#an infernal monstrosity

[viscericorde]

for halloween yesterday i went as Lydia and fulfilled my little freak childhood dream of someday owning her red wedding dress irl

[amrubrum]

i adore herongraystairs and tid with all my heart but if you held me up at gunpoint and asked me to recite the full plot of the entire series i will not be coming back alive. i genuinely cannot remember a single thing that has happened in clockwork angel, clockwork prince, and clockwork princess.

i mean it HAS been two years since i've read it but still. i read city of bones two years ago as well yet i can still remember a lot of parts from it😭

[dougielombax]

Speaking of cursed robots:

This infernal monstrosity would make for an INCREDIBLE boss fight!

“Let’s see what you make of THIS!!!!!”

*insane boss battle music begins*

“Fondant SURPRISE!!!!!!!!!”

[jeyneofpoole]

louis venez ici i’m incredibly distressed i’ve been trawling here on the wifi and i’ve come across something most loathsome do you see this monstrosity? regarde ça this deceitful little bar has been advertised to me as a form of electronic cigarette! they say it is blue raspberry flavored louis i hate this so utterly i cannot stand it. je vais me fuer this century is shallow and rude there is no such thing as a blue raspberry and there is no such thing as an electronic cigarette i refuse to accept it. what makes this cigarette electronic in the least? does it connect to the wifi? i love the wifi louis i wish that the wifi would not associate with this hateful institution. is this one and the same with that detestable object armand refers to as his ‘banana ice puff bar’ i abhor that one most of all it emits the worst odor c’est vraiment mauvais. louis mon cher you must promise that you will never fall sway under the influence of this infernal device i do not know if my heart could take such a beating. i will not allow those plastic pretenders in my home la main à dieu we must find a way to end this

[gravehags]

satan baby

Pairing: Cardinal Copia x f!Reader (Curator!Reader)

Rating: Teen

Tags: yule with the papas, secondo and terzo fighting over caroling, gift giving, and maybe...kissing

Words: 1,877

Summary: It's the most wonderful time of the year.

a/n: it's been a while my children. eat up and merry christmas to those who celebrate. a little present from me to you.

divider by @gothdaddyissues!

“This is Secret Santa, you’re only supposed to get a gift for one person,” you sigh, currently inundated with a pile of presents on your lap and by your feet. “What’s all this?”

“Correction, bella, this is Secret Satan where you get as many gifts for whomever you like, sì? And you’re our star this year.”

Terzo smiles warmly at you as you fidget with the fabric of your festive dark green velvet skirt. You’ve all gathered in the Papas’ private living room, the mantle of the roaring fireplace positively bedecked with greenery and a massive tree opposite. A couple weeks ago you and Copia were put in charge of creating the orange garland, a not insignificant task given the height and breadth of the noble fir. Speaking of Copia, he is sitting in a deep leather armchair, stroking his mustache thoughtfully and giving you a funny look. When you give him an exaggerated wink his lips curl into a smile and his eyes dart away as his cheeks flush.

“Another cup, signorina?”

Primo is currently standing next to the hot plate on the side table, stirring the large cauldron of mulled wine. You really shouldn’t, you already are feeling a little woozy and warm but what the hell. Christmas, right? Or Yule, rather. You nod eagerly and Primo doles out a hefty amount of the dark liquid into a mug with little rats on it, passing it to Secondo who passes it to you as Terzo hands you yet another gift to open. So far you’ve unwrapped a beautiful homemade perfume from Primo and a garnet jewelry set which you are sure is quite old and quite expensive from Terzo. Copia still clings to the small present on his lap that bears a tag with your name on it, unwilling to see it in your hands just yet. One of these presents alone would be more than enough to dazzle you but the Papas insist on spoiling you. Who are you to object?

“This one is from me,” Secondo says, smiling slightly sinisterly over the rim of his mug.

“Ominous, but okay,” you say as you unwrap the box with caution. When you gingerly open the lid and see what’s inside, you let out an undignified screech. Primo, Terzo, and Copia exchange alarmed expressions as you reach in and lift the stuffed creature from its confines to marvel at it. It’s positively hideous - a large round potato-like head, red vestments, even a glittering pectoral grucifix. You’re beaming.

“Is that supposed to be me?” Copia says, outraged and red-faced.

“He’s perfect,” you coo, holding him against you in a tight hug. “Look at his stupid little face!”

“Ah, sì, he looks just like you,” Terzo says with a grin.

“He–it–looks nothing like me. No mustache. No sideburns. Eyes are all wrong!”

“He’s beautiful,” you say, cradling the monstrosity in your arms with all the grace of Mary. “Thank you Secondo.”

“I made him myself, you know.”

“A man of many talents!”

“A man of many war crimes,” Copia growls from his spot, flinging himself backwards in his chair and crossing his arms.

“Don’t speak about our son that way!” you cry, pressing your palms to the ears of the small stuffed man.

“Our son?” Copia cocks his head with interest and the brothers all look at you in silence.

“Y-yes. He looks - mostly - like you and I am his mother. Therefore we are his parents. So step up.”

When you reach out to hand the stuffed cardinal to the real thing, he sighs and takes it in his hands. 

“He is infernal,” Copia says, placing him sitting up on his lap. “But I accept him as mine.” The sight makes you scramble for your phone to take as many pictures as possible.

“What a beautiful family moment,” Terzo says, wiping a fake tear from his cheek. “Copia, I think you’re the only one left who hasn’t exchanged presents!”

Handing the doll back to you he hesitates to reach for the gift still in his lap. Primo, ever wise, interrupts to ask if anyone wants dessert while you reach down and grab the present you’ve brought for Copia. Terzo and Secondo haul themselves up with much grumbling and follow Primo out of the room to help.

“I thought you said you were only bringing a present for one person? Primo was who you drew, sì?”

“Yeah I know but,” you scoot your chair closer to him, “you’re special. You’ve been on my side since day one. I couldn’t not get you something. You mean too much to me.”

Copia blushes the fiercest shade of red you’ve seen yet as you hand him the heavy package.

“Grazie, cara mia,” he says quietly, mismatched eyes boring earnestly into yours.

“Don’t thank me yet, you haven’t opened it.”

With a smile he begins unwrapping the festive paper. When he finishes and sees what is inside his heart jumps.

“Dolcezza,” he breathes and you blush just as fiercely as him at the nickname, “this is wonderful.”

It had taken you a lot of time and a lot of money (worth every cent as far as you are concerned) to locate an antique facsimile of William Blake’s art. Admittedly, you had used a lot of the Ministry’s excellent resources to find it but all the effort was worth it for this moment. When Copia looks up at you, you swear there are tears in his eyes.

“I have never before received a gift such as this, cara. Thank you.”

When you reach out and cover his gloved hand with yours and squeeze firmly, it’s as if his whole body sinks into itself. Softly, he picks up your hand and brings it to his lips - a sweet echo of his action from the first day you met. It takes everything within you not to knock all the items out of Copia’s lap and climb in it yourself. In all honesty, you’re moments away from doing just that when the Papas return to the room with much clamor. Your heart sinks as Copia drops your hand and clears his throat, and you return to your chair from your half-risen position. When Copia looks at you and points to the small box next to him, you mouth the words “later” with a smile before accepting a comically large slice of yule log from Secondo. The rest of the evening is relatively quiet apart from the dueling rendition of “Carol of the Bells” that Secondo and Terzo fight over while Primo sleeps contentedly in his comfy armchair. When the Papas begin loudly arguing in Italian you signal to Copia and begin gathering your things in a large brown bag. Without a word the two of you slip out the door and when you hear a crash and Primo’s deep bellow ringing out you skitter away down the hall.

“Looks like we made it out just in time,” you giggle as the two of you finally slow.

“Eh, sì, it always ends like this,” Copia says with a huff and an eye roll, “they can’t help themselves.”

Copia is unaware of where he is standing but oh, you certainly are. This looks like a perfect place to stop.

“Not trying to be pushy but I think you were going to give me something?” you say, cocking your head and setting down your bag. 

“Ah…yes,” he sets down the book you gifted him and thrusts out his hand with the fastidiously wrapped present within it. “For you.”

You take the gift and open it delicately and slowly and see him chew on his bottom lip slightly. 

“If you don’t like it I–”

“Hush,” you say simply as you open the box. Inside, resting on dark red velvet is a simple and small golden grucifix on a delicate matching chain.

“You always wanted to be a part of the Ministry,” he says quietly, fussing with his gloves, “and I hope this lets you know that we accept you. We’ve always accepted you. I–”

You remain silent as you set down the box and put the necklace on while Copia watches. When you finish your hands don’t return to your sides but rather come up to cradle the Cardinal’s cheeks. He’s frozen as you stand just like this, thumbs brushing against his sideburns and a look on your face that he doesn’t think he has the capacity to describe. Your cheeks positively glow, your eyes seem lit from within and your lips are curled into a soft smile. They part momentarily for you to take a deep, steadying breath - inhale, exhale - before you lean forwards and gently place your lips on his. The ground shifts beneath him, the world is spinning as the fingers of your right hand begin to slide along his jaw and you tilt your head. You hesitate only for a moment, pulling back slightly before Copia grabs you insistently by the back of the head and pushes his lips back against yours. He tastes of mulling spices and his mustache tickles your upper lip, as you always knew it would. When you finally need to catch your breath he barely relinquishes his grip on you, making you laugh and kiss his chin.

“Why,” he whispers, thumb running against your cheekbone. “Why me?”

You lean forward and rest your head against his chest, close enough to hear the thud of his heart.

“It was always you,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around his waist and stroking his back. “Always. From the moment you kissed my hand the day I was hired to the moment you comforted me when I was sad and lonely. From the moment you shared your rats with me. From the moment you put me to bed when I was drunk. All of it, Copia. All of you. That’s why.”

When you pull back to look at him, there’s definitely no mistaking the tears in his eyes this time and when he frantically pulls you in for another kiss, you can feel the wetness on your own cheeks. When you pull away with a giggle he looks concerned.

“Amore mio, what is it?”

You point upwards to the healthy sprig of mistletoe hanging from the rafter.

“You had no idea did you,” you say with a grin, chin resting on his sternum.

“Who would? Who could even see that and in the dark I–” his words cut off as you gasp from the short sharp smack to your ass.

“Copia! Not in front of our child!” you chastise, reaching into the bag and pulling out the accursed doll.

“Ugh, I had forgotten about him,” Copia grouses as you take it and peck him on the cheek with it.

“What should we name him?” you muse, adjusting the doll’s pellegrina.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something suitably horrific,” he smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead which you lean into eagerly. “Until then…shall I, eh, walk you back to your rooms?”

“Please,” and with one last long, lingering kiss with the odd cardinal doll squished between the two of you, you pick up your bag and continue the long walk back to your cozy bed with the Satanic cardinal you hoped would soon be in it.

[red-dead-sakharine]

Hope keeps the house afloat

Okay, here's a wild theory...

Lore background:

Souls are tortured in the hells to extract their potent energy

Infernal machinery is powered by souls

I present to you:

Hope's soul is fueling Raphael's rocket engines.

Hope keeps the House of Hope afloat.

Revel in the irony.

But it still floats after she's free/dead!

