#it has gone too far! *prays to god to smite them*

[sethdomain]

You know its a real wonderful sight to see a show that villainize troubled teens and showing god smiting them 🥰

I swear one fucking day i will direct a goddamn tv show that doesn’t make troubled teens the devil incarned and show that the parent that always in the right according to this tv show just have the shittiest parenting ever

[tired0artist]

| The All-Father |

okay but what if after ragnarök kratos wasn’t the dad of boy but a dad of all?

or how kratos became the all-father.

He doesn’t know how it happened, nor who started it, but only weeks after Ragnarök he finds the first altar dedicated to the All-Father.

“Blessed is the realm, which hosts the just Allfather.

Blessed are the people, who walk the same paths as the mighty Allfather.

Blessed is the land, devoid of monsters because of the fearless Allfather.

Blessed are the days, after Ragnarök with the reforged Allfather.

We pray to you, Allfather.

Accept our gifts and bless us, in our new days.”

The altar wasn’t grand nor made of stone, it was wooden yet sturdy, already overflowing with flowers, stones, herbs and other trinkets that could be found in the early Spring.

Kratos frowned at the runic text once more, before heading off his own way. Was it in the past, he might have destroyed it, huffing at the blindness the human possessed when it came to the gods, who would never stop to read their little messages, nor their prayers.

But now, he leaves it alone, knowing that after Fimbulwinter and Ragnarök, they needed something to believe in. Or someone, whoever the so-called reforged All-Father was supposed to be.

He means to speak to Mimir about it, but once he is home, he remembers that the head was with Freya. Advising in Vanaheim as the tensions between the Aesir and Vanir grew heated.

Perhaps, he should join them in a day or so. He surely knew little of politics, but perhaps he could at the very least aid his companions in some other way.

Glancing around his home, his amber gaze lingered on the bed not far from his own. It was tidy and unmoved, from when Kratos remade it in the morning.

It was a habit which he developed since Faye’s passing. Atreus always forgot to make his bed look presentable, or at the very least not a complete mess. He tried many times, showing his boy how to do it, but in the end all of his training was lost on Atreus. In the end, Kratos tidied it up for him in the mornings, right after taking care of his own space. And even now that his boy is gone… he still wakes up, cleans his bed and remakes the already perfectly tidied up bed.

Kratos reasoned to himself often that he doesn’t like to change his routine. That he doesn’t want bugs to build a nest underneath the furrs.

But all that wasn’t true.

He remade the bed every morning because he missed his son. Because he wanted Atreus to come back and sleep in a clean bed. Because leaving the bed alone made him think too much about how long his boy was gone.

Blinking he let out a shaky breath and hung up his axe, tearing his gaze away from the empty spot Atreus’ leaving left in the hut.

It’s two days later, just as he makes his way to Týr’s temple, to transport himself to Vanaheim, that he finds another altar.

“I call to the Allfather, great God of War,

father to Loki, the great and just General of Realms.

Yours is the realm of justice, of strength, of judgement, of rebirth.

Yours is the hand that guides those in darkness, the axe that cuts the unjust.

Grant me, O Allfather, the justice for my child.

Grant me, O Allfather, the strength to smite down the one who took her.

Grant me, O Allfather, the judgement for his devious soul.

Grant me, O Allfather, the will for rebirth once the revenge has left me.”

It is him… the All-Father that the alters are mentioning.

Rage builds up as he reads the prayer, thoughts of Calliope and Atreus filling his head. Someone killed another’s child, and Kratos wills it with everything he possesses that they meet a grim end at the child’s parent’s hand.

It is hard, but he moves on. Doing his best not to think about him being called and prayed to as the All-Father. It will pass. Týr will come back from his journey and all will be well, he will take charge and be the beloved god again. All while Kratos retires back to his hut.

“It will pass.” he whispered to himself, leaving the altar behind him, trying not to shiver as he felt an echoing rage of another in the back of his mind, clinging to their right to seek revenge.

It will pass. He thought to himself, while in the middle of settling an agreement between Aesir and Vanir, feeling an echoing sense of relief from those around, all synced in thanking for the unheard prayer for peace being enacted.

It will pass. He said to Mimir and Freya as together they found an altar, in Vanaheim no less, reading the plea for the great beast, that Kratos just ended, to be slain.

It. Will. Pass. Kratos hissed under his breath, leaving the Lake of Nine in haste as a grand statue of the All-Father was being constructed.

It will pass.

“It doesn’t have to.” said Atreus, now a man grown, as tall as his father, as kind as his mother, as strong as Freya and as wise as Mimir. His son just stared at him, before nodding down at the lively new villages around the Lake of Nine, from where they sat together on top of a cliff.

“You earned this, father. Accept this as you accept their pleas and prayers. Allow yourself to have this purpose and for them to finally have an All-Father that listens. That walks among them with the same worn down hands and the same troubled mind. Don’t let it pass, father. Embrace it.”

Atreus smiled and reached out to touch his father’s chest “The God of War can retire for now, while the All-Father takes his post for a little while.”

Kratos cupped his son’s hand and squeezed it, nodding slowly and echoing quietly “Only for a little while…”

His son smiled and agreed “Only for a little while.”

Looking at the new settlements and the grand statue of the All-Father, Leviathan Axe and Gjallarhorn in his hands, Kratos nodded again.

It will pass… but it doesn’t have to. The God of War retires, while All-Father takes his post… but only for a little while.

Hundreds years later, all still pray and speak of one true All-Father only. The one that had both eyes, a mischievous son, bore an axe that rivalled Mjölnir and was a General that led all Nine Realms against the false God Odin in Ragnarök.

A little while can last quite a long time, it would seem

thank you for reading! i hope that you liked it, i might cross post this on ao3 but first i wanna see how it will be received here <3

okay fuck it it’s also up on ao3 and i added little bit to it.

[theminecraftbox]

thoughts on c!sam and religion im curious... also in regards to prisontrio all three are religious, to varying degrees and varying beliefs

/dsmp rp

okay so we joke that Sam is Catholic but, like, come ON. Sam has a LOT of behaviors that tend to ping me as religious/religious-coded. I don’t really think Sam definitely believes there’s a god… but there’s a very authoritative + spiritual cast to his attitude on life. God may not be real, but Good and Evil definitely are—everybody’s got a devil and an angel on their shoulder.

For one thing, there’s his attitude towards morality, which I’ve gone on and on and on about. How he makes arguments about virtue ethics based in authority, and based on the supposition that there is such a thing as Good and Evil, and more concretely and importantly, Good People and Evil People. Sam projects lots of this onto Dream. Dream becomes an object of his need for the moral world to be a simple one.

His personal relationship to guilt, suffering, and justice is an extremely particular brand of religious: he references purgatory in Daedalus, for god’s sake. There is an element of Sam that wants to see himself as martyred; there is a part of him that sees suffering as redemptive, just as that part of him sees suffering as something delivered only unto the unworthy. This is imo a huge part of his complex with Dream: Dream deserves to suffer, yet… doesn’t suffering elevate him, excuse him, somehow?

He’s got all these superstitious behaviors: think of how he acts post-egg, his relationship to the holy water. I think he prayed, down trapped in the obsidian, with his own flesh. He has all these behaviors that are nearly ritualized: the laws the waivers the protocols, forever and ever amen. Sam derives tangible comfort from following ordained rules. Violate the rules and just punishment follows, the arm of god will smite you. (Sam is happy to act in this capacity. Sam is afraid, on some level, to be on the receiving end.) Obey the rules and you will never be be wrong. I maintain that Sam was shaken far more by letting Quackity violate protocol than by letting him commit horrific violence.

As for Quackity… I don’t see Q as a true believer, founding of the prime church aside. But I think his quiet faith in power could be shaped that way: what are lessons if not commandments? What is a country if not a kingdom, what is a kingdom if not divine? If God is real, God owes him a motherfucking crown.

Quackity is a believer in shattering idols. Heaven is a place on earth. So is hell. Quackity can build them both. Quackity does not think Dream is a god, but he ascribes Dream power when he tears him apart.

I think the most fascinating thing here is that peculiar form of iconoclasm in what he does to Dream, and in how he rips out Schlatt’s heart, and even in some respects how he tries to tear down Wilbur. Quackity will take these false idols and smash them on the sand; he’ll eat what remains and absorb their power. That’s a ritual too.

Dream, I think, has the kind of faith you keep when you’ve met a god and he’s wearing your face. He has the kind of faith you keep in your heart when you wield the power of the gods, you carry it inside you, and you were torn apart for months for it. Everyone Dream ever reveals it to tries to pry it from him and they all fail. The plan Dream keeps is going to save the world and he’s the only one with the guts and the ability to do it.

Dream does not have a god complex, but he is a mortal man willing to tear apart the tools of Olympus. And he knows that’s exactly what he’s doing.

[inhuman-obey-me]

God-Fearing Faith

Can also be read on AO3 here

Word Count: 5.7k

Description: In the Great Celestial War, torn between Lucifer and his Father, Simeon chose not to fight. That comes with its own consequences. There's a reason Simeon's greatest fear is his own Father.

[cw: body horror, abusive parent, PTSD]

This was, of course, always going to have been the outcome.

He had made his choice. As soon as he heard that Lucifer was planning on rebelling, he had made his choice. It was not an easy choice, or a simple one, but it was his choice nonetheless.

Alas, they say that neutrality is the side of the oppressor, but a tyrant never sees it that way.

"You did this to yourself," Michael reminds him disapprovingly.

Simeon stands at the center of the Council of Seraphs, awaiting a judgment that was already preordained before he ever stepped in the room. They will convict him, because there is no other option - their Father has demanded it. The trial is merely a formality.

He did not plead his case. There is no point in trying, after all. Father will not listen, and the other seraphs will never listen to another angel over God. Lucifer had just proven that, hadn't he? And maybe he had chosen wrong - maybe, all in all, he should have chosen Lucifer's side. Because it wasn't as though he hadn't been asked, and oh, how Simeon had longed to stay with his fellow seraph, his closest friend who was like a brother to him.

But between a brother and a father, he chose neither, praying quietly that it could end in peace.

Yet, who do you pray to for peace when God himself is party to war? What higher power could he have appealed to when the highest power in existence was one of the ones at fault?

Though he cannot bring himself to regret his decision, he feels the slightest twinge of regret for not supporting Lucifer more. At least, if Lucifer had won, he wouldn't have ended up here now, standing trial for not being loyal enough to their Father.

Simeon stares Michael in the face, and reminds him that he too loved and adored Lucifer not too long ago. That he still does, no matter how he votes in this trial. That, after everything, Lucifer is still precious to all of them. He knows it, and so does Simeon, and so do all the seraphs in this room. All of them still deeply love Lucifer. Even now. No matter what they say.

Michael's expression twists with anger. How dare Simeon say such things in front of their Father.

With a vengeful sneer, he reads the judgement firmly, steadily - "With unanimous votes from the Council of Seraphs, we do hereby declare you, Simeon, angel of devotion, guilty of desertion and treason. For your crimes, you are hereby sentenced to demotion - from Seraph, to Cherub, to Throne, to Dominion, to Virtue, to Power, to Principality, and finally, to Archangel. The ceremony shall be performed two moons from today, in this room, at the highest point of the sun. You may not appeal this decision. You are dismissed."

And so it has to be. This has always been, after all, the only possible ending.

--

Well before the ritual has even begun, Simeon feels himself burning. He repeats a prayer, day after day, for two long months - praising the glory of God, worshipping his light, acknowledging his greatness.

Begging for peace and mercy, again. Because that worked so well before, right?

But there is nothing else he can do when the burning begins. So he prays.

“Master, now dismiss your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation and for glory.”

--

When the day arrives, the chill of the chamber feels like the coldest he's ever been. It isn't, not really, but after two months of flickering heat burning on and off within him, it's strange to be left cold this way. But he relishes the cool air while he can, because he knows what's coming.

Uriel gives him an almost pitying look as he wraps the chains around his disgraced colleague. For a split second, it almost looks like he wants to say something - but the look is gone as quickly as it came, and he retreats quickly back to his place in the circle. And Simeon is left alone in the center, wrists and torso bound in ropes of thick gold chains.

He looks defiantly at his Father, positioned directly before him in the circle. No matter how he thought it over in these past months, still he did not regret his decision. So he would stand by it. The punishment is coming either way, so he might as well be proud of the choice he made.

His Father glares back.

You will regret defying me, his voice echoes in Simeon's mind.

With a wave of his hand, the ceremony begins.

The seraphs kneel, pouring holy water into an intricate pattern engraved in the ground, which glows with magic as the liquid flows down to the center of the circle. It feels cool against Simeon's bare feet, for the moment at least.

Michael steps forward to recite the prayer chant:

"Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, for you created all things, and by your will, they do exist. Purify this one from all unrighteousness."

The seraphs clasp their hands together in a circle, locking the magic into the ceremonial space, and repeat the chant back.

At once, his Father's heavenly fire strikes him, a pillar of light beaming down upon him and spreading through his body. All six wings of fire burst from his back against his will, stretching out their full length as if to try to escape from the blast. He feels his form contort; his brown hair shifts to a snakeskin halo of spikes; his face melts away to reveal the twisting golden rings of his true angelic form. It travels down to his feet, absorbed by the holy water, which burns at his soles as though he is standing on coals. The gold chains, too, absorb the searing heat of the fire, and as he strains against his bindings in pain, it only serves to etch the curves of the chains into his body.

His eyes, normally covered modestly by his wings, ignite with the fire as it spills through him, but still, his Father maintains his cruel gaze, and even without eyes, it is all Simeon sees.

The heavenly fire has engulfed his entire form now, and he gasps at the sudden weight as his wings turn to molten rock. They rip themselves from his back, crashing behind him with a reverberating thud against the marble floor, and his shoulder blades expand behind him, tearing themselves out of his back to create four new wings of feathers and steel. Under the chains, his arms become metallic themselves, as do his chest and neck. He tries to scream, but there is only fire in his lungs, and it travels through his throat, tearing through every part of his head. When he feels a mouth to close again, it is not one mouth, but four - the four faces of the cherubim.

After what feels like hours but was surely only a few minutes, the fire drains into the holy water beneath him. He gasps, finally able to breathe, as his many faces and wings draw themselves back into his body. Everything in him aches at the transformation.

His Father's cold eyes are still locked with his.

The seraphs pour fresh holy water to the ground and begin the chant again:

"Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, for you created all things, and by your will, they do exist. Purify this one from all unrighteousness."

It hurts no less the second time - the fire smiting him down, drawing back out the form that had just folded itself into him. His face tears into four; his wings again force their way from his back. His legs buckle beneath him, forcing him to the ground before burning away entirely. The metal of his hands breaks apart into floating shards, and thin wheels of gold extricate themselves from the gold plates of his waist. His vision blurs as hundreds of new eyes burst open upon the wheels, every single one trained on his Father's own unforgiving gaze as he watches the angel morph again. He feels the melting of the metal in his new wings, and feels with anguish the searing of the metal against the feathers of the same, as both shift shape to rounder wings that wrap the fire all around him.

Vaguely, Simeon can hear the echoing roar of his own lion's face as it is engulfed by the flames, followed by the eagle's caw, and the human scream. The ox face left behind stretches into a sphere of hollow rings of gold, and yet more eyes merge their way into his vision.

And then, in a flash, cold hits his skin, the fire retreating into the holy water as suddenly as it had come, pulling all his ophanic features back into his human-like form.

His father's contemptuous stare continues to bore into him.

Are you still so defiant now?

Is he? With the dizzying slew of transformations, Simeon can hardly think straight to even consider the question. His mind is still catching up to the vision of one thousand eyes bursting into existence across his body. His head is throbbing, and trying to cradle it in his hands only leads to the still-hot metal chains searing marks into his wrists.

What he does know for certain, however, is that his Father is far from done. Seraph, to Cherub, to Throne, to Dominion, to Virtue, to Power, to Principality, to Archangel. Step by step, stage by stage, the demotion ceremony would continue. There is still a long, long way to go.

As if reading his mind - and knowing his Father, he probably is - the ritual begins again.

Holy water. Hands clasping. The same prayer, again.

"Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, for you created all things, and by your will, they do exist. Purify this one from all unrighteousness."

The third time, he releases himself easily to the fire, giving in to it at once as it draws out his chariot-like Throne form, but it doesn't burn any less all the same. Wheels, rings, eyes - all dissolving to the flames, blasting apart and falling from his form.

For a moment, fire is all he is - no body, no mind, only soul and blazing heat. And then the pyre takes shape - brilliantly burning stars for arms, a halo of embers, sparks shifting constantly in his belly. His hands twist long and thin - one into a sword, the other to a sceptre, planetary orbs swirling into existence at opposite ends of each. A mass of dark matter settles as his face, and tiny galaxies piece themselves together beneath him for legs.

Simeon grasps helplessly at balance, trying to stabilize a form made of formlessness. He can feel himself spilling out of himself and coming back together, pulsing without edges, and all the while still - burning, burning, burning. Wet tears form but are immediately lost in the void of his shapelessness.

When he is abruptly returned again to human form, he is thankful just to feel himself contained within a definite body again, grateful to feel the warm wet streaks as the tears welling at the edges of his eyes roll down solid cheeks.

Yet, again, still trapped with the other definite - the harsh stare of his Father.

Any strength left in his legs leaves him, and he collapses to the ground, ignoring the pain as his wrists pull against the hot gold of the chains yet again. On his chest, too, the metal constricts against him as he frantically gasps for air.

It's almost a surprise to him that they give him this moment to recover - though, having been a seraph himself as recently as an hour ago, he knows it's purely out of strict adherence to the rules of the ritual, not out of any kind of sympathy for him.

When he pulls himself together enough to stand again, Michael motions to Uriel. Three levels down, which means he has fallen to the Middle Order already. Time to adjust the bindings accordingly.

"I'm sorry," Uriel whispers quietly to him, maintaining expressionlessness as he wraps new, thinner chains around him, reaching further along his arms and chest than before.

Bitterly,Simeon thinks to himself that there is no apologizing for this - it was voted upon, and it was unanimous. But he knows, too, that the other seraphs had no choice either. Their Father had demanded this verdict, and none of them could ignore a direct order from him.

Doing so was, after all, precisely why Simeon himself was in this situation now.

So without breaking eye contact with their Father, he responds simply, "Don't be. Or you'll be next."

His former peer completes the rest of his work in silence, and as soon as he resumes his place in the circle, the ritual begins again.

"Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, for you created all things, and by your will, they do exist. Purify this one from all unrighteousness."

Going from Dominion to Virtue is an almost welcome reprieve, relative to the earlier transformations. Fire strikes him down again, but Simeon braces himself this time for the feeling of nothingness as the edges of himself fall away, galaxies and empty space bursting from inside him. A million stars explode into existence along his body, then explode again out of it, the black holes left behind dancing with the heavenly flames coursing through him.

Gradually, the fire slows and hardens. The light of embers flickers through cracks in molten rock left behind along his core. His wrists, too, tremble with new mass as crags form beneath the chains, connected to his shoulders only by stormy flashes of lightning. Dark clouds fill his form like billowing smoke, and he almost feels like he will choke on his own existence. Blinding rings of light wrap themselves along his limbs like snakes. He is at once heavy and weightless, dark and light, chained and unmoored.

