Be our protection against wickedness.

@cast-you-dxwn

RP blog for a very much OC interpretation of a Hazbin Hotel version of Saint Michael.

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Saint Michael The Archangel, defend us in battle-

Independent RP Blog for a Hazbin Hotel version of the Archangel Michael, Seraphim of Justice

Affiliated with: @flxshy @lilitophidian @taleswritten @timelostobserver @mourningstarred @unholynocturne @columbadolorosa @hellsdisneyprincess @more-things-in-heaven-hell @avispatr @queenbeeibee

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About

Promo image made by @flxshy using this theme!

Centurion Damian is the Pilus Prior of the First Legion btw. The most senior Centurion of the entire Legion, Legate Sarothias right hand, he and a team of his Legionnaires were the ones responsible for killing/casting down the Rebel Goetia during the Fall.

This is why he was chosen to safeguard Merihem, in hopes that his very presence would ward away any desire by the Goetia to even attempt to get near her.

#devotion and desire (ser damian)

Damian will stake down Lyr he supposes

"You sure know how to make a girl feel desired."

For all this time, she has made a pointed effort to not think too much about the goetic king or how deep her feelings for him actually run; simply because she has had more pressing matters to ruminate over. There is no animosity from her end, only weariness over the neverending push and pull of their arrangement and a desire to be rid of the accompanying emotional torsion.

"I'm not after anything. As long as she's safe and they're happy, that's good enough for me. I'm not so...deluded...to think that I am owed information or...even a moment of their time. I do appreciate it, though. You, coming here."

“You are making an effort.”

The travails of the ill-advised dalliance that gave rise to his charge are neither his business or of any concern to him. He has his orders and he will follow them.

Look after her.

If anyone takes too keen an interest in her, ward them away.

Put them to the sword if you must.

He’d never deny the attachment. Merihem is a nestling. She needs care and…love is perhaps too strong a word, and one he has no right to. But certainly fondness. Care and gentleness. He isn’t her father, and as far as he’s concerned she doesn’t have one. He’s a poor substitute, but he will abide.

“Daliah tells her stories, about when you were fledglings. Oriana and Michael show her pictures.”

Delivered without emotional language, but with purpose. That Lyriels family still thinks about her, still talks about her, and not in terms of disdain. With love. Love they share with her daughter.

#he’s lying to himself btw #he loves Meri

Damian will stake down Lyr he supposes

"You sure know how to make a girl feel desired."

“Desire is the sort of thing that ought to come with long-standing fondness, not before.”

"So, what are you staking your claim over me for, if not out of desire."

“I am the appointed guardian of young Merihem, and so I thought it might be easier for us all in order to make the logistics of it all easier.”

"Oh."

Lyriel blinks a few times, allowing the information to properly register before she offers a slow, deliberate nod in response to his assessment.

"okay."

He returns the nod, folding his hands in front of him and clearing his throat awkwardly.

“She is well. I look forward to bringing her to visit you, unless of course your parents or one of your sisters will be the one to do so. When you are ready.”

"She almost died, you know. Her egg was all messed up, there, at the start. I always worried that she might...I dont know, get sick or something, because of that.

She's okay?"

If there is any discomfort hanging in the air, it is entirely lost on Lyriel. She taps her fingers together, staring pensively down at the floor.

“I did. Michael saved her life, if I recall.”

Despite being his subordinate, he speaks of his Consul with a certain sort of casualness. They’ve known each other for a very long time. He gives another nod.

“She has some…health issues. Nothing to do with any injuries sustained prior to her hatching. More to do with her…dual natures. It’s being managed well. She’s okay. Happy, healthy. All the normal marks for a fledgling.”

From his tone it’s clear he’s very fond of the little half-breed.

"Yes, he did."

That she can recall with perfect clarity. Everything else surrounding that period of time is hazy at best. Interspersed with moments of discomfort, illness, pain, blood.

"I am glad that she is well...despite everything I always knew that she would be safe here...more than anywhere else."

Absently, a hand touches her belly where Merihem's egg had once sat. It has been a long time, but she still feels oddly hollow.

"....how long have you been her guardian?"

There had been a lot of stress then. Debate. The roaring reminder that innocence does not have a distinct build.

“She will be. I will see to that.”

