boom boom boom.

WATCH IT BURN!

MERCY! He doesn’t know if the word leaves his lips, he doesn’t know if the thought is his or if it’s Raphael’s. He doesn’t know if the word came from Chuck’s lips. But mercy is what he hopes for. Just for a second, even less than that. The blink of an eye, the bat of a fly’s wing, the last breath of a dying man.Mercy. But it doesn’t come.

The heat stars within him, somewhere deeper than the muscle, than the bone and marrow. It’s his atoms that feel warmer and warmer, explosions in the very molecules that form him. The cells get ripped apart piece by piece, becoming dust slowly and painfully. He is aware of the flames igniting in his very soul, unable to pass out, unable to find comfort in the darkness of unconsciousness.

He looks down at his hands, vision blurry from tears that he can’t be sure are his. The skin glows beautiful, a golden white that makes him laugh and sob at the same time as the screams of pain of the one who was his other half resonate inside and out. The screeches are indescribable, the glass breaks throughout the silver city, explosions of windows and porcelain all around, thunder in the Earth’s sky, tremors on the Earth’s ground, a cold shiver going down to the spine of every human, of every angel and every demon.

Michael glows brightly and floats without even noticing, looking up at the sky, a scream leaves his mouth, pained and loud, unhinged; holy despite how horrific it sounds. He can feel how a part of him gets pulled away from his soul, his essence. It feels like someone trying to cut a bone with a butter knife, then it gets burn while still attached to him. He screeches, begging mercy in enochian as he feels Raphael’s pain, as he feels Adonai’s pain, as he feels his own pain. The slow process of Death taking his counterpart away little by little until there is nothing left. Not even ashes.

And as fast as it starts, it’s all over, leaving Michael on the floor, the black of scorching Holy fire surrounding him in a circle as large as a stadium. He can’t move. He doesn’t even try. He just lays on his side, the emptiness of a missing piece in his core making him laugh. Laugh loud and clear, body shaking as the tears drip down his cheeks. His laugh is hysterical, maniacal and somehow, it sounds even sadden than sobbing. He just laughs and laughs until he cries, he cries until there are no tears left, he looks at the stars above him but his eyes are empty. He is so tired.

“Michael….” They say, scared little children. “We need you.”

Part 3: That Which Remains

When he gets up, it’s muscle memory that makes it so. When he takes Glorious, it feels heavy in his hand, like the first time he picked it up and felt certain that he would never be able to lift it above his waist. The tip drags through the floor and leaves a crack, like a scar on the tiles and the dirt.

His steps are heavy as he makes his way to the throne room, hearing the fain cries of young angels, the mumbles of confusion, of fear, of pain, of grief. Their Father has not explained. He will not explain. He will not comfort them. He will notmake it all go away. A lesson, He is teaching a lesson. He is always teaching them a lesson.

“Michael….” They speak but they don’t try to reach him, they don’t try to stop him. They move away, avert their eyes. Michael’s suffering is palpable and they all respect him too much to look him in the eye, not now when they all know what he lost. They need him, they always need him and he is always there. He can suffer, he can cry, he can get destroyed and broken down but he will always get up. He will always pick duty. He did it before, did he not? With Lucifer. With Gabriel. With Uriel. And now…..With Raphael.

He stands at the door of the Throne room, back straight, sword in hand. The picture perfect soldier with tears running down his cheeks. Golden liquid falling, grace that drips from his cheeks and lands on the tiles. Flowers grow around his feet as he raises Glorious.

You are stronger than you think. His Father said, once upon a time. When he held Glorious for the first time. He did it once, he’ll do it again. The metal turns into Holy Flames, hands clenching around the sword, a defensive stan that makes the angels take a step back. No one dares to come near, no one dares to even speak.

Heaven is protected. Heaven will always be protected.

[postedbygaslight]

The Problem With (Forced) Happy Endings, or, Why I Hate The Phantom of the Opera

Yesterday, I was messing around on here and suggested that I hated the way The Phantom of the Opera ended. Then, I got the following ask:

I thought I’d respond briefly, but then things got out of hand. So, @lushkitten1989, as promised, here’s way more than you bargained for.

