#was the rage righteous despite its needlessness?

[flagellant]

lmao the obesity article from huffpo you reblogged is so insanely incorrect

First off, the whole "Your body is just doing what it's supposed to do, you're fat because you're MEANT to be fat!" while also saying "about 40 years ago, Americans started getting much larger" hmm... Why only Americans? Why only 40 years ago?

That seems odd, that Americans, specifically, would suddenly change to being naturally fat. Even today America has a much higher rate of obesity than other places like Japan. How is that? Wonder what would be discovered if we looked at when things like beet sugar, corn syrup, etc. started to be commonly added to foods 🤔

And then the "diets don't work!" spiel, along with emotionally charged reports of people starving themselves until they passed out.

What diets specifically doesn't work? Were the people getting enough calories? Did they stop the diet, and then the weight came back? Did they start with small, gradual changes or completely overhaul their entire meal plan right away?

They say "95% to 98% of research shows diets fail" what research? What studies? What was the sample size? What were people eating? Were they given any help to maintain their diet or encourage any other healthy habits, or were they just given a list of foods to eat and sent on their way?

It sounds like ALL the diets they talk about in the article are shitty. People starving themselves, people doing useless fad diets, etc. and presenting it as if weight loss is IMPOSSIBLE. Which is crazy, considering all the people I've seen who lose weight, maintain the loss, and feel insanely better than they did when they were obese.

Maybe it's not that "diets" don't work, but that the diet industry doesn't work? After all, what would happen if they encouraged people to change their relationship with food completely, starting with small, gradual changes, and work on fixing their gut microbiome and cutting out unnecessary things from their diet like processed sugars, corn syrup, etc? Then people would lose weight. Then they wouldn't need expensive diet plans anymore.

And then the industry has no more customers. Just like if Apple makes phones that actually work and aren't pieces of trash, then they wouldn't be making money from people buying new iPhones every other year. Same with the clothing industry, and the pharmaceutical industry, and every other industry.

For someone who always talks about people researching things and checking out the sources on information before automatically believing it ya'll don't seem very good at it lmao

I'd like to start off with saying that I definitely agree with you in that the way the diet industry is structured exists to predate upon invented insecurities, just like nearly any cosmetics aimed at body alteration to some degree (makeup included). We also agree that it is fundamentally built to ensure failure and ongoing failure as a norm, in the same way that we're never going to get a proper cure for cancer when the cancer industry is so insanely prevalent and profitable.

That said, I understand your...frustration, let's call it, sure, about the fact that no, I did not do any further digging into this and took it at its word. You have my apologies for that.

However. I'd like to use this as a tool for transparency and assuming best intent. Your tone and treatment of me in this is rather hostile and I don't see the purpose that it serves. If I'm someone who claims to find accuracy in reporting important, then yes, accuracy needs to be had. And it was as simple as just Googling "95% diets fail". First result is an article from the NYT debunking it and explaining why it's a myth and bad statistics.

But that same article gets me to the heart of why I'm writing things out this way: you brought it up yourself, in fact, though in deciding to get petty you probably missed the subtext. For over forty years now these numbers have been used and spread around to the point where countless literal professional doctors don't have any idea that it's false. After all, we live in a society where diet industries have for pretty much ever been able to operate with nearly no regulation, fat people aren't actually given a shit about from medical professionals and are just told to get GPS, etc...you could even say this is a systemic issue which started long before I and likely you (and most reading this) were born.

Nobody learns these things on accident. You're absolutely right that if I looked it up and researched the claims I could easily have found out their validity to be nonexistent. But why would I? This isn't new research. This isn't anything that goes against anything I was ever taught. It's just a fact of life, just the way things are. People thought the universe was geocentric.

So with that said, I have to admit that while I've done my best to not vent my irritation at you or anyone else, it is deeply frustating, sure, we'll call it, to have you walk up to me and act in this way. It would be one thing if this wasn't a case of unlearning systemic bias and normativity. That'd be on me, absolutely.

But instead of thinking things through like an emotionally mature individual and going "Hm, this dude who says it finds research/accuracy important posted some stuff which was wrong, which I'm aware has a history going back multiple decades and is still going strong. Maybe the reason they didn't do any followup research was because they've lived their entire life hearing this same statistic over and over again and therefore thought that their systemic biases were accurate and saw nothing wrong because they couldn't,"

you decided to be a cunt for no fucking reason and you knew it because you had to go on Anonymous to hide any possible consequences coming your way for your actions. So thanks for informing me about this, I'm genuinely grateful and we, again, completely fucking agree ideologically, but/so fuck you for thinking that acting like a fucking 10th grader with a gotcha was a better use of anyone's time than just typing out "Hey that diet thing you reblogged is actually completely false if you look it up" to which I would have gone "Oh shit you're right, here's some followup research I did about this thing and how it's a systemic bias that needs to be unlearned".

[sareenademon]

Unholy

(A drabble of Ashrah and Sareena. I wanted to explore their philosophical differences. Ashrah is more black and white and Sareena sees the world in gray. So in her original timeline the Kriss actually drives Ashrah a bit mad, similar to Dark Raiden. I feel like we got hints of that in MK1. I’m interested if they’ll go that route with her character.)

In the dim, otherworldly realm, the vampire Nitara knelt before Ashrah, the holy warrior with her Kriss blade gleaming malevolently in her hand. Nitara begged for mercy, her crimson eyes filled with fear and desperation.

"No, please, spare me!" Nitara's voice quivered as she pleaded for her life.

Ashrah's righteous fury burned within her, and she raised her Kriss blade high, ready to strike down the vampire. But before the fatal blow could land, a swift and unexpected intervention came.

Sareena, Ashrah's own sister and a demon herself, rushed forward, her hand reaching out to halt the execution. "Ashrah, stop! The fight is over. There's no need to kill her!"

Ashrah turned toward her sister, her expression twisted in rage. "What are you doing, Sareena? She's a vile creature that must be vanquished!"

Sareena stood her ground, unwavering in her determination. "It isn't her fault she was born this way. As a demon, you should be able to empathize!"

Their voices clashed like opposing forces, and a heated argument ensued, each sister defending her stance vehemently. The fight had shifted from the physical to the emotional, their words like daggers aimed at each other's hearts.

"You are the one who taught me that we should be merciful!" Sareena reminded her sister.

Ashrah's face contorted with anger, and she launched a series of fierce attacks, aiming her Kriss at Sareena, who dodged with remarkable agility. Despite the difficulty of the battle, Sareena refused to back down. "Not to vile, sinful creatures like her!" Ashrah declared as their struggle continued.

Eventually, the battle reached its climax, with Ashrah pressing her Kriss blade to Sareena's throat, the cold edge threatening to draw blood. It was a tense moment, the balance between life and death hanging by a thread.

"What are you going to do? Kill me like you did Jataaka and Kia?" Sareena sneered, her words cutting deep.

Ashrah's grip tightened on the Kriss, but she hesitated. Sareena's piercing gaze challenged her, and the silence grew heavy. Yet, Ashrah remained still, her resolve waning.

"You disappoint me, Sareena," Ashrah finally hissed, her voice a mix of rage and pain. "I had faith that I could break you of your demonic habits, but you have proved time and time again you are irredeemable."

Sareena's laughter was sardonic, echoing through the chamber. "You think yourself better, sister? You, who seeks your own redemption through the needless bloodshed of others? You are a hypocrite Ashrah. I abided your delusions because you saved me, but I see now, you have lost your mind."

Ashrah growled in response, her grip on the Kriss blade tightening, but she faltered when Sareena gripped the enchanted weapon with her hand. Blood dripped from her slender fingers.

"Go on then," Sareena challenged, her voice laced with bitter resolve. "Kill me. But know that no matter how many you slay, you will always be what you were made to be—a wicked demon."

Ashrah hesitated, the blade trembling in her hand, her heart heavy with conflict. When Sareena finally ripped the Kriss from her grasp and cast it aside, Ashrah could do nothing but watch as her sister walked away, her path shrouded in uncertainty.

"Where are you going?" Ashrah's voice rang out with both rage and pain.

But Sareena did not answer, her steps echoing faintly in the forsaken castle as she moved further away, leaving behind a sister torn between her quest for redemption and the bonds of sisterhood.

[summonhouse]

did u know !!!!! i am . INTERESTED in your characters and u should Tell me all about them

WAA WAA WAAA (HITS YOU WITH BRICKS )

Heres two collections of characters .

housecats who ive detailed plenty recently. the perfect person/pp, xerox, catch 22, and amaryllis/no signal. they are (sans amaryllis) fiction aware interdimensional creatures. the perfect person is the hand of god (me as a writer) torturing and assisting fictional creatures, xerox serves to clean up forgotten and abandoned stories lest they become overrun by nightmares and void, catch 22 is the nightmares and void, and amaryllis is pps normal child.

pp's a righteous bitch, extremely erratic and constantly experiencing back and forth. to have personality while also being explicitly and only a tool for someone who enjoys hurt/comfort is existentially hellish; it cannot allow for any personal connection because it will inevitably be torn apart for some writer sanctioned angst. its also only able to do what writers are capable of and so could easily be written stripped of its powers and lives knowing it has to serve or be trashed (which it had been for a year until recently and is still recovering). xerox is nice and sweet, despite regularly killing people and fighting monsters and the other housecats being very mean to him. he wishes everyone had the clarity to enjoy their time on screen and submit gracefully when the curtains close as an inevitability. catch 22 is just miserable and wants to see everything end (as it cannot) so seeks to permanently ruin any story it could. it personally despises pp for reasons i actually cannot remember. something about stealing its partner before it turned into a creepy void centaur? amaryllis is pretty normal, half mortal and ignorant to the larger problems around it really. in canon verse its been kidnapped by catch 22 in the hopes of hurting pp or inspiring it to try and rescue it but pp actually doesnt really care so amaryllis has been left abandoned to rot away in the void. i like to think about what i call "normalverse" aus where that didnt happen and it grows up relatively normal. i think it has a very .. heady personality

heres characters for fibs story which im in the process of rewriting. i originally made it in 2019 and dropped it for 2-3 years and am only now picking it back up so theres a lot of reworking i need to do and explanation is mostly going to be recollection. its about a dog named fib (first guy), he used to be prince lye of the laurel kingdom before labyrinth (second guy), a malicious magical entity, teamed up with another canine to usurp his parents and tossed fib in a magical prison for a decade or so, where fib slowly goes mad. the usurper has since died and so fib has been released, but the magic of his binding has leaked into him and he is now cursed so that he cannot tell the truth, instead automatically saying lies which then warp reality into whatever he had stated. still he is the only one who can take title of king and now struggles to maintain control of his kingdom. he now goes on an adventure to try and track down labyrinth to reverse his curse, learning lessons along the way about self reflection, different nonverbal ways of communication, boundaries and expectations in relationships he has with others, and generally coping with immense trauma. cricket (third guy) hunts fib down during his journey; when fib was a normal boy, so was cricket, and they were young best friends before lye was imprisoned. with no clarity on the situation as someone new takes over the throne, cricket assumes that lye had simply ran away, abandoning the kingdom for worse as the new king subjected the kingdom to needless war, drafting the young cricket who dies on the battle field and resurrects through his rage, digging himself out of his mass grave and now seeking to kill fib. lie (fourth guy) is like totally nothing i just wanted to put him up there LOL hes some sort of spooky doll magical creature who seeks to manipulate fib by feigning kinship, for profit i guess

i love. to think and talk

[anika-ann]

Errare Humanum Est - Prologue

You Said You’d Catch Me (…If I Fall)

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2)       x Supernatural

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader    Word count: 3930

Summary for series: In which Steve is forced to solve an unsolvable dilemma and inevitably fails, Natasha is nosy in her attempts to be a good friend and it backfires and Sam Wilson is too old for that $#*!.

Also, Castiel is picking up strays from Heaven, leaving them to Sam and Dean to deal with.

Needless to say, it’s a mess, but when it looks like the God himself might be meddling, Team Free Will doesn’t have a choice. It’s not like they would just let the poor woman with amnesia wander off anyway.

(It is more angsty than it sounds, especially in the beginning.)

Warnings: swearing, very brief smut, violence, some blood, major character death (YEP), mourning, angst

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Don’t you ever bother, my child, trying to win the race against time. Truth is, my beloved, it is such a sore loser that it will never let you win.

-

Steve Rogers woke up with his head pounding so hard he was sure he must have drunk a barrel of Thor’s Asgardian liquor. Not that he remembered doing it.

With his brain in a haze, his hand went to sluggishly rise to his temple as if it could sooth the pain.

He had never sobered up as fast as when he found out he couldn’t do it, something holding his wrist by his side. His eyes snapped open only to be assaulted with a painfully sharp light. A half second later, he revealed he was strapped to a table.

Steve had no freaking idea what had happened, how had he got here or where ‘here’ was, but his instinct yelled at him to break the leather straps. He did so, easily, thanking god for the serum.

What the hell was happening? What the hell had happened?

He gritted his teeth with the effort to get his head on straight. Think, Rogers, think.

To his relief, the pounding headache was fading away, but it offered him no clarity. He couldn’t… he couldn’t recall why he was here and how he had got here in the first place. He wasn’t injured, he thought. If he had been, the serum pulsing in his veins, carved into every cell of his body, had done its job already. Except for his brain cells, apparently.

The last thing he remembered was you. Your laughter echoed in his ears, much brighter than the street and traffic lights illuminating your way as he was walking you home – his haven of the past few days as Tony’s frustration caused by a glitch in his system that he couldn’t figure out was penetrating the Tower’s walls, making the air harder to breathe in when anywhere in the building.

The memory of the twinkle in your eyes, when your gaze met his, automatically brought the briefest smile on his lips if even for a second as he had allowed himself to get lost in the past.

But then the brutal punch had come. Something had stung the back of his neck, an instant dizziness causing him to stumble.

Your horrified cry of his name and the darkness that had followed was like a slap, bringing him back to present.

He jumped to his feet, his eyes quickly examining the room. There was no one in sight. His stomach was squeezed by a cold fist of fear and not for himself.

Your name fell from his lips, silent and wavering.

Someone had drugged him. And you had been there when it had happened. Which, not to point a finger at anyone, but the fact he hadn’t seen anyone coming was totally on you, because when he was with you, he let his guard down, he allowed himself to relax, to forget. To forget who he was to the majority of the world, not to his friends and you.

With you, he was a plain old Steve Rogers, but people were always threatening Captain America’s life.

Fuck.

He prayed to God you were okay. He seemed more or less alright and he couldn’t decide whether that was a good sign. It could mean they had taken out their issues on you instead. His jaw clenched at the idea, the icy shiver that ran his spine in stark contrast to the burst of hot anger in his chest.

If anyone as much as laid their finger on you, he was going to rip their arm off.

Steve tried to shake off the dark thoughts and went to examine the room, this time with his heart hammering, feeling the pulse in his throat. There were two doors on opposite sides of the 40 x 40 ft. room, one to his right, the other to his left. Right in front of him him, there was an enormous screen, stretching along the whole wall. In the corner, there was a little camera. The red dot blinked at him, announcing it was on.

A fraction of second later, the lights in the room dimmed just a bit and the screen lighted up to life, showing a face of an unfamiliar man. He looked like he could use eating a sandwich or two, almost fragile body, deep-set tired grey eyes with wrinkles around them, greyish stubble covering his bony cheeks, contrast to the bald of his head.

“Captain! Good morning!” he greeted him cheerily. Steve squinted, trying to find a clue of what was happening. He could only see the man; not where he was or what was this about. “Good to see you awake. Some of us were getting worried you wouldn’t wake up. Isn’t that right?”

The camera shifted then and Steve’s heart positively stopped.

He lunged forward with his fists clenched on instinct only to realize it would help nothing.

It was you. You with a cloth tied over your mouth, strapped to a chair, a trickle of blood coming from your temple, a strap of messy hair sticking to it. Your cheeks were damp from tears, eyes bloodshot and full of horror. A bruise was forming around your right eye, your line of sight not meeting the lens of the camera aimed at you. Your dress and sweater were dirty and torn as if someone grabbed it too harshly and dragged you away; your nylons ripped, your knees bare and scraped bloody.

Steve didn’t even realize that the raging roar wasn’t only in his mind and actually escaped his mouth, his chest burning with hatred. You sobbed as if you could hear him and Steve understood he wasn’t the only one watching their soulmate.

“You’re a dead man,” Steve growled, causing your eyes falling shut.

While the image stayed focused on you, the man spoke up again.

“And yet I’m still walking…” the man hummed and to emphasize his words, he took several steps towards you – Steve’s feet twitched helplessly, wanting to stop him. But he couldn’t; he had no clue where he himself was, let alone you and that bastard.

He needed to think dammit. And he needed to think very fucking fast. His brain finally kicked in, immediately racing despite the trembles in his body – he couldn’t tell whether it was rage or fear.  When the man circled your chair and aimed the camera lower, Steve was suddenly certain it was pure horror.

There were explosives. There were explosives stuck to your chair and a timer set to two minutes; luckily, frozen. Steve was sure as hell it wouldn’t stay that way as a suffocating lump grew in his throat. He couldn’t breathe in.

