#sharpen without halos

[aventurineswife]

"I loved you like the sun, yet you loved me like the eclipse," he whispered, his voice as soft and fleeting as a memory. Sunday stood before you, his eyes dimmed, the navy blue pupils lost in a sea of unshed tears. His halo flickered faintly, its once vibrant glow now a trembling reminder of his fractured divinity.

You couldn't look at him—not fully. To meet his gaze was to confront the truth you had both tried to outrun. So, instead, you focused on his trembling hands, gloved in black, clenched tightly at his sides. You remembered those hands as a refuge, their warmth steady even when his words faltered. Now, they were trembling barriers, guarding the chasm that had grown between you.

"I gave you my light, my constancy, my everything," he continued, his voice breaking as he took a tentative step closer. "And yet...you only came to me in the moments when your world was in shadow."

His wings fluttered, the feathers catching faint light as though they, too, were straining to hold him upright. You wanted to reach out, to say something—anything—but the words tangled in your throat like a knot you couldn’t untie.

"I never asked for more," he said, his tone sharpening with an edge of bitterness. "I knew what I was to you—a fleeting comfort, an illusion of peace. But even illusions have limits."

You flinched at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than you’d thought possible. He wasn’t wrong. He had always been there, unyielding, while you drifted in and out, carried by tides of your own fear and longing. You had loved him, hadn’t you? Or was it simply the light he offered, the way it burned away the shadows you couldn’t face alone?

Sunday turned away, his shoulders taut with restrained emotion. His scarf fluttered, the golden underside catching the light like a thread of hope unraveling. "I loved you like the sun," he murmured again, the words more to himself now, "steady, unyielding, radiant. But you—"

He faltered, his voice cracking as the weight of his emotions bore down. When he spoke again, it was quieter, a whisper trembling with sorrow. "You loved me like the eclipse—beautiful, fleeting, only when it was convenient to forget the rest of the world."

His words crushed you, their truth unbearable. You had basked in his warmth, his constancy, without realizing how deeply you had wounded him by taking it for granted. And now, faced with the fragility of what you had shared, you could see the fractures you’d ignored all along.

"I didn’t mean to—" you began, but your voice broke under the weight of your guilt.

He turned to face you again, his eyes glistening, filled with a sadness so profound it stole the air from your lungs. "I know," he said softly, a faint, weary smile gracing his lips. "You never meant to. But intention doesn’t erase the pain, does it?"

For a moment, silence stretched between you, vast and aching. The tension in his wings softened, and his halo steadied, though its glow was dim. He reached out, his hand hovering just inches from yours. It trembled, caught between yearning and restraint, before finally retreating.

"I need to let go," he whispered. "For both of us. Maybe, one day, we’ll find the balance we never could before. But not like this. Not now."

And with that, he turned away, his steps light but unyielding. You watched as he disappeared into the distance, his presence fading like the final rays of a setting sun. All that remained was the echo of his voice and the crushing realization that you had loved him too late.

Inspired by me generating random quotes in my head while I brush my teeth in the morning 😇🫶

Expect more angst in the future lol

[mxigo]

i remember everything (wish i didn't, but i do) | part 2

SERIES SYNOPSIS: logan saved the timeline, but the consequence is that he doesn't remember anything after 1973. now back in 2023, he has missed 50 years of history. including any history of your relationship with him.

WARNINGS: 18+, angst, swearing

WORD COUNT: 2.02k

MINORS & AGE-LESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. YOU WILL BE BLOCKED. YOUR AGE MUST BE SOMEWHERE IN YOUR BIO OR YOUR BYF.

SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT CHAPTER

The next few hours were a blur. After falling apart on the bathroom floor, you somehow were able to get yourself into the shower, albeit the water was scorching hot, and you once again ended up on the floor. It was only when the room became so hot that you couldn’t breathe did you finally shut the water off and uncurl from around yourself.

You still didn’t feel the same after changing into some lounge clothes, lying on his side of the bed and staring out into nothingness. The room felt too dark, too empty, too hollow. Even though all of his belongings were still here, it was now just your room.

Another stuttering breath left you as you realize that it felt like he died instead of just forgetting you, but he might as well have.

How were you going to explain this to anyone? Oh yeah, this Logan wasn’t the Logan that you’d come to love wholly and completely with every fiber of your being. He wasn’t the Logan that you’ve just spent the past four years with. He wasn’t the one that held you during your darkest moments, or let you shine during your brightest. He wasn’t the one that still managed to make every day a surprise.

And he won’t be ever again.

A gentle knock on your door pulled you out of your stupor. You don’t answer, but the door opened anyways. A soft shadow blurred out the hallway lights, but you didn’t have to turn around to be able to guess who it was.

You still didn’t say anything as she entered your room and shut the door behind her. Even though your back was to her, you could still see the look of pity on her face as she slowly approached you, settling at the edge of the mattress by your feet.

A hand came up and rested itself on your calf. “I’m sorry about what’s happened to Logan. I can’t even begin to imagine the kind of pain that you’re going through right now, Halo.”

“Please, Jean, I just wanna be alone,” you begged, pulling the sheets tighter around yourself.

A beat passed before she spoke again.

“I know, but friends don’t let friends wallow in misery. Besides, there’s a frozen strawberry margarita and queso from Louie’s with your name on it in the kitchen.”

A watery laugh left you, some tears making their escape as you finally sat up, wiping them away. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Jean.”

“Probably rot away in here until the end of time.”

“Probably,” you sighed, peeling away the sheets.

It was late, so you didn’t bother changing out of your lounge clothes just to go the kitchen. The two of you didn’t run into anyone on the way down thankfully. The lights were on, and sure enough, a to-go back from Louie’s sat on the kitchen counter with your name sharpened on the side of it.

You wasted no time settling into a stool and diving into the bag, pulling out the margarita and the still hot styrofoam cup of queso, along with a brown bag of tortilla chips. Despite not actually being there with Logan, you guess this would have to suffice as your after-mission treat.

Jean had chosen the stool next to you, occasionally picking a chip out of the bag to snack on. It was quiet for a few moments while you slurped down your frozen drink before you broke the silence.

“So…Did you see him yet?”

Jean’s eyes snapped over to you, surprised that you brought him up.

“I did. He had just woken up and came into the professor’s office. He was looking around like everything was new, like he was surprised to be where he was. He still looks the same, obviously, but it’s like he holds himself completely differently now. It’s hard to explain without seeing him.”

You hummed in acknowledgement, bringing a cheesy chip to your mouth. Jean looked at you for a moment, a look passing over her face before it disappeared, deciding to redirect her focus to the outside. You were about to ask another question before you heard heavy footsteps coming down the hallway, and like a cruel joke, Logan walked past the doorway.

Speak of the devil.

He stopped dead in his tracks once he realized the kitchen wasn’t empty, back tracking just a couple steps to stand in the doorway. He was dressed in his signature leather jacket and t-shirt, holding the keys to his bike in one hand. You assumed that he just came back from a bike ride.

You brave yourself to meet his eyes, but instead of them looking back, they’re looking just next to you. Confused, you look to your right and realize that Jean’s looking right back, unblinking with a look on her face.

“Jean.”

“Logan.”

It had completely escaped you how this Logan’s Jean had been dead for years, and since he had never met you, of course his feelings for Jean had never waned after all this time. He was looking at her like he used to look at you.

Your margarita suddenly soured in your mouth, and the rest of your meal became completely unappetizing. Instantly your stomach began to roil, and all your once hidden feelings of inferiority began to rear their ugly heads. It’s only once you pushed the cup away and abandoned it to leave did Logan turn his attention towards you, meeting your eyes. It’s almost comical how fast you turned breathless and mindless, unable to think about a damn thing to say to him, but what could you say?

You mumbled a thanks to Jean before high tailing it towards the only entrance in and out of the kitchen where Logan was still standing. You kept your eyes trained on the floor while you walked, but in a moment of weakness, you let your eyes flick up to him. You expected him to still be staring at Jean, but it startled you to find that he was looking down at you with an indiscernible look on his face as you all but pushed past him.

If Jean called out to you, you didn’t hear it, focusing only on getting back up to your room to wallow in grief again. You were so stupid to think that this Logan would look passed Jean as he had in the past. She died before he ever could. So now that she was here, and he had her, of course he would overlook you and look towards her.

You never had a chance.

~

Logan watched as you fled all the way down the hall before disappearing around a corner, and he still listened as you flew up the stairs before letting your bedroom door snick shut. He let his eyes drop to the floor as he thought about your face just then in the kitchen, completely frozen at the sight of him. Your wide eyes were frozen on him like you saw a ghost, and he guessed that you sort of did.

He's brought back to reality as he heard Jean sigh, getting up from her seat in the kitchen. She picked up the leftover food before throwing them into the bag and throwing all of it away, brushing her hands on her pants. He still stood in the doorway as she approached and had no choice but to stop in front of him.

“Do you really have no memory of who she is?” she asked, letting her eyes drift up to his.

Wordlessly, Logan shook his head, dropping his eyeline to the ground. “No, but I know that I should.”

“Yeah. Listen, Logan, I know that things are drastically different for you now, and that you probably feel like you’re just floating with nowhere to go, but Halo was probably the one person that you let yourself truly attach to. And there’s a reason for that.”

Then she left, leaving Logan speechless alone in the kitchen.  He shook his head and sighed, rubbing his face as he continued his way up to his room. This was a mess. Everything was a mess. This entire day was spent trying to figure out what his place was in this new present, and he had been left with little to no answers. Sure, he still had mostly the same relationships with people with just small variances in them, but two of the biggest were completely different to him. It was still a punch to the gut every time he saw Jean, completely taken away by seeing her in the flesh when he had only seen her in his dreams. And you…he had no clue how to navigate.

While he made no outright effort to find you, he still kept an open eye wherever he went in case he did see you. He was curious to the kind of person that could have made him forget about pursuing Jean, especially since she was still alive here. You were much different than Jean, at least from what it looked like, and damn it he wanted to know more.

He had just made it to the stairwell when he heard one of the back doors slammed shut, rattling the walls. It was late and a school night, so there was really only one guess to who was going outside at this time. It took only a single look up the stairs before Logan decided to follow, dropping his keys into his pocket.

As soon as he took his first step outside, he already picked up your scent, leading out into the forest that lined the back part of the school’s property. It wasn’t hard to follow where you had been, and it didn’t take long before he came to the other edge of the forest. When he broke through the tree line, he was taken aback by the sight of a large lake spanning at least a couple of miles. The rocky shore was stunning, and the surface of the lake was so still it was almost eerie.

His head snapped to his right when a sniffle broke the serenity, finding you with your arms wrapped around your legs, staring out at the lake, but not really seeing. In the moonlight, he could see twin tear tracks on your splotchy red cheeks.

Taking a quick breath, he searched for the words that he could say to you as he approached, but you beat him to it.

“She was right,” you mumbled when he was near enough. Your eyes were still staring into nothing across the water.

He stopped just ten feet from you, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“Who was right about what?”

“Jean. She was right about how even though you’re physically still our Logan, it’s like there’s a stranger wearing your skin.”

You picked up a rock next to you, taking a cursory glance at it before skipping it across the lake, breaking the glass surface.

“I feel like I’m wearing someone else,” he answered, keeping his eye on the last of the ripples.

Your head turned slightly to let your eyes look up at him.

“Even though I’m technically still the same person, everyone is slightly different. Their pasts are different, so they’re not the same from the people that I knew. It’s difficult gauging people because I already expect one thing, but then a curveball is thrown at me, and I don’t know what to do with it. But you, on the other hand,” he paused, letting his eyes drop to meet yours, “are someone completely new.”

You broke contact first, dropping your eyes back to the stony shore.

“God’s greatest joke,” is all you said before pushing yourself up.

You shoved your hands in your pockets and started the walk back to the mansion wordlessly, but Logan was just a handful of feet behind you the entire time. He didn’t bother making conversation, thank God, you thought, only keeping his distance as your shadow until you were safely in your room for the night.

taglist: @facelessfionna (if I didn't tag you, it's because you are either underage, or there is no age posted on your profile)

[mermaidgirl30]

✨On My Knees for You✨

Dbf! Joel Miller x fem! reader

A/N: I’ve been wanting to do a fic for a while that was all about making Joel Miller feel good. So thank you to @lotusbxtch and @mountainsandmayhem for feeding me ideas and letting me scream with you about this one 🩵 I wrote this one for my Halloween writing event!

This is a one-shot for my series Daddy’s Best Friend, Mr. Miller. It takes place a little over a year into their relationship. I hope you enjoy these two love birds! Thank you to @mountainsandmayhem for beta reading 🩵

Summary: You’re supposed to be getting ready for a Halloween party, but maybe you’ll just have to be late because all you can think about is getting on your knees and making Joel Miller feel so good.

Rating: Explicit 18+ only MDNI

Word Count: 3.6k

Tags: Porn with plot, getting ready for a Halloween party, angel and devil couples costumes, cock/ball worshipping, deepthroating, dirty talking, pet names, use of daddy, no use y/n, age gap (reader late 20’s, Joel late 40’s), teasing

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Sparkles shimmer across your light pink eyeshadow, sprinkling down your glowing cheeks. Dark red lipstick stains your lips a cherry-coated color. The black eyeliner that’s sharpened into pointy cat eyes makes your eyes pop under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom. Your hair spirals into perfect waves as you adjust the halo that sits atop the crown of your head. With one more spritz of cotton candy perfume, you’re ready for the Halloween party.

   When you exit the bathroom, you linger in the full-length mirror, adjusting the feathery wings that lay flat against your back. You circle slowly, examining your lacey angel costume for the Halloween party. One that Joel was taking you to, even if he wasn’t normally one to get excited to dress up or participate in Halloween parties. He was doing it for you. Plus, you might’ve got Tommy and Maria to convince him to go. 

   He eventually gave in after a few times of pressing, but he’d never say no to you. He was always going to go, if that’s what you wanted. Because he loves you and would do just about anything for you, even wear matching couples costumes. One an angel, the other a devil.

   You giggle as you think of the events that unraveled over the past few months. Joel Miller, your father’s best friend, the man who was off-limits to you for so long was now your boyfriend. It was all a silly little flirting game until it wasn’t. All that changed when he gave in and kissed you under his living room lights a little over a year ago. Back when he gave you that handsy guitar lesson that turned into crowding your body and fucking you relentlessly into the leather of his couch. 

   You still remember it so clearly. Just like it was yesterday. His plush lips nipping at your delicate neck, licking flames into your sweat-coated skin. His meaty hands teasing up your thighs, enticing words making you give in, his smoldering eyes lighting you on fire as he slipped two fingers beneath your drenched lace. And then, you were gone. 

   And now? The two of you were unstoppable, unbreakable. Two flames that couldn’t burn without the other. He was your favorite part of every day. Your infinite. Even if your father wasn’t thrilled when he found out, he eventually came around. And now, Joel Miller was all yours.

   The almost sheer mini skirt barely grazes the tops of your thighs, your thigh-high shimmering tights teasing your tanned skin. The white satin corset hugs your curves tightly, silk ribbon spilling underneath your pushed-up breasts, sparkly heels flashing diamonds under the dim lights of Joel’s room.

   He’s going to absolutely lose it when he sees you in this sexy getup. Especially when he gets a peek at your new lacey white panties. The ones you’re hoping he’ll rip off later tonight. 

   You hear him shuffling around downstairs, truck keys jangling by the front door, leather boots making their way toward the staircase. Suddenly, you have the best idea. A little Halloween treat to satisfy his hunger. The kind of surprise that’ll leave him tongue tied and speechless.

   You perch yourself on the edge of the bed, letting the navy comforter pull up your mini skirt higher, almost exposing your brand new lingerie. You arch your back, lean against your hands and wait with bated breath for him to find you all splayed out just for him. Like a present he’ll get to savor over and unwrap slowly.

   You can’t wait to see his reaction. 

   His heavy footsteps shake beneath the wooden steps, voice deep and booming as he shouts up to the bedroom. “Baby, you almost ready? Think Tommy’s gonna beat us there.”

   “Mhm. Can you come here for a second? Need a little help with something,” you call out, pushing your breasts together so he gets the best view of your sexy Halloween costume. 

   It was your idea to go as an angel this year, and Joel chose to be a handsome devil. And God, he was handsome alright. Even if he chose to wear his favorite green flannel and dark blue jeans. He pulled it off just fine with red devil horns and a glowing pitchfork.

   Two more steps and he’s turning right into the room, his broad body filling the expanse of the doorframe. “Okay, sweetheart. But we gotta… go.” He freezes in the doorway, wide brown eyes gawking at you as his mouth drops to the floor. 

   And… jackpot. 

   “Surprise,” you say in a lilty voice, biting your bottom lip to tease him even more. Get the blood pumping in just the right places.

   “Baby, you’re—you’re…” He drops the plastic pitchfork to the floor with a bang, his mouth hanging open like a thirsty hound dog. 

   “What? Cat got your tongue?” you tease, sliding your heels along the grey carpet, eyefucking him while you lick your bottom lip enticingly slow. 

   That does it right there. You can see it in his glassy brown irises. He’s done for.

   “Jesus Christ, sweetheart. That outfit. It’s—fuck,” he replies, voice husky and shaky from your relentless teasing.

   “You like it?” You cock your head and give him a sexy smirk, eyelashes fluttering his way.

   He takes a step inside the room and drags a palm over his patchy beard slowly, his eyes gliding down your body like he’s memorizing every single inch of you. “Baby, I don’t like it. I love it. Never seen such a pretty angel look so sexy before. You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, you beautiful girl.”

   “Bought it just for you. And these…” You slowly spread your legs, exposing the lacy panties that are now slick and wet from anticipation of him seeing you.

   He audibly groans, curses under his breath as he takes a few steps forward, mouth dropped as his eyes slide over your core.

   “Don’t you dare start that. Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” he growls, his towering body hovering over yours like he’s about to pin you down on the bed. “‘Cause if you do, we ain’t leavin’ this house for another hour.”

   You lift your leg and push him back with your bedazzled heel, making him back up a few steps so you can slide down to the floor. He looks at you with questions swirling in his caramel pools, one eyebrow arching as he watches you get on all fours. He mutters a curse under his breath when he realizes what you’re doing.

   You’re teasing the hell out of him.