Counter: She's not being tortured 24/7 either. There could be a "storage", and Raphael only has to squeeze her soul for energy, when the storage is empty. You know, like a car running on fuel.

Admittedly, a single soul might not be enough to fuel those engine monstrosities, unless perhaps the soul is special? Which Hope might be. Raphael sure wanted her badly to join him. It could explain why he's lenient with her, even after you free her. Because he wants to use her as fuel again, so he'd like to avoid killing her.

This theory has no basis other than souljuice = energy lore, and the fact that Hope is shackled to the two main engines.

But, I'd argue, it's at least a very compelling idea...

[missygoesmeow]

that one scene from pride & prejudice 2005 a little ficlet under the cut

i just wrote this on tumblr so lmao we ball. its more just to get the idea down.

Every door had been unlocked and every room had been rifled through—yet her contract was still in the Archives, perfectly preserved and untouched in its pride of place. With every passing moment, Tav could not shake the horrible sense of unease that told her this had been a stupid idea. Of course, it had been a reckless decision. But everyone bar Lae’zel had disagreed with her choice to sign Raphael’s contract.

And Gale had been right; she should not have agreed to give the Crown of Karsus to the devil But it had felt like the right choice to obtain the Orphic Hammer—for Lae'zel and for them all to survive this awful situation. Standing here, in this room, it no longer felt like a wise idea to break into the House of Hope and steal her contract back. Coming across Haarlep had been more than Tav had bargained for, and she had not spoken of what she had found in the boudoir. Not the password for her contract nor what she had done to obtain it. She had simply fled and found Astarion picking the lock to one last room. It had taken the vampire longer than usual to unlock—which had seemed strange upon entering it. There was nothing in here except for some broken statues and paintings—all of Raphael in his infernal glory. Yet, at the back of the room, there was one bust that sat on a plinth that captured her attention. It was the only piece of artwork in this entire monstrosity of a house that depicted Raphael in his human form.

There was no emotion in the expression except for a slight lingering dismissiveness from the arch of his brow. The blank marble stare paled in comparison to the real thing, surely no artist could capture his eyes, Tav thought. And here her mind wandered to the feel of Haarlep’s hand against her skin and his voice in her ear as her body still softly throbbed from his touch. Yet, whenever she closed her eyes she could only see Raphael’s warm amber eyes. She stared at the bust and the marble seemed to see right through her, dismissing her as nothing.

Tav felt like nothing.

While she knew she was but a means to an end to the devil, and that she should not have broken their agreement, nor his trust, to sneak into his home. She had hoped, however foolishly, that she would get away with it. But now, staring into the hollow eyes of his likeness, she felt the gnawing guilt and fear twist at her. She should have turned around as soon as she had arrived. And she most certainly should have walked away from Haarlep. But unlike the master of the house, she was mortal and she had been weak to resist the incubus. But she would not make any further mistakes and so she dragged her attention away from the marble statue and returned to her companions. "We need to leave. Now."

[scuttlingcrab]

"The doublet is a magical item, so it can fit and mould to Raphael’s body no matter his form or temper." Now I'm just picturing Raphael transforming in anger while wearing the doublet and his rage is momentarily stopped when he realizes that it transformed with him and wasn't even singed.

Like, I could be incredibly angry with someone, but if I suddenly realized that my dress had pockets in it I know darn well that I'd need to at least stop and take a moment to marvel at that discovery before even thinking about continuing on with my anger. 😅

I was literally working on something similar when you sent your message! I've attached the ask below I was initially responding to. Thank you for your message anon and hope you enjoy! x

"Also, the idea of Raphael showing off his new clothes is just- It just tickles me! I can see him preening and flaunting like a peacock because of Tav's gift. I'd honestly read a sequel piece about that, if you want to write it. I've kinda already fallen in love with the whole idea of a luxury magic tailor Tav that the initial prompt fill and response has created as well as that Tav's potential dynamic with Raphael (and other characters *looking at Gale and his sewing needle quip*) and would absolutely be down to read more of that from you! 👀"

Summary: Raphael is caught off guard by his recent gift from Tav, so he decides to pay his little mouse a visit.

Notes: Read A Perfect Fit, which inspired this continuation.

Link to my other work in the Devil's Archive.

Dressed to Kill 

Raphael stomped through the halls of the House of Hope, shedding his mortal skin. The doublet didn’t set fire when Raphael transformed, instead, it morphed with his growing size. The silk fabric soothed his ridged body, feeling like a warm embrace. Raphael suppressed a scream. Wretched mortal! The debtors scurried out of his path like rats, seeking the shadows for an ounce of solace from the blistering rage. 

He passed an open window and jolted to a halt. The blood-red light of Avernus caught the designs of his doublet, causing it to glimmer like diamonds. During his shift, the colour of his clothing changed. It now had a dark golden shimmer, the infernal embroidery a deep blue. He extended his arm, admiring the sleeve as he twisted it only slightly, and watched as the adornment reflected tiny devilish patterns onto the marble floors. The decorations moved, as if dancing. Another interesting, subtle detail.

Staring at these animations, Raphael’s breath calmed, his mind cleared. He stood taller, his head never held so high. Abruptly he spotted one of the debtors staring at him from his peripheral and lowered his hand, slowly turning to face them. Fire burned in Raphael’s eyes as he hissed, barring his sharp teeth. The debtor screeched before scurrying off to continue their meaningless eternal task. 

“If I catch just one more incompetent lackey idling about, I will impale your sorry souls on trees and leave you to rot. You are all interchangeable. Do not forget that.”

Raphael watched as the last debtor fled from his sight. He will not be caught off guard again. No. In fact… he will pay that creature a visit. 

–

Raphael materialised at the creature's camp in a swirl of flames and sparks, returning to his mortal disguise. 

The camp was quiet at this hour, the creatures asleep, separated into their individual makeshift tents. And what a ghastly camp it was, third-rate, at best. Miscellaneous equipment littered every corner, books lay discarded, shoddy clothes hung drying on trees, and the animals… When did these mortals domesticate owlbears? Savages.  

He slowly approached Tav’s tent, nestled towards the lake's shoreline. He parted the flap with an index finger and peeked inside. The creature was fast asleep, sharing her tent with that monstrosity Karlach. 

He watched them sleeping, so defenceless. He perked up at the thought. If he was so inclined, he could have easily ended their lives, consumed their souls before the tadpoles defiled them; all it would take is a snap of his fingers…

“Rise and shine, little mouse.” Raphael purred. 

Tav sprang up from her bed roll, clumsily readying a dagger from her sleeve. She held it out towards Raphael, one eye still closed, as she fought off the interrupted slumber. 

Karlach simply turned over in her bedding, yawning and stretching like a cat. She slowly opened her eyes, sitting upright when she spotted Raphael standing at the entrance.

He smirked in response, placing a hand on his hip.

“What the hell is this creep doing here?”

“Good evening to you too, Karlach. I am simply checking in on my prospective clients.”

Raphael bowed deeply, making sure to be as flamboyant as possible in his gesture.

“In the middle of the bloody night? Fuck off, devil.” 

Raphael slowly straightened himself, adjusting his sleeves. He aimed his cuffs towards the campfire, taking care to make sure the lighting was just right to highlight the devilish decorations. 

“Tut, tut, Karlach, language. If I wanted to hear such hideous sounds I’d speak with a lemure.”

Karlach leapt to her feet, the rickety infernal engine in her chest glowing brighter as she stared daggers at him.

“Karlach, please…” 

Tav raised a hand at Karlach, putting away her weapon. She rubbed away the rest of the sleep and focused on Raphael. Her face instantly lit up when she caught sight of his doublet. 

“You’re… wearing it?” Tav whispered. She brought her hands to her mouth, attempting to hide her flushed cheeks. 

“But of course! How could I resist such a delicious gift? It’s not often a devil like myself comes across a mortal with such curious tastes. Your attention to detail is…”

Raphael dramatically clasped his hands together, as if in a prayer. Yes, indeed. Thank the Gods up above for damning these poor creatures and sending them straight into his claws. 

“Superb!” 

“Hells, what have you done?” Karlach groaned, rolling her eyes. “I told you it was a bad idea.”

Tav gave Karlach a sidelong glance, narrowing her eyes. Raphael’s smile grew, devouring the creature’s disapproval and embarrassment. Almost as scrumptious as a soul.

“You are quite the seamstress. What else have you been creating on your adventures, hmm? I wonder, what would be the price for another item such as this? Perhaps we can come to some sort of agreement?” 

Tav’s mouth hung open at his words.

“I-I-uh, didn’t think that far ahead. Let me sleep on it.”

“Don’t keep me waiting, little mouse. You had my curiosity, but now… you have my full attention.”

Raphael raised his arms out wide, like a peacock strutting their finest feathers. He laughed as he surrounded himself in infernal flames. He had truly stumbled upon his greatest prize, his secret weapon to uniting the Nine Hells. Raphael would reach his target soon, that was for certain, but oh, oh yes... he would look hellishly chic in his pursuits. He would turn heads, devils and mortals alike.

[lov3-lik3-ghosts]

hiii, I was wondering if you could write something with Enoch? Maybe angst to fluff? If not that’s okie!! I hope you’re well <3

Twines Of Fire Ignite Us. Lover, Our Love’s Immortal

Pairing: Enoch O’Connor x fem!reader.

Summary: Your mates heart belongs to her… right?

Warnings: Not beta nor proofread. Use of Y/n. Soulmate!au. Reader has the ability to see souls and entwine them in harmful ways, this has nothing to do with soulmates. Ankh: Ancient Egyptian symbol representing internal life (according to google); also a subtle representation of Enoch’s peculiarity. Twine of Fire: A symbol representing a subtle indication of the readers infernal rage and peculiarity.

Format: Drabble.

Word Count: 1.1k.

Note: I hope you’re well too, lovely!

| mother m-list

The ankh branding your wrist burns when he looks at her.

You’ve scratched it red raw under your scrutiny and marred it with the lashes of your jealousy over the months. Your family would have forever become victims to a social massacre if anyone ever caught glimpse of the monstrosity it had become; you count yourself lucky to be in a loop, where the day resets and things don’t matter.

Her red hair flows down her back in a river of ocherous that catches the sunlight just right and your eyes are drawn to his, watching her as though she’d made the world good again.

All of you screams he’s yours. That your souls are tied eternally. That his mark is embedded in your very skin; that yours is embedded in his.

You turn away.

Out of sight, out of mind.

••

They sit together at supper, as it’s always been. His seat is closer to hers than you’d be comfortable with but your opinion in the matter runs naught.

Your seat is opposite to his, directly facing everything they do. So much for out of sight.

Enoch’s as stoned faced as ever to her bright eyes and it’s not something that should strike envy green through you but it paints there anyway.

Olive will forever be the soothe after his burn, a soft to his unsated harshness. You will always be the gasoline to the bitter fire roaring in him. You will always be an angry soul, charged with bonfires of stubbornness.

He reaches for the bread roll too far for her to get herself and places it on the edge of her plate without her asking. The cuff of his shirt shifts and reveals the violet flamed twine bracketing his skin, unique and bold as the glow orbing in your abdomen. It disappears under his sleeve as quick as it peeked.

You don’t lose track of their interaction, storing it in the mental box of all the reasons it’ll always be Enoch and Olive and never Enoch and Y/n. They knew each other senseless.