There are many, many reasons to dislike Andrew Lloyd Webber’s monolithic Broadway musical, The Phantom of the Opera. So, I’ll dispose of some of the lower hanging fruit:

The story is dependent upon Christine being so naive that she doesn’t realize she’s getting music lessons from a guy behind a two-way mirror.

The phantom is a one-trick pony, defined almost entirely by his obsession with Christine. It’s never actually clear what he seeks to achieve by gaining de facto control of the day-to-day operations of the theater (other than merely being able to exercise that control— which may be the point).

Raoul is as interesting as a pet rock. He is unbuttered toast. He is Mom Jeans.

The music is intermittently great, but just as often annoying as hell (to me, for example, the “Angel of Music” motif is grating and uninspired).

Those are fundamental, but relatively minor complaints. Phantom has a lot of strengths. The chemistry between the Phantom and Christine is very pronounced, and, at times, shockingly blatant in its sexual themes. Some of the songs are timeless classics (“Phantom of the Opera,” “Music of the Night,” “All I Ask of You”), and some of the sequences, like the chandelier crashing down on the stage, and the ensemble pieces, like “Masquerade,” are very accomplished.

But where Phantom really shines is building a very genuine feeling tension between what propriety and social mores tell Christine Daae what she should desire, and what she actually desires. Phantom dabbles with Bride of the Monstrous themes, but never goes all in on them, and the result is a muddled, confused mess of a story— one that could have been very, very good, but wasn’t courageous or forward-thinking enough to capitalize on its opportunities.

See, the problem starts with Raoul.

Yes, wonderful, handsome, unthreatening, rich, devoted, patient, loving, convenient Raoul. The honorable Vicomte de Chagny, no less. He is our erstwhile Socially Acceptable Love Interest™️. From the moment he’s introduced, it’s clear Raoul is meant to be Christine’s white knight, swooping in to rescue her from obscurity. The plot contrives to have him coincidentally happen upon Christine, his childhood sweetheart, now a chorus girl at the opera house he favors with his parents’ fortune.

Now, I know what the Phantom fans might say: Raoul is here to allow for a juxtaposition of dynamics, placing him as an anchor point to which Christine can return, reminding her that she is more than the Phantom’s pet (or pupil, or lover, or what have you). But I’d counter that he’s really here to act as a stand-in for society’s expectations for how a well-behaved woman should conduct herself. Raoul is young, conventionally attractive, affluent, and, most importantly, chaste.

Christine’s connections with Raoul are explicitly drawn as being rooted in childish notions of affection. To wit, Raoul First greets Christine with a modified nursery rhyme she was read during their brief time together as children. He visits her in the soft-focus glow of her dressing room, showers her with praise, and proceeds to not listen to her when she insists she can’t go celebrate with him. More than that, he dismisses her objections with little more than a hand wave. The point is, he sees her as a child, and treats her as a child.

Look at what happens the moment he leaves her alone. She looks into the mirror, and runs toward the dark reflection behind her own image (heavy symbolism of Jungian animus here). From their very first physical encounter, the Phantom engages Christine as a sexual creature, and the difference in her reaction is, well:

Once alone with the Phantom, Christine is no longer the child so idealized by Raoul. She’s a young woman seeking instruction of a different kind from a strange reflection of herself whose instructions have suddenly changed from anodyne singing lessons to exhortations to “feel the music of the night.”

The next time Christine is with Raoul is when they share their duet, the excellent, “All I Ask of You.” I say excellent because, like other tentpole numbers featured in Webber musicals, the song itself is brilliant, but, in the context of the play, it’s less inspiring. This is rather like “Memory” existing in a pop culture space entirely divorced from its origin in Cats, and I’m certain there are a fair number of people who simply identify the song as a soaring Barbra Streisand number, rather than the mournful plea of a neglected alley cat.

“All I Ask of You” is preceded by Christine trying to tell Raoul about her fear of the Phantom, and her growing unease at the magnetic pull he seems wield against her. Raoul’s immediate and repeated reaction? Something to the effect of: “There is no Phantom of the Opera. You’re imagining things. Don’t be silly.” The song then drives this home:

No more talk of darkness—Forget these wild-eyed fears—I’m here, nothing can harm you—My words will warm and calm you.

