d e v o n
Not today Justin
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祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Love Begins
will byers stan first human second
Janaina Medeiros
Stranger Things
dirt enthusiast
Kaledo Art
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NASA
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
todays bird
Kiana Khansmith
Product Placement
$LAYYYTER
Sade Olutola
occasionally subtle
almost home
seen from United States
seen from India
seen from Chile
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Finland
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Thailand
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@cxecution
adam "aslan yildiz" ( berk cankat, '35,' cursed mortal, c-list actor )
all || intro || interactions || musings || visage || playlist || pinterest ||
azrael "azalea blackwood" ( t'nia miller, '38,' archangel, funeral director )
all || intro || interactions || musings || visage || playlist || pinterest ||
“No,” he says, immediately. There is no hesitation. There is no question. He fell, and it was for a reason. He was forsaken, and he did not have any urge, any desire, to make a rise back up towards the heavens. Not in the state it was. Not when it was dripping in false prophets and hypocrites — those who shame for what is ultimately human and was bled for by Him; the slightest sins. “No, I have no need for repentance. Or whatever form of scraps you all call forgiveness at a table that is far from inviting. I know who I am.” He knew he would never measure up. He would fall short. He would drown, and only suffering would bleed from his eyes at having to be so… uptight. They couldn’t even unclench enough to grab the sticks out of their asses.
“Miserable — no.” He felt anything but miserable. They could decorate who he was in whatever they wanted, but he knew what he was. “I am free.” Simple. No decorum. Down to its barest bones. “There are no shackles chaining me down. No impossible expectations are choking me. Nothing missing in me, no absence, as I cut out the thing that made me feel less for having a single wavering thought.” He looks around then in mock amusement. “And now the absent father is even more absent. Permanently. Who do you all become when the absence starts to be felt? When you can’t help but become more like me?”
Loyalty wouldn’t hold up. He’d see to that; help foster the discord. “Will you prescribe them as miserable as you have me? Or unchained, unbound, and capable of much more? The apple didn’t kill anyone, Az. It released them. This will, too.” He smiles then, unashamed. “So, maybe I do think it’s a delight. It’s a delight to see you all become more depraved… I mean, look, you’re already praying for more bloodshed now. Even if it's just mine.”
“Who are you then?” Azrael asked, almost a challenge. “You can say that you’re free all you want, and maybe you are, but who are you? What do you stand for?” It wasn’t in her nature, getting heated even in the slightest (especially if her hands had anything to say about it!) – more often than not, she would accept that answer from a demon and go about her day. Demons, angels, humans, hellmouths, all of them had their own perception of their world and their reality. Was there any one reality? Questioning perceptions would do her no good, serve no purpose… but Satan really brought out the best.
“You stand for freedom? From where I stand, you have to credit Lucifer. You listened to him, you followed him. All you stand for is chaos.” He would love that, she knew. She didn’t know if he would love her saying he had essentially been Lucifer’s plaything, a cog in his machine, but telling him he stood for chaos? “And I’m certain that’s all well and good with you, I’m certain you believe that to be even stronger than a divine purpose… and that’s why I find you so very miserable.” Pathetic, even.
“You’re right, Satan, you're right. It is very possible that even the holiest among us will do an about-face when God’s true absence is felt, but very few are beyond redemption,” she said, tone far calmer than it had been. Then, as an aside - “You’d be proud to hear that you’re not among them, I’m sure.” That was what made the man so frustrating in conversation! “But if you think for a second that I have not held that same sentiment ever since you fell, you’re sorely mistaken. What an honor you have – you truly do bring out the worst.”
"That would be why you're here, isn't it? As I said, if anyone were to understand, wouldn't it be me?" He holds that gaze, his hands gentle against his cheek. Once upon a time, Adam would have seen the colors of the dawn in those eyes when once he had been resplendent in glory. Now, they are unfathomably dark as though the light in them had long been smothered. He lets his gaze trail the line of Adam's face, the dark of his brows to the line of his nose, his mouth before he smiles.
& that smile remains kind.
Behind them in the glory of Eden, shadows move and shift and there is a shoulder, the shape of something moving just out of sight. God, through the eyes of Lucifer, is something magnificent. The creator of the world looks at you, loves you, chooses you among the rest — how can they be anything but magnificent? The radiance of glory bleeds through the trees, through the palm fronds, through the small little flowers with their bright faces looking up at Adam.