He is not paying her lip service. It’s clear in his tone, his stance, the resoluteness of his gaze. This man who she does not know will kill and die for her daughter. His gaze falls to where she touches her stomach, and there is a glimmer of something, perhaps sadness, in the lavender sea.

“Since shortly after she hatched. Michael determined that I would be both an effective caretaker when the Judgements or your sisters are elsewhere, and an effective…deterrent. Given her father.”

There’s something of an edge to his tone. He knows Paimon. Well. Or thinks he does.

She was never meant to be a mother. Didn't have it in her. That nurturing quality you need to bring something up healthy and strong. There was love there, though. Not in her actions, but in her heart, locked away tight behind bars of her own construction. It hurts to love something so much. Not half as much as it hurt to loose it, of course.

Her fingers curl into a loose fist above her abdomen, and she lowers it back down into her lap.

"Has he...tried to see her? I figured he wouldn't. He knows better, I think...but I'm...not really in the loop on what's going on out there anymore."

They have that in common. He’s a soldier and nothing more. His fondness for the little girl who is not his blood and yet is his responsibility transcends the bounds of his purpose. Circumstances to rise to or not. She still may. The girl is young.

“He has not. If he does-“

He inhales, and closes his mouth without finishing. The threat of decisive violence does not need to be made and he understands that she might not appreciate it. But it’s there regardless. It’s why he’s there.

“If it’s information you want, I can try to get you up to speed. If you would like. I’ve been around quite a bit.”

Lyr: ‘She was never meant to be a mother.’

Mike: ‘He was never meant to be a father.’

#Cinna when I fucking get you

Damian will stake down Lyr he supposes

"You sure know how to make a girl feel desired."

“Desire is the sort of thing that ought to come with long-standing fondness, not before.”

"So, what are you staking your claim over me for, if not out of desire."

“I am the appointed guardian of young Merihem, and so I thought it might be easier for us all in order to make the logistics of it all easier.”

"Oh."

Lyriel blinks a few times, allowing the information to properly register before she offers a slow, deliberate nod in response to his assessment.

"okay."

He returns the nod, folding his hands in front of him and clearing his throat awkwardly.

“She is well. I look forward to bringing her to visit you, unless of course your parents or one of your sisters will be the one to do so. When you are ready.”

"She almost died, you know. Her egg was all messed up, there, at the start. I always worried that she might...I dont know, get sick or something, because of that.

She's okay?"

If there is any discomfort hanging in the air, it is entirely lost on Lyriel. She taps her fingers together, staring pensively down at the floor.

“I did. Michael saved her life, if I recall.”

Despite being his subordinate, he speaks of his Consul with a certain sort of casualness. They’ve known each other for a very long time. He gives another nod.

“She has some…health issues. Nothing to do with any injuries sustained prior to her hatching. More to do with her…dual natures. It’s being managed well. She’s okay. Happy, healthy. All the normal marks for a fledgling.”

From his tone it’s clear he’s very fond of the little half-breed.

"Yes, he did."

That she can recall with perfect clarity. Everything else surrounding that period of time is hazy at best. Interspersed with moments of discomfort, illness, pain, blood.

"I am glad that she is well...despite everything I always knew that she would be safe here...more than anywhere else."

Absently, a hand touches her belly where Merihem's egg had once sat. It has been a long time, but she still feels oddly hollow.

"....how long have you been her guardian?"

There had been a lot of stress then. Debate. The roaring reminder that innocence does not have a distinct build.

“She will be. I will see to that.”

He is not paying her lip service. It’s clear in his tone, his stance, the resoluteness of his gaze. This man who she does not know will kill and die for her daughter. His gaze falls to where she touches her stomach, and there is a glimmer of something, perhaps sadness, in the lavender sea.

“Since shortly after she hatched. Michael determined that I would be both an effective caretaker when the Judgements or your sisters are elsewhere, and an effective…deterrent. Given her father.”

There’s something of an edge to his tone. He knows Paimon. Well. Or thinks he does.

Damian will stake down Lyr he supposes

"You sure know how to make a girl feel desired."

“Desire is the sort of thing that ought to come with long-standing fondness, not before.”

"So, what are you staking your claim over me for, if not out of desire."

“I am the appointed guardian of young Merihem, and so I thought it might be easier for us all in order to make the logistics of it all easier.”

"Oh."

Lyriel blinks a few times, allowing the information to properly register before she offers a slow, deliberate nod in response to his assessment.