The call and response Christine and Raoul have here is staged as a sweet love song. And it is. But it’s also a proposal from a young man to a young woman, where the man suggests she abandon her desires to exist as a sexual being, and come be with him, where he’ll act as her protector against such base instincts.

And this tactic works. Christine is not so frightened of the Phantom himself— she pays lip service to being horrified at his murderous tendencies, but seems aware he would never harm her personally— as she is frightened of her seeming inability to resist her attraction to him.

Raoul positions himself as a shield Christine can hide behind so she never has to grow up. He prefers her as the girl who enchanted him when they were both children, and he’ll go to great lengths to keep her innocent and doe-eyed. Is it any wonder that Christine doesn’t want their engagement to be public? (Yes, I get that Christine doesn’t want to risk the Phantom’s wrath should he discover their impending marriage, but the whole thing looks more like Christine being very unsure as to what she really wants).

Raoul, who seems to be the only person in the play who continues to explicitly deny the existence of the Phantom into the second act, is, oddly, the first to run for a weapon when the Phantom shows himself. He’s the one who pushes Christine to acknowledge (falsely, I think) that her attraction to the Phantom is nothing more than a side-effect of Daddy issues. He insistently pushes forward with a plan to permanently rid both the Opera Populaire and Christine of the Phantom despite Christine’s warnings that Raoul doesn’t really understand what he’s fighting against. More than that, Raoul insists that Christine offer herself up as bait, and to do so publicly, an overt expression of control, of making her choose her loyalties in front of everyone.

Let’s pause a moment here before we get to the inflection point of the play. What I’m referencing is, of course, the aptly titled “Point of No Return,” wherein the true nature of Christine’s relationship with the Phantom is made public. I want to talk about the Phantom.

Throughout the entire play, the Phantom is presented as a sympathetic figure coded to represent misfit and outcast elements of society. He refers to himself as a “loathesome gargoyle” and confesses to Christine that he lashes out at the world and makes others fear him because he feels it’s his only choice for survival. But he also confesses to her that he secretly dreams of love and acceptance, and being able to live as he is, free from the condemnation of the wider world.

Yes, the Phantom expresses his displeasure with being defied in very unhealthy ways, but here we are again at the Death and the Maiden trope, wherein our heroine is the only person who is able to see beyond the darkness that both conceals and protects the man behind the mask. Here, Christine should be acting as the Phantom’s succor, a balm to his constant pain, and, in playing that part, she is meant to end his curse, or blunt its effects sufficiently enough for him to find peace. And, in return, the Phantom ought to provide Christine with growth beyond her childhood, and, in this version of events, usher in her sexual awakening and facilitate her passage into womanhood.

And it’s all set up to do that, for those themes to be realized, by the time the finale is cued up. Then, everything just goes to shit.

The Problem

If you’re unfamiliar with the way The Phantom of the Opera ends, you may want to stop reading.

After Christine stops Raoul from killing the Phantom in the graveyard, Raoul and the other peripheral characters contrive a plan to lure the Phantom into the open and kill or arrest him once and for all. The plan is simple enough. The Phantom has written an opera (aptly titled Don Juan Triumphant), and has ordered it be performed with Christine as the lead. Everyone assumes the Phantom will strike during the performance, most likely to claim Christine as his bride (or something like that).

Now, I posted a little joke earlier about what happens before the plan goes into effect. Raoul goes to Christine to comfort her and prepare her for her role in the trap, but Christine is very nervous about it. She tries to convey to Raoul why she’s apprehensive about the whole plan, but, again, Raoul doesn’t get it, and insists that Christine is getting worked up for nothing.

Of course, what ends up happening is “The Point of No Return,” the high point of the whole play, where the Phantom sheds all pretense and makes an overtly sexual appeal to Christine. And Christine, who’s supposed to be playing the role of Don Juan’s paramour, reciprocates the Phantom’s ardor, resulting in a very, very sexy sequence between the two of them. All while Raoul watches from the Phantom’s favored balcony (Box Five), and something like this happens:

The Phantom speaks directly to Christine, saying:

I have brought you— so our passions may fuse and merge— in your mind, you’ve already succumbed to me— dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me— now I am here with you— no second thoughts— you’ve decided—

To which Christine responds:

I have come here— hardly knowing the reason why— in my mind I’ve already imagined— our bodies entwining, defenseless and silent— now I am here with you— no second thoughts— I’ve decided—

This whole time, while the call and response between Christine and the Phantom reaches its fever pitch, Raoul watches, and understands the depth of his miscalculation. More than that, he’s horrified and repulsed by this display of lust from his innocent Christine. The mere suggestion that she might be complicit in the Phantom’s passions is something that, it can be observed above, threatens to break his world apart.