The camera moved again, showing the man as he glanced at what Steve assumed was a screen like the one he was seeing, the one you kept watching. Steve didn’t bother wasting his brain capacity on trying to control his expression. The man smiled a toothy grin and Steve wanted to puke, his mind frantically fighting with the heavy stone in his stomach, screaming at him that this was you, his soulmate, basically sitting at a bomb.

“If you’re pissed off now, just wait for what’s to come.”

Pissed off? Oh, Steve was so beyond pissed off. When he was about to get his hands on this man, he wasn’t just about to rip his arm off. He was going to do so with all of his limbs and finish with the carotid, using his bare teeth.

The camera must have been set on a stand, still showing you, as Steve could hear the man shuffle around. The next thing he knew, the screen in front of him split in two separate images; one of you and the other showing nine frames of traffic cameras, all of them aimed at trashcans. Steve didn’t understand.

Yet.

Until the frame of you split into two, the other image showing another timer, simply lying somewhere in an empty room. It read two minutes. Frozen. Just like the one on your back.

Something ugly crept Steve’s spine, a hunch he refused to acknowledge.

“You see, you have two options now, Captain,” the man explained and Steve’s teeth grinded with effort to deny what was set in front of him. It wasn’t what he was thinking, it couldn’t be. “There’s a door to your left – close to your heart, of course…”

Steve’s hands trembled as the man walked to you and almost gingerly loosened the cloth over your mouth, only to tear a strap of your dress after that, revealing your soulmark. It was illegible from the distance, but it still sent a fresh way of nausea up Steve’s throat. A whimper escaped you.

“Pick the left door and save your soulmate. Or take the road to your right and be the righteous man everyone claims you are. There are nine bombs planted over the streets of New York. Busy morning, as you noticed, I’m sure. God, Mondays suck…”

Steve’s head was spinning.

The man was lying. He must have been lying.

“Oh and just so you know, your country is watching. Hacking is too easy these days. Ready to start the race?”

“Wait!” Steve blurted out instantly, catching the man’s attention. It was unfair how much Steve’s voice was shaking, but it was the least of his problems. “What… what do you want?”

The man frowned. “For you to choose. I’m sure you noticed the earbud I gave you-“ No, Steve hadn’t. Having a comm in his ear was a second nature now. “Don’t you worry. You’ll hear us the whole time.”

“No! Wait! There’s… there’s gotta be something-“

The man clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “The timer’s about to start, Captain. You better choose or you’ll lose both, her and tens thousands of lives I imagine. Life is full of hard choices, isn’t it?” he mocked him and this time it was definitely rage that overtook Steve’s mind and body.

Until someone new spoke up, scratchy, weak and weary voice that shattered his heart turned his stomach around.

“Steve? It’s… it’s okay. Go,” you creaked, your eyes shining with fresh unshed tears. It wasn’t the haunted look in your gaze that unsettled something deep inside of him. No. It was the dark resignation that laced the breath-taking colour of your eyes. “Go save lives. I… I knew I’d have to share you with the world. Frankly, I didn’t imagine it would be like this, but— you go and be hero. My life is nothing compared to thousands and we both know that.”

The world swayed off its place, Steve’s knees buckling, actually forcing him to stumble backwards and lean onto the table he was strapped to.

The fuck did you just say? With unshakable conviction no less?

“The clock is ticking now, Captain,” the man informed him swiftly, smile in his voice. It was like a punch to Steve’s solar plexus.

With his own shield.

“No,” Steve choked out, his glare darting from one door to another.

How could he even make such choice?! What kind of a twisted monster did this? Who was this man?

“Your soulmate is telling the truth, Captain, isn’t she? You are the hero. You always make choices to save people no matter how much it hurts you… if it hurts at all, of course. Maybe, maybe you don’t care-“

“Hey, I know you do!” you rushed to interrupt, a spark of life lightening up your face, but Steve’s hands only darted to his hair, fingers interlacing in desperation.  Your voice softened then. “It’s alright, Steve. I… I love you. And I’m so sorry it will hurt when I’m gone… but I believe in you. You can make it…”

“Yes, I can,” he growled, jolting to his right to disarm the bomb.

He could make it. He could handle the global threat and then rush to your rescue even if it meant he would burn to ashes shielding you from the flames.

His conviction only grew when he heard a familiar voice in his ear.

“Cap? Cap, can you hear me?”

It shook him more than the collision with the door. “Natasha?!”

“And company,” Stark supplied helpfully and Steve could cry in relief.

He wasn’t alone. He could do this.

“Can you disarm the bombs?” he panted, nearly faltering in his steps in relief.

Could Steve leave the nine explosives with one trigger alone and save you?

“Ah, look at him, Americans. The original Avenger, rushing to everyone’s rescue. Looks like he has some assistance, but that isn’t going to help. The choice was made. What is one life compared to thousands? Maybe she doesn’t even matter to him, does she?” the man interjected again and Steve gritted his teeth, pushing to his very limit to speed up.

The hall was narrow. No other possibilities – just running straight ahead. He felt like his mind was anything but straight, buzzing frantic images and dark scenarios. Your voice, ironically enough, was not helping.

“Steve, don’t listen to him. It’s okay. It’s okay…”

“Tony? Can you get rid of the bombs?” Steve repeated, gulping when the billionaire didn’t answer right away.

“No.”

Steve’s world crashed that moment and he wanted to scream.

Alone it was then. He had been alone before. He could do this.

“Romanoff can help you disarm it, we have… ugh, great visual of the corridors and of you thanks to the guy. I’m on my way, but it will be a really fucking close call.”

Steve mentally nodded, swallowing his fear. No time for fear now. Later. He could fold like a house of cards later. He wasn’t alone after all. He had freaking Black Widow and Iron Man at his disposal.

And finally, he reached another door. He burst into the room, his shoulder crying in protest when he broke down the door and stumbled in.

The room was plain, identical to the one he woke up – except there was the timer on a table.

01:02

01:01

“Natasha?” he howled as he sprinted to it. “Talk to me.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard.” She sounded confident. That was good.

That’s good, Steve’s mind echoed as he bent over the timer, swallowing thickly. Jesus Christ.

“Alright. I need you to rip off the blue wire at the same time you pressing the button on the left side of the timer. Got it?”

Steve only nodded, not taking a second to breathe in and think it through.

He just did it.

The red numbers of the timer flickered on 0:54 and died. Blood ran cold in Steve’s veins. He couldn’t hear any explosions, but that didn’t mean anything; God only knew how far from New York they were.

“Romanoff?” he hissed, already spinning on his heels and springing towards the corridor that had led him here.

“We’re clear. Run, Steve. Get that son of a bitch,” the redhead shot back, her voice sharp, but with a quiver of worry. Steve didn’t like that in the slightest; Natasha was rarely worried.

It was when the man who had assaulted you informed him he was still watching.

“Oh, silly, silly man,” he lamented, a patronizing note to his words. “Do you think you can make it in time? Don’t be stupid. You made your choice. Deal with the consequences.”

“Fuck. You,” Steve strained through his teeth, his feet barely touching the ground as he dashed through the hall, flashing the enormous monitor in his wake-up room a brief look as he headed to the second door.

It barely gave in as he ran into it, sickening crack echoing the empty space and vibrating his bones. Sharp pain jolted through his shoulder and arm; he was certain he just broke something.

It hurt. It would heal. He couldn’t fucking care less.

“You’re running out of time, Captain… you’re always out of time…” the man nearly sing-sang in mockery, making Steve push harder.

“Steve…” Tony’s heavy voice sounded emotionless through the comms and it felt like a slap to his face. “I won’t make it in time.”

Steve snarled, his lungs burning, his heartbeat pulsing his whole being, but he refused to throw himself off balance by even shaking his head in desperation. He ignored the icy fist that squeezed his insides.

He had to run.

Tony’s voice urged him then.

“Steve, there’s no way you can save her either. The lab’s gonna blow up in seconds. Get out of there.“

“Shut up!” the captain growled and as if it wasn’t enough, your captor let himself known too, counting down.

“Five.”

Shit!

Steve really would have to shield you from the explosion. That was gonna hurt a lot.

Well, though luck. He would burn before giving up on you.

He could see the door at the end of the hall now, his muscles crying with effort, his eyes burning with unshed tears or desperation.

He had to make in time to get you of the chair and cover you!

“Cap! Get the fuck out!” Natasha cried out in his ear, but Steve blatantly tuned it out.

He would have ripped the thing out of his ear, but that seemed like too much effort for now. He had more important goals.

“Four.”

He clenched his fists, bracing his body for the impact as he would throw himself against the door.

“Three.”

Pain erupted in Steve’s other shoulder as he collided with the metal, the door flying in the room with him.

“Two,” sounded on his right as he barely kept himself upright, quickly scanning the room. You were there, still on the chair, twenty feet from the door. The man stood by your side, hand on your shoulder, his head tilted to side with curious smile. “Hi there, Captain. One.”

Steve’s glimpsed the horror in your eyes, perfectly mirroring his own.

“Steve!” three voices yelled at the same time as he lunged after the man.

A fraction of second later, his body was thrown backwards with a shockwave, feeling as if on fire.

And then there was nothing.

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He nuzzled his nose to your hair, perfectly blissed out.

He learned to love Sunday mornings. Before he had met you, the day of the week had made no difference to him; he would wake up at 5:45 and get ready for his morning run and the only indication of something being different had been the amount of people he had been meeting on his route. Saturdays had used to be rather crowded, but not Sundays. On Sundays, people had idled. And you had convinced him to do the same.

It hadn’t required much effort from your side; especially after the first time Steve had got to make love to you. Since then, most Sunday mornings were reserved for lazy rolling in the sheets, exchanging sloppy and sensual kisses, wandering hands and lips and finding paradise in your bodies entangled.

He reached his peak shortly after you – because you always came first, an unintended pun, one Steve had made when he had been being absolutely sincere about your pleasure being the priority and you had laughed at it until your belly hurt – and now he wished for nothing but for cradling you in his arms for little longer.

His palm was sprawled on your stomach and he used it to bring you even closer, half-heartedly trying to convince a certain part of his body to stop reacting to your intimate position.

Too late, judging by your chuckle.

“Steve,” you whispered, rubbing your bottom against the hardness, apparently deciding to torture him sweetly. God, he would take every second of that torture and begged for more if it meant hearing you moan his name like that. Christ, this got him going.

You shifted in your position, catching his mouth with yours, fingers of your hand interlacing with his on your hip as you rocked into him once more.

Steve could die a happy man right there as he felt your heat, your tongue shamelessly twisting against his. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who was insatiable today. He moaned to your mouth when your hands sneaked between your bodies to guide him in and a shot of ecstasy made him arch his back at the contact.

Your smile was lost to the moan that left your lips.

“I love you,” you whimpered and Steve didn’t waste a second before returning the words, even though they paled under the actual force of what he was feeling with you. Love had never felt this intense before.

That was when the alarm blared, annoying and intrusive sound that had you both crying out in frustration.

Steve had forgotten about the brunch you had arranged with Ryan and his boyfriend.

“Turn it off,” he whined, locking his arm around you to keep you close.

“You know I can’t, Stevie,” you replied, not less annoyed than him. “Looks like we need to go back to reality.”

The intrusive beeping continued as Steve slowly blinked his eyes open. His eyelids felt unnaturally heavy. So did the rest of his body, which seemed to be hurting in too many places at once.

It took him few moments to assess the space he was in – lying in a bed, a beeping machine by his head, wires leading to his body, an i.v. in his arm. He knitted his brows together, reaching for the needle – it must have been why his body was so heavy and his mind so fuzzy.

Sharp pain erupted in his arm and torso, low hiss escaping his lips.

“Careful, Cap,” Tony’s voice brought Steve’s attention to the door where his friend was standing, slowly making his way to the bed. “You got yourself a lot of burns. If it wasn’t for the serum… you’d be a toast.”

“Burns?” Steve creaked, his throat scratchy.

When had he got-

Burns. The kidnapping. The choice he had been forced to make. The explosion.

Everything came rushing back to him in a horrifying fastforward.

“Did-“

“You saved lots of lives, yesterday,” the billionaire informed him, serious and excessively soothing.

It didn’t calm Steve’s suddenly rapidly beating heart. This wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. This wasn’t what he was asking; he knew that much. His thoughts were on you.

Did you survive?

“Did… did she-?“

Tony’s grim expression and solemn shake of his head told him everything he needed but didn’t want to know. Everything he refused to acknowledge, because it simply couldn’t be.

“No,” Steve rasped, his throat burning as much as his eyes and the rest of his body when he tried to sit up, his stomach twisting.

No. This couldn’t be.

It couldn’t, but somehow he already knew it was the truth. You would have been here by his bedside, watching over him. Or you would have been the first thing Tony mentioned, updating Steve on your condition.

Steve remembered with painful clarity the terror in your eyes before everything had gone black. The explosion. You had been in the centre of the room, the bomb basically strapped to your back.

“I’m sorry-”

“No,” Steve repeated stubbornly, setting his jaw tight so it wouldn’t tremble. “She’s… she has to-“

“I’m sorry, Steve. I… I really am.”

The crushing weight on Steve’s chest made it hard to breathe in, his throat closing up in effort not to scream. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears threatening to spill.

No, no, no… someone please wake him up from this nightmare. Please. You had to be alive. You had to, because otherwise… otherwise-

Otherwise he had failed you. Otherwise he was alone in this world again. Otherwise his heart was shattered and he would rather if it stopped. Otherwise his life was thrown back to the shadows he knew after coming out of the ice and further, kicked down to a pit of complete darkness. Otherwise he lost his soulmate.

“Please, leave,” Steve strained through his teeth, not bothering to open his eyes.

You were gone. You were gone, your body burned to ashes in the explosion Steve hadn’t stopped in time. He felt like the bomb exploded right inside of his chest, ripping his heart to shreds, pulsing pain pumped though his veins.

He heard no protest, only a sigh from the other man and a click of a door.

Only then, the first sob shook his whole body and he let himself to break down.

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Part 1

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Well… that’s a really long prologue, I know. The chapters should be shorter from here.

Title – inspired by Halsey’s Without Me

Thank you for reading!

Please don’t hate me... it’s a Spn crossover, put two and two together ;)

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Tags: @cxptain @smilexcaptainx , @murdermornings @irepostthingsiwanttoseelater , @polarcrystall @eliza5616 @rayofdawnworld @victor-criss-bish @skychild29  @elysianecho @simmisblog @scentedsongrebel @orions-nebula, @sergeantrosabellaswan​ @songofcosplay​, @ilovesupersoldiers​ @wxstedhexrt​ @silver-winter-wolf​ @nova3312​  @guardian-tn @janieavalos, @vxidnik​

Hello there! Like I said I would, I kept the taglist. If anyone wants in or out, DM me or send an ask :-*

[mwolf0epsilon]

Can you write a short dark fic for the pairing Joey x Henry, where after Henry threatens to leave the studio, Joey snaps and kidnaps Henry and turns Henry into a perfect Boris or Bendy so that Henry would never leave his side, please?

Summary: Joey Drew couldn't ever take 'No' for an answer, much less when it came from the object of his ill-fated obcession.

---

[[MORE]]

When brought into the world children were never inherently cruel. They were curious and blunt, which often resulted in uncomfortable situations for those they interacted with, but overall younglings were empathetic at heart until reshaped and redefined into something otherwise.

The world was a terrible influence after all, and it could marr even the purest of things.

There were exceptions to this rule however…

Joey Drew had certainly been a curious kid. Unabashedly blunt too, with how often his innocent words cut deep into both his parents and peers.

But not once did he empathise enough with others to be considered a kind child.

If anything, most others his age had steered clear from his company, finding the mellow kid with the great big toothy smile to be unsettling on an instinctive level. Children were, after all, capable of sensing evil. Even in its stages of infancy.

So imagine everyone's surprise (Joey's included) when Henry Stein decided to befriend the town's most infamous little black sheep.

Kind bleeding heart that he was, Henry had thought it unfair that others would judge another as strongly as they judged Joey, so he'd taken it upon himself to make the kid next door's life a little less lonesome.

Give him what he surely needed: A good and caring friend.

Needless to say, he regretted that decision more than anything in the world...

It hadn't always been so bad. Once Joey had actually been a friend to him, and cared enough to look after Henry when he'd most needed.

Now however? Now Henry could barely recognize the monster behind that unnerving grin...

The burning selfish desires in those sapphire blues, hidden behind an half-lidded expression that was reserved to feign a serene and caring persona…

As charming and handsome as Joey looked (because he'd always been unnaturally pretty, even when going through the awkward stages of puberty), Henry couldn't help find his apathetic and selfish nature abominably hideous.

Especially now as he brought him the results of yet another failed experiment.

"I'm getting closer dear friend." He held the snapping, snarling little beast at arm's length, this failed mockery of Edgar barely looking like the adorable cartoon spider he was meant to be. "Soon I'll be able to make you perfect, and then we'll be back together as the dynamic duo we always were..."

Henry shuddered at the thought, tightly curling in on himself as he watched Joey end the poor creature's miserable existence. His bowl where his meals were served clattering loudly, as the inky heart of the slain critter was tossed onto it with precision. A mimicry of flesh thumping against the metal with a wet splat.

He fought back the urge to cry as he felt his mouth water.

"Eat up my loyal wolf… We can't be wasteful." Joey's cruel smile almost ruined his appetite. Almost. "Don't worry, this wasn't anyone you knew…"

With that said, Joey left him to greedily consume the offering.