Your mark twinges.

••

It’s been four weeks when he approaches you.

The days in the loop blend into a flurry indecipherable, slowing them and flying them through somehow at once. You’ve taken to tracking the days on an old calendar kept in the children’s home since you joined Loop Peregrine, a tally mark on each day despite the dates not matching up.

You’ve been here for two months now. You’ve talked to Enoch twice.

Three if you count now.

He can’t feel the spidery tingle beneath his skin that you can in his presence, the one that webs you to him in more ways than it should. Girls have always been more sensitive to soulmate related symptoms, blessed (cursed) with more instinctual insight.

You hate the way his soul flares an iridescent outline of blue hues around you, serving another reminder he’ll never be yours that only you can see. Another taunt from fates cruel truths.

The curve of his accent is something you didn’t realise you missed until he opened his mouth. “You're awful at being discreet, you know that?”

“Sorry?” It’s the most you can force yourself to say.

Enoch approaches at a different angle. “You stare. Why?”

Faking nonchalance, you shrug. “I don't stare.”

It only takes a raise of a brow to crumble a large enough portion of your facade. Stone faced or not, you would always be able to read him like a book split open — perks of peculiarities.

“You do.” He bites. “And not just at anything, at anytime. Always at me, always with Olive. Is there an issue you have with us?”

The question hits too close to home. Your reaction spiels out of you quicker than you can cage it, curling at your lip and snarling out of you. “Is there an issue I have with my mate breathing down the neck of another woman? No, of course not, O’Connor. Who could ever find an issue with that?”

Enoch’s face drops.

Realisation hits you like a freight train. You feel the colour drain from you, leaving you unsteady where you stand.

“You’re not my mate.” He strains. “You can’t be. I would’ve known, I would've known from the second I saw you.” There’s a desperation caving his expression, a plea to his eyes that pierces you.

A part of you aches at that, the part that understands lost time and blind eyes, the part that pieces together that you’ve deceived him but it’s overridden by stubborn fear. A mate so infatuated with another he couldn’t see the signs isn’t a mate that could ever love you whole.

“Well, you didn’t.” You can’t stop the bite of your voice.

He pauses, staring into you. It’s the longest interaction you’ve had with him and it sets you alight in all the wrong ways. Despair replaces desperation, written in the way he stumbles a step back from you.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me? Am I not good enough for the almighty hollow survivor?” You watch a bridled rage harden him.

You and him are one split in two, anger lies in the cores of all you are and seeps its way into everything. Now is no exception.

You can’t help but scoff. “I’m not the one in love with someone else.”

Enoch sneers. “Who’s in love with someone else?”

“Are you joking?” A sick lick of humour curls at you. “You can’t be that much of an asshole that you’d lead Olive on.”

“Olive?” Your fingers twitch to gnaw at the ankh, raging infernal at the thought of him thinking of her. The disconcertment in his eyes stops you.

You look at him, really look at him. Really listen to him, really think things through.

“Me and Olive are nothing that you think we are.”

The brief touches that seemed so intimate, the knowing what the other wanted before they had the chance to say, all the time spent together, day in and day out.

“When you’re stuck living the copy of the day before you learn to know who you’re stuck with.”

You’d never thought about it past your mark and his, past soulmates. You’d never had to, flitting between lives and loops too often to make connections.

“But me and Olive are friends. We’ve never been more than that and we never would be more than that.”

You almost feel stupid for making assumptions but the image they create is too entwined for you to have seen through.

“I didn’t want to intrude.” It’s your way of offering an apology.

Enoch pursues his lips. “We’re mates.” Cold fingers circle your wrist, pressed light against his symbol. He doesn’t look away as you shiver and gasp. You watch the navy of his soul quiver. “You could never intrude.”

You take his words for what they are, an acceptance of peace.

~ 𐀔 ~ 𐀔 ~ 𐀔 ~

Likes, comments and reblogs are extremely appreciated and very encouraging!

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[thirdtofifth]

Protean Scourge Medium monstrosity (shapechanger), neutral evil Armor Class 17 (natural armor) Hit Points 161 (19d8 + 76) Speed 40 ft., climb 10 ft. Str 20, Dex 17, Con 19, Int 14, Wis 14, Cha 19 Damage Immunities poison Damage Resistances cold, lightning; bludgeoning, piercing, and slashing from nonmagical attacks that aren't silvered Condition Immunities petrified, poisoned Senses darkvision 60 ft. passive Perception 12 Languages Abyssal, Common, Infernal Challenge 12 (8400 XP) Magic Resistance. The protean scourge has advantage on saving throws against spells and other magical effects. Shapechanger. The protean scourge can use its action to polymorph into a Small or Medium humanoid, or back into its true form. Its statistics, other than its size, are the same in each form. Any equipment it is wearing or carrying isn't transformed. It reverts to its true form if it dies. Spellcasting. The protean scourge is a 8th-level spellcaster. Its spellcasting ability is Charisma (spell save DC 16, +8 to hit with spell attacks). The protean scourge has the following sorcerer spells prepared: Cantrips (at will): dancing lights, mage hand, prestidigitation 1st level (4 slots): charm person, color spray, mage armor 2nd level (3 slots): mirror image, scorching ray, spider climb 3rd level (3 slots): blink, haste 4th level (2 slots): greater invisibility Actions Multiattack. The protean scourge makes either two attacks with its claws and one attack with its gore; or three attacks with its scythe and one attack with its gore. Claws. Melee Weapon Attack: +9 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 9 (1d8+5) slashing damage. Gore. Melee Weapon Attack: +9 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 16 (2d10+5) piercing damage. If the target is a Large or smaller creature, it must succeed on a DC 17 Strength saving throw or be knocked prone. Scythe. Melee Weapon Attack: +9 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 12 (2d6+5) slashing damage. Reactions Split. When the protean scourge is subjected to damage, it splits into two new protean scourges if it has at least 10 hit points. Each new protean scourge has hit points equal to half the original protean scourge's, rounded down. Each new protean scourge can cast spells, but they share a pool of spells per day as if they were one creature. The two protean scourges can recombine in a process that takes one minute and requires both protean scourges to be within 5 feet of each other. The separate protean scourges are incapacitated while recombining, and only two protean scourges who were originally separated from each other can recombine.

These deadly shapechanging assassins are often mistaken for denizens of the Abyss. With abnormally-long legs and pebbly red skin, the confusion is understandable. They love killing above all else, and seek out opportunities to do so, happily submitting to the service of evil warlords and the like to sate their bloodlust. These thoroughly-cruel creatures stand around 7 feet tall and weigh 200 pounds.

Originally from the Monster Manual III

[viscericorde]

outfit photos in the cursed mirror that gives you shoujo character proportions

[obae-me]

Upside Down- CH 13

Warning: Vivid descriptions of nausea and sickness, alcohol, swearing. As Always, Read Safely.

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Eat Me

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There were many things you had seen throughout your long life. Not much caught you by surprise anymore. However, this… what was a good word for it? Atrocity? Monstrosity? An amalgamation of vile sponge sent from the very depths of the darkest parts of the realms? Summoned forth by the most forbidden rituals in an attempt to taint your soul and flood your blood with the whispers of contemptible desires?

It wasn’t just a cake, that was for certain.

No. It was a curse covered in frosting. And it dug up a primordial and raw panic in you.

The first bite had been fine. In hindsight, it was probably your senses frozen in shock. Some form of survival instinct unlocked to protect you. It was rather tasteless. The texture was all off, somehow crumbly and yet…almost slimy at the same time. It went down rough, as if your body was doing everything it could to prevent it from heading down into your stomach. A tingling was left in your throat, and by the time you had taken your third bite, something rotten inside you was burning. You covered your mouth with your hand, setting down your fork and taking several minutes trying to get to the bottom of how this dessert was so…awful. So many conflicting senses sent your mind swirling. While you weren’t exactly a gourmand, you could tell that Infernal, Mortal, and Holy ingredients were used. Each profile conflicted the other, and quite like the people of each realm themselves, they were fighting to stand on their own. Rather than blend together smoothly to create a robust experience, it tasted as if you had taken a bite of several different meals and chowed down on them at the same time. Fighting each other even culinarily… You would almost be tempted to sit back and think of it poetically if it wasn’t seconds away from coming back up and defiling these graves.

The human beside you mindlessly took more of the cake and swallowed several more bites. Fascination and horror roused within you. It seemed that rather than tasting it, Beel was swallowing the chunks whole, more focused on filling up his stomach than savoring the treat. If you could even call it such a thing. But eventually, he came to his senses, reaching the same conclusion you did, setting down his fork and giving you an awkward side glance. He cleared his throat and searched his mind for the proper words to give. “This is…uh…” He hesitated to even lick his lips for fear of picking up more remnant of the taste.

“Horrible,” you finished for him.

Beel’s face turned apologetic. “I appreciate you taking the time to…make this—“

The words nearly broke you out in a cold sweat. It’s not that you felt you needed to upkeep your reputation for a human, but there was no way on the devil’s scorched earth that you were going to be associated with this dining disaster. “No!” The desperation to your own voice caught you off guard. “I mean, I didn’t make it. A…” You would say acquaintance, even coworker, but now you were wondering if Solomon was in fact an enemy. Olive branch, he said. More like declaration of war. An assassination attempt. Did he do this on purpose to make you look bad in front of the humans you were supposed to protect? Was there some secret message behind the venom inside the cream? “Someone I know made it… I…” Why were you suddenly so flustered? So embarrassed? You were a demon for sin’s sake! You could simply kill a human for looking at you with a crooked eye! Yet, it was probably because of the way this Morningstar was looking at you that had you so thrown off. Like he was appreciative of the cake even though it was perhaps the most inedible thing he had ever held in his hands. Like he would keep eating it if you asked him to, his fingers already brushing against the utensil like he was waiting for your approval. Was he really so gluttonous as to be ready to eat even if it made him sick, even if it killed him? Why? To please you? No, it didn’t quite seem like that. He was kind, yes, but he wasn’t a doormat. Something in him was starving. Something past his mouth, past his stomach, settled all the way into the depths of his soul was clawing at him from the inside. You knew this sensation too. This emptiness.

Guilt.

Hopelessness.

Loss.

The food he was eating was another distraction. Just like Mammon’s shimmering trinkets and Levi’s flashing lights, Beel allowed himself to get absorbed in his own form of self comfort. Each brother seemed to be engulfed in their own little world, swallowed up by their sin and just barely keeping their head afloat. These humans were all drowning, one hand outstretched, waiting for someone to pull them to safety…

You reached over and closed the lid to the take-out box, half tempted to set it ablaze to ensure it would be purified to ashes. However, aside from the fact that it might cause the human to panic, you had to wonder what sort of dangers the toxins in the air would cause… You’d have to dispose of it cleverly. Perhaps manage to open a rift into outer darkness and chuck it where even the fates couldn’t reach. You stood up.

“You don’t have to throw it away.” Beel reached out, almost appearing a bit panicked. This surprised you. You had assumed that this behavior was caused by the death of his sister, but suddenly you had the sense that this was a deep-seeded issue, something that had been with him for a while, exacerbated with Lilith’s passing. The human managed to read your confusion, shifting uncomfortably as he could feel your analyzing thoughts. “I don’t like anything to go to waste,” he explained. “I don’t remember too much of my life before Lucifer brought me home, but…” Beel searched for the words, the memories painful, but still managing to smile. “Every crumb is precious to me. You never know how long it’ll be before you can eat again.”