Thematically, this mirrors Raoul and Christine’s mutual declaration of chaste love in “All I Ask of You.” Which is important, because once the Phantom and Christine have crossed the metaphorical and literal bridge that separates them, and are embraced for all the world to see, the Phantom expands his entreaty, shifting from the blood-racing heat of “Point of No Return” to a soft, pleading reprise of “All I Ask of You.” He wants Christine to know he doesn’t just want her body, that he doesn’t just view her as a possession. That he loves her, just as much or more than Raoul.

And here is where Phantom could have become something great. Christine breaks free of the intoxicant of lust for the Phantom and turns to face him. He is emboldened, and reaches a more confident crescendo, saying

Anywhere you go, let me go, too— Christine, that’s all I ask of—

But the Phantom never finishes his sentence. Christine makes her choice, for sure. She does this. In front of the whole world. When the Phantom is most sincere and vulnerable.

Now, I might have been prepared to forgive Christine this mistake if not for the scene earlier, when she and the Phantom were alone, and she tried to remove his mask. He lashed out at her then, and proceeded to explain his sensitivity to being exposed. He opened up to her and revealed his vulnerability. And, above, when the Phantom has finally allowed himself to hope that Christine’s affections are sincere and reciprocated, she betrays him.

It horrifies me.

For the rest of the play, all the sympathy the audience has been conditioned to direct toward the Phantom is inverted. Christine shows affection to him only to trap him. She even kisses him, leading him on again, for no reason but to quell his rage toward Raoul. Even after his beastly rage has subsided, Christine can only chide him for being monstrous in body and spirit.

This haunted face holds no horror for me now— it’s in your soul that the true distortion lies—

The arc presented for the audience— to sympathize with the Phantom, and to experience with Christine the fear and wonder that can attend the awakening of sexual consciousness, is utterly squandered.

But why?

Happily Ever After

The answer is as simple as it is disheartening: because Christine is supposed to end up with Raoul. Raoul is her destined love interest because the plot demands it, and no other reason. The two of them don’t grow as a couple during the course of the play. Their dynamic as they leave the Phantom’s lair is unchanged from the dynamic they presented when Raoul came to see her in her dressing room at the beginning of the play. Even after being forced to acknowledge Christine as a complicated and sexual being, Raoul elects to ignore that, and champions only freeing her from the Phantom’s corrupting influence.

To come to this point, Christine’s character actually regresses, choosing to retreat behind Raoul’s promise of perpetual innocence and naïveté. The narrative turns from one of growth and sexual agency to one that urges the rejection of what is unpleasant to acknowledge. Christine essentially chooses to marry the nice guy with the trust fund, stays at home to raise the kids and play the doting wife, and occasionally allows herself moments of indulgence to fantasize about the tall, dark, mysterious man she always wanted to fuck back in college.

To make matters even worse, the Phantom is abandoned to misery and solitude. His suffering is rewarded with more suffering. Christine leaves him without hope or promise, and the Phantom remains shrouded in the dark, pining for Christine for the rest of his life. Through trusting and hoping for acceptance and love, the Phantom is shown only the futility of seeking either. The way this plays out is deeply disconcerting, going so far as to set up a prologue and epilogue set fifty years later, after Christine’s death, with a grieving, crippled Raoul learning that the Phantom is still alive. This represents a casual erasure of Christine’s presence from the narrative, and, worse, diminishes her role to that of the object of the struggle between two men over a young woman’s emotional and sexual destiny.

This is an ugly, sad, wretched story. It’s not a story of yearning or forbidden love. It’s a story about rejection and denial of desire. It’s a story about choosing what society deems acceptable over the needs of the self. Moreover, it’s a story about being afraid and remaining afraid.

There is nothing affirming or beautiful about this story. And I fucking hate it.