   “I just want to do one thing first,” you whisper, voice low as you start to crawl toward him, dragging your hands and knees unhurriedly, clawing the soft carpet until you’re right beneath his looming form.

   Your hands languidly snake up his legs, fingernails digging into the denim of his jeans, leisurely making your way to the jagged zipper.

   “Baby…” he mutters, choking out when you start palming him through his jeans. 

   “Joel,” you smirk, working his hard length through the material of his blue jeans. You’re basically drooling at the feel of his thick bulge against the palm of your hand. Can already tell how badly he wants you. 

   God, it makes more slick run down the gusset of your white lace. 

   “We’re gonna be late,” he breathes heavily as you pop his top button open and lazily drag the zipper down.

   “So, we’ll be late,” you whisper, smiling up at him while you bite your bottom lip seductively. Your hands pull his leather belt through the belt loops, and then you start to shimmy his jeans and black boxers down to the ground.

   He places a hand swiftly on yours and halts you before you go any further. “You’re gonna ruin your pretty red lipstick, sweetheart,” he tries to warn, his chocolate eyes growing darker by the second. 

   “Then let me ruin it.” You push him down into the light brown lounge chair and tug his jeans and boxers down, his cock springing free of the confines of the tight material. You gasp when you see how hard and swollen and thick he is. He looks like a fucking work of art. Art that you want to devour.

   “Goddamn it,” he groans as you work his length up and down, hand wrapped around the base of his cock. Sliding the precum that bubbles over his swollen red tip up and down his shaft. Just the way he likes it. 

   “Let me make you feel good, daddy,” you beg, teasing your tongue over the head of his cock and running it slowly over the slit. He groans as you taste his salty precum. “Wanna taste you, swallow you, choke on you.”

   “Yeah?” he croaks, one hand pushing a strand of hair behind the shell of your ear. “My pretty girl wants to choke on me?”

   “Mhm,” you hum, licking up the underside of his cock, tongue gliding over the large vein that wraps around his thick length. “Choke me, handsome devil. Wanna gag on your fat cock.”

   He grips the back of your hair roughly and pulls hard, forcing your eyes up to meet his deep black pits. But the way he’s smiling at you, a playful smirk curling over his plush mouth, tells you he’s letting you take control just as much as he is. “C’mere then. Be a good girl and wrap those pretty lips around daddy’s cock,” he chuckles darkly. You happily oblige with a smirk.

   Taking your time, you kiss up the length of him, languidly flicking and swirling your tongue in circles against his angry tip. You giggle when he curses under his breath and audibly gasps when you take him deep in your mouth. Bobbing your head up and down, you take him deeper and deeper. Until your nose is hitting his coarse, wiry hairs at the base of him, sputtering and choking as his tip kisses the back of your throat.

   “Fuckkk, baby,” he whimpers while his hand holds your curls back from getting in the way.

   You love to tease him, love to savor his salty flavor all over your tastebuds, let his seed run down the back of your throat when his orgasm bubbles over. You could do this all day. Get down on your knees while he takes you to church with his thick cock thrusting deep inside your throat. Being choked never felt or tasted so good. Not until Joel Miller showed up. Not until you got that first taste of him over a year ago. 

   You’re addicted, obsessed with making him feel good after he gets home from work. He always makes you feel good, so there’s nothing you love better than making him feel twice as good. He’s a good man, the best you’ve ever had. Now it’s your turn to show him just how much he means to you. 

   You gag around his hard cock, sputtering as you pull your mouth away, leaving behind a bead of drool that connects from your puffy lower lip and ends at his swollen tip. Your eyes are watery, mascara clumped on your wet eyelashes, and you feel how smeared your red lipstick is. But never mind that because Joel’s looking down at you like you’re the shiniest diamond in the world, pupils blown out and a cheeky grin plastered on his mouth.  

   “Feel good, daddy?” you ask, hand sliding in smooth motions over his massive cock, tongue licking at the bottom of one of his balls while you continue to fist him up and down, smearing more precum and drool in the process. 

   He hisses when you begin to suck, drool caking his skin while you start giving the other one attention with your other hand, squeezing and licking back and forth. “Yeah. Feels real good, babygirl. Makin’ daddy feel so good,” he moans while you massage his balls and work your tongue back up his shaft, leaving red lipstick marks all down his ballsack.

   You fucking love worshipping his cock, his balls, his everything. And you love the way he moans, bucks his hips when you deepthroat him, mutters out curses when he’s so close to coming undone. You savor his salty taste, memorize his guttural groans, praise the way he moans your name when he’s thrusting deep inside your throat. 

   You just love him. And you love making the man cum.

   Deciding to tease him more, you flick your tongue in tantalizing circles, right over his most sensitive spot where his slit pumps more precum out. 

   “Babygirl,” he warns in a husky voice, a deep growl biting at the edge of his throat. 

   “Yes, daddy?” you ask innocently, batting your long eyelashes up at the love of your life. 

   “I’m gonna need ya to stop teasin’ me, darlin’,” he murmurs, eyes slightly narrowed. 

   You giggle, popping him out of your mouth for just a second to catch your breath. “Or what?” you challenge, hoping he’ll catch on or give you what you both want. 

   “You know what,” he smirks, his fingers tangling around your loose curls tightly and drawing you closer. 

   You tick your head to the side and smirk while he matches your fiery stare. He wants it just as badly as you do because you fucking love to swallow him. “Is the big bad devil going to choke me?”

   “Mhm. That’s right, angel. The devil’s gonna choke you alright.” He pushes your head down until your lips are molded to his cock, driving you down down down until you’re gasping for breath. When he brings you back up for air, he has the biggest shit-eating grin on his mouth you’ve ever seen.

   “Look at you. Fuckin’ droolin’ and makin’ a mess on my cock, babygirl,” he smirks, pupils blown wide as he takes in your tear-soaked face. 

   “Mhm. Your mess,” you breathe out with a gasp. 

   He chuckles and nods his head, his tousled curls now messy and disheveled against his sweat-drenched forehead. “That’s right, love. My mess,” he smiles, his light brown irises glistening under his blown-out pupils. “Wanna deepthroat me, sweetheart?”

   You nod up at him with tired eyes, wanting nothing more than to make him cum. “Yes, daddy,” you mewl. 

   “That’s my good girl,” he praises. 

   You settle your palms on his strong thighs, hovering just above his swollen tip. He repositions his hand and fists your hair gently, slowly pulling you back down until you’re sliding your pursed lips over his thick length, taking in his deep musk that masks the stifling air. 

   Taking a deep breath, you get in position and let him work you up and down his length, his hips starting to rut up until he’s fucking your mouth at a rapid pace. You hollow your cheeks, suck him deeper as he thrusts his cock in and out, making you gurgle and gag around his thick width.

   “Jesus Christ, takin’ me like such a good girl. Feels—fuck. Feels good, baby. You still okay?” he chokes out, sweat beading down his tanned forehead as you squeeze his thigh and look up at him through watery eyes. The signal you give him to show him you’re just fine.

   “I’m so… goddamn it. Need to feel you,” he groans, fucking his cock deeper down your throat. As deep as he can go without suffocating you. You just take it, let him pull your hair forcefully, let him hear just how full of him you are, let him use you to get the release he deserves.

   “I’m ’bout to… ‘bout to cum. Ahhhh fuck. Right there. I’m right fuckin’ there,” he moans, throwing his head back as he fucks your throat relentlessly.

   The room starts to spin like a tornado as he shoves you down, deepthroating you as much as you can take. Drool coats your chin. Sputtering, obscene noises fill the room as your throat constricts around his fat cock. You have to breathe through your nose to get any airflow because you’re suffocating.

   Your vision blackens, throat so full of drool and his cock that you think you’ll pass out. Think you might just see heaven’s gates before Joel orgasms. 

   Just when you think you’re done for, Joel’s guttural groans pull you out of the fog. Your nose nudges against his coarse hair, lips molded around his huge width, throat open and squeezing around him as tears stream down your ruined face. 

   “That’s it. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl. Want you—want you to swallow,” he moans, fingers locked tight in your hair, pulling your head down until you feel him start to spill.

   “Right there. Right—ahhhh fuck.” He’s coming undone, hot ropes of cum leaking down your throat. That salty taste that makes you cross your eyes and suck him down.

   You can’t feel anything but his seed coating your throat,  cum spilling over your smeared red lips, drool caking your chin and sliding down his balls. He’s fucking wrecked. Just like you are. 

   You stay right there, hands firmly on his thighs, lapping up the delicious salt of him until he’s slowly coming back down from his high. And then you’re slowly getting pulled off his long length, drool coating his softening cock.

   You sputter out, coughing violently from being choked by Joel’s thick cock. His large hand glides between your shoulder blades, trying to help you swallow it all down, get ahold of yourself once more. And when you finally feel like you can breathe the stifling air, you collapse against his thigh, cheek pressed against tanned skin as you focus on deep breaths.

   You feel his hand gently massage the back of your scalp, rubbing light circles on the crown of your head as he whispers for you to relax. It feels good. Feels relaxing when he’s caressing you like this. Like you’re his best girl. 

   You are his best girl.

   “Easy now, baby. Jus’ breathe. Did so good for me,” he coos, fingers lacing through your now messy curls. You know you’re a fucking mess, but you just don’t care. 

   “Did I make you feel good, daddy?” you ask, speech a little slurred and voice hoarse from deepthroating Joel.

   He lifts your chin up, index finger and thumb stroking your skin, starting a warm flame kindling in your body. When you lift your eyes, you’re met with warm, syrupy eyes. Eyes that you fell in love with the moment you saw them that first day at the lake.

   His smile is so warm, so big. He looks like he has stars in his brown eyes the way he’s looking at you. All in love while his thumb caresses lovingly against your cheek. “Mhm. Made daddy feel real good, pretty girl,” he grins, eyes shimmering like onyx under the dim lights. 

   God, you love this man.

   “Yeah?” you ask, giggling when he leans down and gets right at eye level with you, a huge smile curling over his plush mouth.

   “Yeah,” he confirms, pushing a loose curl behind your ear before he pulls you into his broad body. His lips crash against yours. His whiskey taste serenading your tongue, woodsy scent making you heated and dizzy from the smell of him. He’s like a drug you can’t get enough of. Addicting and dangerous but yet bottled up with love and care. 

   When he pulls away from you, he smirks, hand trailing down your breasts, going south until he’s trying to slide between your thighs. “Now, let me take care of this—”

   You stop him right there, shoving his hand away with a tsk. “We need to go, baby. We’ll be late.”

   “But I…”

   “Later,” you whisper into the shell of his ear, brushing your lips against warm skin and leaving a red lipstick mark on his cheek.

   He chuckles and nods, teasing his calloused fingers along the nape of your neck. “Alright, sweetheart. Jus’ know that when we get home tonight, I’m takin’ real good care of that pussy. Understand?” He gives you that look. The one that makes your skin tingle and clit pulse with need. You’re going to suffer through this entire Halloween party if he keeps teasing you like that. 

   “Understood, handsome. You going to do that one thing? You know, that special trick with your tongue. What do you call it? Tongue twister,” you giggle while he throws back his head and lets out a belly-aching chuckle. One that makes warmth bubble up inside you. You could listen to him laugh for hours. That melodic, carefree sound. You love to see him happy.

   He wipes off some of the drool and red lipstick on the sleeve of his flannel, laughing as he cleans you off. “You’re such a mess. You know that?”

   You give him a big toothy smile and nod. “Mhm. You love it, though.”

   He sighs and shakes his head, chuckling while he strokes his thumb under the bottom of your lip. “Mmm, yeah. I love you, pretty girl.”

   “I love you too, Joel,” you murmur, eyes glossy. You’re so in love. You give him a quick peck to the cheek and smile up at him, like he’s your entire world.

   He scoops you up off the floor and leads you to the bathroom, littering kisses up and down your jawline. “C’mon. Let’s get your cleaned up before we go. Don’t need ‘em knowin’ what we’ve been doin’ tonight,” he laughs. 

   After he cleans you off with a warm washcloth, you fix your costume and hair. Red lips glossy again, halo straight, wings flat against your back, corset back in place, miniskirt grazing your thighs. And then he takes your hand and leads you down the stairs, into his truck, and to the party.

   Halloween parties were always something you loved, but what you loved more was making Joel Miller, the love of your life, feel good. And that’s exactly what you did tonight. 

   You made his entire Halloween once again.

Tagging a few moots 🩵 @almostfoxglove @almostempty @magpiepills @sanarsi @ace-turned-confused

@aurorawritestoescape @milla-frenchy @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler @sawymredfox @littlevenicebitch69 @alltheirdamn @burntheedges

[solspina]

Halos are for Angels

mephiston ⋆˙⟡

solspina is mephiposting as a little treat what a surprise

attacked by a mutant and pinned down somewhere she doesn't want to be, reader is hesitantly rescued by a black-winged angel many dread meeting.

word count: 1.9k

warnings: blood, mentions of injury, general 40k stuff

The cheers from the people of Baal were always deafening, and they always screamed the golden one’s praises.

They sung his name as if he were a divine savior, a messiah, beautiful and glorious. Perfect and untainted and everything in between.

“O’ Sanguinor, O’ Sanguinor!”

The Sanguinor was perfect. The eulogy was beyond deserved.

And so was the contempt, the incrimination of its counterpart. The black angel was everything the Sanguinor wasn’t, everything he couldn’t be. While the Sanguinor was golden and pristine, the black angel was made of ivory skin and breakable bones. One was faultless and one was flawed. One was revered and the other was shunned.

And this was the truth of what he would always b-

A muffled scream tore the lord of death away from his thoughts in an instant.

He’d assumed for a moment that he’d accidentally trampled or stepped on some poor baseline in his absentminded walking through a tribe, but a quick assessment of the area and the clear view of sand underneath his armored boots said otherwise.

His concern grew rather quickly as he searched the surrounding area with his enhanced sight, only to eventually find an incredibly small baseline thrashing and panicking as she remained caged underneath one of baal’s many mutants. It loomed over her, its acidic breath quite clearly blinding her - helping it weaken her struggle - and its mandibles sharpening against themselves as it threatened to pierce a vital organ. One of its sharp appendages had already found a home in the flesh of her shoulder.

He watched her eyes dart around Baal's barren landscape until her gaze locked onto his frame in the near distance, and her tiny baseline hand reached out toward Mephiston. As she stared at him with panicked eyes, he broke free from his confusion and sighed, lifting his boot and stomping it into the ground as to attract the mutant’s attention.

Psychic black wings sprouted from his back, and he ascended into the air with a single thunderous beat before he closed the distance between himself and the altercation faster than the eyes of both inferior beings could fathom. Vitarus rather quickly plunged itself into mutant flesh, ripping and tearing vitae away from its host as it penetrated a sad excuse for mutant skin over and over until the creature's pained noises were just as hoarse as the baseline's screams had become.

The human let out a second, much raspier scream as the mutant fell to the ground. it's mandible ripped from the gaping wound in her shoulder, and the stench of burning dead mutant filled the air as Vitarus exalted itself from its filthy corpse one last time. Both the sight and scent were putrid even to the Lord of Death, but better a dead mutant than a living one.

She sobbed as he approached and her tears mixed in streaks with the dust of Baal on her cheeks. With desperate effort she attempted to scramble away but could not move her arm without immense, searing pain. Regardless of whether or not she wanted to flee the savior she had prayed for, the agony was too great to bear and she winced with every slight contraction of muscle.

“I- I’m sorry my lord, please don’t-“ She stammered, eyes wide with fear and voice filled with choked desperation as Mephiston's much larger body cast a shadow over her.

He placed a single one of his fingers over his lips in a silencing yet deliberate gesture before crouching down and igniting his hand with warp energy. His gaze never left her eyes as he brought his hand closer to her bleeding shoulder, and her breath hitched at the idea of the oncoming pain soon to flood her wound.

The agonizing pain she had expected, though, was instead a feeling of soothing warmth accompanied by a soft hum emitting from the hand that touched almost delicately where she had been hurt. She watched in horror, or perhaps awe, as her flesh began to mend itself underneath the touch of her savior.

He said not a word as her sobs of pain faded into soft hiccups and the searing sensation upon her skin became nothing more than light tingling. When he finally withdrew his hand from her shoulder, she hesitated for a moment before testing her repaired limb - shocked to find that she could move without pain. The only evidence that remained was the blood staining her shirt and skin, both of which dried rather quickly under Baal's red sunlight.

"Thank you..." She blinked up at him, her tears still glistening in the corners of her eyes, but her gaze held nothing more than gratitude.

“You need not thank me.” Mephiston replied, taking note of her absence of fear. “Let us get you home. I have no more time to stall.”

His expressionless face and monotone replies came in great contrast to her newfound bubbly and vibrant demeanor. Despite this, she followed him without hesitation the moment he turned from her and began the short walk back to the village in which she resided.

She dug through her bag as the two of them walked. Mephiston took long and purposeful strides in front as she trailed hurriedly behind in order to keep his pace. In her fingers, she worked hastily with a small bundle of flowers she had retrieved from a small compartment in a bag she carried with her. Occasionally, she gazed up at the lord of death to make sure he had not turned to question her or view the object in her minuscule baseline hands.

Oblivious to the mortal behind him, Mephiston contemplated for a moment how a baseline had managed to get this far without anyone noticing her disappearance. Tribes on Baal were typically exceptional at keeping track of their members, especially considering the loss of one could mean a complete shift in the way of life for many. There would be a new role to fill, a family without a mother or daughter, a meal that could be distributed to those left hungry or sick. Her survival was a mystery almost as much as her unnoticed disappearance was, and a piece of him felt incredibly fortunate that his absentminded stroll had led him directly to her before something more catastrophic could have occurred. One thing he knew for certain, though, was the feint scent of the flowers she carried. He hoped she had not been so foolish as to come into the wilderness seeking them and them alone.

It hadn’t been long before the village came into view again. It stood safe and close enough for the baseline following behind Mephiston to return home without his immediate assistance, but far enough that the two of them were not yet visible amongst the irradiated desert haze.

“Not far now.” Mephiston spoke before turning to face the tiny mortal behind him. “Should be close enough for you to go on your own-“

In her hands she held a large ring of flowers, all carefully tied together in elaborate knots at their stems until they had formed a perfect circle. Her arms were extended, as if she were offering him her creation. The flowers did not have terribly much variety - none of Baal's flora did - but the Lord of Death still stood quite stunned at how many of them this baseline had managed to safely gather and keep in good condition.