In this confusing contradiction of his newest form of existence, Simeon is almost glad for the holy fire and icy glare of his Father. He clings to them as his anchor, however painful of one to hold onto, lest his mind drift too far away and leave him entirely. Or is it better to lose himself by letting go, than to focus on the pain? He isn't sure, but he's not certain that he will come back to himself if he doesn't hold on. So he clings to the thread of stability he has, embracing the burning as best he can.

It makes it all the more jarring when the heavenly flames abruptly retreat again, leaving him solid and cold, everything around him a blur except his Father. The sudden chill sends an involuntary shiver through him, echoed by rattling chains reverberating through the chamber.

He shuts his eyes, tries to reorient himself. Deep breaths. Halfway through now. Just three more, and it will be done. His fall from grace will be complete, and he'll be free. Or at least, as free as the angels ever are, given their roles as God's warriors and messengers. But he'll be out of this ceremony, freed of these chains. And...then what? A low-level grunt worker, to be bossed around by all his former equals in this room?

Maybe that's a good thing. At least, that's what he tries to tell himself. True, a demotion is a demotion, and he'll have less power available to him, less respect from the other angels. Less freedom to do as he pleases. But in truth, can he say he's ever had that much freedom? Isn't that why he's here now? Because he never really had that freedom in the first place - just the space to do the things his Father approved of, which had just happened to be the same things he'd wanted to do, until now. And at least, once his full demotion is complete, perhaps the freedom he loses in the work he does will be a worthwhile exchange for being freed of the pressures of being a seraph, from being always close to their Father and his strict command.

That's what he thinks, at least, until he opens his eyes again and sees his Father still staring down at him.

There is no escape from me, his Father's voice taunts in response, and Simeon isn't quite sure whether the voice in his head is actually sent by his Father or just created from his own fear.

Regardless, another half of the ceremony is still to come, and so it must continue.

"Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, for you created all things, and by your will, they do exist. Purify this one from all unrighteousness."

Heavenly fire comes down, and his insides ignite once more. His legs stretch and split apart into glowing rings; his arms turn stormy again. His chest hardens back to molten rock, tightening against his attempts to breathe before breaking apart, leaving trails of flame and lava dripping down through the rings of light below. The dark clouds throughout his form catch fire as well and burn away to steam and smoke.

His shape changes less drastically now as his rank falls lower and lower, yet the heavenly fire lingers longer this time. The transformation aches through him, new pieces stretching and pulling themselves into place.

Slowly, thin metal plates emerge through the fire and settle as his new face, locking his expression to neutrality - as if mocking the neutrality he'd tried to take in the war. More sheets of steel fold themselves together into layers of a round shield for a torso. A ring of eyes opens along the outer border of the shield, confusing his vision again, along with six larger eyes in a circular pattern around the center. It takes his mind a moment to catch up to processing all of them, trying to orient to so many new perspectives all turned to different directions. Thorns prick all over as two long rose stems grow from his chest, wrapping themselves around his neck, and another eye opens at the center of each flower. Sharp golden wings extricate themselves from his back, and a harsh golden halo slices in an arc behind his head.

Simeon clenches his fists as the flames travel through him, clinging to his insides and pulling his new form gradually, painfully back in. Unlike the previous times, it holds onto him on its way down to the holy water this time. He feels every inch of his wings scraping against his returning flesh as they drag themselves back inside his body, as with the rest of the form.

It's strange - angel transformations are usually instant. They aren't meant to be this slow.

That's when it sinks in that this isn't just rote punishment for law's sake - it is spite. He lifts his gaze again to see that his Father's cold expression has not changed at all, but there is wrath in those eyes. He can feel fury emanating from the light that always surrounds him.

Simeon has never heard of their Father drawing out a punishment for vengeance's sake before. This ceremony, the entire demotion process, was always just a ritual that was part of a judgment given for the sake of upholding a realm of law and obedience. But then, their Father had also never personally weighed in on a trial to tell the seraphs what way to vote until this, either. And there is no mistaking the anger coming from him now.

All for choosing neutrality...?

No, that's not it. It's not for choosing neutrality; it's for not choosing against Lucifer. The realization dawns on him - this isn't about him, never was about him or his refusal to fight. It is about Lucifer. It is about their Father's most beloved angel until the war, rebelling against him. It is about the fact that the war that ensued was the first time any of the angels had ever really questioned their Father's rule. It is about reminding everyone in this room of his power as the unmistakable, undeniable ruler of the Celestial Realm.

This is not about punishing Simeon. It is about punishing Lucifer.

And for the first time since his trial began, Simeon is truly, deeply afraid. He had known that the punishment for his refusal to fight would be intense and painful, but he had prepared himself for that when he made his decision in the first place. But to be a proxy for punishment against Lucifer for rebelling, now that the Morning Star himself was out of reach, fallen to the Devildom?

But the realization has come far too late, and there are two more rounds of this still to go.

New holy water flows down to his feet, and the seraphs begin the chant again.

"Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, for you created all things, and by your will, they do exist. Purify this one from all unrighteousness."

The heavenly fire burns hotter this time than any of the ones before, and in the fog of pain, the knowledge that the last one will only be worse briefly flits across his mind. But his thoughts are quickly pulled away by what is now a slow, excruciating transformation back into the form that had just left him moments ago.

His wings cut their way out of his back again like jagged knives, hot from the blazing heat pushing them from his body. They quickly melt away as they exit him, dripping molten streaks of metal down his back, as do the sheets of steel making up his shield-like frame. The liquid metal snakes its way down him, hardening back into rough shards cutting against his feet as they reach the holy water below. His neck feels choked with prickling flames as the blaze travels up the thorny stems of the roses growing from his chest, framing his face with fire.

The chains binding him stretch and grow, twisting themselves up his arms and wrapping his torso in a constricting suit of armor that feels more like it's meant to squeeze the life out of him than protect him. Each ring burns itself against his newly reforming skin beneath, merging into his flesh - it is not actually armor, after all, but a part of his own body. The metal continues threading its way up him, wrapping his neck, his face, his hair, until it grows past him into a twisting, tulip-shaped crown atop his head. From the flames at his core, jewels start pushing their way out of him, each one piercing him on its way out, and they spin together into a blinding orb in front of him. From his fingertips, thin needles of yet more metal prick as they join the gems, sending a reverberation of eerie music through the hall as they merge to form a long, thin scepter.

Simeon can feel his mouth being pried open by the flames, or perhaps it is being burned away entirely - in the shifting uncertainty of transformation, he's not quite sure which. Against his will, his voice joins the echoing notes of the scepter, until the sounds accumulate and stretch into haunting shriek.

And then, all at once, the flames leave him, the form of Principality leaves him, the scepter and the armor and everything leave him - and he is left standing, alone, silent, cold, enchained, mouth still agape with the memory of the sounds that had just moments before been wrenched from his throat.

He gasps for air, shuts his eyes as he readjust his vision from the now-gone blinding light of the jeweled scepter. Phantom pinpricks still tingle at his stomach, and for a moment, he almost thinks he's going to vomit. Still, he hangs on to the barest shred of dignity and composure until the feeling passes, and waits for the pain of everything to subside.

When he opens his eyes again, he meets the gaze of his Father in almost a plea. Stop this. Please. I am not Lucifer. Lucifer is gone.

But if his Father can hear the begging of his thoughts, as he seemed to hear him earlier, he doesn't show it. He doesn't respond at all, merely staring Simeon down with the same ice cold stare he's held this entire time. And the ceremony continues.

Michael waves to Uriel, who steps forth to replace the chains again. Simeon is down to the Lower Order now, the last and lowest ranks of angels. Redundant as it feels to replace his bindings, given all the transformations that have already happened, the ritual demands it.

Uriel doesn't meet his eyes this time - despite his remorse, he keeps in mind Simeon's earlier words of warning. But he can't quite bring himself to do this with pride, either. Just earlier that day, they had still been colleagues and equals. It's a cold reminder that no matter how strict or obedient any of them are, their Father is the ultimate in charge, and they are all only one displeasure away from the same fate. Likewise, Simeon avoids eye contact, neither ashamed nor proud of his current state.

The chains are even more slender now, almost elegant in the way they snake around his wrists. As a seraph, he could have broken these new chains easily, but now as a principality, they're more than enough to hold him. Deep inside, he can still feel the great well of power within him, but as if a glass cloche sits in the way, he knows instinctively that he can't summon any of that strength anymore. He will never be able to again.

Somewhere, just as deep inside, he starts to question whether he even wants to - to access the strength given him by the one now putting him through all of this.

He pushes the feeling far away though. He should be grateful that, following the war, he wasn't equally cast out of the Celestial Realm, shouldn't he? Those who had fallen, they were informed, had met a far worse fate. Lucifer and his brothers flit across his mind; though he wasn't close with all of them, he wonders if they are okay. Lucifer, at least, proud and full of conviction, surely must have made it out with his head held high as ever, right? What fate had befallen him worse than this, that Simeon was experiencing now...?

When Uriel finishes and retreats back to his place, Simeon hangs his head down, giving up on his silent begging to his Father. It's clear at this point that there is no mercy coming. Their father does not forgive; he condemns.

Until the war, Simeon had really believed that his condemnations were right and just.

But are they, after all? Can he truly believe it anymore? He had understood Lucifer well enough, but...he had really believed that trusting their Father was the right way to go. That Lucifer's rebellion was wrong. That their Father was, always, in all cases, correct, and that there was a reason for everything he did.

The cool brush of holy water at his feet pulls him back from his dark thoughts.

"Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, for you created all things, and by your will, they do exist. Purify this one from all unrighteousness."

Even the heavenly fire seems to come slower, now on this final time. His Father's eyes, though still coldly distant and unreadable, almost seem to shine with the voraciousness of his vengeance.

The flames lick at his face like hounds hungry for a meal.

In the pain, time seems to slow to a stop.

And then it does. It stops. Everything stops. He doesn't feel the chain metal armor searing itself back into his skin, or the gems pulling themselves through his body. Everything falls away; all becomes just a bright, white brilliance. Simeon feels weightless.

Is this it? Has his Father abandoned the ceremony after all? Is this...

No, a booming inner voice answers him. You won't die. That's too soft for an angel like you.

"Father?" he calls back silently. His eyes would have widened, if he'd had feeling left of them to widen. So it was true, his Father could hear every one of his thoughts.

And yet, he had ignored Simeon's begging for this to stop.

I told you that you would regret defying me.

"Father, I-I'm sorry. I thought - Lucifer is so precious to us. He was acting on what he believed in. I know that he was wrong, but -"

Yes, he was. And you, Simeon. You are an angel, one of my children, my creations. And yet you dared defy me. Pathetic.

He almost wishes he could summon the courage to defy his Father again, but he is too exhausted from round after round of transformation. Instead, he feels only sorrow. For Lucifer. For the other angels that fell. For himself.

You still don't understand your lesson? Troublesome child, Lucifer wouldn't listen either. I've removed him. Miserable wretch as you are, you will learn. You ought to be more grateful I chose not to eject you too.

Darkness floods his blinded vision, and Simeon sees himself in his mind's eye. His reflection smiles sweetly at him, before its eyes widen. Its mouth twists into a scream, expression more pained even than the shrieks pulled from him in his last transformation, but rather than sound coming out, shadows spill inwards, consuming him.

As if in answer, Simeon's own soul suddenly twists equally in pain, choking on a flood of umbra enveloping him from inside, until he's unsure if the image before him is a reflection or just him seeing himself from the outside. The dusty taste of ash and soot covers his tongue, as a fire unlike the clean holy flames chokes him from within - the smoke of hellfire.

Feathers, light and dark both, explode in bursts through his body. Flurries of new wings extrude themselves from his back, pulling patchwork marble patterns in jagged edges, fighting with each other for dominance as they clash in their growth. He feels his face split into two, one side drawing the hoop of a thin metal crown behind him, while a thin horn twists out from the other and loops back over to pierce his cheek. Scattered across his hands, fingers stretch into sharp, wicked claws, while his palms turn to pure light.

Though this twisted form is removed from his actual, physical body, the heavenly fire burns harshly against him still, and harsher yet upon his new demon-like features, incinerating them away almost as quickly as they emerge from his body. His angelic elements fare hardly better, as the hellfire within him eats away at them.

And all the while, his Father's voice hums tauntingly in his mind.

Feeble excuse for an angel, you are blessed to still hold my power. Do not forget who made you. I created you, gifted you with my divine power, and I can wipe you from this existence. And it will make not a shred of difference, for I shall make another, one more obedient, who understands his place...unless, my child, you submit now. Surrender yourself back to my command, and I shan't destroy you completely. Or this will be the last of your miserable, wretched life.

Amidst the pain, the infinity of nonexistence blankets despair upon his mind in threat, an incomprehensible emptiness.

It's too much. He is not able - was not created to be able - to endure all of this agony. An infinite void, heavenly smiting, darkness corrupting, all at once - his whole soul feels on the verge of collapse.

"I swear, Father!" Simeon cries. "Please, anything! Anything you ask, I'll obey! Forgive me, please...!"

It feels like another eternity before his Father murmurs his satisfaction, letting the frozen moment fall away back to the reality of the seraph council's chamber.

The rest of the transformation ritual proceeds as before, though after the jumbled, aching blending of transforming into both angel and demon at once, turning to an Archangel feels as though it passes quickly by comparison. When the last of the fire extinguishes upon the holy water at his feet, and the chains release themselves to mark the end of the ceremony, he collapses to the ground, succumbing at last to the blissful release of unconsciousness.

--

For a long time after his demotion ceremony, Simeon cannot sleep through the night. He wakes at random times, gasping for air, from dreams of being on fire again. A few times, when he wakes, he finds his wings actually alight, as though they remember their seraph form when they used to be made of flame, and he screams at the half-asleep memory of how those wings turned to rock and tore themselves from his body. Other times, he is wrought from his rest by a phantom feeling of ash in his throat, choking on the taste of hellfire.

He wonders if these dreams are being sent to him by his Father, or by his own mind.

Which would be worse?

Night after night, he prays desperately for release, exhausted.

“Master, now dismiss your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation and for glory.”

He never receives any answer.

It is years before he makes it through a night without waking, and many years more before he manages a peaceful, dreamless night. It is centuries more before those nights outnumber the dreams of flames.

All the while, he hears the whispers and snickering of older angels as he passes through the Celestial Realm halls now, particularly from Middle Order angels smugly delighting in now outranking a former seraph. Gossip of his restless nights spreads between them, rumors flying around of the demonic screams that come from his room when all should be asleep.

Some of them wonder if perhaps he's not an angel at all anymore. Others sneer that maybe he shouldn't be.

Maybe they're right. Maybe he shouldn't be.

He doesn't enter his angel form very often anymore. He still remembers the feeling of corrupting, of horn instead of halo.

Maybe he's not fit to be an angel.

He prays again.

[cinnbar-bun]

A Fool, A Sage, and a Lonely Friend Pt. 2

Pairing: Beelzebub x Reader x Lucilius

A/n: hello!! I return with the sequel after like… over a year hahaha … this ones a bit shorter, I think it’s best if I do smaller chunks versus just throwing a huge big piece like last time.

Warning: this is not canon. In the slightest. At all. Most of this is based on my interpretation of what I believe may have happened before WMTSB, and a lot of this has more dramatic and theatrical changes than what may have occurred. Please understand, I’m not trying to be canon- this is just for fun and I’m doing this to try and get to where we are now in canon! This series also contains mentions of abuse, sickness, death, and unhealthy relationships. If these make you uncomfortable, please do not read this.

Link to Part 1: https://cinnbar-bun.tumblr.com/post/190948837548/dark-rapture-and-chaos-lucilius-x-reader-x

“Open your eyes…”

He murmured softly against the body. His hand tightened around their wrist as he prayed for them to awaken.

Please... please... please…

Exhaustion and anxiety were all that remained in him. Ever since Beelzebub left to god knows where, he’d been focused on his newest creation.

A replica of the person he loved so dearly.

If everyone was to smite your existence, then he’d fix it all up for you. None would harm you. None would think to mistreat you or hurt you again. All they had to do was open their eyes, and he’d take care of them like how he couldn’t for you.

No movements. Lifeless. No pulse. Cold to the touch. No signs of any respiratory action.

He huffed as he pressed their cold hand against his cheek. He felt his eyes burn. It felt so much like when you were there… when you were in pain, suffering from that unknown illness even he could not figure out. He couldn’t help but mourn again. Everything was a constant reminder of what he had lost, and what he’d never get back.

A tear trickled down and he quickly wiped it away with his sleeve. He was tired. He was tired of crying. No more tears. There was no reason to cry when he was going to make you come back. He leaned over their body and used his thumb to graze across their cheek.

Nothing.

He sighed and was about to retract his hand when he saw their face scrunch up as they weakly creaked open their eyes.

“Wha… where…” they asked.

“My (Y/n)... you’re home.” He breathlessly whispered. He held their face with his hands and excitedly scanned them. Alive. It looked like them.

“Lucilius?” They asked, their voice barely above a whisper as they clenched their throat.

“You’re back. With me… I’m so happy. Come. I’ll have to perform some tests on you.” Lucilius said as he carried them in his arms. They looked at him with half-lidded eyes and tiredly nodded. “I can’t wait to show you all I’ve been doing.”

“What… what are you doing…?” they weakly called out. Lucilius tilted their chin up with his finger as he looked down on them.

“I’ve been working on bringing you back. I also made some new primarchs that you can befriend. Don’t you want to see that? You won’t be lonely anymore. You’re not in pain, are you?”

They opened their mouth before they shook their head. He smiled.

“Good...good… everything is right in the world now. I promise I won’t let anything hurt you anymore.”

They nodded and snuggled into his chest before they fell asleep again.

Ah, they still have sleeping spells. But that’s okay, I can fix that.

I’ll fix everything.

~

“Open your eyes.”

A cold voice awoke Beelzebub as he groaned in pain. He gripped his side before he felt a large force knock him over.

“What the-!” He yelled. He removed the black cloak covering his head and turned to his attacker. “You have some nerve-“

His heart stopped.

The assailant smirked at him and waved.

“Hello old friend.”

That voice! That… it can’t be…

How was it possible? How could it be that you ended up here? Here in this dark, disgusting hell? It couldn’t be you.

“(Y/n)?” He whispered. He felt he was being tricked. This was a cruel, sick joke. Pandemonium really was a disturbing and maddening place.

(H/c) hair, (e/c) eyes, (s/c) skin… things that reminded him of the love he lost. But so many things were different now. Those eyes were not wet with tears or weakened from sickness, instead, they were strong, burning with ambition that had him awestruck. The presence of you had become that of a… of a god, almost.

“Yes, it is me.” The figure nodded. They walked to him and gently placed a hand against his cheek. “Forgive me for hurting you, I just had to wake you up.”

He couldn’t respond. You were in front of him. After so long… after so many years of darkness and hatred and sadness spewing into his soul.