Looking in the bowl's reflective surface once he'd licked it clean, Henry found that he could barely recognize himself anymore.

His stretched out face progressively becoming less and less humanoid as he was fed the experimental failures of Joey's horrid machine, and his pale hair having long since turned black and begun to spread.

He looked like what one would envision Boris the Wolf to look like in some lovecraftian fever dream. Dressed in ill-fitting ripped clothing, and barely able to balance a pair of cracked glasses on the bridge of his elongated nose.

An inhuman beast that fed off of the misfortune of others, losing his humanity as time passed on by.

He wondered if he'd forget himself eventually. If he'd forget that the devil in disguise that was Joey Drew was to blame for his malformations.

If one day he'd actually grow to love his captor in the same manner that Stolkholm syndrome victims tended to do, once brainwashed into submission by their abusers?

Another shudder forced a garbled whimper out of his deformed face.

To whatever god that could hear his broken pleas, he sure hoped not.

Henry didn't want to give Joey what he wanted.

Not when that monster of a man had taken him away from his family to keep as some sort of freak show pet.

Playing some sick version of house with the "puppy" he sustained on a cannibalistic diet. Disgusting.

Curling up, Henry cried himself to sleep. Thinking of his wife and children.

Missing them terribly while locked up in the bowels of Joey's demented studio.

-

The Ink Demon wasn't bad company, Henry had found. It seemed to understand his pain on a level no other creature did, offering him what little compassion it could whenever Joey dropped by with more "food".

It feared and loathed that devil of a man just as much as Henry did, and it knew to be kind despite never once being treated with the same sort of respect.

The one positive of this odd kinship between the two, was that Joey seemed pleased by them forming the sort of bond Bendy and Boris had. Thus never getting in between their interactions.

"One day soon, it'll all be just as I envisioned." He'd purr as he pinned the bound inky wolf to the ground, touching Henry in a way that made him want to gag, and rip the rat bastard's throat out with his horrific set of doggish teeth. "Just a little more and you'll be perfect."

He didn't want to be perfect.

All Henry wanted was to kill Joey Drew and go home.

"But first, I have a surprise for you." A surprise that came right after this twisted display of "affection". This gross invasion of the abominable wolf's personal bubble.

Joey presented him with an absolutely Perfect Boris.

Overalls, pie cut eyes, soft velvety fuzz and all… no signs of dripping or asymmetrical proportions.

The terror in those eyes however… it was all too human.

"I told you I'd find a way to reach perfection. Once I've finished tweaking the process you'll be just as perfect as him… Maybe more." Joey purred. "I miss your voice after all, dearest friend. Until then I give you this fearful pup to do with as you wish."

Upon his tormentor's departure, the cartoon wolf scrambled away from Henry. Shaking like a leaf and whining pitifully.

A child, Joey had converted a child…

Hell hath no fury like the righteous rage of a scorned father.

That bastard would pay for all he'd done!

But first, the large and deformed beast that was Henry Stein carefully scooted over to the shaking Boris clone and comforted him as best he could.

He'd protect this poor pup, no matter what.

The Ink Demon seemed to be in favour of extending that same grace, although it did still go for the kill when the less than agreeable ink monsters came around looking for trouble.

-

Buddy's transformation had certainly enraged him when Joey presented the poor boy to him. Sammy's and Norman's fates however were the last straw to break the camel's back.

Most of the people that worked at the studio were strangers to Henry, but the young musician and the oddball projectionist had been friends to him.

With every stranger's heart he consumed, the large beast of a wolf grew more and more restless. The revulsion he felt when looking upon Joey growing into an all consuming desire to violently murder his captor.

When a faceless ink creature wearing only suspenders and a Bendy mask came in one day to bring him his meal however…

"My lord wishes me to feed you, oh Great Lupine... Abyssal Hunger of the Ink's Abyss…" The body shape wasn't one he recognized. The slight arch to the creature's legs a bit strange to look at, and the four fingered hands an indication that something strange had definitely come to pass in this poor madman's transition into his current state. But that voice…

"Shhh...Shhaaammiieeee…?" His voice had returned as a dissonant mess, one that was not fit for a gross mockery of a muzzle like his own.

"Is… Is that my name, oh Hungry One?" There was both fear and hope in his voice. That in itself made something twinge painfully in Henry's chest. "I… Yes, yes that is my name isn't it? Sammy… I… oh thank you kindly, Benevolent Wolf. Please, feast upon your meal. I have worked hard to acquire it in the name of our Lord, your most wonderous companion."

What had Joey done to Sammy Lawrence, the proud music director that had more than half the mind this mindless drone had? Good heavens, what had he done that completely broke the poor kid?!

Rather than voice his horror, Henry did as he was told. After all the more he ate, the more his gluttonous appetite grew… as did this horrid body he was stuck with.

Abyssal hunger indeed…

He forgot what shame tasted like, but not mercy.

As selfish as it may be, he did request one thing.

"It is as you wish, oh Hungry One… I shall protect all pups that enter my lair." The Prophet bowed once, twice and then trice as he took Buddy by the hand. "Another horror skulks in the darkness, wearing an Angel's face. She hunts wolves, for fun. I shall show them your mercy."

He trusted that Sammy would keep his word. He was as stubborn as they could get, after all, and did not back off from a challenge very easily.

Henry would miss Buddy's company though.

That particular encounter was bad on a moral level, but it did turn out alright in the end. When the Projectionist was presented to him as a play thing however, Henry had begun to crack. No one deserves such a horrible fate as to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Norman had once carried a world of unimaginable knowledge on his back.

Now he only had the painful weight of a projector on his neck, and the volatile temper of a mindless beast.

The deformed wolf had done his best to gain the creature's trust, but it feared being attacked far too much to let a nearly 20 foot inky monstrosity near itself.

Self preservation hadn't completely left the Projectionist it seemed.

He'd let it go, hoping doing so would be a sign of good will on its own.

And then when he'd been once again left alone, Henry continued to stew in his anger. Talked himself into showing a rarer more violent side on Joey's next visit.

Even tried to fight back against him the next when he tried to touch him.

This was a losing battle however… After all, Joey Drew couldn't ever take 'No' for an answer, much less when it came from the object of his ill-fated obsessions.

Henry Stein just so happened to be his biggest obsession. Even as this horrifically imperfect monster that only an equally horrific demon could ever hope to understand.

[englass]

Holy Gold

Pairing(s): Polyseed x Deputy

Warning(s): Moral ambiguity, mentions of murder, blood, sexual thoughts/interpretations, possessive thoughts/interpretations.

Word Count: 4,230

A/N(s): Been working on this for months now and it had me stumped for a good while; wasn’t sure where I wanted it to go. It’s definitely been a labour of love though, I’ll say that. Any likes, reblogs or feedback is more than appreciated!

- - -

There is something peculiar about the deputy. Everyone notices it, can sense it in the subtle shift in the air as they enter a room or confrontation; all eyes turning toward them in a magnetic draw that traverses any form of reasonable comprehension. Air pressed down by a heavy pressure that is swiftly eased by a lighter touch, dunked underwater only to be pulled into the cool embrace of newly birthed air. Their presence on par with a spiritual baptism, enlightening and unburdening. Catching on forgotten instincts, profound and unnamable.

Even away from conflict and in a more public setting – out in the wild where they are the most at ease – people can still feel that distinct air, can see it like a slipping glamour in the way they move and hold themselves. A controlled certainty in the slightest movement, a pivotal purpose that holds them tall and hauntingly regal; an old deity in a tale now lost to time. The sweet and evocative scent of a freshly watered earth hangs off of the young deputy like a heaven-forged shroud, cotton soft and compellingly serene. Oozing a reposeful safety and a forbearing reassurance.

People can even see it in their eyes. An abstruse gleam that ripples like a pebble skipping across the surface of a vast and empty loch. Their honeyed eyes a hidden cenote filled with mystic treasures that reflect the iridescent wink of lonely stars. A concealed sorrow twinkling benignly within the depths of their veiled eyes, watching the ripples, as they throw an enigmatic glance; silently eluding but never telling. A fond and near teasing smile on their lips, a secret not yet shared.

And that never will be.

Even the Heralds of the resident cult, key figures in this long-awaited plan, know that this rookie deputy is not all that they appear to be. There is so much more to them (old and pained and lonely) than appears at face value, but what that is even God’s chosen messenger cannot say. They are a special kind of child, that they do know. In need of righteous guidance like any other member of God’s shepherd’s congregation. But they are different, they are something special. God has told him so.

They are a painting posed with resolve and weighted by troubles unseen, bowed to a higher authority that cradles them as lovingly as a mother would her babe. Littered with many meanings and interpretations, clues scattered and inconspicuous like the remnants of an old world in the shadows of the new dawn. Joseph Seed wants nothing more than to tear that picture down, peel back the canvas to look inside, and discover the truths that the rogue lamb so selfishly clutches with greedy hands.

God has whispered to him of their significance, hinted at it as vaguely as the deputy speaks. Spoken of their attachment to this polluted world, how they refuse to bend to the task they have been divinely given even though it is a plan long in the making. Their loyalty to this world is boundless, and as much as they long for a time past they cannot bring themselves to destroy the one they have worked so hard over. It is why they hold still, buy time, and barter over the fates’ of those that are still yet undecided; those that could be saved. No matter how futile the endeavour.

They have amassed an abundance of experience, secrets from times gone and nonexistent, that now aids them in their own self-appointed task; goals not yet fully known. Yet, despite their newfound use, they are still secrets, theirs to keep and look upon, theirs to weep and toil over. And weep they surely do; their sorrow unmissable. It is a glue that keeps their determination so strong, keeps them high and raised with an aura of assurance, never arrogance, in the face of certain adversity.

It is because of this accumulated wealth of garnered experience that they are so efficient at their sworn duty. Why the Voice whispered in the remnants of an osculant tone, that is only ever felt and never heard, with a sensation of forlorn surprise, known betrayal turned resignation, brushing against Joseph’s edges as the deputy came forward that destined night. His words, existing within the cosmos of ideas, leaving his prophet cold.

Oh. It’s you.

No matter how Joseph asks, begs and prays on the crutches of a wavering faith as his flock perish under the jaws of roaming wolves, the Voice does not answer. Letting him stew in the many possibilities that such ambiguity creates. Although, the chosen prophet does take notice of the change within the Voice; the edge of a scolding twang vibrating through the air, tinting it with a parental disappointment as the deputy marches upon His prophet’s people; against His awaited plan.

The Voice does not outright speak of the deputy, of who they are or exactly what it is that their duty entails, nor give a number to the secrets they have banked, but It does concede in the slightest brush of an absent touch that they are wayward. The knowledge they are in possession of a burden that no one else but they can withstand; but that it has also wounded them the sensitivity of mortality. Their position, and all that surrounds it, whatever that may be, is sacred. Even when coated sour in the wake of this rebellion.

And Joseph can believe that, and not just because the Lord has told him so. The weight in the deputy’s eyes, even through the film of a picture, is a turmoil unexplored; treacherous and unfathomable. There is a deep sorrow, a scratching want, and a dormant rage that swim with the fluidity of an eel beneath the reflective lakes of their eyes. Each blinking star upon the surface a new flare of emotion, another tale within an untold saga, all obscured from view; distorted in the ripples.

From what the Lord has told of them to Joseph, shared what little pieces He can of the lonely martyr, and what the prophet has heard from the conflicted whispers of his flock, he believes he understands the part that they are meant to play in this long promised prophecy. What their role may be in this divine scheme.

And Joseph refuses to be denied any part of it; any part of them. He will see it through, see them down the path God has dictated they walk. The Lord’s chosen lamb was always meant to be his; his to nurture and coddle, his to guide and direct and to heal. A child should not be without its parents, nor be keeping secrets from said parents; and the secrets of the deputy are vast and unnamable.

No doubt they will need to be cleansed, shown the path to atonement so that their burdens may be unpacked from their weary vessel. Gifted the opportunity to seek salvation and acceptance in the arms of those that will listen and truly love them unconditionally. The lost gleam in their auroral eyes given new life under Joseph’s promised salvation, and the love they would share; the love he was promised and they are bound to share.

Yet, the price for such hypocrisy is a steep one, for gifts are nothing more than veiled investments.

Herald John knows this better than anyone, and still his hypocrisy runs deeper than the bed of the darkest seas. He preaches beliefs and teachings that he does not practice, pounding pulpits with the fervour of a man with too much power and zero regard for the responsibilities that follow it. He claims to be another sheep in the flock, another humble follower looking for salvation, yet he wraps himself in self-aggrandisement and forces needless suffering upon those who are brought before him on bended knees.

However, for all his flaws John does not stray too far from his brother (his reverence for Joseph‘s praise exceeding the one he should hold for God), nor his desires concerning the elusive deputy.

John has always been exceptional at reading people, finding their truths, washing out their real colours, and scrubbing the numerous sins that stain their tainted souls away. A master at his own deep-rooted hatred and resentment, twisting it into a deranged form of salvation that has him mutilating all those that come to him; some willing and others not.

The deputy is just another sinner. Another poor soul that has not yet been warmed by The Father’s light, lost to wander a blackened void where sins fester like mould. They must be cut from it. They must atone. They must be shone upon by the light of The Father, dragged from the depths and forced under its righteousness. Wrestled and hauled and torn asunder so that they may emerge free from the cage of their own transgressions.

At least, that’s what John thought. That’s what he believed. But he knows now. John sees a lot more than people give him credit for; a lot more than what other people see in general.

On the surface they may be another sinner, another drowned vermin that John would take an abundance of pleasure in squeezing until they have bled out across his floor; grin manic in questionable ecstasy as they spill secrets like viscous liquid, bright and raw and unavoidable. Holding, bending, twisting, pulling, cutting until they have been broken down to the core, shredding through inhibitions like a power saw through iron-forged bars. Soul laid bare for him to reap like a God-given harvest.

But the deputy... they are different. John can see it. The bars to their cage have long been eroded, their sins nothing but rust. Grounded down and then forged into a courage that does not drool over the spilling of life. Wielding a dedicated fury and a divine mercy within each hand, scales even and in balance, at peace in their coalition as they kneel side by side beneath the reigning banner of ‘Deputy’.

John is not close to said deputy, does not know their stance on God or religion, but he knows they have been touched. They radiate a glow that is not there, move with an elegance that outshines the noblest of steeds and the craftiest of snakes. Holding strong despite the burdens at their back; the world trembling in the knowledge that they could bring it all down should they share in those veiled troubles, yet they choose not to.

Instead, they ease the suffering of others while they drown beneath a disembodied pressure. Offering assurance to even those who are undeserving of it. Reaching out with a tender touch and a slipping smile as they whisper with a forgiving hush, stars submerged in the water of their eyes, that it’s okay, that you don’t have to worry anymore; everything will be okay.

It was never your fault.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

Let me save you, John.

And John believes them. For some inexplicable reason he believes them – trusts them, as surely as he believes and trusts in his own brother; their words a cooling hand on blistered skin, a refreshing drink after days without. Their accent holds and nurtures and pleads for an alternative to the path they walk, a raw passion built from the fury of their mercy as they compel you to listen and consider. Never forcing you on bended knee, making you bow your head in subjugation toward them, but raising it. It is personal and close and strikingly reminds him of his brother. They are just like Joseph.

Only their edges are cashmere soft and universally merciful, not forged from broken pieces and laced with eclipsing threats. Tones rigged with a soul-tearing disappointment. Instead they are cleaner and sweeter than the freshest nectar, pure in their sincerity and melodious in their understanding. Yet, so distant and doleful. Ancient and unexplainable. Thunderous in their ire as they are restless in their compassion.

And John wants to crumble at their alter. Wants to lay praise upon them a million times over, until his throat bleeds raw and his hands are carved white. He wants to sacrifice the sinful, flagellate the faithless, and swear himself beneath their reigning banner. Purge his hunger for materialism and drought his thirst for bloodied salvation so that he may collapse wantonly within their tender embrace, mouthing at the swell of their fulfilling fruit that they would so submissively offer him, creating a safe haven solely for him within the cradle of their thighs so that he may sate his thirst by drinking deeply from their divine deluge; allowing him to take and indulge as he givingly and exclusively explores the plains of their sanctity. If only they would let him (he’d be good).

They could ask him to sell his soul, to let them own it and do as they sordidly pleased with it, and he would scrape his knees in order to thank them for that privilege. If only they would give him the opportunity. They could ask him for anything, to reveal every detail, no matter how small and no matter how petty, about himself and he would not miss out a single day. Someone could hurt them, desecrate their purity, and no matter how they pleaded, begged that he rise above the corrupted, he would descend in order to enact his own form of rightful punishment; carved in blood and formed from rusted iron.

He would let the world burn if it meant he could have them. He would rather Joseph be wrong than risk losing them and the gift they so graciously offer him with hands outstretched. He would do anything for them, for no one but them, and all because they are different, because they can see and they can understand; because they are something special. It is not a sin, it is not lustful, if it is with the divine; it is praise and it is worship. And if his family cannot accept that, cannot accept the love that he so greedily wishes to feast upon, then he would rather forsake them with reluctance in his blackened heart and blasphemy for their false god on his vile tongue than lose his sacred deputy.