There was a stirring inside you, and not just the concoction in your stomach. You turned your head up, trying to look past the pollution to see the stars. Something about his sad words poked at old memories. Faded messages from someone your soul refused to forget. What was it they used to say?

“Every second is precious to me. You never know when it will be your last.”

Humans were so fragile. And yet, somehow they continued to thrive. Through war and despair and starvation and destruction they struggle and fight to survive. Even if doing so only adds mere seconds to their lives, they will spill blood to claim those last few seconds.

Greedy things.

Had they fought for more precious seconds right before the end?…

You snapped yourself out of your daze. “Trust me, you’re not wasting anything by not eating this.” The box tucked under your arm, your other hand grabbing Beel’s outstretched hand to help him up. “The sun will be rising soon, we should probably get back before people start waking up.”

A surprising warmth flooded your body as Beel’s hand slipped into yours. He got to his feet before his touch dropped from yours, hurrying back into the pockets of his jacket. He looked down at Lilith’s grave and nodded. “Talk to you soon… I’ll bring Belphie with me next time, I promise.” Silence lingered over the graveyard for moment before he gestured for you to follow him. “We can get out this way.”

The human walked a few steps away from you, your own feet prepared to follow before a faint whisper echoed behind you. It was quiet, so much so, you almost convinced yourself it had been the wind. But even so, the familiar tone to the voice immediately brought tears to your eyes. You turned, almost calling out an old name before the sensation you felt faded. Your hand pressed over a panging in your chest, an old wound that tempted to tear back open. Before you could think anything of it, you brushed it aside as you hearing things. Madness. Auditory hallucinations probably brought about by the unknown ingredients in the cake Solomon made. You had been thinking about them a lot more than usual lately, and now your mind was conjuring up things. That was all. You glanced down at Lilith’s grave.

It was strangely peaceful here.

“Something wrong?”

You turned your head back at Beel before shaking it. “Just hearing things.” In a few steps, you were at his side. As you stood directly next to him, you couldn’t help but stare at him. Something felt…off, but you couldn’t quite discern what it was. A certain detail was different enough for you to notice, but not obvious enough to place. Like how you can tell someone had disturbed a room you’d walked into, but not being able to figure out what had been touched.

Where most people might’ve been off-put by your staring, he simply held your gaze, raising an eyebrow. The longer you looked, the more a little blush seemed to form on his cheeks. He rubbed at the corner of his lips and found a stray dab of frosting, wiping it away on his pants. “Did I get it?” He asked, assuming he’d discovered what you were observing. Letting it go for the time being, you nodded, but something was still bothering you.

The human began to lead you towards the direction you both had come in. Unlike his other two brothers you’d made pacts with, either he wasn’t the particularly curious type, or he knew when to keep questions to himself. He didn’t bother prodding further on how you’d found him or how you knew how to sneak inside or even how you knew he left. He was only focused on getting you two out of there. Near the inside of the fence was a little bush, Beel headed towards it and pulled out a green plastic milk crate. He pushed it towards the perimeter and stood on top of it, bending his knees a little and waving you over. “Here, I’ll help you over.” He laced his hands together and again encouraged you to get closer to him.

It wouldn’t do to simply jump over like usual. So, playing along like a proper human, you placed your foot in his palms. He held you carefully, raising you up and letting you kneel on his shoulders. All the while worrying over you to be careful. You pretended to struggle pulling yourself over, entertaining yourself as you hit the ground on the other side. Beel rushed over, leaping over in such a frenzy, his jacket sleeve tore a little on one of the metal pickets. He nearly fully scooped you up off the ground, picking you up by the small of your back and settling you back on your feet.

“Are you okay?” He worried over you, and while you didn’t particularly care for humans, the attention had the end of your hidden tail twitch. You touched at the fabric of his sleeve with a little frown, wondering if you had taken your act a little too far. Even as you were fiddling with it, he didn’t fret over it. “You’re not hurt or anything?”

“I’m alright,” you responded bluntly, walking a bit down the sidewalk. You approached a public bin and promptly threw the box containing the cake away. You heard Beel strut up behind you, moaning a bit at even just the thought of what it tasted like. “I need to go home and eat something to get rid of that flavor… I should still have that pudding left.” He began to go on a little ramble, daydreaming about different treats. The mood seemed to brighten as he went over his list of snacks he would be consuming as soon as he got his hands on them. His feet began moving as his mind trailed away. Then he stopped, looking over his shoulder at you. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Actually…” You looked down the opposite direction, down the street. “There’s something I’m going to check on first.”

“Oh. Alright. Be safe, okay? Weird things have been happening at night lately. Lucifer keeps pestering us to stay inside. And then of course, he stays out himself…” While almost everyone mentioned their older brother with a bit of anger, Beel only harbored concern and admiration when he spoke of Lucifer. Rather than getting hung up on his older brother again, he moved on from the subject. “Thanks for checking on me… You’re pretty nice. I see why Mammon and Levi like you. See you later.” Without another word, he turned away from you, walking along the streets that would take him back to the house. You stood in place and waited till his frame dissipated in the darkness.

A sigh left your lungs. Your stomach rumbled in a little bit of pain.

“Lucifer…”

Even from the sidewalk across the street from the building, you could pinpoint the window to Lucifer’s office. The light was faint, but still active nonetheless. With a slight roll to your eyes, you approached the front doors, grasping the long and golden vertical handle. It rattled. Locked. With a huff, you took a step back. Of course this was just a waste of time. Why did you think coming here was a good idea anyway? Was it the look on Beel’s worried face? Were you so easily persuaded by a human you had hardly come to know? A swift turn of your feet had you pointing in the direction where you had just come from. But something stopped you. Not quite a voice like before, but like a guided thought, one that didn’t quite feel like your own. It sent a shiver down your spine, bringing about the sensation of deja vu, the same phenomenon you felt earlier just as you were leaving the graveyard. A series of emotions that you roughly translated.

Check on him, please.

A heavy growl left your lungs as you rounded the building to try to find access in through the back. A ripple crossed over your body, shielding your body from view, feeling the comfort that came from not being perceived. You couldn’t stay here for long. You already made a promise to your pact-mates and Simeon that you’d conserve your magic where you could. Even now you were almost trudging your feet, worn out. As you rounded the corner of the structure, you suddenly froze. Magic that was not your own flooded the alley. It was strong, every weave working to repel you from this place. If it weren’t for Solomon’s charm, you might’ve even been pushed all the way back down to the Devildom. It zapped your strength, stirring the remains of the poison in your stomach.

Just across the way from you, leaving the alley from the opposite direction, was a tall man. The source of the magic rang out from his aura, the remains of a spell twinkling off his hands. Was it him? Was he the one going around and protecting this place? Was he the one guarding the Morningstar home as well? Why? Even with the coat across his shoulders, you could tell his build was wide and statuesque. Striking red hair swayed in the breeze and caught the rays of the peeking sunrise, making his presence blaze for a single moment before he turned out of view and sauntered off. You raised an eyebrow, tempted to follow, but giving up on that desire rather quickly. You’d stalked enough human men today. Still… who was he?

The spell hummed in your ears, refusing to leave anytime soon, almost convincing you to give up on Lucifer entirely. But with a silent grumble, you stepped further in to check the back door. Unsurprisingly, it was also locked, but you expected as much. It would simply be easier to break in from here. Rather than use a key like normal people, it seemed that these little number-pads were the way to grant access around here. A quiet demonic spell was chanted in the base of your throat, sparks dancing between your fingertips. You pressed your hand against the numbers and listened to the internal mechanism fry. It chirped as it died and glared at you with a little red eye. For a moment, you wondered if you’d have to resort to breaking in the door or a window. But then just before your hopes of destruction got too high, the eye turned green as you heard a click. You put the brick back down. Whoever put that stupid warding magic here didn’t think everything all the way through, did they?

You smugly entered the building, wandering through the back room and out into the main lobby. You paced around for a little while until you found the metal plating that you recently learned was called an elevator. Humans found the strangest ways to make things easier for them. Normally you’d avoid the flimsy metal box, but part of it fascinated you. You tapped at the buttons and had to restrain yourself from eagerly hitting all of them just to watch them light up and make a satisfying bing. The doors opened and you stepped inside, selecting the floor you knew Lucifer’s office was located.

As the elevator lurched upward, so did your stomach. Everything seemed to swirl around you for a few agonizing seconds, some sort of motion sickness overtaking your senses. The base of your throat clenched as you worked to keep yourself sick. Every muscle in your body tensed. You focused entirely on keeping yourself hidden. The doors opened, the movement stopped, but the sensation didn’t. You crawled your way out of the elevator, trying not to gasp in pain. Working on your breathing, fighting against your own body to settle down.

That cake was doing something to you…

The current wave of sickness passed, a faint tingling sparking through your body. You shuffled your way up to your feet, holding onto the end of some random desk.

The office was empty. Almost every light turned off except for a few. Lucifer’s office was illuminated. His door was wide open…

Panic. Anxiety. You hobbled forward, doing your best to stay silent as you sprinted towards his office door. There had been something odd about the whole thing. You should’ve followed your gut. Maybe that other human had done something. Maybe they weren’t being protected at all… Maybe something had happened. Was he—

As you burst silently into the room, you had to cover your mouth to hold in your breath. The eldest Morningstar was face-down on his desk, hand limply holding a pen. The screen of his computer was still lit up, in the middle of some project. No. No, no, no… You approached his body with a tight chest, imagining the look on his brother’s faces if you had to come home with bad news. Imagining the reprimand you’d get from Simeon once he found out the human had been harmed. Your adventure was over just as you felt like it was starting. You didn’t smell any blood, and you didn’t sense any other magic aside from the human’s from earlier. Careful fingers touched the side of his neck.

Lucifer’s head shot up.

Instinct kicked in before you could stop yourself. Luckily, instead of tearing him to shreds, you simply pushed him, sending him out of his chair and onto the floor. He groaned sleepily, sitting up and grasping the sides of his head. Clearly he was dazed and confused…and perhaps a bit hungover. The smell of human alcohol was now clear.

He had simply passed out.

Your teeth gritted, hands held in front of you in a choking motion, imagining yourself fully throttling him by his scrawny little neck for getting you…unnaturally…perturbed. Then you covered your face, exasperated at yourself for getting so caught up in random emotions.

Lucifer reached up to press his palm against his desktop, clearly exerting himself trying to stand.

It would be…so easy to push him over right now.

You were ready to do it, only two seconds away from sweeping his leg before you heard some sort of shuddering gasp as he settled himself on his feet. The eldest of humans, the biggest pain in the tail you’d come to meet, the man you wouldn’t even want to talk to in your dreams… was on the verge of tears. You took a single step back to observe him slumping back into his office chair, rasping out a curse, looking at his phone and the time and his work before leaning forward and placing his face in his hands.

