#she is actually not just a quarter of angelic blood

[fuckedliar]

*HEADCANON ___ a notable trait that all FIRSTBORN have are black eyes. there is no definition for an iris in their eyes. hair color, skin tone, body shape, etc all vary but the easiest way to notice them is their black eyes. elizabeth has black eyes because she is the child of a FIRSTBORN and a mortal woman coming together. natasha woodel cheated on jonah woodel, but unbeknownst to her it was a FIRST BORN who glamoured her. the FIRST BORN who nearly killed her was her actual fathers twin. he has an obsession with her after discovering who and what she is to him; and he seeks to try and influence her to work for the FIRSTBORN'S rather than for the SCORNED.

[msmk11]

a hunger games fic where there’s tension between reader and haymitch but he feels conflicted because of the age gap i don’t know lots of pining and angst so i can go insane

Drunk on You

Haymitch Abernathy x fem!reader

WC: 4k

CW: Drinking/being drunk; mentions of death and blood; age gap (legal and consensual- reader is 21)

A/n: Thank you for the request!! I'm so sorry this took so long. I have been in a writing rut and also very busy, but I hope you enjoy this! I know I sure did.

You’d been lucky enough to avoid mentoring the first two years after your games- your first year by claiming insanity and the second merely because of the abundance of victors in your district. But the Capitol, and Snow, were ravenous for the return of their Angel- the sweet, innocent girl they painted you to be despite the blood they knew was on your hands.

And while the nightmares of your games were as fresh in your mind as the day they started, you persisted nonetheless. You couldn’t afford to let anyone else die at your hands, even if the cost to you was great. 

So the day of the reaping you stood by Mags’ side- four’s other mentor this year- as you watched kids be chosen to be sent off to their deaths like pigs for slaughter. 

The girl, someone you barely recognized but knew you’d gone to school with, looked strong. Like a potential competitor. She was tall enough, fairly lean, and the definition in her arms was obvious. Her age- eighteen- was a benefit too.

Whatever her name was (you’d been too anxious to pay attention), would be your mentee this year while Mags took the boy. 

The boy.

Finnick Odair. 

And while the age difference between you two was large- almost 7 years exactly- you guys were close. Like sibling-level close. It took everything in your power to not let the tears brimming at your waterline spill. 

The aftermath was a flurry of rushed goodbyes, heated whispers, and your begging Mags to just help you make it through the games. 

Though every instinct screamed at you to put all your efforts into Finnick’s survival, your mind knew it wasn’t the right thing to do. The girl, your mentee, may not have meant something to you, but she certainly meant something to someone. And she deserved life just as much as Finnick. 

It didn’t make it any easier though. 

And in the nights, when the nightmares and fears came creeping in, you turned to drink. 

That’s how you met Haymitch.

Haymitch Abernathy. Blonde, 31, borderline alcoholic, victor of the second quarter quell. And your new drinking buddy. 

Apparently. 

When you get to the bar in the Tribute Center the first night it’s totally empty except for a few Capitol stragglers giggling in a corner booth. 

You take a seat at the actual bar and order from the bartender- a brunette avox who couldn’t be much older than you. You’re sure to be extra polite as you accept your drink and take a sip of the strong concoction. It burns and you know it’ll fuck you up just enough to take the sting off the emotions squeezing your heart. 

“Drinking alone? Seem a bit young to be doing that, sweetheart,” a voice interrupts from beside you.

You turn to find Haymitch Abernathy standing next to you, his appearance a little disheveled, but still obviously very handsome. 

“Not sure you’re the one to be making judgements, Abernathy. You even sober right now?”

He smirks at you a little, “only buzzed for now. Care for some company?”

You scan the blonde suspiciously and decide he’s basically harmless, “fine, but you buy the next round.”

The District 12 victor lets out a chuckle and slides onto a stool beside you, “thought you had more money than you knew what to do with, four.”

“So do you,” you remind him with a shake of your head, “anyhow, it’s not about the money. It’s about the principle. You’re supposed to be a gentleman.”

Haymitch doesn’t reward you with an answer, instead turning to the bartender and ordering two glasses of whiskey. 

“What brings you to the bar so early in the games?”

“Wanted to fully reacquaint myself with the tribute center,” you huff dryly, “I’ve missed it sooooo dearly.”

“You’ll get used to it pretty damn fast. Especially now that the Capitol’s got its claws back on you, you won’t be able to escape it.”

He takes a sip of his drink thoughtfully, “I mean, their angel has made her return.”

A scoff escapes you in spite of yourself and Haymitch smirks. 

“What would they think if they knew you were getting wasted with the Capitol’s most disappointing victor? Your reputation would be ruined.”

“Then maybe I should stick around you a little longer, Twelve. Let some of your bad energy rub off on me. Maybe even have them catch me leaving your room.”

Haymitch chokes on his drink and you smirk. 

“What?! Catch you leaving my room like, like we?”

“Had sex,” you tease, “goodness Abernathy, I didn’t pin you for a prude.”

He rolls his eyes at you and huffs cockily, “me, a prude? Babydoll back where I come from I have a reputation. I’m just shocked that the Capitol’s perfect little angel could be so naughty.”

It’s your turn to choke when he sends you a wink, and you try to cover it with a cough. 

“Looks can be deceiving, Abernathy.”

***** 

You’re not sure if it’s the booze or the blaring music that’s giving you a headache. Or maybe it’s the relentless stares and unwanted approaches by dimwitted Capitol folks. Regardless, you want to be anywhere but here right about now. 

A party. Celebrating. The arrival of tributes. The arrival of doomed children.

It makes you sick. 

You forget someone is yapping away in your ear until they’re suddenly interrupted by your savior. 

Haymitch. 

“I’m sure the story you’re telling is lovely, really, but unfortunately we’re being pulled away for important mentor business,” he shares calmly, barely suppressing a smirk. 

“Oh, oh. Yes, of course,” the blue-haired person before you chatters, “I’ll have to catch you another time.”

Haymitch, thankfully, is already pulling you away before they can make you answer.

The blonde pulls you through the crowd, hands intertwined, and you can’t help but shiver. You figure it must be the evening chill in the air. 

You seem to be walking forever, further and further away from the party until the voices and music are a faint hum. He’s hidden the two of you away in one of the President’s many flourishing gardens. One that, surprisingly, doesn’t have a rose in sight. 

When Haymitch finally comes to a halt you look at him and smile, eyes darting between his face and your joined hands, “what was all that for?”

He looks at you disbelievingly, “I was saving you.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him, “who said I needed saving?”

“The poor glass in your hand that you nearly squeezed to death.”

You once over the glass full of some colorful drink in your hand and shrug noncommittally, throwing it back and then setting the empty glass on the wall. 

“I think you just wanted time alone with me, Abernathy. Seems like an awfully convoluted plan….showing up to the Capitol party, stealing me away so dramatically….”

He releases your hand and leans back against the wall, “don’t flatter yourself. I’m here for the free booze. I only brought you here out of the goodness of my heart.”

A scoff escapes you and you roll your eyes. 

“Anyhow, you owe me now- for saving you. And for missing out on free drinks because of it.”

“Let me guess, with more booze?”

“How else?”

“I don’t know… a meal, a simple favor…. My friendship?”

Haymitch winces and taked a large gulp of his drink, “don’t think the last would be much of a reward.”

You go to slap his arm but he stops you, his hand grabbing yours.

“You’ve got wicked fast reflexes,” you choke out, trying to suppress the gasp that escapes your lips.

“I’m a victor, remember?”

When you look up at him, his smile seems to briefly vanish, replaced with something much darker. 

You take his drink and finish it while squeezing his other hand. 

*****

“You clean up nice.”

Haymitch looks more than disgruntled to be stuffed into a fancy suit and you can barely suppress your laughter. 

“Shut up,” he grumbles under his breath. 

It reeks of booze. 

“What? I’m just saying it’s nice that you’ve changed up the homeless look.”

The blonde eyes you with a glare, “And I see they’ve stuffed you into another ridiculous costume.”

Haymitch is right. You do look ridiculous, and you’re not even the one on stage tonight. The white, feathery dress made for you was certainly intended to represent your angel persona. You think you look more like a white duck. 

“I suppose it’s better than usual,” you scoff, flattening out a few ruffled feathers, “though it itches like crazy.”

You begin to fidget with your dress again as the group of mentors slowly gather in their assigned seats near the front of the auditorium. The shrill voices of an excited audience echo loudly throughout the room as you step inside. You prepare for the stares and whispers, donning your mask and armor bravely.

Still, your hands shake. Your body’s thrown back in time to your games. You can remember clear as day standing up on that stage as Cesar talked and prodded, guiding you right into the role that had already been decided. 

Sweet. Innocent. Lovely. An angel. 

You’d fallen for the trap, mistaking the net for a lifeboat.

And had you ever really escaped it? 

The knots in your stomach are answer enough, and the seat soon before you is a welcome reassurance for your wobbly legs. 

Somehow, you’ve ended up between Mags and Haymitch. The former smiles at you warmly, nodding in a way that is inexplicably reassuring. Deep down, you know that she’s telling you that Finnick will be okay. That you’ll be okay. 

And when a hand lands on your knee, you’re doubly reassured. 

“Stop tapping your foot, it’s even making me anxious,” Haymitch grumbles. 

You still, turning to look at him apologetically. 

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just… weird being back.  I feel like I’m back in my own games, being in this room again. I hate it.”

Haymitch shifts a little and you see him reveal a small golden flask in his hand. 

“Want a drink?”

As tempting as it sounds, you shake your head, “I think I’d puke if I drank. And I want to be present anyway. Ready for anything.”

Your eyes flit to his hand still on your knee and you recall the pleasing warmth as he held yours those few weeks ago. Carefully, you reach out and intertwine your fingers, resting your clasped hands between you. At first he stiffens, and you think he’s going to pull away. But then, he doesn’t. 

And the flask disappears into his pocket, unused. 

*****

The blare of the horn through the speakers nearly sends you into a meltdown on the spot. It feels so deeply real to you, even though you’re miles away from the games. Your eyes are trained on your tribute as she sprints forward towards the cornucopia, and towards her potential death. Still, she’s technically a career, so you have hope that she’ll survive the bloodbath. 

Your eyes stray to Finnick too and your stomach rumbles in worry. But you know that he’s strong and determined, so you try to relax. 

Like usual, the bloodbath is ruthless and you can barely stomach it. It’s worse too because you have a stake in the outcome. Not just your own life or strangers’ lives, but someone you’ve trained, someone you care about. 

It doesn’t register with you that the death of strangers might actually affect you more than you realize. In particular, the two tributes from twelve. They’re struck down quickly, as they often are, and your heart twists. While the death of children is certainly part of the cause, it’s the image of Haymitch that really pains you. Another year, another loss, and you wonder how he bears it. You suppose he doesn’t. 

Hence, the booze. 

Once the initial craziness of the bloodbath calms down and you’re sure that both your tribute and Finnick are safe, you go on a hunt for Haymitch. 

It doesn’t take you long if you follow the trail of beer.

Not literally, of course, but the bar is certainly the right place to start. Haymitch is slumped over on a stool and your heart breaks a little. 

“Drinking alone?” you say quietly. 

The blonde looks at you unimpressed and you’re immediately taken aback by the pain swimming behind his eyes. 

“Care if I join you?”

He hums noncommittally and you don’t take that as an outward no. After you take a seat you order a drink and sip silently for a few moments. 

“I’m sorry about your tributes.”

Haymitch shrugs, “I knew they were never gonna make it.”

“But it can still hurt,” you remind him. 

Haymitch scoffs a little, “I don’t care. I barely knew the kids.”

You study his face and can tell that he actually does. Of course, you don’t say that. Instead, you reach out and grab his hand. This time, he doesn’t even flinch as he grips yours back. 

“Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

You drag him along to the fourth floor suite and bring him inside. 

“I’ve entered enemy territory,” the blonde says gruffly.

You smirk at him and hold up a bottle of whiskey, “what about now?”

He smiles a little and you pour a drink for each of you before settling on the couch next to him so that your knee is touching his thigh- so you’re fully facing him. 

“You know, you don’t have to pretend to be strong,” you tell him softly. 

“I’m not pretending, I’m fine.”

Haymitch turns his head away and you hear a small sniffle. 

“Sweetheart,” you coo.

You grab his chin and gently turn his face towards you. He looks embarrassed and teary eyed and you stroke your thumb over his cheek. Haymitch’s eyes flutter shut and you think it’s a rather pretty sight. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper very softly. 

When Haymitch opens his eyes you’re inches apart, and your heart stutters in your chest. 

You both lean slightly closer, your breaths mingling. 

“Haymitch…”

He abruptly pulls back. 

“I think I need another drink.”

*****

You suppose you’re glad it was quick. Hopefully pretty painless. No chance to be afraid or to bleed out slowly. 

But it also happened so fast. One second your tribute was breathing, and now she’s gone. You’d had such high hopes for her, and now she was dead. Was it your fault? 

Was there something you could’ve done to warn her? To prepare her better? 

You feel even more guilty because you’re sort of relieved that she’s dead. Not because you wanted her to die, but because it means Finnick is one step closer to getting out of the arena. Back home to District Four where he is relatively safe- or at least in your dome of protection. 

When the guilt subsides, it’s replaced by numbness. That’s all you feel. 

You understand now why Haymitch drinks. It provides some semblance of warmth when all you feel inside is coldness and emptiness. 

Knocking. You hear knocking. 

You stumble to the door, bottle in hand, and there he stands.

“Haymitch!”

You lunge towards him and he catches you, gripping your waist firmly. If you were sober, you would’ve been able to suppress the shudder that runs through your body from his touch. 

“Want a drink?” you slur, your boozy breath blowing in his face. 

He shakes his head at you and you shrug, “more for me then.” 

You lift the bottle neck to your mouth but he stops you, gripping your wrist gently.

“I think you’ve had enough, sweetheart.”

A loud laugh escapes your lips and Haymitch shushes you, shuffling the both of you inside and closing the door, “What’s so funny?”

“It’s just funny- you telling me I’ve had too much to drink. Hilaaaaarrious!”

“Well I have a better tolerance.”

You shuffle back and topple over the couch arm, sending Haymitch down on top of you.

“Oooooops… sorrrrryyyyy” you giggle. 

The blonde pushes himself up off of you and sets the bottle down on the side table.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Haymitch asks softly, more kind than you’ve ever heard him before. 

You sober up a little at the question and scoff, “Of course I’m not fine. My tribute just bled out on

television in front of millions of people.”

“I-I’m sorry,” he mutters gruffly.

“Why? What was it you said? You barely even knew your tributes…It’s not like I did either. Why should I care? Or be torn up?”

“Because you’re a better person than me,” Haymitch adds gently, “Because you wear your heart on your sleeve and care so deeply about people.”

He grips your knee and smiles at you sadly. 

“Well I’m done with caring,” you slur, “It only hurts more. I like your way- drink yourself to death.”

You lunge towards the bottle behind him and he reaches out, stopping you again by grabbing your hips and pulling you against him. Surprisingly, he doesn’t let go when he pulls you away from the bottle. Instead, he pulls you into his chest, hugging you. 

“What’re you doing?” you mumble into his chest.

“Giving you a hug, sweetheart.”

“Why?”

He scoffs exasperatedly, “I can stop.”

“NONONO don’t! Don’t.”

You shift back a little to look him in the eyes, “It’s… nice. You’re…nice.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever called me nice before.”

You look at the blonde softly, infatuated by his face- the stubble across his chin, his piercing eyes, his lips…

By some unknown force, you’re pulled to his lips. You reach out and close your eyes, pressing your lips to his. For a moment, he reciprocates, his mouth melting against yours. But then he pulls away, “Stop, stop. You’re drunk.”

“So? You’re always drunk and I don’t stop you from doing things you want,” you remind him.

“I don’t- you’re. Even then, it doesn’t matter. You’re too young and I-”

Haymitch stands abruptly and leaves, abandoning you on the couch, alone. 

*****

Finnick’s return to the Capitol should be more joyous than you currently feel. You’re beyond relieved that he’s back and safe, within arms reach. In fact, you haven’t let him out of your sight in days and you think he’s starting to get annoyed by you. 

Still, something continues to burden your mind or, rather, someone. 