"okay."

He returns the nod, folding his hands in front of him and clearing his throat awkwardly.

“She is well. I look forward to bringing her to visit you, unless of course your parents or one of your sisters will be the one to do so. When you are ready.”

"She almost died, you know. Her egg was all messed up, there, at the start. I always worried that she might...I dont know, get sick or something, because of that.

She's okay?"

If there is any discomfort hanging in the air, it is entirely lost on Lyriel. She taps her fingers together, staring pensively down at the floor.

“I did. Michael saved her life, if I recall.”

Despite being his subordinate, he speaks of his Consul with a certain sort of casualness. They’ve known each other for a very long time. He gives another nod.

“She has some…health issues. Nothing to do with any injuries sustained prior to her hatching. More to do with her…dual natures. It’s being managed well. She’s okay. Happy, healthy. All the normal marks for a fledgling.”

From his tone it’s clear he’s very fond of the little half-breed.

Damian will stake down Lyr he supposes

"You sure know how to make a girl feel desired."

“Desire is the sort of thing that ought to come with long-standing fondness, not before.”

"So, what are you staking your claim over me for, if not out of desire."

“I am the appointed guardian of young Merihem, and so I thought it might be easier for us all in order to make the logistics of it all easier.”

"Oh."

Lyriel blinks a few times, allowing the information to properly register before she offers a slow, deliberate nod in response to his assessment.

"okay."

He returns the nod, folding his hands in front of him and clearing his throat awkwardly.

“She is well. I look forward to bringing her to visit you, unless of course your parents or one of your sisters will be the one to do so. When you are ready.”

Damian will stake down Lyr he supposes

"You sure know how to make a girl feel desired."

“Desire is the sort of thing that ought to come with long-standing fondness, not before.”

"So, what are you staking your claim over me for, if not out of desire."

“I am the appointed guardian of young Merihem, and so I thought it might be easier for us all in order to make the logistics of it all easier.”

Damian will stake down Lyr he supposes

"You sure know how to make a girl feel desired."

“Desire is the sort of thing that ought to come with long-standing fondness, not before.”

The NCR would collectively shit themselves finding out about the Alamo Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel and I think that is very funny

The Lone Star Republic is also not incredibly fond of their far flung Californian counterparts, considering the victory at Hoover Dam has made the Legion the LSRs problem

The NCR would collectively shit themselves finding out about the Alamo Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel and I think that is very funny

While Daliah is, these days, far from someone who wants to start shit, and is generally capable of handling things on her own, she is not in any way shape or form above calling for her daddy if things are going sideways

Does that make her pathetic? Perhaps. But she’s spent the last millennium being wretched in a way that she despised with all of her being. She is perfectly happy being wretched in a way that makes her feel warm, safe, and happy.

While Daliah is, these days, far from someone who wants to start shit, and is generally capable of handling things on her own, she is not in any way shape or form above calling for her daddy if things are going sideways

@cast-you-dxwn said: Emilia: “Yes actually I’ve been waiting for you to bring the idea up first.”

"I've wanted to, for a while...but, I don't know...I guess I'm just afraid..."

She does not look at him. Not initially. The knowledge that he is there is enough to make her hands tremble like the fragile branches of a withered willow, the sight of him might make her come apart altogether, she fears.

So, there she stands, a few feet in front of the pink flowerbeds lining the window panes on either side of the garden doors, clutching her hands to her chest as if in some paltry effort to barricade her ever frangible heart from the outside world. Trepidation in her fitful eyes.

Be normal. Be normal.

There are no good words that she can think of, so she resigns herself to blurting out the first thing that comes comes to her mind.

"I'm sorry..."

At some point those words ought to have become meaningless to him. So many repetitions and so many disappointments of the hope they raise in him. Yet they had always been sincere, at least in the moment, even if in the next she had been swept up in her sickness and those apologies had amounted to much less than nothing.

So he had always forgiven her, likely always would, even if in this particular instance he truly has no idea what part of anything she is actually apologizing for. Contrition had not been his expectation, given the hissing spitting creature that had been his daughter, stained with his ichor as she’d been when he’d dragged her here quite against her wishes.

A hand reaches out, palm up, not quite to beckon but a very familiar bidding, the ever-present gesture that always meant his girls are more than welcome to come to him, to his knee and his embrace, no matter how old they’d gotten.