Now you simply felt…maybe a small bit of repentance. Guilty for being so tempted to quite literally kick a man while he was down. Turning your head to avoid looking at him, you took the steps to walk back out of his office. Past the receptionist’s desk and around the corner of the cubicles, you had remembered seeing a small nook that resembled a mini kitchen; cabinets and a fridge and whatnot. You headed off in that direction and began to rifle through a few things. It didn’t take you too long before you found an empty paper cup. One jaunt over to the nearby water dispenser, and you snuck back towards the office.

Lucifer was in the same position as before, and it was difficult for you to tell if he was crying or simply processing his inebriated thoughts. While his eyes were covered, you settled the cup of water down beside the empty shot-glass. You were really pushing your luck with this, but… you were entitled to do something after pushing him over. This was just making up for that. You didn’t want to owe anything to Lucifer. Now you were even.

Spotting the couch again, you sat down, leaning back and keeping yourself from sighing as you looked out the window.

Great. Now you could relate to this asshole. How infuriating.

“Hm?” Half-lidded eyes finally were free from his hands as he noticed the paper cup before him. Befuddled, he picked it up and smelled it, probably wondering if he’d poured himself another shot. The way he arched his eyebrow almost had you chuckling. “When did I…?” He was clearly quite perplexed. Although, after rubbing his eyes and his forehead for several minutes, he somehow came to the conclusion that he’d gotten it himself. He downed the water quickly with a groan, staring at his computer screen. Any normal being at this point would quit for the day, finding some way to hobble home. This…muddle of a man left you stupefied as he defied all reason, ignored all good sense as he stood, rubbing the back of his head, clearly ready to get back to work. “I need more coffee…”

As he left his office, staggering as he tipped left and right, you kept yourself from scoffing. You had to be kidding. What kind of idiotic, self-sabotaging, prideful moron would go so far as to isolate himself and—

Wait.

No. No this was not the same! Not the same thing. He was a human, it was different! This wasn’t about pride, this was about… something totally unrelated! You and Lucifer were so far from each other, you… you…

You couldn’t think of a proper dispute for yourself.

Maybe it was true… Maybe you were alike, in some aspects. Pushing others away to save face, only to hurt yourself in the process. Pushing yourself to the brink of death just to…to what, prove a point?

What was it you were trying to prove anymore?… You couldn't remember...

Lucifer seemed fine. Well, alive and walking at least. Safe for the moment. You stood up once more, satisfied and frustrated with the events that had just taken place. All you’d come out here for was to show the little voice in the back of your head that the human was unharmed. Now you’d just… go back home— to the home. The Morningstar home. Not your home. Your home was in the Devildom.

Oof. Your thoughts were getting all sorts of jumbled, weren’t they? Sweat started to bead down your forehead. The droplets were cold. Too cold. Like you were much too hot… That was weird.

An intense cramp ran through your entire body, your muscles seized up, your frame crumpling to the floor. For a moment you writhed, reaching out to pull yourself forward, but missing the furniture. It squeaked harshly as you ended up pushing it away from you instead. Panting, gasping, you nearly left claw marks in the flooring as you grasped it again, pulling yourself up to your knees.

The noise alerted the human approaching the office, coming back in as adrenaline rushed through his veins. You could only pray he didn’t see you. Covering your mouth, you held back a scream as another throb forced your vision to go blurry.

Don’t…get…found out…

Crawling behind the shelter of the couch, you forced the sick to stay in your body.

“Who’s there?!”

Hide…Hide away from it all…Then you won’t…

…

A messed up swirl of colors crossed your vision. You reached out a hand and rolled over onto your stomach before collapsing again. By the next time you opened your eyes, even if it felt like only a second, you could tell time had passed. It was a bit brighter now, although wherever you were was still blanketed by shade. Every limb in your body felt weak. Fully opening your eyelids might as well have been like asking you to climb from the lower ring of hell all the way to the tallest tier in heaven in under seven minutes. It took several more attempts before you could press your hands to your head. It took even longer to finally sit up.

You felt like death. Which was rather hilarious considering just the other day you had nearly actually died. Whatever this was felt worse. Every breath you took made you queasy. For too many minutes, you assumed you were back in the Devildom, waking up to the worst hangover you’d had in your vast life. But then the memories slowly started to trickle in. Although there was a very clear black spot in your memory. The last thing you remembered, you had snuck into Lucifer’s office. And now you were… Where were you exactly? Everything was a blur. Blinking didn’t exactly clear up your vision.

This didn’t look like an office. Didn’t look like anywhere…

A long roof covered your head, but this room had no walls, letting light from the outside flood in at all sides. A pergola of some kind? There was no furniture in this place either, just clear floor in all directions around you. Odd. Your limbs fumbled around for a while, struggling to stand up, and once you were on the flats of your feet, it was even harder to stand straight. Slowly, you carefully wobbled your way towards one of the open entrances to try and figure out just where in the three realms you ended up in.

Light flashed across your eyes as you stepped out of the shade. A headache throbbed through your temples as you blinked spots away. Looking in front of you, you saw a field of tall grey grass. Wait… grey grass? Were you seeing things? Looking up you noticed a… white not-so-blue sky. In fact, it looked more like a high ceiling. And a ways away on the other side of the field was a dark brown, almost black building settled next to a giant oddly shaped mountain, that sort of resembled a—

Oh… Oh no. Saints and Sinners alike, say it wasn’t so. No!

A hand clasped over your lips as you stumbled back into the dark, losing your balance and falling to the floor. Both panic and shaky legs kept you from standing up quite yet. You remained hidden in the shadows of the cover overhead, peering out into the open space with clenched teeth. This was a dream. A horrid nightmare in fact. It had been several ancient years since you ever remembered having something akin to a nightmare, but this had to be one of them. A cold chill covered every inch of your skin. You felt clammy. Nauseated. Unable to breathe. Calm, you had to tell yourself. If you freak out too much, you will be sick.

Sick. Right! You had been poisoned. Did he— Did that—

Did Solomon’s messed up cake shrink you?!

Dread began to swirl with anger. When you… When you managed to get your hands on that pesky little angel, you would— Not the time. You could fantasize fondly about that later. Right now, you had to fix this. But… how? How would you undo this? This didn’t feel like any regular hex that an enchantment would reverse. If you had ingested this… it stood to reason you needed an antidote. Wait! Beel… Beel had consumed the cake too… Was he in the same position as you? If he was, he was probably freaking out right now. Had he made it home?! Or was he now outside, completely vulnerable. Bite sized for whatever demon wanted a Morningstar snack… Or what if it did something worse to him? He was only a human after all… What if he… You tugged at your hair a bit as your tail thrashed behind you.

This was bad. Really bad. Truly and utterly terrible.

Order of operations… To find Beel, you needed an antidote. To get an antidote, you needed to get ahold of Simeon or Solomon. You felt around your clothes, feeling your pockets for your phone. Nothing. It seemed whatever magic was at play here kept you clothed, but didn’t shrink your phone with you…Solomon’s charm was still there too. You wouldn’t question how that worked. Don’t think too deeply into how magic works. Just don’t. Please. It would be a waste of energy you couldn’t afford to lose. If this was still Lucifer’s office, and you collapsed in here, your device should still be somewhere here…

Walking forward tepidly, you peeked out from the cover that you’d come to the devastating conclusion was the underside of the couch. If you had to guess, right now you were probably no bigger than the average index finger… Lucifer was no longer at his desk. His office door closed. However, the glow from the monitor was still on, and his black leather business bag was still slumped against the floor. He was still in the building somewhere, which meant you had to be careful. For, as much as you were trying, you couldn’t cloak right now… Or hide your demon form. If someone caught you…if someone caught Beel… As your pact mates would say it: Game Over.

You rushed out from under the couch to scan the office for your phone. You checked the rug, against the walls, by the window, under the desk, but nothing. Lucifer must’ve found it… Now you’d have to try to answer how your phone wound up in his office… and hells, the couch! He’d seen it move! What if he connected your phone to… First you’d have to worry about finding Beel and getting back to normal. If you had no way to contact the others, you’d have to figure out how to get home. If you could get back to Mammon and Levi, they could contact Simeon or Solomon for you, and then the hunt for Beel could start. But how would you make it all the way back to the house?…

There was only one clear solution to that. Lucifer.

If you could tuck yourself into his work bag, you could probably escape undetected. But you couldn’t just wait around for him to decide to go home, not when Beel’s life was at stake! You would have to figure out a way to send Lucifer home now. But how?…

Pacing around back and forth only served to make you dizzy. You leaned heavily against one of the couch’s legs. Get him to stop working…get him to stop work… Wait, work! His work! Destroy his addiction! Can’t keep working if there’s no work to work on! You would stop saying work now.

Jogging over to his desk, you spotted a single long black cord poking through a little hole in the wood. The lifeline of the computer. Controlled by more feral thoughts than usual, you ran over to it and sunk your teeth into it, tugging till the cord snapped. A fierce jolt ran through your body as the electricity sparked for a moment, but then you shook it off. Stepping out from under the desk and looking up, you noticed the monitor had gone black. Perfect.

The door latch clicked.

Scrambling, you bolted towards Lucifer’s bag. You wriggled yourself under the leather flap only to discover it was mostly decorative. The bag itself was still closed with a zipper. But for the moment you were hidden, working hard to keep your horns from puncturing through the thing.

You heard the door fully open as the familiar click of Lucifer’s steady cadence struck the ground. “…and all I need to do is plug it into the computer?” His voice held firm, not like he had sounded when you found him blacked out at his desk. Vibrations ran through your body as he stepped closer and sat at his desk. Frantic tapping at his keyboard could be heard before he held back a curse. His fist hit the desk. “It’s not working, it’s… Hold on. You’ve got to be kidding me…” He must’ve discovered your little act of sabotage.

All the while, you had found the tag to the zipper, both hands clutched around it as you slowly pulled it back, making no noise. Once an opening was large enough for you to slip through- which in this scenario, wasn’t very much- you tucked yourself inside. It was rather packed in here…not only did you have to worry about getting discovered, but now you were worried about being squashed between thick binders and files and who knows what else. You tried to hole yourself inside a pocket to keep yourself out of view. And now you could only blasphemously pray to not be found. If angels were listening to your pleas, you hoped that cursed cherub was listening to every personal thought and comment you had to say about this predicament. Maybe if you thought hard enough, his ears would burn off.

“The computer…it’s fine, I can access it at home.”

Yes!

“Just connect it to my computer, open the email you sent me, and you swear this will unlock the phone?”

…Wait…

“Under usual circumstances, I’d tell you to mind your business. But in this case, I feel like it’s fair to say it’s from the same person you’ve failed to run a background on.”

…Shit.

“Don’t you think it’s rather pathetic for me to have to do your job for you? You better hope this little ‘key’ of yours doesn’t disappoint me as well.” Lucifer huffed as it appeared he ended the call early. You could nearly feel the rage and frustration rippling off of him as he addressed his broken computer, pushing his chair back and letting it roll and hit against the back wall. Your whole world was rocked as the bag was picked up off the floor. “Utterly ridiculous… Losing my mind…” You heard the human mutter.

What an absolutely, utterly, terribly, impossibly horrible human! And to think, you’d almost felt some small modicum of… pity for him! You’d checked on him and made sure he was okay, and this was how he was treating you now? Trying to break into your phone?!