They are heaven sent, divine in every way, and John only wishes that they would keep their light upon him. Remain at his side and bless him with all that they are as he would surely do for them and more. All jagged lines begging to be filed down to a smoother edge by their loving guidance. They can teach him, show him the love that he is so sorely lacking and desperately searching for. The love that his older brother says will change his fate. He knows they can offer that to him, he has glimpsed it, tasted it in their sweetened words and smelt it within their rain-fallen proximity. He knows they would. He just needs them to accept him, for them to allow him this greatest of gifts.

Show to him the path that they speak of with an ethereal reverence, guide him down that fate changing road with their fingers interlocked in a picture of genuine love and intimacy. Just the two of them, for no one else but the two of them. Only that is not what they do. They cannot walk that path with him, only show it, stepping away the moment he is on it (no, don’t leave me). The journey is his alone to make. They can only watch and follow and steer him back when he falls astray. They are not meant for him. They are meant for all who are lost, who are troubled, who need direction in the dark. He wants – needs all of those things and more, so, so much more.

But what about them? What do they want? Who is there for them?

Surrounded by companions that sing their praises with insipid tones, uninspiring and lacking in the true majesty that they deserve. John could do so much better, could give them so much more. He can see the void in their far off gaze, a lonesome lake that makes the iridescent stars in their eyes shimmer like glitter and gold. He can hear its echo in their voice, a forlorn undertone that murmurs between the splinters. Pleas that they know with regretful smiles will go un-listened to.

John’s brothers and makeshift sister are left conflicted by the youngest brother’s shift in attitude toward the deputy, his growingly frenzied need to capture them stirring a mixture of emotions within the crooked family.

Joseph is mutely elated by the interest and selfishly wishes to know everything that John has gleaned from their wayward lamb, every touch and word and utterance they have been gracious enough to bless his broken brother with; anything that may draw them closer to understanding the troubles that plague their lost and weary child. Joseph knows more – silent whispers gossiping in nonexistent tones around veiled words –, but also less than John (we can’t have that).

The eldest brother, Jacob, on the other hand is wary of his siblings fevered interest. For a sheep can still bare its teeth like any feral wolf.

Unlike his siblings Jacob has seen a lot more of the tactile deputy than either of his brothers, or his farce of an adopted sister, have. Not necessarily in terms of time spent in person, but rather through the monitoring of their actions and all that they interact with; every person killed and saved, every battle lost and won. And the picture this deputy paints for Jacob is a very different one to the piece that Joseph preaches so sweetly of – a soul to polish and love and make his own – and that John chases after with a desperate abandon – his to love and cherish and worship with bloodstained offerings.

Jacob’s deputy is a tactician looking down upon the board, places held by pawns marked with nicks and notches. A sharp eye for all that is seen and all that is not.

Jacob has run them through his trails, thrown them into the pits with his wolves, both literal and otherwise; beastly soldiers with copper on their tongues and flesh on their teeth. Corralled and trapped them in a room stained with viscera and littered with chalked bone, cracked and whole, under a twinkling melody that chisels the cave of the mind into a tunnel directed at a singular purpose: to cull the weak, and all those that threaten them.

Yet, they hardly budge. Standing tall with a stilled expression, remorseful shifts of water in every glance, in every flowing action and blow that merges into the next; streams to rivers and rivers to lakes. But Jacob is nothing if not observant, and he catches the sunken sheen of ice, glistening within the star filled void of their auroral eyes, with a stilted breath. A primal glare buried beside a dormant rage.

Despite the compassion they twirl like a finely crafted staff, the gentle hands they may outstretch with a tranquil smile, they also brandish a blade forged from hell-risen flame. Merciless in every swing, vicious in every trigger pulled without a single glance, and cruel to every cowering wolf that they hum and hush to before snapping with a loving smile; soft words of praise to their corrupted souls, horrors made real, before freeing them with a sudden flick. Their smile a brand worse than any nameable scar.

Just like God is all merciful he too is equally as wicked, his mercy a cruel mistress which knows no bounds.

The scales even and in balance.

Jacob can see the duality within the deputy a lot clearer than his siblings, the caring murder of his brother’s latest version of Faith a testament to that, and suddenly the eldest wolf of this pack begins to shift his paws, head tilted and fangs flashing; interest peaked and curiosity gained. And when his chosen hunters finally capture the miscreant deputy, an easy endeavour that Jacob questions with instinctual suspicion, they merely smile at him. Sitting amongst the dead and dying, hand placed upon the pale pallor of a sickly man, they speak in a tone that barters no interruption; quiet and calm, but weighted by motives unknown. A dangerous hint of something more undulating beneath the waters.  

You don’t have to keep fighting.

They’ve lead you down the wrong road.

Faith doesn’t play a role in our game, Jacob.

And Jacob does not doubt them. War is a game that harbours little need for faith, for having faith does not win you wars. Faith is – and was – a loose end, a means of control over the weak and worthless. Jacob knows it. John understands it. Joseph does not, but the deputy certainly does. They understand the need to remove the pitiful and undeserving, when to save a life and when to extinguish one. When to turn your back on those that can no longer rise, strength diminished to an exhausted lick of fire.

It is why Jacob is unsurprised when he turns away, catches the soothing murmur of a poisoned prayer, then hears the echoed crack of bone and the rattled wheeze of a final breath; a life stolen and claimed under a monochrome mercy.

He merely chuckles when he finds their cage empty.

His brothers however are less than amused by the loss, their respective rage and disappoint rearing their heads like threatened cobras, eager to tag and reprimand, but Jacob hardly cares. They do not see what he does; their poor, sweet deputy a warrior who understands the battlefield, the plans laid upon it, and the stakes at which this hunt is played at. Chips made of flesh and bone placed upon a gambled tactic, an uncertain move that can lead you to certain victory; or down the wrong road.

While his brothers chase and pursue the slippery deputy – the days drawing on and turning to weeks, creeping toward the fall of the month – Joseph starts to wonder if his own subdued hunger toward the mystery of a deputy is actually a blessed gift or a veiled curse from the Lord himself; each sibling stepping off their labelled path. In a way it is a blessing, for his brothers are not motionless husks strewn at his feet; but it is also a curse, for how will the promised Collapse occur without the spilt blood of fallen martyrs staining a broken seal.

Yet, when all stand as one, a trifecta of blood as they each stand united in the presence of the other, does the deputy come before them. Content amongst the screaming birds that flock toward the distant north, the screech of warning sirens piercing the thickened air. Eyes placid pools that sparkle like dying stars, glittering off the treasures they conceal in the wounded chasm of their soul; endless and bleak and shielded by a smile that speaks in different tones. A whisper forgotten in the void of time, the echo of one without a home, a broken cry of a fractured spirit; the lonely whine of an abandoned child.

You don’t have to be alone anymore.

I only want to save them.

You have to believe me, Joseph.

And Joseph wavers. The sincerity of their plea resurrecting a long silent doubt. His brothers praise and respect, and Faith’s gentle removal, causing him to question the only companion he had for the majority of his difficult life; the Voice’s guidance and promises for the future the only thing to give him hope when all else seemed dark and dire.

The sky rumbles, the wind roars, and the ground quakes; and through it all the deputy stands before them like an immovable tower within the storm, unconcerned by the approaching destruction and the liberation it will bring. Expression fierce as the world begins to burn (an unplanned variable in a well laid scheme). Hand outstretched toward them all, palm skyward, in an unspoken gesture; a silent offer.

John lunges for their hand.

Jacob prowls to their side.

Both call in a blended mixture of panicked, excited and hurried tones to their dispirited brother.

And all three follow as their peculiar deputy leads them to the gates of their promised salvation; beneath the earth and into the womb of their metal tomb. The brothers arm in arm, never to be separated again, huddle close as they hold and cry and preach in equal measure; all that they worked for finally coming to bloom. A prophecy made true. Not as intended, or as foretold, but true all the same. A far better outcome than the many that Joseph had once envisioned.

And as the deputy watches them, iridescent stars drowning beneath the darkened water, something shifts in the lonely loch of their eyes; a ripple upon a still and empty pond. The bulwark breaking as a serpent born of ancient sin skims the surface with withered scales, fins rotted and horns splintered. Their eyes flare, water dyeing, as a hidden geyser drools a molten sunset; lips tilting, twisting with ill intent and the sweetening taste of a ripening revenge, as the lake in their eyes droughts into a scorching sea of holy gold.

[ofcupidslove]

Discord Chat: All’s Fair in Love and War

SUMMARY: Cupid and Belphegor meet up at the charity gala for what seems like a good time, but the fun quickly evaporates when Cupid sees Wrath leaving the party with War. Cupid asks for Belphegor’s help in ensuring that the lovers do not cause another messy conflict. TRIGGERS: Violence, Depression, Death Mentions, Family Drama WRITTEN WITH: @ofhellsbells, @ofdivinerage, @warbegetswar, @ofwarriors, @mcrninqstar

WAR loved parties, not because they were particularly fun at their base. She didn't care about the charity that this Gala was funding, and the dancing was pretty boring. What War liked was the potential for disaster. Parties stirred up drama, and War loved that. It was just a matter of finding it, and with so many of the princes here, she felt like it would be an easy find.

Aamon: He'd spotted War the moment she walked into the room. He was well acquainted with the Horsemen given how much rage went into forging a war, but he was surprised to see her in New York. Was she expecting some trouble here? Michael, that golden halo'd asshole, had stopped the last bit of potential fun by restoring the balance. He hoped War's presence here meant a return to fun. "Alex," he greeted her like an old friend. "Where have you been hiding?" he teased as he ordered a drink for her.

War: "Aamon," she greeted with a smile. War was always happy to see Aamon. The other princes of Hell were fun too, but Wrath was great for a war. "Oh, you know. I'm wherever the wars go. I'm almost offended at how little trouble you seemed to have started here though." She sighed and shrugged. "It's fine. We'll fix it."

Aamon: "Ah, you should've been here a few months back," he grinned. "We caused a whole imbalance shift just by being here. You can imagine I had some fun with that," he replied, taking a sip from his own mug and leaning against the counter. He'd experienced such an influx of souls into his kingdom during such a short time it was mindboggling. New York was swimming in its own putrid rage. He found it to be beautifully chaotic. "Michael's own dull personality naturally put an end to the fun, but you know I'm always up for a good night out," he grinned as he gave her a sidelong look. "What did you have in mind?"

WAR rose a brow, intrigued by the statement. "Really? Shame I didn't get the memo for that one. That sounds like just the thing that could've been the start of a war. I would've liked to have seen it." Of course, wars could actually start without her, but the best and biggest ones required her presence to really kick off like they should. Apparently that had been one of them since there didn't seem to be any actual war damage. War rolled her eyes. "Of course he did. He's always butting in his head where it doesn't belong. I hope it ruffled his feathered ass though." She smirked. "Oh, you know, for now I was thinking just a little fun on the town. We could see a bunch of beefed up men hashing it out at each other or maybe just find some regular crowd and make them go at each other. I've never been picky about stirring up some trouble. Just as long as its not here." She nodded her head at some of the angels she recognized. "They'll just spoil things."

Aamon: "Hmmm," he took another sip from his mug. "I hate to tell you, but it seems both Lucifer and Michael seem intent on avoiding a war this time around. Lucifer's got some human detective he's found himself attached to and Michael...well, spend a minute in a room with him and tonight's magical entertainment and you'll see for yourself." His brothers were, quite frankly, boring these days. Aamon chuckled at the feathers quip. "The whole thing certainly ruffled someone's feathers. Word on the street is he had to cleave off the wings of another innocent angel just to get the magic juice needed to restore balance. You know what they say, some skills are ne're forgotten," he shook his head bitterly. A wolfish grin formed over his features as War suggested they cause a little mischief. He'd of course already done so by placing a generous hit on the gala's host, but the Horsemen didn't need to know that just yet. She was right about his brothers. Should they find out, they'll put a stop to it all. "You know, I do love a good fight. New Yorkers are quite aggressive, I'll give them that. Earlier today, I had two men fighting each other and the police over who gets the taxi cab."

WAR: She rolled her eyes. Michael, she could understand. Despite the fact that they both were leaders of armies, War and Michael never seemed to get along. War actually had some admiration for Michael in the way that he could fight in a war, but beyond that, she was just annoyed at how much of a buzzkill he was about "needless wars," as if there ever was such a thing. She didn't think he actually used those words, but she could see it in his eyes. Lucifer, on the other hand, wasn't someone she would've expected to be so intent on avoiding a war. "I'd heard of love making people do crazy things," she chuckled. "Some of the best wars happened because of romance, but still, Lucifer used to be more fun." She sighed. "Maybe if they remembered how short those girls' lives are compared to their own, it'd change things," but she doubted that. Still, it wouldn't hurt to see them getting all concerned about their little play things. She glanced over at the girl Lucifer was attached to. "I might have to pay her a visit later tonight. See what the fuss is." She doubted there was much to it. "And people paint your lot as the bad guys?" She shook her head. "Of course he would never just sacrifice his own wings. Can't let himself lose even an ounce of power, right? It's not like he's one of the most powerful angels around regardless of his wings. Oh wait." She rolled her eyes once more. Personally, she didn't blame Michael for not using his own wings. She wouldn't have either in his shoes, but she knew the importance of roles. What was one lowly angel compared to the importance, the force, and the pure raw energy of Michael? War grinned. "Hmm. I know you do." She could picture it vividly in her mind, or maybe she just remembered feeling it when it happened. "But you know, we could do more than two. What do you think? The crowd here, where we could be interrupted, or we find another crowd out there, maybe not as large as this one, but just as fun."

BELPHEGOR didn't often take their male form. They generally felt like people were less likely to cause them harm and were generally just nicer to them when they were female. Tonight, Belphegor felt secure enough to show their male form. He didn't just find a comfy corner to sleep in. He walked around and actually talked to people.

CUPID: She swayed around the room with a champagne flute in hand. Not only was love in the air, but also mischief. With this many of her siblings in one room there was bound to be some hell raising. She saw Lucifer and his partner down by the bar looking cute as can be. Did they really not see it? I mean, come on. And then there was Gabriel, making heart eyes at a suave looking man. Good job, honey. She winked at the angel as he caught her eye, but let him have his moment in peace. Her smile grew as she spotted Bell in their male form actually making conversations with the guests. Cupid flashed them an encouraging thumbs up, always giving them the option to come to her if they needed a break from the exhausting task of socializing. She continued to survey the room, worried eyes pausing at Aamon and War. That was a match made in the darkest pits of tartarus if you asked her. She hoped for their sake they would at least keep it cordial tonight. "Quite the turn out here, huh?" she asked the person beside her. "I guess everyone likes an excuse to dress up." 

BELPHEGOR hadn't expected to see Cupid here, but he recognized her easily while he was mid conversation with one of the guests of the party. He waved at her when she gave him thumbs up. The gesture might not have been much to most people, but after questioning so many things about himself and his father and his family lately, the reassuring gesture managed to fill him with a bit of pride in himself. Sure, Belphegor didn't do much, and just talking to people like this was kind of exhausting, but he felt like he was doing a good job now. If this was good enough to be approved by Cupid, he had to be doing pretty well for himself. After finishing talking with the guest, Belphegor made his way over to Cupid with a big grin on his face. "You didn't tell me you were coming," he pointed out, though he didn't really seem upset about that fact as he wrapped her in a big hug.

Aamon: It was no secret Aamon disliked Michael almost more than he'd disliked God himself. Michael was nothing but Father's self-righteous little guard dog. No amount of Hail Mary's could clean the blood from his hands. He had to admit, over the years, Lucifer too has gotten softer. "Love has made him soft. The more time he spends on Earth, the more mortal he gets. It doesn't help that Cupid is now here too," he replied as he glanced toward the crowd where he could see Bells embracing Cupid. "You know she'll only encourage it." He smirked as War mentioned that his brothers needed reminding of just how mortal their love was. It was moments like this that reminded Aamon why he enjoyed War's company most of all. "Hmm, stick around, Alex," he smirked as he brought his drink to his lips. "I've got a little trick in the works that I think you'll enjoy. It's a slow burn, but I think you'll like it." He drowned the drink and shook his head. "Michael's no different than our Father. He only fools himself into thinking he's a good man." Aamon didn't hide behind false pretenses. He was who he was and he was proud of that fact. He bowed to no Gods, not anymore. The demon prince surveyed the room as War spoke. She was right. Their fun would be interrupted here. "You know who else happens to be aggressive?" he asked her. "Sports fans." The stadium happened to be right across from the gala hall and there was a game tonight. "It's been a good while since I've caused a good riot."

CUPID: She squeezed tight as Bell hugged her. She'd missed him so much she didn't want to let go. Out of all the Archangels, both former and current, Bell was always kind to her. Rank never mattered to him. He didn't treat love like a nuisance, in fact, he was filled with it. She could tell that despite some of his fears and doubts, deep down he loved his family so much it hurt. Even centuries after the war, Bell was still fighting with that hurt every day. "I hadn't planned on coming, honest. But I mean," she giggled as she elbowed Bell and nudged her head at Lucifer and Chloe. "How could I resist. Look at that," she blew a chefkiss. "I'm not even doing anything and they're being absolute saps. I love it," she grinned. "And look at you!" she smiled as she appraised her brother. "Absolutely dashing. I would not have missed this for the world."