“What’s this?” He asked, as he raised a curious eyebrow to convey interest in the item.

“A flower crown! You wear it on your head!” She exclaimed, her eyes lit with innocence and excitement at the opportunity to present him with a gift.

Mephiston reached out to take the circlet of flowers from the baseline’s hand, but hesitated for a moment before he pulled his hand back inward and rested it at his side. “I am no royalty, baseline.” He claimed, stern but not unkind.

“Hmm,” She hummed and dropped her head in disappointment. Her expression fell for only a moment before her eyes lighting up near immediately “A flower halo, then, since you’re one of the emperor’s angels!”

“More fitting, I suppose.” He replied before extending his hands again to grab the halo that she quickly snatched away. A playful grin teased at her lips as she looked him in his deep and sunken eyes.

“Can I…?" She began.

“You are asking me to kneel?” He asked, and earned a small nod from her. His eyebrows arched in mild surprise at both the implication and the audacity. “I cannot-“

“I won’t tell a soul, my lord.” She promised, eyes still sparkling with genuine excitement and something akin to honor.

He sighed and shook his head as a slight hint of embarrassment flashed briefly across his usually stoic features. With a deep breath, he dropped to one knee and then onto the other. His armor purred underneath his robe as his knees moved to touch the sands of Baal. He bowed his head to a height that was within reach of the baseline in front of him, and the humility he felt clawed at his very soul.

She took only one tentative step forward before he heard her nervous hummingbird heart start pounding with nervousness, and he felt the delicate flowers make contact with his scalp. The halo was a perfect fit, as was the tenderness he felt in her gaze as he raised his head to resume eye contact with her. Without a word or warning, she gently cupped both sides of his gaunt face and pressed her lips delicately against his own.

She backed away near immediately, a mischievous smile covering her face as she bowed deeply to him before giggling at his stunned state, With a sudden burst of energy, she turned and began to sprint back to the village before he regained awareness of what had occurred.

Mephiston still sat kneeling in the sand, but his jaw had fallen slack, and his lips slightly parted to reveal the tips of fangs that hid behind them. He had not felt this many uncontrolled thoughts race through his mind since he had crossed the rubicon primaris.

He had been kissed?

The moment his thoughts finally settled, it had become his turn to allow a rare smile at something. For a moment, the Lord of Death swore he had felt his heart become a little softer, and though he hated feeling surprised he did not feel that this in particular was unwelcome. He wondered if Sanguinius had heard his mind's silent pleas for a taste of what the Sanguinor experienced from baselines. Perhaps even the angel knew that it would not be unfair to allow him this one small kindness.

She turned her head over her shoulder to face him one last time as she walked away, and he allowed his eyes to emit their powder blue light as he spoke into the warp, a silently whispered "I hope we meet again" that he prayed she too could hear.

Solspina's Scribellum✎ (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) ༉‧ ♡*.✧

@astrohymn @moodymisty @undeaddream

@kit-williams @lemon-russ @egrets-not-regrets

(please comment to be added/removed from my taglist !!)

[fangdokja]

She lived for her God; he lived to see her fall.

❤︎ Synopsis. He claims to hate her, but his obsession says otherwise. A deadly game of spite and desire unfolds as enemies collide, and lines between hate, love, and possession blur in the most dangerous ways.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Divorce Attorney x Fem. Reader

♡ Novella. Skin of the Saint - Part 3

♡ Word Count. 906

The church had become his arena—a battleground masked as a sanctuary.

When he returned the next morning, he lingered at the edge of the nave, leaning lazily against a stone pillar. From where he stood, half-shrouded in shadows, he could see you at the altar, oblivious to his presence. Your hands moved with a precise grace, adjusting candles, smoothing cloth, cleaning away dust as if every gesture was a word in a silent prayer. The stained glass filtered dawn’s light in muted colors across the floor, and yet you worked without pause, like time itself was irrelevant.

It bothered him—how you were always here.

It gnawed at him, that unwavering dedication you poured into this place, as though your entire existence had been reduced to servitude for a silent God who refused to acknowledge you. The thought alone set his teeth uncomfortably on edge. People like you shouldn’t exist, and yet you did. Right there. Living proof of a belief he had long since discarded, and that made something burn deep in his chest.

It wasn’t curiosity, he told himself. It was contempt.

Still, he watched.

“Doesn’t this get old for you?” His voice shattered the quiet, ricocheting through the stone walls and chasing away the morning calm.

You turned slowly, the faint glow of dawn catching on the edge of your veil as it framed your face. There was no surprise in your eyes, no sharpness, just an unshaken indifference that cut sharper than any blade.

“Why are you here again?” you asked. Your voice was soft, cool, and impossibly steady, as though he weren’t worth raising it for.

“The case.” The lie slipped from his mouth too swiftly. Maybe it wasn’t even a lie anymore. He couldn’t tell.

Pushing off the pillar, he strode toward you, his boots echoing across the stone as he crossed the distance in just a few steps.

“Most people would’ve told me to get out by now,” he said, that signature smirk twisting his mouth. “Guess you’re one of those turn-the-other-cheek types?”

You didn’t flinch. You barely seemed to register him at all as you returned to your work, your hands as steady as before. “I don’t waste time arguing with men who refuse to listen.”

“And what exactly are you doing that’s so valuable?” His tone sharpened with mockery. “Scrubbing floors? Praying to empty air? Polishing halos that don’t exist?”

Your hands paused—just for a beat—before you set your cloth aside. You turned to face him fully now, your expression calm and detached, though your gaze could have cut through steel.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” he shot back, venom coating every word as he closed the distance further. “You’re wasting your life on a fantasy. On a God that doesn’t answer, doesn’t give a shit—something that doesn’t even exist.”

“And yet you’re here,” you replied, a flicker of steel beneath your calm tone. “Why is that?”

The question made something snap in him. His smirk faltered, his jaw tightening as if your words struck a nerve he hadn’t realized was raw. He stepped closer, his presence looming now, a weight pressing down on the air between you.

“Maybe I enjoy watching you delude yourself,” he sneered, his voice low and dangerous.

“Or maybe,” you said quietly, your words cutting sharper for their softness, “you’re afraid I’m right.”

The accusation landed like a blow, one he wasn’t prepared to take. His fists flexed at his sides, twitching with an energy he couldn’t release. He didn’t like the way you looked at him—unmoved, unshaken, as though he were nothing but noise in the vast stillness of your world.

“You’re weak,” he scoffed, his voice a low mocking snarl. “Clinging to your faith because you’re too scared to face reality head-on.”

“You think devotion is weakness?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, the faintest edge of amusement breaking through your composure.

“I think it’s stupidity,” he spat.

“And yet here you are.” The words came softer now, but they hit harder for it. “Why do you keep coming back?”

His teeth ground together. He couldn’t answer that—or maybe he wouldn’t. Instead, he took another step, close enough to catch the faint warmth radiating off of you. Close enough to shake you if he wanted, to demand the reaction you refused to give him.

“Don’t pretend you know me,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly warning. “If you did, you wouldn’t be talking so freely.”

Your gaze didn’t waver. “And yet you’re still here.”

Turning away from him with infuriating calm, you picked up your cloth again, as if he no longer existed.

Something about it made his blood roar in his ears. He hated the way you dismissed him, hated the unshakable stillness you embodied. He wanted to tear it apart—to break you, to see what lay beneath the surface.

But as much as he loathed you, as much as he wanted to see you falter—he couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not with his pride on the line.

But worse yet, he couldn’t stop watching.

[beansprean]

Queening the Pawn Act 3 Part 9

Two layers of sepia flashback now? When will it end??

Acts 1-2

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1. Series of flashbacks in sepia tone. Nandor stretching his arms out toward Guillermo, hissing in an attempt to be intimidating, while Guillermo shrugs in response, unaffected. Nandor and Guillermo sitting on either side of a chess board, Guillermo grinning happily as he moves a black knight and Nandor dropping his jaw in affront. Close up of Guillermo in a robe, glaring and dripping wet, as he drags a towel off his head. Guillermo standing in his vest and trenchcoat, stake in one hand and flashlight in another as he issues commands to someone behind him. Guillermo snorting and attempting to stifle a laugh as he stands at attention behind a sitting Nandor, Nandor glaring at him over his shoulder, embarrassed. Present Nandor's dialogue continues over the top: "He is always disrespecting me! He never lets me win at chess and is always undermining and disagreeing with me. We do not like all the same things and some of the things he likes are very stupid, but I do not tell him that. He is obstinate and petty and...and...and this new uppity attitude of his is very annoying."

2a. Flashbacks continue: Waist up of Guillermo in a cardigan, smiling mischievously as he gestures with two pointer fingers. Waist up of Guillermo in his vest and trenchcoat flaring behind him, eyes focused and serious on the viewer. Close up of Guillermo sleeping in his wedding outfit, head lolled forward on his chest and jacket pulled over him like a blanket, a crude penis drawn on his forehead. Waist up of Guillermo in his versace shirt grinning shyly at the viewer as he adjusts the gold watch on his wrist. Multiple faded shots of Nandor and Guillermo from the previous act, Guillermo practically sitting in his lap as they lean closer and closer. Present Nandor's dialogue continues: "Like, 'oh, I killed a few vampires and lived without you for a year and I didn't even miss you'. And now acting like he is so strong...and clever...and handsome...and selfless... And the thought of him leaving me is like a stake through my chest - stakes that he is always sharpening, by the way! And it is not as sexy as he thinks it is! Love is supposed to feel good! It is supposed to be easy; it is not supposed to hurt like this! And I... I..." 2b. Bursting into focus and out of the sepia is one last memory of Guillermo from Nandor's POV, hair disheveled, eyes red and tired but pulled wide and shining as he stares at the viewer in shock and awe, whispering, "You love me."

3a. Close up of Nandor back in the present on a mottled brown background, a bloom of white forming a halo behind his head. His hands pause on a lock of hair he had been anxiously tugging at - the same lock he had gripped in the final part of act 2. He stares into the distance as his eyes widen and shine with wonder, cheeks flushing purple. He says aloud, "I am...in love with Guillermo?" 3b. Repeat, smaller, as Nandor looks up and glares, flustered, at the crew offscreen, spluttering "Why are you exchanging currency? I'm having a big revelation over here!" /end ID

[fullmetal-scar-simping]

@stackslip's requests:

Noah dancing with her boys⤴️

CoS!Scar and Ed bitching affectionately⤴️ (with and without background)

And most importantly, smug Lyra-Dante⤴️

Debated sharing these only after I finally render them, but seeing as that's a bonus outside of the request itself (and I'm going to take a small break from working on these drawings anyway) I might as well share the lineart itself.

[Me babbling about the process after the cut]:

Noah dancing with her boys: I love these three but holy shit this req in particular drove me mad. So many versions, scrapped. So many ideas, attempted, disdained, and scrapped. So many redos because at one point I swear I forgot how to draw. I may be happy with the final result for the lineart now, but I fear that if I look at this one for too long the errors may finally sink in and ruin everything. Can you believe I almost turned this into a triptych? With a background of people dancing in either a bar or a camp of travellers? I had to restrain myself because then it'd be another month of me floundering pathetically. Maybe someday tho... The one thing I'm totally satisfied with is Noah's expression. I wanted her to be truly lost in joy as she shares a dance with the Elrics.

CoS!Scar and Ed bitching affectionately: Did I capture "bitching affectionately"? Unsure, but this one was fun. Originally I was going to have them squabbling more animatedly while CoS!Scar worked on maintenance for the caravan, but that overcomplicated things. When I settled for a bar instead it just clicked. So much so, in fact, that I went and drew the entire background that no one asked for. I would love to sharpen the details in said background a bit, but that might be better left to the render rather than drawing everything in the lineart. I hope the emoji'd speech bubble order makes sense? I opted to symbolize their bickering rather than write any dialogue because I doubted I could come up with anything enjoyable or relevant, and the emojis work to communicate a general feel for their disagreement. Having the drawing sans speech bubbles could have worked, but I felt the edges of my skill level falter at properly conveying that an affectionate bitching was taking place strictly through their faces, pose, and backdrop. So. Yeah.

Smug Lyra-Dante: This one was unsurprisingly an easy one to hash out. She was a great pallette cleanser inbetween smashing my head into a wall with the dancing Noah drawing and the detailing for the bickering piece. I was going to settle for having her standing aimlessly in the void, but something about having her perched on her knees called out to me, contrasted with her looking down on us all the same. Then I fucked around and added some 3rd rate Symbolism® with the spinal column, the alchemy rosary, the rearranged Grand Arcanum on the void-floor, and the blood extracted into the little Philosopher's Stone. I do want to tighten up the Arcanum and make it less jumbled, and have the halo around the Stone look tighter, but this will do for now.

[d-z20]

The Ballad Of Agatha Harkness Chapter 14

Summary: Agatha and Rio settle into a rather domestic way of life. Agatha asks about Death and Rio obliges and answers all her questions.

Warnings: fluff and lots of it

Words: 2.4k

A/N: Just some cute little Agathario moments in time (and maybe a slight plot twist at the end)

AO3 link | Master List

< Previous Chapter | < Story Navigation > | Next Chapter >

Love in the Darkness

1697

The early summer sun poured over the countryside, bathing the world in a golden haze. Outside the small cottage, the air was alive with the hum of bees and the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze. The tranquillity seemed almost otherworldly, a stark contrast to the storms both literal and emotional that Rio and Agatha had weathered together.

Agatha sat on the cottage step, her needle moving deftly as she worked on embroidering a delicate handkerchief. The sunlight played tricks in her hair, catching the coppery undertones and turning her curls into a halo. Rio leaned against the doorframe, her gaze fixed on the woman before her, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“You’re staring,” Agatha said without looking up, her voice laced with quiet amusement.

Rio didn’t bother denying it. She crossed her arms, her smirk widening. “It’s a privilege.”

Agatha glanced up then, her eyes glinting with playful mischief. “A privilege, is it?”

Rio shrugged, stepping closer until the soft scent of lavender and freshly turned earth wrapped around her. “Absolutely. Not everyone gets to watch a witch at work. Especially one as gorgeous as you.”

Agatha rolled her eyes, but a faint blush crept up her cheeks, betraying her.

The past few months had been a gift neither of them had dared to imagine before. Since Rio’s confession, their lives had settled into a peaceful rhythm. Days passed quietly, filled with small, shared moments that felt larger than life: mornings spent in companionable silence as Agatha read her books and Rio sharpened her daggers, afternoons filled with laughter over small, silly arguments, and evenings wrapped in each other’s arms as the firelight danced against the walls of their cottage.

For Rio, this newfound peace was nothing short of miraculous. She still attended to her duties as Death, but the work felt less isolating now. Knowing that Agatha waited for her to return, her sharp tongue ready to tease and her arms ready to comfort, filled Rio with a sense of belonging she had never known.

As the sun began its slow descent, turning the sky into a canvas of pink and gold, Agatha set aside her embroidery and leaned back on her hands. “Rio,” she said casually, though her voice carried the weight of her curiosity. “Tell me more about what you do.”

Rio, who had been lounging in the grass a few paces away, raised an eyebrow. "What I do?”

“Yes, your... role,” Agatha clarified, her tone unbothered by the gravity of the question. “You never really talk about it. I’d like to know.”

Rio hesitated, her usual bravado faltering. “You don’t want to hear about that, my love. It’s not exactly bedtime story material.”

Agatha didn’t let her off so easily. She turned to face Rio, her gaze steady. “If I’m going to spend my life with you, I want to know all of you. Even the shadowy bits. Especially the shadowy bits.”

The sincerity in her voice left Rio with little choice. With a resigned sigh, she pushed herself up and sat cross-legged across from Agatha. She took a moment to collect her thoughts, her fingers fidgeting with a stray blade of grass.

“I don’t kill, Agatha,” she began, her voice quieter than usual, laced with an unexpected vulnerability. “I’m not a monster with a scythe or some vengeful spirit. I’m a guide, a witness. Death isn’t about violence—it’s about endings. And those endings are supposed to happen on their own.”

Agatha tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “Supposed to?”

Rio’s jaw tightened, her gaze dropping to the ground. “Sometimes people try to... cheat it,” she admitted, her voice tinged with regret. “If I try to extend life or interfere with what’s meant to happen, it all goes wrong. The balance is delicate. Too delicate.” She looked up then, meeting Agatha’s eyes. “It’s not something I take lightly.”

Agatha reached for her hand, her touch grounding. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For trusting me with this.”

Rio managed a small smile, the tension in her shoulders easing. “You make it easier than I expected.”

—

Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Rio stepped outside, her hands hidden behind her back. Agatha was busy tidying up the small garden, humming softly to herself.

“Agatha,” Rio called, her voice uncharacteristically tentative.

Agatha turned, brushing dirt off her hands. “What is it?”

With a flick of her wrist, Rio conjured a bouquet of vibrant pink azaleas. The blooms seemed to glow in the dim twilight, their colour rich and full of life.

Agatha gasped softly, her eyes widening. “Azaleas?” she murmured, stepping closer to take the flowers. Her fingers brushed the delicate petals, reverent and careful. “How did you know?”

Rio shrugged, attempting to mask her nervousness with nonchalance. “I notice things about you.”

Agatha’s smile was slow, her gaze warm as she looked at Rio. “Well, next time, notice that I don’t have a vase.”

Rio laughed, the sound rich and full of affection. “Noted,” she said, watching as Agatha carefully placed the flowers on the cottage table, handling them as though they were precious jewels.

As they stood together in the fading light, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of them. For once, Rio allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she could keep this. That she could deserve it.

1710

The fire crackled softly, filling the quiet of the cottage with a warm glow that softened the sharp edges of winter. Outside, frost clung to the windows, painting intricate patterns on the glass, but inside, the world was a cocoon of heat and golden light. Agatha sat curled in her favourite chair, a book open in her lap, though her eyes were fixed on Rio, who was lounging on the rug, leaning against the hearth.

Rio’s boots were kicked off, her dark hair falling loose over her shoulders, and she was idly tracing patterns in the rug with a finger. She looked, Agatha thought with a fond smile, almost human in these moments—unguarded, soft around the edges.

“You know,” Agatha began, her voice breaking the comfortable silence, “I’ve always wondered something about your work.”