Sweat seemed to bead more down your face. The jostling of the bag wasn’t helping your current weakened condition. And now you were running cold with panic. If Lucifer got into your phone… you can’t even recall what you had written down over text… Did you mention you were a demon? He’d see those texts from Simeon… No…you couldn’t let him do that.

Lucifer continued to walk quickly, making his way through his work building with top speed. A car door opened. Then your mind flipped and the personal hell of your own making roughly hit something and tumbled. More agony flooded your body as all the air was pushed out of your lungs, feeling crushed in all directions. He’d really just thrown you in the car, didn’t he? Ouch… You had to struggle to keep your consciousness. There was too much at stake to simply pass out now, no matter how tempting the sweet darkness was.

Find Beel, unshrink yourself, and now keeping Lucifer from figuring you out…

Hells…how could this little nightmare get any worse?

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[jurijyuu]

Scratch an Itch Chapter 27: Fool Me Once

Link to full chapter on AO3

Ynna’s POV

Two days. You hadn’t left your room in two days. Hunger, both regular and infernal, gnawed at your insides as you sat curled in a ball by your window. While Charlie and Angel brought you food, you ignored their concerned urging. This was punishment, after all. Punishment for your foolishness, for trusting so freely, for taking Alastor’s sudden interest in you for granted in the beginning. 

For still wishing you could hear his soft old timey music and humming white noise right now.

God, you’re pathetic.

You should have known when he struck that deal that he didn’t view you as any exception to his tricks. No. You knew. You just chose to ignore it. Alastor had always been a psychopath, willing to undermine and torture others for the sake of entertainment. Beneath the seemingly effortless charm lay a monster and just because he moved with grace and breathtaking elegance, considerate and attentive care with you, it didn’t mean that he couldn’t turn his monstrosity against you still.

You should have known when he gave you that blood potion, created from self-harm just so he could lessen your pain. What it symbolized, a selflessness within that sociopathic mind, allowed you to accept his twisted nature so long as he sincerely cared about you. But he never cared, did he? Not truly. Not enough to put the sanctity of your body over his ever hungry craving for something to stimulate his sick mind. 

You understood all this now, in the calm after all your tears had been cried. While most of the fault lay with the one who conspired against you, it was also fair to share some of the blame for being too naive and trusting. However, understanding all of this didn’t stop the deep-seated anger and sadness that he cut into your heart with each dish he admitted to tampering. In fact, it only made it worse.

A laughing smile and a wink as he delivered the punchline. A light nudge to make sure you didn’t step on shit. The unforgiving curve of his back as sharp eyes smirked at you.

Pathetic.

Leaning against the cool window pane, your faint reflection mimicked your sighs. Maybe if you sat under the windowsill, you could grow roots and survive the rest of eternity on water and photosynthesis. That seemed fitting since it was your stupid mouth that got you into this mess.

Alastor’s POV

It was only the second day of Ynna’s self-imposed isolation but he already ran out of excuses to pass by her doorway just to see if this time, he could chance upon her emerging. Only a little over 48 hours and his promise to wait for her already seemed a bite too big for him to chew. And yes, he had meant to use a food-related saying. Food and dining were all he could think of when it became clear that Ynna was not only rejecting everyone’s company, but she was also rejecting her meals.

As an individual who shared his love of food, starving herself was too drastic of a move. Even when it made her queasy, the goat would still eat because her appetite wasn’t one to be ignored. It was one of the things he adored about her. Was she rejecting her meals because he was the one who cooked them? The thought stung more than it should have though her lack of trust in his entrees and snacks was understandable.

He tried not to fret, not to appear to be fretting. Not in front of the princess and her worried questions or Vaggie and her angry accusations. He had no desire to share details of their quarrel to anyone. It was just that he heavily disapproved of this act of self-harm. 

He stared at the closed door for another moment, seeing the shadows subtly move in the crack under the doorway. She was still in there, moving about, pacing, it seemed. There was that, at least. She hadn’t thought to run away or get drunk out of her mind again. She still seemed healthy enough from what little he could gather without crossing anymore of her boundaries. It would be so easy to send his shadow to watch her but that would be another invasion upon her that he couldn’t afford. 

Perhaps, tomorrow; tomorrow he could see his dearest.

[sweetlittleelf]

Okay so like a Deal with the Devil type luxury sex object prison situation

Thank you so much for asking this 💖💖 This one is explicit, all the usual warnings that come with Luxury Sex Object Prison, as well as some pet play and a bit of size difference kink.

okay, so, I'm picturing Jace is the one who's injured. which has always been a possibility for him, he's a solo adventurer and he has no healing spells of his own. he's always been aware this could happen, he stocks up on potions and he does his best to not get hit. Blur, Haste, Mirror Image, they're all his friends. but one day he's fighting this huge creature, a monstrosity, like a Behir, if Behirs grew to fifty feet long, if their fangs dripped venom, if they moved fast enough to make the air ripple around them. Jace gets bitten, and, on a childish impulse, uses his last Teleport to teleport home

which is so, so stupid of him. home. not to a hospital, not to a healer, but home. where there's no one there to hear him collapse onto the living room floor, no one to see him as he clutches at his side, trying desperately to stem the bleeding. there's no one he can call who will get there in time. he's woozy and in pain and he can feel the venom setting in. he knows he doesn't have long. there's a book on his shelf that he thinks might help, remembers reading something about devil's making deals. he can't even stand up to grab it, he has to Mage Hand it over, has to use the mage hand to open it to the right page. the book says to make the sigil with chalk, but he isn't sure that there's any in the house, doesn't know that he owns any. His hand is already slick with his own blood, he's sure he can use that for the sigil. Jace traces it onto the floor and manages to say the words before he passes out.

a voice in the darkness. You're dying. I can heal you, but if I do, you'll belong to me. Do you want this life?

Jace wakes up and there's a demon standing over him. The demon is fifteen feet tall, horned and winged, a reptilian tail lazily swishing behind him. He looks like he could tear Jace apart with his bare hands, and he is devastatingly handsome. His name is Porter and when Jace drew that sigil, he signed himself over to him. Their contract ends when Jace dies, and if Porter has anything to say about it, that won't happen for a very long time. Jace asks if that makes him Porter's warlock or servant or something.

"Oh, no. Pretty little thing like you? It makes you my pet."

Porter whisks Jace away to the infernal planes, and Jace finds himself collared and chained, usually kept kneeling at Porter's feet. Porter wasn't joking when he called Jace a pet. He treats him like a novelty, like a thing to be paraded around and shown off in front of other demons.

("Look at this little mortal I found! Look how pretty he is! Look at the tricks he can do!")

Jace hates it, hates the condescension, hates the way his spellcasting is seen as cute, hates the way Porter insists on feeding him by hand, from his own plate. He tries running away, tries escaping, and the punishments he receives are terrible, painful, Porter whipping or burning the soles of his feet and leaving him unable to walk for days. But then, while he's recovering, Porter is so soft with him and treats him so gently. Says he hopes Jace understands why Porter had to do that. It wasn't because he wanted to, it was because Jace forced him. And he holds Jace close and soothes him when he cries from the pain of it all.

Jace hates the way he leans into Porter's touches. He hates the way his heart flutters whenever Porter looks his way and smiles, hates how genuinely good it feels when Porter lifts him onto his lap and strokes his hair. Hates how excited he gets when Porter gives him a gentle, chaste kiss on the temple.

The escape attempts get rarer and rarer, as Jace stops scheming ways to break this contract and get back to the material plane, and starts scheming ways to get into Porter's bed. It's been so long since he's had any action and if he really is going to be stuck here for the rest of his life, he's at least going to enjoy himself.

It doesn't take a lot for Porter to realize what his new pet wants, and he is more than happy to oblige. As a demon, he's huge, so at first he only lets Jace use his hands. He doesn't want to break Jace, after all. It takes both of them to properly wrap around Porter's cock, and Jace spends a lot of nights stroking him to completion, letting Porter finish over his face, the whole time begging for Porter to please fuck him, he can take it, he wants it so badly, he needs it. By the time Porter finally fucks Jace, he's so eager, so desperate, that he comes twice on Porter's fingers before his cock is even introduced. It's such a stretch, Jace thinks he might not be able to take it, but eventually it pushes in and Jace feels so wonderfully full. Porter finishes inside him, over and over, until his stomach is distended with cum. He finally pulls out, leaving Jace exhausted and barely able to move, leaking cum over the bed.

And that's just... what Jace's life is from that point on. Porter's pet, used and fucked whenever Porter feels the urge, no matter where they are or who else is with them. He's kept brainless and fucked out, and he's such a well behaved boy, Porter treats him so well, barely ever has to punish him.

[ladyhindsight]

So, God definitely exists and Lilith is having her own fashion show whenever she appears. That’s cool. Anyway. It has taken ages to even summon any will power to finish the book, the whole year so far has been personal chaos, but now as the storm has ceased and I had couple days off to just lay down on my sofa to power through this monstrosity, all I am left with is a major what the fuck. Expectations were close to zero and Chain of Thorns still went right under it.

Just minutes before I finally finished Chain of Thorns and I don’t even know what it all was for. The major things holding this story together is everyone’s damn pride and fear of being pitied—obstacles which all of them have to overcome. James and Cordelia are both too proud to be pitied, but narrative-wise there is this perpetual pity party going on. All this ruminating over Things That Never Were and Stuff That Is Forever out of Reach is just whole lot of words for whole lot of nothing, especially when the ending to their relationship is nothing if not predictable. The purple prose doesn’t make me feel anything, doesn’t resonate with me on any level, and I can’t connect to it because in the grand scheme of the story, it is based on false perception created by the unwillingness to be truthful. In the end, all that angst and wondering about the feelings at every turn, it is a waste of time.

Every character is so driven by their self-loathing, seriously bordering on self-pity, and pride that all their motivations blur into the same mess. The unwillingness to be truthful, powered by the pride of each character, is the force for which the plot can even reach the points it wants. Clare truly is a master of creating this endless but absolutely done-to-death emotional circle she just keeps recycling in every trilogy she manages to publish. Writing is the same as ever, dialogue is a pathway to always just tell things, it’s also hand-holding and over-bearing: “It seems the Inquisitor has hurt his right arm.” “He was branded on his arm by Belial.” “So that’s why he was holding it like it hurt!” No shit?! Stop it. On a positive note, I think the series is more emotionally aware and intelligent compared to The Mortal Instruments and even The Infernal Devices, where the emotional awareness only encompassed Clary, Jace, Will, Jem, and Tessa. Not completely without its grievances, but when are these books ever?

The plot served its purpose, I guess. Cordelia becoming a paladin of Lilith served its role in saving James and defeating Belial. Others had their own stories and relationships but were helpful and sometimes integral for the story to progress. It’d be otherwise fine if the book didn’t forget the actual plot for a major part of its duration and exchanged it for useless inter-character dramatics and constant cliffhangers. Additionally, it’s just that the whole Watcher thing (like the Grigori?) was clear from miles away. Whenever Clare introduces a new but a very basic element to the Shadowhunter world THAT SHOULD HAVE EXISTED ALREADY and explains it through a character (this time Cordelia), it’s a dead giveaway. So the tease They wake + the Iron Tombs = waiting two thirds of the book for the characters to catch up with you. The story is so infected with repetitive narrative, drama and self-loathing, pseudo-profound ponderings on love and pride, and I am sick of even thinking about any of it.