You haven’t seen Haymitch since you drunkenly tried to kiss him a few days ago. Though you were incredibly wasted, his words still ring in your mind clear as day- “you’re too young.”

It’s more painful than flat out rejection, really. Him not having feelings is one thing, but the knowledge that he potentially does and still won’t let you in hurts much more. What-ifs haunt you constantly, and the memory of the look on his face when he pulled away slowly rips your heart to shreds. 

Now there’s only an evening left until you’re set to return home to District Four, only one night until you won’t see Haymitch again until…well you’re not sure how long it will be. 

“You know, I’m the one that should be moping about,” a voice says.

You look up to see Finnick staring at you from the doorway, a knowing look on his face.

“I’m not moping…I’m just tired,” you say.

It is true, but so is Finnick’s statement. Not that you’ll tell him that. 

He quirks an eyebrow at you and walks into the room, plopping down on your bed, “Such a bullshit response. Come up with a better excuse if you’re going to lie.”

“I’m not lying I-”

You shut up as he looks at you unimpressed. 

“Come on, I can read you like a book. What’s wrong?”

You sigh and look down at your hands, fidgeting with your fingers. 

“Nothing I- I kissed Haymitch,” you murmur.

“What’d you say? I can barely hear you.”

“I kissed Haymitch,” you say more boldly. 

Finnick’s eyes widen, and it would be comical if it were any other situation, “Abernathy? You kissed Haymitch Abernathy?”

“Yes, Abernathy. Is there any other Haymitch?”

Finnick shakes his head in disbelief, “I owe Mags five dollars.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mags told me she thought you two liked each other. But I didn’t believe her, so we bet on it. Guess I can’t be that mad though.”

“Well it doesn’t matter, we’re not together or anything.”

Finnick looks at you intently, “why not?”

You sigh and pause for a moment, “Because he said I was too young.”

“That’s such bullshit,” the blonde scoffs, “you’re only like, what, ten years younger? Anyhow, you’re an adult who can make her own decisions.”

You shrug your shoulders and sigh, “I just wish I never would’ve done anything. I was drunk and stupid and now he won’t talk to me.”

A pillow gets thrown at your face and you wince, scowling at Finnick, “what was that for?”

“Drunk you was smarter than sober you. She acted on her feelings. Now you’re just sitting around moping.”

“I-”

Finnick looks at you seriously, “Don’t waste your chance. We both know life is too short to have regrets.”

You stand up quickly and kiss Finnick on the cheek, “when did you get so smart little bro?”

He only rolls his eyes at your endearment and shoves you out the door.

Your hand shakes as you hold it up to the twelfth floor door. It’s ridiculous, really, how you’re more nervous to confess your feelings than you were to fight in the games. 

You take a deep breath and finally knock stiffly. 

There’s momentary silence and you think maybe Haymitch is asleep or not there. But then you hear shuffling from the other side and the door is yanked open- “Wha-?”

Haymitch freezes at the sight of you, his likely nasty reply hanging off of his lips. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks more calmly.

“I-I came to apologize.”

Then, you shake your head, “that’s a lie. I’m not here to apologize because I’m not sorry for what I did… for kissing you. I’m only sorry you left too soon and I was too drunk for us to talk about it.”

Haymitch stands in the doorway still and only stares at you dumbfounded.

“Can-can I come in?”

Finally the blonde nods and steps aside, welcoming you into his space. It’s slightly messy and you suppose he hasn’t left the suite in days, not that you blame him or mind. 

You find a seat on the couch, comfortably separate from Haymitch on the other end. 

“Haymitch-”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts. 

“What?”

“I’m sorry. For walking out on you. It wasn’t the right thing to do. I-I panicked and you were drunk and…and I haven’t felt anything like that in a long time.”

You stare at him softly and your heart beats in your chest, “So you did feel something.”

Haymitch runs his hand through his hair exasperatedly, “Fuck, of course I did. I mean, you’re smart, funny, and beautiful, how could I not?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks and you look down at your hands awkwardly… “but you think I’m too young. You said that.”

He sighs, “I-I did. And I meant it. I still do. You’re young, you still have a life to live. You deserve to be with someone young and put together and better…”

You scoff gently, “Did you ever think to ask me what I think I deserve? Why do you get to decide for me?” 

Haymitch’s mouth opens and closes silently like a fish.

“Maybe what I want- maybe what I deserve- is a kind, handsome guy who might be a little rough around the edges, but who is gooey and sweet on the inside. What then?”

“But I’m a drunk and fucked up and…”

You reach out and grip his hand tightly, “I don’t think I’ve seen you touch a drink in days. And also, look who you’re talking to. I don’t exactly handle my trauma well either. I’m a victor too, remember?”

You shuffle closer to him, “Please don’t push me away, please-”

Before you can finish your response you’re cut off as Haymitch moves forward and pulls you into him, kissing you passionately.

You melt into his touch and sigh, finally being rewarded with what you’ve been craving for weeks. 

He pulls away and rests his forehead against yours, panting softly, “you know, you’re right. I haven’t drank in days because I found something better. I got drunk on you instead.”

[falling-star-cygnus]

im still hung up on Adam hating seeing Lute cry if you couldn't tell

pr.2 of my previous Guitarspear fic❗ :D

basically- Adam's death was just a nightmare on Lute's part and he was actually only injured yes this is me being delulu

{The first man's palm is warm in his final death.}

{Lute shoots up in bed and chokes on a scream.}

{She can feel her chest heave, too hot tangled in her blanket and yet far too cold at the same time. Hot like the blood Adam left on her cheek. Cold like his hand}

{The exorcist slowly lowers herself back down onto the pillows, subconsciously brushing her fingers over her cheek to wipe away ichor that’s no longer there. Lute's heart is beating a mile a minute. She can feel it pulsing in her throat}

{The black and white feathers of her wings tremble, loudly broadcasting their presence and demanding to be soothed; the angel takes in a deep breath and closes her eyes}

{She was being silly.}

{Adam's cold hand on her cheek, his ragged inhales, the golden blood staining unholy ground, his final-}

{Lute throws her blankets off}

"Just a quick check,"

{She swears to herself, barely noticing her feet carrying her to Adam's quarters until she's gently pushing the door open}

{Adam's larger then life form is lying on his bed, facing the wall, and still.}

{Until a heaven-shattering snore disrupts the silence. Lute feels like she can breathe again}

{With a long sigh, Adam's lieutenant turns around to head back to her own room. The ache in her chest has lessened, thankfully, at seeing her boss alive and well. But somehow... it wasn't enough}

{Which was ridiculous, Lute was being ridiculous. What more could she possibly need? That was appropriate for someone of her status to ask for- that is. Obviously she couldn't just-}

{Lute is pressing her ear to Adam's chest before she's even processed she's entered his room.}

{The steady thump-thump-thump of his immortal heart is like a balm on her frazzled nerves. Her eyes close as a sigh of relief wracks her suddenly exhausted frame}

"huh- what the fuck? Lute?"

{Lute would like it on record that the sound that left her mouth at Adam's sleep-raspy voice was not a yelp in any shape or fashion}

"S-sir! I was just-"

{Just what!? Just listening to his heartbeat to reassure herself he wasn't dead? Just watching him sleep? She couldn't say that. Pathetic. She was being pathetic}

"You were just...?"

{Adam's not wearing his mask. Which makes sense, it's 3 in the morning and he was sleeping. Of course, the first man wasn't wearing his mask.}

{It's not like Lute was complaining about it, he was very attractive under his mask. He was attractive with it, if she was being hones with herself.}

"Just-"

{Lute can feel a familiar burn working it's way up her throat as Adam raises an expectant eyebrow. She can't meet his eyes anymore, her actions were beyond shameful. Beyond embarrassing. All because she was needy-}

"Ah- shit- tears... uh-"

{Nice, familiar, warm hands cup her face awkwardly. His thumbs clumsily try and rub away the salty tears that pour down her face unbidden. When had she started crying?}

{Lute can't really bring herself to care when those hands only further prove that her boss is alive in front of her.}

"C'mon Dangertits, don't cry! You're supposed to be badass!"

{It's so heart-wrenchingly close to what he had said to her on that day that Lute just cries harder. She can't get any words out, can't say anything to rectify her rather pathetic display. But- Adam almost died. Almost died in her arm. She's allowed to be upset damnit!}

"Fuck- uh- ah shit, Lute. Please? Please don't cry..."

{The first man is full of surprises tonight. First saying please and now dragging his lieutenant into his arms with a near frantic urgency}

{He holds her head gently to his chest, golden wings folding over the shaking exorcist in a protective barrier. That familiar thumping fills her ears again.}

{Lute can feel his hand card awkwardly through her silvery hair, the other resting on the stump of what's left of her arm. It feels... surprisingly nice}

"See? I'm- I'm ok, yeah? Takes more then some fuckin' cyclops with a needle to take the first man out."

{Now that Lute's not driving herself into a headache with sobs, she can hear the shaky notes of concern under his boasting. The hands pull her just a bit closer, and it's because of this closeness that she can hear:}

"...i hate seeing you cry."

{It's whispered so softly it's like a secret admission, like nobody but him was supposed to hear it; not even Lute}

"...so please, don't do it. Not for me."

{Adam buries his nose into the silver strands he's been finger brushing, moving his hand to hold the back of her neck instead}

{The exorcist's tears have died into sniffles, the expected headache raging inside her skull in sharp fireworks. Lute turns her head to the side, resting her cheek on Adam's shoulder and bringing her knees up to her chest}

{They stay like this for a good ten minutes or so. Until Lute is feeling tired enough to attempt sleep again and uncurl herself from her boss's comforting hold}

{The lieutenant doesn't want to leave his arms, embarrassingly enough. But she's overstayed her welcome and they both need their rest if-}

{Adam's wings drag her right back into him}

"Sir-!?" "Adam."

{Lute's jaw closes itself with a click as the first man cuts her off, laying back down on his side with his best friend in his arms}

"Just- Adam. Just for right now..."

{It's a rare show of vulnerability from him, drawn out from his lieutenant's tears. Lute can't bring herself to deny him anything, not when his arms and wings are holding her close like she's something precious}

"...Adam."

{They'll have to talk about- this- in the morning, probably. Whatever this is between them. Or maybe they won't. Maybe when Adam wakes up, Lute will have already fled back to her room. Maybe Lute will wake up in an empty bed far too big for smaller stature and tucked in a blanket.}

{Or maybe they'll wake up still tangled in each other, still with tears stains on their persons, still holding each other tight enough that neither Heaven nor Hell could pull them apart}

{Maybe they'll just be Lute and Adam. For a few more stolen moments.}

[mothiir]

thou shalt not suffer the heretic

given all the build up I feel I should stick a warning here: this fic contains no smut whatsoever and is just an excuse for me to continue to write my current favourites. The reader isn’t even in this one. However it’s got Ezra in it so hopefully it will tide you thirsty things over.

—

—

��That,” Interrogator Artemis manages, after a moment of indignant splutter. “Is a mouse.”

Lance Corporal Tarah Redhands makes a point of looking behind him, his ears twitching in barely-contained frustration. “Oh, my lady? Where might the offending rodent be? We take the pest control in our home very seriously.”

”I — I —“ Artemis looks to Marshal Rotenburg for support, and finds none: only the blank glowing eyes of his helm. 

“A mouse?” he says, in a deep bass rumble that she feels somewhere in the small of her spine. Still, one does not become the second-in-command to an Inquisitor without a tremendous strength of character, and she refuses to be dissuaded. She points an accusatory finger at the Lance Corporal. 

“That is a mouse, Lord Marshal.”

”Simply Marshal will do, Interrogator. That is the correct term of address.”

“I did not think Black Templars possessed a sense of humour!”

”I can assure you that we do not,” the Marshal says. Interrogator Artemis inhales, slowly and deeply, trying to gather herself. The journey here had been arduous enough, with a warp storm splitting the fleet in twain; on arrival to the Edessan system she had been informed that the Lord Inquisitor had actually arrived three months earlier. While she waited for word from her superior, the Marshal of this crusade had received her in his office. Typical of Black Templars, his quarters are spartan to the extreme, with only a large mahogany desk, a single Astartes-sized chair, and a statue of the Emperor. She had snapped at a passing serf to go and get her something to sit down on — and the damn serf still had not got back to her. And now this! The Marshal promised her an update on the progression of their battle against the forces of Chaos, and what had scuttled in but —

“A mouse,” she says, her teeth clenched. 

“Is my lady interrogator feeling quite well?” says the rodent in question. He had introduced himself in fluent — if slightly high-pitched — Gothic, but that does not change the cold hard facts. He has a pointed, furry face. A twitching nose. Satellite-shaped ears that make up at least a foot of his height. “It could have been traumatic, the journey and then the news —“

”I have not yet delivered the news,” the Marshal says. 

“Ah,” says the mouse. His ears flick back against his skull, and he catches his tail, twisting it between his hands nervously. He wears a standard issue Imperial Guard uniform, complete with an admittedly impressive array of medals, and cut artfully to allow for his tail to poke out.. “I will…leave that to you then, Marshal. As for our troop movements —“

”No!” Interrogator Artemis says, jabbing her cane at the mouse. He leaps back, his black eyes narrowing. “That — that is a mouse, or it is an alien, and neither of those are acceptable — “

”Peace, interrogator,” the Marshal says. “Clearly, the warp jump has scrambled your senses. The Lance Corporal suffers from mutation within acceptable limits —“

”Mutation within acceptable limits?” Artemis squeals, her voice climbing higher in shrill hysteria. “He has ears! A tail! He has fucking fur, Lord —- uh, Marshal,” she adds, too late realising she is shouting at one of the Emperor’s Angels. 

“He is human,” the Marshal rumbles, his eyes flickering in a way that suggests the face behind the helm is frowning. “Bipedal. Warm blooded. Approved by the Administratum, signed off by the Holy Lords of Terra and — arguably most important — approved by me. He and his family are human.”

”Family?” Artemis manages. ”There are — there are more of them?”

”Of course,” Tarah says, smoothing his jacket with a hint of smug pride. “My clan — the Jerboa — are loyal servants of the Emperor, ever since Marshal Rotenburg and the most holy Black Templars delivered the Imperial Truth to our home world a century ago.”

”Jer-Jerboa?” Artemis blinks. “That’s —“

”An ancient Terran desert mammal,” says Tarah. “We are pleased to carry the name.”

”A whole…a whole planet of mutants? The same mutation? Almost like — like another species?”

The Marshal’s eye lenses flare scarlet. “That is enough,” he growls, and this time Artemis feels the sound in her jaw; her teeth rattle from the force of it. “It sounds like you are calling my men xenos — like you are defying the edict of the Emperor Himself, and that my lady is heresy.”

Artemis’s heart leaps into her throat, and blood roars in her ears — she has endured the most heinous of tortures as part of her inquisitorial training, but by the Throne there is something primeval about the Marshal’s fury, something that bypasses her higher reasoning and grasps her squirming lizard-brain in an iron fist. 

“I would like to speak to the Lord Inquisitor,” she says. “Please. If that is not too much trouble.”

”That will not be possible,” says the Marshal. “As I told you, the Lord Inquisitor arrived three months prior to you. Unfortunately, it swiftly became clear that he had fallen prey to a great and terrible corruption, and was turned from the Emperor’s light. We dispensed His mercy to him, and to his retinue. Alas, given your close relationship to him I can only assume that you carry the same blight.”

A strange high ringing starts up in Artemis’s ears, and disbelieving laughter bubbles out of her constricting throat. “Impossible. You are telling me that the Lord Inquisitor was — was practicing heresy? That is a serious allegation! “

”It is not an allegation. I do not allege. I only pass judgement.”

”Let me speak to him, and we can — we can sort this out, and —“

”You cannot speak to him. Unless you are a necromancer, in which case we would have to execute you anyway, for that is dire sorcery indeed.”

”—is that a joke?”

”No. Black Templars do not have a sense of humour. Ah, Brother Isaiah,” the Marshal says, greeting another Templar, who stands to attention in the open door. The newcomer is also helmed, wearing the traditional tabard of his Legion, black and white and red —

Red —

Blood. Blood spatters the fabric— bright and glistening. And the smell: hot metal, a bolter freshly fired. The rest of the retinue were in the ship —

“The other heretics were dealt with, Marshal. Brother Reuben is ensuring the bodies are incinerated. Shall I take care of this one for you?”