He gripped their wrist, wanting to hold you and make sure he wasn’t dreaming. That this wasn’t a cruel illusion placed by the gods of this world to torture him more.

“Beelzebub, darling, I’m here. You need to get up. We have unfinished business.”

“How are you alive?” He cut them off. They stared blankly before smiling again.

“I don’t know. All I remember is being offered a second chance. I need your help now.”

“What is it you need?”

“I know how cruel this world is. It has been so unkind to people like you and me. We are pawns in a game created by the gods. I am aware of how much it hurt you. But…” the figure hugged him, resting their head against his chest.

The warmth of your body against his made him feel nostalgic. He wrapped his arms around you and stroked your hair. Things he had wanted to do ever since you’ve been gone.

“But what if we became gods? Together?”

Beelzebub froze.

“You and I?”

“Mhm… just us two. Only the two of us, we who wish to seize control of our fate and take hold of our desires. We would be unstoppable, a force so strong that not even the gods could challenge us. All would bow to you, worship you, praise you. Don’t you want that, ‘Bubs’?”

He pulled the figure closer. The affectionate nickname that he never heard for so long… it felt like music to his ears.

“Heh… you don’t say? How did you know of what I wish?”

“Bubs, you fool. You don’t think I wouldn’t know what my love would truly want?” The figure chuckled before leaning into his ear. “I’ve missed you so much, Bubs. I’ve thought of you alone all this time. I wished to see you every day and dreamt of you every night. Is my dedication to my lord enough to prove how much I missed you?”

“Silence.” He whispered back. “You speak too much. To think, you’ve been here all along. Heh, I bet he never could have-“

The figure shut him up with a kiss to his lips. How long he had waited for that when he was a young, foolish boy. But now he was a man, a man with desires and dreams. No longer would he wait, instead, he’d claim. Claim all he wanted and desired.

The separation came far too quickly for his liking, and he held the figure close.

“Don’t talk about him. I’m here, Bubs. I just want you to think of me.”

“Tell me now what we will do to take over the skies. I don’t want to keep us waiting for our throne any longer.”

“I never thought you’d ask,” the figure smiled. “There is a certain… power. One that many cannot wield. But you, you’re different. You’re special, unlike anyone else here. This power can sow chaos wherever it goes, it can rip and tear anything asunder.”

“And what is this power?”

“It is called, chaos matter.”

[lovingrosewho]

Fake Dating (pt. 5)

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

It’s finally here! The last part of this mini-series! The longest part as well! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, thanks to everyone who reads, who comments, who asks to be tagged, you really can’t even imagine how much it means to me, the whole 6.7k total words of this fic are already worth it just because of you! Any feedback is highly welcomed :-) Did you like it? Would you have preferred for it to be just 2-3 longer chapters? Were the characters ok? Any thoughts you have in mind 🥰 Prompts “Enjoying the view?” and “I can’t believe you are actually wearing my clothes” taken from this post by @sinnabonka 💕

MULTICHAPTER

Pairing: Crowley x Reader

Rating: T. Fluff

Word count: 2k

Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester need your help with a case, which involves pretending to date the King of Hell.

Warnings: none

Sam’s look is pure confusion, whereas Dean’s...

“What the hell?!” he exclaims. You can tell the only thing stopping him from punching Crowley is that the shock of the image before him has glued his feet to the floor.

“Now we’re in trouble” Crowley jokes lowly. You sigh and roll your eyes in boredom, standing up from the couch and walking over to Sam who is holding your coat with one hand and a gun on the other.

“Thank you” you say more politely than usual so they can note the irony “I thought I’d might die of hypothermia”.

Dean is still staring at Crowley, the engines inside his head must be running a thousand miles per hour deciding if to beat the crap out of him or thank him for keeping you alive. Crowley walks to you, noting Dean’s look and frankly, not caring, lifting your face up in his hands.

“I’ll be seeing you around, kitten” he mutters before vanishing in front of you, leaving you to deal with the family drama. You turn around to see the Winchesters looking at you expectantly, waiting for an explanation you’re not willing to give them yet, so you walk past them and towards the car.

The ride is tense, you’re in utter quiet, back on the passengers seat. You can see how Dean holds the wheel angrily, he won’t even let Sam put any music, even though the younger brother is just looking for the right words to say.

“I can’t believe it” Dean finally speaks, after a long-ass half hour of silence, and you snap.

“Oh so now you can’t believe it? This was your idea!” you reclaim yelling.

“Guys...” Sam interrupts taking a deep breath but none of you listen to him.

“Oh well excuse me for making you make out with the freaking King of Hell!” Dean yells as well, ignoring Sam.

The whole ride goes like that, screaming and recriminating at each other, Sam puts his earbuds on, massaging his temples with his fingers as well, praying to God you get to the bunker quickly so everyone can take some time off before discussing the whole Crowley and you matter.

After about fifteen minutes, you do exactly that, arriving to the bunker, throwing your heels on the War Room, not caring about breaking something, storming into your bedroom next, slamming the door with a bang. Dean’s about to go after you but Sam stops him, so he only turns up the warding as far as it can go.

You spend hours tossing and turning in bed, just to get up, walk in circles like a caged lion, and back to bed.

At about 4am or so, you can’t stand the feeling anymore and get out of your room on your tiptoes, listening to Sam and Dean snore through their doors, you take it as a cue to sneak out of the bunker as quietly as possible. When you’re on the outside highway, you call Crowley.

He appears in front of you not two rings into the call, with his hands inside his pockets and an intrigued look.

“So?” he asks heading your way slowly “How did the dynamic duo take it?”

“Not good” you confirm shrugging, extending your arms to hug him. He embraces you firmly, breathing in your scent.

“I’m sorry I left like that, but you understand, the hardy boys over there would have killed me had I stayed any longer. I tried to come into your bedroom but for some reason I couldn’t” he tells you and you nod.

“Yeah no, it would’ve been worse handling all that stuff with you there. And yes they... Dean turned up the warding” you explain.

“Of course” he says in a tired way, not letting you go.

“I’ll turn it down, they’re already asleep” you say, separating from him and taking his hand instead, conducting him to the door of the bunker, but to your very shabby surprise, Sam and Dean are waiting for you inside, Dean’s arms crossed across his chest and Sam’s mouth in a grimace, giving you an apologetic look.

“Dean, I don’t have time for this” you say going towards the warding. Crowley’s semblance appears calm and even a bit amused, but you can feel his hand slightly tensed in yours.

“Me neither, sweetheart. It’s late, we’re tired, and oh, I already lowered the warding” he says mockingly. You turn to him again, exasperated.

“Alright, (Y/N), we just want to understand,” Sam says, stopping another loud argument from happening “what the hell?”

You sigh, about to recite hour to hour what happened, but Crowley lets go of your hand swiftly and moves it to your shoulder, speaking up.

“It wasn’t her fault” he says, looking at both the Winchesters one at a time “If you’re about to scold anyone, Dean, it’s me, not her”.

“Damn right I am” Dean says, taking a few steps forward intimidatingly, but Sam, as the true moderator he is, raises one hand in annoyance as a heads up for Dean to stay where he is.

“Okay, then, Crowley, man, what the hell?” Sam asks, genuinely bewildered “We leave her with you for a few hours and-and, you’re kissing her?”

You can tell by Crowley’s look and stand, he’s doing his absolute best not to retort with some, witty-out of the place, comment. Since you’re still on top of the stairs, he snaps you both down to be leveled with the Winchesters.

“I like him” you say before Crowley’s even able to respond himself “I love him”.

Now the three men are looking at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“And I love her too” Crowley admits as well, still looking at you taken aback by your words.

“But you’re a demon” a stunned Sam interrupts the scene “Can you even love?”

“Yes, Moose” Crowley rolls his eyes “Apparently, since you two morons dosed me with human blood till derogation, my whole demon-system has... gone soft. As you very eloquently put it”.

You chuckle slightly, knowing that’s just partially true, even before they sedated him with that, he was already very fond of you.

Dean hasn’t said a word nor moved while Sam has been doing all the talking, but suddenly, he walks towards you and encircles you in a hug, kissing the top of your head.

“Dean?” you call unsure about this unexpected behavior.

“I know you know what you’re doing kiddo” he says almost inaudibly “I just... worry too damn much about you, but you can take better care of yourself than either Sam or me can”.

You feel a single tear rolling down your cheeks and landing on Dean’s shoulder. He separates to look at you, his grip on your forearms, a persistent form of protection and reassurance.

“Is this really what you want?” he asks carefully “Cause if it is... I mean I hate it. But I understand, I won’t get on your way. As long as he doesn’t hurt you. ‘Cause if he does...”

“You’ll smite me till beyond hell itself? Yes, Squirrel, we’ve heard that one before” Crowley interrupts him. Dean’s grip tenses on you, but he takes a deep breath, likely counts till ten, and looks affirmatively at Crowley “Good. Now that we could work this out like the highly functioning enemies we are, may I have (Y/N) back?”

“This is what I want” you say to Dean “It’s my decision”.

Dean nods, resigned, hugs you one last time and lets you go to Crowley’s side, holding his hand.

“Take care” Sam tells you waving his hand in the air. Dean is obsessively biting the nail of his thumb, probably regretting the choice of letting you go off with him, but it’s too late, Crowley vanishes the two of you and in a fraction of a second, you’re standing in his chambers in hell.

“That went... awfully pleasant” Crowley declares with both his eyebrows arched, just before he pulls you to him, still holding your hand and grabbing the one that was missing, putting carefully aside a lock of hair and placing it behind your ear as he looks at you in the eyes.

“Mmmh” you hum in response, throwing your arms on top of his shoulders and encircling them behind his neck, swiftly rocking you both right and left “Dean’s probably already regretting his decision”.

Crowley chuckles and nods in agreement until you yawn.

“Oh, kitten, I forgot” he says separating slightly from you, holding your face in his hands “You haven’t slept in... almost 24 hours”.

You yawn again just when yoo were about to retort.

“Say no more” Crowley says with a grin, clicking his fingers, dressing you both in satined pajamas. You laugh loudly.

“Of course you would sleep in satin” you mock giving him a playful look, taking his hand again, making him follow you to the bed, decorated with black gold and red velvet details.

“If you think you’re making me sleep with those, frankly horrific, band t-shirts you wear, well darling, you’re out of your mind” he affirms, making you laugh.

“What scares me the most is you noticing exactly what I sleep in” you tease getting under the covers, making room for Crowley to get in next to you. He rolls his eyes at your statement.

“You’re not exactly the dress-up type, darling” he teases equally, following your lead and getting under the covers with you, turning to his side to face you “I’ve seen you several times walking around in the bunker in those same t-shirts, a pair of pajama shorts and flip-flops. Which, by the way, you’re never making me wear either. Ever”.

“Yet” you giggle “They’re comfortable. And admit it, I look good on them”.

Crowley hums, extending an arm across your waist, drawing you closer to him.

“Do demons even sleep?” you ask when you feel drowsiness tugging at your eyelids, adjusting your head in Crowley’s chest, letting him cuddle you.

“We don’t, but we can if we want, for a few hours” he assures you “You sleep well, kitten, I’m not going anywhere”.

You nod sheepishly and begin to drift in the soft surge of your sleep.

When you wake up the next morning, almost afternoon, you find Crowley right beside you, still heavy on sleep, gentle breaths coming out of him as his chest moves lightly up and down.

You get up quietly, tip-toeing to his wardrobe on the other side of the room, losing the top part of the satin pajama and picking one of his suit shirts instead, putting it on, fastening only the three buttons of the center. After a few minutes, Crowley wakes up.

“Enjoying the view?” you ask brightly, turning your head towards him for a moment, watching him shift slightly up to a position where his arm is bent and his head is resting on his hand.

“What are you doing there, kitten?” he questions softly, his voice still husky with sleep “Come back to bed”.

You turn around fully this time and he seems to be more awaken suddenly.

“Everything all right?” you interrogate.

“Yes-very much so. It’s just... I can’t believe you are actually wearing my clothes” he exclaims, the corners of his mouth slightly lift “I don’t expect you to know how much that shirt cost”.

You grin widely, walking to the bed slowly, throwing yourself to it afterwards, not taking your eyes off of him.

“No. Does it matter?” you ask again, tone still teasing. He shakes his head.

“Not at all. It’s yours” he states, rolling on top of you, placing his hands at your sides, lowering to kiss you deep and passionate.

“You know I’m eventually gonna need to get up and get back to hunting, right?” you mumble, running your fingers through his beard and lips.

“As much as it pains me, yes. That’s why I’m intending to keep you here for as long as I can” he says, nuzzling his nose in your hair, inhaling your scent.

“I could do with that” you tell him happily, entangling your legs behind his hips and your arms in his neck, kissing him once again. Swaying, tender lips across his.

The End

MASTERLIST // TAG LIST: @enby-thesbian @agent-smulder

[marmosa]

hello 💕 i've just gone through your entire fred weasley and i absolutely love your writing and especially your dialogues, they feel v authentic and real xx i read that you have requests open so i'll leave you with an idea from my v detailed v self indulgent daydream cinematic universe starring fred weasley— post war (say a couple of years after) fred is the owner and manager of the hogsmead branch of the joke shop and sneaks into hogwarts to meet his fiancé, newly hired transfiguration (1/2)

thank you so much for the kind words and reading all my writing, i can’t begin to describe how much that means to me! i love the idea of fred sneaking into the castle to see his significant other, it’s so cute, i had to run a lap around my room just thinking about it. also in this house fred weasley never d worded, if you think he did, no he didn’t. also also, it got kinda sad at the end and i’m sorry, i didn’t mean for that to happen i- but anyways, hope you like it and thank you again for the compliment <3

word count: 1.6k

***

“Hey!”

Tink!

“Hey!”

Tink!

[y/n] looked up from the stack of papers arrayed on her desk and glanced around her study for the source of the noise, absolutely bewildered at who would possibly be bothering her at this hour. She prayed it wasn’t a student messing around with her, for she may have been a relatively new teacher but she wasn’t afraid to stand her ground against misbehaving kids.

The sound came again and this time she saw who it was her face lighting up before falling down as she scurried over to the window, unlatching the glass and pushing it open to find her fiancé sitting all high and mighty on his broom like this was a normal everyday occurrence.

“Fred Weasley! What in God’s name are you doing outside of my window? Why are you throwing stones at glass? Do you have any idea how high up I am?” She hissed, reaching for him, despite knowing full well he could only enter the room on his own accord.

He flew closer to the window and balanced himself on the ledge before grabbing her hand and hopping down onto the floor a giddy smile plastered on his lips, “I’m aware how high up this is, lest you forget I was one of the best Gryffindor beaters this school has ever seen.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You do realize you could just come in through the front doors right? McGonagall isn’t going to smite you down for visiting your fiancée,” she deadpanned, latching the window back shut.

“Whatever? If I recall correctly, me being on the quidditch team all those years back had you absolutely smitten, or am I wrong,” he retorted smugly, completely brushing past her statement about walking through the front doors.

[y/n]’s face fell into one of embarrassment as she pushed past him back to her desk, not wanting to fuel his ego any more than she usually did, “Even so, you still can’t be sneaking onto campus. Especially during school hours, you know how it is, I would rather you be turned away at the door than get escorted out by the collar of your robes.”

“But it’s always school hours! Honestly [y/l/n], your new position has really given you a stick up the arse,” He grumbled, leaning back against one of the desks across from hers.

“[y/l/n]?” She repeated, offense written all over her face. Despite not taking it to heart she decided to mess with him a bit for being so stubborn.

Fred’s face fell and he was quick to rush over and apologize, “You know that’s not what I meant! Technically you’re not a Weasley anyway until the paperwork is done legally, so I’m not wrong.”

“I’m telling Molly you said that and she’s going to ground you just like she did 6th year when you got caught nicking something from Filche’s office,” [y/n] pouted, sinking into her chair and crossing her arms.

“You’re terrible you know that,” Fred deadpanned grabbing her cheeks in his hands, “don’t you say a word to my mother or she’ll make me bake you a cake or something.”

“I would quite like that actually, maybe I will tell her,” she replied, biting back a smile.

“Oh, come on! You know George was the one who got all the baking skills! That’s why he’s in charge of all the candy at our shops!” Fred whined, squeezing her face together slightly to try and return the teasing.

“Even if it turned out burnt and gross, I’d still like it because you made it,” she stated plainly, leaning up to try and snatch a kiss.

“Rubbish,” He replied, indulging her and accepting the kiss, smiling down at her when she beamed up at him.

“Whatever you say Freddie, y’know-,”

“Mrs. Weasley? Are you here? I had a question for you.”

All the color drained out of Fred’s face as he recognized McGonagall’s voice from across the room, [y/n]’s features mirroring the same horror as she pushed him off her and shoved him under her desk so he was as out of sight as she could make him.

“Yes- yes! I’m here Minerva, how can I help you?” [y/n] stuttered out, sliding her chair in as far as she could without injuring her soon to be husband.

“Well, I wanted to ask how the preparations were coming along for the annual Christmas Ball? I know you’ve been kept busy with recent exams, but the plans are top priority if we want to keep the spectacular turn out of our ball the same,” McGonagall explained walking up to her desk.

“Oh! The plans are coming along just fine, I haven’t quite finished drafting them up yet, but as soon as I do I’ll have them brought to you right away for approval,”  [y/n] assured her, trying her best not to let on how nervous she now was, trying not to get Fred caught.

“Spectacular! And I expect to see you down in the Hall later? Professors have to arrive early today for some announcement preparation,” McGonagall continued, thankfully still unaware of the hidden person in the room.

“Of course, thank you for letting me know ahead of time,” [y/n] nodded, pretending to assort some papers on her desk.

“Lovely,” McGonagall smiled, heading out of the room, but stopping before she exited the room, “Oh, and tell Mr. Weasley that I say hello, he’s been rather quiet about his surprise appearances to our school recently.”

“Will do!” [y/n] called after her, releasing a breath she didn’t even know she was holding in as soon as the door shut.

“Okay, how come you get to call her Minerva?” Fred complained, crawling out from under the desk, no visible panic at McGonagall’s leaving statement.

“All professors do. Besides, you’re a trouble-maker in her eyes, a darling, but a trouble-maker, she wouldn’t dream of giving you that kind of power,” [y/n] giggled, reaching up to rearrange his  ruffled hair, as he’d decided to grow it out again once he’d graduated.

“Trouble-maker,” Fred muttered, rolling his eyes, “Well she’ll be seeing a lot more of me whether she likes it or not, so I’ll win that privilege, eventually.”

“Whatever you say darling,” she hummed, scooting back in to continue grading her papers.

“You’re ignoring me already?” he groaned, letting his chin rest on the top of her head, arms slinging over her shoulders.

“I’ve got work to do Fred, I’m a professor now. I’m surprised you even had time to visit me, you’re a business owner now after all, it always amazes me how you have the time for these spontaneous visits- not that I don’t appreciate them,” she assured him, setting down her pen and squeezing his hands.

“I own the business, so I get to make my hours, unlike you,” he replied, moving his head so he was peeking over her shoulder.

“Is that supposed to be bad?” she quipped, leaning her head against his shoulder so she could kind of see him.