Maybe one day I have something else to say about the book in general, but not today. My brain has once again been obliterated. So, as usual, some thoughts and notes and more in-depth grievances:

CORDELIA CARSTAIRS AND JAMES HERONDALE. They come together, because I have no coherent thoughts about James or Cordelia. They were there and did their protagonist duties. Of course there was a love triangle. Blah, blah. I just didn’t like Cordelia in this installment as much as the previous ones. Maybe her pride took so much center stage that her previous kindness and compassion were overshadowed by it and self-righteousness. Her bravery is no longer bravery but same thoughtlessness of every other Clare heroine. James was there, hoorah. No, but seriously. James’ trauma was so in-depth analyzed and told, his feeling of pain and anguish and anger relished in so much that the writing was incapable of coming up with anything new to say instead of regurgitating same things over and over again. Also, Cordelia was constantly aware of James’ bracelet when he wore it, but never mentioned it once he stopped wearing it for good?

THOMAS LIGHTWOOD AND ALASTAIR CARSTAIRS. They worked out, yay. Don’t know why they love each other, but okay. Their romance was a nice and carrying force through some bleak scenes in the book. Alastair becoming more open and comfortable in showing affection was lovely. Turned out great.

ANNA LIGHTWOOD AND ARI BRIDGESTOCK. See the above. Same sentiments. But much like with Thomas and Alastair, most of the development happened in this final instalment and pretty hastily too. And like the above pair, I feel like a lot of the progress came with transforming the characters into unrecognizable version of themselves too quickly. I was happy that Ari was able to connect with her mother again and Flora could flourish (lol) without the stifling presence of her husband, but I also feel like I’ve seen this setting where a bad and homophobic husband and father gets a metaphorical kick to his ass and goes away in order for the life to be better for his family without him.

LUCIE HERONDALE. Lucie was generally great. No hard feelings. It’s a bit contrived that it is precisely the canoodling of Jesse that brings her closer to the dead, but whatever. Love that her weapon of choice is an ax.

MATTHEW FAIRCHILD. Matthew’s story ends on a somber note. While Matthew definitely was not one of my favorite characters, I hoped he could’ve had something more to him than James and Cordelia. His journey to sobriety continues, which was great that it wasn’t over just like that, but the reason for his drinking was such a huge thing that was carried throughout the books, so it was disappointing to see it quickly addressed in the epilogue. Matthew deserved more than a hasty redemption in the end.

CHARLES FAIRCHILD. There are other people that are dying, Charles!! is what I am left with. I am absolutely aghast how Charles’ character was treated. I can’t believe that Clare still managed to write one more let’s push this character out of the closet because it is The Right Thing to Do scenario in her books. Charles has to brave the world and lose what he has to lose because his dreams and aspirations, according to the narrative, are worth nothing because he is more privileged than other people. Charles coming out with his sexuality is set against the choice of standing with or against his family as if there was no other way to solve this but guilt Charles into doing the right thing so he can’t be blackmailed anymore. Nobody cares, your family loves you—then what are the stakes here then, in their homophobic society that time and time again fails to deliver any consequence while existing as this ostracizing boogeyman?

I hoped there was some sort of ploy that Charles intended to execute in order to remove the thorn from his mother’s side and replace the Inquisitor with someone who was more fair and just and capable. At once, when Tessa said that Charles is just misguided, I knew it wouldn’t be because Tessa is never wrong. So all there is this dumb blackmailing plot whose only merit is to have Maurice Bridgestock removed from his position as Inquisitor. It did not serve Charles’ character in any way nor were his story with his family or Matthew in any way concluded.

GRACE BLACKTHORN. While discussing Grace, Christopher says that Grace was just a child when she was forced to act on James. Thomas says it doesn’t matter with anger and fury. Matthew equates Grace’s actions to a murder, as you do. While Will’s actions against Tatiana are in no way comparable to Grace’s, it is strange how Will being twelve is mentioned as if in order to act as an extenuating circumstance, while this doesn’t apply to Grace. It is also weird how everyone else’s torment is mulled over, used as an excuse for some type of behavior, but Grace's abuse and manipulation at the hands of Tatiana and Belial isn’t taken into consideration by anyone else than Jem? Also why did Cordelia get to vanquish Tatiana and not Grace? Grace’s treatment in this book, along with Charles, was just painful.

JESSE BLACKTHORN. Much like James, he is a stale piece of wheat bread. Only thing I have in mind about Jesse is that I found it a bit over the top, out of the little character he had, that he was so angry at Grace so that he left her. Jesse reacted exactly the way I feared Cordelia would react to Alastair. I was hoping for angry but sad and disappointed approach since Jesse knew better than anyone what Grace has lived through. Also, why Jesse (or Grace) wasn’t given time with his uncles who had wanted to get to know him for ages?

CHRISTOPHER LIGHTWOOD. My sweet cheese, my goodtime boy. Characters Clare writes most often only know the strongest of emotions. They always react with anger, defensiveness, and passion; by shouting, by self-righteous fury, by everything that is so exhausting to always read. Most of the characters are that, and am I so happy how Clare stayed true to Christopher’s temperate and serene nature, even when his cousin/best friend has been greatly wronged. And when everyone was so angry at Grace, Christopher was the only one to see reason. So, WHY THE FUCK HE DIED? No one, but most of all Cordelia herself never acknowledge that Kit died protecting her.

The “false” family tree lead the story on how Kit and Grace would probably become a couple, and would’ve made sense since they bonded over science and their minds were alike while they were so unalike in other ways, but boom. Kit dies, and Grace is left to figure out the fire messages on her own, because otherwise there wouldn’t be that obstacle of not being able to reach the Shadowhunters in Idris. Kit died for a shock value and so that a measly little plot point could work. Also great how the Lightwoods always have their children killed?? We never even see Gabriel and Cecily mourning?? Eugenia was weirdly chipper after just losing another one of her family members?? All these pages dedicated to romance bullshit that will solve itself but not for this.

TATIANA BLACKTHORN. Tatiana is a fiend, a terrible demon-worshipping, toddler-kidnapping fiend, but also a cartoonish one at that. It’s just overdone. She was made uglier and uglier, the machinator of evil things, and then she died. Voilà. There is one narrative aspect that was weird though. The Herondales and the Lightwoods insist on having tried their all to help Tatiana who always refused, but when Jesse confronts his mother, he says:

“I have come to know them by now. There is truth much harsher. One I think you know. They have not tried to ruin you over all these years. They have not plotted your downfall. They have barely even thought of you at all.”

Sick burn, but which is it? Adamantly trying to help her or not thinking about her at all?

MAURICE BRIDGESTOCK. A cartoon character with a cartoon ending. A homophobe bigot who got what he deserved, but a cartoonish character still. He was jealous of the Herondales and thus was an antagonist. Why is everyone obsessed with the Herondales in every damn book?

ESME HARDCASTLE. Esme was shoved in there in order to explain the “found family tree”, which at some point, I have no doubt, was how things were supposed to be, until Clare had more ideas for the Edwardian kids. No other characters in whole of TSC have gone through so many changes as these characters have. And as such, to keep the predictability at minimum—which isn’t a lot—the old family tree is made up by Esme, so Clare can spin this tale why it wasn’t accurate. Grace didn’t marry Christopher, Alastair didn’t have children (probably?). Then Clare had all these surprise babies coming because the way she chose to end the story for the Edwardian kids would mean no Emma, no Clary as we know them. So new Carstairs baby, new Fairchild twins.

i. The beginning of the prologue is over-saturated with flowery prose and similes that the narrative gets buried underneath.

ii. James is worried about Lucie, but more importantly needs to find her so he can go back to worrying about Cordelia and Matthew.

iii. The whole series has been a barrage of period typical social etiquette and decorum fed to you with a spoon. Even The Infernal Devices wasn’t this intent on it. Men did not usually accompany even wives or sisters into a dressmakers shop. What do you care about mundane decorum, you are Shadowhunters! Have some etiquette of your own.

iv. “…one of the modistes attacked the closures at the back of Cordelia’s dress without requiring any instruction—clearly she had done this before—and pushed and pulled at Cordelia as if she was a stuffed mannequin.” CcLeEaRrLy. You just told she didn’t need instruction, the rest is rather obvious. And I hope she knew what she was doing, she works there!!

v. Then there is this ridiculously complicated sentence: “Madame Beausoleil, who kept her salon on the Rue de la Paix, where the most famous dressmakers in the world—the House of Worth, Jeanne Paquin—were situated, was, according to Matthew, well acquainted with the Shadow World.” Like, what. Honey. Darling. “Madame Beausoleil kept her salon on the Rue de la Paix, where the most famous dressmakers in the world—the House of Worth, Jeanne Paquin—were situated. She was, according to Matthew, well acquainted with the Shadow World.” Or does that info about the location have to be there at all? Surely there were plenty other paragraphs where you could’ve stuffed that.

vi. Apparently this, apparently that, apparently everything! Whenever Clare uses such a word, it is a sign that she is unnecessarily feeling the need to justify why she is giving some particular piece of information or why a character is making an observation they could realistically make.

vii. Cordelia’s savings to pay Matthew for the dresses? What savings? From what and where?

viii. There are so many parentheses explaining things

ix. There is not a one scene in Paris where Cordelia doesn’t think how other people might see her and Matthew as a couple. Every time, which is in basically every scene they have in public, someone watches them and admires them and their “young love.”

x. “I have never heard anyone sound as if they were in such pain. Jamie, you must talk to us.” Yes, no one has ever been in greater pain than James Herondale, and that has the stamp of approval of Will Herondale so it really means something.

xi. a lot of the gray is gunmetal gray

xii. Having Tatiana comment on Jem’s appearance as Silent Brother and call it privilege for knowing the Lightwoods and Herondales doesn’t take away the fact that it is awfully convenient that Jem isn’t bald or his face isn’t sown shut. Though I get the intent behind this was to elicit such reaction as how awful of Tatiana! She doesn’t know anything Jem has suffered! It was not his choice! and the like. Blah.

xiii. What is it with these YA books in which waiters always give the characters their unsolicited opinions on people’s orders?

xiv. I assume Madame Dorothea of Brooklyn named herself after this famed Madame Dorothea of Paris. Why didn’t Malcolm go to her about Annabelle? I don’t remember if there ever was a mention of it.

xv. When Lucie tells the truth about Jesse and her powers to Magnus and Will, the PoV changes from James to Lucie with no indication of PoV change:

xvi. “James thought of the box of matches in his pocket, each one a sort of signal light that, when struck, summoned Jem to his side. He did not know how the magic worked, nor did he think Jem would tell him even if asked.” Just leave this part out, readers will think it’s just magic and that’s it. Now this just sounds that you couldn’t bother to think about it and just tried to explain possible scrutiny away. This instead just points more to the fact that you have no clue how the magic in your world works.

xvii. “James returned to the house, crawling into bed with his coat still on.” James can’t return to the house and crawl into his bed at the same time.