Artemis falls to her knees without quite realising what she is doing. “My lords — whatever sin my lord has committed — I swear I am innocent of it, innocent of any knowledge —“

—

Another man might dwell on the irony that  — after all the lengthy deaths the interrogator has subject to others — hers is quite swift, occurring between one breath and the next.

However, the Marshal is not that sort of man. Interrogator Artemis’s body slumps in a puddle of gore, the head caved in. “Not worth the expense of a bolter shell,” he says to Tarah, by way of explanation. 

The Corporal shows his canines. “Barely worth the words wasted on her,” he says. “Could we not have just shelled the craft from orbit? Having the heretic scum aboard surely imperils the innocents here.”

“You should not question the Marshal,” Isaiah snaps, only to be silenced by Ezra’s raised hand.

”No. He may. A man who knows his faith is sure fears no question. And you are right in your concern, Corporal, but I have utter confidence that the devout aboard our ship will not be swayed by such transitory exposure to these scum. Besides — it was important for me to see them with my own eyes, and see how far the corruption had spread.” 

With a click and a hiss, Marshal Ezra removes his helm, revealing a face that has seen upwards of three centuries of constant warfare. He has broad, high cheekbones; a square jaw; a nose that is permanently crooked slightly to the left after countless breaks. His hair is almost totally grey, with the barest touch of black at the temples; he wears it pulled back from his face, secured with a leather twist.  His mouth is pulled into a permanent sneer by an especially prominent scar that crawls from his chin up to the corner of his right eye, the flesh a shade darker than the rest of his sun-starved skin.

“And had it?” says Brother Isaiah, with all the eagerness of a baby zealot. Ezra had been somewhat sceptical of the Primaris Marines at first, but they have swiftly proven themselves the equal of their more seasoned brothers in combat — and though they may be a little naive in the finer points of theology, they have passionate faith. Especially Isaiah. Isaiah may have a little too much faith, all things considered. 

“No,” says Ezra, giving the corpse a poke with his boot. “She spoke the truth. She was not caught up in the degeneracy of her master. But as it is written —“

”Proximity to guilt is as good as guilt,” Isaiah trills, in perfect concert with the Marshal. Ezra very deliberately does not sgh. He does not want to discourage the boy. 

“Indeed it is. Now, please take this body to burn with the rest, that’s a good lad.”

Isaiah puffs up at the praise, saluting with perfect precision before peeling the corpse off the floor, holding it at arm’s length. “Brother Reuben,” he calls down the hall, as he heads off. “Got another heretic for the pyre!”

”Praise the Emperor,” comes the cheery reply. 

Tarah chuckles. “They’re sweet.”

”They are Astartes, which means they can probably still hear you.”

Tarah rolls his eyes. “They are not paying any attention to me. They’re too busy burning heretics. I’m just surprised that they actually killed them all this time —“

As if on cue, there’s a loud terrible shriek. Ezra pinches the bridge of his nose, before giving Tarah a quick warning gesture, leaning out of his office and using the full force of his Astartes lungs to bellow —

“Isaiah! What have I told you? Kill the heretic, then burn them!”

”Sorry Marshal,” comes the shouted reply, pitched to carry over the continued wails. “Thought that the serfs could do with a treat! Who doesn’t like a good old fashioned witch burning?”

Ezra sighs, closing the door. Talah removes his hands from where he had clasped them over his ears. 

“Thank you for the warning Marshal.”

”It’s nothing. Still think they’re sweet?” Ezra sits himself at his desk, rummaging about in the drawers, pushing aside liturgy and scripture until he finds his cigar box.

”Yes,” Talah says, with a grin. “They’re earnest. And Brother Isaiah especially, he’s — something.”

”Yes. Something.”

”Oh, don’t look so aggreieved! He was very happy to assist with getting rid of the Inquisitor last month —“

Ezra pauses, cigar between his teeth, lighter in hand. 

“—I mean,” Talah says. “Purging the corrupt from our ranks which unfortunately included that poor inquisitor who kept doing horrible heretical things like contradicting the will of the Emperor?”

”That would be it,” Ezra says, flame momentarily casting wild shadows across his face. “He defied the most holy edicts of the Emperor and spat on His word.”

”He disagreed with you a lot, didn’t he?”

”That’s what I just said,” Ezra growls, exhaling a cloud of dense blueish smoke. “Now, please go and rest. You’ve had a long day, and we have more work to do. And more heretics to burn.”

Talah snaps a cheery salute. “Yes. Marshal!” he says. “Praise the Emperor!”

”Praise Him indeed,” says Ezra, with a grin.

—

[dosesofcommonsense]

Just how far were the Globalists tempted to take the minors can know they’re trans ideology? So far that they actually said babies could think in the womb, which would make them fully functioning human beings and exposing their abortion friends to murder charges.

But, but, but, that fetus (which used to mean baby and progeny before Webster went woke) isn’t a human.

Planned Parenthood is the largest international arms seller on earth. If it’s not a baby, why is Planned Parenthood selling (human) organs for profit?

Great question.

Now, here’s the line between free speech and crimes against humanity. You can talk about your ideologies and beliefs all you want. As much as I hate the ideology and practice, free speech says you can voice your opinions.

You can have those beliefs, but I don’t have to support them. I can call attention to them and remind the government that those ideologies should not be tax payer funded nor should clinics offering those services be able to sell the murder victims.

Planned Parenthood became a money laundering front. They took tax payers money and killed millions of kids worldwide and sold the victims (like you’d quarter an animal….$1,000 for a liver and $3,000 for a heart…just absolutely evil) for profit. They lined their pockets with the blood of humanity leaving death and destruction in their wake under the guise of helping people dodge responsibility and “guiding parenting choices”. They took part of their profits and donated back to the Congressionals and higher ups who helped them the most. Tax payer money in. Blood money out. Campaign donations back. They were the money laundering front before Ukraine.

For everyone telling you that God is ok with abortions, know that those people are lying to you. Did you forget Christmas already?

Mary was engaged to Joseph. She was around 14. She was a virgin and the Holy Spirit inserted Jesus into her body. No, that doesn’t mean she had sex with God. If that happened, she wouldn’t have been a virgin. Somehow, miraculously, embryo Jesus was deposited into Mary’s body. Joseph had thought of canceling the marriage, but upon being visited by an angel, he immediately marries Mary. They keep the child. For two blameless Jews, that was a HUGE thing.

Having a baby outside of marriage in BC times was a giant social faux pas, because it was a big deal in Jewish law. It was an even bigger issue in advance of a marriage when the soon to be husband wasn’t the father. Joseph could have done several things, yet he obeys and marries the girl.

Does God like abortion? NO.

[jadewolf22]

Agent Outcast Pt. 2

Fem!OC (Arania Northfire) x Larissa Weems 

Warnings: smut, fingering, eating out, strap sex, orgasm denial, safe word usage, ect…

Word Count: 1,880 

A/n: You guys really seemed to like Pt.1 so here's Pt.2...enjoy?

You drove back to Nevermore with your mind in a haze. Adrien was having you stalked; it was the only way to explain how he knew about you and Larissa and, considering he never left the warehouse, he would have to have someone else watching you. You knew you needed to tell Larissa but the thought of losing her held you back. The angelic blonde was the only good thing in your life; you would do whatever necessary to keep her with you.  

You got back to Nevermore and found Larissa in the same spot you’d left her in. She had dozed off on the couch, her book open in her lap. You smiled, setting your things down on her desk before gently trying to shake her awake.  

“Time to wake up, beautiful.” you whispered into her ear, “Coffee’s here.” 

“Mmm . . . coffee . . .” Larissa mumbled, rolling onto her side and ignoring you, continuing to sleep.  

“Larissa,” you said a little louder, “come on baby, time to wake up.” 

Other than a small groan Larissa gave you no answer. You sighed, pulling your phone from your pocket, activating your alarm and holding your phone to her ear as you set off the alarm, the blood-curdling scream that was your alarm noise waking Larissa up instantly. She snapped up into a sitting position, looking around wildly as you burst into laughter. 

“That was not funny!” Larissa gasped laughingly, playfully smacking your shoulder. 

“No,” you said between laughs, “it was hilarious!” 

Larissa mumbled incoherently under her breath, seething as she pushed herself off the couch, glaring at you while she waited for your laughter to die away.  

“I’m sorry,” you said, though you didn’t actually mean it, “but, come on Ris, you have to admit that was kinda funny. “ 

“I don’t have to admit to anything.” Larissa said coolly, though a playful smile was spread across her lips.  

Mimicking her smile, you came up behind Larissa and pulled her against you, planting a kiss on her neck as you said, “I love you . . . Now, let’s drink that coffee before it’s room temperature.” 

Larissa chuckled, prying your hands off of her and grabbing both of your coffees off her desk, handing you yours as she began to sip from hers.  

“They had your favourite, today.” you said, nodding to the little brown bag as you sipped from your coffee.  

“Pumpkin spice?” Larissa asked, her bright eyes glimmering happily. 

“Yep,” you said with a laughing smile, watching as your girlfriend tore open the bag, inhaling the scent from the muffins.  

“You didn’t have to do this!” Larissa squealed, biting into one of the warm muffins. 

“I hoped it might make up for my attitude this week,” you said softly, a sad edge to your voice, “I know I haven’t exactly been acting like myself lately . . .” 

“You want to tell me what’s wrong?” Larissa asked, a shadow of concern forming behind her bright blue eyes.  

“Nothing’s wrong.” you lied, shaking your head, “I’m just a little stressed this week, and I guess it’s showing more than I thought.” 

“You’ve been saying that for weeks,” Larissa stated, “What’s really going on?” Now was your chance; You had the opportunity to tell her what exactly was happening but you refused to take it, saying instead, “I’m fine. It’s just some personal problems; I told you that.” 

Larissa sighed, her facial expression making it clear she didn’t believe you.  

“I’m going to bed.” you stated with a small sigh, throwing away the last quarter of your coffee before retreating to Larissa’s bedroom.  

You sighed again, heavier this time, as you rid yourself of your day clothes and slipped into a pair of shorts and an oversized t-shirt you kept in Larissa’s room for overnight stays. Larissa came in after you, kicking off her heels and tossing her blazer onto a nearby chair.  

“Can you help me?” Larissa asked, motioning to the zipper on the back of her dress. 

“Ya, I’ve got you.” you said, walking over to her.  

You ran your hands up the sides of her body coming to stop at the zipper of her dress, slowly unzipping it before sliding it off her body. With a snap of your fingers her bra had been removed and she too stood in a pair of shorts and an oversized t-shirt.  

“Come sit on the bed and I’ll help you take your hair down.” you whispered, planting a gentle kiss behind her ear.  

Larissa hummed, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, you sitting down right behind her. Soft sighs began to escape Larissa as you unpinned her tight updo, massaging her scalp as you removed each pin until her silvery blonde hair fell past her shoulders in waves.  

“There. Doesn’t that feel better?” you teased as Larissa turned to face you. 

“It does,” Larissa admitted, looking into your icy blue eyes, “What can I do to help you destress?” 

“ . . . You can let me use you however I want,” you whispered huskily, your eyes darkening with lust.  

“Done,” Larissa whispered with a smile before moving to lay on the bed the way she knew you liked her.  

“Really?” you whispered, your tongue toying with your bottom lip, “Just like that?” Larissa nodded eagerly and you chuckled, whispering, “You love being Mommy’s little whore, don’t you?” 

As you watched Larissa continue to nod eagerly , her eyes begging you to fuck her, you felt an ache building up in your heated sex and you growled, taking Larissa up on her offer.  

You tore off both of your clothes, peppering Larissa’s body with kisses and hickies, your naked bodies flushed against one another.  

"Safe word?" you asked before attaching your lips to one of her breasts. 

" . . . Black . . ." Larissa moaned. 

You smiled, moving kisses down her body before viciously attaching your lips to her clit, sucking on it harshly as you pumped a finger in and out of her core. Larissa screamed, her hands weaving themselves into your hair. You groaned against her, teasing her bud with your teeth as you slipped a second finger into her.  

"Ari–! Ari–! Oh shit, Ari!" Larissa cried arching her back off if the bed, "Fuck–! Ari please, can I cum?!" 

"Go ahead, darling." you whispered.  

The words had barely left your mouth before Larissa came, her cum milking your fingers and her thighs. You moaned at the sight, hurrying to lap the cum off her thighs and your fingers. Smiling at her, you slid up so that you were straddling her hips again. You reached into a drawer in her nightstand, pulling out a small black vibrator.  

"Don't cum until I say you can." you whispered with a dangerous smirk, turning the toy on and placing it on her clit. 

Larissa gasped as the toy began to tease her and you smiled, sliding up so that you were straddling her face. 

"Eat me out, baby." You commanded.  

Larissa groaned, slipping her skillful tongue into your aching core.  

"That's it, baby. That's it," you moaned, bucking your hips into her face, "Eat me out– Eat mommy out like the whore you are– Oh, GOD!!" Your whole body was shaking; Larissa already had you on the edge, "Keep going baby. Make mommy cum–!" 

With a final flick of her tongue you came, riding out your high on Larissa's face.  

You smirked, sliding down and placing more kisses and hickies over her body, the vibrator still attacking her clit. Larissa moaned and whined, squirming beneath you, trying desperately to get some sort of friction.  

"You'd best stay still unless you want me to spank you." you growled in Larissa's ear, your hand wrapping around her throat and squeezing gently. 

"Ari, please . . ." Larissa whimpered, looking at you with puppy-dog eyes, "Please, let me cum." 

"No." 

Larissa moaned pleadingly, arching her back off the bed but you weren't going to give in so easily. Sliding down her, you grabbed the vibrator, pressing it harshly against her clit. Larissa screamed, her legs tightening around your head. You laughed, taking the vibrator and sliding it up and down her slit, teasing her entrance.   

"Ari!" Larissa cried, her body trembling, "Ari! Ari, please – I can't –" 

Feeling her body trembling, you knew she was hanging on the edge so you turned off the vibrator, pulling it from her. Larissa groaned, shutting her eyes. You chuckled, placing the vibrator back in the drawer and trading it for a large, red strap.  

"Colour, baby?" you asked, slipping on the strap. 

"White . . ." Larissa whimpered, as you began teasing her entrance with the head of the faux cock.  

"Good," you hummed before sliding the thick strap into Larissa.  

You waited until Larissa had adjusted to the size of the silicone cock before beginning to move, sliding nearly all the way out before thrusting back into her.  

Within seconds you had her tethering on the edge again, and this time she couldn't stop herself. With a broken scream, she came, her juices coating the red strap. You looked down and scowled, your eyes a midnight blue due to the lust you felt.  

"Get up and bend over the bed." you growled dangerously, pulling out of her. 

As much as she wanted to object, Larissa knew she was already in trouble so she obliged, moving as quickly as her body would allow. You snatched the vibrator from the drawer turning on and setting it to go at an incredibly slow and rough pace before shoving it into Larissa's cunt, coming to stand behind her.  

"You cum again and I will be leaving handprints on your ass," you growled in her ear, your voice becoming more and more animalistic, "Make a sound and I'll make sure the whole school knows who you belong to. Do you understand?" 

Larissa nodded, and you smirked, roughly thrusting into her ass.  

Larissa bit down on her lip to stifle the screams and moans in her throat, grasping the sheets as she fought to follow your instructions. She needed to cum so badly but you would not let her, the vibrator torturing her cunt while you pounded into her from behind. Every part of her ached, and her vision was beginning to blur. Her stomach felt as if she had just swallowed coals and her lungs were finding it difficult to take in oxygen.  

"Black; BLACK!!" Larissa screamed, tossing her head back as tears spilled from her eyes. You stopped immediately, gently pulling out of her and removing the vibrator.  

Picking her up and placing her back on the bed you asked, "Was I too rough, baby?" 

"No . . ." Larissa whispered, shaking her head, "I'm just sensitive tonight . . ."  

You smiled gently, summoning a damp washcloth and cleaning Larissa and the toys before pulling Larissa into your arms as the two of you cuddled, your arms wrapped around her, her head resting in the crook of your neck.  

"Thank you, baby." you whispered, stroking Larissa's hair, "I'm sorry I haven't been acting in the best manner lately."  

"It's okay." Larissa mumbled, slowly drifting off to sleep in your arms. 