WAR frowned. She herself had a few loves in the past. They were generally great warriors she'd met and fought alongside, though occasionally it was just the ones with a strong fighting spirit that she felt the urge to protect. Unlike with Lucifer, it seemed, that love didn't make War week. Of course, she could turn anything into a war. She fought to protect the ones she loved, and she fought to avenge the loves she'd lost. She didn't let love hold her back from her full potential, not like Lucifer was doing. "Cupid's here huh?" She smirked a little, glancing around until she laid eyes on the little angel. War often liked to see Cupid around. While she tried to do good and make people happy with love, her arrows were still weapons. The love that they helped along often brought just as much trouble as it brought happiness, and War liked to help those loves become wars. Belphegor was with Cupid too, in his male form surprisingly. War didn't often see him like that, but more importantly, War could feel the battle raging inside him. Cupid was obviously helping to combat that battle inside him right now, but War thought that if she paid the little prince a visit later, she might unravel him just a little bit more. Belphegor might not often do much, but there was still a lot of untapped power in him that could bring about some damage. "Let her encourage it. Love can be twisted. She's not the only one who can encourage things." War smirked. "Oh?" she asked, raising a brow. "You always did know just how to impress me. I'm looking forward to it." Wrath really was the most fun of the bunch, and she had no doubt that whatever he had planned was going to be a sight to see. War nodded. She'd met the Father Wrath spoke of just once if you could even count it as a meeting. It'd happened in a dream, but even then, she'd known he wasn't as good as people claimed him to be. The same went for Michael. War laughed. "They're always a fun bunch. Let's go." She held out her elbow.

BELPHEGOR: He was happy that Cupid seemed just as happy to talk to him as he was to talk to her. “I'm glad you did anyways,” he said, happily grinning from ear to ear. I didn't originally plan on coming here either, but you being here makes it better.” Her presence just made things lighter in a way that didn't feel like an angelic threat the way he felt around some of the other Angels. He followed her gaze to where Lucifer and Chloe were. “She makes him lighter and nicer sometimes. She's got a bad memory I think, but I still like her for him. I try to make sure she's safe when I can, so Luci doesn't get hurt or upset.” Belphegor would occasionally stop by the police precinct when Lucifer wasn't there just to try to mellow out the criminals there. He felt like it would keep her safer if those criminals barely felt like getting up, and more importantly, it'd keep Lucifer happier. Belphegor looked down at himself. “I did try to look better tonight.” He smiled, happy to have pleased her with the amount of effort he actually put in. “But you always look . . . lovely.” He took her hand and tried to spin her around to look at her outfit more. “Beautiful.”

Aamon: He watched as War observed both Cupid and Belphegor, who, for the first time in a long time, was in his male form. He seemed to be having fun for once, but even Wrath could sense the underlying tension within Bell. It was always there, whether they wanted to admit it or not. While Aamon's rage at what Father had done to them manfisted in obvious ways, Bells scars were more sinister and quiet.  "Alex," his tone warned. He knew the entity well enough to know what she was thinking. It was no secret Belphegor was struggling and War could sense that inner tension just as well as Aamon could. "Do with Cupid what you will," he replied as he glanced at the angel. He cared not for Cupid. While God had made them all and thus they could be considered siblings, Cupid was a lower rank than the rest of them. "But Belphegor is off the table," he replied. While he agreed most of his siblings were becoming too soft for their own good and needed reminding of just who they were, they were still his younger siblings and his responsibility. "I'm hoping what I have planned will be enough to wake them up from this daydream," he replied as he took the arm that was offered. "They've spent too much time around mortals and are starting to think and act like them," he replied as they strode to the door. "You know how they get. I hear that one of your siblings is in town as well," he replied, holding the door open for her.

War: War turned to look back at Aamon, not expecting that tone from him right now. He was usually more supportive of her chaotic tendencies, and while she knew that Belphegor was his family, she didn't expect that kind of reaction from him. "Would it make things better if I said I wasn't planning on hurting him?" she asked, not sure if she really cared that much about the answer. War liked Aamon well enough. They'd been in a relationship a few times and had also had their fair share of disagreements. Those things happened when you were as ancient as they were, and War felt like whatever they fought about, they'd eventually get over. However, War felt like the war that was brewing now would be better if she built up her amount of allies. She wanted Aamon on her side this time around. "I would've just made sure he's on the right side of things at most." She shrugged. Maybe she could even trick the prince into hurting Cupid for her. That'd be fun. Belphegor wasn't exactly the brightest one of the bunch, was he? "They're spending time with the wrong mortals," War pointed out. "Some humans do more corrupting than we do. " War nodded, following him outside. "Yeah, he's not exactly the same as I last saw him, but he's here." She chuckled. "My horsemen at least haven't gotten that soft."

CUPID: She was thrilled to see Bells smile. If only he knew what a radiant smile he had. It filled her world with such joy. "I'm glad I came too. I'm staying in town for a while," she nodded. "I'd say we are long overdue for a movie night and some comfort food. You can catch me up on the soap opera that is no doubt our brothers lives," she grinned. She knew Bells struggled with an inner sadness so dark that it made it hard to get out of bed sometimes. These were old, deep scars left over from God casting them out of heaven. Cupid knew she couldn't heal his heartache, but she did what she could to at least brighten his day while she was around. She smiled as Bells mentioned Lucifer and the detective. What Cupid loved most about her brothers, both angelic and demonic, was their desire to protect those they hold dear. Bells might struggle with his own happiness, but she sensed that he greatly desired to protect his family's happiness. "I like seeing this side of Lucifer," she grinned. "You're doing a good job. This is the happiest I've seen him in centuries." She laughed as Bells twirled her about and gave a small curtsy. "Why thank you, good sir. How about we take our fine, handsome selves to  the--" she was going to suggest going to the dance floor, but stopped as she saw Aamon and War heading in the direction of the exit. Her worried eyes followed them before resting back on Bells. "I don't like when those two are together," she replied as she nodded in their direction. "Bells," she bit her lip. Truth be told, Aamon and War frightened her. While War tolerated Cupid, Aamon's disdain for the angel was palpable. He had no qualms about driving an angel blade through her. Cupid was brave, but she was no Archangel. Bells, on the other hand, was. "Will you help me with something?"

BELPHEGOR was happy to hear that Cupid was staying at least for a little while. He loved his brothers, but he felt like it was better having such a bright presence around that wasn't so strong it was nearly burning you to be around them, like how it was with Michael. Belphegor didn't shrink away from him in fear as much now, but there was still a lot of trauma associated with him. He was a raging fire whereas Cupid held more of the comfort of a night light, a soft glow, not blinding, but just enough to keep the monsters away. A lot of people considered Belphegor and his brothers monsters, but even monsters could be scared of other monsters. For Belphegor the monsters were just the thoughts in his head, and Cupid's light helped to scare those away too. Belphegor laughed. He didn't tend to get too involved in his brothers' lives, but he did listen and watch what happened fairly well to know some of the drama. “I'll save all the drama stories for then,” he agreed. “I don't really think I've seen him like this since . . .” Belphegor trailed off, thinking about their lives before the war. Everyone seemed so much happier then, not just Lucifer. He tried not to think about it, forcing a smile back on his face. “I'm happy for him.”[11:46 AM]Confusion pulled on Belphegor's face when Cupid cut herself off. He followed her gaze over to Aamon and War. Belphegor typically kept their distance from War, and they didn't generally see Aamon too often either. Belphegor knew what terrible events tended to happen when the two of them got together. People died in the thousands as wars raged. . . . But Belphegor also liked to see Aamon happy and enjoying himself. He was indifferent to the struggles of humanity,  so he would've really preferred for Aamon to be able to be happy with War like he seemed to be right now. This was why Sloth was such a huge sin. Indifference was just as dangerous as wrath when it let people get hurt without caring. Belphegor just was selective about who he cared for. He cared for Cupid though. “Of course. Anything for you.”

Aamon: While he maintained an aura of aloofness, family meant a great deal to Aamon, not that he would ever admit it. He lost so many of his siblings in battle, he did not want War playing mind games with the few he had left. "That would," he agreed. "Although, if you are feeling peckish, I do hear Gabriel is ripe for the breaking," he offered. "Perhaps you might be the trigger finger that sends him home. Would be one less angel in the vicinity," he grinned and followed her as she exited the building. "You are right," he agreed. "The humans they spend time with are soft, although, if pushed correctly, Michael's human has the power to cause some havoc," he grinned. He planned to test just how far he could push with that one. Aamon shrugged off his coat and draped it around War's shoulders as they stepped outside, chuckling as she responded that her brothers at at least maintained a hard line. "Ah, if only we were all so lucky. I'll have to pay Death a visit. It's been some time. Have you heard from Famine and Pestilence?" he asked. He knew just the presence of War and Death alone worried the others, but Aamon quite enjoyed the Horsemen. Particularly when all four came together.

War: “Then I don't plan to hurt him,” she shrugged, speaking honestly now. She wouldn't hurt Belphegor unless he got in her way, including by messing with his mind. She wasn't weakened by her connection to Aamon by agreeing to this, especially since he was providing her with alternative ways to entertain herself. “I saw he was weakening himself with a human too,” she pointed out. Both Gabriel and the human had internal wars too. Those would be fun to toy with. War smirked. “Depending on how I handle things, he might end up too broken to even move to go home. A man broken by war is a beautiful sight, but an angel broken by it is a masterpiece.” That was one of the reasons Belphegor interested her. Like War, the being Belphegor was now was broken and reforged into something new. War would've liked to see that happen to everyone, especially the angels. 

“I'd like to see that,” said War, thinking about the benefits of the chaos, how if used right, it could spark another angelic war. She smiled as Aamon wrapped his coat around her, snickering at the fact that she knew it served no real purpose except to mock the weakening aspects of most other relationships, especially where Cupid was in view. War wasn't blind to Cupid watching them, and she doubted Aamon was either. It was amusing to put one of the very things Cupid stood for back in her face. “You should. Death and I had a fun little get together that I'm sure you would've appreciated. I haven't seen them in a little while. I spotted Famine during one of the last wars I was in but it's hard to keep track of how long ago that was. I'm sure once we start up more, they'll be drawn in.”

CUPID: She'd heard about Belphegor's run in with Michael. Michael had been torn up about it and she could sense that Bells was confused by the whole thing. She knew some of Bells insecurities to an extent. They felt like the outsider in the family. The black sheep. One who was too kind to be a demon prince, but held a darkness in them that made it impossible to be a pure angel. The darkness wasn't always there, mind you. She remembers a time when Bells was happy and light. That was back when Belgirel was alive. They'd talked about it, not at length as it made Bells uncomfortable but enough. To Cupid, Belphegor was everything all at once. Archangel, Prince, Friend. She knew she couldn't make them whole again like they were when Belgieral was alive, but she wouldn't let the darkness take Bell. She'd already let Belgieral down, she wouldn't let Belphegor down too. She smiled when Bells mentioned he hadn't seen his brother's this happy in a long time. She could see even now his mind was going back to a time before the war. Cupid squeezed his hand gently to ground him back in the present. "And what about you, Bells? Are you happy?" she asked softly.

Her eyes followed Aamon and War as they left the building. "They're up to no good," she replied. Cupid, much like Lucifer, could sense desires. Her abilities to do so weren't as strong as the Devil's nor could she manipulate them such as Lucifer could, but she knew they were there. And what she sensed was Aamon and War's desire to cause trouble. She also knew she shouldn't be doing this. She didn't want to get Belphegor in trouble with the other princes. She didn't want to put him in a place where he'd have to choose between her and his brothers. But she also knew she couldn't do this without his help. "You can say no," she offered Bells an out, "But, I need to go after them. Last time I felt this kind of energy from those two a lot of people got hurt. Will you come with me?"

BELPHEGOR kept his eyes on Lucifer and Chloe. He still didn't understand love in its entirety. Not that kind of love at least. He knew he loved his family. He'd loved Belgirel with everything he'd had, and that had cost him. It didn't, however, stop him from loving others. He couldn't stop loving his family. He couldn't stop wanting them to all be okay. He craved to be whole with his family, hoping it might fill the void Belgirel left behind. It wasn't possible, but that didn't stop him wanting that. Answering Cupid's question wasn't easy. He knew that seeing things like this made him smile. There was a little more light in his chest, but how much could a single flicker light an endless void? He strained to smile, to be happy in the way he wanted the others to be. "No," he whispered softly, the words barely escaping his lips. His form rippled, feathers dancing on his skin as he felt a need to be smaller. He swallowed, and they stilled. "But I might be one day." A flicker in an endless void was just enough to spark hope.

Belphegor looked back at War and Aamon. "Yeah, that's like their whole thing," he responded, raising a brow. He wouldn't be surprised if they had gone off to start another war or just get a bunch of people killed, but Belphegor wouldn't have thought much about it without Cupid's input. "Go after them?" Belphegor eyes widened just slightly, a panic stirring in him at those familiar words. 

I need to go after them. But they need us here. Then you stay, and I'll be back. Okay, just come back. I always do.

Belphegor wouldn't stay behind this time. This wasn't a war, but it was still dangerous and deadly. He wouldn't have Cupid brave it on her own. "Yeah, I'll come with you." He'd do everything he could to keep her safe.

Aamon: "Thank you," he replied as she agreed to leave Belphegor alone for now. Aamon had plenty of siblings that War could toy with. He enjoyed watching her work and a part of him hoped she'd strongly consider Gabriel.  "He has. Some hunter, I think. At least his human is aware of what we are. Lucifer's mortal seems to think we're all deranged. I mean, she's not far off from the truth in a sense," he grinned. "But she is naïve to believe we're just your run of the mill crazy." He smiled as War talked of broken angels. It was the angelic wars that had birthed the entity beside him. The concept of war didn't exist in this universe before them. While Aamon would have liked to see War go after Michael, he knew his dutiful brother would be the toughest to crack, but perhaps going after Gabriel would bring Michael down enough for War and Aamon to target him next. "Watching Gabe break would be a thing of beauty," he agreed. "I'm not sure even hell would welcome him if he fell."

Aamon was well aware of Cupid's eyes on him and based on War's expression she was too. If Cupid was going to watch them for the night, he figured he might as well put on a little show. He enjoyed watching her get miffed when he'd toss in all these little conventions of love just to mock her. Aamon wrapped an arm around War's shoulder, pulling her closer to him and whispering in her ear. "Maybe you will see Michael's mage break sooner than you know. Michael might be untouchable but those around him," the prince smirked and shook his head. He knew the best way to get to Michael was to isolate him. Take away the mage, take away Gabriel and they'd be one step closer to breaking the archangel just as he'd broken them. He chuckled and guided War down the steps of the gala entrance as she mentioned that she'd had a bit of fun with Death lately. "And what kind of sibling bonding did you two get up to?" he asked.

War: "A hunter," she clasped her hands together happily. "Now those are a fun breed." She'd already sensed the war within the hunter, but now knowing that he was a hunter explained some things. It also meant that she knew more ways to mess with Gabriel's little human. Hunter's all tended to have the same issues for the most part. They watched their friends die over and over again and often felt like they should've been the ones who died. Most of them were tired and had seen more than they should've. Of course, messing with the hunter would've been small to the amount of torment that War could put on Gabriel himself. Once she got him isolated, she had the means to put him through immense pain that the poor angel probably wasn't used to, but he'd become familiar with it when she was through with him. War chuckled. "Crazy doesn't put it to justice." She shook her head. "If Lucifer hadn't let himself go so much, they could've welcomed him to more suffering." She sighed in disappointment.

"Promises, promises," she teased, smirking up at him, but she knew him well enough to know that he'd pull through on that. "He won't show it, but it'll hurt him too either way." It was a smart way to take down Michael with Aamon dealing with his lover and War setting up plans to break down his brother. The cracks in Michael's composure would be small, but they would add up, bringing him that much closer to breaking. "We started small for now. Just a small bar brawl that turned into a slaughter." She shrugged. "But it was fun, and obviously we'll be leading up to more entertaining things eventually."

As they got further from the gala, it was clear that Cupid and Belphegor were going to follow them. She kept her voice quiet enough that their followers couldn't hear them. "I did promise that I wouldn't harm Belphegor, but I hope that you'll deal with him if he becomes a problem here."

CUPID: She watched with a smile as Belphegor observed Lucifer and Chloe. Bells didn't understand romantic love. Cupid had tried to explain it but the concept was hard to grasp. What Bells understood very well though was philia, the bond between family & friends. Bells was full of this kind of love. He yearned to have the family back together as they once were. Cupid had tried dozens of times to get the them to forgive one another, each time it fell through with Beel, Aamon, and Lucifer simply not being ready to forgive and forget. Cupid, by nature, wanted to see people happy. She wanted to give Bells what they desired the most, but after centuries of trying, she wasn't sure it could be done. Cupid's heart ached as she watched Bells form ripple . She placed a soft hand upon Bells chest where she knew the void was. "You will find it one day," she promised him. As long as she was here, she would not allow the void to take him. She couldn't stop the hurricane that raged within him, but she could at least keep it from tearing the shingles off the roof.

She saw a momentary panic flicker across Bells face. Belphegor didn't like fights and truth be told neither did Cupid. She didn't want to fight Aamon or War. That was a battle she would never win. But she was still an angel and had a sworn duty to protect humanity. She smiled when Belphegor agreed to help her. "We'll just follow them," she promised. "I'll do what I can to balance them out and if it gets hairy, we'll call the others." Michael and Gabriel wouldn't be happy about what she was doing, but she didn't want to bother them, not unless she was absolutely sure of what Aamon and War were up to. Besides, the pair looked like they were having a good time. Cupid took Bell's hand and began following Aamon and War out of the gala hall. She made a face as Aamon wrapped his jacket around War and leaned in to whisper in her ear. "Honestly," she sighed.  "They do this on purpose."