“Bad for me! I miss you! You’re here far too much,” Fred mumbled, intertwining their fingers.

“Well winter vacation is coming up soon, so you’ll be seeing much more of me. Hopefully you don’t get too sick of me,” she giggled, pursing her lips when he passed her a suggestive grin, “Ah, don’t look at me like that, that is not what I meant.”

“But it is and you know it darling,” Fred hummed, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Don’t get too cocky or I’ll come up with extra work to keep me here,” she warned, a teasing lilt to her threat.

“You wouldn’t. Besides even if you did, I’d kidnap you against your will. Also you wouldn’t hurt Molly like that, she always expects you for family festivities,” he replied simply, knowing she would never pass up an opportunity to spend time with him.  

“You’ve got me there. You know me so well,” she sighed, reaching back so she could toy with the hair at the nap of his neck.

“I’d hope I know you well, you’re about to be my wife,” he chuckled, shutting his eyes at the sensation of her soft fingers against his skin.

“Touché, love, touché,” she hummed in agreement, her free hand twisting the engagement ring situated on his finger.

“Anyways, I should probably leave you to it, with your boring paperwork and grading and all,” he sighed, standing tall, her hands sliding away from him and into her lap.

“It’s not boring,” she frowned, crossing her arms across her chest defensively, trying not to cave but ultimately failing when he gave her a raised brow, “okay, maybe it’s a little boring.”  

“I knew it. No worries darling, I know you love it here, I’m only teasing. See you soon though?” He mused, brushing a stray hair out of her face.

“See you soon,” she replied, grabbing his face and pulling him down for a sweet kiss, relishing in one another’s company for their limited time together.

“Farewell my love,” he announced, grabbing his broom and pushing himself onto the window sill, “see you around.”

“Fred wait!”

He laxed the position of his broom and turned around, an adoring smile stretching onto his lips as she pulled him for one last sweet kiss, placing a small object in his hand.

“What’s this?” he asked as she peppered a few last kisses around his face, trying not to let her emotions get the best of her.

“It’s the locket you gave me, I finally put a picture in it, thought it was time to return it to you,” she smiled, stroking his cheek lovingly.

“You’re astounding,” he muttered, tucking the charm in his pocket, “I love you.”

“I love you too, bye Freddie,” she waved as he kissed her softly once more and took off into the setting sun, “see you soon.”

[therainbowwillow]

For a Price AU Part 4

In which Orpheus is raised by Hades.

(Ps. I cut this part in half, which is why it’s comparatively short. Real-life springtime comes with a whole new world of tasks that must be accomplished and I’ve had less time to write.)

Eurydice rarely leaves her cabin. Day after painstaking day, she cares for Orpheus, forcing him to drink and eat and keep breathing. She desperately tries to pry information out of him when he’s conscious, rare events, few and far between. It is a struggle to get him to say anything without a coughing fit to follow. And when he does manage speak up something, his words are hardly coherent. 

He’s awake now and Eurydice attempts to coax information out of him once again. She has a million questions. Where are you from? How far did you walk? What is happening to you? She asks only one. “Is anyone looking for you?”

“I... don’t know.” His words are strained, but he’d given a coherent answer. She pulls him into her arms as he begins to cough. Somehow, he’s still conscious when his fit ends.

“Who would look for you?” One more answer. Please.

“Mom and dad. My family.”

To her shock, he doesn’t start coughing. His breaths are shallow, but he’s breathing. That’s plenty enough to will her to continue her questioning. “What are their names?”

“Persephone and Hades.” She tenses. What cause does a man have to lie when he is on his deathbed? 

She keeps her voice even. “The queen and king of the underworld?” she asks, sweetly.

He nods, his head against her chest.

His breaths are labored now. She doesn’t have much longer before he passes out. “Do you live with your father?”

“Yeah.”

Eurydice forces herself to take a deep breath. “Does he know you’re here?”

“No... mama left... in the morning...”

“Is she looking for you?”

“It’s springtime,” he chokes out. Then he’s coughing again. Longer than usual and far worse. 

When he falls silent, he’s unconscious, barely breathing. Eurydice leans back against her pillow, holding Orpheus next to her. When she rests, she sleeps beside him in case he wakes. Or worse, he doesn’t. 

Today however, she doesn’t sleep. If he is telling the truth- and she is nearly sure he is- then she is harboring the son of not one but two deities, the heir to the underworld, clearly some kind of young god himself, if his song has anything to say on the matter. And he’s in her arms, barely breathing. 

She hates herself for her selfish inquiries, but the questions press at the back of her mind. What happens to her if he dies? Would she be struck down by the Lord of the Dead himself? By some other family member of the well-connected poet? Tortured for an eternity for her failure to save him? 

Orpheus coughs. His breaths suddenly quicken. “You’re awake?” She tries to hide her surprise. Already?

There are tears on his cheeks. For all of his pain, he rarely cries. Perhaps he doesn’t have the energy. Eurydice pulls him a little closer. He relaxes at her touch, as he always does. 

“Your mother visits the surface, right?” She hates to question him like this. She is no detective and he is not a prisoner. Still, she asks, in fear that she soon will not receive answers.

Orpheus nods wearily.

“I’m sorry, Orpheus. I just want to keep you safe,” she says, leaving out the saving-her-own-skin part for the sake of his trust. “Will your father get word to her of your absence?”

Another nod, very slight.

“You’ve gotta answer this out loud,” she warns him. “How can I contact your parents?” The instant the words come out of her mouth, she regrets them. Isn’t the whole point of all this simply to survive? Keep Orpheus alive long enough to sing a garden into existence, pray he disappears again, and be sure to advise him never to return at every chance she gets. That’s the plan. Stay on the good side of the gods. Save her own ass. To hell with the rest.

Absent from the plan is purposely contacting his divine parents to come smite her for failing to protect their son. And yet here she is, protecting Orpheus’s safety over her own.

“I don’t know,” he tells her. Eurydice sighs in relief. She tried. At least she won’t have to live with not having tried.

“Thank you for answering my questions.”

“Mm hm.” He hums, absentmindedly. She follows his gaze over his shoulder, fixed upon his guitar.

“You want to play?” she asks.

“I can’t sing anymore.” Eurydice hates to see him so defeated. He had seemed so sure of himself once. Where had his confidence gone? His joy?

She stands and retrieves the instrument. She helps Orpheus sit upright, propped against a pillow. She takes a seat next to him and lets him lean on her shoulder. “I’ve never played before. I can sing, and you can teach me how to strum the right notes,” she explains.

Orpheus grins. “It isn’t so simple.”

“I’m learning from the best. I’m sure I’ll figure it out,” she teases, trying to keep him distracted. He hadn’t spoken so much for days.

“You’re holding it wrong,” he remarks.

“Oh.”

Orpheus laughs softly. Eurydice watches the way his eyes crinkle up. And when he laughs, the sound is almost like music.

He adjusts the positioning of her hands. “Strum.” She does. “That’s the first chord.”

“Simple enough,” Eurydice shrugs. 

“Ah, but you have to sing on top of it.”

She glares at him. “Well now you’re making it harder on purpose!”

“You have to dance too!” he says with a laugh. 

Eurydice rolls her eyes. “Spare me from that, at least.” 

“Fine, fine,” he concedes. “Here’s the second chord.” Orpheus plays it for her and she repeats it. 

This process continues until Eurydice has learned the basics of a few simple lines, singing the notes and all. As long as she sings, Orpheus seems a little stronger. His eyes are brighter, his skin cooler to the touch. Still, he tires quickly, and soon, he does not guide her hand as she strums his guitar, opting instead to lean up against her, his eyes closed, simply taking in the music. His breathing slows as he drifts into sleep. Eurydice continues to sing, considering it her payment for the garden he had once provided her.

...

“Lord Hades.” Thanatos speaks, Death embodied. Hades recognizes his voice. The King of the Underworld does not open his door, dreading what he might hear.

Thanatos does not wait for an answer. “Forgive me, Lord Hades, but this is a matter of immediate concern.” Hades says nothing, only lifting his head from his papers. 

“I have located your son.” Hades wants to shout at him, demand word of Orpheus’s location, but Thanatos continues: “He cannot survive much longer. My Lord, I will not harm him so long as I can prevent it, but my duty to death is not preventable.”

Hades forces himself to keep his breaths even. “You found him and made no attempt to return him home?”

“That is not my domain. I fear I would have harmed him further.”

“Is Hermes aware of this development? And my wife?”

Thanatos nods. “I spoke to them both before yourself. I believe Orpheus may survive until they locate him.”

There is no comfort in those words. “Will he or won’t he live?” Hades growls.

“I do not have an answer.”

“How long does he have?”

Thanatos considers for a moment. “No longer than days, if that.” 

“Bring him no harm,” Hades implores.

“I will try.”

...

Orpheus does not wake in the morning. His breaths are shallow and his skin is colorless, as it had been before he had disappeared. Eurydice curses herself for sleeping so long. Maybe she would’ve noticed the progression of his condition if she had not been resting herself. 

She searches her shelves methodically for something to eat, turning up only a few dried leaves. Her stomach growls, but she does not eat them. Instead, she shakes Orpheus until he wakes, half conscious. He groans in pain. She brushes the tears off his cheeks. “What is it, Orpheus?” she asks.

He coughs in response, half sobbing. Now Eurydice is afraid. She has always known that her care isn’t adequate. She has no medicine, nothing filling to eat, and her meager shelter is hot in the days and cold as ice by night. Even so, she had been hopeful that it might be enough. Orpheus had been improving. 

“Please,” she begs. “Say something.”

“I love you.”

Eurydice squeezes his hands. “I love you too, Orpheus.” She has no time to be shocked at the words she’d just spoken before Orpheus is overcome by a coughing fit. Eurydice pulls him into her arms, gently patting his back and whispering words of comfort. Comfort, she tells herself, not lies. His coughs grow weaker and weaker.

“Shh... shh... You’re alright,” she attempts to comfort him, “Breathe.”

Suddenly, he does not breathe. He does not cry. “No... no!” Eurydice shouts for him, receiving no reply. He doesn’t turn to ash or bloom into a flower or ascend into the sky. He simply lays in her arms, motionless, as any mortal might. Eurydice screams and shakes him and pours the last of her water across his face, praying the shock might wake him. It does not. 

He’s dead. It hits her like a rush of cold air in the summer’s heat. He can’t die. Not like this. Not her Orpheus, who had sung the world back to life in the dead of winter and walked a thousand, thousand miles just to speak to her one more time. 

“Lady Persephone, hear me!” Eurydice begs. There is nothing proper about her cries. She has nothing to sacrifice, no words to recite. “Lord Hades! Someone, hear me! Anyone...” If she is heard, no one answers. 

Eurydice feels like a madman, screaming into nothingness. Maybe Orpheus had been lying all along and she had only bothered deities who cared very little for her mortal fears. She pulls Orpheus into her arms and sobs. “Don’t do this to me,” she whispers, as if he has a choice in the matter.

[mattzerella-sticks]

Checkmate (Castiel-centric, Chuck & Cas, Castiel/Dean Winchester coda to 15x17 “Unity” and 15x18 “Despair, 1.9k)

ao3 link

Billie saves Jack from suffering a fatal end from her plan, and knowing Jack was safe gave Cas space to focus on his own troubles. Nearly losing his son again... revelations from Chuck... choices Dean made, were set on, until Sam broke through at the last minute - too close - they all were...

It was too much. Cas needed to digest these roiling experiences away from faces it hurt to look at. Except he stumbles exactly where Chuck wants him. After countless times praying for guidance, Chuck finally decides now is perfect for a long-awaited heart-to-heart.

           Cas abandoned the others once Billie disappeared, not even waiting for her form to fade before striding away. Stomps up each step, ignoring Dean’s calls as he races from their home. Into fresher air aboveground. Being an angel, Cas was inexperienced with breathing. Yet, instinctually, Cas gasps for breath once he breaks free.

           Hunched over the outdoor railing, Cas’s vision blurs. Darkness encroaching at a pace that makes him shiver. “That’s not…” he hisses, sinking lower, crouching. “It’s not real. It can’t… there’s a deal. They were very clear –“

           “C’mon Castiel, you should know by now…” A familiar voice breaks through static, Cas’s grip tightening on the rusted rail. “This close to the end, anything goes.”

           Cas turns his head, meeting Chuck’s deriding glare. “You’re still here?”

           “I’m everywhere Castiel,” he mocks, arms spread wide and head tilted backwards. Laughing, “I’m God.”

           Briefly, Cas considers shouting. Alerting the others that Chuck hadn’t gone far, nearer than they figured. Except Chuck’s head lolls around once more, clearly expecting Cas to do exactly that. His jaw tenses, Cas rising on shaky legs. “What do you want?”

           “Loaded question. I want a lot of things… Amara’s power – but I got that.” His eyes flicker, blue and black, before fading into their regular hazel. “This world to end… close. I could wait fifty more years but let’s speed it up, honestly. You and your family to suffer…” He grins, advancing towards him. “How is Jack doing?”

           “He’s fine,” Cas tells Chuck, “but you already know that. Don’t you?”

           “Guilty.”

           “Then why ask?” Cas glares at his creator, mustering enough fury that he trembles from an entirely new reason. “Did you stick around only to gloat? Is that what it takes to get you to show up?”

           “Oh Castiel…” Chuck grabs his chin, pinching it. Sparks jumping off his finger pads and searing his skin, Cas wincing when Chuck doesn’t let go. “You’re not bitter that I never returned your calls, right?”

           Chest aching, Cas tamps down that hurt. Accustomed to doing so. “But you received them?”

           “I hear each and everyone.”

           “And you do nothing.”

           “I only help those that deserve it.” He shoves Cas away, spinning on his heel. Gestures around them, “No one on this Earth – in this universe – deserves it. Ungrateful sacks of filth and – and mud. Imperfect, flawed…”

           “Beautiful.” Cas defends them on instinct, stepping forward. “Humanity might be all of that, but it doesn’t make them any less deserving of life. Of a second chance.”

           “Humanity…” He laughs again, to a joke Cas must have missed. Wiping a false tear, Chuck leers at him, “Really? Does humanity deserve a second chance? Is it even a second chance anymore?” Then, with a disturbing amount of severity laced through his voice. “How many more chances are you going to give Dean?”

           Chuck’s hand rests over his heart, closing the distance between blinks. Claws at Cas’s chest, clutching onto him. Cas stares above his creator’s head, resolutely not giving Chuck what he wants. Hiding sadness and longing they both can feel rippling across their bodies, warmth abnormal given this cooler climate.

           “You’re always giving so much of yourself to him,” Chuck whispers, prodding. Breath felt as he rasped in his ear. “Isn’t it tiring? Disappointing he doesn’t do the same?”

           Cas swallows the immediate thoughts that emerge. Those traitorous voices expressing similar sentiment, nasally and grating like them. His shadowed future. He answers, instead, with, “I will always do whatever it takes to keep my family safe.”

           Groaning, Chuck knocks his head against Cas’s shoulder. Repeatedly, harder and harder. Each swing whacking at his cool façade. “Love!” he bemoans, “Your love for humans, your love for him. How I hate – why does it all come down to Dean.” His hand trails upwards, snaking over Cas’s tie. Chuck steps backwards, dragging Cas along. Forcing him onto his knees. “Sam, I get. They’re brothers… sentimentality. They’ve been through the wringer longer than every other Earth, of course it’d be harder breaking that. Too mature, set in their routines… And Amara, she was finding herself. Dean was a passing fancy – entertainment, nothing more. But you…” Bending, Chuck presses his face onto Cas’s. Close enough he sees lightning flashing within his pupils. “Your little defect, your crush… this is all your fault.”

           “I…” Chuck’s eyes glow, his throat seizing as this greater being chokes him. Cas fights past it, coughing. “It’s… yours.”

           “No, it’s not. Really.” He stops, dropping him. Cas scrabbles into a crouch, warily observing Chuck circle. Arm raised defensively; angel blade prepped in case of another attack. Useless, given the comparison of power, but he refuses to sit and accept his death. Not like this. Luckily rather than smite Cas, Chuck wastes time prattling. “I tied everything up in a neat, little bow. Sure… took longer to get there, edits and rewrites of course, but the story was done. Brothers battle, one dies, close the book and move on. Raphael was supposed to raze this stage for the next show… until someone called for an encore.”

           Cas startles, guard slipping momentarily. “Wait… you wanted Raphael to restart the apocalypse?”

           “Yes!” Chuck yells, thunder booming in the distance. “It should have been Michael! But what do I find when I check in? Sam back, Dean hunting again, and you balancing an angelic civil war while pining for a man who was better off without you.”

           Those reminders threaten Cas, like tentacles rising from dark ocean waters ready to drag him under. Deeper into his past mistakes. Cas grounds himself, scraping the dirt. Feels it. “My part was done,” he challenges, “Over. Lucifer blew me into tiny particles. Untraceable. You brought me back.”

           “Because how else would I have gotten Dean out of that damned cemetery!” Chuck kicks a rock. It rockets through the sky. “If I’d left him there alone, he’d be as good as dead. Where’s the satisfaction in that? All you had to do was dust Dean off and send him on his way. Couldn’t even do something simple without screwing it up!”

           Cas glares at his creator, shouldering the burden of his disappointment, straining under its massive weight. He does not fall, however. “And all the other times?” he asks. He’s not sure if he wants to hear his answer. Worse, that indecision is a damned lie.

           Chuck grins. His simple act knocking Cas onto his rear, overwhelmed by its cruelty. “And let you off the hook for beating this dead horse? Not a chance. If the Leviathans blew you up, you’d never suffer through the fallout from betraying Dean – the man you did everything for. A hero’s sacrifice, staying behind in Purgatory? For penance? You don’t decide your fate – I do! And it was perfect. Hope, Castiel. All that hope you had… for Jack, a better world, a chance to raise a kid alongside the others. Experience those wonders, find a new purpose – dashed with a simple knife through your chest. The last thing you saw being Dean as his heart shattered, and he broke. That playing on a loop while you slumber for infinity in the Empty – now that was an ending!”

           As an angel, Cas doesn’t sleep. Can’t dream and cannot have nightmares. In moments of peace, sitting alone in his room at night. Bathed in darkness… that memory strikes. Quick, cutting in its ruthless appearance. Sets him to his feet, light on and blade drawn. Watching shadows shrink in their retreat.

           Chuck continues, angrier by the second. “You would have stayed there too, this time. Dean, Dean prayed. Every night that I would bring you back. Instant voicemail.” Cas frowns, distracted from past trauma by this new information. Dean never sharing this. “Except I was too focused on your demise I wrote myself into another problem – again, because of you!”

           “Jack.”

           “You just… you make me so mad! Castiel, you gotta – you gotta understand, I mean…” Chuck wipes at his cheek, palm lingering there while their gazes meet. “You’re an angel. A – uh… a simple worker bee. A drone. I’m the queen! You shouldn’t be able to do this, it’s – what is it about you? Was it this world – did I… help me make it make sense!”