Rio quirked an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a smirk. “Oh, this should be good. What could the great scholar possibly not know?”

Agatha threw a stray piece of wool at her, which Rio caught easily, her smirk widening. “Don’t tease, or I won’t tell you,” Agatha warned, though there was no real threat in her tone.

“Go on, then.” Rio propped her chin on her hand, her gaze steady. “What’s this great mystery you’re trying to solve?”

Agatha leaned forward, her expression intent. “Who have you encountered the most in your work? Kings? Emperors? Tyrants? Surely the ones who command the most power must keep you busiest.”

Rio’s amusement faded, replaced by a contemplative stillness. She stared into the fire for a moment, the flames casting flickering shadows across her face. “It’s not them,” she said finally, her voice quieter than before.

Agatha tilted her head, surprised. “No? Then who?”

Rio looked up, her dark eyes meeting Agatha’s. “The soldiers,” she said simply. “The ones who march into battle, who swing the sword or pull the trigger. They’re the ones who hold death in their hands, not the ones sitting on thrones. The king orders it, yes, but the soldier feels it. And that’s what brings me to them.”

Agatha sat back, her brow furrowing as she absorbed this. “The soldiers...” she repeated softly. Her fingers toyed with the edge of the book in her lap as she thought. “I never considered that. I suppose I always imagined death as... distant. Sweeping over battlefields, faceless and impersonal.”

Rio snorted softly, though her expression remained serious. “Death might be a force, but soldiers? They’re the ones who make it personal. Every time they lift their sword or steady their aim, they’re calling me closer. Not for themselves, usually, but for someone else. That’s why it’s them I meet the most.”

Agatha’s gaze lingered on her, a mixture of fascination and sadness in her eyes. “And what do they say to you? When they see you?”

Rio shrugged, her fingers resuming their absent tracing of the rug. “Depends. Some beg. Some curse. Some just… stare. The ones who accept it, though? They’re the easiest to guide on.”

The weight of her words hung in the air, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, in typical Agatha fashion, she broke the silence with a wry smile. “Well, you’ve thoroughly ruined my romantic notions of tyrants clutching their pearls at the sight of you.”

Rio laughed, the sound breaking through the heavy atmosphere like sunlight piercing through clouds. “Romantic notions? Of tyrants? My love, I think you might need a new hobby.”

Agatha grinned, setting her book aside and moving to sit beside Rio on the rug. “It’s not every day you get to hear Death talk about her least favourite clientele,” she said, her tone teasing. “You can’t blame me for finding it fascinating.”

Rio wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

“And yet, here you are,” Agatha quipped, leaning her head against Rio’s.

“Here I am,” Rio echoed, her voice softer now. She pressed a kiss to Agatha’s hair, her eyes drifting back to the fire. The warmth of the moment didn’t erase the shadows, but it made them easier to bear.

1725

The night was unusually still; the stars scattered across the sky like a sea of diamonds. The two of them sat outside the cottage, wrapped in the quiet hum of the world. The fire crackled softly, its warm glow a sharp contrast to the cool darkness that pressed in from the forest. Agatha leaned against Rio, her head resting lightly on her shoulder, the weight both comforting and grounding.

“You know, my love,” Agatha said suddenly, her voice breaking the silence, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”

Rio turned her head, glancing down at her. “Oh? What is it this time, sweetheart?”

Agatha hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “I’ve seen you, Rio. I mean, the version of you that you let me see. But I know there’s more. I’ve read enough; I’ve learnt enough to know you’re not just... this.” She gestured faintly at Rio, her tone soft but insistent. “I want to see the real you.”

Rio stiffened, her breath catching. “Agatha…”

“I mean it,” Agatha pressed, sitting up to face her. “I don’t want just the part of you you think I can handle. I want all of you. Let me see you as you truly are.”

Rio looked away, her jaw tightening. “It’s not something people are meant to see, Agatha. It's not human. It’s not beautiful.”

“You’re wrong,” Agatha said firmly, her voice unwavering. “I’m not just anyone, Rio. I’m yours. You’re never going to lose me. Let me see you.”

For a long moment, Rio said nothing, her gaze fixed on the fire. Then, with a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her soul, she rose to her feet. “You asked for this,” she murmured, her voice heavy with a mix of reluctance and resolve.

The transformation began slowly, like shadows peeling away from her form. Her human features dissolved, replaced by something otherworldly and ancient. Her face took on the appearance of a skull, dark and hollow yet alive with an eerie glow. Her body shimmered with ethereal energy, her black veil flowing like smoke in an unfelt wind. In one hand, she held her dagger, sharp as the void itself, and in the other, a fragile flower that seemed to hum with the weight of countless souls.

When she finally stood before Agatha in her true form, the air seemed to grow colder, heavier. The night around them grew darker, the stars dimming as if they, too, dared not shine in her presence.

Rio looked at Agatha, expecting fear, revulsion—anything but what she saw.

Agatha’s eyes softened, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles. Slowly, deliberately, she stood and stepped closer. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered, her voice steady, her hand reaching out to gently touch Rio’s face.

The gesture was so unexpected, so tender, that it broke something deep inside Rio. Her shoulders sagged, her veil flickering as if unsure whether to stay or fade away. “You’re the only one who’s ever said that,” she murmured, her voice almost breaking.

Agatha cupped Rio’s skeletal cheek, her touch gentle but firm. “Then everyone else was blind.”

They stood like that for a moment, the world around them holding its breath. Finally, Rio let herself relax, allowing the vulnerability to wash over her. She let Agatha guide her back to the ground, where they sat together under the stars.

Agatha leaned against her again, her head resting on Rio’s shoulder. This time, the weight felt even more grounding, more comforting.

“I told you I could handle it,” Agatha murmured, her eyes drifting closed.

Rio chuckled softly, her voice still laced with awe. “You always prove me wrong.”

And so they stayed there, wrapped in the intimacy of the moment, the night’s stillness wrapping around them like a promise that nothing else mattered.

— 

The night became unusually silent, as if the world itself had stilled in reverence—or dread. Agatha leaned against Rio, the weight of their earlier exchange still hanging in the air. The fire had dwindled to embers, but neither woman moved to rekindle it. The sky, studded with stars, seemed too fragile a beauty to disturb. Yet something about the quiet, unsettled Rio. Her senses—sharpened by centuries of walking the edge of existence—prickled with unease.

Agatha stirred, her head tilting slightly. "Do you feel that?" she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Rio nodded, straightening. The air had changed. It carried a weight now, dense and suffocating. A faint chill crept into the clearing, not from the cool night but something deeper, more insidious. The woods surrounding the cottage seemed to lean closer, the shadows stretching unnaturally, their forms warping at the edges.

Rio stood, her movements slow but deliberate. Agatha followed, her expression tense. “This isn’t normal,” she muttered, her fingers already crackling with a faint shimmer of purple magic.

And then they heard it—a sound that didn’t belong. A low rustle, like dry leaves scraping together, though no wind moved. It came from the woods, from all directions at once, a whispering cacophony that set Rio’s teeth on edge.

Agatha took a step closer to Rio. “Someone’s here,” she said, her voice steady but tight.

The mist began to creep in, curling along the ground like spectral tendrils. Rio’s eyes narrowed, her posture shifting subtly into one of readiness. “The Salem Seven,” she murmured, her voice low but carrying the weight of her understanding.

-----

You didn't think I had forgotten about them did you?

Next Chapter >

[fantasticsandwich]

yandere influencer x fem! reader (pt 8)

The final chime of the lecture hall clock marked the moment you had been waiting for. Your gaze snapped from the hypnotic dance of dust motes in the sunbeam to your open notebook. You flew into action, scrabbling to gather pens and papers into a haphazard pile as you shoved the last textbook into her overstuffed bag with more zeal than care.

“See you later, Y/N!” a voice called out.

“Bye! Take care!” you responded without looking up, your words tumbling over each other in their haste. You slung the bag over your shoulder and shuffled out of the classroom. As soon as your worn sneakers hit the hallway, they picked up speed, transforming your shuffle into a purposeful stride.

Rushing to the library, you burst through the double doors, the familiar scent of musty students, old books, and polished wood enveloping your senses. Navigating the maze of bookshelves with practiced ease, you soon reached your sanctuary—a small, nondescript door at the end of a secluded aisle. You withdrew a key from your pocket. The metal was cool and reassuring beneath your fingertips. You unlocked the door, and as you stepped inside your favorite study room, your frenetic energy waning. Gently closing the door, you turned the lock with a soft click, sealing yourself away from the world outside.

The room was a cocoon, dimly lit by a single lamp that cast a warm glow over the desk. You leaned against the closed door for a moment, breathing deeply, allowing the quietude to wash over you. Here, there were no prying eyes, no expectations pressing down upon your shoulders. It was just you and your ambition, cloistered together in this borrowed space.

Clicking through Spotify, you summoned the Cranberries then set your phone aside. As ‘Salvation’ began to play softly, you finally allowed yourself a small, tentative smile. The song always reminded you to focus on the present, to find solace in the moment before returning to the fray. You needed this—a brief respite from the chaos of your life, from the complexities of her relationship with everyone, and from the relentless pursuit of a future that sometimes seemed more mirage than milestone.

Your hands moved with practiced precision, aligning your textbooks in a neat row on the edge of the desk. Each notebook followed, their spines perfectly parallel to the wooden surface. Your pens, pencils, and highlighters were sorted by color and placed within arm’s reach. It was an ordered array, a visual manifestation of her yearning for control in a life that often felt like it was dictated by external forces.

You exhaled slowly, sinking into the chair that had molded to the contours of your body through countless hours of study. The room embraced her silently, the warm lighting casting a soft halo over her workspace.

You leaned back and closed your eyes, breathing in the quiet sanctuary. For a few precious moments, your mind wandered through the tranquility, touching upon the theories you so loved and then to thoughts of Cillian, whose presence loomed even in his absence.

But for now, those thoughts could wait. There was work to be done, knowledge to be absorbed, and a future to be crafted with each page turned. With a final deep breath, you opened your eyes and reached for the first textbook, ready to immerse yourself once more.

“Much better,” you murmured to yourself, a small smile teasing at the corners of your lips. The song had become a ritual, a means to ground yourself amidst the ever-present hum of anxiety that accompanied your ambition. It was your personal spell to ward off the specters of dread that lurked at the edges of your consciousness—remnants of past insecurities and the looming pressure of expectations.

Your study routine now accompanied by the haunting music, you felt your focus sharpening. The page in front of her, dense with medical terminology, seemed less daunting. Your mind, usually buzzing with the needs of others and the drive to succeed, settled into a rhythm dictated by the cadence of the song. The world outside the sturdy walls of your study room, with its web of complex friendships and relentless demands, receded into the background.

Then, without warning, a loud banging shattered the quietude, jolting you from your reverie. Your heart leaped into your throat, pulse thundering in your ears as the serene atmosphere splintered into disarray. The abrupt noise was a physical force, striking against the door with an urgency that resonated through the wood and into the very air of the room.

The banging persisted, each knock a hammer blow to the fragile peace you had constructed. Adrenaline surged through your veins, your earlier tranquility replaced by a sudden, sharp-edged alertness.

“Who could that be?” you whispered to yourself, the question laced with a twinge of annoyance and a flicker of concern.  With a reluctant sigh, you paused the music, the absence of Dolores’ voice leaving a hollow silence in its wake. Your hand reached out, still trembling slightly, to steady yourself against the desk. The quietude of the study room now felt breached, the warm lighting and scent of old books overtaken by the pounding on the door.

You reached for the handle, fingers grazing the cool metal. With a gentle pull, the door creaked open, and there he was, eyes blazing with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the dim light of the hallway. His face, usually the picture of composed charm, now bore the weight of raw emotion.

“Cillian, wha—” you began, but your words were cut short.

In a flash, he stepped forward, his presence overwhelming the small space between you. His hands found the wall on either side of you, his body pressing close, trapping you in place. The force of his entrance pushed you back against the cool plaster. You could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint scent of his expensive cologne.

Your pulse quickened, the thud of your heart loud in the quiet room. His proximity was suffocating, his eyes locked onto your with a desperate fervor. You could sense the tempest brewing, cracking his polished facade.

The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as the weight of his stare bore down on her.

“Cillian,” you whispered, breath caught in your throat, hands trembling as they found Cillian's chest. With a force born of panic, you pushed against him, the muscles in your arms straining to reclaim the space his body had stolen. “Stop. You’re scaring me.”

The resistance seemed to break through his fervor, and he staggered backward, his feet tangling beneath him. He crumpled to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut, his usual grace abandoned in a moment of vulnerability. His eyes, once sharp and penetrating, now brimmed with tears that spilled down his cheeks, carving clear paths through his immaculate facade.

“Y/N, I’m… I’m sorry,” Cillian's voice cracked, a stark contrast to his typically smooth tone. He reached for you with an almost childlike need for comfort. His hands encircled your waist, cinching it. His head bowed until it was pressing against the soft fabric of your shirt and belly. You watched as his shoulders shook, his sobs muffled by your clothing.

“Please don't leave me. You can't,” he murmured into the cotton, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “After my parents split, it felt like I’d fallen through the cracks. Everyone’s praise turned hollow, but you were different—you saw me, not just the façade.” His voice broke, and he clutched at you, as if you were his lifeline. “You saw me. You treasured me. You always have. I can’t lose that. I shouldn’t speak about Rian like that, but I can’t stand seeing you give that same attention to anyone else. I never knew how much it hurt because I only ever clung to you. I only need you, so why can’t you only need me?”

In that moment, with the raw honesty cutting through his usual veneer of control, your heart softened. Your vision blurred as tears welled up, witnessing the anguish of a man who had built walls so high and yet stood before you, dismantled by his own past.

“We need others so we can learn and grow.” You leaned down, your embrace enveloping him, your shirt absorbing the evidence of his despair. “I’ll still always be here for you. Mistakes are just part of it. We can make it right, but we have to respect each other’s space and feelings. Boundaries, Lee. We need boundaries.”

His sobs quieted as you embraced him, his breaths syncing with your own. It made him feel like he was an inalienable part of you.

“Anything, Y/N,” he choked out. He nuzzled against you, then lifted his tear-stained gaze to meet yours. “I’ll do anything if it means I get to keep you.”

Your knees buckled. Your descent to the floor was as gentle as a leaf on the wind. Cillian's arms never left you, his embrace a vice holding you even in your descent. He cradled you, softening the impact of your fall. Still, the cool touch of the tiled library floor seeped through the fabric of your clothes.

The coldness was quickly replaced by warmth. Lip jutting out in a pout, Cillian crawled onto your lap. His chin dug into your collarbone, tickling. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each one carrying a fervent apology.

Glancing down, you saw bags beneath his eyes, stubble and acne dotting his once-immaculate face. You were attacked by a surge of guilt when you realized you were glad to see that he was suffering over you.

“I’ll do better,” he murmured into your neck. “I’ll change for you. No more jealousy. No more.”

“Good,” you soothed, fingers weaving through the silkiness of his hair. Each strand easily slipped through your touch. “Because of your efforts, we’ll be alright. We’ll be able to work through this.”

Wordless, he merely nodded. His head rested comfortably on your chest, moving slightly with each hitch of his breath. As the song's haunting melody wound to a close, his grip only tightened.

a/n: think i'd actually kms if i saw these drama queens while i was trying to study ^^

[darkdemeter]

Strife x Fem reader nsfw! Eld AU, S/O is a talented hunter, using her sniper skills to hunt down food and enemies. It’s not long until the Nephilim tribe heard of a master sniper taking down foes and always running without a trace. It’s by sheer luck that Strife discovers S/O and easily takes her down once he’s in close range. Instead of killing her, he wants to take her as his mate, seeing how cool she looks when sniping and how impressive she is.

VENGEANCE IS A HUNTER

◤✘DARKSIDERS REQUESTS | CATALOGUE Pre-Horsemen!Strife x Eld'hyunen!Female Reader

NOTES ↳ Who's ready for some pre-horseman! Strife in his younger, Nephilim prime? Hey! I see you ogling. Here, have a golden sticker. Welcome to the Strife simp club 😂 WARNINGS❕ ↳ Mature rating, 18+ — some profanity — mention of mass murder — depiction of violence and killing — lore building — SMUT mdni — unprotected sex — implied non/con or dubious consent — neck biting/marking — mate claiming, virginity loss (hymen breakage) — I think that’s it?

✎ 4.4k ────────────────────────

The moon had been bright and full, a milky pour that couldn’t penetrate the dense forest beneath. Only allowed through were the silky, pale silhouettes that danced and warped disturbingly, the covering fog lit with an eerie glow. 

Stalking the grounds below, invading this coveted land, the horde of Nephilim march through, some bearing torches that burn viciously and provide an aura to follow. A target. 

“Keep up,” barks the group’s leader with hastened gruffness, “we must rejoin the warband before next moondown! Else Absalom will have our heads.” His tone betrays his unease as they walk through this unholy place. The trees feel dead yet they flourish and thrive, the air is thick and makes it hard to see further ahead with the swarming mist. His glowing eyes dart from left to right, sweeping from ground level to the higher treeline.

Something stalks them in the darkness around them. 

The ground crunches loud beneath the stampeding rhythm of their feet. Each one a resounding crack and bending snap. To the elicited horror that disturbs them, their eyes are cast wide and teeth gnashing hard with growls and started yells. 

Empty pits of blackened sockets stare up at them, spinal cords numbered by hundreds are split and shattered, ribs cracked and broken, barren of any flesh to cling to the remnant bones littering the forest floor. 

A once enchanting home now turned into a mass graveyard that welcomes only the fall of their invaders. The disembodied whispers and howls on the wind are avenged with each splatter of blood that waters the ground, the haunt of the Nephilims’ screams replace the restless and slaughtered people. 

It is their turn to become the prey. It is their turn to become the hunted, the bloodied spoils of this war. 

An arrow whines on the pulled draw of your bow, your lungs ease a silent and practised breath… and you release. 

Fated, your arrow hits its mark without falter. The laggers behind stumble and scatter, some dropping their torches to blend in with the darkness. But the bright shine of your eyes allows you insightful vision, they cannot hide in the same veil of your home; not as you can. Adept in the arts of survival and camouflage, this is your hunting ground. Your prison that you ward and it shall be their final resting place. 

“Ambush!” one roars and they prime their weapons. Massive blades and sharpened polearms, the Nephilim band scours what terrain they dare try, wary to go further beyond the forgotten trail. 

Your arrows fly in fast repetition. Your prey cannot comprehend the direction of the attack, unable to detect what is simply not there. You traverse with swift agility, comfortable to leap, climb and fall from the many interloping branches and rocky formations. Their numbers are tamed until only the leader remains. He sheathes his axe, the gamble of his odds not in his favour. 

His brothers and sisters lay dead with an embedded garden of arrows, the dim halo of the perving moon shines on the brightened hue of red, feathered sails. A warning that stakes your claim over this territory. 

It’s a claim he will not challenge. He turns hard on his heavy heels and sprints, madly dashing through the underbrush and you give chase from above. His breath is hitched deep as the whizz of your arrows pounce at his heel like a hound that gnashes the ankles of the galloping hunted.

Your mark gets closer to him with each venomous strike. He knows you toy with him, that you inflict this terror with purpose. 

His runs and crashes through low hanging branches that claw tiny scratches into his skin, usually barely feeling but with you on the hunt, each one feels like the tipped poise of your next shot. 

His foot is snagged by a tree’s lifted root and sends him barrelling forward into a cloud of dirt. He growls and sputters, saliva spills in thick streams down his chin, his chest heaving with a wild beat of his heart. Nephilim aren’t meant to fear anything, no demon or angel, nothing in the cosmos possesses enough of a threat to invoke such fear. 

So why did you? 

His ears suddenly go dumb, a whirring sound that rings sharply in his hearing as he listens to your weight dropping to the forest floor behind him. He turns his head, huffing and puffing his last rites. His eyes grow wide. Your reflection moves upon the surface of his golden orbs that tremble, your face shrouded in the blackness of your cowl. The overgrowth of a cloak hangs over your shoulders and down low to your feet, tied to your wrists and ankles with corded thread; a haunting sight inspired by the ghost stories of your own people that became intertwined with your once traditions. Your eyes beam something ferocious, a predatory glare, down on him. 

He flinches as you hover above, his burly fist raised to either lash out at you or plead for you to take his hand in mercy. His voice shortly whines, a hiccup of a sound he chokes on as you pace yourself. You want to enjoy this kill. Leisurely, you knock the final arrow from your quiver and pull back. 

“Don’t! Sp-spare me!”

“She is a feral Eld’hyunen hunter, cast out by her own clan before we came to this realm. A wraith of vengeance that rose from the dead with eyes tempered with fire from Hell’s oasis.”

The younger Nephilim gathered around lean in closer, faces etched and lined with their entertainment in the orange light of the fire. Strife sits more so off to the side, though intrigued by the mythical tales, he tries to center his focus on his weapons instead. Yet the golden flicker of his eyes dance this way and that every now and then. 

“I barely escaped with my own life, her arrow pointed right to my eye.” 

The storyteller had arrived at the warband’s gate only a night ago, the burden of his torment still fresh in his mind. His voice quivers with each recollected detail he tells. He’d the look of one who’d seen a ghost. Out of the troops that were to arrive back he had been the only one. Those posted at the gate had to pull his shaking body inside, his muscles rippled so much that Absalom thought his flesh would begin to peel and fall apart as the commander panted and heaved his retelling of what happened.

Now here he was, still shaken as he had been and filling the younger generations of their legion with mythical tellings. Folklore to haunt their slumberless dreams and instill in them a false sense of fear. 

“And then… she whispered to me with words scarred by her ire…”

“Tell them to leave,” you snarl, voice coiling in the back of your throat as a venomous growl. “Leave this world and never set your claim upon it again. Or else my vengeance shall devour you whole.”

“As if one Eld’hyunen could do such a thing,” snickers Strife under his breath. The Nephilim survivor scrunches his face, overhearing such demeaning ignorance.

“You watch that tone of yours. What I say is true and you’d be damn near lucky to even escape as I had.”

Strife lulls his head, shoulders falling lax with uncharismatic care. He blinks twice, finger playing against the trigger of one of his guns.

“She would have been better off killing you instead.”

“Is that a threat, Nephiling?—”

A nerve is struck at the belittling term and Strife’s body tenses as she slightly shifts his weight to stand at his full height. His eyes dangerously thin with a warning glare. 

The younger ones around the fire watch in silence, their faces agape in their startled awe of the two. It wasn’t uncommon for Nephilim to get into heated scraps with one another. Their tempers easy to flare, provoking the other to break first. 

But with a thunderous roll of feet approaching, both are torn from the inciting conflict that threatened to break out into a brawl. Absalom growls out with a warning tone, “Telling the young ones of your scrape with death again, Saak?” 

Saak snorts, lips pulled askew before spitting a glop onto the ground. “I’m warning them of what awaits outside those gates. You haven’t see her, Absalom, she is—”

“Not yet, I haven’t. But that will change. At dawn we move out on the forest.” Absalom ignores the pale complexion of Saak, even as he buckles, weight lost to fall to his knees with a heavy thmph. His meek argument silenced. “I will not have this conquest stamped out by a lone female who believes she can take on a legion by herself.” The eldest of their kind laughs, boisterous. “It’s madness!”

Saak shakes his head and Absalom scoffs, large fingers scruffing the Nephilim’s neck as if he were a measly pup in need of discipline. “Cower in the camp, then. I will not accept cowards during this territory skirmish. I need only my finest.”

Releasing Saak and turning his eyes from the Nephilings who watch, eyes wide at the behemoth that is the first of their race, he chuffs a cold noise and rolls his eyes to Strife.

“And you’ll be joining us.”

Strife shrugs with a complying nod as he holsters his guns to his hips. 

“Very well,” Strife hums, obviously making his tone chipper to flaunt as a mockery. This would be one of the very few times he would be joining a troop assault so large, oftentimes he would either be appointed with a smaller group or better yet, strike out on his own.

But not this time. And perhaps he would catch a glimpse of the mysterious ghost that has the entire camp in a throng of rumour; that of the vengeful hunter. Beginning to walk away from the campfire, he hears Saak’s voice wheeze out with a hoarse rasp and his steps slow slightly. 

“You’ll see her yourself… and when you do… it’ll be too late.”

The swallow of the cave is clouded, smothered by wisps of smoke that come from the many lit flames around. Laments, shrines dedicated to the burials of your tribe. You can almost catch their spirits weave and dash through the twisting haze around you, as if to dance like they did around the fires, nights filled with laughter and conversation. Of bonds made newly and ones grown fonder. 

You hum a tune solemn in your grief. A proud song of your people that used to uplift and give praise to the forest’s divine sanctity, a home respected and loved. But now it is a melody that serves as a hollow reminder of all that you have lost. The songs of your people sung in the night to be carried on the wind with your weeping cries; shrieks that even the most fearsome of wraiths and beasts would grimace with sympathy for. 

The palette of your face had been cleaned of its prior mask that covered the higher portion of your face, marking the veil of your painted vow. The darkened smudge would never be cleaned off your hands completely, nor your face that streaks it into watered lines down your cheeks. Not until your enemies were undone. 

When this war was over and the invaders obeyed your command and left or were slain.

You sit before the burning incense of your tribe mother — your birth mother — and listen to the call of the warhorn. It thrums to life, bringing with it its ominous roar and its final deliverance. They would not leave and thus, you would make due on your promise. 

Bow and arrows balanced in your lap, you ask that your people imbue you with their strength. To help you overpower your foes and finally bring their souls to rest in the ethereal realm. The White Cosm. A place so beautiful and tranquil, spoken to be at its closest with the Creator’s heart. 

Your hands move forward towards the wooden bowl sat at the bottom of the shrine. You smear the dark ashes onto your face, its charred skin caresses yours and your brows furrow deeply between. You will show them what it means to provoke that wrath of the Eld’hyunen. 

They will come to know that vengeance is a hunter; and it has marked them all for death. 

The dawning fares no better in trying to puncture through the overgrowth above. The leaves and treeline are too heavy in concealing the ground level. A faded sheen of bathing sunlight comes through, a gloomy hue of yellow and vibrancy of greens all shrouded by the morning fog. 

Just as he said, Absalom leads his band of brothers and sisters into the forest’s barriers. They arrive in large numbers you have seen come through here but only once: when they butchered your tribe and raided your homes. 

You watch them from above. Steadily you move, the hooded cloak on your back tethered to your limbs, allowing you to glide silently from branch to branch with your prey none the wiser. 

As much as it angers you, you have always obeyed your masters when they taught you that to succeed in the hunt, you must be well versed in patience. You have to lie in wait for the perfect opportunity to present itself and you have your sights set on Absalom being your first target. 

Though powerfully formidable, he will be guarded closely by his most elite siblings, the first-bloods. Trying to get him alone will be nothing short of impossible, but you must allow yourself to wait for that single moment and when it's there, you will strike him down. 

Strife had veered off and away from the group not too far into the breach of the forest. He was always better off moving by himself, he attracted less attention that way. Most of his brethren lacked the level of subtlety to remain hidden like he did. He uses the higher peaks to his advantage, climbing higher and higher where no other of his brothers and sisters dared to. 

They climb mountains for sport but trees and forest terrain are where they draw the line? Strife finds it somewhat amusing and he chuckles to himself while shaking his head. He balances dangerously in the higher space of the canopy, intruding upon another world entirely it feels. He takes a moment to observe his surroundings and there — it’s barely noticeable with the foggy glare that bleeds together — but something crossed his vision. A shadow. 

His eyes squint, the sight of his visor aimed accurately to see what it was that fluttered through the treeline and down onto a nest of branches. 

You perch yourself onto the next entanglement of limbs, cloak settling once it loses its gusto of breath that carried you. Your belly is pressed against the mossy thicket, the sensation soft and ticklish against your naked skin. Your chin just grazes the oaken surface as you peer downward, watchful of the Nephilim who stalk the ground slowly, methodical and wary. 

Your eyes grow wide and a near sadistic grin twists across your lips, fangs glinting with poised delight that clench together. You see it! Your moment to disband their ranks, to flush them into a frenzy of fear as their leader becomes another pile of bones to add to your imprisoning graveyard. 

You rise slightly, back arched to sit up and you align your arrow onto your bow and draw. You calm your breathing despite the rapid climb of your excitement. Finally, this quest will be seen through, you can live out your lonely days in peace until you reunite with your loved ones. You do this or you die trying. 

Absalom has his back turned to you but if you aim just right, if you wait… the art of patience is key yet you find it hard to steady yourself, eager to release. You must wait. The window of that moment is happening upon you and so you draw that last final bit. 

You release your breath, rushing it from your lungs. The murky light from behind you is smothered out and you freeze. Face shrouded by the overlap of your hood and ashy paint becomes contorted in your frowning confusion. Your aim lowers, unfocused as you come to realise you sit beneath a shadow. A tall, looming shadow. 

Your cowl shifts in tandem with the motion of your head turning and tilting upwards. Your eyes widen and your jaw falls, bottom lip quivering with a shuddering gasp. After all this time, you believed yourself numbed of the feeling of fear, of bone-shaking terror that has the chasm of your chest diving with your heartbeat. You thought yourself hollow to that feeling you had all that time ago when you first witnessed the slaughter, the carnage and the screams that echoed.

Had you been so consumed in your fire of vengeance that you neglected your surroundings, you didn’t heed to the teachings of your masters? To always be aware, always be intune with your senses. Never allow your arrow to be knocked blind; in which you did. 

That feeling resurfaces again and now you have become the prey for it. 

What few seconds pass feels like an eternity that drags on. You move swiftly but sloppily, your draw and aim not on target as you fire your knocked arrow only for him to deflect it with the iron plating of his gauntlet. The arrow snaps in two under such force and he lunges at you, pinning you. You hiss sharply and your hands claw at him, your sharp nails scratch and rip at whatever you can to fight him off. The struggle turns you both off the branch and you go crashing to the forest floor, whenever you attempt to pry him away and fill your cloak with wind, he stops you by wrapping his arms around you; caging you. 

Each pained yelp you make echoes louder through the canopy in your rapid descent. The troops below peer upwards at the commotion until it lands on ground. They rush towards it as they watch, awestruck that the hunter that stalked them is no more. Instead, Strife’s knees trap you between him and the forest floor, his hands easily captured around each of your wrists, keeping you from escaping. 

His throaty chuckles grow into a small fit of laughter, grinning a fanged grin behind his mask. “I got her!” he chants, a hollering of cheerful howls and spirited yells applaud him in his apprehension. 

The coarse patch of dirt rubs against your stomach in your continued writhing, only to feel the force of his weight push you further against the ground and you whine, seething like a feral animal at him. 

“Let go of me! Let— go!”

Moving aside to make room for Absalom’s arrival, he gives a gruff hum, mouth pulling into a grin. 

“Well done, Strife,” he rumbles, planting the pommel of his axe into the ground. His elbow probs up to rest against its higher end. “I knew it was a matter of time before these rumours would be snuffed out. A vengeful wraith, unkillable and unseen.” Snickering, Absalom lowers himself to you and his large fingers snatch hold of your face. 

You bare your fangs at him with a snarl but he only chuckles in turn, not an ounce of fear etched in his eyes that you can see. 

“She was about to kill you.”

“Was she now?” asks Absalom, his voice inflecting with peaked interest before turning to leave. 

“It’d be a waste to kill her.” Strife hums thoughtfully before his own hand catches your jaw, pinching your cheeks and lowering his helmed face next to yours. 

“How about it, Absalom? Can I keep this one?”

Absalom shrugs his shoulders with a dismissive hum. “Do what you will with her. Fuck her, kill her, it matters little to me.”

Such news never sounded like music to his ears until now. He’d seen quite a few of his brethren take Eld’hyunen survivors as prisoners to provide them lustful satisfaction alongside their bloodthirst. He’d wondered himself once or twice… 

His hips push forward to rest in the curve of your lower back and you gasp. His grip ahold of you tightens when you make to shuffle out from under him.

“You hear that, little hunter?” he taunts with a husky chuckle, “you’re all mine.”

High upon an overlooking cliffside, you’re able to see the march of the Nephilim return to their camp, their numbers swarming back inside its walls and rejoining those who had remained behind. Many more were still to come, you were sure of it, it was only a matter of time. 

Strife had brought you up here, somewhere reclusive for his claiming. Tomorrow he would return with you to show you off to his brethren, to rub it into Saak’s face that his threats meant nothing and that he now had you, the vengeful hunter, to satiate his pent up aggressions and lustful drive. 

You’re clawing into the dirt with each thrust that brushes that spot deep inside of you. Each forceful drive of his widely built hips shoves the hastily collected air from your lungs in exerted pants, your whines and pitiful cries are swallowed up into the night’s breeze, the harshened clap of skin against skin makes your body ache and each stroke of his cock invading your silky, warm walls has you clenching around him. 

Strife groans with every motion of bucking his hips, speeding up and arching his body a bit more so that his hands can drag you further back onto his length, almost splitting you open. It sounds messy but your skin is riddled with a hot flush that covers you entirely, your screams turned into whiny moans and your voice shredded raw into a terrible, wordless dialect. 

“You’re so tight, little mate,” he grunts between a few hard thrusts that pull a string of mewls from you. You grip him like a vice, coating him in the slick of your arousal you tried so hard to deny him; deny both of you. 

He could smell you through the dampened fabric of your loincloth, the need buried between your thighs. 

His grip is bruising, it hurts the way he holds you and ruthlessly fucks into you like an animal in heat. Your walls continue to squeeze around him tightly, your breathing becoming shorter before it turns into high pitched gasps. His cock pistons in and out, sensing the rise of your release and he chases it with reckless abandon, wanting to finally feel the sensational pleasure he’s heard so much about but has never gotten to experience himself. 

His mask had been stripped off with the rest of his armor, his breath beating against the back of your neck in hot gushes that sweep over you like the hot summer winds. You can identify the ghostly presence of his bared teeth kissing your flesh, longing to marr the precious bed where your neck and shoulder meet. 

He whines lowly into your ear as you cry out with a moan that chokes you, your nails scratching deeper indents into the dirt with ragged markings as you cum. Your watery eyes blurry, tears muse and smear the ashy paint down your cheeks. He howls, ravenous and huffing like a satisfied beast when your snug walls clamp around him, barely able to withdraw himself from you without hearing those pained yelps you make. 

But he’s not done with you. He continues to brutally fuck your cunt that is forced to take very inch of him, leaving none of him to be left unsheathed. His fangs graze along the crook of your neck and the muscles there twitch, your eyes widening and your voice gone. 

Your body is ragged, used and abused under his power that has you submitted to him as his mate. Your breeding rights forfeit, the once virginal seal gone and claimed the moment he sunk himself deep inside of you. 

He’ll never forget the long, drawn out sigh you made when he did. He’ll forever savour the scream that tore out from your throat as he broke through your hymen. 

He was not a gentle lover. He was fast and unspeakably ruthless, possessively aggressive by the way he growled, inhaling the sweet aroma of your hair or tasting the scent of your skin on his tongue. 

He groans again, louder and his teeth snap shut. You scream again under the strain of your muscle that spasms from his bite, you feel the wet trickle of blood flowing down your collarbone and breast, revealed after he had torn your cloak and chest wrapping away. 

You cannot help but moan softly when his cock buries itself deeper inside, painting your insides with his seed that comes in thick, warm spurts. 

He continues to drill his spent inside of you until it forms a heavy bulge that fills your lower abdomen and a slickened ring around the base of his cock and drool from your swollen, abused pussy. However, the moment you begin to pull from him, having to ignore the sore spot he’s made your pussy to be, one of his hands seizes hold of the tendril of your smooth tail, caressing it with a firm, palming grip that yanks you back and spears you down on his cock again. 

“I’m not done with you yet, mate,” he huskily drawls. 

His mouth lingers against the cringing curl of your ear, and from the corner of your eye, the pain in your neck making it impossible to turn and look, you catch the crimson line that runs from the corner of his smirking lips. 

His chest and stomach slide into the curved bevel of your spine, fitting against you perfectly so much so that this match had to be a cursed union. For the women of your tribe long since believed that those meant to be mated could easily line their front to their partner’s spine to come into alignment perfectly. Meant to be fitted. You don’t want to believe it, but it becomes harder to deny his prowess as he begins to roll his hips up against the risen curve of your arse again.

Your desire for vengeance is a fire that begins to wane, ebbing into the fade of your new reality as a Nephilim’s mate.