You smiled, planting a gentle kiss on her cheek before snapping your fingers, the covers from the bed moving from under to over you as you slid down on the bed, your head resting against Larissa's as you too drifted to sleep.

[moodymisty]

Beauty revealed is a 1828 self-portrait by Sarah Goodridge. She gave the portrait to statesman Daniel Webster, who was possibly a lover, after the death of his wife; she would have intended to provoke him into marrying her. It is incredibly small being 6.7-by-8-centimeter (2.6 by 3.1 in) while being very detailed. Goodridge, who was 40 when she completed the miniature, depicts breasts that appear imbued with a "balance, paleness, and buoyancy". I think it is actually the first ever nude picture send.. 😭

Now imagine this in the 40k canon. The least lore accurate would have been drawn by a serf, who wanted to entice one of her Masters. However serfs wouldn't have time or skill to paint a detailed angle of their chest. The most accurate would have been drawn either by an Blood Angel or one of the Emperor's Children. I just imagine one of these painting their cocks and sending it to that serfs which he would like to bang that day.

Like, let's say you are an serf. You were awoken by one of your fellow serfs, who gives you a carefully wrapped "present". You open it up and then horsecock (💀💀). On the back of the canvas it would written:

"Meet me in my quarters, me and the boys have to do something with you. Xxx Brother Cocktilius"

Also gotta say Russ would do this too LOL

He just sends a package with contains some trinkets he’s found for you, and also a drawing that is surprisingly detailed of his groin and stomach.

You hate it actually arouses you a bit

[joshusten]

love the sinner (albus york/faith koria, bastard warrior || good boy audios)

Albus York takes a bath and Faithful washes his hair. (angst, slight argument, hurt/comfort)

2.2k+ words [ao3 link] [masterlist] [CW/notes: religious imagery ofc (this fic was basically an excuse to write that), typical albus york language, lots of self-loathing and some suicidal thoughts. albus is just having a bad time but hes also so whipped for faithful. speaking of her, i didnt make faith's physical descriptions vague or made it so that she's a "listener" but rather a character of her own! and i based it off of gba's description of her + my own interpretation hehe.]

once again THANK YOU SO SO MUCH to @slushiepizza for all the AMAZING suggestions and support like omfg i SWEAR i keep on saying this but this fic rlly wouldnt be finished without them!! i appreciate it sm!! and im shaking and kissing my irls that ive also bothered with this fic that will probably not see this THANK U SM!! edit: I FORGOT THE FUCKING READ MORE LMFAO

—

Albus York steadily sank into the half-filled tub of one of the ship’s quarters—stripped of his clothes, and left bare to no witness.

Gentle waves of the bathwater rippled against hardened, battle-torn skin. He dementedly mused that if he could go down further, he might finally drown. 

He chuckled at the thought, shifted his position, and got to work. It's been a while since he last had an actual bath—way before he even agreed to this suicide mission of an adventure—with warm soapy water and scented products.

The constant near-death experiences and whatnot had interrupted the trio to get any time for themselves, much less to do any sort of basic hygiene. Since the route Devlin had charted for the ship to follow allowed for ample downtime, the Forgemaster had practically shoved his younger half-brother into the common bathroom and forced him to take a much-needed bath (Of course, not without a snobby comment about how his stench matched his personality perfectly well.)

Albus’ inexperience was made clearer with the stiff, awkward motion of his large, calloused hands as he attempted to wash himself. The unpracticed movement made the unfamiliarity of it all fully realized. How long has it been since he felt this safe? Does he even remember how to take care of himself?

Does someone like him even deserve this luxury?

The warrior submerged himself lower, down until his eyes were right above water level. He was thinking again. It was all that he had been doing for the past hour. If the gods wouldn't allow him to drown, then he hoped that the water would at least cleanse the grime and sin embedded into his flesh.

But he knew that filth clung to his skin like how a believer clings to the idea of repentance. No matter how hard—how desperately—he scrubbed (until pale skin turned into blood red, until rough turned rougher), it was all pointless. He had learned long ago that a bastard's prayers were never left answered. 

The mark on his chest was a bleak reminder of that reality. Damnation was basically his birthright. Albus York was dead the moment he came out of his mother’s womb—dead to his family, dead to society. 

Cursed to hell for being sin itself.

Life had a funny way to remind him—that goodness is something he can be in the presence of but never be a part of it.

"Albus?"

Speak of the devil, his ever-so-naive angel had arrived.

“Albus? Hello?”

Tender, serene, heavenly.

The voice was melodic—like the somber hymns he used to hear in his youth when his mother would take him into the temple and meet with her fellow brothers and sisters. At that time, he always felt drawn to the choir’s performance, despite not being old enough to understand the words (not that he was any more literate in the present). Back then, he was just a kid, blissfully unaware of the blasphemy he had committed for existing. 

He had grown since then—in every aspect of the word.

"Albus! Are you still in there?"

A deep grunt, muffled slosh of water, and the pitter-patter of droplets on the tiled surface were all that Faith Koria had heard from the other side of the metal door before a familiar, gruff voice answered back.

"Calm ya tits, woman. I knew you were eager to see my dick but I never knew you were this eager!" 

The outside replied with an annoyed groan, a sound Albus was all too familiar with, especially when it came from her. That being said, he couldn't fight the smile forming on his lips as he hastily dried himself up with a nearby towel.

"You've been using the bathroom for more than an hour, just what are you doing in there? Some people want to get cleaned up too, you know!”

The metal door swiftly slid open with a sudden 'woosh!', hot steam dissipating before the runaway nun to reveal Albus’ tall stature, half-naked and slightly dripping wet. Faith frantically averted her eyes on instinct, ears immediately burning with embarrassment. It wasn’t like it was her first time seeing him undressed—for gods’ sake, she treated his wounds like this when they first met! But to have him fresh out of a bath with his toned body exposed and his dampened long hair was—Wait! His hair!

"Alright, alright! I’m out, ya happy? I’m decent too so you don’t have to be a prude about it,” The bastard huffed, a little irritated with how his peaceful bath (or at least, as peaceful as it could be) was abruptly cut short.  

“Albus, your hair!”

The man scrunched up his face in confusion.  He gathered one of his dark locks and examined it with an intense focus. “Huh? Looks fine to me. What, you're not expecting me to be all prim and proper now, are you?”

“No, no, no! It's all matted and uneven!” The woman replied with a horrified concern in her voice that was rare for the warrior to hear directed at him.“It’s probably from all those monster attacks. Some of them must’ve managed to get to your hair! How long has it been like this? Does it hurt? Do you even have shampoo?”

“Uh…what’s that?”

“Ugh, never mind. Just—” Before Albus could process what was happening, Faith grabbed his arm with a surprisingly strong grip for a nun. She dragged him down near the bathtub he just got out of. He can even hear the water still slowly swirling down the drain. 

“Faithful, what are you—” 

“Stay right here. You got that, York? I’m just going to get something and I don't want you to move a muscle.”

A deep chuckle resonated within the man’s scarred chest—he always enjoyed it when she got this bossy. He gave her a mock salute and answered with a hearty “Yes, ma’am!”

The sister paladin made a face, letting out a flustered huff before hurrying to wherever she needed to be. So cute.

Albus had put on his clothes at this point while he waited (lest he risked Faithful suffering from a heart attack). A few minutes had passed by when she returned with a rather large pouch that Albus recognized was packed with the rest of her belongings. He deduced it must've been from her childhood with how worn down the embroidery was. Once vibrant floral patterns dulled from years of usage.

“Lean back by the bathtub,” Faith instructed. “I’m going to start detangling your hair. I might cut off some of the more unsalvageable parts too. If anything hurts or if I snagged on it too hard just let me know, okay?”

“Okay,” The man repeated simply, not really knowing how to react to all of the amount of consideration he was receiving. Abrasiveness was what he was more used to responding to, not the care that she unabashedly gave him.

She beamed brightly at his compliance (and no, his heart did not just skip a beat), soft hands found their way to his head and started brushing away the more manageable tangles before using a wide-tooth comb for the bigger ones. Despite the numerous warnings, her fingers were nowhere near to being rough. She was as gentle as a lamb—her slow brushstrokes eventually formed a rhythm that filled in the silence of the room. Albus decided to break the comfortable atmosphere.

“How are you so good with this shit?” He mumbled, voice heavy with drowsiness. Fuck, he felt like he could sleep until his next life. “Never knew sisters of Cindergorn get to be part-time hairdressers too.”

Even with his sluggish state, Albus could almost sense the nun’s eyes rolling above him, brushing out his hair with a slightly more forceful than usual tug.

“I'm the one usually taking care of the children at the temple. I’m used to seeing this kind of stuff whenever they play too hard. Obviously not on this level but you get the gist.” Faith snipped off the last of a particularly challenging knot. 

“I've also been doing my own hair ever since I was a kid, so really, it's like second nature to me at this point,” she followed up, running her fingers through his hair with a satisfied nod.

Now that Albus thought about it, he had seen Faithful braiding herself earlier on their journey when they had just…tastefully borrowed the flagship meant for his father. He remembered swift, practiced hands twisting sections after sections of dark, coiled hair and had mentioned in passing how it was a hairstyle she often did to withstand the Eastern Faithlands' harsher seasons (Fortunately, it also turned out to be great for going-on-a-quest-to-kill-your-priest-brother-and-save-a-child seasons too.)

Faith’s hands suddenly paused. Before the man could ask if something was wrong, she signaled him to stay still while she rummaged through the pouch to get a small bottle. She squeezed a moderate amount of product into her palm and spread it evenly. As she was about to apply the substance to his head, Albus jerked away, quickly stopping her hand with his own as a furrow formed on his thick brows.

“Faithful,” He chuckled. “Please, I’m a warrior. You don’t need to waste your fancy shit on me. My hair’s going to get fucked up again eventually so what’s the point?” 

Faith struggled to wriggle herself out of his grasp. “Wha–Albus, it’s fine!” 

“No, Faithful, I’m serious. It’s just hair. Hell, it’s my hair. Relax.” The man sat up straighter at this point, the water from his long, damp hair trickling down along the scarred tissue of his back but it was the intensity in those familiar brown eyes that made him feel a chill.

“And I told you it’s fine just let me—”

“Why are you making it a big fuckin’ deal? What do you want from me?” 

“What?” Faith’s voice cracked, appalled and confused. “Albus, what are you even talking about? I’m not asking for anything—”

“I’m just a bastard you hired to kill your brother! I was paid to do the dirty work for you, not to be your fucking toy—”

“Albus, wha—Y–You’re not a toy! Why do you—”

“If I’m not then why are you being like this to me? There’s a catch—there’s always a fucking catch. So what the fuck do you want from me?”

The nun managed to finally yank her hand away from his harsh grip and angrily slammed at the smooth surface of the tub.

“I just want you to stop being stubborn for once and let me do this for you!” 

The silence that followed between them felt suffocating.

Faith’s breath hitched, shocked by her outburst. She immediately straightened up her posture only to look down shamefully at the tiled floor. A shaky sigh left her lips, and Albus was doing everything in his power to stop himself from reaching out to her, seeking salvation he knew she shouldn’t give him because he was not sorry that he was like this. He wasn’t afraid to show his filth to the world because it was all he knew to do—all he was taught to do. There’s no excuse, no justification, no escape. She’s everything good and he’s just scum or worse yet—he’s a bastard. 

Because she’s an angel and he’s far worse than the devil.

“This isn't anything all that fancy…just something to keep it healthy and less stressful on your scalp. I just want you to feel okay. So please…” She trailed off. “Let me.”

“It’s…It’s just hair, Faithful. I’ll be okay, I’m a big boy,” Albus joked, but his words were sincere. He almost found the whole thing amusing—having the ever-so-snappy sister paladin fuss over him—if he didn’t get a feel for how much…his comfort seemed to mean a lot to her.

Faith pursed her lips, her gaze still fixed downward. “I just think…you deserve at least one good hair day.”

It's that word again. Deserve. Does she really think that? That he's worthy of all of this?

The man cleared his throat with a curt nod. Hesitantly, the nun's fingers slowly found their way back to the crown of his head, resuming whatever she was supposed to do. Steady, rhythmic brushstrokes filled the quiet once again. 

After what felt like hours of stillness, the bastard dared himself to shift his head and face her timidly—as if he was afraid he could melt under her piercing gaze.

"Thank you, for…for this," Albus grunted. He hadn't only meant for his hair.

Faith graced him with a dimpled smile—the one that made her eyes squint and showed the tiniest bit of the gap between her front teeth. She proceeded to tuck away a stray lock behind his ear, trailing down to hover over his cheek. Albus can practically feel the nervous tremble on her fingers as if she were hesitating on something. It all came to nothing in the end, closing her hands in a fist before withdrawing to her pouch to start cleaning up.

“Anytime, Albus. Besides, with how you always manage to find yourself in trouble,” the sister murmured, her voice playful (it never failed to leave Albus’ mind racing). Her eyes glinted as they locked into his almost like clockwork. “How can I not?”

Albus York sat by the empty bathtub of the ship’s quarters—fully clothed yet he had felt the most bare that he had ever been in front of someone. 

Faith smiled at him again and he swore he could make out the faintest halo crowning her head under the fluorescent bathroom light. ---- a/n: this is probably my most favorite fic that i wrote and i hope you enjoyed! lemme tell u this fic took way to long and got me so stressed for no reason idk ! i was worrying abt how this would happen in the timeline and all the lil details and then !! its a fic!! and im suppose to be having fun!! i am being self-indulgent!! (although i hope was able to characterize them well) again, feedback and comments r highly appreciated!! :DD have a good day/night and thank you for reading!!

[the-xolotl]

Dusk Meets Dawn at Twilight

Lucifer x moth!OC, Vésper

A/N: Fun fact: Vésper means evening star in latin.

Summary: Lucifer finds himself in a very low, vulnerable point and self isolation is all he knows. However, his trusty assistant unintentionally prevents that (I suck at summaries. I’m sorry :’))

—• TAGS/CW/TW: Angst, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, Lucifer struggling with very strong emotions, some use of non-verbal communication, crying, alludes to feather-picking, mentions of (angelic) blood, preening, Vésper isn’t good at emotions. but she’s emotionally intelligent enough, proof read, no heavy topics actually mentioned explicitly.

“Highness?” Vésper knocked tentatively at the door. Silence. She knocked again softly a couple times for good measure to make sure Lucifer hasn’t somehow not heard her. Still she was met with no answer, not a sound. Which is really odd even for his normal isolation habits, causing the moth demon to worry.

Vésper bit her bottom lip debating wether this really warranted going into the King’s quarters. Lucifer could go through bad periods of depression and bed-rotting, sure; days, weeks. But to not be seen for two entire weeks and none of the staff had spoken to him at all? Not even the work shop?

Vésper heard alarms in her head after one of the maids pointed out His Majesty’s bedroom doors were locked a few days ago. Immediately, she went to his door to find it locked just how the maid had said. Lucifer never did that, he’d avoid contact when he didn’t want it but he never locked doors or hide for this long without a word. The only thing that had kept her from trying to go in by force was that there was still shuffling heard from inside for a few days, which meant he was going about his room occasionally so understanding her King’s habits she let it be until today.

With a heavy sigh, she put her hand over the key-hole entrance reluctantly, “Your Highness, I’m coming in. I deeply apologize in advance,” she said in a raised voice ensuring he would at least be warned or be prompted to open the door willingly. After a beat of silence she concentrated a sphere of energy and bumped the lock of the door with it. Unfortunately she didn’t know any refined magic to make it smoother but she didn’t have a choice. The small blast that did minimal damage to the golden hinges while still doing the trick will have to do.

Prying the door open, just enough to take a peak inside, Vésper is greeted by darkness that her eyes quickly adjusted to. “Sir?” she tried again. Movement coming from the bed caught her eyes. She squinted at the big mass on the lavish bed, a groan followed. Quickly she entered just past the door and closing it behind her, “Sir, are you ok—“ her words cut off by a growl.

“Leave. Now,” She could recognize it’s Lucifer, despite how grovel it sounded. “I can’t do that, Majesty. You’ve been gone for two weeks,” she protests taking another step into the room. She looks around the room some more now that she could see better, realizing there’s not just an absolute mess and disarray but feathers everywhere. Red and white feathers littered across the room, even on whatever she can see of the messy bed.

A deep frown formed on her brow, about to speak again but was snapped out of her thoughts at Lucifer standing up from the bed, demonic form on full display, all 3 sets of wings spreading behind him making him look taller, puffing up to make him seem more intimidating.

“I said L̷̆͜Ȅ̴̃A̷̐̚V̵̛̈́Ḛ̵͐.̸̊̄ ̴̛̫W̴̕͝H̶̡͆Ö̶ Ǎ̮R̸E YOU TO DISOBEY YOUR ̸́́K̶͑I̓͑N̷̬̔G’S ORDERS?̵͕̈́” Lucifer lashes out, a stream a fire expanding towards the moth sinner making her tumble backwards and fall ass first. Screaming in terror she raised her arms to cover face, his outburst only missing her by a hair. She trembled in unbridled fear, eyes wide and fixed on the floor not daring to look at him again.

He realized a little too late what he’d done, he tried retracting his arm back seeing his assistant in utter panic. “Shit! I’m- I’m sorry Vés I didn’t mean to—“ Lucifer stammered, his voice sounding more normal but with a shake and hints of remorse. He tried to help her up but Vésper involuntarily flinched and backed away, a small sob slipping past her lips.

“God damn it,” he whispers under his breath, taking steps back from his assistant and falling on to the floor bumping into his night stand on his way down. Lucifer groaned in frustration wrapping his wings around himself, “I’m sorry Vésper. I didn’t mean to lash out, I’m so sorry…” his voice shook with a dead tone, like he’s near tears. But she’s too shaken up to respond.

She chances a glance at him eying the feathery cocoon he’s turned himself into. She could see little trembles and shaking of his wings with each breath he took. Lucifer is clearly in a vulnerable state, one she didn’t know how to help and with the panic still present in her body it was hard to move, let alone want to get near him.

Lucifer made no more advance toward her, giving her a chance to regain her wits about her. Logically she knew he’d never hurt her but Vésper had also never seen him angry, not even his demonic form in the time she’s worked for him. It’s jarring, exactly what she expected the Devil to look like, the stuff of nightmares.

But she managed to regain composure again after a while with deep breaths distracting herself with the state of the chaotically dirty chambers. The more she looked the worse it got; not only feathers and broken belongings but specks of a smeared golden substance. Not abundantly so, but mostly on the floor at the foot of the bed and on the sheets. Small splotches she’d worry about later.

Standing, her unsteady legs finally approach the ball of wings the King had turned himself into, “Sire…” she tried to coax sitting on her knees in front of the bundle, “It’s okay. I… I know you didn’t mean it,” softly she spoke tryin to peek between the messy feathers. Another thing she noticed now that she is up close is that the golden liquid is on him. More specifically on his wings and tips of his finger tips.

Lucifer sat with his knees against his chest and face buried in his hands from what she could see from between the matted fluff. She sighed silently, “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

He looked miserable and something in her hated seeing a typically goofy man like him in such a state. It made her chest tighten to see Lucifer so vulnerable and emotional, this is a different level that she’s never seen. Despite herself, a gentle hand rose hesitantly to rest atop one of the wings as a gesture of comfort.

When she felt the wing move under her touch she flinched back worried she’d crossed a line. The wing parted a bit exposing his face once again, “How did you manage to get in?” asking softly his wings dropped a bit around him.

Vésper shifted not wanting to tell him just yet, “We can worry about that later, Your Majesty,” her eyes taking in his disheveled appearance, “I care more about your well being. Are you okay? Is there anything I can assist you with? It’s been weeks, we’re all worried about you, Sir.” Lucifer averts his glassy eyes in both shame and guilt.

Another long stretch of silence befell them. Lucifer felt weak, a little humiliated at being seen in a vulnerable position, he couldn’t bring himself to speak again or meet her eyes. He really hoped she’d understand, knowing it’s a little selfish to expect her to just know. He opened up his wings a bit more and stretched out a hand for her to take not really looking at her still. Only when his gaze flicked down to his palm signaling to take it, she got the hint the second time he did it.

His hand is oddly warm, she didn’t really have expectations but it’s still surprising angelic beings have body warmth. Deep inside she wished she knew what to do, Vésper herself isn’t great at expressing her own feelings let alone deal with them from others. So she thinks back to the times her Mother would comfort her as a child, holding Vésper to her chest and knowing just what to say to ease the baby in her motherly instincts. Unfortunately she isn’t as good as her Mother with these kinds of things.

Is that even what he needed? Everyone needs a little kindness, her Mother would often tell her, everyone needs a hand to hold. The moth sinner’s thumb gently caresses at his knuckles, holding his hand delicately. This goes beyond professional boundaries, but Vésper gets the sense he’s dealing with much more than seasonal depression or just a down period. For now she’d allow the lines of professionalism to blur for the sake of her King.

It seemed to be the right thing to do because eventually Lucifer had unwrapped himself from his wings, now letting them rest at ease and his legs are less tucked against him.

Even though it feels like it’s been hours by now, at best an actual hour had passed, but despite that the scare Lucifer gave her has now dissipated, watching his inner turmoil pass over his features and voided eyes is still nagging at her. He felt so far away, his eyes not particularly focused on anything, lost in who knows how many different thoughts and emotions. Closed off. Vésper debated on a couple thoughts, words she could say to make him feel better.

She gnawed at her bottom lip with the words at the tip of her tongue eyes fixed on the hand she held. The professional bounds had already been crossed she thought, fuck it.

“Do you need a hug?” she asked quietly, she almost hoped Lucifer didn’t actually hear her. Almost hoped he was zoned out enough.

The ex-angel blinked a couple times his head finally turning toward her, red eyes locking with the black void that are her eyes searching them for honesty. He definitely heard her, but paused to debate whether he could really accept the offer. If he could really handle it or if she really even meant it. Averting his eyes again he nodded.

Lucifer went to open his arms but Vésper pulled him up and closer to her as she stood up. She tried to follow the way her Mother comforted her, it’s the best she could think of doing. As soon as her arms wrapped around him, mindful of his wings, she rubbed his back slowly and soothingly. For a moment Lucifer stiffen at the gentle hold, a little startled at the touch he didn’t initiate himself but found himself relaxing in her arms and returning the hug.

Silence more comfortable than the last stretched over them again, very gently swaying from side to side while Vésper embraced Lucifer. It supposed to mimic the feel of being swayed in a Mother’s arms, though she’s unsure if he found it relaxing it sure helped her keep it together in this unfamiliar situation.

“Majesty,” She murmurs to get his attention, “Have you eaten?” He shakes his head no slightly without moving away from the embrace. “Have you taken a bath?” Again, he shakes his head. She hums in acknowledgment, “How about I go get you something to eat while you wash up?” Her tone gentle, struggling to maintain some formalities.

Lucifer is still not answering verbally but by the way his grip tightens she can tell he doesn’t want to let go.

“You can’t go this long without proper sustenance, please?” she tried again, “Besides, I need to also clean a little around here. There’s golden, sparkly splotches everywhere and on you.”

The mention of the gold liquid makes him freeze. He had forgotten about that, he only hopes she hadn’t payed too close attention to his wings in that moment. So he reluctantly let’s go avoiding eye contact, rather looking around his room at the absolute chaos. He grimaces at the gross mess and snaps his fingers, clouds of red smoke enveloping the entire room. When it dissipate everything is back in its place, floors are cleared and whatever had been broken is fixed as if nothing had even happened.

“Or… that…” She chuckles, “I’ll be right back, okay?” Lucifer only nods and heads towards a door on the other side of the room that she can only guess is his bathroom.

Taking a little longer than intended, but with practically a full food cart she returns to Lucifer’s private quarters. Knocking she warns of her arrival, “I’m coming in,” opening the door slowly and peeking to make sure she’s alright to come in. She’s greeted to the sight of the King sitting at the edge of his bed with messy damped hair undone wearing silky night attire with a duck pattern. Of course, she thinks shaking her head with the tiniest endearing smile. His wings are wrapped around him lazily again as he watches his assistant coming in.

“I don’t expect you to eat much or all of it,” She clarifies with a firm but gentle tone, “But do eat your fill. However much or little that is.”

The moth sinner rolls up to where he’s sitting and parks the cart in front of him. The first thing he goes for are the pancakes, Vésper finally relaxes since she came into the room hours ago. This is progress.

Lucifer offers by pointing at one of the plates but Vésper declines with a polite 'Thank you'. She takes a closer look at him, specifically the wings she doesn’t get to see very often. They were clean now, but still made a complete mess with askew and crooked feathers.

“Suit yourself, V,” Lucifer speaks for the first time since his earlier outburst. She grins, “Ah, and so he speaks,” she meant it as a small tease but the relief washing over her betrayed her a little making it sound like an endearing remark.

Lucifer sighs with a self-deprecating smile, “I apologize…Old habits.” The atmosphere threatens to turn tense again, “And I deeply apologize for scaring you and… almost hurting you. I really didn’t mean to,” Vésper can see the evident regret and honesty behind the apology. Except he didn’t really need to apologize, she had already forgiven him.

“You needn’t justify anything to me. If anything I should apologize. I was rude intruding in your privacy, Your Highness.”

“Lucifer,” he corrects.

“Pardon?” Vésper whips her head to look at him, eating the last bite of the pancakes.

“You might as well just call me Lucifer,” wiping his mouth with the napkin his put on his lap and sitting further up on the bed.

Vésper’s eyes widen at the scandalous suggestion, “I could never-“

Lucifer interrupts her, “You can. Your Kings says so,” a shit eating grin spreads across his face. How does she forget this man embodies the sin of Pride?

She sighs reluctantly, but still avoids saying his name, “As you wish,” is all she replies. He looks damn satisfied with himself, and she can’t even be bothered by the little antics being she’s more at ease that some of his usual personality is back.

With a deep inhale of air Vésper stands fixing her clothes and adjusting her neat attire. She rolls her shoulders slightly and stretching her own wings to ease the tension from the muscles due to the anxiety she had experienced most of the day. “Some rest is in order, yes?” She asks in her more formal tone looking at Lucifer expectantly. His smile falters and there’s visible disappointment in his eyes.

“You’re leaving?” What he wanted to ask is if she could stay, but being more aware of himself and senses more alert his pride didn’t allow him to ask so outwardly. He’d let his guard down enough for a life time, but the sinking loneliness is winning out. Feeling consumed by a darkness he’s barely escaping, Lucifer craves company so excruciatingly bad.

She also sensed it, even without knowing much about him it’s palpable. It just takes a little bit of empathy to realize he’s not doing well and he desperately needs something or someone to ground him in these trying times. She takes a glance at the window, bright red sky now a dark auburn indicating it’s late night. “I’m interested in you getting a full night’s rest. If my presence helps, I’ll stay if you so wish it,” Vésper offers. Meeting in the middle, she supposes in her head.

“Yes,” Lucifer nods, “Please.”

Vésper sat back down where she had been previously. However, Lucifer didn’t immediately tuck himself under the covers, instead stretched his wings in front of him. Slowly and delicately his clawed fingers started at the tip of his wings to take care of the messy feathers.

The sinner tried not to stare too deadpan at the King casually preening his expansive wings. Which now that she could take a better look at them, even in the dim light they seem to sparkle beautifully like freshly fallen snow. Or stars. Then she remembered he’s the morning-star.

She wonder how heavy 3 sets of wings are on his back, specially when all 6 of them are taller than he is.

She looked away closing her eyes briefly, feeling so unbecoming of shamelessly gawking. Even if he is right in front of her but it’s such a rare sight to behold it’s hard to not look. She glanced back again to see Lucifer struggling to comfortably reach the feather back rows. Without thinking before speaking she asked, “Require some assistance?” Lucifer looked at her pausing all his movements. Realizing what she said she wanted to disintegrate in that moment but she remained composed despite the embarrassment rising hot up her spine.

“Uh…” he blinked a few times, eyes looking between his wings and her, “You know what, fuck it sure. Just um… Be careful.” Lucifer shifted his position, showing his back to her. He laid out a singular wing out while tucking the other ones in. “It’s easier to do it with your index and thumb uh…” he makes the gestures as he explains, “And straighten it in the right direction.”

Vésper nods. Easy enough she tells herself. She gets to work as best as she can how he had indicated her, she wasn’t half bad just slower than he is and much gentler. Which he welcomed, he found it endearing how careful she’s being and Lucifer lets her find a rhythm on her own. Vésper has never touched something so soft in her entire life completely enthralled she stops herself from petting rather than preening. His feather puff and shake every so often to keep the feathers organized.

Lucifer thought she’d only help with the ones he had a harder time reaching but Vésper continued to the next wing row by row. Lucifer just let her finding comfort in the act of service. She found more confidence to speed up and let herself concentrate, kinda forgetting who she’s doing this for. There’s an unspoken intimacy they both pointedly ignore while she continued.

For once, Vésper was tired of the silence deciding to break it, “Even if they’re right in front of me, under my fingertips I still can’t fathom how gorgeous they are,” she said warmly continuing to the next row.

She heard Lucifer chuckle, “Pure divine, heavenly beauty,” However, the tone of his voice was less cheerful this time. Like longing. “Sometimes they feel like a heavy burden, though.” Vésper is taken aback by the confession, “Now they just feel like a cruel reminder of what I use to be and what was taken away from me. Of the failure I am.”

Bitterness tinted his words with a strong mix of regret. Vésper was about to speak again when she realized his shoulders had begun to shake, so she stopped the preening instead resting a hand on his shoulder. That’s when she heard it, small sobs falling from him with tears cascading down his face. The sight absolutely broke Vésper, the usually confident facade completely torn away, his air of arrogance he carried everywhere he went completely gone. Instead there’s a shell of a man that he keeps tucked away most days and in front of anyone left.

She did the only thing she knew to do, making Lucifer turn around to face her. He wanted to protest by bringing his wings around himself protectively. However, she didn’t allow him, pressing him into another hug and bringing him to her chest she patted his soft blonde locks.

“They’re part of you, but they don’t define you. Nor does where you come from,” She spoke barely above a whisper, “You are Lucifer Morningstar; the most powerful being in all of Hell and supreme ruler. You are not a failure.”

It was like a dam that had been sealed for millennia broke loose in that moment. Lucifer sobbed and shook in her arms, emotions completely overwhelming his being. His grip tightened around her assistant, sometimes tight enough to make it hard to breathe, not mentioning it she just comforted him through it. Years, upon years of suppressed emotions came crashing down at once and there was no closing the faucet until it dried out.

No words were spoken for a long while as she held the crying King, serving as a physical anchor and solace. Broken sobs one after another broke Vésper’s heart into a million pieces. She’s never heard so much pain coming from one person and she couldn’t help but hurt for him. A few tears also running down her face before she quickly wiped them away.

“Let it all out… I’m here…” she comforted. She tried with gentle affirmations, soft reassurances and there somehow wanting to find the right combination of words that would ease the immense pain. She knew she wouldn’t, yet still tried. He bagan to apologize profusely but she only shush him and encouraged him to hold her as long as he needed. This back and forth continued until he managed to fall asleep.

She guessed the exhaustion caught up to him once morning came because once the sobs had stopped, Lucifer was out cold. She struggled to unravel herself from him without waking him, but Vésper managed to get him laid down. She went to stand but a hand tighten around hers. Lucifer is still dead asleep, and even unconscious he didn’t let her go.

She smiled softly leaving her hand in his, pulling up a chair by the edge of the bed where she would remain until he woke up again. Sleeping half sitting and leaned over the mattress will have her body aching later but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. So she justified herself with the excuse that the King had requested that she stay.

A/N: ow this one took a really heavy toll on me :’) ngl i got a little emotional while writing it. funny how i spent a few days working on two smutty shots just to write this in a couple hours. i ended up finishing this one first so here it goes.

btw ! Vésper up to this point in time where this story takes place she had never seen Angelic blood nor did she know angels bled at all.

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© 2024 the-xolotl — all rights reserved. do NOT alter, translate, or repost my works on any platform without my consent, do not claim my content as yours.

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⤷ dividers : cafekitsune ✰

[flywolfwriting]

Beyond the Path of Reason

The worst part about molting was the itching. It was terrible while his wings were out, but when they were tucked away the itching spread to his skin, like the molt needed to manifest itself physically in one way or another. Lucifer often left his molt until he couldn’t bear it anymore, too overwhelmed by the task to force himself to face it until the alternative was worse.

The truth was he hated looking at his wings. They were a constant reminder of heaven, of his fall; once pure white, they were now stained with the blood of the first sinner. He still remembered that day clearly, when some of his elder siblings had come to fetch him and Lucer thought he’d been forgiven, that he could come home - but instead they pinned him to the ground and soaked him in Abel’s blood and the stains had never truly come out. That first molt he thought he would finally be rid of it but he was wrong - some of his white plumage returned, but only along the lesser coverts, and the tenth primaries. The rest of his feathers grew in that brilliant, terrible red, as vivid as the day he’d seen it spilled upon the ground.

For a long time Lilith was there to help him, and he could just squeeze his eyes shut while she preened for him. The last couple centuries, however - since Charlie had been born - he’d been left on his own. He’d eventually gotten used to looking at them, of course; how couldn’t he when he’d lived so long? He’d even mastered pretending it was fine and his wings didn’t bother him one bit! He could even show them off; See? Look and big and awe-inspiring my wings are!

But that’s all they were. Tools. And later, when he was alone, Lucifer would close his eyes and try to forget the image of Abel sprawled across the ground, head smashed in, until the Angels of God used his blood to tarnish the Morning Star’s plumage.

God’s favored indeed.

Now he was living at the hotel, surrounded by sinners he could call friends, with his daughter and her own fallen angel at her side. He could almost forget how much he hated himself with them around.

Almost.

Lucifer’s quarters were big; bigger than they had any right to be, really, but he didn’t need to leave them for anything if he didn’t need to. He had a large, luxurious bathroom, a large sitting room, a small kitchen, and of course an opulent bedroom that served more as a workroom than actual sleeping quarters.

That was where he was now, having told his daughter he would be gone for a few days working on ‘business’ but would be back by next week. She’d given him a timid smile and soft, “Okay,” and he knew she wondered if he would be back at all.

It was a crushing reminder of just how awful a person he was.

He heard a swell of laughter in the distance and peeked out his window to see the hotel’s residents descending the hill as a group, heading into town for one thing or another.

Lucifer scratched at his shoulder as he watched them go. He could probably afford to pop down to the bar and snag a bottle of something to help take the edge off when he finally got around to getting his wings out. Not that sinners’ alcohol really did much for him.

Mistake.

Alastor stood by the bar, hands propped on his newly repaired microphone, silently watching as Lucifer stepped through the portal. Lucifer froze, briefly considering turning around and facing the week without the solace of alcohol. He couldn’t be seen to be fleeing the Radio Demon, though, no matter how much his skin itched, so he straightened his shoulders and marched behind the bar without acknowledging the sinner.

It seemed for several blissful minutes that Alastor would offer him the same courtesy, even if he was openly staring at Lucifer. That hope was dashed when, holding several bottles of hard liquor, Lucifer returned to his still-open portal. Before he could step through that oh-so-pompous voice said, “My, my, Your Majesty, you have quite the selection there. Planning on throwing a party?”

Don’t take the bait, don’t take the bait, don’t take the bait- Lucifer turned and glared at him. “If I was, I wouldn’t be inviting you.”

Alastor’s grin widened by a fraction. “And who would you invite, sire? Not your daughter, clearly. I wonder how she would feel, knowing you waited until everyone left to have your friends over.”

“You little shit,” Lucifer said.

“The alternative is all those bottles are for you. But wait! Didn’t you tell our dear Charlie you would be away on business?” Red eyes narrowed. “If it turned out that business was drinking half the bar, that would be quite pathetic, don’t you agree?”

Lucifer grit his teeth, resisting the urge to snap back. He had too much on his mind, was too twisted up in his own anxiety and depression to worry about an asshole sinner. He turned away.

“Oh dear. You appear to be bleeding.”

Lucifer stopped again, this time looking at the demon in confusion. “What?”

Alastor’s brows rose as his head cocked to the side. “Your neck is bleeding. And it appears some sort of beast has been at your arms.”

Looking down Lucifer saw inflamed golden scratches criss-crossing his forearms, and something warm dripped down his spine. He swore quietly. He hadn’t realized he’d been scratching so much.

“You appear to be in distress, Your Highness.”

“What do you care?” Lucifer snapped, nearly dropping several bottles as he shifted in an attempt to stop himself digging his nails into his arms again. The pressure in his back grew worse with his agitation, his wings insistently pushing against the ether in which they were currently trapped.

“Perhaps I am merely curious what could cause someone of your status such concern,” Alastor said airily, “especially if you’re willing to lie to sweet Charlie to hide away so pitifully.”

“Leave Charlie out of th- ah!” Lucifer’s words broke off in a choked cry as his wings exploded from his back, somehow relieving the pressure and worsening everything all at once.

Oh. Oh no. He had let it go too long; it was the worst he could remember it ever being, a feeling like a million spiders skittering over every part of him, digging their little pincers into his skin, burrowing in his feathers-

He shuddered, biting back a whine.

“Oh dear,” Alastor hummed, and when Lucifer forced himself to open his eyes again he found the demon staring at his wings with clear interest. “You are a mess.”

Continue on AO3

[mydeerfellow]

Ye Mighty, Lay Down Your Arms

synopsis:

Rosie, as a professional fixer-upper, just wants to fix up Alastor. Inside AND out. Alastor just wants a few stitches, not the Spanish Inquisition. Vox just wants to play N64

AO3 link

It took a special sort of stupidity to cross into the Cannibal Colony with an open wound, where even the youngest child had a nose as good as any dog, and the populace was prone to swarming any potential meal. Yet, Alastor didn’t have much choice, and so he hurried his pace as well as he could without spraying blood everywhere, which would be problematic on a number of levels.

Truthfully, the wound itself was something Alastor probably could have handled on his own with a mirror and steady hands. The problem was his current lack of steady hands, and the fact that he couldn’t look at the damage without hearing his own heart pounding in his ears.

The problem was that Alastor did not want to be alone at the moment, but he also didn’t want to put on airs for the rest of the night in front of a group of ecstatic fools.

He needed to exist without a facade for a few hours to lick his wounds and compose himself, and for that, he needed Rosie.

“Ugh, I smelled you coming from half a mile. What are you doing, walking in the rain? You and the drama, I swear.” The door opened before Alastor had reached it, and he didn’t protest when he was hauled into the darkened emporium by the elbow, then led diligently up to the living quarters above. “In, in, come on. Take off your jacket, I’ll get it cleaned.” He was herded through the familiar-feeling kitchen and straight into the bathroom, catching a glimpse of some fresh hands sitting half-chopped next to a stock pot. “Now, don’t be a baby.” Rosie scolded preemptively.

Alastor tried to ask why, but he was interrupted when she yanked his dress shirt off his skin, peeling the half-dry blood that had been holding things together. He uttered a muffled shout and pulled back, which apparently fit Rosie’s definition of a baby, based on her thunderous expression.

Defeated without a word, Alastor sat on the edge of the old-style tub, balancing a bit precariously on the rim of it. He stared at the ceiling, practically relishing in dropping the act, even for an hour. Of course he continued to smile, but it was flat and unaffected. After a few seconds, he blinked hard and refocused on Rosie. “Hello.” He laughed sheepishly.

“Hello to you, sweetheart!” She replied warmly, raising her brows. “I guess it all worked out in the end, didn’t it?” As always, Rosie didn’t pry, even though she was clearly interested and had a stake in the whole venture. Alastor loved her for it.

Alastor flexed his fingers and uttered a laugh that was more of a heavy tsk. “It did, as far as I can tell. I had hoped it would.” He replied curtly, uncomfortably aware that even his voice was flat and tired. The radio effect was too hard to keep up when his body was trying to stitch itself back together and the primary catalyst of his power was in pieces.

“Alastor, darling, only you would pick a fight with an angel and have the absolute gall to come back alive and still cry about not winning.” Rosie laughed. “Is that all this is? Embarrassment?” She poked playfully, and Alastor felt his ire rising like a viper, catching a light in his eyes even as he caught himself before snapping at Rosie, who stilled immediately. She gave a sympathetic smile. “Not just that, then. Are you gonna tell me, or do I have to guess?”

Both were plausible, because Rosie was better at putting feelings into words than Alastor was. Whenever he tried, he ended up flustered, or trying desperately to dance around talking about the actual issue.

“I can’ttell you.” Alastor said flatly. There was a crack in the ceiling that was going to drive him to madness.

Rosie tutted. “Ugh, of course you can’t. Always with the secrets. And the mystery.”

There was a fork in the road that Alastor hadn’t anticipated. He had the opportunity to blissfully brush Rosie’s questions off as he usually did, allowing her to believe it was simply for the sake of drama. Or this was one of the few opportunities he would ever get to confide… withoutconfiding at all, thus maintaining the damnable deal. “I can’t tell you.” He repeated.

“Yes, you said that.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“I know, sweethe— oh.” He didn’t bother looking at her face, mostly because he didn’t want to see her expression. It was humiliating enough for the knowledge to be shared at all. “Oh, I see.” There was a rustle of fabric and then Rosie was sitting beside him on the edge of the tub. “Well, let’s address what we can fix, shall we? No sense crying over spilled blood.” She tutted, taking in the ugly wound. Most of the bruising on his back and shoulders had faded to sickly yellow skin, but the open wound was still festering, bleeding in spots.

Alastor sensed that Rosie was on the cusp of saying something else before she reconsidered and merely set about pouring hot water into a shallow dish, muttering something about her sewing kit. That was what he liked best about Rosie - she was smart enough to glean what she needed to know from what Alastor was willing to say, and she was, unlike most, content with her answers rarely being answered directly. “You know, you won’t like hearing this, but you really are lucky you didn’t end up in two very cute pieces.” Rosie pointed out, moseying around the overlarge bathroom, which was so unnecessarily decadent it was nearly comical. She started to rummage in a cabinet on the far side of the room. “Lucky for you, I always stock up before Exterminations.” She canted her head with a beaming smile, brandishing several small mason jars.

“I know.” He smiled back, feeling slightly relieved already by the weight off his shoulders, knowing there was at least one person aware of his predicament. “I’m surprised your contact is still alive.” Alastor admitted with some interest, taking the first jar from her and sniffing it. The paste inside was pungent, but distinctly fresh-smelling, and when he scooped some out, it was a pleasant forest green color. It stung the shit out of his chest when he applied it, but Alastor knew better than to doubt anything Rosie advised.

“Oh, no! The first one’s been dead for years, darling. Ugh, bless him. Frederick. Sweet boy, very tender.” Rosie corrected with a hoot of laughter. “If you paid any attention to politics outside the Pentagram, you’d know that plenty of hellborn demons are happy to help!” She held out the second jar, which smelled like the ocean… or as close to it as Alastor could remember. “They’re always flicking back and forth to Earth anyway, so it’s not hard for them to pick up some ingredients! Especially hellhounds - their noses are perfect for this kind of thing.” She noticed the way Alastor’s lips curled at the mention of hellhounds and absently slapped the back of his hand. “Oh stop. Keep your biases to yourself.”

Alastor rolled his eyes but didn’t reply, because Rosie was correct and it was a personal bias that kept him from wanting anything to do with hellhounds. Alastor didn’t like the way they looked, or the way they smelled, or the way they sometimes made doggish sounds when he least expected it. “Are you not going to pry even a little?” He asked instead, sounding amused.

“Would that make you feel better?”

“Not particularly.”

“Would you be able to answer anythingI asked.”

“Probably not.”

“Well, then that answers your question!” Rosie chirped, clapping her hands down on her lap as she sat next to him again. “I do wonder what in hell would possess you to do something so stupid, but…” She patted his shoulder fondly, and Alastor had no desire to rip out her throat for touching his bare skin. In fact, he amiably leaned into her side. “Well, stupid is as stupid does, as I always say! You’ve always got your reasons, even if they’re shit.” Rosie chuckled, then gently squeezed him against her side in a loose hug. “I suppose the only real question that matters is if you’re okay.”

Alastor was abruptly brought back to his first meeting with Rosie, when he’d been in Hell less than a week and practically crawling between hunger and pain, having stumbled from one bad situation to the next for days on end. Frankly, Alastor attributed much of his current success to Rosie’s kindness in those first months when he had nothing to offer her and she still chose to house him and feed him.

Rosie was good. Rosie had his trust.

“No.” He admitted softly, after enough time had passed that Rosie looked surprised. “No.” Alastor shook his head, feeling his heart speeding up and starting to skip a beat or two along the way. “I don’t want to die.” He elaborated in a high, panicky tone, dragging a hand through his hair as his ears flattened against his scalp. The room felt small and airless. Wasn’t there a window in here? Why was it so hot? “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be at a disadvantage every single time.” Alastor added, speaking faster as his panic finally caught up with him, feeling like he had a knot tied around his throat, cutting off his breath. “I’m weak like this! I’m— they— I don’t need—” His voice crackled with interference and his eyes took turns ticking.

Rosie, who knew what to do in every situation, patted his hand calmly and was content to sit and wait as seconds crackled by. Eventually, when she seemed sure he wouldn’t sprint out of the room like a hunted animal, Rosie spoke up. “Well… I think that’s the risk you took, sweetheart, doing what you did. Aw, now don’t look at me like that.” She tutted when he wheeled on her with unprocessed anger brewing in his face. “I’m not saying what you’re feeling is wrong! It’s not! You think you’re the only one who’s probably scared to death with all this going on? Hah. Honey, please.”

“I’m weak.” He repeated hoarsely.

“To who? Some two thousand year old angel? Honey, we’re all weak next to that!” Rosie chided gently. “Or do you mean your deal?”

He couldn’t confirm it even if he wanted to, but his sullen look seemed to speak volumes.

“Hmm. Well, I guess that’s a little trickier…” Rosie sighed, standing up and pulling a small stool over from the corner so she could sit in front of Alastor. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.” He said tightly, lifting his chin so she could start sewing his skin together without his nose in the way. He sighed at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I can’t find a backdoor.”

“Mm, well, you know what they say: Every deal’s got a backdoor.” Rosie reminded him as she set to work. “I’m sure yours is no different. You just need to find it.”

Alastor winced at the first poke of the needle. “And what if there is no backdoor?” He wondered bleakly.

“Then you’re stuck, and you might as well learn to live with it.” Rosie laughed. “Not what you wanna hear, I know, but you could be doing worse for yourself, Alastor. Look where you are. Who you’re there with!” The needle dipped a little deeper than before and he hissed softly. Rosie didn’t seem to care as she chattered on. “That Charlie’s a little peach! A bit naive, maybe, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders. Stick with her, and I think it’ll work out.”

Alastor sighed, because Rosie was right (as usual), but that didn’t make her advice any less grating on his nerves. “Well, at least that won’t be a struggle” He muttered bitterly, then dragged a hand through his hair again, anxiously mussing his ears. “Maybe.” Alastor added as a brooding afterthought, knowing better than to try predicting the mind of any demon besides himself. The one holding his leash could change their mind on a whim, and he wouldn’t have any say in the matter.

Rosie hummed thoughtfully as she knotted the last stitch and nipped off the thread. “I see.” She suddenly had a third jar of something-or-other in her hand and dabbed it on the stitching. It smelled spicy. Foreign. It made Alastor think of some far-flung desert. “It’s interesting that you would say it like that.” Rosie laughed softly, taking his hand in hers before Alastor could think to pull away. “It’s so odd to see you worried. You really are fond of that little hotel, aren’t you?”

He immediately bristled, taking offense at the suggestion that he was blinded by misplaced affection for a plan that was, at best, wildly unrealistic. Alastor tried to yank his hand away, but Rosie had a grip of iron when she wanted, and he had a better chance of cutting his hand off than getting it back from her. “Oh stop, sweetheart. You’re so dramatic!” Rosie sighed irritably. “I wasn’t insulting you, so you can put your incorrigible male pride away for the time being. It’s not a sin to be fond of people you live with!”

“I’m not—”

“Dear.”

“I do not—”

“Darling.”

“I just—”

“Sweetie-Pie.”

“I’ve never—”

“Alastor.” He looked up at her sudden shift in tone. “Shut up, honey. You know how much I hate it when you lie. It’s an insult to our friendship.” Her smile was an unpleasant, jagged, and anxiety-inducing thing. Alastor deflated rapidly, ears flat against his head and shoulders sinking. “Thank you, sweetie.” She patted his shoulder warmly. “I think we’ve got you about as patched up as you’ll ever be.” She added as an afterthought, standing up and wandering out of the bathroom for a few moments, giving Alastor a chance to catch his breath, eyes pinched shut and expression pained by more than just the searing wound on his chest. Out in the main room, Rosie was talking (mainly to herself) about how happy she was to help.

“Of course, there isn’t much I can do for your silly little stick.” Rosie was still chattering away as she came back with his shirt and jacket, both meticulously cleaned.

“I didn’t expect you to.” Alastor laughed curtly as he pulled on his dress shirt, grimacing when the stitches strained against flesh. “That’s the next stop.”

“Well, best to get it all over with in one fell swoop, isn’t that right? No need to drag out your own suffering.”

Alastor shuffled his arms into his jacket, adjusting his clothes until he felt presentable enough to leave the sanctity of Rosie’s luxurious bathroom. “Oh, I don’t know. I imagine it’s going to be dragged out whether I like it or not.” He raised his brows at her significantly and she had the decency to at least appear sympathetic. “I continue to suffer for the fact that I have ever agreed to any deals.” He couldn’t help whining one last time as he was shuffled towards the door.

“Oh stop. It’s what, twelve hours? You can handle that! Look at you! You survived an angel, I think you can handle a television.” Rosie pulled him into a tight hug that Alastor reciprocated after a pause. “The door’s always open if you need it. Tell Vox I sent him kisses.” She added cheerfully.

Alastor grimaced. “See you in twelve hours.” He muttered, sucking in a long-suffering breath as he nudged open the door with his hip and slipped out onto the street, begrudgingly making eye contact with the stupid drone that was eagerly floating around in the pissing rain, one red light flashing rhythmically, just in case he needed even more confirmation that Vox was being, as the children would say, a fucking creeper.

“Well, you’re going to have to wait. I’m not tolerating you until I’ve eaten.” Alastor bared his teeth at the floating camera in what was more a snarl than a smile. “And I am not going to that ludicrous eyesore of a tower.” The drone, of course, didn’t speak, but Alastor was more than capable of having a one-sided argument with the fool on the other side of the camera. “You maycome to the hotel in one hour. Assess the damage and we can go from there.” He pinched the bridge of his nose irritably, unable to fully comprehend that he was still forced to adhere to a deal he’d agreed to almost sixty years ago.

Frankly, the fact that Vox still held onto it was pathetic… though Alastor had togrudgingly admit that he had no idea what he would do if he was left to his own devices with the tangle of wire and magic that was his microphone.

“You can go now.” He waved his hand at the drone, which made an unbearably happy trill with its motor as it followed him down the street. “Do you think I’ve forgotten how this works? You fix my cane and I go along with whatever absolute idiocy youforce upon me for twelve hours.” Alastor pointed angrily at the drone, which continued whirring cheerfully until a tendril of darkness crawled around it, sending it clattering onto the pavement. “That twelve hours starts when I say it does. Not when you feel most aggravating.” The drone blinked a few more times as the tentacle overcame its sensors and Alastor’s shape started to morph into something lanky and dark. “You may come to the hotel in one hour. Any earlier than that and ł’ⱠⱠ ₥₳₭Ɇ ɎØɄ ⱤɆ₲ⱤɆ₮ ł₮.” He snapped his teeth at the drone just before it disappeared into the void, then pulled back with an aggrieved sigh, losing all his ponce and drama immediately.

It was going to be a very long night.

[eva-and-jasper]

Beware of the Ides of March

Quadruple Trouble at the Shelby Mansion...

TW - Blood, Murder, Death

The two couples entered together, devious smirks all around.  Their host would have no inkling of the actual motivation behind their attendance. Had he, he might have considered revoking the gold leaf edged invitations that he'd had hand delivered to the ladies that were now entering his mother's mansion on the arm of a demon and an angel.

Instead his hubris had overpowered all and he'd sent the invitations.  Seeing them both now, a wide grin spread across his face.  Those that doubted him would soon come to understand that he could come to run the family business just as well as any of them.  He would show them, he would show the all!  And with those two ladies on his side, no one would doubt that he could pull in contacts and associates that would form an empire.

Jasper and Adriel knew they had little to worry about from the mortals milling about.  In fact, the mortals should be fearing them.  Only slightly less lethal were the women they walked in with, the witch and the grigori.  So, there was no fear that anything would happen as they momentarily left the beauties to obtain drinks from their host's bar.

With the latest bauble that Jasper had gifted her, a blood red ruby, around her neck, Eva was damn near untouchable, and Anna was a power immortal in her own right. Eva and Anna were the perfect juxtaposition of dark to light in almost all ways - magic, complexion, business dealings. They could both be ruthless and devious when the need arose, and it most certainly had this night.

For the next few hours, liquor would flow, conversations would as well, dances would be shared, and food enjoyed.  The end goal would never leave the mind or sight of the foursome, but they would allow themselves some enjoyment before the pinnacle of the night.

There was supposed to be an announcement at midnight.  One about the usurping of the throne of the Shelby dynasty. However, that announcement never would come.  

At a quarter til, Anna lured their host into his office with seduction she had honed over the years of having to distract beings in New Orleans.  The men were in the room, but kept to the shadows, they were mere observers in this endeavor.  Once the door was closed, and privacy ensured, Anna pulled their host very, very close.

“Michael, you really never should have double crossed Tommy, cher. I'm afraid you have to die now.  And then you can rot in Caligo.” Anna whispered it in his ear and then pulled back just in time to see his eyes go wide as Eva slipped her blade slowly between his ribs to embed it in his heart.

Both women then moved to the side, joining hands as they watched the life drain from Michael Gray.  A large crimson stain growing on the beige oriental rug beneath him.  Jasper and Adriel came to stand on either side of the two women. The quadruple being the last thing Michael saw as he slipped into the hereafter.

“Right then,” Jasper quipped with a devious smirk.  “Time to take this bastard down to Caligo.  Arioch is so looking forward to a new play toy.  He has a new cerberus puppy, you know, needs a chew toy.”  He winked and kissed Eva on the cheek before ripping Michael’s soul free from his body with a *pop*.  “Be right back, love.  Don’t want to keep the Demon of Revenge waiting, he gets testy, you know.”  With a wink, the demon was gone.

“He does enjoy doing that.”  Adriel chuckled as he waved his hand.  All fingerprints and memories of the foursome were removed from the entire party.  When Michael’s body was found, there would be nothing to tie them to it, and therefore, nothing to tie Tommy to it either.  Jean Pierre’s attorney was getting him released from jail presently on the trumped up charges Michael had orchestrated with the Bowery Boys from London.  They’d also brought over a few friends from the French Quarter to help him get some payback for that.

“He promised to take me to see the puppy tomorrow, I’ll have to give our regards to Michael again.  It was such a nice ending to the party.”  Eva smirked and winked.  The surprise on Michael’s face had been quite delicious.

“Want to join us for dinner?  We’re going to myst down to Tuscany for some authentic Italian.  I know an amazing cook down there that is over a century old and has some tricks up her sleeve.  You and Jasper are more than welcome to join.”  Anna smiled.  She was glad her friend had found a woman that complimented him so.  “There’s also a siren down there that needs a talking to, so we’re going to take a dip in the Mediterranean.  Always a fun time.  We like to do it naked.”  She winked at Eva.

“Now, how could I turn down an offer like that?”  Eva grinned deviously.  Naked fun with her demon was always a good time and if that siren looked at him wrong..well, accidents did happen and she knew Anna was always amused when Adriel had to fix things.  She and the other woman did get along so well.   Yes, this was turning out to be a very good night.

Eva Smith belongs to @evita-shelby

banners by: @cafekitsune

[hazbmymhotel]

Why does both A03 AND Tumblr eat my italics??? If you want formatting, I guess follow the link for chapter 3!

Otherwise head below the cut!

Chapter 3) Listen, Do You Even Know Shit?

Husker flattened his ears in irritation. Across his chest were bright rainbow letters: Be yourself. Unless you can be a lesbian, then be A LESBIAN.

“It's none of your fucking business, Alastor.”

“Oh-ho! You think after that little stunt, you can talk back to me that way?” Alastor acted as though blood wasn't seeping through the bandages on his neck.

Husk turned his head, flicking his tail. “Excuse me, Alastor,” he said out of habit.

“That's my shirt,” Vaggie snarled.

“I thought it looked cuter on Me,” Angel Dust told her, relaxing with his gun at his side. “But now I think it looks Cutest on Husker.”

Husk scowled at the lot of them. “I'm gonna go fuckin' sleep.”

“I'm sure we got this,” Angel told him, eyes fixed on Alastor. “I got some business to take care of first.”

Husk was already halfway out of the room. “Try not to get anymore blood on the walls.”

“No fighting!!” Charlie said quickly.

“Relax, Toots,” Angel told her, dropping his gun into Charlie's hands. “Do Mommy a favor and take this to my room, huh, Doll?” 

Vaggie sputtered. “She's not your personal–”

“Sure!” Charlie beamed, just happy the weapon was now out of dangerous hands.

Alastor stood, waiting with a bored smile.

He waited, staring at Angel.

“What the Fuck was that about?!” Angel finally shouted.

“Ah, there we are,” Alastor sighed. “Shall we talk in my quarters?”

“What? Now you wanna take me to your bedroom?! You fuckin' asshole, I can't believe you'd suggest this shit right now!”

“Ew.” Alastor looked at him flatly, save for his grin. “I believe I just said ‘talk.’ Get your mind to a more savory location, Angel…” he perked up, “such as My bedroom! Shall we?” The Radio Demon walked anyway, not waiting for a proper answer.

“Ugh!” Angel stalked after him, annoyed. He tried not to think about his lack of socks or slippers…no one was around to even glance at his feet, let alone stare. He looked at his own bedroom door as they passed it, wondering if Husk had tucked himself inside.

“Y'know, I should get dressed,” Angel said, feeling pensive.

“You're not in a rush for answers?” Alastor asked, stepping along.

“I don't wanna sit in my transparent fuckin robe and have you staring my body down while I get those answers.”

Alastor paused.

“Fair enough. Though I expect actual clothing, none of those hot pants.” Alastor shuddered uncomfortably.

“Fine. I'll be there…in an hour. A boy’s gotta look presentable.” Angel took Alastor’s silence as a yes, and turned to hurry into his room.

“Oh fuck, what the fuck am I doin’?” Angel undid his robe and tossed it aside. He didn't see Husk anywhere…which was disappointing.

“What did I even get myself into??” Angel pulled on a long pair of socks, feeling more comfortable with that barrier against the world. He sat back on his bed and groaned loudly, grabbing his face with four hands.

“Are you alright?”

Angel nearly jumped out of his skin. Husker pulled himself out from beneath the bed with a long stretch. He'd abandoned the shirt, but was in another of Angel’s ensembles.

“Fuckin’ hell, Whiskers! You almost scared me to death!” Angel sat up, looking him over. He had to struggle to keep his mind clear.

“Husker, are you just gonna wear all my clothes?”

Husk arched back on all fours, stretching his wings. “The last shirt was Vaggie's.” He stood and climbed onto the bed. “They're just clothes…are they special?” He looked down at himself, concerned he might ruin a piece Angel loved.

“Not until just right now, no.” Angel reached his hand out, adjusting the strap of the tight little top on Husk’s shoulder. “I didn't expect you'd put on girl’s clothes.”

“Clothes are clothes,” Husk shrugged. “Plus…I'm a lot cuter now than I ever was alive.”

“Mmh.” Angel just watched him for a moment.

Husk fluttered his wings slightly. “What?”

“I belong to you,” Angel said. “I belong to You.” He leaned over, cupping under Husk's chin. His heart shaped nose blushed red again, and Angel’s insides squirmed.

“What of it?” Husker asked, turning his head to kiss Angel’s palm. He stared down at the bed for a moment, letting his muzzle rest in Angel’s hand.

“I still don't…understand.”

“What?” Angel asked, pulling away to get dressed. He opted for a frilly dress with too many buckles to be practical.

Husk relaxed into Angel’s bed. “I don't get how you turned the tables on Alastor so fast..or…how you claimed me so easily…or how…” he struggled to find the words.

“How I broke my contract?” Angel provided. Husk nodded slightly, so the spider continued, “it's…complicated, Whiskers. I can't say I even know how to explain it. So much of it, from Alastor to, ah, us,” he smiled to himself. He started applying eye shadow.

“I followed my gut.”

“Fuck you. You didn't do all that on a gut feeling.” Husk sat up again.

“Ain't you gonna lie down already? I did. I swear. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” Husk urged.

Angel sighed and moved to blush his cheeks. It was odd to see the little x’s where three of his eyes used to be. It hurt, but it wasn't anythin’ he couldn't handle. “I…Listen, spiders aren't very common down here. We're all part of one big, fucked up family for the most part.”

Husk moved to the edge of the bed. “You got family down here?”

“Hah. Yea, plenty.” Angel made a sour face as he applied lipstick. “Buncha pricks for the most part. Save for my sister. I ain't seen her nowhere in hell…she's probably too good for it, see?”

Husk watched Angel quietly, admiring as he parted his lips to apply mascara.

Angel went on, figuring Husk was just waiting. “We had…lots to do when I was alive. And then the drugs got me. When I died, the fuckers still wanted more. You know how sinners are, I dunno, reborn? We all got special talents?”

“Yea?”

“Well, aside from suckin’ dick, I don't really…know much of mine. But my family all has a lot of skills. I dunno, it's fuckin’ magic oowooo garbage.”

“We're in hell,” Husk mused, “isn't all of this some magic oowooo garbage?”

Angel fluffed his hair. “Guess you're right. But…I ain't got a lotta answers. I'm gonna try and get some.”

“From Alastor?” Husk provided.

“Yea…maybe. Maybe he knows somethin’. Or maybe he'll just try to kill me as soon as I get in his room. But that shit he pulled with Val, callin’ me an overlord, that was out of line.” Angel stood up and slid his feet into one of his favorite heels. “I ain't shit.”

Husk stood and grabbed his lower set of hands. “That's just not true.”

Angel’s heart leapt into his throat.

“It's not.” Husk told him. “You've even said so yourself. So go give him hell, Baby. More hell.”

Angel squeezed his hands. “Thanks, Husker.” He held them for a long minute. “Is this where I get to kiss you again?” He brought out his third set of arms and lifted the cat. “I really want to.”

“You own me now,” Husk said, and they both leaned in.

Angel was the first to turn his head away. “There's no reason that should make me feel this good. I'm a goddamned porn star.”

Husk untangled his hands from Angel’s and moved them around his neck. “Maybe I'm just that good.”

Angel giggled as Husk peppered him in soft kisses, from his neck to the new empty sockets on his face. “Fuck, you're full of yourself,” he said breathlessly.

“You could be, too,” Husk said, quietly. Angel felt himself electrified from head to toe.

“I got stuff t’do,” Angel wheezed.

“Later,” Husk promised.

Angel twirled them both before setting Husk back onto the bed. “Listen, you're gettin’ me all flustered. Let Mommy do his job, huh?” Angel tugged Husk’s arms away, once again missing how it made the cat squirm.

“Yeah. Sure. Right,” Husk said tightly, letting Angel push him into the bed. He was even covered with a blanket.

Angel winked at him and finally turned heel, leaving the bedroom.

“Damn, all worked up,” Angel muttered as he took the stairs to Alastor's bastard tower. He knocked firmly on the door, hearing a cheerful:

“Come in.”

Angel did just that, walking into the space and frowning in confusion. “Alastor, don't you got a bed in here?”

“Whatever gave you the idea that I need to sleep?” Alastor's voice cracked. “In any case, welcome. Tea? My dear Niffty brought it up. I encourage you to have some, that is, unless you intend to strip my ownership of her, too?”

“Yea, no, it's probably fuckin' poison.” Angel closed the door behind him. “And you sound pretty pissy about the whole ordeal.”

Alastor's eye twitched, but he just sipped his tea. “You had questions for me, my dear?”

“Uh. Yes?! I'm pretty sure that was fuckin' clear.” Angel crossed his arms and leaned back against the door.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Alastor chatted as though they were old friends. “Do come sit. Surely I wouldn't be stupid enough to try and attack while I'm recovering. Right? Wouldn't you agree? And I like to pride myself in my intelligent choices.”

Angel glared at him, before giving a shrug. “Fine.” He strode forward in two large steps before sitting.

“I'm sure you startled yourself almost as much as you had me with your actions. I had never taken you to be quite so bold.” The deer said around the edge of his cup. “I dare say, I am impressed.”

“Impressed enough to call me an overlord?” Angel accused.

“Did it not work to intimidate your pimp?”

Angel relaxed, if only slightly. He raised his brows and glanced away. “I guess it did.”

“I believe I owed you a favor for sparing my life.” Alastor refilled his tea. “Are you sure you don't want a cup? It's lavender!” When Angel didn't answer, he continued, “we both know you had me. Even your adoration for Charlie wouldn't stop you from killing me…so what was it? A power play, perhaps?”

“I just.. didn't think it was necessary,” Angel rolled the words in his mouth, working to convince himself.

“Oh? But a deal with Me was necessary? That's so foolish, Angel Dust. Try again.” Alastor narrowed his eyes.

Angel crossed his ankles and grunted. He reached out for a tea cup, allowing Alastor to fill it. “You're a creepy son of a bitch, Alastor…but you're my friend. Ain't ya? In some fuckin' sense?”

Alastor sipped his tea, refusing to answer.

“I guess,” Angel swirled the tea in his cup, “I mean I think…I dunno. I guess I know you're still really strong.”

“Ahh, there we go!” Alastor chirped, “it's advantageous to keep me around!!!”

“Ain't it hurtin’ you to talk right now?” Angel sank into his chair a bit. He took a sip, and was surprised, “oh, this is good!”

“Yes, it's why I'm drinking it,” Alastor agreed. “And my throat is fine. I've certainly been worse off.” Angel couldn't tell if he was lying, but figured it was Alastor's own damned business.

“So…I guess goin’ back to overlordin. Where would I even, uh, lord over?” Angel asked awkwardly. “Or were you just gettin’ Valentino outta here?”

Alastor considered for a moment, glancing into his own tea cup. “I think you have…potential. I hope you know I don't say such a thing lightly. Though, you need to have more understanding. And this, I understand, will take some information gathering.”

“You're not talkin’ about readin’ books I'm guessin’.”

“Correct. I'm aware of the Spiders Nest. It would be foolish of me not to be.”

Angel mulled on it for a moment. “I don't really wanna fuckin’ go there.”

“Then squander your potential, as you always do,” Alastor sighed.

“That's a bit dramatic, don't you think?” Angel said with a huff.

“Well, are you going to find answers in a book?” Alastor challenged. “Or do you have a better idea?”

“I don't even know if I wanna do this shit.” Angel slurped loudly, sure it would irritate the Radio Demon.

Alastor rolled his eyes and leaned into his hand. “Are we not speaking candidly, Angel? Are we not friends as you said?”

Angel groaned. “Fuck off, Al, you just basically called me out for that.”

“Now, now.” The deer soothed, “surely you want to protect what you have. All that you have? You've just gained your freedom, more or less.”

“What do you mean, less??”

“You gave your soul to a washed up overlord yourself. What if our good friend Husker decides he wants power once more? He longs for it, you know.” Alastor set down his cup to gesture as he spoke. “It's what my deal with him was for. He's a pitiful, weak man. I can't imagine he'll be pleased as your little pet cat.”

“That's not how I see it!” Angel sloshed his tea as he slapped it onto the table.

“Oh, did I strike a nerve?” Alastor teased. “Surely you called it a marriage or some other such nonsense, but what do you truly know of Husker? And what if you find yourself weak? Will you allow yourself to be a pet? What happens if he gambles you away,” he wafted his fingers in the air, “like the thousands of other souls he'd handed to me. What then?”

Angel stood up, chair screeching against the floor. “I think we're done here.”

“Oh? Such a pity. You haven't finished your tea.”

“Fuck your tea,” Angel was out the door before finishing his declaration, “and fuck you!”

“Always a pleasure!” Alastor called, pleased as punch.

[phosphophy11ite]

Neon Genesis Evangelion Ep 7 "A Human Work" -> Analysis/review ^_^

the episode opens to gendo on the phone talking to someone who seems like a spy (and is later revealed to be kaji) about all sorts of sketchy things and messing up peoples' plans. the document below is shown, and the only english words i understand there are 'apoptosis' and 'apobiosis.' i'm not sure how significant these words are. apoptosis is when a cell self-destructs once it's been damaged beyond repair and is often referred to as cell suicide, apobiosis isn't a word used commonly or at all but likely refers to something about apoptosis. this word was probably lost in translation (or made up). i'm not exactly sure what these terms are referring to because i cannot read japanese, but it could have something to do with the angels, which are able to self-destruct at will. anyway, it seems like gendo has something sketchy planned. as usual.

the next scene is in misato's apartment. shinji, penpen, and misato go about their morning routine which involves shinji making breakfast and misato waking herself up with a cold beer and shower, much to shinji's disapproval. they discuss their plans for the day, which include misato going to shinji's school for his 'future plans day.' shinji asks misato if she's sure she can come, as she's very busy. misato assures him she doesn't mind and that it's all part of her job. shinji seems to interpret this as misato doesn't actually care about him, and that she's just working, though i doubt this was misato's intention with her word choice. she seems to notice shinji looking down after her comment.

at shinji's school, toji, kensuke, and the other male students gawk at misato when she enters while shinji rolls his eyes. toji and kensuke tell shinji how lucky he is to be able to live with misato. both toji and kensuke like to play at being mature, though the two of them don't know the slightest thing about women or sex. they certainly think they do though, and they see misato as the perfect woman. she's beautiful, smart, and badass. of course, only shinji knows she's a slobbish alcoholic with a pet penguin.

after school, shinji goes to nerv and trains a bit with his eva. he wonders to himself what the eva really is. he knows it's not an ordinary robot, as no ordinary robot has flesh or eyes or blood. he notes that the entry plug smells like blood as well. after his training, he rides the elevator with misato, ritsuko, hyuga, and maya. the adults discuss some classified nerv stuff (alluding to introduction of asuka next ep), and shinji is off in his own world, reading something. this scene mirrors the one in the first ep.

after this, we get to hear the truth about the second impact. gendo is away, and he is seen on a plane talking to a man about the evas and angels. from the plane, we can see the dark swirling red hole in antarctica where the second impact happened. ritsuko explains to shinji that the second impact was caused by an angel, and the truth has been covered up by the government.

the next day, ritsuko and misato travel to conference of another company/government branch (i forget which one exactly) is revealing their own mecha. this mecha does not require a pilot but runs remotely. ritsuko expresses concerns to the presenter about close-quarters combat and how the robot, named JA, is unpredictable and dangerous. the presenter counters this, saying that the evas are plenty unsafe and risky, as their child pilots could face severe physical and psychological damage. he also disses nerv, and ritsuko herself.

after the presentation, misato is pretty angry, despite not stepping in and defending ritsuko while she was being grilled. ritsuko tells her not to cause a scene, and seems rather unbothered. almost as if... she knows something is going to happen.... ouhhhhh

JA is now going to go on its debut run. everyone at the conference watches it start up, and pretty quickly it starts malfunctioning. JA won't respond to any commands and starts marching away from the control center. its core is at risk of exploding, killing anyone close to it. misato resolves to stop JA, and comes up with a plan to board it and shut it down. both ritsuko and the presenter advise against it and tell her it's dangerous, but misato's already made up her mind.

with help from shinji and unit 1, she boards JA and enters the password that's supposed to shut it down: ''hope". however, this password fails to do anything and she's met with an error screen. misato realizes that somebody who wanted JA to fail must have tampered with the program. she manages to stop JA from exploding right in the nick of time with brute force (i'm not exactly sure how she did it). shinji's relieved when misato comes out safe and is in awe of her bravery and strength, which are misato's greatest qualities.

in the next scene, ritsuko and gendo are discussing the events of the day. it is confirmed that nerv orchestrated the malfunction of JA, and the situation went exactly as planned except for misato's interference, which nobody had accounted for. nobody expected misato risk her life to shut down the robot. while it was pretty cold of ritsuko to not tell misato anything and allow her to risk her life, she probably couldn't have told her the truth even if she wanted to. nerv, gendo, and ritsuko underestimated misato's dedication and bravery.

the next scene takes us back to misato's apartment, where shinji and penpen gulp down breakfast and misato gulps down her beer. toji and kensuke arrive to pick shinji up and walk with him to school. toji and kensuke express their attraction towards misato, and shinji tells them they don't know the truth: "she's sloppy, dresses like a bum, and is a complete slob!" these traits are pretty human, but the fact that they surprise shinji is because while he doesn't really understand anybody, he understands women even less. he likely expects a woman to be pure and perfect, as he hasn't grown up around any women besides his nameless aunt and the pure memory of his mother. and because misato is a human and not some fantasy of a woman, he's shocked. neither kensuke or toji are concerned with misato's flaws, and even tell shinji he's lucky he can see them. shinji asks why, and they tell him it's because he gets to see misato's real self. it means they're family. this makes shinji smile. he does not smile very often.

the episode's title is pretty self-explanatory, though it could refer to a lot of things. a human's work could be the evas, could be JA, could be the second impact maybe.

[burningfeathersx]

Time, for most humans, goes one direction. Forward into the future. Some humans grasp the true nature of it. It goes all directions. Loops upon itself. Doubles back and weaves forward. A dream where nothing quite connects as anything more than a ghost of itself. You can't undo anything with the past that means anything. Try to control the future, too, and you've already lost that battle a second time. But what happens is--you're at it's whim. It's pleasure. Swept through the rapids so you best close your eyes and plug your nose. You're not getting a paddle let alone a kayak.

Sometimes, though, the perception of it shifts for an individual. Goes on too fast or too long. Or just the right speed. Reality is funny that way. Only as real as the photosensitive reactions in some jelly connected to a lump of electrified fat.

His parts are a little different. The principle in the same. He didn't have to breathe. Not without Duncan. Didn't want to. Didn't.

Until he saw a flicker of light bounce off the tie clip on Duncan's chest.

Time went back to the usual clip. He sucked in air and swung Alca the hardest he'd ever done so. He'd pulled his hits when he'd been fighting Michael on the Ledge before the Fall. He didn't now.

There were consequences. The barrier didn't break even then and all he did was send a rattling back slap of Newton's Law back up along his shoulders, into his chest, and made a bell of his own brain--whatever that passed for. He'd never seen it out of his skull.

It actually hurt a bit when he pinged backward into the other side of the dome with the rest of that return-to-sender kinetic energy. Knocked himself clean out.

Just before he could get any answers, too.

Jean, stunned by these evening events, only jump slightly when something heavy landed behind her onto the dirt. Turned out to be a chest she estimated could fit a basketball.

"Affix the contents to him." Ordered an age weathered voice. "When you are done, collect your payment from the last dead drop. I'll know if you try to cheat me. So, please keep your own good health in mind." Before the cellar door was dropped shut again.

Jean shuffled in place apprehensively. She'd just seen what she was dealing with in full. Her good health??? That thing would kill her given a quarter of a chance.

But she needed that money.

"What about the big guy!?" She shouted back through the wood.

"He will be taken care of when you leave while the fallen angel is collected. Now be quick." Then footsteps receded. Quiet enough she hadn't heard them come in the first place.

Jean gave herself the leeway of a final frown before getting to work. Cursing and mumbling and flinching every single time the contents of the circle so much as twitched. All told, the deed was done in a scant handful of minutes.

On the way out she finally noticed the blood pooling into the dirt near Duncan's head. She winced and tsked and took off her threadbare scarf. Stooping to tie it tightly around the man's head. Hopefully she didn't just kill a man. That hadn't been part of her bargain.

She fled up the ladder shortly after. Out into the cold evening sun to beat her track toward her reward. Unaware that Lucifer was taken and Duncan left behind to his fate.

[bloodiedbeloveds]

this got So Long and full of digressions about how dysfunctional the laurens family is, but i'm not sure we should apologize for that? our memory is unbelievably bad (plural things ✨) but after having reread the published fics & some stuff we said to friends, we have. some answers!

fun fact about us: we don't quite qualify for aphantasia, but we have abnormally bad visualization skills and most of the time do not try to visualize anything unless it is necessary. we are being so serious when we say that for about three-quarters of our fics, we do not figure out whether we are going with historical or musical appearances until we are trying to describe someone's hair (depending on the fluffiness of the fic, either their hair being petted or their hair being matted with blood).

anyway. re the wings question, we did not have a canon decision for that. it was important that they are not white (eleanor had white wings & the contrast between the two of them is very crucial to a lot of henry's neuroses about it. that feeling when you marry a pure angelic woman and your second son is a fucked up horrifying monster creature). apparently in august 2021 we were vacillating between imagining them patterned after a red-tailed hawk and the black-with-green-iridescence of some of the crows we get around here. idk he hides them so it hasn't come up a lot

funnily enough, before rereading we totally forgot about the antlers (this is probably because we have a lot of monsterjohn designs & our current main Fucked Up Monster John AU (which is ADBT and which we still haven't explained, remind us to do that!!!! it's relevant to your interests) doesn't have antlers until the Second Incident). anyway yeah! he has those, except that he saws them off every year. it is in fact important. we just forgot about it because our memory is abysmal and our head is full of monsters.

he actually has five eyes in total. the extra three are all on his forehead where they can be conveniently covered by athletic tape & makeup and isn't that nice and fine and not horrifying at all. we always imagine the central eye a little bigger but have absolutely no justification for this

okay so The Neck Thing. we forgot that we never textually explained that. it's important! he has a second mouth on his neck and the teeth in it are very very sharp and it's a whole thing. there are some references to it in not a perfect son, for example the following:

(this is about how john, as a child, almost always spoke either out of the mouth on his neck (which has a much more inhuman voice by nature) or out of both at once, in two voices at once. picture eight-year-old john, still shedding velvet, coming up to you with a frog trapped in his tiny hands and telling you about how he found it in the pond. blood on his antlers, five staring eyes, an ordinary child's voice echoed by a raspy high-pitched inhuman growl.

unsurprisingly, henry & society in general were not a fan of this (they are wrong and we love him). so he went through quasi-abusive speech therapy, but didn't really break the habit until he started trying to pass as human. can't talk with your lips taped shut.)

okay this is not that relevant to trying to draw him, but here's a random aside about henry laurens:

eleanor is nonhuman, but as mentioned before happens to be nonhuman in a way that is peaceful and nonthreatening. she has deer antlers and white wings and looks angelic and beautiful. henry expected his children to be about that nonhuman. he was expecting a brood of beautiful perfect angel children and instead he got human-shaped children born with serious health issues who all died very young and fucked up nightmare monsterkids. john was the second son, but the first eldritch son, and this is a significant part of why henry, despite loving john, has always been disappointed in him / blamed him, to some extent, for the fact that he feels the need to hide his children for the sake of his career.

another very significant reason, however, is that henry is horrified & disgusted by Fucked Up Eldritch Mouth Stuff. all his surviving children have something along these lines (polly has sharp wolf teeth, harry has fangs, patsy has several rows of teeth like a shark) but john's is the creepiest. henry never tried very hard to get over this and has never been able to move past the times john bit him playfully as a child.

unsurprisingly this messes john up a little. he was just a kid and he wouldn't figure out for years that his father is so distant from him not because of anything he did, but because of the body he was born with. he couldn't have ever been perfect enough to be wanted, because what he did wrong was exist.

anyway, re: historical vs musical-- again, we don't think about this most of the time & would be absolutely fucking overjoyed to see him either way. there are a couple physical descriptions in the fics published which align more with historical appearances, though, so that's allegedly canon but this is unimportant enough to us that we are vaguely surprised by this, so honestly the world is your oyster

BDTA verse is still, hands down, my favourite example of worldbuilding (and epistolary form, my beloved). I think about that John very often and usually I'm just giving him a big ol' hug and telling him that he should stay alive, actually. (I should draw him sometime.)

Anyway I was just thinking about him again, and thought you should know!

getting this actually made us cry, oh my god. this is so sweet & heartwarming!!! we haven't written bdtaverse stuff in AGES but you still think about him??? losing it forever thank you

(no pressure but if you drew him we would literally never recover [+ note that if you do actually plan to do this we will answer any questions about him always, we do not think there are super detailed descriptions of his inhumanities in the stuff currently published? we don't remember. it's been so long])

very valid thing to think about. he 100% needs that. fun fact about bdtaverse john: he has not been hugged in literally ten years