“You…you do not have to apologize to me.”

Digits twist into the pristine, white fabric of her tunic, perhaps the first article of clothing she has worn in decades that does not carry any detectable undertones of blood or gore in it's threads. If not for the harrowed expression on her face, she might not look terribly dissimilar to the delicate, ashen fledgling she once was, barefoot in the grass, fresh out of Sunday school.

She...really wishes he would have given her more time to prepare herself. When she had brought the matter up with Emilia she hadn't quite been expecting the whole arrangement to fall into place in a matter of minutes. Of course she is glad that he was ready and willing to see her but it's...it's a lot; all at once.

"No...no...I'm sorry....I'm sorry...I'm normal..."

The offered hand, while tempting, goes untouched, opting instead to hide her face in her palms, wishing she had something appealing to show for all the time she had spent here.

"I'm so sorry...."

“All is right, Lyriel…”

His voice is soft and assuring and at her continued distress he stands, taking a simple stride forward to wrap his arms about her shoulders. It is not a tight embrace, she can easily break from it and from him if she has the desire. Perhaps it is not wise to initiate contact first, but he would not be himself if he saw her in distress and did offer comfort.

“I am not angry with you.”

He says this as a whisper into her scalp, blinking back the moisture that gathers in the corners of his eyes. She looks much as she did, as they did, when they were young, her robes kept and her hair long, and the fact that she had let her make her way here unaccompanied speaks well of the state of her treatment.

“You look well, my beloved daughter. Are…how are you?”

She doesn't have it in her to return the embrace. Not just yet. To do so, she would have to splay herself open too far, make herself so much bigger than she feels; but, with her arms tucked in flush to her chest and her head hung low, she resigns herself to the all encompassing desire to lean, slowly, into his chest.

Her fingers capture the fabric of his robes, tucking it into her palms as she nestles her face against his sternum, breath coming in short and shallow, hitching, wet bursts. Screwing her eyes shut, she swallows another apology that is just about to drip from her tremulous mouth. He isn't angry, he says. She believes that he isn't angry, but that does not soothe the ache of regret that has made it's home on her chest.

"I missed you...."

The words, spoken barely above the meekest of whispers, almost get lost in the threads of his robes.

“I missed you too.”

He catches a lock of pale hair betwixt his fingers, letting the strands fall between his fingers as he gently combs from root to ends. It’s longer than he’s seen it since she was a child, it suits her, it always did. He could no longer catch the scent of brimstone or copper, always there no matter what, only whatever soap they used here, and beneath it that touch that always lingered in her childhood room, even after all this time.

She’s different. Feels different. Sounds different. Not the same, never the same, but he’d never expected that. Better, is the word that sticks out as a small trill sounds in his throat, rumbling in his chest where her head rested. She seems better.

“You look good.” The words are whispered into her scalp as he buries his nose in the top of her head. “You sound good. Has Doctor Grey been helping?”

Helping.

For a long time, she had been her only solace in this place, until she had learned little by little, to appreciate the slow, delicate and predictable flow of things within the parameters of the facility. There is still a part of her that would rather resolve her pent up frustrations and upset with fire and blood, but that part isn't so overwhelmingly loud anymore. She feels more herself than she has for a long, long time. A feeling she owes in no small part to Emilia.

She nods, rolling the fabric of his robes between her fingers, above his chest, the familiar thrum of which itches some vestigial part of her mind that tells her that she can relax. That all is good with the world.

"She is...she...I feel...better. More...clear...I don't know...it's just...better. she makes me feel better....not so angry...."

“She is a good woman. Very good at what she does.”

Not that he has to tell her that, Lyriel probably knows that much better than he does at this point. Her fingers in his robes ease him, that she does not shy from his touch, that she still seeks comfort in him. As things should be, another moment in time where all is right, whether or not the storm will come howling again.

“She left the Legion recently, I do not know if she told you. Told me that she had found her purpose. In a way you have helped her too.”

The gentle scratching of his nails against her scalp, old comfort from when frightened nestlings had huddled against him and Oriana during lightning storms. He pulls back slightly, looking down upon her, cradling the back of her head. Smiling softly.

“I am glad you feel better…you grew out your hair. It looks good. You look…good.”

@cast-you-dxwn said: Emilia: “Yes actually I’ve been waiting for you to bring the idea up first.”