BELPHEGOR looked down at Cupid's hand on his chest, startled by it. In this form, that space was solid and firm. If a doctor had tried to check it, they would've felt a human heartbeat, but that was just part of the illusion. In reality, there was nothing there. No warmth. No feeling. No light like there had once been in that space, bright enough where it could've lighted the way in any cold dark night. That candle had flickered out so long ago that the space where it was felt cold now. Belphegor didn't even feel Cupid's hand there, and knowing it was there, without feeling her warmth, hurt more. He took her hand away from his chest. He could at least feel something then. He smiled softly. “You know, I think I'll be okay, even if I don't find it. I haven't completely given up yet, and that counts for something, right?” Belphegor had considered giving up everything plenty of times, but he was still here at least. He might not have been completely happy, but he was here. There were at least some people who wanted him to continue being here, and that was important.

He was still holding onto her hand as she promised to call the others if things got bad. “If you do that, the rift between heaven and hell will expand. They'll hate each other even more, and more importantly, we don't know how far away we'll be then. They might be too late.” Belphegor had been too late to save Belgirel, and he refused to let someone else be too late to save Cupid when he was right here with her. He let go of her hand to cup her face in his hands. “Promise me that if things get bad, you'll let me protect you. Please.” He wrapped his arms around her and rested his head against her forehead. “I can't lose you too,” he whispered before releasing her from the embrace. Looking back at Aamon and War, he shook his head, wishing that they could've just all gotten along and let each other be happy. “At least they're happy.”

Aamon: He’d taken the liberty of researching both the magician and the hunter once he’d learned about Michael and Gabriel’s soft spot for them. The Archangels were painfully obvious in this way. “You’ll have plenty to work with when it comes to the hunter. My demons report he’s from an entirely different universe. His original world is dead along with all the inhabitants in it. My brothers seem to like broken things,” he smirked. He could see the gears working in War’s head. She was already planning trouble.

“You know I always deliver on my promises. The way I see it, I’m doing the poor magician a favor. To love a monster like Michael means you don’t truly know who he, what he’s done, or what he’s capable of doing.” Michael hid behind a facade of honor and duty, but he was capable of more cruelty than any of the demon princes combined. Aamon knew watching his very foundation crack would bring that darkness to the forefront little by little. One bad day is all it takes.

He chuckled as War mentioned the kind of trouble she and Death were bringing about. Small things building onto bigger and bigger things. It was a smart move to help them stay off the radar. This many of his brothers in town would only spoil the fun of they made it too obvious. Aamon could also sense Cupid and Belphegor following them. Cupid’s anger at his mocking display of love was positively delicious. “Belphegor won’t be a problem,” he reassured her. “Cupid, on the other hand, is always a problem.” He was sure this whole follow the leader game was her idea. Belphegor on their own was too lazy to care what Aamon did in his free time. “Let’s see how far she’s willing to take this,” he smirked as he watched people file out of the stadium after the game. Some were chanting victory, others looked forlorn that their team had lost. Aamon’s eyes began to glow red as his power began to infect those around him. He was about to light a fuse and watch the place blow.

War: She hadn't doubted that she would have a lot to work with. Hunters basically tortured themselves most of the time, and although a lot of them had fairly deep connections, those connections were easy to manipulate and turn against them. "A different universe?" She questioned, even more intrigued than she was before. "Poor boy," she smirked. "He must have lost so much to have moved to an entirely different universe." It didn't matter whether he'd come to this one intentionally or not, the hunter would've lost a lot to get here.

"Just because you generally deliver doesn't mean your family won't try to stop you," she pointed out. Assuming that Aamon actually succeeded, there would be repercussions if he was found out, which was also likely. Lucifer might've represented the sin of pride, but Aamon would be too pleased with his own handiwork to hide it too well. Plus, his brothers would also likely recognize that it was him, and if Lucifer was becoming as soft as they thought him to be, he might do something against Aamon too. She'd have to keep an eye on what they did and step in when the time was right. She wouldn't do anything to stop Aamon's demise if it came down to it, but she would make more chaos out of his aftershocks and make things better for when he would eventually return.

"You're too easy on her," War teased. "But if we push him enough, maybe he'll break enough for her to see that monstrous interior, so she can know he's just as bad as they claim you and I to be." War and Aamon were certainly worse than the others, especially when they got together. What they were going to do now was just a taste of what crimes against humanity they were capable of.

"They usually aren't," War agreed. Belphegor didn't really tend to do as much as their brothers, but they were capable of more. When Belphegor actually tried to do something, they could be quite interesting. War had gotten them to be a part of some of the wars she'd created, and they'd managed to help the development of several weapons. The atomic bomb was an especially interesting one that made wars these days more interesting. War would've loved to see Belphegor making ideas like that again. 

War watched as the people came out, feeling the different emotions stirring within them. A man walked by war, and she bumped into him. "Hey, watch it!" he snapped. War just smirked at him, grabbed him by the collar and tossed him towards the crowd, spreading the infection of discord among them. Immediately, people were already arguing. She dropped a knife and kicked it over to the crowd, watching happily as someone picked it up and started fighting others with it. "Oops," War muttered before laughing.

CUPID: Cupid could feel the pull of the void where her hand rested on his chest. It was a frightening thing, cold and hollow. No amount of love ever seemed to close it completely, but occasionally Cupid felt it shrink in her presence. It gave her hope. If the void were a person, Cupid knew it didn't like her. She'd done everything in her power over the years to make it shrink. Some days it worked, and some days it didn't. All she knew was that she could not let the void win. To let it win would mean she failed not only Belphegor but Belgirel as well. She smiled softly when Bells said he would be alright even if he didn't find happiness. Hope. He hadn't give up hope. A warmth washed over her as she squeezed his hand. "It counts for everything," she nodded. "You are the bravest person I know. Braver than Michael even."

Worry flickered over her face as he mentioned that calling the archangels would only cause a greater rift. He wasn't wrong. Things in New York were shaky between the angels and the princes. It was stupid, but she had limited control over them. At the same time, Cupid had a duty to report back to Michael and Gabriel. She was under their command; they could send her home for something like this and then Belphegor would be alone again. She bit her lip, debating for a moment before nodding. "I trust you, Bells," she replied, hugging him tight. She didn't want him to have to fight his brother tonight, but she knew Aamon well enough to know he didn't back down from a fight. "If it gets ugly, I won't hold you back." She knew where this was coming from. She could feel the void getting heavier with guilt. He didn't want her to die like Belgirel and Cupid couldn't make him go through that again. The void would consume him and the whole city along with him. She didn't want to let go, but she knew if they didn't leave soon they would lose track of Aamon and War.

Cupid took Bells hand and began following Aamon and War through the crowd. The angel was small and the crowd was rather large, but she could make out the ethereal presence in the crowd without much effort. Aamon's power was immense and suffocating. "Oh no..." she whispered, feeling a surge of rage whip through the crowd. She saw something shiny fly across the ground, a knife. Someone picked it up and began to have a go at another member of the crowd. "This is not good," she replied as she held out her hands and manifested her bow and arrow. She aimed into the crowd and shot an arrow into the crowd. It was invisible to the human eye, but very much visible to anything celestial. Immediately, the man dropped the knife and back away from the crowd, pulling his son back along with him. Cupid fired a few more arrows into the crowd, with each shot she grew weaker but so did Aamon's hold on the crowd. "Bells," she turned to look at him, sweat on her brow. "Can you make them tired? Can you make them sleep until the police get here?"

BELPHEGOR: Belphegor didn't expect her to say something like that. They weren't typically considered the brave type. They didn't generally do anything brave either. Even this, following Cupid after Aamon and War wasn't especially brave. They weren't being fearless like Michael. They were scared. Admittedly, they weren't scared of Aamon or even War, but they didn't feel much reason to be intimidated by them. Aamon probably didn't even notice Belphegor enough to do something against him. War would hardly feel like Belphegor was a big enough threat either. Belphegor wasn't scared for himself. He was scared for Cupid. It didn't make him brave for just wanting to make sure he could get her out of the situation safely. Odds were that if anything happened, he'd just grab Cupid and carry her off to safety. That wasn't bravery. It was cowardice. "Michael has to carry the weight of what he did, knowing that it was wrong, while he's still heralded as the hero by heaven and earth. I can't imagine what it must be like, to hold that kind of guilt." Belphegor had his own guilt, but it was different. Michael's came from action, and Belphegor's came from inaction, from not being there for their brother. Sloth hadn't been Belphegor's sin because they slept. It was their sin because their own inaction ripped them apart.

He was worried that she'd say no, that she wouldn't let him protect her. He could hardly have blamed her if she didn't trust him to do that. It wasn't like he'd done a good job at that with his own twin. Dark thoughts started to fill his head, thoughts of failing Cupid, of seeing her die just like Belgirel. I trust you, Bells. It pulled him out of his thoughts, grounding him in reality. "Thank you," he said quietly as they went after his brother and War.

Belphegor held tightly onto Cupid's hand, being careful not to lose her in the crowd. Belphegor didn't really see the same problem Cupid saw when she stopped. People were fighting. They did that all the time. When Belphegor was a younger archangel, he might've cared more. Back then, he liked showing them new inventions just to see them happier, but now, he just didn't care. Cupid cared though, and he cared about her, regardless of how differently they saw everything. He watched her shoot arrows into the crowed, wondering if she knew just how good she was. It amazed him how she could turn a weapon into something good like she had. She didn't hurt the humans. She helped them. It had been a long time since Belphegor had helped someone without hurting them. They often wondered if that was all they were capable of, if they could ever do anything to get back to just helping, but that wasn't who they were anymore.

Belphegor didn't often use their powers intentionally, not unless they were making a deal of some kind, but being around Cupid made them a little more reckless. He wanted to impress her to an extent, so he let out a big yawn. Humans often considered the yawns of others contagious, but when Belphegor did it, it was even stronger. Each person who saw the yawn caused the next person to yawn and those next people caused the next group of people to yawn and so on until everyone in the area was yawning, too tired to focus on fighting each other. "How's that?" He asked with a grin.

Aamon: "Something tells me breaking that one won't be too difficult,” he grinned. It was no secret that hunters all seemed to have the same tragic backstory. No one chose this kind of life for shits and giggles. “His brother’s here too. The tall awkward moose hanging around looking uncomfortable. Strange thing is the two brothers aren’t even from the same universe. There’s something off about that one to be honest. He radiates a strange energy, might be worth exploring when we’re done here,” he grinned. Whatever the hunter’s stories were, getting involved with a family of celestials was about to make it worse. Zatanna was about to find this out herself and Aamon knew the hunter would find out much the same in his own time.

He smirked a little as War mentioned his family stopping him. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were worried for me, Alex,” he teased. He knew there would be consequences to this little game, but he wasn’t planning on going after the mage directly. Lucifer had made it clear she was off limits but he’d said nothing of those around her. “Lucifer has his moments, but the one thing he fears the most is becoming like our Father. Between the Princes and Michael, he will choose our side. And if he doesn’t,” the Prince shrugged. “Guess we’ll just have to raise a little extra hell.”

He chuckled when War stated he was too easy on Cupid. “Today won’t be one of those days. I’ve been trying to get her to see he’s not a broken thing for her to fix for centuries now.” Belphegor wasn’t broken. They just simply hadn’t fully embraced what they were. Aamon hoped to change that one day. He supposed Cupid hoped the same, but in the opposite trajection. She was an annoying little thing. No matter how dark and dangerous Belphegor seemed to get, Cupid had a way of pulling him out of it. It was as if Aamon would make a step forward with Bells only for Cupid to bring it all crashing down.

Aamon leaned back against the building and watched as their magic worked the crowd. A combination of his rage and War’s malice waved through the crowd. He had to admit, the switchblade she’d tossed into the crowd was a nice touch. He inhaled deeply, feeling the dizzying surge of power rush over him, but then it began to ebb. He pushed off the concrete and glared into the crowd. There. He could see Cupid’s arrows flying into the crowd. Landing on their targets and disappearing as their subtle love and peace magic words its powers. “Fucking angels,” he muttered.

He looked around the crowd and spotted Cupid standing next to Belphegor not too far away from them. Slinging her arrows into the crowd was taking its toll on her. Good. She would be easy to take down. He sighed as he felt a wave of Belphegor’s power hit the crowd. With a smile yawn, everyone within a mile radius became sleepy and lethargic. They were no longer in a mood to fight. “Alright, that’s enough.” He looked at War. “It’s time to send the children to bed without supper, I guess,” he replied, quickly disappearing and reappearing right behind Cupid. “Belphegor,” he replied coldly as he grabbed onto Cupid’s hand. Infecting a celestial took more energy than infecting a human. Aamon wasn’t pushing his power hard on Cupid, but the threat was there and present. He would do it if pressed. “Is there a reason you’re following me tonight?”

WAR: "I generally prefer a challenge, but it'll hardly break my heart if breaking them takes only a minute." It was the process that War liked and not the end result, at least most of the time. The longer wars lasted, the more fun she got to have, but unfortunately, the longer wars lasted, the more people were likely to get in her way. Namely, creatures like Michael, ones who claimed to want peace, despite nearly always being in the epicenter of large fights. Aamon was write about Michael. The ones who looked up to him clearly didn't know the kind of monster he could be.

War recalled seeing a large figure sticking out in the crowd like he didn't belong. She assumed that was who Aamon had been referring to. She too had sensed something dark inside him, but she'd gotten distracted by other things. She didn't know what stirred within him, but she'd be sure to find a way to turn it to her advantage. "Two brothers from two separate universe. What are the chances of that?" War didn't bother asking how Aamon got his information. She knew he was more than capable of figuring out whatever he wanted.

"Me, worried? Hardly. No, even if they do anything against you, it won't be permanent. They like to act strong, but all they have is their pride. They're cowards. They'd only try to get rid of you because they're scared of you and what you're capable of. Things wouldn't end well for them or the people they care about if they found a way to truly get rid of you." War would've made sure of that, not just in honor of Aamon, but because they needed to know how easily they could be knocked down. War scoffed. "I think Hell would come to join us itself. It should've been someone stronger reigning over Hell anyways. If you do end up there soon, you ought to remind them of that."

War shook her head with a laugh. "Maybe she'll learn that once she sees what it's like to truly be broken." War didn't agree with Aamon, though she wouldn't voice that to him. That was one fight she wasn't trying to start right now. Belphegor was broken. It was easy to see. He was physically shattered. That hole in his chest only showed just how broken he was at any given moment, but War agreed that Belphegor didn't need to be fixed. If anything, she wanted to see him broken more. She wanted to know just how much the archangel could break before something drastic happened. She imagined it would be beautiful.

This was nearly as beautiful, watching the chaos of the fighting going on in that crowd, but it didn't last long enough. The sight of flying arrows usually brought her joy, but right now, they just annoyed her. She'd known that Cupid had been following them, but she didn't expect her to be so stupid as to mess with their fun, even if she had another archangel by her. If War knew anything about Belphegor though, it was that he was not the one you wanted by your side in a fight. He could heal you. He could invent something for you to use, but he would hardly do anything to fight for you or protect you. She wasn't worried about him.

Even that surge of his power didn't feel like something she'd need to worry about. She rolled her eyes. "When will they ever learn?" She shrugged before moving after Aamon. She placed on Cupid's shoulder. "Oh, I know what it is. She's trying to teach little Bell about love again, and she knows we're the best example of that, right?" She smirked.

CUPID: Admittedly, Cupid hadn’t always been this reckless. Back before the war she’d been more cautious and tame. She’d sided with the Archangels because that’s what she was supposed to do, wasn’t it? Angels weren’t meant to question God; they were meant to follow him. And the way Father had put it, the knowledge given by the apple would cause the humans nothing but pain. Cupid didn’t want humanity to suffer. The war had been nothing like she expected. It was long and brutal and bloody. In the end, they’d all come out of it changed in some way. Cupid, for her part, threw caution to the wind and questioned everything, even herself. While the war had fundamentally changed her, it hadn’t changed her love for Belphegor or for humanity. She did not want either to suffer. She knew she would be reprimanded for this, but she couldn’t just let Aamon poison the crowd. Besides, she wasn’t walking into the battle alone this time. Bells was there and Bells would protect her if she needed it. They made her feel safe.

A small, soft smile crossed Cupid’s lips as Bells spoke of Michael. Empathy. Belphegor was showing empathy for Michael’s plight. This was progress Cupid hadn’t expected. The void sometimes made it hard for Bells to see the world the way others saw it, but it was clear to Cupid that on some level, Belphegor understood Michael had to live with an impossible amount of guilt both similar and yet different to Belphegor’s own guilt. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” she recited softly. “Michael is doing the best he can and so are you,” she replied as she squeezed his hand. “I really am proud of you, you know,” she nodded emphatically. “And I’m glad you came out tonight. I’ve missed you.”