[cyberstole]

𝐻𝑈𝑅𝑅𝑌 𝒰𝑃 𝒯𝑂𝑀𝑂𝑅𝑅𝑂𝑊, the weeknd's 2025 album

a series of lyric prompts from the weeknd's final album.  feel free to change pronouns as you see fit ! cw; sexual themes, emotional abuse, substance abuse, & suicidal ideation

❛ all I have is my legacy. ❜ 

❛ i've been losing my memory. ❜ 

❛ no afterlife, no other side. i'm all alone when it fades. ❜ 

❛ when life is hard i know death's easy. ❜ 

❛ i can't find the horizon, i'm running out of time. ❜ 

❛ are you real, or are you an illusion? ❜ 

❛ i fear your love's my delusion. ❜ 

❛ wake me up, come find me. ❜ 

❛ it's coming to the wire, i'm feeling like i'm paralyzed. ❜ 

❛ cleanse me with your fire, open up my eyes. ❜ 

❛ i wish that i told you all my feelings. ❜ 

❛ i hope that I live life for a reason. ❜ 

❛ at least you'll play this song after i'm gone. ❜ 

❛ i tried with you, saw my life with you, now we're strangers. ❜ 

❛ i hope that you still cry for me like i cry for you. ❜ 

❛ every night for you, i've been living with this lie. ❜ 

❛ when i needed you the most, you always gave me sympathy. ❜ 

❛ now you're better on your own, it ain't a fucking mystery. ❜ 

❛ every time i try to run, you put your curse all over me. ❜ 

❛ i surrender at your feet, baby, put it all on me. ❜ 

❛ every time i try to pray you away, you got me on my knees. ❜ 

❛ trying to remember everything that my preacher said. ❜ 

❛ trying to right my wrongs, my rеgrets are filling up my head. ❜ 

❛ all the timеs i dodged death, this can't be the way it ends. ❜ 

❛ i just know the shadow's staring at me, it gets closer. ❜ 

❛ voices tell me that i should carry on. ❜ 

❛ i've been baptized in fear, my dear. ❜ 

❛ i've been the chief of sin, washing my soul within. ❜ 

❛ all the silver and gold only made my skin cold. ❜ 

❛ angels call my name, but the things you say keep me alive. ❜ 

❛ trapped inside a limbo, watching through a window of my soul. ❜ 

❛ suffering, i've been low, then i seen your halo. ❜ 

❛ tell me how our love grows, when you're trying to dig for lies? ❜ 

❛ give me what i want, then we'll start the show. ❜ 

❛ i'm trapped inside a gilded cage. there's a golden blade i'm sharpening. ❜ 

❛ if it pleases you, i'll see it through. ❜ 

❛ i feel your chill across my skin. ❜ 

❛ i won't make a sound, when they take my crown. ❜ 

❛ you think i don't know you're staying up all night. ❜ 

❛ i just hope you're not back to the old you. ❜ 

❛ don't let them take you from me. ❜ 

❛ what does that shit feel like anyway? ❜ 

❛ love me. 'cause, baby, i need you. ❜ 

❛ oh no, i'm in my feelings. ❜ 

❛ they can never tear us apart, we're symbiotic. ❜ 

❛ no one thought i'd makе it past twenty-four. ❜ 

❛ i hope you enjoy the show. let me know, baby. ❜ 

❛ i don't wanna give you any space anymore. ❜ 

❛ i can't live without you, i've been going through withdrawals. ❜

❛ i'm saying a prayer for the rebels. ❜  

❛ and when the curtains call, i hope you mourn. ❜  

❛ i'll always lie to you, i'm unreliable.  ❜  

❛ why won't you let me go? why won't you let me leave?  ❜  

❛ i've given up on me, i think i'm in too deep.  ❜  

❛ i could never leave you alone.  ❜  

❛ it keeps calling me back, the sunshine. i can feel the warmth on my skin for the first time. ❜  

❛ when i'm far away from you, babe, i'm on fire. ❜  

❛ you're no good for me, baby, my sunshine. ❜  

❛ the darkness keeps you shining. ❜  

❛ my enemies hate it 'cause i own my soul. ❜  

❛ long in my life, i wouldn't let love inside. ❜  

❛ i used to hold you before the sun came up. ❜  

❛ i got my finger on the pulse every single time. ❜  

❛ take me back to a time when my blood never tasted like wine. ❜

❛ my love could fill a sea but now i can't even feel the breeze. ❜    

❛ it's better when i'm by myself. ❜    

❛ now i have nothing real left, i want my soul. ❜    

❛ you know i love it when you're angry. ❜    

❛ i don't want you to go away. i found you, i found you. ❜   

❛ well, you used up your borrowed life. ❜    

❛ every time i lost my way, i lost my faith in you. ❜    

❛ hoping that it's worth all the bleeding. ❜    

❛ when I'm defeated give me mercy like you do and forgive me like you. ❜    

❛ you're my only paradise, now i know it's true. ❜    

❛ be precious with my heart, drive me slow. ❜    

❛ i just want to drive, i just want to drive until tomorrow. ❜ 

❛ don't ever think i'll be this happy again, you'll always be a part of me. ❜       

❛ why waste another precious hour? why waste another precious ounce? ❜       

�� let me close my eyes with dignity. ❜  

❛ so what's the point of staying? it's going up in flames, i know. ❜            

❛ just hold my heartbeat close to you. remember how it always beats for you. ❜            

❛ you know my heart belongs to you. one last time, say that you want me too. ❜   

❛ it's a threat, not a promise. ❜   

❛ you're not heavy, i rocked you to sleep. ❜   

❛ you were never heavy, you were light just like a feather. ❜   

❛ you were never scary, i knew you were special. ❜   

❛ your mama loves you, you'll never be alone. ❜   

❛ whatever we were to each other, that we are still. ❜   

❛ call me by the old, familiar name. ❜   

❛ i should've been sober, but i can't afford to be boring. ❜   

❛ wash me with your fire. ❜   

❛ who else has to pay for my sins? ❜   

❛ my love's fabricated, it's too late to save it. ❜   

❛ burn me with your light, i have no more fights left to win. ❜   

❛ tie me up to face it, i can't run away. ❜   

❛ i took so much more than their lives, they took a piece of me. ❜  

❛ my mother tried to save every ounce of my innocence. i failed her like i failed myself. ❜    

❛ you can ask forgiveness, even when you pray, they will always find a way. ❜    

❛ i don't know what they told you, you're a victim to the lies. ❜    

❛ i wanna show you how it feels. ❜    

❛ they triеd to kill me by a thousand papercuts. ❜

❛ i need you bеside me. you're the only one i trust. ❜        

[raisoramizu]

Chapter 11: Lilith's Wrath

This is the eleventh chapter of my Hazbin Hotel fan fiction, "Heaven is Not Forever" Radioapple and Guitarspear. You can find the other chapters on my blog.

During Lute's recent visit, she hadn't realized just how immense it was. Maybe it felt bigger now because it was empty? Her heels echoed against the pale walls, adorned with divine paintings and large, watchful eyes. Those eyes were part of her creation, her guide, her protection... and yet, the apprehension gnawing at her chest remained. How could one live in Heaven with this constant fear? Perhaps it was because she was an angel, not a Winner—she was created to serve this place, not to enjoy its beauty. She was meant to protect it, to ensure that no written or moral laws were broken. She was the divine sword, the judge... or the accused?

She shuddered at the sound of wings behind her and stopped in the center of the grand hall, with its towering circular ceiling. Around her were the currently empty balconies, and in front of her—backed by the large golden double doors—was the one reserved for the Seraphim. There was no artificial light, nor any windows to let in natural light, and yet everything shone, including the figure of the High Seraphim, who landed softly before her.

Sera was tall, imposing. Her form was feminine but unnatural, with six large wings and chestnut-colored skin. She wore a flowing gown in shades of white, sky blue, and gray, and her halo resembled a crown. Lute's, on the other hand, was black and simple, like the standard uniform she wore. Her bobbed hair framed a tense face, her expression tightening into a nervous frown that deepened when Sera regarded her curiously with large blue eyes.

< Emily...? > the commander asked, glancing around. < She's not here. You'll have to make do with me, Lute, > Sera replied with soft assertiveness. < You want to talk about Adam again...? > A faint tension crept into her voice. < With all due respect, don't you care how he's doing? Aren't you going to do anything? > < And what would you have me do? > Sera's tone shifted as she placed one hand over the other at her waist. Raising her chin, she leveled a stern gaze at Lute, who was barely half her height. < Let's talk instead about how you learned he's in Hell. A tip-off from whom...? >

Lute flinched. < Do you have contacts with demons? > Sera pressed, but was met with silence. < Or do you think you can use the portal without me noticing? >

A wave of terror froze the exorcist in place. She staggered back, stunned, her mouth open as if trying to put some distance between herself and Sera, who hadn't moved but whose cold, severe gaze pierced her. < Yes... yes, I did! > Lute blurted out, finding a burst of courage, furrowing her brow and pointing to herself with her remaining hand. < But because I'm truly worried about him! Because... > She paused, pressing her lips together in a mix of anger and fear. < Because I care about him. > < Don't you care, Sera? How can you— > < Silence! > Sera's voice thundered, cutting her off. < Of course, I care, > she softened her tone to something gentle and comforting. < I care for all my children, my brothers, and sisters. I care for all of you. > She waved her long arm as if gesturing to everyone, though the room was empty. < And that is why I cannot be lenient when it comes to Divine Judgment. Adam wasn't judged by us; he died and was reborn directly into Hell. He's a demon. >

Lute took a step forward to confront her. < Emily told me about the guest at the hotel, the serpent who was reborn here as a Blessed! There's a chance Adam could be redeemed too! > At this revelation, Sera's gaze sharpened with disapproval, but she sighed and continued. < Apparently, that sinner earned Heaven just as Adam earned Hell. >

< You can't say that, Sera... I mean, with all due respect, High Seraphim, > Lute replied with the same frustration but quickly composed herself, standing at attention, her back rigid as she tried to find a tone more appropriate for the situation and her superior. < This is Adam. You know him. We can help him... maybe reevaluate our decisions. Perhaps... they weren't as correct as we thought. >

The angel turned, giving Lute her profile as she began to pace—or rather, float—around the room, her gown's hem fluttering just above the floor. < Not correct, you say? I know more... > She paused, bowing her head—her long gray curls cascading—and resting a hand on her forehead as if suddenly struck by a headache. < I know he harbored a demon in Heaven for years... >

Lute went pale. Did she know it was Lilith, or were her insights incomplete? Fear took hold of her again, as if all the apprehension she had felt for months was about to boil over. Was this the moment everything would come crashing down? Ever since the Extermination... had she been waiting for this moment all along? < How long...? > Lute swallowed hard. < I've known for some time, and... > Sera froze, shooting her a piercing glance. < I know that you knew too. >

< Why didn't you do anything? Why didn't you stop it...? > The angel didn't answer immediately. She turned toward Lute, her cold gaze softening into an intense sorrow—a regret so vivid that Lute herself felt it weigh down on her. < Because I cared about Adam too, > Sera admitted, gently spreading her arms. < We all did. >

At that exact moment, to Lute's astonishment, the room began to fill with angels of the highest hierarchy: Thrones, Powers, Dominions. Born from beams of light, they flew toward the many balconies, each taking their place. The High Seraphim flapped her wings vigorously, ascending above the others to her rightful place as chief judge. She left Lute standing in the center of the hall, a small figure on the floor decorated with the enormous image of a ghostly eye.

Lute felt tiny, overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness and guilt. Had she made a mistake? Of course she had. Was this to be her day of judgment? Along with the guilt came anger—the frustration of knowing they wouldn't listen. She knew how trials worked: they had already made up their minds. That's why Sera had granted her request for this meeting.

With that last thought, all her tension drained away. She felt empty, devoid of any emotion except helplessness. < ...Lute, > Sera's voice brought her back to reality. Her hands still clasped at her waist, the angel stood motionless like an inhuman statue, staring down from the high court. Below her, the numerous balconies were filled with other angels. < This trial accuses you of being complicit in Adam's conspiracy against Heaven, > she announced. < What do you have to say in your defense? >

Lute looked around. Every angel's eyes were on her—some curious, some puzzled—but Sera's gaze... it was heavy. Why didn't you call Emily? Are you afraid of being contradicted? You bastard. Damn you.

She clenched her fist. < I'm guilty, > she declared, standing tall and lifting her chin, shocking the entire court. < Guilty of wanting to protect someone I care about, even at the cost of my duties... > She paused, her voice steady with the same passion that had always driven her. < ...of the good of Heaven, of the established order. > Her words rang with pride—pride she wouldn't let falter. It was all over. Adam was lost. She was lost.

Sera's gaze grew even colder, more distant, as if a wall of light had risen around her—light that swirled, opening countless blue eyes across her hair, forehead, chest, and robes. At that moment, it seemed every part of her was connected to the divine, as though she herself were made of pure mystical energy. < Based on this confession, with my authority as High Seraphim, I hereby sentence you to be cast out of Heaven. The Golden Gates will be closed to you forever, Lute. >

At these final words, terror exploded within Lute, shattering like the metallic clink of something falling to the ground. She looked down. Her black halo had fallen. She shuddered and raised her golden eyes once more to seek out Sera, only to find herself surrounded by a dozen sisters, hovering in the air, masked and with spears aimed at her.

I'm scared.

" < If you get yourself killed again, I'll drag you out of the Primordial Evil by the neck. > "

Lute's voice echoed in Adam's head just as Lilith's eyes flared with dark, black energy. All the exhaustion, pain, and the damn effects of her voice surged into a burst of fiery rage and strength. Tensing every muscle in his left arm, he tore through the enchanted ropes binding his wrist, bringing it up as a shield over his head just in time to block the spear.

The spear and part of its shaft pierced through the flesh and bone of his forearm, the tip stopping just shy of his forehead, right between his wide, blackened eyes. He stared in horror as a thin stream of blood trickled from a small scratch and then began dripping heavily from the spear.

Lilith's face had twisted into a demonic mask, radiating suffocating, cursed energy. Adam heard her growl, baring her sharp canines, and he channeled all that adrenaline—numbing his body to the pain—into the spear.

He pushed against it, forcing the weapon, and with it, Lilith, backward, slamming her into the wardrobe with such force that the doors shattered, sending her crashing noisily inside.

Panting heavily, Adam clenched his jaw, his face a mask of blood, sticky enough to glue his hair to his ram-like horns. He rolled onto his hands and knees, bracing himself with his right hand. < Fuck, I came way too close that time... > he muttered as he glanced at the door. The exit. He had to get out. He needed to get out of there.

Grimacing, he conjured his leathery wings, the sudden rush of air causing the TV to wobble dangerously. He dashed toward the door, ready to ram through it if he had to. But just as he was a mere foot away, Lilith's form reassembled amid swirling shadows, an amused, aggressive grin on her face as she raised the spear once again, aiming it at him.

< Where do you think you're going, little bug? ♫ > Her voice was singsong.

< !! > Adam felt the searing pain of all his wounds hitting him at once, just as the tip of the spear impaled his left shoulder, piercing straight throug

...

Meanwhile, Lucifer and Alastor were on their way back.

The Seraph was grinning from ear to ear, radiating joy as he chatted with the demon, who listened silently, his own ever-present grin plastered on his face. Though his mouth was closed, there was something genuine in the half-deer demon's smile, as his mismatched red eyes were focused on Lucifer's lively gestures, the angel even waving his apple-topped cane in the air.

< Ahh, I'm stuffed with all those sweets Rosie gave me... > Lucifer sighed, patting his vest over his stomach with a comically exaggerated exhaustion. < Delicious, I must say! >

< ...? > Alastor's smile faltered briefly. < Sweets? > he asked, his ears twitching slightly as a lightbulb seemed to go off in his head. < Ohhh! The sweets... of course~ > he teased, his voice laced with a playful radio static. < I hate to burst your bubble, Your Majesty, but I've got some bad news for you... > His smile stretched wider, but just as Lucifer stepped onto the first step leading to the hotel, his expression froze, eyes wide as if struck by a sudden jolt of electricity.

< What's wrong...? > Alastor barely got the question out when Lucifer shot him a glance, filled with palpable apprehension, before quickly conjuring a golden portal and stepping through it, sealing it shut behind him.

Alastor was left standing there, his smile frozen on his lips, eyes wide as he glanced up at the towering structure of the hotel in front of him. As his gaze reached the sign perched at the top, a strange, familiar fear crept over him, so thick it made him let out a distorted radio hiss.

Just as he began to melt into the shadows with his staff in hand, Charlie flung open the door. < You're back—! > She squealed with excitement, but her voice trailed off as the sinner vanished right in front of her eyes.

Adam was literally crawling toward the window—it was his only shot. One arm was completely useless, and he was dragging himself across the floor with the other, scraping his knees against the ground, smearing it with the blood still pouring from his two wounds. The pain was excruciating, and Lilith's voice behind him—humming a twisted lullaby—was tearing apart any last shred of sanity he had left. She followed him step by step with the calm of someone who knew her prey could never escape.

< How pathetic you are. >

< Go to... hell, you blonde... bitch. > Adam spat, his words coming out in ragged breaths.

With a single long stride, Lilith positioned herself between his legs, raised her right arm, and pointed the blood-soaked spearhead directly at his back. She licked her violet lips with a wicked smile.

< Goodbye, First Man. >

...

< LILITH! >

Lucifer's voice froze the spear mid-air—literally. A thin layer of ice crackled over the weapon, burning Lilith's fingers until she dropped it to the ground.

Lilith took a few steps back, locking eyes with the Seraphim as he appeared in a flash of light. He stood tall, framed by the window, just inches from Adam's bloodied hands. Lucifer's wide, crimson eyes, void of pupils, dimmed and shifted to a stunned gold. He blinked several times before lowering his gaze in disbelief toward Adam, sprawled on the floor.

< What—what's going on here? > he asked, uncertainty in his voice.

Adam let out a weak, bitter laugh. < Guess the plot armor finally showed up, > he muttered.

Lucifer shot him a sharp glare. < Okay, shutting up, > Adam grumbled, gripping the floor in an attempt to push himself up.

< I'm just cleaning up our mess, like I said I would, > Lilith replied smoothly, though her eyes blazed with the same fury that made her long blonde hair sway in a non-existent wind.