xviii. Take a shot every time the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durendal is said in TSC

xix. It’s annoying how Matthew speaks so lowly of Charles wanting to keep Alastair a secret when their own society supposedly sucks ass and enables shame and discrimination

xx. Cordelia only accepts Matthew’s affections once she thinks she has truly lost James. Why did she want to kiss Matthew if she didn’t even fancy him? She just selfishly used him and his love to forget her own mistakes, which I didn’t like about her at all. But that of course just fed into the love triangle that Clare is so insistent on writing in each one of her series, and the end couple is always obvious.

xxi. “…and James could remember, painfully, what kissing Cordelia was like, hotter and better than any fire.” I don’t think being burned by fire is good?

xxii. It’s torturous—and not in the good giddy way—how Clare finds even the tiniest excuse to prolong James and Cordelia finally getting together. “I should tell her the truth but Cordelia looked so happy with Matthew, so I didn’t.” Good grief.

xxiii. “Pity and kindness were not love. Only free choice was love; if he had learned nothing else from the horror of the bracelet, he had learned that.” Only a free choice to those who are free to love and go for that love and their dreams without having to make a choice between either. So fuck that.

xxiv. Ari didn’t bring any clothes with her when she left her parents. “She’d have to buy new things.” WITH WHAT MONEY? FROM WHERE? HER “STIPENDS” WENT TO LIVING EXPENSES! EXPLAAAIN

xxv. “At the breakfast table sat Anna’s brother Christopher, and, of all people, Eugenia Lightwood.” Yes, out of all the people in this world that is sitting at the table is Anna’s cousin. Truly odd.

xxvi. “The Institute is the safest place in London when it comes to demons; if he did somehow attack, the whole Enclave would retreat here as a matter of policy.” Not when it comes to the Jack the Ripper one in The Whitechapel Fiend.

xxvi. Will discusses Tatiana’s vengeance for being wronged: “Will sighed. “That was me. I read her diary out loud at a Christmas party, long ago. I was twelve. And I was quite severely punished, so in fact, the Enclave was on her side.”’ No, he wasn’t. And the whole Enclave punished Will? Please. There was no culpability, no apology, and no admission of guilt. And he also broke Gabriel’s arm. This is an attempt afterwards to alleviate the guilt on Will’s end when it comes to Tatiana’s madness. More realistic approach, less let’s-make-Will-more-shiny-and-not-at-all-a-participant-in-Tatiana’s-insanity would be something like: “That was me. I read her diary out loud at a Christmas party, long ago. I was twelve, but that’s on me.” And they would’ve gone on that it didn’t matter because in grand scheme of things it was such a miniscule thing.

xxvii. Take a shot every time the writing tries to stealthily prop up Will and Tessa as good and kind. Clare is really adamant at making the Herondales victims at every turn.

xxviii. “Benedict Lightwood brought down vileness upon his family, and Tatiana could not accept either his culpability or her own.” True, yet funny how the same does not apply to the ones who are on the right side of things. Accepting culpability on all that…

xxix. “He thrust the hand at James, who slashed an iratze across Matthew’s palm, followed by two Energy runes. He would not normally give Matthew, or anyone, more than one, but they would act as knives, cutting through any fog in Matthew’s brain.” One very profound problem (which I will bring up with TMI in time) is that this excerpt reveals that Clare thinks we know how runes work, when she has in actuality laid no groundwork for it. Is there a limit how many runes one can bear at once? What are the adverse effects of too many energy runes? What if you use iratze when you don’t need one? Are there runes that, when used at the same time, might hinder the effect of one another?

xxx. Take a shot every time a character narrates other characters on how much they have changed.

xxxi. “Now, Thomas has lost a sister and a friend as close as his brother, all in one year.” Weird way to say a cousin. You surely mean his cousin as close as his brother??

xxxii. “Grace said, not unkindly, “I’ve come to know Lucie quite well, you know, the last months. She was probably as close to a friend as I ever had.”’ Christopher was her friend, hellooo???

xxxiii. There seems to be a theme that whenever things are getting hot and heavy, something abrupt happens and interrupts the scene. Not that I am complaining, interrupt that awkward shit.

xxxiv. The bodies of the Iron Sisters and Silent Brothers don’t decay, but so what? Everyone else gets burned after dying, why not them also? Are they not inflammable? Also, what a great opportunity to mention Abigail Shadowhunter and David the Silent, but did we just once again wave at that opportunity as it passed by? Yes, we did.

xxxv. “Alastair waved his hand. “Yes, yes. It has been Roman and Saxon and now it will be demon. It has survived plague and pestilence and fire—”’ Best quote.

xxxvi. “It is easy to confuse monstrousness and power,” said Cordelia. “Especially when one is a woman, as one is not supposed to possess either quality.” Again, a weird fucking take for people whose numbers are dwindling and need all the fighting power they can get and half of that power are women

xxxvii. “he had been sure, somehow, that Cordelia would come after him, would find a way. And it did not surprise him at all that Lucie had not left her side.” James sure has faith in his sister to rescue him in dire need. No, Lucie came because Cordelia came. Whatever, what do I care.

What, in the end, was the true purpose of this trilogy? What merit is to it that it exists? How has The Wicked Powers become richer for having The Last Hours precede it? It’s actually devastating how inconsequential all of this is. The true Belial has been vanquished, but another demon has taken his place as Belial. Is this new Belial even a fallen angel or just some demon? Because otherwise he is not like the rest of the Princes at all. I would’ve hoped that at least one thing, like Emma getting to finish Belial with Cortana, would’ve given this trilogy even a little bit more purpose. 700+ pages and all is still left rather unfinished. Nothing at least feels concluded other than James and Cordelia’s love for each other being stronger than a Prince of Hell is capable of breaking. Blergh.

[Additional notes]

[handeaux]

Your Great-Grandparents Huffed Laughing Gas, And People Paid To See Them Trip

For the height of entertainment, early Cincinnatians enjoyed dropping by one of the local museums to watch their fellow citizens get stoned. The intoxicating agent was not cannabis or opium or shrooms, although all were readily available, but nitrous oxide or “laughing gas.”

The Western Museum started the trend. Founded in 1818 as one of the earliest scientific museums in the United States, the Western Museum is the ancestor of our Museum Center at Union Terminal. Regardless of its heritage, the institution struggled throughout its existence. Although stocked with fossils, minerals, Native American artifacts and animal specimens, the most popular attractions were grotesque wax figures and monstrosities like two-headed piglets and eight-legged lambs.

The museum directors, Robert Best and Joseph Dorfeuille, soon learned that lectures on scientific topics sold more tickets if they tacked a laughing gas demonstration onto the end of the program. An advertisement in the Liberty Hall and Cincinnati Gazette [30 November 1822] is typical:

“Messrs. Best and Dorfeuille will lecture on various departments of Natural History, and Natural Science, the latter to be illustrated by a great variety of amusing and instructing experiments; among others, they will frequently repeat the administration of the Nitrous Oxide, which has always proved in so high a degree interesting.”

By 1834, the Western Museum had replaced laughing gas with a waxworks replica of Dante’s Inferno, and found a young man to spice up the infernal regions with flashpots and fireworks. His name was Samuel Colt, and he would later build a huge firearms company. While he lived in Cincinnati, however, Colt was a 20-year-old hustler fascinated by laughing gas. He billed himself as “the Celebrated Dr. Coult of New York, London and Calcutta,” and pumped nitrous oxide into anyone who paid for a ticket. His on-stage antics here made news far away. The Albany, New York, Argus [30 July 1833] reported:

“A certain Dr. Coult is administering the nitrous oxyde gas at Cincinnati, and by way of making the entertainment ‘peculiarly attractive,’ the gas is inhaled by a ‘curiously deformed black man.’”

The Daily Cincinnati Republican & Commercial Register [6 November 1834] assured readers that Dr. Coult’s exhibitions at Frederick Frank’s art gallery on Front Street contained “not the least shade of impropriety,” and insisted – no matter how entertaining the effects – this was all about science:

“Dr. Coult’s exhibition presents some of the most pleasing and laughable scenes one can well imagine. – Although the peculiar effects of Nitrous Oxide keeps the audience in a state of almost continual merriment, yet there is a great chance for the learned and curious to exhaust all their wits in sober contemplation of the effects of Nitrous Oxide upon the human system.”

Although nitrous oxide had been known and described by English scientists in the 1700s, the gas remained a psychotropic curiosity until its anesthetic properties were discovered in the 1840s. Its potential as an pain reliever was discovered during an on-stage performance by a medical school dropout named Gardner Quincy Colton. Although Colton later built a dental empire by promoting laughing gas for tooth extractions, he stuck with his profitable stage shows for years. In October 1847, Colton filled the auditorium of Cincinnati’s Melodeon Hall over several nights and the Cincinnati Commercial [2 October 1847] reported on the effects of his laughing gas on some selected subjects.

“The effects were different upon different individuals. “A. after the gas bag was removed from his lips, he stood for a moment, staggered about the stage, and finally fell to the floor. “B. commenced dancing a regular hoe-down with arms and legs in the most violent motion, leaping with all his might into the air, and exhibiting the most tremendous strength. This he continued until the excitement wore off. “C., a young merchant on Liberty street, of slight build, at some imaginary insult became enraged and commenced a furious battle upon those on the stage. Small as he was, it took five or six stout men to hold him until the effects of the gas passed away.”

Another subject was rendered “wonderfully polite and self-complacent” and wandered about the stage, rubbing his hands and bowing to the audience, while the next man up erupted in “silly laughter” while staring dumbly at the assembled onlookers. One young lawyer inhaled deeply, then stood in the most erect posture and recited a poem by William Cullen Bryant. According to the Commercial:

“The effects of the Gas lasted from two to five minutes, and seemed to pass off suddenly, dropping the taker of it down from the highest heaven to earth in an instant. We do not know why this gas should be called laughing gas. Most of the persons who took it on Tuesday evening were most solemnly serious. The whole performance passed off remarkably well, nothing occurring of the least unpleasant nature.”

Twenty years later, Doctor Colton was quite successful with his dental franchises, but still presented public demonstrations. On his 1866 tour through the Queen City, Colton not only recruited women as his subjects, but used them to promote his dental practice. An advertisement in the Cincinnati Gazette [17 April 1866] provides a rather shocking description of his show:

“On the above occasion, after the lecture, twelve ladies will inhale the gas, showing its amusing effects. Breathed in small doses, it exhilarates and develops the character. After which Dr. C. will administer it to several ladies in larger doses, producing profound anesthetic sleep during which he will extract their teeth without their knowledge. He will demonstrate that he has ‘a blessing’ to offer to the citizens of Cincinnati.”

Inevitably, once society latches onto some new exhilarant, reports emerge that insanity lurks within the depths of recreational chemistry. Call it the “Reefer Madness” effect. A Mrs. John Boyer of Cumminsville was sent to Cincinnati’s Longview Hospital for the insane in 1871 after weeks of increasingly erratic behavior were attributed to getting a tooth pulled by a Sixth-Street dentist using laughing gas. In 1867, the death of a Mrs. Bolum on Accommodation Street was found, on the result of autopsy, to have been caused by a strangulated hernia, but her family insisted it was dental nitrous oxide. And the Cincinnati Star [30 September 1876] carried this squib:

“There’s a young woman living in Glendale who, her relatives say, has become mildly insane by the use of laughing gas.”

Wasn’t that the whole point of huffing it anyway?