Lucifer watches Adam, watching for the way that his breath will catch or his hands with tremble. ( But the God that lives in Lucifer's memory and illusion is the one that did yet know Adam. ) Lucifer looks over his shoulder, lets the smile fade into something that could almost be said to be sorrow.
If anyone were to understand, wouldn't it be Lucifer? Wouldn't it? Among all of them, among the demons and the angels and those crafted out of mud — wouldn't it be him? His voice aches, soft with the tenderness of wishing for something that he simply can't hold. To those unshed tears in Adam's eyes, he gives a laugh that could be hiding his own.
"I don't know what to do, Adam. I really don't. I'm having trouble wrapping my head around the fact that God only exists now ... like this and there is ... nothing I can do. And if I said that to anyone else, they'd laugh."
It would be him. Adam didn’t know much, he’d be the first to confess, but he knew that, before mankind came to fruition, God favored Lucifer. Maybe that was why Adam found it hard to hold any kind of grudge against him for his part in the fall, maybe it was because he knew he had taken his place – someone less worthy, someone not angelic. Could he blame Lucifer? Could he really blame any of the demons? Hell, or even any of the angels?
No, no.
He placed his own hand upon Lucifer’s as their reality warped again. Looking into those dark eyes, he reckoned they were supposed to bring to mind soullessness, but all he saw in that moment was the tragedy that had caused it. Now, with the death of God fresh in his mind, he felt a closeness to Lucifer that he wished he couldn’t explain… Their history, what had happened, he wished he couldn’t explain it…
But their relationship with that marvelous being, standing behind Lucifer now, captured in all His holy glory…
Adam nearly buckled beneath the perceived might, nearly fell to his knees. It was all he could do to remain standing, remain calm, in the face of their creator. Magnificent. His – their – father. How Adam was ever supposed to reflect Him, he sometimes believed it was for the best that he had fallen. Man could never live up to the measure of a God, no matter how pure and pious. Man could never be so magnificent.
“I…” Lucifer admitting a certain weakness to Adam? He had half a mind to wonder if it was some kind of trick… then, God was dead, what trick was there to play? A trick to get him on his ‘side’? He didn’t care. He didn’t care. All he knew was that he very seldom knew what to do. “It’s… it’s weird.” That was putting it lightly. “Y’know, death, people dying – we get used to it.” ‘We’ being humans, of course! Especially near immortal ones! “But…” He gestured toward the mirage of God. “But God dying… I - I don’t know much, but does anyone know what that means?”
For all they dread Azrael’s coming, she is beautiful. She exists with a kind of purity reserved only for their Lord. After the rest of them have faded from existence Azrael will still be there, final, inevitable. It is only by chance that she is also kind, that her intervention, as tainted as it is by loss, is always a mercy.
The world is tilting on its axis. For the first time in their long life, Raphael must reckon with the mortality of angels, of God himself. New and unknown fears rise inside the chamber of their body, held back only by the numbing cold of their grief. But as they watch Az spread her night dark wings, one pushes its way to the front of their mind, so tragic even their sorrow cannot dull it.
Someday all of them will have returned to the nothing they were before God made them into something. And then Azie will be left all alone. There will be no one there to kiss her goodbye. There will be no one there to tell her that there is nothing else left to do.
“Thank you,” they say, reverent, sincere. Their gratitude expands far beyond this moment and this single death. Azie has been there for every death that has ever been. She will be there for every death that will ever be. She has accepted this duty with the whole expanse of her heart and what has Raphael- what has anyone ever done to thank her for it?
She presses her lips to Cassiel’s and then it’s over. Cassiel’s body remains the same but something else, something unseeable and unknowable has changed. Cassiel is Gone.
Raphael gazes at their still face one last time and then they turn to look at her and smile, weak with heartbreak but grateful. At peace in their own way. “I know Azie, I do,” they assure her, they raise their hand to wipe at their wet eyes but abort the movement when they remember there is blood all over them. She is right, of course, but still, Raphael has no intention of accepting that. Their sense of failure is important to them. It serves a purpose. God made them to heal, to save. If they accept that it cannot be done for one soul, they accept that it cannot be done for any of them.
“I just, I have to try. You know that,” they tell her finally, pleading with her to understand what they cannot fully put into words.