< In the hotel? You were going to kill him here, with... with... > Lucifer glanced at the spear on the ground in disgust and fear. < ...that? > < You're putting everyone at risk. >

< There's no risk, > she countered coolly, < he's just a demon now, and he's almost dead. Look for yourself. >

Lilith took an exaggerated step forward, pressing her bare foot into Adam's gaping shoulder wound. He collapsed back to the ground with a groan.

< Fucking hell! > Adam spat out blood. < Talk about marital bliss, huh? > He clawed at the floor with his good hand.

< Lilith, > Lucifer called again, circling Adam's limp form with hesitant steps. < It's... it's not necessary anymore. >

He forced a strained smile, one meant to calm her down, waving his hands, even the one holding his staff. But her eyes were as cold as the ice that had coated the spear.

< Not necessary? > Lilith raised an eyebrow, her voice sharp with disapproval. < He canceled the Extermination, blackmailed you, and tried to kill Charlie! >

< ...but Charlie has... uh, forgiven him? She let him stay here, even though I... didn't want to... >

At those words, Adam felt a pang—something like loneliness, or gratitude? God, he never thought he'd find himself thanking the heavens—or maybe hell—for Lucifer being there... and actually on his side? Was this for real?

Meanwhile, Alastor had been sneaking through the shadows of the hallways, trying to avoid the others who were all in a panic after his sudden disappearance. Charlie, especially, was likely impossible to calm down at this point.

The hotel had so many rooms, far too many floors, most of them still vacant with no guests to fill them yet. But then, Alastor found himself there, in the long red-and-black corridor leading to Adam's room. His grip tightened around his cane, his smile anything but serene. He perked up his ears at the sounds and voices from inside the room—they were in there.

He continued toward the door until he stood just a few feet away, recognizing the muffled voices of Lucifer and... Lilith? A crackle of static echoed from his radio-like interference.

< Things have changed, yes, but we'll find another solution... can we talk about it? > Lucifer's smile was sharp but sweet, a plea as he looked up at his wife from his shorter height.

< Talk about it?! > Lilith hissed, suddenly snapping her wide, furious eyes toward the closed door. Alastor, standing on the other side, froze. < We'll talk, my little angel, ♫ > she sang, masking Alastor's presence. She pulled her blood-soaked foot off Adam's wounded shoulder, allowing him to let out a shaky gasp.

At that exact moment, Alastor heard the metallic clang of something falling at his feet. He barely had time to glance down and see that it was the lower part of his staff—split in two just as the ex-commander had severed it during the last extermination—when the upper half, microphone included, crumbled between his fingers into dust.

He froze—not just from the sudden, terrible realization stabbing through his mind, but because... he was trapped! The violet collar of his pact lit up around his neck, cutting off his breath...

...and Adam, with a monstrous snarl that twisted his face into something bestial, lunged forward. In a blur of speed and fury he hadn't displayed before—at least not in his Sinner form—he grabbed the spear from the ground. Black matter streamed from his eyes as he shot toward the room's entrance, aiming the blood-stained blade at the door. With a violent thrust, he drove it straight through the wood, sending the spear's tip bursting out the other side.

Everything happened in an instant, right under Lucifer's wide-eyed gaze.

< ..what the— >

The spear smashed through the door, completely ripping it off its hinges and slamming into Alastor, driven by Adam's massive frame.

Alastor barely had time to lift his ash-covered hands before he registered the door crashing toward him. His pupils shrank to tiny dots, eyes wide as the spear tore through his chest, emerging from his back and pinning him against the corridor wall.

From inside the room, Lucifer stood frozen, watching in shock as Alastor coughed up blood, the door disintegrating on impact. Adam, entirely consumed by his rage, bled the same black viscous matter from his jaws. He growled again, shoving the demon harder against the wall, driving the spear deeper, until the ice burning his hand snapped the blade in two.

By now, the commotion had spread throughout the entire hotel. Charlie, Vaggie, Husk, Angel Dust, and Niffty were desperately searching for Alastor. Charlie had become convinced he was somewhere inside the building, and something told her he was in Adam's room. She wasn't as naïve as they thought; all these oddities, these secrets, had started the moment Adam arrived. Was it her fault all of this was happening? Should she not have forced her father to take him in?

As Charlie, followed closely by Vaggie armed with her angelic spear, raced down the stairs, she suddenly heard her father's voice.

< ALASTOR! >

His shout echoed from the end of the hallway, just as a fiery explosion erupted, sending Adam flying down the corridor at terrifying speed, the force shaking the walls.

The towering figure of the First Man shot past Charlie, narrowly missing her as Vaggie tackled her out of the way. Husk and Angel Dust pressed themselves against the wall to avoid him, while Niffty looked up with wide eyes.

< Whoooa, what a ride! > she giggled, spinning her cyclopean head in the direction Adam flew, crashing into a door several feet away from where Lucifer stood, his small figure at a distance as he darted toward Alastor.

< Dad! > Charlie cried in alarm, scrambling to her feet and running toward the two of them. From the now-doorless room, Lilith vanished in a wisp of ghostly fire.

A violet shimmer flickered in Charlie's eyes for a brief moment, but she was forced to refocus on her father, who was now hunched over Alastor, lying still on the ground. The Radio Demon wasn't moving. His body had left a long, bloody smear on the wall, and that same blood was pooling on the floor beneath him.

Charlie sprinted forward, but she and Vaggie were forced to stop abruptly as the intense heat radiating from Lucifer became unbearable. Both girls shielded their eyes from the scorching wave that burned their skin.

< What's happening... Dad! > Charlie cried out, squinting through the searing light to see the spear lying on the floor. < Alastor! Oh my God, Alastor! > she panicked, stamping her feet in desperation. < He's hurt, he's hurt! Dad, let me get to him!! >

Charlie was frantic, stomping her feet in place as the heat melted the wallpaper and dimmed the lights along the walls, plunging that specific part of the hallway into a deep, eerie darkness.

A darkness that also filled the screen, which moments before had been broadcasting the corridor's scene. Vox, sitting in his swivel chair, stared wide-eyed at the flickering static as the signal cut out in his Control Room.

Lucifer, now fully transformed, seemed oblivious to everything. Flames blazed between his curved horns, and his eyes were devoid of pupils. Every part of him, even his clothes, was covered in spectral yellow eyes that writhed like his tail, which ended in a sharp black spear.

The sudden appearance of his six feathered wings sent out a shockwave that knocked Husk and Angel Dust backward as they tried to reach him. Niffty, on the other hand, had already darted over to where an unconscious Adam lay, far down the hall.

< Dad, please! I'm begging you! I care about Alastor too, we all do! > Charlie cried out, collapsing to the floor where she had fallen. But Lucifer only leaned over Alastor, wrapping him protectively in his wings, hiding them both from view in a soft embrace.

A cone of darkness surrounded them, then lit up with a vibrant, laser-like golden light that hummed with a strange sound. That same sound cut through the sky outside the hotel, bright enough to be seen from the windows overlooking the courtyard.

The explosion that followed shook the building violently, sending dust tumbling down onto Charlie's head. She curled up, wrapping her arms around her skull, gasping in desperation.

< What the fuck is happening now!? >

[mirkwdmstrss]

returned to darkness

summary: adar meets his end on the battlefield, but not before a millennia of trauma, betrayal, and lost love are unleashed between the two in a torrent of bloodshed, manipulation, and final farewells.

genre: angst, hurt no comfort

pairing: adar x sauron (as annatar)

word count: 2.9k

tags: blood and injury, adar death

His line of sight narrowed to that of the tunnels he’d borne under the Southlands, the din of battle falling away in a rapid decrescendo until all he could hear was all that remained of his heart hammering in his ears.

Though he wore a new face, there was only one who could simultaneously carry that much condemnation and determination in his eyes; eyes that once bore him favor.

There was only one who could decimate swathes of soldiers without so much as a scratch to deface the marble of his flesh.

There was only Him.

And Adar had betrayed him beyond reproach; and he would again to save his children, knowing it would likely be his own undoing.

He watched on despite the chaos raging all around, transfixed by the gleam of His sword arcing through the air to fell one of Eregion’s soldiers while His golden hair, once red, fanned around Him in a halo, hallowed though it wasn’t; and hating himself for how easy the revelry he once held for him clawed its way up from a place so deep inside himself, he’d been certain it’d never see the light of day ever again.

But then again, He’d always held the key to his black heart in the palm of His hand.

The whir of an arrow slicing through the air drew Adar from his trance. His arm shot out, slashing his sword through the wooden shaft. The remains of the Elven weapon clattered to the ground and he spat on them before lifting his eyes once more; horror filling them as he watched Him slash the throat of one of his beloved Uruk; cutting through them with the same ease at which he’d hewn the elves.

Adar saw red; anger and pain the likes of which he’d felt so potently only once before in his lifetimes exploded from a place deep within himself. The raw agony burned through his core, racing through blood at such an accelerated speed that all he could do to keep from burning from the inside out was to let loose a scream so dark and terrible that all those fighting in his vicinity cowered in fear.

But his pain was not geared towards them. It was not for them. This was a pain born of ages, vengeance born of cruelty and malice, of torture and ruin.

His heels dug into the earth, tearing up the ground as he took off towards Sauron, slaughtering any elf that dared cross his path or blades with any of his Uruk while shouting out commands in Black Speech to his beloved children to fall back out of harm’s way as he raced towards the very thing that would be the ruin of them all.

Do not make war in anger.

He’d said those very words to the young Commander, yet he could not himself heed them.

The world could rise and fall and it would not be time enough for this pain to pass.

As Sauron’s blade passed through yet another one of his children and Adar watched helplessly as the darkness chased away the light in their eyes, his hand swiped at his belt where Mairon’s crown of sharpened iron hung, waiting centuries to taste its master’s flesh once more.

Tightening his grip beneath the guard of his sword, Adar swung it in a wide arc, point angled right at his heart; at least where the shell of one once beat.

The shriek of metal pierced the air as Sauron’s blade whipped behind his back to block what should’ve been a fatal blow. Adar pushed back against the strength of his block, but Sauron was stronger. He twirled in place, disarming the strike completely, his deft footwork placing him out range of Adar’s initial attack.

Adar’s black eyes flashed dangerously as he stalked his prey in a slow circle. Strands of sweat drenched hair stuck plastered to his face as his wide chest rose and fell, his heart a wild animal clawing at the cage of his ribs to get out and sink its teeth into Sauron.

“Did you really believe you could stab me in the back twice, Adar?” A hollow smile painted his delicate lips and Adar growled low in his throat.

Adar shifted his hand to fall atop Mairon’s crown hanging at his side and watched as Sauron’s eyes fell on it like a moth to a flame, both fear and desire flickering in the depths of his gray irises.

“All these years and you’ve never been satisfied in your quest for power,” Adar cried over the wind which had begun to howl.

“No,” Sauron attested, taking a step towards him. In turn, Adar took one back. Sauron’s brow twitched as a devious and calculated look entered his gaze. “But with these Rings of Power, I will Lord over all the races of Middle Earth all shall bow before us.”

Us.

Adar felt the weight of that word like that of a mountain collapsing in on itself. And still for a moment, he felt his resolve weaken. Until he remembered the ways in which Sauron used and abused his children, enslaving them to His cause for world domination, never minding how many died in His quest for might above all others.

“There is no us!” Adar snarled, lips curling back. “There never was. I was a pawn in your grand chess game, a means to end, just like my children.”

Sauron scoffed, features fixed in a state of cool indifference. “Children!” he called, a derisive laugh tumbling from his wicked mouth. “You never learn, do you Adar? These orcs are not yours to raise, they are yours to weaponize. With them under your first, we could lay waste to thousands and create a final and lasting peace.”

“Not for them!” Adar seethed, pointing towards his fleeing uruk. “To you they are collateral! You care not for their names nor their desires, only that which you seek to claim for yourself.”

“Is that not what you’ve done here?” Sauron challenged, his brow arching as he gestured to the battle waging on around them, his sword hanging limply in hand.

“Enough!” Adar boomed as thunder rumbled in the distance. “I am not like you! I have spent centuries undoing the damage you’ve done.”

“Yes,” Sauron answered, taking a measured step towards Adar. “But as soon as you heard wind of me in Eregion, high in Celebrimbor’s tower cavorting with the elves…you abandoned the safe haven you promised to your orcs in Mordor to seek me out. You mobilized legions upon legions of orcs, emptying the safety of the city of shadows, risking life and limb of your pets to bring me down by any means necessary.” He paused to point a finger at him, a quizzical look in his eye. “Tell me, Adar, how many of these orcs have you lost your pursuit of me? Do you know?” His eyes glistened in the gray light of day. “Do you know all of their names? If they had families?”

Adar paused. Surely he did. He had made it his mission in life to nurture each of his Uruk, but lately he’d been so focused on strategizing and remaining one step ahead of the army of Lindon to divide his attention elsewhere. Surely the Uruk he’d burned he’d known the names of. Surely he’d collected all that were slain…except after a while, he’d been kept by maintaining plans for the Siege, hostage negotiations, devising ways to get to Sauron…when had he stopped going to collect his fallen children?

Adar’s irises flickered back and forth across the trampled earth at his feet as if the answer would somehow be spelled out in the soil. As a drop of rain fell hard and fast against the skin of his scarred cheeks, he snarled before ripping a dagger from the belt at his waist and launching it with all his might towards Sauron.

“Get out of my head!” he roared.

The short blade whirled through the air, spinning end over end as it sought out its mark between his ribs.

A wicked smile hooked at the corners of Sauron’s face, though his eyes remained empty of any emotion. “I’m afraid, I never left, Adar.” With only a slight twitch of his hand, the dagger deviated from its course, soaring into the throat of an Uruk that had yet to flee.

Adar’s heart skipped a beat as his eyes widened in horror. “No,” he breathed, faltering a step as his heart yearned to go and comfort his fallen child.

“Yes,” Sauron responded, voice eerily calm.

Tears brimmed along Adar’s lash line as the sound of the Uruk choking on his own blood filled his ears.

“I am here!” Adar called to him in Black Speech though he dared not venture any closer for the snake that Sauron was. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“All of their pain and suffering is by your hand,” ventured Sauron, voice laden with accusation.

Adar’s eyes cut to him, pupils sharp as arrows. “Lies,” he growled. “If it weren’t for me, you’d have enslaved them all; using them to fulfill your egregious desires for tyranny.”

“Again, have you not used them to fulfill your own selfish desires?” pushed Sauron, advancing another step towards Adar. “Instead of fighting me, join me. Go ahead, remain their father and raise them to know that their sacrifice will only create a better future for new generations of orcs.”

Dipping into the well of strength within himself, Adar lifted his chin and advanced towards his former master. “You would promise me this?”

Sauron’s eyes softened, the wicked gleam in his gray eyes dimming, but remaining all the same. “I give you my word,” his irises flicker across his face. “Adar.”

Adar clenched his jaw so tightly hearing his name on his lips. He was sure if he bit down any harder, his teeth would shatter. He was nearly toe to toe with him now, hundreds of years having passed since he last stood so near to him. He kept his sword angled between his body and Sauron’s.

Sauron inclined his head towards Adar, lips curving into a soft pout and for the briefest moment, Adar swore he saw a flicker of the love he once knew behind the mask of this most recent form of His.

“A pity your tongue is dipped in poison,” Adar whispered, evading the saccharine sweetness of the honey trap he’d laid out for him.

Sauron’s eyes flared wide and blazed with fire as Adar’s features twisted with rage. With one powerful tug, he tore the iron crown from his belt and thrust it forward to pierce Sauron’s side.

The blow never landed, the scrape of metal on metal shrieking as Sauron’s vambrace collided with the circlet, his arm threaded between the lethal points.

Betrayal flashed in Sauron’s eyes as he pushed back against the weight of Adar’s fist. He grasped Adar’s shoulder in an attempt to force him back, but Adar could only see his end by his hand; and this time, there would be no coming back for the Dark Lord.

“I gave you everything!” Sauron bellowed, any trace of sympathy he held for the Uruk vanishing in that moment.

“You would’ve stolen everything!” Adar cried over the storm, rain now falling sideways as lightning flashed overhead. The corded muscles of his neck bulged with the effort of pushing back against Sauron’s might. A scream tore from his scarred lips as he summoned all of his strength into his attack; and when the sharpened tips of Mairon’s crown slowly punctured through the weakest part of his chest plate, Adar could taste the sweetness of victory knowing his children would prevail.

Just as Adar was sure he would see the light fade from Sauron’s impenetrable gaze forevermore, Sauron threw him back with a cry so terrible it shook the earth beneath their feet. Blood gushed from the two puncture wounds at his side, black as tar.

He pressed his hand against the injury, eyebrows downturned with a look of hurt in his eyes that almost seemed genuine. Adar wasn’t sure if he was capable of expressing genuine emotion, perhaps once, but now, in this form there was no way of knowing.

As Adar regained his footing, he adjusted the grip on his broadsword. With Sauron distracted, this was his one chance. He swung his sword in two wide circles at his side before launching his attack; the tip of his sword angled to strike a fatal blow.

Sauron’s head whipped towards him, his square jaw clenched and eyes wild with fury. He cast out his bloodstained hand, summoning the crown that once belonged to him from where it had fallen in the struggle, and drove it up and under Adar’s breast plate, puncturing the space between his ribs to stab into his lungs.

A choked gasp escaped Adar’s lips as pain overwhelmed him and his breathing became labored. His brow twitched as black spots dotted his field of vision, though Sauron’s face remained clear, his unfazed expression wounding him more than the blow that had been struck against him.

Adar’s grip on his sword faltered and it fell from his grasp, clattering to the ground at his feet. As his knees buckled, he fell forward and released an agonized groan as Sauron thrust the iron deeper into his chest cavity. His lips parted in a silent scream as Sauron caught him around his waist, leaving the crown embedded in his body as he cradled his head in his opposite hand.

Sauron dropped to his knees to gently lay Adar upon the ground where he struggled to take in enough air to his collapsed and punctured lung.

Adar blinked hard to clear the rain from his eyes, unable to speak as his breathing became short and labored. Sauron cupped his cheek in his palm, the warmth of the gesture surprising Adar in what he knew were now to be his final moments. He felt the wetness of Sauron’s blackened blood smear across his skin as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

“All of this bloodshed could’ve been avoided,” Sauron murmured, his eyes soft and filled with pity.