           Righteous fury seizing, oozing out the cracks of his very being, Cas stands. “You want to know what happened?” he says, seething, “I finally saw what was important. Grand battles, ultimate power… they’re all meaningless if you are alone. Unloved. My time here has taught me…” Those words feel awkward on his tongue, incorrect. He switches, answering honestly. “Dean showed me that.”

           “He sure did show that…” Chuck huffs, rocking on his heels. Smugly enjoying Cas’s defiance. “It sure didn’t include you.”

           Chuck twists his hand in the wound. The very reason Cas fled, Dean’s statement ringing in his head. ‘I’d trade all of them for the chance to kill Chuck.’ Their heated, silent exchange during that brief pause. Communicating as best they could. Still, Dean gave into his fears. Chomped at the bit Chuck dangled. Choosing what Cas prayed he’d never.

           All for nothing.

           “Is that why you’re here?” Cas asks, “kill me one last time? Take me off the board because I’m not important to the story?”

           “How I wish that were true, Castiel. How I wish that were true.” He steeples his fingers, drifting into the surrounding forest. “You’ve got a part to play in this. Something big. A set up for the final battle… that’ll bring all the pieces I need onto the board.”

           “Except for me?”

           “I’ve learned from my first draft,” he says, “not to let surprises derail the story I want to write. You, you… you are nothing but surprising.”

           Cas scowls, fists balled at his sides. “And you being here? Sharing this with me? Is that part of your story?”

           Chuckling, Chuck wags his finger from side to side. “Let’s just say I’m… making things up as I go along.” Cas stiffens, hearing his own words used against him. “Wanted one last chat with you before you drown back in that slimehole.”

           “So it’s soon?” Chuck’s lips thin, stretched closed. Restraint crumbles, Cas leaping forward. “Tell me what you’ve planned -!”

           He’s thrown onto his back, a hand around his neck. Chuck expressionless while he struggles, looking almost bored. “Nothing, Castiel,” he says, “I have nothing planned.”

           “Liar!” he hisses, “You said that I –“

           Chuck talks over him, “It’s the truth! I didn’t plan anything… the only one to blame is you, Castiel. Like always, you are the architect of your own misery.” Cas freezes, body rebelling. Flames of hatred snuffed with a cold breeze. “Not like anything I could’ve written would have sticked anyway, we both know this. But your deal… I didn’t make you do that. You have no one to blame for your doom but yourself.” He releases Cas, wiping his hands on his pants. Sneering at Cas like he was garbage, but smaller. Gum Chuck wiped off his shirt, but worse. A bug under a magnifying glass while the sun shone brightly above, except more pitiful. “It’ll be nice to sit back and enjoy for once… so put on a good show, Cas. Really push Dean into doing something dumb and suicidal when you’re gone. Sell it! Make it count – it’ll be your last.”

           Chuck vanishes, leaving Cas there. On the ground, physically. Mentally, spiritually, he’s adrift in the unknown. Floating towards an ending he always knew waited for him. An ending that he chose.

           Or did he? If every other option was stolen from him, was it truly his choice? Cas certainly wouldn’t pick this. Years from now, after his loved ones have shuffled off, at peace with a life well lived – that’s the ending he would write. Being welcomed into his perfect heaven with gentle green eyes, freckles, and a dimpled smile.

           He stays like that for longer than he realized. Sam finds him, asks if he’s okay.

           Cas lies because, like with the Empty, it’s the only choice he has.

[1-800-hellraiser]

Teeth (Yandere!Eyeless Jack x Reader) 

Requested by: no one

Pages: 5.1

Words: 1,821

Genre: Angst kinda (I promise this is gonna be the last angsty fic for a while-)

Associated song: Teeth - 5SOS

!Tw! Swearing, gore, yandere themes, almost puking, and mentions of murder.

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

"Blood on my shirt, rose in my hands, you're looking at me like you don't know who I am. Blood on my shirt, heart in my hand, still beating."

        Eyeless Jack has, for lack of a better term, an infatuation with you. Ever since he met you, he couldn't get you off his mind, you're the eternal flame he's been looking for to light up his life. He would do anything for you, and when I say anything, I mean anything. This mans would sacrifice himself for you, and pray for any poor soul that tries to flirt with you around Jack. Ej will absolutely smite them, not around you of course. He wants you to see the clam, collected, stoic side of him, not the monster side. He will never forgive himself if you saw him like that.

        You met Jack about six months ago at a house party, you were supposed to be his target along with a few others. But, the way you fought against him, he knew you weren't going down without a fight. Jack was captivated by how you fight, you managed to stab him in the ribs with a piece of glass from a broken beer bottle. He had to give himself stitches when he returned to the mansion that night. You're a real life final girl, you somehow managed to defy death and instead get brought back to a creepy mansion in the woods full of serial killers. It's not the best outcome, but hey! At least you're not dead! 

        Now you're training to become a pasta, and you're still Ej's roomie. You enjoy sharing a room with Ej, he keeps his room pristine and orderly, unlike some other pastas *cough cough* Jeff *cough cough*. You'd think Jack's room would smell like rot and death, but he is actually provided a lab to work in. Now that, that room smells like death. No matter how many candles you light, no matter how much Fabreeze you spray, that room will always smell like rot. It's a good thing that everyone has gone nose-blind to the smell though. Anyway, being roommates with a cannibal has it's perks, such as Jack keeping a mini fridge in his room for his "food". He lets you keep food in it too, because he knows how much you hate it when someone eats your leftovers. Jack is also a very comforting person, he's helped you out with your nightmares before. His presence is also just comforting in general.

        Anyway, enough of me simping for Jack, we have to get on with the story at hand. You just got out of your morning shower. You've already brushed your teeth, dried and styled your hair, and put on deodorant. You step out of the misty bathroom and pad into Jacks room. Your e/c eyes catch a small, yellow square off paper stuck onto the top of Jack's desk. You peel the Paper off of the polished wooden surface and read the note. 'Dear Y/n, I have to go on a quick mission, I don't know when I'll be back, but I already made coffee for you, Enjoy! - Ej.' You smile, blood rushing to your cheeks. You realize you're blushing and rub at you're cheeks, you shouldn't be feeling like this about your cannibalistic demon roommate. Part of you says no, but the other screams yes. You're torn.

        You decide to push your thoughts out and drink your coffee. You take a mug off of the handle screwed into the wall. Yes, Jack has not only a coffee machine in his room, but also mugs. Anyway, you take the pot and pour the steaming, bitter liquid into your mug. You like your coffee how Jack likes his, black and very bitter. The only difference between your coffee and his, is that Jack puts certain types of blood in his coffee. Certain types of blood have certain effects on him, which is cool, but also terrifying. Taking a sip of your coffee, you shudder at the taste.

        "Oh yeah, that's good shit," you mutter to yourself. You happily plop yourself on your bed and take another long sip of your bitter beverage. Since you and Jack share a room, you both decided to split the room down the middle. For example, Jack's side of the room is painted royal blue, he has a bunch of shelves for his medical equipment and a filing cabinet full of every resident's medical records. He also has a desktop and a coffee machine next to it, on the desk a bunch of unwashed, empty coffee cups and paperwork.

        Your side however, is almost completely different. Your walls are painted a dark f/c and have posters everywhere of your favorite bands and singers. You also have a shelf that holds cute figurines and a place to charge your phone and laptop. You have put up LED lights around the shelf and fairy lights around the top. You also have hooks on the wall next to your bed holding your hoodies and other things. It's funny, because when a creep walks into your/Jack's room, they see one side that's organized and professional looking, Then, they see your side. You know you're messy and quiet proud of it. Anyways, you open your laptop and scroll through Youtube, trying to find something to watch. You found something, but your stomach growled. You realize you haven't ate anything yet, reluctantly you stand up and amble out to the kitchen.

        Once you make it into the kitchen, you open the fridge to try and find something to eat. You rummage around and find f/s (favorite snack), jackpot. You smile and walk happily back to your/Ej's room. You get back into your shared room, you begin to watch Youtube.

~

        Almost halfway though bingeing Markiplier's Fnaf series, you get a message from Clockwork. Your e/c eyes quickly read over the text.

Clocky :)

Hey Y/n! Do you wanna walk around the woods with me?

Y/n

Sure! Just give me a few minutes

Clocky :)

Ok! I'll be waiting outside

        You hide your snack and grab your shoes, you slip on your shoes and a jacket, since it's pretty cold out today. Exiting the room, you manage to navigate through the long and twisting hallways. You finally reach the front doors and step out of the house. "Took you long enough," Clockwork huffs jokingly, you playfully jab her with your elbow and laugh. "So, how are you?" "I'm doing good, waiting for Ej to get back from his mission," you explain, Clockwork gives you a strange look. "Slender didn't give him a mission today," Clockwork says, you give her a weird look back. "Really? He wrote me a note, saying he had to go on a mission today and he'll be back."

        Clockwork thinks for a minute, then it clicks. "Ooooooh~ somebody might have an admirer~" Clockwork gushes at you, poking your cheek. Your cheeks immediately heat up. "Oh my god shut uppppppp," Clockwork giggles at your flustered-ness. "Jack and Y/n, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g-" you put a hand over her mouth, "cease" you grumble, now flustered to hell and back. You hear clockworks muffled chuckle under your hand.

        Once you get back to the mansion, you say your goodbye to Clockwork and trudge back to your room to think. You flop face down on your bed and groan into your pillow. You turn over to face the ceiling, you hate to admit it, but, you think you're starting to crush on Ej a bit. Don't get it twisted, Ej is fucking smoking hot. Even though, you've only seen him without his mask on twice, mans could commit arson with just his face he's THAT hot. But on the other hand, he's a cannibalistic demon serial killer. You feel like you have morals, but you shouldn't because you have to kill for a living too. You're no better than him in all honesty. You sigh and flip over to your side, now facing Jack's bed. 

        Come to think of it, you feel like he's way out of your league. Jack's not only stunning, but he's very smart, he was a health major for god's sake. Your heart cracks a bit, realizing you're not good enough for him in your mind. You feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes, you squeeze your eyes shut and silently cry to yourself. But before you could get any tears out, you hear the bedroom door squeak open. "Y/n? Are you awake?" You immediately sit up in your bed, "Hey Jack, how was the mission," you ask as jack closes the door and flicks on the lights. Jack is covered in blood, with a beautiful red rose in one hand, and a human heart in the other. This doesn't freak you out, considering he's a cannibal, Jack hands the rose to you. "I saw this and though you'd like it." Jack mumbled sheepishly.

        You break out into a genuine smile. "Thank you, Jack, it's beautiful," you say, lightly grazing the soft petals with your fingertips. Then, Jack hands you the heart, you instantly pale. You look up at Jack, "T-this is for me?" You ask, Jack nods, you take the squishy organ in your hand. You almost vomit when the bloody organ contacts your hand. "where did you get this from?" "The guy who sold me the rose." Jack explains. You stare at him in shock, you ask him simply why, and Jack says "Because he knew you, He was going to steal you from me. And we can't have that." Jack says, stroking your cheek. "What was his name," your heart drops, you hope you weren't close with this person. "His name was...Jay, I believe?" Jack answers, and you burst into tears.

        Jay was your best friend since fifth grade, he's helped you through so much. You just got told that your crush murdered your best friend, and now you're holding his heart. Jack tries to put a hand on your shoulder and you scoot as far back on your bed as you could go. You look Jack in the eyes and tell him to leave you alone, he tries to reason with you again and you just tell him to leave again. You don't think you can ever forgive Jack for what he's done.

[shirtlesssammy]

7x01: Meet the New Boss

Then:

Cas is God now, and I’ve never been more devout.

Now:

We start right where we left off. Cas wants the rest of TFW to love and respect him but they only fear him. Well, dude, you can explode them with a snap of your finger. Dean asks if he’s going to kill them. He has no need; They’re powerless against him, so they’re not going to try anything. Dean pleads with Cas again. But all Cas says is that he hopes, for their sake, this will be the last time they see him, and he’s gone. 

Dean asks Sam how he’s doing. Sam falls, cuts his hand, and sees visions of Hell. So, peachy. 

God!Cas is really taking the whole God Complex to a new level. He kills off a ton of angels in Heaven. “It is a new day on Earth and in Heaven. Rejoice.”

Dean’s soul Baby is once again in a sad state of disrepair. Sam’s resting while Bobby and Dean discuss trying to find where God II is chilling. Bobby suggests looking for a trenchcoat on a tortilla and I sometimes love watching episodes I don’t rewatch a lot because that was funny. Dean has no clue how to deal with Cas, but he can fix his car, and when Sam wakes, he can work on fixing him too. 

Later, Dean’s grabbing a beer when Sam walks into the kitchen. He’s okay! Okay enough, at least. Dean tells him to come help with the car and they’ll talk about what to do about Cas. Sam starts to walk out when.

A homophbic preacher is giving a shitty sermon when God walks into the room. I will always stan the God!Cas that says, “I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation.” I mean, God!Cas is completely out of control, but just like our Cas, he was trying to do his best in a world that’s far too easy to do your worst. 

Cas kills the minister and then hears a whisper of his name. He stumbles but walks out of the church. 

Sam’s in the basement getting some tools when he starts to have visions of Hell. Bobby finds him. 

There are news reports that 200 different religious leaders are dead in an “act of God.” One eyewitness reports: “We all saw him. No beard. No robe. He was young, and sexy.” WHooEE. (Sidenote: Chuck has a beard and a robe. Lol.) The Ku Klux Klan is forced to disband. New Age motivational speakers: Gone. I mean, God!Cas, bby, these two are not the same. Sam thinks they should try talking to Cas again. Dean has closed that door. 

Cas healed leprosy? Bless the God that overrides pharmaceutical companies and their greed for profit. 

Cas finds Crowley hiding out in a trailer park. 

He tells Crowley that he will remain King of Hell but Cas will control where the souls go. Crowley has no say in the situation so he graciously accepts. 

Sam is up late reading when he has a nightmare vision of getting choked by a chain. He wakes and calls for Dean and Bobby. 

They’re busy in the shed with Baby and the 5000th beer of the episode. Also, Dean’s wearing his cute blue jumper and why can’t they bring that back? 

They discuss Sam. Sam overhears their conversation. Sam and Bobby really want to find something to get to Cas. Dean does not want to poke that bear. Dean does suggest summoning Crowley. 

They want a spell to bind Death. 

Cas is out and about healing true believers while he is deteriorating. 

Then he opens his shirt (YAY!) only to reveal a roiling belly full of something that wants out (NAY!). 

Bobby gets a Fedex from Crowley: The binding spell for Death. They have a lot of the ingredients but they still need “an act of God, crystallized.” Bobby found something at a house about 9 hours away. 

That night after some quick thinking on Dean’s part, (“Excuse me, do you have any Grey Poupon?”), they head inside the house to steal their act of God. 

The residents of the house interrupt their burglary (they keep the fulgurite in an actual glass case smh). Dean turns around to see a shotgun pointed at him and has ZERO concerns. In two shakes of a lamb’s tail he has the homeowners trussed up. After a polite introduction, they begin preparing for the ritual. Sam and Bobby work on spell ingredients while Dean does the real heavy lifting and carefully arranges a bag of greasy takeout and a soda on a side table. 

The ritual begins. The building shakes. “Um, hello? Death?” Dean peers around nervously and comes face to face with newly bound Death. 

Dean immediately fetches the bag of greasy food - the best fried pickle chips around! Hey, Death, if you won’t eat those please pass ‘em over here. 

“This is about Sam’s hallucinations, I assume?” Dean’s jaw drops down the ground. WHAT hallucinations, Sam? I can’t believe you are keeping something from your brother! 

Dean files this new piece of information away and they get back on track. They need Death to kill God. Because “we said so and we’re the boss of you.” Dean. Honey. 

Our poor Dean-tastrophe gets saved from himself by the appearance of Our Lord and Hot Guy on a Tortilla, Castiel himself. Death is utterly unimpressed. 

“You look awfully like a mutated angel to me,” Death snarks, and informs Cas that he’s due to explode soon. In addition to a major overload of souls, Cas has also swallowed Leviathan - ancient hungry monsters that predate angels. They’ve been locked away in Purgatory for time out of mind, but now they’re just a step away from a delicious new world and their doorway is Cas’s gut. 

Cas brushes away this concern.

“Where is he?” Cas asks Death about God!God. “I did a service taking his place.” Oh honey no.

Dean quickly gets tired of the Death versus Castiel snark-off and orders Death to “kill ‘im now.” 

Death lifts his hand with grim amusement to smite Cas, when Cas snaps his fingers and frees Death. Uh. Wherps. Death strolls over to the pickle chips, reassures the frightened homeowners, and Castiel flaps away to…

A political campaign headquarters. Cas heads in to kill the senator running for re-election who has caused “poverty and despair in God’s name.” His stern facade cracks and he starts to laugh wildly. Uh. Oh no.

Death berates Dean for not preventing Castiel’s catastrophic god complex. He warned him, after all! About the souls! It wasn’t a cryptic clue at all! “Maybe you should find somebody better to tip off,” Dean suggests with rising ire. 

Death suggests that his own time is better spent on another planet. At the time, I pictured Death swimming with our tentacled interstellar friends in a sea of stars but now I like to think Death planned a jaunt to a parallel world to talk to jetsetting Dean and Sam instead. 

Sam tries to smooth it over and asks for a smidge of help. Death tells them that if Cas returns it all to Purgatory, that will be enough to save their world. He arranges for another eclipse as well to help them build another door. Finally, he warns Dean about ever trying to bind him again and compliments him on the pickle chips. 

Cas wakes up. He’s covered in blood, lying in a pool of blood, and he’s surrounded by...the dead bodies of the political campaign workers. Cas killed everyone, and he killed them bloody. Viciously. 

Back at Bobby’s, Dean has his boots kicked up on the table with a drink in hand. Sam tries to rally him to fight to get Cas back from the brink. Dean isn’t buying it - not from the guy who’s been hiding his hallucinations from everyone else. (Okay, but pot kettle black, Dean Bean.) 

“It’s under control,” Sam insists. Dean would still rather escape into a life of porn and alcohol binging. He then finds news footage of the campaign office and sees the demented smile on Cas’s face. Erm. Not good. 

Sam doesn’t give up, though! In the junkyard, he prays to Cas to let them help him. Back inside with Dean, Sam’s ready to sink into a chair and give up when Cas appears. 

He looks...rough.

Cas asks for help. He talks Dean and Sam through setting up the ritual while he slumps on the floor. “I feel regret,” he tells Dean, wishing that he were strong enough to fix Sam’s wall before he dies. Dean’s not ready to hand out any hugs. BUT I AM.

Sam’s off getting blood for the ritual when he runs into an old face. Lucifer confronts him and tells Sam that he’s still trapped in the cage with two archangels and has been hallucinating everything since. “This is my best torture yet. Make you believe that you’re free and then yank the wool off of your eyes.” Yeesh, that’s clearly a move Lucifer would’ve learned from Michael. Who learned it from Chuck, right? 

Dean heads off to find Sam and discovers a jar of blood in the hallway...and no Sam. Pressed for time, he rushes back to paint the sigil on the wall. They prop Cas up and start the spell. “I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas gets out just before the spell ignites. 

The wall rips away and then light blasts out of Castiel. 

Mood, amirite?

Cas lies on the floor, unresponsive. He’s cold and not breathing. He’s DEAD, JIM! “Damn it,” Dean mutters as sorrow steals over his features.

And then Cas blinks awake. And insta-heals! He sits up, blinking. “That was unpleasant.” Cas has his usual half bewildered half sorrowful expression. He swears that he’ll redeem himself to Dean, and Dean seems at least halfway receptive to that plan! He won’t push him away!

Except...Cas suddenly pushes Dean and Bobby away. He crumples in on himself and shouts that they’ve held on! The leviathans! In a moment, any trace of Cas is gone as Leviathan!Cas grins maniacally and tosses Dean across the room. 

“This is going to be so much fun,” Cas says...and knowing how it ends up we agree! Pining, baby. Pining!

These Quotes are the Monster Under Your Bed:

What a brave little ant you are

Miracles, mass visions, trenchcoat on a tortilla? I don't know what I'm lookin' for

I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation

We all saw him. No beard, no robe. He was young...and...and sexy. He had a raincoat

Who feels like hog tying death tonight?

You know how I'm gonna deal? I'm gonna stuff my pie-hole, I'm gonna drink, and I'm gonna watch some Asian cartoon porn and act like the world's about to explode because it is

I'm gonna find some way to redeem myself to you

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

[sarcastic-space-gal]

Archangel’s Bane (Part 3)

Pairing: Lucifer x Reader;

Word Count: 1320 ;

Warnings: Swearing, Angst;

Summary: What if i tell you that Lucifer was cast out of Heaven because of… love?

A/N: Hi everyone! Here is the third part of Archangel’s Bane! I’m really hooked on this, and i just can’t stop writing it. I really appreciate your lovely comments, thank you all so much! If you want to be tagged, just ask and i will add you❤️ Here is the Part 1 and Part 2 . Here is a Lucifer one shot Pay Me a Visit In Heaven . Love you all xo xo

Never in his life he thought emotions would ever affect a celestial being, especially him.

He was Lucifer, Satan, the Evil incarnated, he couldn’t feel anything, only rage. At least that was what he believed. Yet, in that moment, he never felt more human: there are no suitable words to describe what he was feeling.

“Lucifer” she gasped, her voice was caught in her throat.

“Y/n, is that you?” his voice came out more weaker than he thought “Are you real?”

“I’m here, it’s me” she said softly as her eyes started watering.

Lucifer had no heart but he could almost feel, in his essence, the most blissful sensation he ever felt after seeing her for the first time.

He sprinted towards her and took his face gently in his hands, almost afraid that at his touch she would have faded away. His eyes darted to her features, soft but solemn, as he remembered: time didn’t deprive her of her magnificence, she was as beautiful as the last time he saw her, a very long time ago.

She placed her warm hands on his forearms and stared at him in pure joy: never ever she believed to be able to see him again, and now, here he was. They were together again. Eons, eras, thinking he was gone, dead or worse she would have been called to do her duty: being used by God to kill him. That would be the most disturbing and painful scenario.

“How is this possible? How, I-” Lucifer’s voice was just above a whisper.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m here now” she responded.

That was it, he couldn’t hold back anymore: he kissed her. She shed a tear and welcomed the kiss.

The two brothers, Cas and Rowena watched the scene in front of them with the most confused and surprised looks painted on their faces. Lucifer and Y/n were now in front of them, in their library, reunited after ages, and what shocked them the most was how quickly Lucifer’s attitude changed in her presence. It almost seemed like he wasn’t even Lucifer anymore, he was different.

“What do we do now?” Rowena whispered to the others.

“I-I don’t know” Sam responded without looking away from the couple.

Dean cleared his throat and the two of them released the kiss turning their heads towards the sound.

“Oh Winchesters, I almost forgot about you”

“Dean and Sam Winchester” y/n stated while glaring at them. They instantly tighten the grip on their weapons. Lucifer saw that immediately and appeared right next to her.

“Make a move towards her and I will burn you right in your places” he said with a deadly tone.

“Thank you” Y/n was right in front of the two brothers, smiling at them.

“W-what?” they both stuttered.

“You freed me from my cage, thank you” she repeated with pure joy in her eyes.

“What? You three and the witch, freed Y/n?” Lucifer was far beyond surprised “My blood, of course”

“Yeah” Sam responded quietly as Satan’s features softened a little.

The room fell silent, an awkward silence.

“Well, why don’t you tell us something about you Y/n?” Rowena suggested, earning the attention of everyone else in the library.

“Yeah let’s have a chat” Dean said sarcastically.

“Of  course. You will probably know more about my story...”

“Indeed” Castiel suddenly spoke up “and what do you know about us”

“I actually know everything”

Dean and Sam’s eyes went wide.

“What do you mean you know everything? You were trapped in a cage for… ever” Sam said.

“Yes, it’s true, but as angels do, I watch from above. I saw all the ages of this world running in front of my eyes through the years. I saw humanity grow, destroy, build, pray. I know who you are, Dean and Sam” she said looking at each of them “I know you Rowena, the powerful witch, Crowley’s mother. And I know you Castiel, Angel of the Lord, friends of the humans”

They listened to her voice attentively.

“So you know what happened on earth since you were trapped” Sam added.

“Yes” she then looked at Lucifer “I saw what God did to you, what he has done to you, Dean, Sam”

They looked at her with pitiful eyes and then looked down at the floor. There was a brief pause when suddenly Sam asked “But what God did to you Y/n?”

Lucifer stiffened at Sam’s question and instantly felt uneasy.

She took a deep breath and began.

“I was one of the first humans who ever walked on earth. We had everything we need, there was just bliss. When one day I met him. I fell in love with him. I didn’t know what he was, but I couldn’t and can’t care less, with him I felt complete. But for God that was forbidden… he trapped me in a cage and I became his most powerful weapon, ready to be used at his need. For ages I watched from my cage the years of this world passing by, feeling like an object. But those years didn’t go wasted: with the power I gained I became more and more powerful as time went by”

“But… how can God have control on you?” Castiel asked after she finished.

“With this” she shifted the fabric of her dress on her right shoulder, revealing something that everyone in the room knew far too well.

The Mark of Cain.

Lucifer quickly turned and passed his fingers on the Mark. His wrath could almost be felt in the room, his expression was grim and filled with rage. He closed his fingers that were still lingering on your shoulder in a fist and walked away for a moment, in complete silence.

“That son of a bitch” Dean said.

Few hours went by. Lucifer and Y/n were in the library talking as the others reunited in the corridors of the bunker to discuss the next move to do.

“What do we do?” Castiel asked turning completely to look at the Winchesters and Rowena.

“I don’t know Cas, this is, this is nuts” Dean responded while passing his hand on the back of his neck.

Rowena leaned on the wall as well as Sam, who had his arms folded into his chest.

“That is not right” Sam said.

“What God did to her? To us? Damn well it’s not. We are just pieces of his own personal game. And if something goes wrong, puff, he just starts over”

“You’re angry” Castiel stated.

“With God, yes I am.”

“Can we just mention the fact that Lucifer has a girlfriend?” Rowena mentioned.

“And she has a very positive impact on him” Sam added.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, did you see how he changed from ‘Winchester I’ll smite you’ to ‘peace and love’ in merely two seconds? What if he is not so… bad?”

“Sam seriously? You are talking about Satan!”

“Yes Dean I know! I know him even more than everyone else here. I know what he is capable of, and I can also say that I never saw him react like this towards a person, or anything in general.”

The others fell silent, Dean was glaring at his brother with a mixture of attention and concern.

“Lucifer was just another angel, who simply fell in love, and disobeyed to him. We perfectly know what he does to whoever won’t listen to his orders.” Sam added.

“What if he is just another victim like us Dean?” his voice was filled with sorrow and pity.

His brother didn’t had the chance to respond because the lights started flickering, and the floor shaking. They instantly sprinted towards the library, finding Lucifer and Y/n on their feet looking at them.

“What’s happening right now?” Dean shouted.

“Nothing good” Lucifer stated, dead serious.

All of a sudden, all the shaking stopped and the lights were again steady.

“Hello guys”

It was him.

Chuck.

      _________________________________________________________ Tag list:

@a-crowd-of-newsies 

@the-obsessive-fangirl​

[nancywheelxr]

Not sure if your ask box is still open on Good Omens, but could you write something of Crowley getting severely injured, and he becomes actually afraid of things touching him due to nightmares, and Az hears people talking rumors of the deed, and goes to help Crowley

Oh hey, look, my askbox is always open for Good Omens. Here, hope you like this!

*

The Hiccup happens in late September of 1989 when the air is beginning to turn cold and the nights are getting longer.

It’s called the Hiccup because much like a hiccup, it happened suddenly and uninvited, causing distress abound, and lingered stubbornly for far longer than either party would have liked. Calling it the Hiccup is also a tentative of, as it would be said in the coming years, softening the blow enough for the events to be forgotten into oblivion.

But in that Wednesday evening– and for many years to come– this would stay fresh on Aziraphale’s mind.

*

He had been about to close the shop, already flipping the sign, really, when Gabriel bounds in, cheerfully pushing the doors open and sending Aziraphale tumbling a few steps back.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, holding him by the forearms and smiling, which is a very scary expression for Gabriel to have because it usually means things are going his way and the opposite direction of Aziraphale’s. “I come bearing good news!”

“Oh dear,” he offers a lame smile. “Please, do tell.”

Gabriel doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, it’s quite possible he came down here just to brag to one more angel. “The demon Crawly has been defeated!” He announces and looks expectantly at Aziraphale as if he hadn’t just turned his world upside down. “Rejoice, brother! Come on!”

“What– when you say defeated,” Aziraphale mumbles, feeling strangely numb, stricken.

“I mean defeated, done for, gone for good, dead and gone,” Gabriel counts off his fingers, “and whatever else is under utterly obliterated in the thesaurus.”

“Oh dear, that can’t be,” he says quietly to himself and it’s a good thing, really, that he’s too dazed to be anything but distantly detached. It wouldn’t do to succumb to grief right here in front of his superior. “That’s– are you sure?”

Gabriel huffs a laugh, shakes Aziraphale around before letting him go. “Yes! No doubt, Azriel reported directly to me this afternoon! Why, why aren’t you overjoyed? Your assignment here is finished, you can finally come home!”

And now Gabriel is sort of squinting at him with a hint of suspicion so Aziraphale musters the best smile he can under the circumstances. It’s probably wavering and awkward, but truly, it’s better than the alternative. “Oh, of course, of course. I’m, erm, very overjoyed. Over the moon, as the humans say!”

“Over the moon? Ha! I love it,” he smiles condescendingly, a true patented Archangel smile, “delightful little creatures, these humans, aren’t they? Tell you what, I’ll be sorry to see them go when Armageddon comes.”

Once again, all Aziraphale can do is nod numbly, barely processing this. “Indeed,” he mumbles, itching to dive for the phone, call Crowley’s ridiculously expensive flat at Mayfair and hear his voice hissing about calling this late.

“But I’m afraid there’s still a lot of paperwork to be done for your withdrawing,” Gabriel continues, dusting his coat off like the mere presence on Earth was enough to dirt it, “bureaucracy, you know how it goes. Upstairs will take a good three to four business days before officializing the order, so you’ll have enough time to get your earthly affairs in order.”

Get rid of the bookshop, he means, and in any other circumstance, Aziraphale would be righteously offended, but there’s little space on his mind left for anything that isn’t Crowley. “Of course, I’ll see to it soon. Three to four days, you said?”

“Business days,” he corrects absently. Then he claps his hand, thankfully ready to go. “Well, now if you’ll excuse me, I left Michael drafting Azriel’s promotion and we all know how terrible he is at that.”

“Right, right,” Aziraphale nods fervently and begins to try and shepherd him out the door without any smiting. “I understand.”

Gabriel smiles, claps him on the back once, hard enough to knock the breath out of him. “Sure you do, brother. I’ll be in touch and in the meanwhile, keep up the good work, yeah?”

And before Aziraphale could say anything else, Gabriel is gone, thunder rumbling in the distance.

Inside the shop, Aziraphale finally lets himself crumble into grief soaked pieces.

*

Because Crowley isn’t answering the phone, Aziraphale flies straight to his flat, knocking impatiently at the door for a good five minutes before miracling it open.

His heart is at his throat, swinging wildly between racing and missing a beat, and the door has no business creaking that ominously. 

It’s a good thing Aziraphale doesn’t need to breathe because his corporation wouldn’t know how to hold his breath for so long.

Inside, the place looks untouched, eerily still– not even the plants are moving and the kitchen faucet doesn’t dare drip so much as a drop.

For a second, Aziraphale nearly prays, gets as far as looking heavenward, up at Crowley’s pristine white ceiling, before he remembers his people are the ones behind this and catches himself. It wouldn’t do to call Above and alert them to come to finish the job.

Because God knows he won’t let himself consider otherwise.

Aziraphale walks around carefully, unwilling to disturb anything, to mess with Crowley’s things when he might not be there to set them right again later.

It’s in the bedroom that his heart stops for good and if his throat hadn’t been hopelessly locked by a thorny lump, he would have cursed.

Coiled tight on the bed, bleeding and twitching, there’s a snake– there’s Crowley.

A shiver goes down his spine as another wave of fear seizes his chest. The room is terribly cold and seems to spin as Aziraphale walks closer, crossing the space between the door and the bed, both dreading and hoping, hoping, hoping what he might find at closer inspection. 

“Crowley?” He asks softly, a quiet whisper not to startle the demon, but Crowley doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge him, stays wrapped around himself, scales glinting dully in the moonlight that spills from the window and eyes unblinking in his sleep. This, too, is wrong, because while Crowley rarely ever shifts into snake anymore, Aziraphale still remembers how his skin glittered under the Sun back at the edge of the Garden, reflecting off the light in mesmerizing patterns. 

He reaches a hand to maybe look for a pulse, or reassure himself it’s not an illusion, almost expecting it to go right through, but instead, Crowley strikes once in warning, lightning quick, and missing Aziraphale’s hand by less than an inch. “Good Lord,” Aziraphale pulls away, startled. Crowley rears back, uncoiling to hiss at him, and his eyes are glazed over, clearly unseeing and unrecognizing. For some unfathomable reason, this sparks the flutter of something foul-tasting that doesn’t settle right on his gut. Aziraphale glares. “Oh, stop that, you old serpent! It’s only me, there’s no need for theatrics!”

Normally, this would be the moment where Crowley would shift back to his usual human corporation, possibly smirking amused at having worked Aziraphale up like this.

That’s not what happens, though.

Aziraphale waits, and waits. And waits, but Crowley stays a snake, swaying on the bed, his once beautiful scales dulled and scraped off in some places, and Aziraphale wants to help healing that, but at this distance, he has to admit he might just do more damage than good. 

Crowley doesn’t snap out of it, not in the four more times Aziraphale tries calling him, and hisses threateningly when he reaches for him again. This isn’t good, Aziraphale knows, and his heart is sinking all the way down to the churning mess that is his stomach, but there’s not much he can do while Crowley is like this. 

There’s only more waiting.

So he closes the blinds and warms the room, retreats to the chair by the desk at a safe distance away from the bed, an unthreatening distance away from Crowley, and settles for watching over him during the night.

Again, if Above didn’t keep records of all prayers, Aziraphale would rather close his eyes and ask God for this small mercy. It could be for either of their sake’s, he doesn’t mind which, really, he wouldn’t mind anything as long as Crowley lives.

Perhaps, he wonders, that’s enough. Lord knows prayers have always been more intention than words.

*

Nights are longer during Winter, but no night has been longer than tonight.

It’s cold outside but the room is almost uncomfortably hot, and Aziraphale can’t keep track of Crowley’s breathing in this shape, so every twitch and every hiss jumpstart his heart, jolting his whole body up. It’s unnerving and exhausting, a whiplash every five minutes or so, but they’re proof Crowley is pulling through.

The look on Gabriel’s face is what irks him the most during these hours, especially in those intervals where Crowley stays still and Aziraphale can’t tell if there’s going to be another twitch. The smug smile, the condescension dripping from his tongue, the way he told Aziraphale to get his affairs in order like an adult telling a vaguely related child to put their toys away, the glee at having Crowley gone, gone, gone.

It pokes at the parts of Aziraphale that used to have a flaming sword at guard the Gate, and it thrums on his corporation’s blood with something akin to, to… indignation. That’s a safer word to settle on. 

Outside the wind blows quietly and the blinds flutter along, allowing slivers of pale silver to slip through and Aziraphale thinks of standing at the edge of the Wall and looking at storm clouds gathering in the distance. 

Sadly, he doesn’t think his wings would do much good at protecting here.

*

As a rule, Aziraphale doesn’t sleep. It’s never been something he found particularly satisfying. But with all the worrying and the hoping, he must have nodded off at some point during the early hours of the dawn because when he opens his eyes again, neck stiff and back faintly aching, sunlight illuminates the room in long tendrils coming through the blinds and in the bed, there’s Crowley.

His clothes are mangled and bloodstained, and on his stomach, a nasty-looking wound is struggling to heal itself, the edges stitching skin back together in painful blueish tinges that can’t be healthy.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale tries again and his voice wavers, breaks at the vowels. “Are you awake?”

Are you alright? Are you back?

The demon stirs, eyes blinking open sluggishly, and it takes a long time until they focus on Aziraphale. Crowley’s face does a complicated thing where he looks relieved and horrified at the same time, settling for a vaguely embarrassed face, drawn out with pain. “Angel,” he says, and his voice has never sounded sweeter to Aziraphale’s ears. “You shouldn’t be here, your people might come back–”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale shakes his head and he thinks he might be tearing up a little, and approaches the bed once more, carefully not to crowd him. “Everyone thinks you’re already dead. No one will be looking for you. Besides,” he sniffs, continuing as loftily as he can manage at the moment, “there’s nowhere else I ought to be.”

Crowley closes his eyes, looking pained, and tries to sit up. Obviously, it’s a terrible idea, and it sends him gasping for breath and clutching at his stomach. Aziraphale clucks at him, immediately fussing with the pillows and helping him into a more comfortable position; he also doesn’t miss the terrible flinch Crowley gives when he first reaches for the pillows.

It sends his own heart, already quite tattered with all the ups and downs of the past hours, into a rather poor state.

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale breathes, still hovering by the bed but with his hands in clear view as not to startle Crowley again. “What have they done to you?”

“What?” Crowley is probably going for a snort, or perhaps to wave the concern off dismissively as always, but it comes off too strained to be anything but slightly panicked. “Just a bit of squabble, that’s all. The bastard got the drop on me, had some sort of holy spear-knife-thingy.”

“Oh, is that all?” Aziraphale does his best to keep his voice level and not shriek at the casual way Crowley mentions his life-threatening– literally life-threatening– injury. “Just a bit of a squabble? They told me you were dead, for Heaven’s sake!”

Crowley’s eyebrows raise at that, and to be fair, he does look chagrined. “Did they now? Is that why you broke into my flat?”

“Of course,” he says primly, not wanting to let it slip his desperate flight here. “I had to make sure I wasn’t being called back Above unnecessarily. It wouldn’t do to leave Earth unprotected.”

“Ah, right,” Crowley attempts a bit of a smirk, one of his infuriatingly knowing ones, “of course not. And let me win? That would be embarrassing for you.”

“Very,” he agrees with a solemn nod and frowns at the still bleeding wound on Crowley’s stomach. Well, at least this explains why it’s taking so long to heal. “Now, will you let me take a look at that?”

Crowley’s face falls. “I’m fine, angel, truly,” he clears his throat, “this is healing nicely, I’d say. Be back on my feet in a few days.”

Aziraphale hesitates. It’s perfectly understandable that Crowley would have issues after what he must have gone through and he’s quite convinced all that twitching and hissing in his sleep last night had been due to nightmares. He is also convinced those won’t go away so soon. “This looks far from fine, Crowley,” he sighs softly, “if not for your sake, then for mine? You know I will keep worrying.”

“That’s a low blow,” Crowley accuses, heaving a long-suffering sigh of his own before waving a hand, “but fine, fuss away, angel.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale smiles. He keeps his movements deliberately slow, making it clear where he’s going for, and while it doesn’t erase the flinching or the shadow that passes over Crowley’s face, it seems to help. At least, enough to allow Aziraphale to heal the worst of the gash and the infection that had been starting to fester. Crowley must have been feverish last night, that’s why he didn’t recognize him, of course. “See? Now we both feel much better.”

“Is that pride I hear, angel?” Crowley, clearly better, singsongs and his yellow eyes are already much brighter, catching the sunlight like always. 

“Oh, shush,” he defends himself, wishing away the heat spreading up his neck to his cheeks. Blushing is hardly an angelic trait. “Do you think you can keep some light food down? I’m thinking chicken soup– humans have traditionally made them for their sick– what now?”

See, he asks because Crowley is staring at him with an odd expression that Aziraphale can’t get a read on, can’t pin a name even though words have always been his domain. It’s unnerving and it’s stirring something in his chest– something warm and light and terribly doomed– and it leaves Aziraphale feeling unbalanced and flustered.

Crowley, though, only blinks with the leisure of someone who doesn’t need to blink if they don’t want to and grins a grin that is not a smile but it’s still softer than a smirk. A pretty, ineffable thing, Aziraphale would say if he were in the business of getting into trouble.

Which he’s not, for the record.

“Oh, nothing, erm, don’t mind me,” Crowley says, quieter and easier than his usual drawl, “I quite fancy some chicken soup, yes.”

“Well, then,” Aziraphale stands up, dusting himself off for the sake of having something to do to hide the way his fingers are stubbornly refusing to stop trembling. “I’ll get on with it and you do try and rest. You lost a great deal of blood and holy injuries are pesky things to heal in a demon, you know.”

There’s an answering grunt from Crowley and Aziraphale makes the herculean effort of averting his eyes and trusting the demon won’t disappear if he leaves his sights for longer than a fraction of a second. His heart protests, but he stays good on his word and marches bravely towards the kitchen.

How hard can it be to make some soup, anyway?

*

“Erm, so you see, then,” Aziraphale says, wringing his hands nervously, as he sits in the park with Gabriel. It’s very unsettling to have a meeting in St. James with someone other than Crowley, but well. At least they’re not on their bench. “I can’t leave Earth on good conscious, not with the agent of the Adversary still roaming the planet.”

“Well this is just disappointing,” Gabriel huffs, sounding very cross. Like a spoiled child, one could say if one wouldn’t mind immediate smiting. “I thought he was dead, he was supposed to be dead– why isn’t he dead?”

“The demon Crowley is very, uh, wiley,” he explains, clearing his throat and gesturing to Crowley drinking tea in a coffee shop across the street. “You know snakes, cunning and crafty and all that. It’s exactly why I need to stay. Keep thwarting his plans.”

Gabriel glares at no one in particular. “Fine,” he whines, drawing the word out, “no more promotion for Azriel and no more coming home for you. I guess I’ll just shred all the paperwork and the forms and the memos, then.”

“That’s– what a pity,” Aziraphale laughs apprehensively. Across them, Crowley sips his tea sedately. A dog stretches its leash to sniff at his snakeskin shoes and he feeds it a biscuit. 

“Tell me about it, Michael will be insufferable,” Gabriel drags himself up, fussing with his suit. “Keep up the, well, work here, Aziraphale. Keep a close eye on that one and maybe figure out how he’s already up and about– Azriel even filled out all the paperwork to borrow the Holy Lance from the Archives.”

“I am as clueless as you,” he says, hoping his face is as innocent as he feels. He doesn’t know, technically, how Crowley bounced back so quickly either. There should be at least another day of recovery. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Huh, I guess Hell is investing in their insurance plans now,” Gabriel shrugs, “no one saw that coming. I’ll talk to Rafael to revisit out dental plans. Maybe cover some more procedures.”

Nodding serenely, Aziraphale watches as Gabriel grumbles about not being outdone by Hell and disappears in a bolt of lightning that scorches a square in the grass and startles nearby ducks.

Across the street, Crowley waves cheerily. There’s no sign of his injury, not outside, but Aziraphale knows the sunglasses are hiding deep shadows under his eyes and Crowley still flinches at sudden movements.

Still, he is finally, as the humans say, out of the woods.

Aziraphale smiles.

He throws some bread at the upset ducks and joins him for tea.

[polarishq]

Meet MARTHA “Molly” HARRIS. They are ONE-HUNDRED and FORTY-TWO years old and hail from CLAREMORE, OK. Molly embodies the star, VEGA. They use she/her pronouns. Their faceclaim is MAIA MITCHELL.

Molly reminds me of a fully stocked first aid kit, peter pan collars and bruised knuckles, blurred photographs, tense muscles, a cross tucked in the far back of the jewelry box, deep breathing techniques, a southern drawl, prayers whispered in the dead of night, dusty windowsills, pink pocketknives, and a redemption you can only hope to deserve.

BIOGRAPHY

(TRIGGERS for death, violence, assault. and religion)

For Molly Harris, the very idea of magic was something to be feared. She was born the youngest of five children and the only daughter, to their town’s pastor and his wife, a woman who Molly only knows through stories as she died during childbirth. The Harris family has never known a drop of magic, and within Claremore, withcraft was heresy used to turn others away from God. Molly never imagined that anything about her was out of the ordinary, though looking back on it, she takes note of how easily injuries of hers would heal compared to her brothers’. Her life was simple, comprised of being the good pastor’s daughter and very little else.

Most of her childhood and early adolescence passed by easily. It wasn’t until the age of 13 when Molly realized she was different. While walking home one day, she discovered a cat who’d sustained a broken leg. Her intention had been to move it somewhere safe, but when she picked the poor fellow up, there was a burst of warmth in the tips of her fingers and suddenly, the cat leapt from her arms without any sign of injury. Maybe she had imagined that it had been hurt. Maybe it had been faking. But when a bird fell out of its nest on the Harris family’s roof a few weeks later, and a simple touch managed to fix its busted wing, it was too much to be a coincidence. Molly was terrified when she put two and two together. Had the devil taken hold of her somehow? But if so, why was she able to do something that helped, rather than hurt like she’d always been taught was the only way for magic? She didn’t understand, but she did know that it needed to be kept secret. She could use her powers in peace to do good when people weren’t around, and every other minute of the day, she could be just as normal as the rest of her family

It was a good plan in theory, and one that Molly managed to execute for years. First it was healing wounded animals, then when she found out she could heal sickness as well, she tended to her family under the guise of very good home remedies to get them back on track. All the while, she continued to sit in the front pew of her father’s church, hearing him talk of smiting the wicked and those who went against God’s natural plan. If her abilities meant she would burn in Hell, she would at least do good while on Earth. That all came to a crashing halt right around Molly’s nineteenth birthday. A tragic incident involving one of her brother’s and a buggy left him barely alive; while her father sat at his bedside praying God spare his son, Molly made a sudden decision to stitch up his wounds and heal the internal damage. This wasn’t a stray dog, this was her family. Surely her father would understand that this was a gift.

He did not.

The moment her brother’s wounds were clearly healed, her father turned on his only daughter. The words he shouted at her are one she’ll never forget, nor the way he physically grabbed her while her other brothers worked to restrain him. Worst of all was the accusation that her late mother had consorted with the devil, and Molly was nothing more than his spawn. She had thought that herself countless times, but to have her father think it as well was more than she knew how to handle. A switch was instantly flipped within the Harris household. Molly wasn’t allowed to leave the home, not even to go to church lest she infect the congregation with her sorcery. Her brothers were forbidden to interact with her, though they did occasionally speak to her through her bedroom door when there was no chance of getting caught. And her father’s only acknowledgment of her was in the form of rituals and ceremonies, claiming they would remove the evil from her body but usually only resulted in Molly being left crying on the floor. Her faith quickly began to dwindle; if God were real, why would he have given her these abilities when she’d only ever tried to be good?

The abuse continued for years, long past the time when Molly’s physical aging slowed down. And in all that time, Molly only became angrier. The day came when she finally cracked, and told her father that she would kill him if he didn’t let her go. Molly had no intention of doing so. At the time, she didnt’ know that she was capable of anything outside of healing, but in that moment, she realized that her father was more fearful of her than anything else and she used that to her advantage. When Molly finally stepped outside of her home for the first time in almost two decades, it was a world she barely knew. But it was wide open to her.

The years of trauma and building viciousness had turned Molly into something very different from the good little Christian girl she had once been. She was completely on her own, and learning to navigate this new existence was daunting, but Molly prevailed. She learned to listen and take in the actions of those around, and eventually heard rumors (whispered only in the farthest corners of restaurants and under the breaths of young girls) of a group that claimed to be witches. Actual witches, who made no secret of their magic. Molly followed these rumors to New Orleans, and tracked down the group with no name.

Gaining their trust wasn’t easy, but then again, nothing about Molly’s life had been easy. Once she’d proven herself a valuable asset (the group thrived on making their presence known on violence, and the backfiring of that meant that a healer had a very special place among them), Molly began learning what exactly she was. A witch, yes, but very different from the ugly old women she’d heard about in childhood stories. Beyond that, she learned that she was capable of more than just healing. Healing was her specialty, but years of trauma had left any other abilities stunted. In the group though, proving you belonged meant being willing to get her hands dirty. If Molly couldn’t do so with magic, then she may as use her own body. She learned to fight with her fists, and when she became skilled at that, Molly gained a rather special love for knives. The Group with No Name was one of a handful of magic gangs scattered around the country, and the number of fights (both physical and magical) that Molly found herself in over the proceeding decades was immeasurable. She’s pretty sure she has almost died at least two dozen times, but the sheer rush of it all — after all of the hurt and pain she’d gone through — was beyond words.

The Group became a second family to her, or at least in the sense of what Molly defined as family. There was no love, but there was fierce loyalty to their own. That’s why, when their leader told them they had captured two mortals who had been hunting them down, Molly didn’t bat an eyelash at the prospect of killing them. Until she heard the name. Zachary and Peter Harris of Fucksville, Oklahoma, as their leader so politely put it. Molly’s brothers were in their 70s at this point, harmless and human and looking for her. The Group was loyal to their own, so surely if she asked that they be spared, they would. Right? Wrong. 

Much like her father, the Group turned on her the second it seemed that she was different from them. Her brothers were dragged out in front of her, and before Molly could take in the sight of them, they were both dead. Nothing needed to be said for Molly to know that they hadn’t simply been found. They had been looking for her after all those years, and now they had been murdered because of her. Much like with her father, something in Molly snapped. Unlike that incident, she did not have the upper hand. The fight that result was all flinging spells and tearing skin, and Molly’s focus was on escaping rather than winning. Had she not been able to heal herself, she’s certain she would have died, but eventually she was able to run far enough away out of their reach. 

Molly was once again alone. She hated the violent person she had become while with them, and she hated the naive little girl she’d been before. Over the following years, Molly focused on surviving just for herself, picking up off jobs and leaving town once her lack of aging became too obvious. At one point in the late 1980s, she obtained fake documents to get her into nursing school, if only to be able to use her healing powers in a proper setting. And just a few years ago, she heard word of a school in Vermont that trained magic users properly, something she had never known she wanted. When she spoke with the Ursas, her biggest fear was that she would be rejected since her only ability to date was healing. But she was more than that, they assured her. The rest of her magic had gone dormant as a result of her father’s abuse, but that just meant they could awaken it. Molly was accepted in Polaris and, for the dozenth time in her life, learned to live a new existence.

She’s been at Polaris for a few years now and indeed, her magic has slowly made itself known. She’s learning to control water, but her largest focus has been on strengthening her healers skillset. She has done so much harm, that now she can’t imagine doing anything but good. Molly has also slowly began reevaluating her relationship with religion, though the borderline exorcisms her father put her through now makes prayers taste like ash in her mouth. And after decades of living to survive, Molly is still unlearning how to react with violence first. When she moved quickly, fists balled at her side and ready to swing, its not out of anger. It’s a need to make the first move before someone else gets the advantage. The thing that’s taken Molly the longest to learn is that she’s safe. Quite honestly, she’s not sure if she’ll ever learn that lesson.

INCLINATION

As the brightest star within Lyra, it comes as no surprise that Vega has its own capacity for healing. In particular, Vega tends to sponsor magic users at birth, often those whose mothers have died during the process. In Vega’s opinion, an individual born among death should have something resembling the gift of life. The healers of Vega tend to be gentle souls by nature, though it can be very easy to hurt their souls. They can heal and cure just about anyone who still has a heartbeat, but their inability to heal emotional pain can weigh heavy.

CONNECTIONS

Birds of a Feather: Another member or the former gang Molly was in. Maybe they left, maybe they’re still in but are now at Polaris for any number of reasons. Either way, considering the way Molly left, there is a heavy dose of bad blood between them despite the former loyalty.

Sparring Partner: Although it can be hard to tell at first glance, Molly knows how to easily take someone down in a physical fight. And while she’s trying very hard to be a gentle person nowadays, she’s well aware that sometimes you need to protect yourself. This is someone who’s aware of Molly’s past enough to know her fighting skills, and the two of them occasionally spar together to keep their abilities sharp.

Filling the role of Leonard Vance’s Best Friend.

Penned by Jeanne ★

[wordsbydorothy]

             Alyssa didn’t expect to find herself at a whole in the wall bar at 11am on a Thursday evening. She ordered a whiskey sour, feeling the music playing through the speakers coursing through her veins. Fight, just to fuck just to fight again. There was something about Jessie Reyez raspy voice that usually made her want to fuck shit up, but this morning it just made her feel empty.

Contrary to her melancholy persona, Alyssa’s life wasn’t as terrible as she made it seem. She had a stable job that mostly paid the bills, a decent apartment and a functioning car. She wouldn’t say she was happily single, but she found a distinct pleasure in kicking strangers out her bed at 3am, something she couldn’t do when she lived with her mom. Her mom was the kind that lived to control your every move. She couldn’t go out past 8pm, she couldn’t go to parties that had boys and she sure as hell couldn’t sleep over by anyone. Add that to a severe amount of unrealistic expectations, the kind parents placed on their kids when they didn’t live out all their childhood dreams, and it equaled a distinct hatred for herself and the roof she lived under before she turned fourteen.

You could call it teen angst or pre-teen angst or even blame it on the raging hormones; but in the midst of all of that self-hatred, at such a young age, she knew she wanted the freedom to love whoever she wanted, whenever she wanted without anyone judging her. At seventeen she hid her first boyfriend, Chris, from her mom. They met at church. It was the only place her mom trusted her to go without supervision, but after all those years, she didn’t quite find herself religious. She believed there was a God. She just wasn’t sure where she stood on everything else.

Every Friday her mom would drop her off at youth group where despite her mom asking people to keep an eye on her; she and Chris would sneak off during praise and worship, to make out in the church nursery. To some extent, she felt a tinge of guilt knowing she had most of her firsts in a church, but it was the big first that she didn’t see until she got to college – and it was terrible. It was grimy bed sheets, drunk kissing and sweat, shortly followed by a raging UTI. The kind she was sure her mother asked God to smite her with because she could sense that her child was in college being the person she prayed she wouldn’t turn into.

But, it wasn’t her childhood trauma or her mother that had her drinking at 11am on a Thursday – it was the church boy, Chris.

Alyssa had turned the lock on her gate when she saw a figure on her steps. Her hand gripped her pepper spray as she stared at the stranger, but her body relaxed before her mind could process that she knew the man sitting there. She stared for a moment, the tattoo that snaked up his right arm confirming that it was indeed him. His locks had grown. When they were together he had just started to grow them out. Now, the curled slightly at midback the color shifting from a dark brown to light at the ends. She paused for a moment, then pulled her key out and went back inside.

She paced, dropping her keys on the kitchen table. Her cat Mimsy rubbed against her leg, as if she could sense her anxiety, her agitation. She didn’t know what he was doing there. They hadn’t seen each other since the last time he visited almost four years ago. She never expected to see him again, and she was okay with that, until now. It almost felt like another one of those fateful prayers from her mother.

Ten years ago in an empty movie theater, she told him he loved her. He didn’t say it back. The next day when she texted him, she only got silence. He avoided her. There was no I’m sorry, we’re done. He just disappeared. Then, four years ago they ran into each other at Music Midtown in Atlanta. She wanted to be angry, but instead they caught up, enjoyed music together, ate at a grimy restaurant at two in the morning and talked about everything that went wrong. He apologized and she forgave him. After all, he, like the church walls has seen all of her and then some. They made love in her hotel room. At least, she thought they did. When she woke up in the morning he was gone, and she felt like she was nothing but a one-night stand, another notch in his belt. Again, he left with no word and this time, she vowed to forget him. But she couldn’t. He wasn’t someone she could just forget.

A lot had changed in the four years since she last saw him. Back then, she kept her hair in braids, too afraid to show the world who she was underneath the layers of makeup and extensions. Her auburn curls, now loose and untamed framed her face. Her dark freckles seemed more prominent against her olive skin with the change of hair color. She paused, splashed water on her face then walked out the door again.

He was still there.

A part of her hoped he would have left, but there he was.

“I didn’t think you’d come back out,” he said. His voice startled her. She forgot the way the clarity in his throaty voice made her feel, the way it sounded when he’d lower it an octave or two, the things it did to her. She pulled herself out of her reverie before she went too far.

“Me either,” she said.

He shifted, making room for her to sit next to him. She stared at the empty space for a moment, curiosity guiding her down the stairs next to him. They sat there for a moment in silence.

“I-” she started at the same time he did.

“You first,” he said.

She shook her head. “No, you go.”

She pressed her back against the rail, forcing herself to look at him. His jawline tightened, the way it did when he was trying to say something he didn’t know how to say. His deep brown eyes looked up at her and she inhaled sharply, looking away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Then again, louder. “I’m sorry.”

She wanted to ask for what, but she could see on his face that he was getting there. The crisp air reminded her that Atlanta winter was coming. The leaves had fallen off the trees and dog walkers’ sweaters were thicker than usual. She shivered, not from the cold, but from fear of what came next.

“I shouldn’t have left that night,” he said.