A dizzying sort of feeling filled Cupid’s head as shot the last of her arrows into the crowd. She hadn’t exactly come prepared to fight tonight. It was supposed to be a fun charity event; she hadn’t expected there would be much trouble. That was where she went wrong, honestly. With this many Archangels, Princes, and Horsemen in one building there was bound to be trouble. A gentle laugh escaped her lips as she watched Belphegor’s yawn spread across the crowd. The individuals that had been fighting one another to get their hands on War’s knife were now curled up on the ground with their thumbs in their mouths and a sleepy expression on their face. “Now that was brilliant!” she beamed. Cupid brought her hands together to give Belphegor an uproarious fanfare for his work only to find that she couldn’t clap. Two cold hands gripped her shoulders as War and Aamon appeared beside her.

“Hey, let me g—” she tried to squirm away, but his grip only tightened. Cupid gasped as she felt the cold wave of his power ripple through her. He wasn’t pressing hard, but it was enough to hurt. At full power he could easily dissolve her grace into nothing. That’s why the Archangels were dangerous. As brave as she fashioned herself to be, if Aamon wanted to kill her she didn’t stand a chance against him. “Aamon stop!” she ordered, she tried to sound brave, but her voice was wavering. Rage tasted like a bitter poison. She gasped as she felt it edging closer and closer toward her grace. “Bells!” she gasped, holding her hand out to him. Panic filled her features. “I don’t, I don’t—” she didn’t want to lose her grace. She was frightened. She was so, so frightened.

BELPHEGOR: "That's because crowns used to weigh a lot. They were like bricks." Belphegor put his hands on his head like they were the points of a crown, and he tipped over a little like it was too hard to balance the fake weight on his head. He knew that Cupid had been talking metaphorically, but he couldn't help making a little joke.

"I don't know if I'm doing the best I can," he pointed out. "I'm pretty well known for not trying too hard at anything if you hadn't noticed." He was Sloth after all, but she wasn't wrong either. He'd been trying more lately now that more of his family was around. Some habits were too hard to get rid of, but he was at least putting in a little more effort lately. He'd come to that party after all and had even worn an actual suit. It wasn't anything as fancy as the dresses Cupid and War were wearing or the suit that Aamon was wearing, but it was more effort than Belphegor usually put in.

"Really?" Belphegor asked, surprised at her statement. He wasn't used to people being proud of him. There wasn't much for people to be proud of him for, and with how much their void had a tendency to weigh down the people around them, Belphegor would've thought they weighed Cupid down too. That didn't seem like something that most people would miss. "I missed you too," Belphegor admitted, looking down at his shoes for a few seconds while they walked. They weren't particularly pretty either. They had velcro straps because he didn't like bothering to tie his shoes, but his mind was just wandering for a second before he wrapped an arm around Cupid, hugging her even as they walked, silently telling her just how much he missed her presence in his life. Once they'd stopped at the stadium, he let her go, but the sentiment was still there.

As Cupid cheered Belphegor on for his effect on the crowd, he felt lighter and happier. He didn't need to have a lot of self confidence when it felt so much better to have Cupid be proud of him. He wanted to do everything he could to make her proud and to see her happy.

But her smile faded along with Belphegor's. He could see the fear in her eyes. He could see the pain. In Aamon's eyes, he could malice. He could see not only a threat but a promise. He could see how much Aamon hated Cupid and how willing he would be to kill her. Belphegor felt himself getting panicked, scared of losing Cupid like he'd lost his own twin. The void in his chest expanded and contracted with heavy breathing, the rapid movement causing sparks to sprinkle out of his void until a fire raged inside of it, illuminating everything around them and breaking through the casing of the illusion that made Belphegor appear to be human. Any human who might've looked at them then would've been blinded by how bright the area was now, but with the amount of power that Belphegor was emitting, anyone who got close enough would've passed out instantly.

The eyes on their head were smoking, billowing high into the air. Their three pairs of wings unfolded, the eyes on them glowing an alarmingly bright red. Their upper pair of wings splayed out behind them, like a bird defensively getting ready to strike, and that's exactly what happened.

"Get away from her!" Belphegor snapped, his voice so loud and angry that it shattered the glass of all the nearby cars and buildings. He shot forward, punching War so hard that it flung her body across the parking lot. He disappeared momentarily, reappearing less than a second later next to Cupid and Aamon, holding himself at as a large of his form as he could muster.

Belphegor didn't want to hurt his brother. He had always wanted to make sure they're family could all be happy together, but a small fight wouldn't break their family because at least they were all together here. Belphegor just needed to get his point across that he couldn't allow this, and more than that, seeing Cupid in pain just set something off in him. The furious flame that burned in his chest had only sparked in her defense, and it wouldn't go out until she was safe. "I won't let you hurt her anymore," Belphegor told him. His lower wings curved around until they circled Cupid, pulling her back until she was out of Aamon's grasp. They crossed in front of her, shielding her from him.

Aamon: When the Demon Prince put his mind to something, he was generally unstoppable. One thing he’d become very good at over the years was research. It wasn’t hard for him to dig up information on the Winchesters. The one who seemed attached to Gabriel was quite the talker and demons at Lux had a knack for listening in on conversations. “I suppose two brothers from two separate universes is just the way the cosmos tries to right itself. Balance and all that,” he sighed. He bloody well hated the balance and hadn’t exactly been a fan when the angels restored it.

“You’re right,” he smirked. “They don’t have it in them to kill another brother. Although, I would like to see Michael try. He claims to have turned over a new leaf since Father abandoned ship, but I highly doubt that. No amount of shoeshine can polish away the blood beneath his feet.” Aamon knew that his life would never be in danger, although his freedom might be. It wouldn’t be the first time. The Demon Princes were the gum beneath Michael’s shoes that he just couldn’t scrape off. They were a forever reminder of what he’d done.

Aamon smiled at the thought of breaking Cupid. To break love was a beautiful and dangerous way to play with the balance of things. The opposite of love wasn’t hate, but rather apathy. A world devoid of love would bring about a whole new game on earth. He gripped tightly to Cupid’s shoulder as she tried to wiggle her way out of his grip. His eyes flashed for a moment as his rage danced closer and closer to her grace. It would be so easy to rip it out. “You, my dear, need to be taught a lesson in manners,” he replied coolly. He smirked as she winced under his touch. His thoughts, however, pulled away from Cupid as he felt Belphegor’s power building up. Things are about to get interesting, he thought to himself.

He felt Belphegor’s void expand and then it did something very interesting. It sparked like a fuse, lighting a flame of beautiful rage inside of Bells. It was dazzling and delicious. The wave of angry energy fed Aamon more than Bells probably intended. Aamon felt a surge of intoxicating power almost similar to when the balance had been off in the Demon Princes favor not too long ago. He watched as the humans around them passed out in an almost comical manner. It was like watching Sleeping Beauty’s kingdom go to rest all at once. Belphegor, if pushed correctly, could probably make the whole city fall into a deep slumber.

Belphegor’s human form was starting to crack. Aamon could see the Archangel beneath and it was refreshing. He hadn’t seen Bells true form in so long. Aamon arched an eyebrow as Belphegor’s angry bellows shattered the windows around them. He was peacocking, but Aamon was more impressed then afraid. “Now, that was rather rude,” he commented flatly as Belphegor flung War away from Cupid. Aamon loosened his grip on Cupid, allowing Bells just enough space to take the angel from his grip. He smirked as Belphegor’s wings crossed in front of Cupid, shielding her from Aamon.

“Bells,” the Demon Prince stepped forward, snapping his fingers and slowing time around them. “That was quite a show, but I think we’ve both had enough. I have no intention of hurting Cupid. I think she gets my point by now.” He turned his attention to Cupid. Aamon could see the top of the angel’s head and face peering through Belphegor’s wings. She looked exhausted and spent. Aamon reached out a hand and brushed aside a stray hair from Cupid’s face. It wasn’t a sign of affection, but rather a show of power. If Aamon wanted to, he could get rid of Bells with ease and finish what he’d started with Cupid, but there was no need for it. He just needed Cupid to know that he could do it if push came to shove. Aamon took a step back from the pair, his eyes falling on Belphegor. “While I do have to commend you on your display of power, I’m afraid you’ve alerted every celestial thing in a 100 mile radius of our presence here,” he replied. “Michael being chief among them seeing as he’s right across the bloody street. So, take yourself and your girlfriend home before this thing gets ugly,” he advised. The Demon Prince snapped his fingers once more and allowed time to resume at its natural pace. “You know what happens when Michael gets involved.”

War: "Too bad for the cosmos, balancing things doesn't always leave things as peaceful as it might intend." War had a mixed relationship with people and creatures and the cosmos trying to restore balance to their universe. While peace was an annoying thing, it never really lasted. War did her best to make sure of that, and so did Aamon. It was actually pretty easy to turn balance into chaos, especially wherever hunters were involved. The cosmos might have thought it was restoring some kind of balance by reuniting those brothers in this universe,  but it only gave them the opportunity to use those hunters to create more chaos.

"It would be interesting to see them try though, but I know I'll just be disappointed in them in the end." She sighed. The battle would've been amazing to see. She wondered if another clash of the angels would've created something else like her or if she would've just felt a surge of power. It was something she would've been willing to test out, a goal she aimed to achieve. 

Nearly all of that was forgotten when Cupid and Belphegor had stepped into the picture. War wasn't afraid of either of them, but like Aamon, she felt the energy building up in Belphegor. The war inside of him had churned so much that it sparked a flame in his chest, something she'd never seen from that particular archangel. She hadn't been aware that it was even something he could do, but archangels were a particularly interesting species. Their emotions and thought didn't just show through their behavior and actions but through their bodies as well. It was why Belphegor had a hole in his chest in the first place. He felt empty inside, so an empty hole etched a void in his chest. The fire existing inside the void was interesting because the void still existed, implying that Belphegor still felt that pain but with a passion and anger that stemmed from the pain that caused the void.

After that fire had sparked, it wasn't really much of a surprise that Belphegor snapped. Belphegor had kept most of his emotions bottled up for centuries. He'd been depressed and pressed those emotions into himself and into that void of his. He'd cried but never really let those emotions besides sadness out. He had only ever let himself be sad, and everything else built up. Now, it was coming out. Maybe not all of it, but there was enough there that even a small percentage of it was massive.

War just hadn't expected it to come out like this at her. She held up her hands at the last second when she saw Belphegor's fist moving towards her, but he still had enough momentum in his punch to send her flying. War was almost impressed by the action, even as she collided with the ground hundreds of feet away from where they'd been standing. The pain it caused was divine and delicious. She always loved to get hurt a little. It was exhilarating and arousing, and it'd been a while since anyone had been able to cause her some damage. Now that she'd had a taste of that power from him, she wanted to see it more. She'd told Aamon that she would leave Belphegor unharmed, but she was reconsidering that now. She'd just have to wait for a time when Aamon wasn't around, so she could delve into the head of his little brother.

War got up, making her way back to the group, hearing just the last bit of what Aamon had to say. "Please, let's just let Michael get involved. Then, we'd have a real party here."

CUPID: She couldn’t help but chuckle at Bells joke about the crowns. Despite the overwhelming sadness that Bells carried within them, they were capable of bringing so much joy with their humor. Cupid rarely felt stunted or paralyzed by Bells void these days because she knew the heart that lay under its crushing weight was a good heart. Broken, yes, but not bad. Not like God had painted them to be. “I happen to think you’d look lovely in a crown,” she teased. Bells already knew what it was like to carry a heavy weight. They carried one on their chest for the past few millennia.

Cupid smiled as she elbowed him gently. “Getting up in the morning is sometimes the best we can do and that’s okay,” she replied earnestly. Cupid knew most people would consider her friend lazy and unproductive, but those people didn’t understand how hard it was to just wake up and face the day sometimes. Particularly when you are immortal. Besides, she was proud of the effort Belphegor had put into their appearance tonight. Not to mention, their spirits were up – it was almost like having the old Bells back for a night. The one she’d known before the war.

“Really,” she nodded, smiling as he put an arm around her. “Traveling the world just wasn’t the same without you.” She squeezed his hand gently. This was love. Bells might not understand it, but there was a difference between the fake gesture of love that Aamon and War were displaying, and the very real warmth Bells and Cupid felt when around each other. Cupid wasn’t sure Aamon ever felt such a feeling and honestly, it made her sad. God had sapped so much out of Aamon that all he felt these days was rage and anger and hate.

Over the centuries, Cupid had tried to break through Aamon’s cold demeanor, but all it ever did was fuel his rage even more. It was like he wanted to prove to her that he couldn’t love anything or anyone. She was starting to believe that to be true. His grip on her arm was ice cold, like the hands of a corpse, slowly dancing around her grace. Every so often, he extended his power and it felt like a dagger grazing at her heart. Cupid gasped in pain at first and then in surprise as Belphegor’s void erupted in an illuminating flame. She tried to cover her face as a nearby window exploded, but Aamon’s fingers remained wrapped tightly around her wrist, his ice cold magic immobilizing her. Cupid’s eyes widened as Bells hurled War across the pavement and turned his rage toward Aamon. With his wings expanded and the furious flame boiling over in his chest, Cupid could see murder in Belphegor’s eyes. What’s worse, she could feel pride swelling in Aamon’s heart. Cupid realized this was what the Demon Prince wanted all along. She was bait and he was dangling her right in front of Bells.

She felt Aamon’s grip on her loosen as Bell’s lower wings came protruding out and around her. Cupid gasped softly, clinging to Bells as Aamon let her go. She felt the chokehold on her grace loosen, but the lingering rage remained. It was like a poison and she knew she would be sick tonight as her grace tried to expel the poison out of her body, but she couldn’t think about that now. She shuddered as Aamon’s cold fingers brushed a stray hair off of her forehead. It was meant to look like a loving gesture except it was anything but that. Aamon was marking his territory. Letting her know that if he wanted to, he could destroy her before Belphegor or Michael had the chance to stop him. If she was going to die, she wasn’t going to do it cowering from him. Tonight would be the last night she would allow Aamon to ever lay a hand on her again.

Cupid straightened herself up the best she could, turning away from Aamon’s cold gaze to look up at Belphegor. Cupid stood on her tip toes, cupping Bell’s face and getting him to look at her, to see her. “We need to stop this,” the words came out hoarse and broken, like she’d spent hours screaming for help in a place devoid of all hope. She did not look at Aamon as she spoke her next words. “I am not afraid of Michael,” she lied. “But you should be.” She turned around to face Aamon again. She was trembling, but she felt safe surrounded by the protective cocoon of Belphegor’s wings. “Belphegor and I will go our separate ways if you and War do the same. You’ve had your fun for the night. Leave these people alone and we will leave you alone."

BELPHEGOR: He grinned. "I'll have to get one then," though it was only because she suggested it. He wondered if her seeing him in one would make her happier. He probably could've gone to some kids' store and buy a plastic one, but Belphegor was an inventor. He could forge his own. He could make one for her too. She always looked like the kind of person who would be royalty. He could see her as a princess, wearing her crown lightly as she still enjoyed the world, not yet weighed down by the responsibility of being a ruler making hard decisions, yet he could also see her as a queen. She would've been kind to her subjects, always looking out for their well-being and making sure they were safe and happy, but she would also be strong like a wall when she believed in something. Anyone who might've attacked her kingdom would've found themselves easily torn down. She would've done much better than Belphegor ever did in their own kingdom.

His smile softened. "You know I don't always get up in the morning either," he pointed out solemnly, growing quiet for a moment. "Sometimes I get up in the afternoon," he said, turning it into a joke that was also entirely true. He did often struggle to get up at all, especially when his void was bigger. He was lucky lately, that it wasn't as big. Around Cupid, it was always much smaller, but he also knew that some day, that void would consume him. When that happened, he wouldn't wake up at all, and more than likely, he would never wake up again. His void was deeper and darker than most people realized, but he was lucky to have people like Cupid around to keep the consequences of that void from catching up to him.

A blush spread across his face as she confirmed that she was both proud of him and had truly missed him. His void also shrunk down just a little. He never thought much of himself, but she gave him a little more confidence. "I could travel with you, if you wanted." He didn't know if Lucifer would allow it though.

If only they could've escaped from this before it had started. Belphegor didn't care if it was rude that he'd flung War so far. She didn't matter, and in the long run, Belphegor hadn't expelled that much energy to get rid of her presence. "It was rude of her to gang up on my friend," he pointed out. "Even if I didn't care about her, both of you teaming up on Cupid would've been overkill." Aamon alone was overkill for Cupid, but it was harder for Belphegor to be as tough on his family. They'd already been through enough, and Belphegor didn't want to fight his brother. 

Still, Belphegor was scared and angry, and his rage wasn't leaving him. He was still seeing what happened to Belgirel in his mind, and he couldn't come out of it. His past might not have been the only reason for that continued anger either. Belphegor was highly empathetic, and he was currently clutching onto Cupid whom Aamon had pushed his wrath into. Belphegor could feel it going through her, and he was subconsciously taking some of it into himself, unaware that he was actually doing it at all.

When Aamon touched her head, Belphegor touched the same spot once his hand was gone. "You don't need to make a point to her. I'm not just protecting her. If you're not careful, you'll get in trouble. These riots that you're causing . . ." Belphegor waved at the sleeping bodies. "I don't care about them, but you can't let it be so obvious that it's you causing them. War's a bad influence. She doesn't get consequences for doing things like this. You do. We do. Michael promised me that what happened with us being cast out wouldn't happen again, but you shouldn't take chances like this." I don't want to lose you too, he thought to himself.