She had thought of it before – what would happen when the experiment on and of her life drew to a close. She hoped, now more than ever, that she would be the last of their kind – not out of misguided ego, not out of a wish to be the only one standing so she could be the only one standing, rather so she could provide all of her kin with the peaceful endings that they deserved. Everyone had been fighting so hard for so long, the last thing she wished for them was to disappear into infinite nothingness without a modicum of peace.
Was it nothingness now?
No matter which way it was cut, however, she would not receive that same peace that they would. But it would bring her peace, wouldn’t it? If she had been able to send everyone off, sealed with a kiss, in a certain bliss? She knew – she knew that knowing that, that knowing she had been able to do that, would allow her to pass with a smile.
So maybe there was a certain selfish air to that longing to be the last, simply… not in the way it could be.
She nodded a solitary nod in response to Raphael’s gratitude, eyes still on the body – now unarguably just a body – of Cassiel. How it took and it took, the turmoil that was living.
They have to try, they said; they have to try to keep the living alive. It was their purpose, thus it was what they felt the most connected to; it was their purpose, thus it was their obligation – God-given. So she nodded again, placing a hand on their shoulder this time. “I know you do.” They had to guard life to the best of their abilities, just as Azrael had to aid in creation and be the bringer of destruction. What a funny word to describe death. “Some don’t want to be.” Azrael had danced with some, had danced with some who called upon her and changed their mind. Humans, she believed, were more complicated than some gave them credit for. Perhaps some humans were even more complicated than angels and demons and hellmouths and even God. Thus, a beat… “Some don’t know what they want.”
a few smudges of fresh blood stained her hands, between bruises and cuts, michael chased an old feeling, anger. it buried deep beneath her own ribs, poisonous, consuming any traces of kindness that survived war.
perhaps the archangel could change... move on. but that pounding in her head never ceased, guilt and anger were the oldest company michael had. the oldest daughter, the one god could not love. was it a sin to feel so tired? what if she wasn't the person to save the world anymore?
the mere thought scared her, pushing michael to press the knife deeper into that demon's neck. " where is cain? " her voice echoed, stern, demanding, a question she repeated relentlessly those past few days.
" he called you? isn't that adorable " an empty chortle fell out of her lips. " a whole existence of sin, and they beg for the angel of death? "
michael turned, blue eyes piercing azrael. " you have come to collect his friend already, i would be doing you a favor... " her grip on the demon became loose, a tempting opportunity.
albeit hurt, the demon ran towards her sister. " all these years have passed, and you still think you're the only one with a holy purpose " she summoned an ancient fire, aiming it towards that hellish creature... scorched, dead.
She considered, for a moment, explaining herself; she considered, for a moment, explaining that only those with moral clarity could call to her. But she had wasted breath in many an explanation before she had accepted that not all people, much less angels, could understand why she would visit, say, a killer to put them at ease in Death.
There were some who, even if they had reached true moral clarity at the very end, she could not visit. Those who had been nothing but heinous, who had made hoards of people suffer for their own benefit – no. But some…
It was never too late to turn around. Even on the brink of Death – most commonly on the brink of Death – it was not too late.
And she could tell true clarity, a clarity that would have continued throughout their mortal years, apart from clarity that was simply brought upon by facing their end – desperate clarity, clarity that would not have carried on.
All to say: yes, she had answered a demon’s call. Yes, she was certain there would be more. Yes, she was certain many would not understand. Yes, that was just how the cards worked.
Thus, she simply reiterated, “I come when I am called upon.” That was all there was to it. She watched as the demon Michael had had pinned was released, tried to scamper away, only to be scorched. Shaking her head ever so slightly, she looked from the body to Michael.
“I’ve never believed my ‘purpose’ to be more Holy than anyone else’s,” she said, intonation flat, non-defensive, unsure where Michael had picked that up from – from her aggravation over the trail of bodies? “Though I admit that I wonder about you. If they had no answers, what justified that?” She nodded to the fresh body, the demon who’d been alive when she’d arrived on scene. “Their status as a demon?”
Jane Mead, from “I wonder if I will miss the moss”
“Oh. Is that so?” He asks, and he could not have a more patronizing tone towards the mere notion of belief; of faith. Or how little they all seemed to have in him. He might have laughed, if he didn’t hold to a more austere image. He long ago gave up on sharing in their capricious form of faith — more wayward than an envious second son.
“Did He not build his kingdom upon hope, love, and faith?” He mocks, curling a hand around the zipper of his coat with a hard stare. “You seem to have a strange image of your loving Father. As I seem to recall, he embraces those who repent. He holds out for any lost soul; no matter how far they’ve fallen.” A pause. Then, “but you would know nothing of falling, or temptation, and how long it can take to rise above the surface again.”
He smirks then; crooked. “Spilling his blood does nothing for me. It’s the transgressions of his creations that I enjoy. The bloodshed, that’s a sin for his other children to enjoy and for me to watch.”
This time, Azrael could almost laugh. Almost. Satan spoke of repentance, of temptation, of falling, and all she could do was shake her head with a smile formed out of disbelief.
“You speak as though you would ever consider repentance.” Some demons, she knew, were not beyond saving. Many still possessed moral clarity, at least as they began passing from one side of the thin line between life and Death to the next. It was not common, of course, for a demon to die, and perhaps that was why. Perhaps, upon realizing that their immortality was simply conditional, they looked to God again… or, at the very least, became good again. She did not ask questions. She did her job. God was not the arbiter of moral clarity, after all – plenty of people who did not believe in Him had called upon her – but demons… a special breed. “We both know you’re beyond redemption.” And she was sure he rejoiced in that. “You are a miserable, miserable man,” she said with a light laugh. To find joy in bloodshed, to find joy in the wrath and chaos of others. “You think it such a joke and delight? I can only hope that you’ll be on the other side of that knife sooner rather than later.” She did not wish death lightly! But she would not come to him, if ever he were. He did not deserve peace.
Her body ached, each new heartbeat increasing in speed as she looked at him. Nothing had changed except the clothes. Everything seemed so real and painfully surreal at the same time, that Lilith almost forgot to breathe. There he stood, the man she'd been created with, her ex-husband and the man she'd loved. She was a fool for not expecting him to be here tonight. After having avoided him for so long, even searched for him every now and then only to never approach, Lilith knew there was no hiding now.
His warmth felt real, so she accepted the fact that she wasn't hallucinating despite the punch's effect. She knew him all too well to not immediately recognize him by the shape of his jaw, his smell, his voice, too. "Adam." She drew her hand back, afraid it would last all night against his skin, "I don't know why. We've all been practically stuck in here, but I never knew you'd be here, too." In fact, Lilith was shocked to see him here. Someone must've invited him without her knowledge. "This isn't a good idea, you must go." Lilith looked around, "I can't go back, not like this." It's almost a reminder of how they'd chased her down so she'd return to Adam. "How did you... did you have a good life?" she was curious, awfully so, to know more about him and his whereabouts all these years.
Adam could see the wheels turning in Lilith’s head, cycling and cycling and cycling. She stuttered and she stammered and she held so many questions he was not sure he could answer, was not sure he would want to answer. Yet, despite being confused more often than not, Adam held none. For the first time in a long time, Adam felt simple acceptance wash over him – acceptance with no strings attached.
There she was. Here he was. After eons apart, there they were. Destined to be, in God’s plan.
He placed a hand on the side of her arm, an attempt to calm her racing mind, and locked eyes with her. “No one’s taking you back, Lilith.” Even if they could, even if Adam were still allowed within the garden of Eden, his time with Eve and his time within the mortal world had taught him better. She was not his. They were a part of each other, yes, but she was not his just as he was not hers. “It’s okay.” Had he had a good life? “I did. I did have a good life.” Past tense, of course, despite his life not being over. “I made mistakes, but I did have a good life.” Was his life still good? That was up for debate. It was better than the worst it could be, but it was worse than the best it could be. “And… I’m sorry.” I’m sorry, for believing being made for each other meant they must belong to each other; I’m sorry, for questioning her decision to experience autonomy; I’m sorry, for believing she had made a mistake. “You’ve done very well for yourself. I shouldn’t have questioned that.”
The fire in them does not die. They do not think it will for a long time. There will be no forgetting the moment they saw their kin reach not for Cassiel as they died, but for the lifeblood draining out of them, heedless of who it belonged to, heedless of compassion, heedless of decency. But Azrael doesn’t approach them with pretense or greed. She arrives as gentle as inevitable as the falling rain.
Still, it is the defect of the living to deny death. Raphael shakes their head, eyes growing hot and wet with tears. “No,” they start, voice trembling as they grip Cassiel a little tighter, a little closer to them, “I can still-” But no, they can’t. Even now warmth flees from Cassiel’s body like blood from a wound. Raphael could split their human vessel open and pour every last drop of their power and grace into this body and even then it would not draw a breath. If it somehow did, it would not be Cassiel anymore. There’s nothing more they can do. Cassiel has long since crossed the threshold from their domain into hers. Any further denial of that fact would be to stand against the natural order of things. The knife and the whole of their power is only a useless gesture in the face of death. But Azrael stops anyway, because Azareal has always been kind. Before she was powerful and inevitable she was kind.
“Oh Azie,” they whisper, defeated, letting the hand with the knife drop. “Will you help me please? Will you help me lay them to rest?”
Perhaps there had been a time, however short lived, that Azrael had wished she was more recognized for her status not only as the Angel of Death/Destruction, but the Angel of Life/Renewal. However, she had come to learn rather quickly that few others would be so willing to shoulder her responsibility, to accept a role that was intertwined with tragedy, that she accepted it. More than that, she began seeing herself solely as the Angel of Death/Destruction, Life/Renewal but a mere side effect. And even more than that, she began to take solace in that title.
Angel of Death. Angel of Peace.
In any case, perhaps it was more tragic to be the arbiter of… any other facet of life or emotion or lived experience. Death was the one inevitability. Death was the one unavoidable part of life itself. Death was something she had grown numb to, something she found hard to believe tragic when it was what she knew best. Death was beautiful, so she thought. Death was impartial. Death was fair. Death was release from a hard mortal coil.
She did not weep over it, unlike Raphael; she felt no ire over it, unlike Michael. There was a murderer in their midst, that was something to be concerned over – having no God, that was something to be concerned over – but the Death of both God and Cassiel itself…
“There’s nothing you can do now.” She had been called, even if it was cacophonous. She was only called when the end was near, she was only called when someone begged, she was only called when someone who had reached true moral clarity had already passed and simply needed… peace to guide them along.
With the perceived permission of Raphael, black wings protruded from Azrael’s back as she knelt down. A caress against the side of Cassiel’s face, dead but not yet Dead. “Shall I release you?” she asked them, despite their inability to answer. It still seemed only right to ask. Thus, with the unexpected answer of no answer, already released, she placed a soft kiss upon Cassiel’s lips. Peace in an otherwise peaceless environment.
And her wings folded back in.
“It’s inevitable, Raphael. You must know that by now.” Try as they might… “They can’t all be saved.”
who: @cxecution / azrael!
where: some alley
a trail of blood stained the streets towards that alley, beneath flickering lights, michael chased two demons... the first one a scorched shell, abandoned a few meters behind, useless. " stop running, that didn't work out for your friend. "
that remaining demon crawled towards the dead end, bruised and cut, trapped as she stepped closer. instead of a sword, michael wielded a delicate dagger, burning in heavenly fire... a weapon of torture, not murder.
" azrael... paying a visit this late? " the archangel felt her sister's arrival, looming over spilled blood, perpetually ties to death. " don't worry, i won't kill this one " blue eyes pierced the demon, pressing her blade onto his neck. " i just want some answers, none of them seem useful, though, a shame. "
Was it the Death of God affecting her, or was it a moment of moral clarity upon facing the mortality of the perceived immortal? Was it the lack of His light, the lack of His guidance, or someone who had once been so devoted recalling that devotion, thinking about their fall? Sometimes, Azrael thought, even demons could be kinder than humans.
The break she had taken, the hiatus (so to speak), was broken upon Death reaching out and touching both God and Cassiel. If Death were strong enough to do such, she could no longer risk ignoring its call – she could no longer risk not allowing for true peace when she was called upon.
It could be God calling her. It could be an angel. It could be a saint or a martyr.
It could simply be someone in need of a sweeter release than they could otherwise receive.
Thus, she found herself standing above a demon, a demon who had called upon her in what was either a moment of moral clarity or a glitch in her senses now that the epicenter of morality had met the one thing stronger than them. But who was she to deny them of that peace? If they could reach her, it was only fair that she answer their call. And that was the one thing about Death, wasn’t it? Death was fair. Death was impartial. Death did not second guess.
So she knelt down, peeling off one glove and caressing the demon’s face with the frigid hand. Black wings sprouting out, only for a moment, her lips met theirs… and wherever they went now that God had met His end, they went.
And just as quickly as they had protruded, her wings returned. And just as quickly as she had peeled the glove off, she slipped it back on. And just as slowly as she had knelt down, she rose up, eyes landing upon Michael.
She sometimes wished that surprised her. “I come when I am called upon.” The other demon, the one Michael had pinned against the wall, the one facing Holy fire, had not the clarity to call upon her… either that, or they were not yet ready. It was mere circumstance. “You let your fervor blind you, Michael. If he’s of no use, you may as well let him go.”
[ 💭 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they believe they’re worthy of being loved ?
ADAM: It really depends on the day! Manz is constantly oscillating between "I am literally everyone's dad, I am the first man ever, I am a nigh immortal mortal, I lived in Eden, this is going to ruin the world tour" and "I screwed all of humanity over, I am part of the first failure ever - and the first man to get divorced TWICE, I don't deserve to be nigh immortal, I ruined my chance at eternal happiness in Eden, my biggest achievement in my career is my Colgate sponsorship." Of course, at the end of the day, the former is more of a cover for the latter -- more of a mask that even he buys into. That all said, I think he doesn't always believe he's worthy of being loved, but he also wants love. He's been divorced twice because he's been very much in love twice! And he loves love! But does he deserve to be loved? AZRAEL: Azrael is a true study in peacefully accepting a life where love is unlikely. As such, she doesn't consider it much, but if she were to sit down and ponder it... she does believe so. Not out of some grandiose borderline delusion, not out of an inflated ego, but out of a simple "I do my job, I offer peace" fact. She is not expecting to be loved, she is not craving love the way Adam is/has, but she doesn't believe she's not worthy of being loved.
✎ㅤ. . .ㅤ𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑪𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑺.
₊˚⊹ ㅤa collection of character analysis/headcanon questions to learn more about your character and your partners'! writing/headcanon prompts requested by anonymous. feel free to edit these as you see fit.
[ 🖐️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat do their hands feel like: soft, calloused, trembling ? [ ☂️ ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they crave touch or fear it ? [ 🎐 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a sound, like a song or voice, that they associate with peace ? [ 🕊️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen did they feel the safest ? [ 💤 ]ㅤ.ㅤhow do they sleep ? curled up, sprawled, holding onto something ? [ 🦇 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a fear they never talk about ? [ 🔒 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a secret they’ve sworn never to tell ? [ 🪢 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen was the last time they broke a promise ? [ 🫳 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho do they feel they owe, but never paid back ? [ 💼 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat do they always carry with them ? [ 🧨 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s the quickest way to set them off, even if they hide it well ? [ ⛓️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat does guilt feel like to them ? [ 💢 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho have they never forgiven and never will ? [ 🩸 ]ㅤ.ㅤis there something or someone that, if lost, would break them ? [ 🌧️ ]ㅤ.ㅤis there a pain they refuse to heal from ? [ 🪞 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen have they looked at their reflection and hated what they saw ? [ 📿 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat superstition or ritual do they cling to ? [ 🌊 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen was the last time they cried ? [ 🐾 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo animals like them instinctively ? [ 🪶 ]ㅤ.ㅤhow do they laugh ? [ 🫀 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho taught them what love is ? did it hurt ? [ 💭 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they believe they’re worthy of being loved ? [ 🎀 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is their main love language ? [ 🔦 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho do they search for ? [ 📜 ]ㅤ.ㅤis there a story they love sharing with others ? [ 🌒 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a dream or goal they have given up on ? [ 🕯️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat memory do they replay when they’re alone ? [ 🌪️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s the one choice they regret (not) making ? [ 🧩 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s a truth about themselves they refuse to admit ? [ 🍻 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of drunk are they ? [ ✉️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of letter would they write but never send ? [ 🗡️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a scar that they have but never talk about ? [ 🕸️ ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a favourite lie they like to hear ? [ 🪦 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat would they want on their gravestone but never admit aloud ? [ 🎱 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of future do they crave, and who’s in it ? [ 🌀 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a recurring dream or nightmare ? [ 🍃 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they feel like they belong ? [ ⚓ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat does “home” mean to them ? [ 🧭 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhere would they go if they could disappear tomorrow ?
OPEN STARTER
The First Seal pt. 2 TW Blood, death, cannibalism, violence, mishandling of a corpse
It was not a symphony this time. What drew Azrael to Cassiel was not some beautiful piece, written by composers she had long since led away from the mortal plane; what drew Azrael to Cassiel was the screech of a violin, an out of key concerto, an opera singer fumbling the lines with a wavering voice. She had grown to appreciate Death, she had grown to appreciate her role in it, but neither she nor Death could find it in themselves to find God and Cassiel’s passings to be… peaceful. She waded through the chaos, paying little mind to the demons who drank the ichor and the angels who sobbed, intent only on bringing him peace. How he could find it when even she hadn’t a clue what her role would be now, she didn’t know, but she knew he deserved the same peaceful sentencing as all of the martyrs and the saints and those who struggled and those who simply called upon her. Death, some believed, was sweet. All that blocked her from reaching Cassiel, from playing her part, was Raphael. In their arms… how tragic a sight. It was not an uncommon sight, but the specifics of it – the specifics of these two angels – made her heart sink just an inch or so. So she knelt down beside him. “The only thing more powerful than God, Raphael, is Death. He willed it to be.” She placed a gloved hand upon their shoulder, leaning over Cassiel’s body. Was he the first angel to have died? There was so much Death, she sometimes forgot. “I would like to kiss him, if you would let me.”
Mary Shelley, from her novel titled "Frankenstein," originally published in 1818
catscrypt
“You angels,” he huffs, soothing and almost pleased. “You are so quick to judge.” He’d barely breathed, and it’s as if he’d been caught with the bloody knife. Well, at least a knife might have matched the fresh stain of ichor on his clothes from a rather expeditious death that happened mere moments ago.
“Now Az,” he says, adjusting his posture with the straightening of his shoulders and pointing towards his rather passionless features. You’d sooner find more life in the eyes of a cold, dead fish. “How could you believe that? Does this face look happy to you?” He almost thought to compel a frown then. But that felt too theatrical for his tastes. Instead, he remains impassive yet almost… earnest? Like a person on the verge of being willing to give a halfhearted hug; only if required. “I think I am actually quite miserable like you so lovingly suggested,” he continues. “I mean, it’s quite the tragedy — I’ll never feel the same sting of disappointment from a father figure as I tempt every last one of his children again. That was half the fun.”
You demons, she could have countered – but that was the thing, wasn’t it? Despite their flaws, she still believed in them; she still believed that they could turn around, that they could be good again. She still believed that they were not evil, that they were not made of sin, that they were not beyond redemption.
Every demon except Satan.
Satan, whose thirst was pointless. Satan, who had little motive. Satan, who saw death and thought it casual.
She even preferred Leviathan.
“A statement I find hard to believe.” Disappointment from Him? Azrael could believe part of Satan’s ‘fun’ related to betraying God, but she could not believe that he cared enough about disappointing Him. “I find it even harder to believe He would have had enough hope in you to become disappointed in the first place.” A foul creature, a delirious creature, and a creature she certainly did not have any bias against! Of course not, of course her close relationship with Death did not factor into her belief that God had never cared enough about Satan to feel anything about him! Absolutely not! “How much, dear Satan, do you wish that you had been the one who spilled the blood?”
continuation of this convo
@cxecution
" cordiality? i think we are a bit past that " michael was, not for her time in this universe, but rather the part she played in it. cordiality wasn't an option. " from where i stand, if your point was to be the first one, then that is already fulfilled, isn't it? why my father didn't smite you the second you were no longer needed? "
god was dead, and his creation dragged through a limbo, barely breathing... on the brink of something terrible. " so your point is to just exist? in this sad excuse of a home, away from anything that really matters, safe and sound after all the damage done " blue eyes pierced adam, no cruelty in her tone, but rather a genuine question, one she dwelled on for millennia. " he wasn't forgiving, but he let you live... don't you ever wondered if there is more to it? " michael didn't turn towards him, standing there, hands over the chair as if it could offer some piece of wisdom.
" i do not want you to fix it, adam. none of us can bring him back, that is the whole point " instead, angels and demons ran towards the throne, as if any of them could fit it. did god plan that? perhaps he had gotten tired of this perpetual fight, as she sometimes felt.
michael turned, taking a few steps closer to him, somehow she saw something of god in adam, a fragment of his existence. " what i think never mattered, not to god or anyone else... i did not make this world, but it's my job to keep it safe " that is what she would always be, a sword, heaven's strongest. " do you think it matters? " she stepped closer, left hand reaching for the first man's arm. " if it doesn't, then i could kill you right now and nothing would change " but something, older than time itself, told her that it would.
" picking my brother again? that worked out wonders the first time, didn't? " a chuckle escaped her. " i'm not saying you will be the one to tip the scales and save the day, adam... but you are their mirror " he wasn't humanity, they had moved past him, yet he was part of this. " so no purpose, what a waste. "
a sudden stride forward had both hands reaching for the collar of his v-neck, with ease, michael pushed adam against the wall, eliciting a loud noise that echoed through his house. " allow me to put you out of your misery then " blue fire, holy fire, began to burn on her fingertips, grabbing the first man's throat, she dragged him through wall and furniture.
" no more ugly shirts or mopping around, no more thinking about good or evil, angels or demons... no more guilt " michael held adam a few inches from the ground, a bright blue flame consuming all around her. " if you're so unimportant, death should be a blessing " blue eyes gleamed a heavenly sight tainted in fury. " what do you say, adam? " albeit the violence, michael had no intention to kill him, not now, one would call that a mere incentive.
“Good to know I have permission to break into your home, then.” What was it that made angels, of all beings, so very... obstinate? Was it their age? Was it their piety? “Humanity’s always gonna need its first. I wasn’t smited because I’m - ” - he motioned to himself, hands sweeping the air around his body - “ - an example.” Not a good one, knowledge reflected in his tone… defeated… forsaken… so fast from bold and confident to a pitiful excuse of a man. Angels always did that to him, whether they meant to or not.
And Michael, he was sure, meant to.
“Maybe it is!” God was dead, holy blood had been spilled, and Adam was being asked what his purpose was. “What am I supposed to do about ‘all the damage done’? I can’t exactly reverse time – don’t think even you can.” The damage done… the curse he and Eve had laid upon humanity? The War of the Heavens? The murder of God? There was a laundry list, none of which Adam could do anything about – not now. He shrugged his shoulders, thinking of the life he had lived since his exile… and the cosmic joke it now was. “I did.” Then God died and Adam was still alive. “There’s not much point to most of us now.” Especially him.
She was one of the exceptions, as she all but pointed out herself. She, and some of the other angels, had purposes that remained valuable even after their Master’s death. Protecting the world He had created was certainly one of them. “Do I think what you think matters?” Honestly? Yes. As an exception, as Heaven’s warrior, she had more of God running through her blood than most. But he would also be aghast to think of her as the end all, be all – he would be aghast to think such of anyone, really. “I think you know more than I do…” If she thought he was nothing but a waste of space, could he argue? As much as he longed to, as much as he wanted to simply throw her out of his house the way he would another human being, he couldn’t bring himself to – not in any genuine and honest way, at least.
“Well, the way I see it,” he began, gesturing to one hell of an ironic cross that hung above the door, “there’s nothing to screw up this time.” And he was back – bold and confident; still a pitiful excuse, but a bold one. “And breaking in and berating me -” - no matter how deserved - “- doesn’t really help your case. You’re divine and you know more than I do, but you’re not God. At least your brother doesn’t act like he is.” Michael and Lucifer, Lucifer and Michael – how tragic were they! And how tragic did Adam find it, how tragic did Adam find being torn between the two, being expected to pick a side, but having no horse in the race (unless…). A beat, however long she would allow, before he added, “But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna go… ‘pick his side,’ or whatever. And even if I did…” They had both established it, albeit in different ways: he was just a guy who had outlived his purpose. He’d be of little use. “Is that what I’m meant to do here in whatever’s brewing? Reflect humanity?”
A different purpose. A terrifying purpose.
The rush toward him, the hand upon his throat, the Holy fire emanating from one of her hands – it happened so fast, he’d barely gotten a chance to register it before he was already choking out some automatic response. “Would you do it?” Would you do it? What a dangerous challenge his brain had brought out before he had a chance to think better of it. And the tone of it, the tone his brain had selected – it was not asking for mercy, it was a challenge. It was asking ‘would you dare risk going against God’s will? Do you think this is what God wants of you? If you’re so confident, do it.’
And, quite frankly, Adam was not pleased with that automatic response of his. Thus, for the first time in months, he put the potted plant on the table to good use. He called upon the Green, the tendrils of the plant extending through the room and snapping around the arm that offered Holy fire… scorching, scorching, it would scorch.