“But you did,” she snapped. “Sorry, I-”

“No, you’re okay,” his voice lowered. Goosebumps popped up on her legs. “I deserve that, I deserve all your anger.”

“Why’d you leave?” she whispered, hugging her knees.

“I couldn’t, I saw you there, I -,” he stammered. “Seeing you curled up next to me like that scared me. I knew that if I woke up that morning next to you… I’d-”

“Don’t,” she looked up at him. “Don’t do that.”

Their eyes met. He was confused.

“You used a version of that excuse 10 years ago after I told you I loved you,” Alyssa felt heat rising to her face. “And then again, the day before I woke up to an empty bed, so no, you don’t get to do that to me, not again.”

“That wasn’t, please, let me explain,” he turned to face her, but she couldn’t do this. She reached to grab her keys when his hand touched her thigh and the world around her paused. It was like her stomach was caving in on itself, as if, for a moment she forgot how to breathe. Her mind drew a blank, her throat, tightened and coiled like a rope, suffocating her.

“Please,” he rasped.

She turned to face him again, but his hand never left her thigh. He talked but she heard nothing. The last time she felt his touch was the only thing her mind could process. She found herself aching to kiss him in that moment. To remind herself what it felt like to be with him. She snapped back, realizing he had stopped talking and was staring at her. He reached towards her, but she pulled back in shock, then let him. She leaned into his touch, only to feel a distinct ache when he pulled away, water glimmering on his fingers. She stared at her tears clinging to his finger for a moment, then grabbed her keys and walked away, wiping the rest from her eyes.

“Alyssa,” he called out. But she kept walking until she found the bar on Peachtree.

__________________________

It was 4pm when the bartender asked her if she wanted him to order something for her from the burger joint next door. She nodded. When the food came, she picked at it. He placed a water in front of her and left her to her own thoughts again. The music had changed from Top Hits to a mellow, alternative R&B. Alyssa found herself wondering what would have happened had she stayed, if she had listened to his apology. She always wondered what life with him would have been like, but the thought left her head as the bell signaling another customer walked in went off. It was the only thing keeping her from letting her thoughts consume her.

She didn’t look up when she felt someone sit next to her at the bar, they’d move eventually. The bartender came over and asked for their order, sliding another glass of water next to her untouched cup.

“Whiskey neat,” the voice said. She looked up then, Chris’ dark eyes staring back at her. She found herself overwhelmed for a moment. Then, she pulled her hair tie off her wrist, pulling her hair out of her face into a bun on top of her head.

“Two,” she said, praying to God that he wouldn’t shatter her once more.

- Learning to Pray x Dorothy

[hinabes]

Laba Congee’s Backstory

A story of unfortunate coincidences, retribution and playing god.

I. Harvest

The ritual bell swayed gently as its crisp ringing echoed through the evening’s waning sunlight.

The breeze of the late afternoon scattered the clouds as the dance was completed, I stood still on the altar as my Master Attendant behind the altar nodded at me.

I caught my breath, gently wiping off the drops of sweat across my brow.

Master Attendant drew his sleeves, informing the audience below the altar of the conclusion of the sacrificial ritual.

The silent crowd exploded in a display of applause and cheers.

I accompanied Master Attendant in stepping down from the altar as people carrying baskets laden with all sorts of fruits and vegetables gathered around.

“High Priest, these fruits were freshly picked by our family! They’re really sweet!”

“High Priest, these cabbages are from our farm, fresh as can be!”

“High Priest…”

“High Priest.”

Shoved into the center of the crowd, Master Attendant put on an extremely reassuring smile, patting the hair of a child who squeezed his way through the crowd.

“Thank you! You’re too kind! Your happiness and peace is the best gift you could give!”

I braced my Master Attendant, exhausted from the ritual processes, against myself and returned to our residence, offering him a pot of freshly brewed tea.

Master Attendant gently patted the back of my hand, gesturing for me to take a seat beside him.

“Laba Congee, take a break, come here and drink a cup with this old man.”

I nodded and seated myself by Master Attendant’s side. Holding the cup of tea with steam slowly rising from its surface, I let out a long sigh.

Master Attendant gave me a kind smile, his bony hand tucking my tousled hair behind my ear.

“It’s all thanks to you, Laba Congee, this old bag of bones would never be able to keep this up otherwise.”

“That can’t be true Master Attendant, you pray every day, sincerely presenting offerings to the heavens, of course you’d be granted good health!”

“You and your sweet talk, hurry up, it’s about time to distribute alms, can’t be late for that.”

“Right, I’ll take my leave now. Rest well, Master Attendant.”

I dashed out of the house, carrying the pots of porridge prepared by the kitchen with the helpers to the shed at the front of the residence, where the poor and homeless have queued up and were waiting patiently.

I filled bowls with porridge from the pots and handed them out to whoever came up, and our neighbors who were free put aside their idle work and came by to help distribute too.

A girl whose hair was tied up neatly with a pretty string came to my side, picked up a bowl and somewhat unsteadily handed it to a hunched-over elderly citizen.

I patted the top of her head and thanked her, but she said something unexpected.

“Thank you, Miss Laba Congee, isn’t that just how it is! Miss Laba Congee and Grandpa High Priest are such good samaritans and since you have such faith in Gods, God must be good too, anyone who doesn’t have faith must be a bad person!”

I was taken aback slightly, but seeing the clarity in the expression of her eyes, I couldn’t help patting her head.

“Does Aoi have faith in God?”

“Yup! He granted us a good harvest, put the clothes on our backs and the food on our plates.”

“That’s great, you gotta give your thanks to God, but those who don’t have faith in him aren’t necessarily bad people, you know.”

“Eh… Why is that?”

“Uh… Anyway, they’re not all bad people. That’s why, when Aoi meets people whose faith is in other gods, you have to respect them too.”

“... Okay. Aoi understands.”

II. Downhill

The turn of the dynasty passed like any other dawn and dusk.

The old emperor abdicated, and the first thing the new generation did once enthroned was deprive the religion officials and teachers of the state entrusted by the previous generation of their political rights.

Even though this was quite saddening to me, it was understandable.

After all, it’d be childish to leave everything up to the “voice of God”.

However, what followed was the people’s contempt towards religions.

The once highly-regarded high priest was now treated as a scam.

This was cruel to my master attendant, having spent his life praying for the prosperity of the country, of the people

With the passing of the devout elderly believers, the youths who once would have been chided into praying obediently had been released of their bindings and decided it was now their source of entertainment.

“Hahaha! Look at that old geezer! Playing house with those spells he’s chanting!”

“Haha! Yeah! Come on! We don’t respect those gods of yours, what of it! Get your gods to smite me! Bet you won’t!”

As the youths’ provoking increased, I braced my Master Attendant who was about to pass out and glared angrily at them.

“Religious or not, please do not make light of others’ beliefs and have some basic respect for the gods held in their hearts.”

The youths shrunk under my glare and the leader hummed and hawed as if to puff out his feathers.

“You… What are you glaring for! You’re frauds anyway! Scammed yourselves years and years worth of offerings! Our harvests are fine with or without you!”

“Th-That's right!”

“Fraud!”

“Fraud!”

I clenched my fist, glaring at the people spitting on the altar, making faces, showing not a penny of respect, and my brows knit in rage.

“Shoo off!”

Came a familiar voice.

Once a little girl all those years ago, Aoi, with her hair in a neat bun, had become a young woman taller than me.

With her hands on her hips, she chased away the people before me, then turned around to help me pick Master Attendant up and looked at us with worry.

“Miss Laba Congee… Pay them no mind, we know how much High Priest and Miss Laba Congee has done for us, I’ll escort you back.”

I braced Master Attendant on me all the way back to our residence, its past good condition gone.

“Miss Laba Congee… Why, why don’t they understand that, even if they don’t have faith, they shouldn’t make light of those that do?”

Aoi looked at my master attendant, still yet to have regained strength, with concern.

“They treat you like frauds, make fun of the gods and your beliefs. And to think everyone was so pious before…”

“They’ve… gone too far… Why can’t God just, help you… Weren’t those who made fun of God supposed to receive divine retribution… Why isn’t there retribution……”

Back then, I didn’t notice the pair of eyes of the ones on the bed behind me opening slowly, filled with rage and despair.

The gods were everything to Master Attendant, he couldn’t accept change and stayed home every day as if in a trance.

I didn’t know how to advise him and ended up just repeating the same procedures we always had day in, day out, like nothing ever changed.

III. “Divine Retribution”

Suddenly, one day, a mysterious disease made its way through the town, and doctors from all over were dumbfounded.

The illness spread fast, yet it took no lives, only leaving its victims in pain.

The disease was first found on two youths and had soon spread to everyone in the area.

Nobody was spared, be it children, the elderly, or the fit and healthy.

The few exceptions were Aoi, whose body wasn’t as strong as most men, and my aged master attendant.

Someone must have brought it up, and soon there were people who, just to give it a try, brought their children to Master Attendant’s residence.

Master Attendant wasn’t gentle like he’d always been, instead chided them and told them to kneel before the door an entire night, to atone to the gods they made light of.

Once the small pill was swallowed by the pale, sickly children, the effect was immediate. The unconscious children threw up mouthfuls and mouthfuls of a black liquid, and life returned to their cheeks immediately afterward.

Soon, the rumor was spread all throughout the town. Everyone suddenly “remembered” their respect towards the gods, and kneeled before Master Attendant’s residence in flocks.

The two fit youths turned out to be in the worst condition, and over the many days and nights under the sun and in the rain, they became incredibly frail.

Seeing my master attendant’s smug expression, I couldn’t help but frown.

Master Attendant was gentle and kind.

Even to those who had no faith, he sent his blessings.

He’d never have put on such an evil smirk before someone in pain.

The next moment, Master Attendant seemed to have noticed his change in demeanor as well and withdrew his hand with a flinch. Receiving gazes of gratitude from those who humiliated him previously, he handed them the divine medicine.

“Even though you’ve hurt others and disrespected God, you’re still young, you have the chance to change for the better. I hope that you’ll show basic respect to others’ beliefs even if you don’t have faith yourself in the future. May God protect you, my poor children…”

I could tell, as the youths hurriedly gulped down the medicine, they seemed to have been moved by Master Attendant’s speech…

In our eyes, God had always been benevolent and forgiving.

Previously, he would never have dealt out punishment over such petty matters.

I couldn’t find a cure in the medicinal books, and I didn’t know how Master Attendant managed to cure them.

As more and more people were cured, those of the town who lost faith reignited their loyalty and respect for God.

Even those who weren’t religious before now lowered their heads and became devotees to the heavens above.

An increase in followers should have been a good thing, but for some reason, I couldn’t shake the strange feeling of unease.

IV. “God”

The people regained their faith as they had personally seen the work of God.

To them, whenever they were in trouble, the gods will come to their aid if they pray earnestly.

Soon after, the town showed signs of deterioration.

Master Attendant, however, returned to the peaceful and kind demeanor he had before.

Though he often left his quarters late at night for a basement that was built some time I knew not.

In the dead of night, when not a star was visible.

Even the moon was obscured by thick clouds and not a ray of light passed through; it was as if a curtain was drawn on the town.

Aged and feeble, he left his room carefully and quietly as I looked on, hidden behind a pillar, finally getting the chance to see the basement he had been hiding from me.

Taking my first steps underground, I could smell the scent of strong, pungent drugs, as well as the faint bitterness of various herbs, enough to make one uncomfortable and agitated.

My brows creased as I headed deeper in as quietly as I could, to see my master attendant, who should have been sleeping at this hour, up and mixing something diligently at a desk.

My eyes couldn’t help but widen at the sight of the herbs outlawed long ago before him.

The next moment, I couldn’t control myself and dashed forward.

I gripped his hands tightly, but what was trembling wasn’t his hands, rather mine.

I lifted my head to see my master attendant, shocked at my sudden appearance.

“... Why are you here?”

Scrutinizing the basement, the various drugs, the strange recipes, I understood.

My master attendant, having calmed down, let out a sigh.

“Laba Congee, you knew, right?”

I nodded silently.

Between the pills he sneaked into the medicine box, the hidden mechanisms that started appearing in the temple, and the many other things, I couldn’t come up with an excuse for Master Attendant’s behavior anymore.

All that divine retribution, divine forgiveness stuff was no more than a show orchestrated by Master Attendant to accrue belief for the gods.

“Master Attendant, please stop this, it’s not too late.”

Master Attendant’s hand trembled as he fidgeted to escape my grasp, but I only gripped harder.

“Master Attendant, you haven’t killed anyone yet, so, let’s stop this before it’s too late, alright?”

“But, if I stopped, they’ll just forget about the gods again, forget their faith, they’ll just humiliate us, humiliate the gods again. What should I… what do I do…”

“Master Attendant, can faith cultivated like this really be called faith? Do you desire their respect for the gods, or yourself?”

Before long, tears were streaming down my face.

Through tear-filled eyes, I saw Master Attendant’s shoulders droop as he nodded, his entire body seeming to collapse.

“You… go back out… I need some space…”

The next day, Master Attendant straightened his back, stood before the unknowing people, and confessed to everything he’d done with brutal honesty.

The devout crowds fell apart instantly as the people went dead silent.

The following burst of shouting and cursing caused me, standing by Master Attendant’s side, to let out an unexpected sigh.

The people weren’t able to forgive my Master Attendant who poisoned everyone in the name of the gods.

Just as I thought we’d receive our well-deserved punishment for our mistakes, the two youths who once cursed at the gods stood between the crowd and us with arms spread out.

“Live and let live, if we weren’t so disrespectful back then, if we hadn’t made fun of their beliefs, why would High Priest have ended up in such a state. He’s willing to tell us the truth, and that’s enough, he’s an old man, just let him leave this place in peace.”

Seeing the youths who had once humiliated us before us now, my eyes brimmed with tears.

Thank you…… Thank you for keeping Master Attendant’s words with you all this time……

Aoi and the two youths escorted us out of the town. On the horse carriage, I looked back at their silhouettes waving at us, slowly disappearing on the horizon.

V. Laba Congee

Laba Congee’s master attendant was a highly regarded old priest.

Who had made a huge mistake.

With the dynasty’s turnover and the new emperor’s distaste for religion, the people stopped honoring gods.

This was still bearable for the old priest, but others’ humiliation of the gods was unacceptable.

He never forced others to have the same faith he did and would pray for their safety all the same, would send them his blessings all the same, but why couldn’t his god receive the same respect?

The resentment took root in him, and with the last straw, the dam broke.

The mysterious poison caused a plague to break out in the town and with the wool of panic pulled over the people’s eyes, being their savior, the old priest succeeded in having everyone kneeled before him in atonement towards the gods.

The old priest’s strange behavior was soon noticed by the clever Laba Congee, who used enlightening words to ignite his guilt.

Then, the old priest confessed to his sins before the people.

Unexpectedly, the enraged crowds remembered their disrespect towards the gods and their humiliation towards the old priest and settled down.

In the end, the old priest and Laba Congee left the town together.

After they left, the altars in the town that had been defaced were cleaned up and renovated.

Laba Congee and the old priest settled down in a small town extremely similar to their hometown.

Laba Congee was the same as always, using the little money she had to open up a soup kitchen, bringing bowls of sweet and fragrant porridge to the hungry.

After finishing a bowl of porridge, a hungry child wiped his mouth with a dirty sleeve and, with wide and bright eyes, asked.

“Miss, are you a god?”

Laba Congee blinked in confusion and squatted down.

“Why do you say that?”

“If you’re not a god, why would you be so kind as to give me food?”

“... We’re not gods, but we’re sent by God, he wanted us to share this food with you.”

“I want to thank this god! Where is he? Is it that old man?”

“No, God is always watching over us from above.”

“Then I’ll give him lots of offerings! Thank you, god!”

Seated by the soup kitchen, seeing the genuine earnest in the child’s eyes, a tear dripped from the old priest’s eye.

He seemed to have come to an understanding and put on a satisfied smile, but tears flowed down his cheeks non-stop.

Laba Congee stumbled over herself to wipe away the old priest’s tears and looked at her master attendant, who was suddenly crying, in confusion.

All the knots jumbled up in the old priest’s heart had been untied in a moment by the words of one child.

When the old priest passed away, he had lived a life considered long for humans.

At his deathbed, all around him were the followers he had gathered over years of good deeds, along with the child who had once earnestly given thanks to the heavens for just one bowl of porridge, who had become a father.

With a gratified look around, he sent them outside.

Sobbing softly as the old priest’s life flickered away, Laba Congee held the hand he stretched out to her.

“I once thought that just having faith was fine, but, they told me that a genuine belief meant so much more than a forced one. Being adamant in my beliefs, gave them an opening…”

With trembling hands, the old priest retrieved a letter from his pocket, enclosed in a black envelope.

“It’s them, that night, they found me.”

Laba Congee learned from him who he was bewitched by, and given the recipes.

It was a group of people in black cloaks, none of their faces discernable in the night.

Like devils, they bewitched the old priest, sending him down the wrong path.

Even knowing he was soon to leave this world, he spent much of his time after he realized his mistake to find their traces, to no avail. His unfinished business laid in the letterーsealed in the envelope of their “country”, that he didn’t get to deliver.

Taking on her last task from the old priest, Laba Congee denied his loved ones’ offers to stay around longer and set off on her own.

She knew not what she’d do once she found them, but she had a strong belief.

That she would not let those people bewitch others onto the wrong path.

She told many of her story so that they’d know the truth and prevent a rehash of the old priest’s mistake.

In her journey, Laba Congee encountered someone covered in blood and grime being overwhelmed by a flock of fallen angels. As the food soul was about to fall over, she reached out to pull them out from the constant barrage of fallen angels and ran.

Only when they were a long distance away did the person she escaped with talk.

“Why are you running, I can still fight them off.”

A slightly chilling female voice said, and Laba Congee stared at the slender and tall figure before her with shock, hand covering her mouth.

“You’re a g-girl!”

“...And I’m so sorry that my chest is so flat you couldn’t tell.”

“No no no no no I didn’t say anything about your chest!”

Laba Congee couldn’t hold in her laughter and handed her handkerchief to the other food soul, who was currently wiping her face with the back of her hand.

Toso sat before the bonfire with her jar of wine, eyes on the soft and gentle girl, and listened to her story of the group of people who brought with them misfortune.

Toso muttered under her breath a bit, before putting down her wine jar.

“They must be a group of ruthless people, let me accompany you on your journey.”

“Huh?”

“What ‘huh’, just take it as my repayment for you saving me. If you went alone, you’d be eaten alive by the fallen angels. Alright, that’s that, let’s sleep, long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Seeing Toso lie down back facing her and falling fast asleep quickly, Laba Congee was at a lost for a moment, before a soft giggle escaped her lips.

Unbeknownst to her, as she enjoyed a hard-earned moment of peace by the bonfire, the “country” she was looking for was on its way to destruction in a catastrophic disaster……

Notes

I think the last bit is about peking duck’s backstory...? There’s so many facets to this one event its great but also I can’t keep up lmao

You’ll see this tl ingame at some point.... in the future....hopefully not too far future...

Gonna do tteokbokki next i think, unless i get distracted