He kept his eyes locked on Aamon, even as time returned back to normal, only looking down when Cupid took a hold of his face. He felt like he needed to keep his eyes on his brother, like he might do something if Bells looked away, but he allowed Cupid to tilt his head.

"No," he told her shaking his head. "I'm not scared of him anymore. He won't do anything to me," he assured her, though he looked at Aamon as he said that. Michael didn't have any reason to be upset with Belphegor here, but Aamon was a different circumstance. Aamon would've only provoked him more. He held onto Cupid's shoulders as she spoke, hoping that it expressed how much he was supporting her speaking up. "I'll get her out of here as soon as you two get out of here," Belphegor assured him.

Aamon: He watched as War took to his side again. She was seething. He knew Belphegor had hurt her pride and she wasn't going to let that go easily. He would have to talk her down after all of this was over. He supposed he could make it up to her by causing a riot elsewhere in town. There was no sense in wasting a perfectly good night. "If I do recall, Cupid did start this one," the Demon Prince remarked coolly as he held up one of Cupid's arrows for Belphegor to take. "Little angels shouldn't go picking fights they can't win," he smirked.

Although he was disgusted by the lengths Belphegor was going through to keep Cupid safe, his expression softened but for a moment when Bells voiced their concern that there would be consequences if Aamon continued down this path. "It's just a bit of fun, Bells. They're only humans," he shrugged. Going at Cupid was the closest Aamon had gotten to a direct attack on another celestial, but he hadn't killed her. She was in for an unpleasant night, sure, but she wasn't one to tell Michael what she'd done either. She was lying when she said she wasn't afraid of the Archangel. He had the power to banish her to cast her back to Heaven just as he'd cast his siblings out to Hell. "But it does look like this party is pretty dead now," he exhaled. All the would-be rioters were asleep now. By the time he could rile them up again, police would be on scene anyway. "Very well," he sighed and feigned defeat. "War and I will go our separate ways." He looped War's hand around his arm and patted it to reassure her he had other plans. He wasn't going to let her go home tonight without having a good time. He was a gentleman after all.

Before walking away, Aamon clasped Bells shoulder one more time and leaned in. "I do have to caution you though, Bells," he whispered. "Do not make the mistake of trusting Michael and his word. He is his Father's son. Just because the wolf is wearing sheep's clothes, it doesn't make him any less of a wolf." With that, he patted Bells on the back one more time and made his way across the street and out of view with War.

Michael: He'd been enjoying the gala and was watching Zatanna's performance when he felt a blast of celestial energy ripple through the gala. Those around him began to yawn and get drowsy despite being lively and uproarious only moments ago. Michael's eyes scanned the crowd looking for Belphegor, but he couldn't find him. He didn't see Cupid, Aamon, or War in the crowd either although he was sure he'd seen them not even a half hour ago in the bar. His eyes locked onto Lucifer's and he could see Lucifer sensed the same level of energy affecting the gala patrons. Michael excused himself from his table and made his way toward the exit. He needed to see what the hell was going on out there.

WAR: War knew that it didn't matter who started what, though it did help defend their own case. If Michael or one of the other archangels asked about, it wasn't really their fault for responding to such an attack. Of course, it was their word against Cupids, and they all knew the angels would believe one of their own before they believed her or Aamon. They probably wouldn't have even believed little Bells compared to Cupid, but he probably would've just gone along with what she said anyways. Belphegor had always been a follower. He could invent things all he wanted, but when it came to taking action, he was always just playing a game of follow-the-leader.

It didn't last for any more than a second, but War saw it. It wasn't the hardened exterior full of rage and violence that War was used to seeing. Aamon looked at Belphegor softly in a way that she hadn't seen before. Belphegor was his soft spot. If there had been any doubt before about what she needed to do, it was squashed out now. Obviously, Aamon wouldn't be happy with her if he found out, but she would've been doing it for his own good. He needed to get rid of that kind of weakness anyways. Confronting Belphegor didn't mean she'd hurt him anyways either. She just hoped it'd change Belphegor's mind about trying to get in their way. Belphegor didn't need to be the good guy he wanted to be for the angels. They never would've trusted him or liked him anyways. Someone needed to remind him of that, and who would be so honest with him besides her?

She focused back on the conversation at hand, along with her hand on Aamon's arm. It was easy to take the clue there. They weren't done tonight. They left together. They'd have a lot more fun tonight, and the rest of this would hopefully be forgotten.

CUPID: “I could make you one!” she grinned. She loved crafting, sketching, and designing almost as much as Bells loved inventing. It was something they could do together to get Bells out of a funk maybe. “It can be a flower crown.” She was already picturing a daisy chain or maybe something more ornate for Bells. She might be able to get Zatanna to spell it so that the flowers never wilt. Something even the fires of hell couldn’t ruin. Maybe a flower crown would help Bells remember Cupid on their trips back to hell. Cupid wasn’t allowed there, and she found she missed Bells when they left. She sometimes pictured what it would be like to visit hell with Bells, but based on their stories, Bells preferred Earth. Or, rather, they preferred to be where Cupid was, although, they didn’t seem to catch onto the correlation.

Cupid could see Bells was trying to turn the fact that sometimes they struggled to get out of bed because of their depression into something humorous. “It’s morning somewhere,” she winked. She knew for Bells jokes tended to be a coping mechanism. A sort of gallows humor to keep the void at bay. Cupid didn’t like to think about the void. She couldn’t hear it like Charlie could, but she knew what it was. She knew what it wanted and would happen if it consumed Belphegor. Bells didn’t seem to understand, but that didn’t matter. Cupid wasn’t going to let the void get what it wanted. “We’ll have to plan a trip,” she grinned. She was sure Lucifer would give her some leeway when it came to taking Bells away from their kingdom. Lucifer was also aware of what the Void really was and if a vacation helped diminish the void’s hold over Bells, she was sure Lucifer would agree to it. “Somewhere warm and sunny like Greece or Egypt. Oh! Or maybe one of the other afterlife realms.”

All thoughts of an escape disappeared as she watched the back and forth between Aamon, War, and Belphegor. She knew what Bells was saying was true. Belphegor wasn’t protecting just Cupid in this matter. He was trying to keep Aamon safe too. Killing Cupid was a sure fire way to piss off both Lucifer and Michael. Aamon was being careless, but it appeared to Cupid that Aamon didn’t care how brash he was being. He wanted the others to notice him and that frightened her. What did he have planned? She didn’t believe, not even for a second, that Aamon and War would stop their games tonight, but she didn’t have the energy to fight him on it. Even with Belphegor taking some of Aamon’s powers into himself, Cupid could still feel the inky coldness of wrath and rage around her grace. She would spend the night expelling it from her body and she knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant. But at least they would be able to get Aamon and War away from this crowd. Lucifer, Michael, and the others deserved a night where they didn’t have to deal with supernatural fallout. Whatever fun Aamon was planning, he could do it far from here.

Cupid’s brows furrowed as Aamon leaned in to give Belphegor one final warning about Michael. Aamon was a master manipulator and although Cupid was in too much pain to figure out what his game was tonight, she knew spreading doubt was part of it. She balled her hands into fists as she watched the Demon Prince walk away with War at his side. “I know that he is your brother but—” she shook her head. “So is Michael. And for what it’s worth, Michael is trying to be better than Father.”

LUCIFER: He’d felt the wave of energy hit him like a ton of brinks during the magician’s performance. Lucifer quickly scanned the crowd, noting that neither Belphegor, Aamon, or Cupid were among the throngs of people watching the show. Lucifer locked eyes with Michael and knew in that moment that his brother sensed it too. Whatever it was, Lucifer knew it involved his other siblings and he did not need Michael to handle it. Michael had proven how heavy handed he could be in combat and although he claimed to have turned over a new leaf, Lucifer didn’t buy it. The devil had lost enough siblings without having to lose two more to Michael’s fierceness. Lucifer excused himself from his table and made his way out of the gala. Across the street he could see a crowd was gathered. A game had been playing at the stadium tonight, maybe they were on their way home? A closer examination showed that the crowd wasn’t moving, they were in some kind of stupor…asleep, maybe? He knew that had to be Belphegor’s doing, no doubt. But why? Lucifer scanned the crowd, trying to see if he could catch a glimpse of either of his siblings in the crowd.

CUPID: Cupid glanced across the street as Aamon and War finally disappeared from view. She could see in the distance two figures coming out of the gala hall. One she could make out as Michael purely based on his size and the other she figured was Lucifer. “Come on,” she whispered to Bells. Her voice was hoarse and dry. “We better get out of here.” She didn’t want Bells to get in trouble by either Michael or Lucifer. She knew how important it was for them to have their family stick together and Bells had made it clear that he thought this would create a divide between the angels and demons even further if they found out. Cupid wanted to be brave and she wanted to be strong, so, she took a step forward to try to aid in their getaway. He legs were shaky and her footing wobbly. Cupid grabbed onto Belphegor’s shoulder for support. “I dunno if I can make it out before they cross the street to get a better look. Can you fly us home?” she asked.

BELPHEGOR: “And I could make one for you too!” he offered her. He felt like it would be nice for them to make crowns for each other. “I’d like that.” He nodded. It sounded cute. “What flowers would you use?” Belphegor didn’t have much of a preference on different kinds of flowers, but he trusted Cupid’s judgement on them.

“I think I like that version better than the one about alcohol.” He laughed. He didn’t entirely understand the whole thing about alcohol and it being five o’clock somewhere, but maybe that was just because he never needed it to be any specific time to drink alcohol. If anything, it just depended on their mental state. They drank a lot when they were sad, but they avoided the stuff entirely when they were trying to stay happier. “I’d love to go on a trip with you!” he said excitedly. “It doesn’t really matter where it is.” He shrugged. He was sure that wherever Cupid would want to go would be great, and it wasn’t just because he could be comfortable just about anywhere.

Except here apparently. This whole situation was too anxiety-inducing to be comfortable.

“And I’m stopping it,” Belphegor responded to Aamon. It didn’t really matter who started it. Aamon had a history of these kinds of things, and he would be blamed for it no matter what if it didn’t stop before it got out of hand. “I know that it’s just fun for you, but you know that the others won’t see it like that.” Belphegor didn’t care about the humans. Live or die, there were plenty more of where they came from. Cupid, on the other hand, was one of a kind. If Cupid hadn’t been involved, Belphegor probably wouldn’t have done anything to stop him, but she was here. It was important to protect her.

Belphegor let out a sigh of relief when Aamon agreed to leave with War. He wouldn’t have to lose his brother this time.

As Aamon leaned closer to him to whisper in his ear, Belphegor stood rigidly. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He didn’t have intentions of actually doing that, but already, the thoughts were sticking in his head, sowing the seeds of doubt. Once he was gone, he looked back at Cupid. “I know he is.” He smiled softly at her. He believed her for the most part. He’d seen Michael make an effort to apologize. He’d promised that he wouldn’t cause a war between them again and that he regretted what had happened in the war. “That’s how I know he won’t try to start any kind of fight from this.” Belphegor had it handled anyways. They didn’t need Michael or even Lucifer to intervene.

Speaking of the Devil, Belphegor followed Cupid’s gaze over to the gala. It wasn’t hard to guess who those two figures in the distance were, but he wasn’t overly concerned by them at the moment. He was more focused on the way Cupid’s voice sounded strained and the way she wobbled when she tried to walk. Belphegor did his best to support her so she didn’t fall. “I got you,” he told her. “Only one of us is supposed to be a fallen angel, and I’m pretty sure that’s me.” He joked. He picked her up, carrying her bridal style. Belphegor didn’t often fly. They didn’t care for it that much unless they needed to go a long distance, but Cupid looked like she needed to be carried like this. Even if Michael and Lucifer weren’t going to come over here, he would’ve carried. “Hold on tight, okay?” he whispered. He crouched down for a second before flying off into the air with her in his arms. “Home it is.”

[vanon66-blog]

March On!

For several years during the 1990's I wrote a monthly devotional letter.  It began as a newsletter for singles at a local church in Fayetteville, Arkansas, but soon transitioned into a devotional letter that I wrote independently for people that I knew locally and then gradually broadened its readership to people all across America.

It was not something that I had planned, but looking back it wasn't hard to see how it, combined with many other things set the stage for my walk on Route 66.  For no apparent reason, at least to me at the moment, I suddenly awoke from sleep in the middle of the night, and the words, "The View from Crowley" flashed into my head.  And despite the fact that had just been jolted out of a sound sleep, I immediately knew what those words meant.  You see, I made several trips a year on my motorcycle to Colorado from my home in Arkansas.  And just as the mountains come into view there is a tiny town on the edge of the Colorado plains named Crowley.  There isn't much to see in that little town, but after hundreds of miles with nothing to see but flatland or rolling hills, it was always exciting to finally see the mountains, a thrill that, to me, never got old.  To me, the physical view that I saw from the town that bears my last name was synonymous with the view of the heights of spiritual truth that God revealed to me and my monthly letters were the means I had to convey what I was blessed to see.

I kept a small road log book with me on trips and after I began writing The View from Crowley I would always stop at the local post office there when on motorcycle trips and have them stamp my log book with the official Postmark stamp.  Needless to say, that book is one of my most treasured possessions.  Every month I would also send my addressed and folded letters in bulk to the post office in Crowley, Colorado so that they could be post marked and mailed from there.  It was one of the most treasured endeavors that I have ever been involved in, but with the coming of my walk, I felt that I was moving on to a new day and ended the letters with my first long distance move.

Many of the final letters were about Route 66, in fact, and probably should have been entitled, "The View from Holly Street" as this is where they were penned.  One of these letter is very dear to me and I wanted to share it with you.  It takes me back to the days before I left it all behind and headed out on the road.  I don't think that it is hard to sense that I felt that calling and passion.  To me, it is like pulling back the curtain of time and today I am inviting you back there with me.

Here is The View from Crowley from July of 1998.

Although it wasn't official until 1929, the Great Depression was a reality to rural America by 1928.  Okies and Arkies had already begun the migration to California that years later would inspire John Steinbeck to pen the words of The Grapes of Wrath.  Although the infamous Joad family was fictional, their perils, like those of countless thousands of others, were all too real, including those of Andrew Hartley Payne.  Like many others, he too journeyed to California for a job that never materialized,  but unlike many others, his cloud had a silver lining in the form of C.C. Pyle's First International Continental Foot Race, aka, the "Bunyan Derby."

In it's day, it was hailed as the most outrageous sporting event ever held.  It would begin at the Ascott Speedway in Los Angeles, California, follow Route 66 to Chicago, Illinois, and then turn east towards Madison square Garden in New York City.  Little did Lon Scott and C.C. (cash and carry) Pyle realize that when they gave birth to this event that it would remain the longest competitively timed race ever run.  As far as each of the was concerned, it was merely a means to their own ends, but, either way, Payne saw the $25,000 purse as the answer to his problems despite the odds.  And they were great.

C.C. Pyle, no stranger to sports promotion, had recruited veteran runners from all over the world, all of whom were favored over the majority who, like Payne, were running their first race.  And for most of the way, the veterans hold the lead, but, one by one, they either fell behind or dropped out.  In the end, of the 275 who began the race, it was Andy Payne who led the remaining 54 across the finish line 87 days later.

Andy paid off the family farm as he vowed, married, and then pursued what would become a successful political career in Oklahoma City where he remained until his death.  In his honor, the short stretch of Route 66 through Foyil, Oklahoma was dedicated to him.  Today, Andy Payne Boulevard, with its pinkish concrete and angled curbs is one of the few remaining original pieces of the Mother Road.

His beloved Foyil, however, was not as successful.  Like most towns sitting on the shoulders of Route 66, this tiny town's dreams were shattered when "progress" cut if off from the rest of the world, but unlike many of the others, it survived the winds of change.  And today, it stands as a testimony to perseverance, not only to itself, but to the man who ran and won the race of his life.

I can hardly compare my walking journey down Route 66 with C.C. Pyle's International Continental Foot Race, nor can I compare my own challenges with those of Andy Payne, but as I approach the little town of Foyil, I find myself inspired.  And as a result, I have found a renewed sense of commitment; a renewed commitment, not only to my own race, if you will, but to my journey through life as well.  And I can find no better way to express that commitment than by the words of a song written by the contemporary Christian music group DeGarmo and Key that I have been listening to over and over.  

"Everyday when I wake up, I pause and pray, 'Lord give me strength to follow just one more day.' Sometimes I don't even want to try. The struggle makes the strongest cry. But your love gives me strength inside. and I know it's the right thing to do.

I'm gonna march on, Gonna march on. I'm gonna march on, on til' Jesus comes.

Battles raging around me, the cost is high. You can't hold to be neutral, so choose your side. I'll pledge my loyalty to Him. I'll fight.  I'll fight against sin. Our Lord says the righteous will win. And I know it's the right thing to do.

I'm gonna march on. Gonna march on. I'm gonna march on. On til' Jesus comes."

God has called us all to run a race, a race where the odds against us are great, but also a race where there are great rewards; not only in eternity, but in the here and now.  If we're successful we will leave behind a testimony to perseverance, not only to ourselves, but more importantly, to the one who ran and won the greatest race of all - Jesus Christ.

"Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders, and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us." - Hebrews 12:1

Let's all march on.  I know that it's the right thing to do!