The rain had died down to a soft pitter-patter, droplets plinking against their armor and diluting the blood that poured from both of their wounds, black and red braiding together like liquid ribbon.

He stroked his cheek with the back of His hand and Adar coughed, blood staining his lips. “One day,” he wheezed. “You will fall.”

Sauron’s eyes cleared, the corners of them wrinkling as his lips pressed together in a tight smile. “Such a pity,” he lamented, smoothing the hair away from Adar’s face. “To have fallen so far from grace.”

Adar squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against the pain it caused him to summon what strength remained in his limbs to raise his arm to hold Sauron’s face in the palm of his gauntlet-covered hand. “I worshiped you,” he whispered, voice breaking as a tear leaked from his eye.

For a moment, time seemed to slow, the Earth no longer spinning on its axis; and in that brief stillness where they held one another, an entire lifetime that could have been passed before Adar’s fading vision.

Sauron withdrew his hand from Adar’s cheek to cradle the gloved one he held against his own, unblemished skin. Curling his fingers around the palm of Adar’s hand, he lowered it, and with his other unbuckled the leather straps holding the gauntlet in place.

Adar whimpered as Sauron pulled the gauntlet free from his hand and felt the cool kiss of rain touch the only flesh he’d kept hidden from the light of day; the only part of himself that He’d never wounded.

“Shh,” coaxed Sauron as returned Adar’s palm to his cheek, turning his face into his hand and nuzzling the smooth skin of his palm.

Adar couldn’t help but stroke his thumb across the cut of his jaw, even now marveling at the power of his beauty over him. He wheezed as his lung failed to inflate with air, the warmth of his blood pooling all around him feeling distant as an unfamiliar cold began to settle in his bones. He shivered and swallowed as he struggled to take a breath. “Did you ever love me?” he asked weakly, the plea of man with nothing left to lose.

Sauron shifted to look upon him, his eyes glimmering with some far off nostalgia. “Once,” he answered softly. He lowered his lips to Adar’s palm and pressed a gentle kiss to the unmarred flesh there before laying it upon his chest to rest against his heart, which beat less and less with each passing second. In an instant, His gaze hardened and His lip curled back, “But you got in my way.”

He yanked hard on the iron wrought crown, eliciting a roar of pain from Adar as he pulled it free of his flesh; blood and viscera spilling off the sharpened ends of it as Sauron rose to his full height to loom over him.

“May you return to darkness, Adar,” Sauron said in dismissal as he turned on his heel, not even sparing him one final glance as he parted from him. “Pray we never find one another there.”

Tears slipped from Adar’s eyes as Sauron disappeared from view and the world blurred in and out of focus. He blinked slowly, trying to scan his surroundings and know his children had fled to safety.

“Flee,” he whispered between shallow breaths to the open air, a final prayer to the gods old and new. “Seek shelter in the shadows where He cannot find you.”

As blackness curtained his vision and the Void curled in around him, Adar exhaled one slow, final breath knowing that in the everlasting darkness, he might finally know peace.

[fanby-fckry]

Raze Ref Sheet

Introducing my edgy Fallen angel OC! 12 year old me would be proud. :,)

Reference Pics:

Wing ref by me

Picrew – @/milqueandtoast

Picrew – @/Potato Lord

Picrew – @/thereisteainmyshoes

Content Warning: Self-harm (not-detailed), self surgery (not-detailed), canon-typical violence and murder

Basic Info:

Name: Raze Pronouns: It/its (but won’t correct anything other than she/her) Gender(s): Agender, boything, nonbinary, transmasc, transneu Gender Expression: Butch, masc Sex: FTX (testosterone and top surgery) Orientation(s): Bi-angled aroace, demiromantic, bi-sensual, bi-aesthetic, bi-queerplatonic, romance-oscillating, sex-averse, kink-favorable Species: Fallen Exorcist/Fallen angel Age: 20’s (biologically), 50’s (chronologically)

Appearance:

Distinguishing Features: Black and white Exorcist angel wings with red patches resembling blood (shown in ref above); black claws and black fingers Hair Color: White Hair Texture: Straight; brittle Hair Style: Side shave (right), hair goes down a little past its shoulders Eyes: White irises with dull red scleras Skin: Very light grey, almost white; black claws and fingertips Face: Square jaw; sharp cheekbones; crooked nose; large eyes; thick eyebrows; sharp teeth and lopsided smile Body Type: Relatively thin with wiry muscles; flat chest; boxy/androgynous frame Height: ≈ 5’5” Scars: Top surgery scars; multiple scars on arms and legs of various sizes (all from angelic steel blades) Body Modifications: Septum piercing, multiple ear piercings in right ear Clothing: Backless, sleeveless black turtleneck; black, men’s jeans; black, angelic steel-toe boots; silver chains on its belt; two sheaths for angelic steel daggers, one on either leg; angelic steel arm-guards on both forearms, hidden under black leather; black leather choker with an inverted pentacle; aroace rings (black ring on right-hand middle finger for ace, white ring on left-hand middle finger for aro)

Backstory:

Once a formidable Exorcist, Raze Fell when it killed one of its comrades during an Extermination.  It had a reputation among angels for being “difficult,” and often fought with other Exorcists, including its superiors; it generally avoided Winners. Its destructive tendencies extended to self-injury, and it discovered that angelic steel can cause permanent damage to Exorcists after one of its self-inflicted wounds scarred. Its decision to kill its comrade was impulsive, but it was fairly sure the damage would be permanent.  The two Exorcists had fought before, and Raze certainly harbored a grudge against her.  Once the deed was done, Raze opted not to return to Heaven, knowing there was nothing for it there. It found Heaven boring and restrictive, anyway, and disliked most angels—especially Adam. Damnation was an escape from a gilded cage, and it regrets nothing. After Falling, Raze shed the name (and pronouns) Adam gave it, and chose to name itself after the destruction it harolds.  It no longer identified with its Heavenly nature or femininity, and embraced inhumanity and gender nonconformity. Through some experimentation with self-expression, it began making alterations to its body, including piercings, top surgery, and testosterone shots, as well as growing out its hair, except for one side which it keeps shaved. Some changes were simply a natural result of long-term exposure to Hell.  Its halo dropped, its wings changed colors, its teeth sharpened, and its fingernails morphed into claws and changed colors, claws and fingers turning black.

Currently:

Raze generally lives a transient lifestyle, wandering the seven Rings without calling any of them home.  It seldom makes friends and often makes enemies. After seeing footage of Vaggie the Battle at the Hazbin Hotel, Raze decides to take up slightly more permanent residence in Pentagram City, with the express goal of goading its fellow Fallen Exorcist into a fight to the death—and making her miserable in the meantime.

Personality:

Volatile, impulsive, destructive.  Prone to violence, both towards others and itself.  Easily bored.  Earning its loyalty is near impossible, but if you manage it, you will never get rid of it.

Abilities:

Enhanced strength and reflexes

Skilled with multiple weapons (daggers, swords, spears) and hand to hand combat

Regeneration and accelerated healing (from injuries not made by angelic steel)

Night vision (tapetum lucidum)

Flight

Multilingualism (English, Enochian, Tongues)

Voice:

Raze has a strong, somewhat rough, androgynous voice with a higher pitched, cackling laugh. It can switch tones quickly, from distant and condescending, to sadistic and manic, to dark and threatening.

Music:

Leitmotif: TBD Song-Style: An unholy combination of folk, country, rock, and alternative Singing Voice: Strong, powerful; generally in alto-tenor range, but can hit some impressive high notes; can be very animalistic when singing: growling and howling when the mood calls for it. Dance Style: Dances like it fights (idk; I’m not a choreographer)

Fighting Style:

Angelic steel daggers deal slash and stab damage

Occasionally bludgeons opponents by kicking them with its angelic steel toed boots

Can use other weapons and fight hand-to-hand, but prefers daggers and boots

Uses its angelic steel arm-guards to block attacks

Prefers to parry or block over dodging

Uses flight to improve mobility and gain advantage against non-flying opponents

Quick, rough, unpredictable

Fights dirty; doesn’t pull punches

Misc. Facts:

Raze was created by Adam using the rib tree method.

Raze gave itself its piercings using angelic steel needles.

Raze preformed its own top surgery using angelic steel, after several practice runs with non-angelic tools; the non-angelic surgeries were subject to regeneration, but the final project healed roughly the way it would on a human.

Its halo fell off on its own shortly after Falling; sometimes a dark/shadowy version of a halo is visible above its head while fighting or emotional.

The red markings on Raze’s wings are a combination of Hell’s influence and the blood of its enemies! The pentagrams, stripe, and gradient (red instead of standard Exorcist gray) are natural, the spots near the pentagrams are blood, and the red at the bottom of its wings are a mix of both.

Raze likely would’ve been expelled from Heaven for infighting and disregard for authority. I once likened its Fall to “…being a few writeups shy of getting fired, and deciding to stab your least favorite coworker, steal a bunch of office supplies, and flee the country about it,” and I stand by that.

I know Hellaverse characters don’t have ears unless they’re animal ears, and Raze’s design does, but I like humanoid ears, ok? 😭 It wouldn’t have ears in the Hellaverse style, but if I ever draw it, it’s getting ears.

[witchie-writings]

I love your blog sm❤️ I love your Halo hcs they are the best and You’re like one of the only blogs that has written for the bayverse Megatron and for that, I think you amazing🥹 Whenever you feel like it, do you think you could write more bayverse megatron x reader? Absolutely no pressure and take all the time you need❤️

YOU

Take my heart. Bayverse Megatron is one of my favorite versions, so it’s nice to see someone request more HCs for him! (Well, I guess I’m writing again lmfao) I will admit, my views on him have kind of changed, so these might be different from the first set of headcanons I wrote.

Trigger warning for abuse.

During the war, Megatron could only see the blinding promise of power. He craved it like it was the energon that flowed through his inner pipe-lines, but… admittedly, despite his never-ending rampage for his next fix for absolute control, he does have an inner weakness that he’d rather die than reveal to those that serve him: his S/O.

His S/O would struggle with this version of Megatron. He was undoubtedly ruthless, far more than any other version of Megatron, and this extends partially to them. He can be abusive, both physically and verbally, and depending on how his emotions festered within him that day dictates how bad it can get. It’s agonizing, oh painfully so. I would never blame S/O if they one day decide to abandon the cause, for any sliver of the Megatron they once knew was seemingly gone.

Oh but that wasn’t the case. Despite all the things he does, his spark mourns for the times before the war, before the Fallen had entered his processor and twisted his mind into shattered pieces. There will be times that his spark breaks through, temporarily silencing the raging thoughts that echoed inside his helm, and this is where he shows weakness. He knows all of the things he’s done and how he’s hurt his S/O, and so, his care is so tender, so genuine. His digits would grace over his S/O’s platings with the utmost care, even as they trembled violently - the emotions boiled within Megatron, oh Primus, what has he done to them? 

During these soft moments, he orders the other Cons that he and his S/O are not to be disturbed, any sign of disobedience will be immediately punished with a torturous death. 

His S/O would be pampered beyond belief while his spark shines through. He shows his love through acts of service, whatever they need him to do, Megatron would do it without any question or hesitation. The only thing he has slight reluctance to is cuddling. His body was mangled and mutilated into a twisted version of his previous self, sharpened blades and riddled with cracks of silver. It’ll take coaxing, but he’ll cave, and he’d melt if his S/O would give him words of affirmation - he needs it, he desperately does.

Whenever he falls back into his tyrannical mindset, it’s painfully hard to suddenly switch back to how it was before his spark broke control. He acts the same as how he was before, but it’s as though part of him has softened. Megatron’s processor despises this feeling and will take it to his late grave, but he feels strangely at peace, a sense of tranquility he never knew could feel so alluring amongst the calamity of war. It makes him feel weak, and he loathes it, wishing to rip apart his frame just to claw out this specific feeling. But he can’t, and now whenever he tries to be the ruthless tyrant towards his S/O, his inner workings shatter. He can’t reveal this weakness, no, he can’t, if he could barely handle himself causing pain to them, then how would he even handle the other Decepticons tormenting, torturing, or even killing his S/O?

No, he won’t let it happen. He would try his hardest to show how much he ‘hates’ his S/O, and that they were a fool to ever believe that things could go back the way it came. But he can feel the anguish brewing. How he so desperately wished things could go back to the way they were.

[snezhnoel]

I'm no deity, please understand.

teyvat was monochrome; colorless; an uninteresting world with no spice. the world building was detailed yet not at the same time. the mountains are tall as ever, and the oceans and sunset blend black and white gorgeously as if they work partners for it. all these magnificent views and the archons wondered, what is truly missing?

it's just an ordinary day. well, no actually, happy birthday for those that day. your mother birthed you as a mere human, and took care of you as just another mortal. your academic grades are pretty good, but not enough to catch another one's attention. summary is, you are just like others.

you experienced gifted kid's burnout by the time your mother left, now desperately thirsting over compliments and praises, it's even worse than ever. but once again, you're just like others, so you've grown up with nothing in particular that sharpens you over anyone else. how did you get on this point?

it's three am. you sat on your bed and gaze out the window, you're lucky enough to have a magnificent view, you always reminded yourself. frustration hits you for the second time in the same hour, it's not your fault that the school project is too hard to your liking.

the thing is, it's to invent something, anything, no rules or requirements whatsoever, and that's what made it so difficult. you are lost without guidance, from your mother and the education, you're not that of a creative type afterall.

another forty five minutes rolled in like wind, the thought of the night transitioning into morning is making you sick. just, how fast time truly flies?

time truly flies? time truly flies.. oh, that's it! you grinned a genuine expression of relief, you've finally got an idea for the project! another step to do, you need to write an essay about the theory, since proving it physically is rather.. difficult.

goddamn, your seatmate didn't note you that it's this difficult?! you swore quietly, gritting your teeth as a huff of another frustration rushes over. your eyes wondered on your room to find source of relaxation, cringing as you just realized how messy your room is, though oddly enough you know just where a thing is placed. accidentally, you held your gaze to the clock as it replied by showing the time; 4:13 am.

silent fucker, you insulted it. you spent another seven minutes thinking if your essay would succeed. your final decision is to rip the papers and clean up after your tools, before settling in to bed.

you woke up with a sore body. you just dreamed of chasing the distant dream which you forget by now, though you remember a piece where a figure looks too similar with you, though wearing the finest clothes and a crown— halo, placed upon their head. it's a weird dream that you had to admit, but you knew better than to stay in bed and wait until you're late.

you did your usual routine; prepare to bath, shower and brush your teeth, almost slipping the slippery floor once you get out, do your clothes and brush your hair in a way you favor, then go downstairs to treat yourself a cereal.

by the time you're ready to go, you forgot how you ripped apart your essay's papers. goddamn, you murmured to yourself. though worried, your ignorant self dominated other emotions, resulting an I don't care declaration to yourself, then walk alone to your school

it's monochrome, stays the same as ever. you've been familiar with this world for as long as you remember, and also until you're skilled enough to know which monochromatic shade resembles the seven archons, despite how nerdy it sounds.

it's as if you've teleported right to your class. time passes until the first lesson, science, something you're not a big fan of. it's either the class itself or the teacher, you're unsure with yourself. the teacher continued on whatever today's topics are, but your mind is dozed off to the essay due today, specifically after this science class.

you didn't pay any attention, hence why you looked like a dear about to get hit when everyone's scattered to make whatever liquid they wanted. not wanting a judgemental gaze from the teacher, you hurriedly takes an empty table— which is unfortunately on the front row, but you couldn't care enough.

you started on mixing whatever is on the table, ignorance taking over once again, whispering as if gaslighting you into forgetting the possible side effects. it worked. a small exploison from yours occured. flabbergasted and on instinct, you used your vision to protect yourself upon it. the contact made a universal change in teyvat unbeknownst to you.

silence filled the room, your classmates looking just as flabbergasted as the teacher. you peered over to your desk, expecting ruined materials but no, it's.. a..?

you're not sure what it's called. it's not monochromatic; it's not a shade of black, gray nor white. it's vibrant, brilliant, determined and brave..!

wh- did you just describe something that you don't even know exist? either way, the sounds of clapping echoed throughout the room, both from your classmates and the teacher, and some occasional yells of woohoo following.

the teacher approached you, asking if you know what it is, and if not, what would you call it?

you froze in place. you don't know what it is but, what would you call it? out of panic, you stumbled upon your words, muttering a series of nonsense.

the teacher raised an eyebrow, confused on your behavior. she then caught on a word that got her particular attention. a color, she repeated your words. you just sent another eyebrow raise at her, humming a confused tone.

the teacher congratulated you and another round of claps followed after. time, you swore, is like an illusion. direct government officials under the archon's orders arrived to school to keep safe the color. the name of the substance left an unfamiliar mark on your tongue. it sounds weird, you chuckled to yourself. later on, they began in questioning you about your creation, is what they called it, which you then answered with everything that truly happened.

they took you in, labeled you as a Genius Savior for saving teyvat, they quoted, though you're still left confused by whatever has happened. you met your nation's archons, hell, those government officials even said that you would meet the remaining archons in the near future! what the hell?! you, a mere human, boring individual, just like others, nothing special of mortal, gets to meet all the archons?!

you are nervous. you sat on your throne, it was a custom one ordered by your nation's archons, saying that's the least they can do as to thank you. the fancy and high quality clothes doesn't feel like it belongs to you, rather more like borrowing it. you felt out of place, since none of the other archons use a similar styled clothing like yours.

the archons formally held a conversation between them, occasionally mentioning your name as if inviting you over. you answered their questions humbly and decline their offer kindly, you don't want to anger an archon afterall.

celestial angels arrived at the building, one holding a shiny crown that you swore felt familiar. the archons had stood up and bowed before your panicked state. you stood up, mainly because the absence of guidance on what to do, and because of formalities. the angels stepped closer to you, smiling on your mortal figure. you are confused as ever, just what is going to happen?

they placed the crown on your head. why? you asked yourself. it was hard on resisting the urge to ask here and there. afternoon turned evening and you've gone bored from the ceremony. later did you know, that your life would change for eternity.

no, it was beyond mortal mind! you're just a mere founder, now whatever they gave you titles..! you're not God of Colors, you're not Teyvat's Savior, why couldn't they understand?!

you are no deity, then you hope them to understand someday.