"I've wanted to, for a while...but, I don't know...I guess I'm just afraid..."

She does not look at him. Not initially. The knowledge that he is there is enough to make her hands tremble like the fragile branches of a withered willow, the sight of him might make her come apart altogether, she fears.

So, there she stands, a few feet in front of the pink flowerbeds lining the window panes on either side of the garden doors, clutching her hands to her chest as if in some paltry effort to barricade her ever frangible heart from the outside world. Trepidation in her fitful eyes.

Be normal. Be normal.

There are no good words that she can think of, so she resigns herself to blurting out the first thing that comes comes to her mind.

"I'm sorry..."

At some point those words ought to have become meaningless to him. So many repetitions and so many disappointments of the hope they raise in him. Yet they had always been sincere, at least in the moment, even if in the next she had been swept up in her sickness and those apologies had amounted to much less than nothing.

So he had always forgiven her, likely always would, even if in this particular instance he truly has no idea what part of anything she is actually apologizing for. Contrition had not been his expectation, given the hissing spitting creature that had been his daughter, stained with his ichor as she’d been when he’d dragged her here quite against her wishes.

A hand reaches out, palm up, not quite to beckon but a very familiar bidding, the ever-present gesture that always meant his girls are more than welcome to come to him, to his knee and his embrace, no matter how old they’d gotten.

“You…you do not have to apologize to me.”

Digits twist into the pristine, white fabric of her tunic, perhaps the first article of clothing she has worn in decades that does not carry any detectable undertones of blood or gore in it's threads. If not for the harrowed expression on her face, she might not look terribly dissimilar to the delicate, ashen fledgling she once was, barefoot in the grass, fresh out of Sunday school.

She...really wishes he would have given her more time to prepare herself. When she had brought the matter up with Emilia she hadn't quite been expecting the whole arrangement to fall into place in a matter of minutes. Of course she is glad that he was ready and willing to see her but it's...it's a lot; all at once.

"No...no...I'm sorry....I'm sorry...I'm normal..."

The offered hand, while tempting, goes untouched, opting instead to hide her face in her palms, wishing she had something appealing to show for all the time she had spent here.

"I'm so sorry...."

“All is right, Lyriel…”

His voice is soft and assuring and at her continued distress he stands, taking a simple stride forward to wrap his arms about her shoulders. It is not a tight embrace, she can easily break from it and from him if she has the desire. Perhaps it is not wise to initiate contact first, but he would not be himself if he saw her in distress and did offer comfort.

“I am not angry with you.”

He says this as a whisper into her scalp, blinking back the moisture that gathers in the corners of his eyes. She looks much as she did, as they did, when they were young, her robes kept and her hair long, and the fact that she had let her make her way here unaccompanied speaks well of the state of her treatment.

“You look well, my beloved daughter. Are…how are you?”

She doesn't have it in her to return the embrace. Not just yet. To do so, she would have to splay herself open too far, make herself so much bigger than she feels; but, with her arms tucked in flush to her chest and her head hung low, she resigns herself to the all encompassing desire to lean, slowly, into his chest.

Her fingers capture the fabric of his robes, tucking it into her palms as she nestles her face against his sternum, breath coming in short and shallow, hitching, wet bursts. Screwing her eyes shut, she swallows another apology that is just about to drip from her tremulous mouth. He isn't angry, he says. She believes that he isn't angry, but that does not soothe the ache of regret that has made it's home on her chest.

"I missed you...."

The words, spoken barely above the meekest of whispers, almost get lost in the threads of his robes.

“I missed you too.”

He catches a lock of pale hair betwixt his fingers, letting the strands fall between his fingers as he gently combs from root to ends. It’s longer than he’s seen it since she was a child, it suits her, it always did. He could no longer catch the scent of brimstone or copper, always there no matter what, only whatever soap they used here, and beneath it that touch that always lingered in her childhood room, even after all this time.

She’s different. Feels different. Sounds different. Not the same, never the same, but he’d never expected that. Better, is the word that sticks out as a small trill sounds in his throat, rumbling in his chest where her head rested. She seems better.

“You look good.” The words are whispered into her scalp as he buries his nose in the top of her head. “You sound good. Has Doctor Grey been helping?”

Fallout Mike is a Texas Ranger in service of the Lone Star Republic, do with this as you will

Be our protection against wickedness. @cast-you-dxwn - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag