❝ ✦ Is that KIM JAEYOUNG joining Las Vegas from the heavens? No, wait—it’s none other than CHAMUEL (ALVA YOON), posing as a 30 year old mortal working as a PERFUMER. They're Heaven’s own ANGEL OF PEACEFUL RELATIONSHIPS. Born as an ANGEL, they’re said to be DELIGHTFUL and ALLURING, though whispers accuse them of BITTER and JUDGMENTAL, especially after the War in Heaven shattered their innocence. When I picture them, I see A SANCTUARY OF ABSOLUTION AMID NEON OBLIVION — LOVE BOTTLED, REDEMPTION VAPORIZED INTO AIR, A CATHEDRAL TO MEMORY; HANDWRITTEN LABELS IN LOOPING SCRIPT, THE AIR GLOWS WITH SUSPENDED DUST MOTES LIKE GOLD POLLEN; SCENT LIKE A DREAM ONCE LIVED and hear the heavenly choir sing SEA OF LOVE (CAT POWER) just for them. Their purpose still lingers despite the constant threat awaiting them, will they heal the rift between Heaven and Hell… or tear it wider? ✦ ❞
Name: Alva Yoon
Age: “30”
Pronouns: He/his
Occupation: Bespoke perfumer
Vibes: Hair and skin seem lit from within, as though light leaks through his pores. A countenance that reminds one of someone they once loved; as though he ought to be seen through a veil, or a through a camera. A smile like forgiveness.
His perfumery, First Light, is both atelier and confessional. Patrons unknowingly trade their pain for something sweeter, and each perfume is tailored to the buyer. He gently coaxes what they’re trying to hide: grief, heartbreak, fear, longing, guilt, and concocts something that serves as salve and absolution. When they leave, they smell divine and feel subtly realigned; lighter, forgiven, loved. Some feel peace, for a spell, and it is like heaven. Some return again and again, not knowing why.
His most powerful fragrances evoke specific memories, even ones that never happened. A woman smells a vial and recalls her mother’s laughter on a day that never existed. A soldier breathes in and sees the lover he never met. When he creates perfumes for couples, he harmonizes their heartbeats for a time.
His signature scent, I, Beloved, is distilled from the tears he’d shed when he first came to earth. In fact, every piece is made by distilling something of himself — tears shed during the War, blood from when he’d bitten his lips in agony, etc. It distills the divine, just enough to be irresistible, just short of driving madness. In his early days, he had made a mixture too potent with tears and eyelashes, had tested it on a customer’s wrist, and the customer, driven to ecstasy, tore at the atelier’s windows until bloodied, until he had to be dragged away by loved ones and paramedics, in an attempt to reach Alva for more. Alva had wept that night, horrified at having caused such agony in someone innocent. Then, he bottled the tears.
I, Beloved smells like rose attar, sandalwood, heliotrope, amber, and something faintly divine… ambrosia and myrrh.
He made a private collection, only to be used for himself, for remembrance. Traces of heaven he once occupied. Once - what dawn smelled like before the War; honeyed air and innocence. Empyrean- the scent of heavenly choir; unbearable to mortals for long. He misses what he was before the guilt and the hatred set in like a wet fog. He’s learning to become in spite of them.
Wanted connections
Confessor (ADAM, open to anyone) - A recurring client, one well-aware of who he is and his ability. Perhaps they seek his power, yearning for peace, for forgiveness, however brief, however transactional. Perhaps despite appearances, they are laden with regret they would rather slip loose. Perhaps they are lonely, and know the Heart of Heaven cannot help but bleed for another soul.
Patron (open to anyone) - A most lucrative customer, indeed. Can be a demon seeking out his pieces en masse for what Alva is slowly starting to suspect is less than proper purposes. He doesn’t need the money, but he does need to know his patron’s purpose.
Savior (TAKEN BY MICHAEL) - They were there when the customer, touched with the too-potent tincture, tried to claw at Alva’s eyes for his tears, tried to gnash at his lips for his blood, and they pulled him to safety at the last minute. They also watched him weep over what he’d wrought. Now he is embarrassed, rueful… indebted.
Tempter (TAKEN BY LUCIFER) - They know love is as powerful as envy and avarice and hate; there’s a reason why it has driven mankind to salvation, or to sin. Perhaps they think there’s a chance yet to coax Alva to a place of greater power.
old music washed over michael, standing by the bar, a glass od whiskey in hand. instead of her usual leather jacket, shirt, pants and boots, the archangel wore a black dress in silk. " thank you for bringing me here... " she whispered to chamuel, soft, grateful for him, even in grief. " i haven't danced in so long " a century perhaps, the last time she visited earth humans lost themselves in war, a terrible memory. " wish we could stay in this place... " forever? no, michael could not, bound to her duty to creation this night resembled a farewell before war broke loose. " dance with me? " putting her glass on top of the bar, she extended a hand to chamuel, an invitation, one michael saved for him.
Now this is far more suited to Chamuel’s tastes: intimate, crooning, velvet-lined, and lush. He had fallen quickly for the likes of Ella Fitzgerald and Nat King Cole, had often wished he had come to Earth sooner to see them perform in the living, breathing glow of stage lights. Yet even that pales beside the sight before him now. Seeing Michael soft, unburdened, and finally at ease, however briefly, feels like a rare grace.
Ivory silk whispers against his skin as he slips his hand into hers. His smile is gentle as he guides her into the easy tide of bodies swaying to the music.
“On Earth? What had that been like?” His voice is quiet, touched with curiosity and fondness. “Beloved Michael, it should not take something life-altering for you to take time for a dance.”
He is quiet for a moment, the silence weighted not with judgment but with consideration, with something that feels like pity threaded through gentleness. To take the fruit had been man’s decision, yes, shaped by the gift of free will from the God who adored him. Perhaps Adam had hungered for more; certainly Chamuel had been heartbroken. Yet he has since witnessed the full breadth of humanity, how it yearns and dreams, how it hates and loves, how it destroys and still reaches for light. There is beauty even in the despair of their choices.
His voice is soft when it comes, almost lulling. “Not you. Those who tempt are more at fault than those who are tempted. You can set it aside, at least for yourself, and for those you love, and for those you have wronged.” His gaze drifts over Adam’s face, a slow, sorrowful reverence. “To cast temptation away would be an act of love, Adam. To yourself most of all.”
He couldn’t say he was stunned to see their name on his clientele list today. He hadn’t even missed a step nor a beat to the heart. It had been… expected. His profession likely had all their wings twitching in irritation and minds rattled by what he could be inspiring in the hearts of humanity.
Nothing good. That was suspected, and that wouldn’t be far from the truth. But far from what he would say. Rather, he just phrased it as emboldening and fortifying emotions that were already present. It wasn’t good to bottle up emotions, after all. There needed to be a release.
Something he had reminded the man in his office moments ago and sent on his way without another word to prepare for the next arrival: Chamuel. The name on the sheet struck a chord of vitriol. A deep desire to tear up the sheet of notes on the basic information and cheap reasoning for needing this visitation. But he withheld. Not falling to his own temper just yet.
He carefully sets the sheet on the table next to his chair instead, and opens his door. Not bothering to mutter a greeting. They didn’t need to posture that much. He is immediately struck by an overwhelming presence of scents that he is sure intend to soothe, but it has him wrinkling his nose as he closes the door behind his visitor. “Alva… is it?” He says, the human name sounds sharp on his tongue. Tasting it for a second and not liking it immediately. “Mortals and angels, it seems. Have a seat.” Not an order, but certainly meant to be taken as one. “And what dragged you in? Here to foster peace after the dust has already settled?”
Satan’s displeasure is unmistakable. From what his earlier patient had said, he is usually inviting and terribly warm, a counselor with a comforting voice and a careful ear. The contrast to his antipathy now is stark. Where such disdain might have wounded Chamuel in earlier ages, when he was softer and still certain of heaven’s shelter, he finds himself almost pleased by it now. There is a quiet delight in rousing the demon's annoyance, a fragile pride blooming at the sight of it.
“Yes, Mavros. Or do you prefer doctor?” His dark gaze lifts, unhurried.
Chamuel does not sit. He drifts through the space instead, taking in the office with the curiosity of someone examining an artifact from an unfamiliar world. It suits Satan well. Sleek lines, shadowed corners, the sharp scent of paper and polished wood, tall windows that invite brooding or whiskey or both. He imagines how many vulnerable mortals have confessed their wounds here, and how Satan must have collected their sorrows and desires like jewels to pocket, or like morsels to savor, darkened with his own gifts of strife and discord.
A soft laugh escapes him, feather-light. “Please. I know an exercise in futility when I see one. No, this is curiosity. I was intrigued to see what form the Serpent takes on Earth. Still whispering into their ear, I see. Or perhaps they whisper into yours.”
He lets that linger. With domains born of hatred and wrath and old discord, Satan must have expected Chamuel to seek him out, to right balances, to soften or counter whatever harm he spreads through his touch.
“Mostly,” Chamuel murmurs, circling back to face him with a mild, unsettling serenity, “I wanted to see what your counseling looks like.”
Chamuel places his hands against his chest and Lucifer grabs his wrists and feels the thread of his pulse beneath. Suffering? Is that what this is? It feels more like a shattering, a breaking apart, a ruination that has no end. God is dead. Cassiel's voice, their weeping, their accusation blends together into this torrent of ... suffering. It clouds his thoughts. It seeps right through the emptiness, that blank face that he shows the world and strikes him open.
God is dead — where does that leave Lucifer?
& here, he falters. Here, he is not the betrayer or the adversary or even the devil. Here, he is a bleeding heart that shudders with the wound suddenly and sharply carved into it. He lifts one wrist and looks to that gentle palm, to that shallow cut along that delicate finger still red and angry. The thought of it, the thought of Chamuel shattering apart like the divine, no. No, please.
Here in the soft shadows of the atelier, in these new nights that the world has never known, he betrays himself as he places a soft kiss to those shallow wounds. There are words bleeding through: You cannot leave. I will not be left again. I won't allow you.
"It isn't alright. I can't think like this. I can't — I can't hold all of this." He presses Chamuel's hand to his heart. The gilded image curls in at the edges, flakes away into something that feels real. His voice falters, heavy with something that could taste like grief. & then he falls to his knees, looking up at Chamuel as though there is nothing else in this world to hold him steady. Suffering. Is this not the world you sought? One without God, one alone upon that very throne? Not like this. Not at all like this. God was his — his — what now is he to do with all of that anger, all of that grief, all of that love?
"Take it away, please. I know you can. I have never asked anything of you and I won't — except for this, please. Please, take it away."
A kiss upon a wound, like fresh snow upon an ember, like whispering prayers into a cracked chalice. No hint of calculation or even thought as Lucifer turns over his wrist, as if it is instinctual to know that Chamuel understates his afflictions and to look for them anyway. Did God shudder when he received prayers from His favorite saints? He can't imagine it, and if he was worse he would wonder if it made him better than the Father that he does, to cherish every act of devotion as if it is ephemera, to be so affected by it.
He does not have to reach for Lucifer’s devastation. It trembles in the air between them, reverberating through his ribs, honest in a way the false Eden could never achieve. There, Lucifer had been too composed, too masterful in the art of veiling truth. Here, grief spills from him like shed feathers. Chamuel could almost gather it in his hands.
Has Lucifer, prince of pride, ever begged? He never begged for forgiveness, never begged for return, never lowered himself before the gates of Heaven. A sorrowful thrill passes through Chamuel like a tide pulled by a terrible moon. He will not revel in it. It would be disgraceful to see Lucifer bowed only by pain and consider it a victory. He cannot even imagine denying him; what agony must force the devil to forget his pride?
Chamuel keeps one hand pressed to Lucifer’s chest. His eyes fall closed. He does not withdraw; instead he opens a channel, a river between them, so each can feel the other’s heart without disguise. The rush is overwhelming. Lucifer’s fury, cracking apart like broken glass, fills him to the marrow. Beneath it, deep as an underground spring, he feels a love that has been buried but not extinguished. The force of it buckles him. He bends, as if the corpse of God has been laid upon his shoulders.
He weeps into Lucifer’s hair with a silent, strangled cry. Still he does not stop. Lucifer must feel the remnants of his guilt, his horror over the dead demon whose ashes cling to the broken floor, and then deeper still, the cavern carved by the loss of God. He knows it may ignite Lucifer’s ire, to have their grief shared and amplified rather than softened, yet he lets the river run.
Chamuel sinks to the floor beside him and presses his forehead to Lucifer’s cheek, letting his tears fall against the devil’s skin. “Weep,” he breathes, voice torn. “Weep for yourself, as I weep for you. Weep because it is unbearable, because it hurts. I will not leave.”
His words wash over Beelzebub, but he knows that they'll haunt him later. The love he lost will always be a ghost which haunts him. "If that was true, Chamuel..." He's not sure why he pauses. Perhaps because the name catches in his throat, trying not to escape his lips. "We would not be here."
And Lucifer. Not a name he expected to hear from Chamuel's lips. Beelzebub watches Chamuel closely, reading him. He's playing games like he does with the demons; reading for tells and weaknesses when Chamuel wears his heart on his sleeve.
He does step back. It's too airless, and there's no need for that proximity. It's all in the past, isn't it? They have nothing they need from one another, nothing they can offer. "I'll answer your question with one of my own. Do you truly expect me to tell you all our plans, Chamuel?"
He doesn't like it. In Lucifer's shadow yet again - Chamuel must know it bothers him. He's not so innocent, is he? It must have been intentional.
That is what aches worst of all. The confirmation, at last, that there had been nothing Chamuel could have done or offered to keep Beelzebub from falling; that nothing would ever have been enough. Not his pleading, not his prayers whispered upon the altar of Beelzebub’s body. Perhaps anyone else would feel relief, knowing fate had been written long before either of them could alter it, that no love nor will could have bent it. But to Chamuel it only proves he had come up short.
For a moment, he is undone. It flickers across his face, unguarded and raw, as his breath shudders and he grieves for Beelzebub as if the fall had happened only yesterday. He does not know what he had hoped for. He is not naive enough to believe Beelzebub would emerge repentant and softened, yet hearing him twist the knife feels strangely hollow, as if the blade cannot find the same depth it once could. It feels almost desolate, almost weary. As though the bite no longer carries venom, only the memory of it.
He gathers himself in fragments, coats the wound with what he can muster of disdain.
“No hint? Not even as an olive branch?” He inhales sharply through his nose, trying to chase scorn into his voice. “Hell has made you unimaginative, Beelzebub.”
you did it for him. he must have known that. beneatht he bravado and strength, she felt something shatter, perhaps it was grief or a pain buried eons ago. for chamuel and every angel remaining, she had to be strong, a protector, the sword that once put an end to war.
" distracted? " blue eyes find him, albeit stern, the archangel held her younger brother gently, longing to keep him safe, away from pain. " i haven't seen you distracted in so long " chamuel remained kind, something michael failed to do.
her head shakes slightly, denial sinking its teeth along guilt. " gabriel... no, they are lost, perhaps we all are " michael had lost any semblance of innocence she once had, no conversation could spare them from war, yet blame lingered. " he did, i'm just not sure if that was enough. "
god did not love michael, nor felt proud of her.... even then she couldn't hate him for it, pathetic. " i never expected something in return, chamuel, it's not our purpose... we are not humans " angels were only their protectors, and she would die one.
the kiss, an absolution, something the archangel much needed. " it's been too long, there is no way to redeem them... " god insisted on her ripping lucifer's wings, so he could not fly again, no forgiveness. " tempted? no, there is no temptation to be good, only duty. "
to forgive those that had fallen was to forget the angels that sought to stay, despite pain and loss, they remained. " i see... " michael could not stop chamuel, she only hopped he would steer away from lucifer. " how did that go? " gently she let go of him. " you are kinder than he deserves, kinder than i deserve. "
He chuckles softly. Death, and the upending of everything one holds dear, will do that to anyone, he supposes. In Heaven he had been certain of himself; here, he stumbles, makes foolish mistakes, and wonders if he had ever walked the right path. He envies Michael her surety. It must make everything easier.
“It was enough.” Of this he is sure. “It is enough now, for me. You stayed, and you fought for us, even when tasked with the impossible, and that will always be everything.” He tightens his embrace around her. What is one angel’s assurance against the silence where God’s favor used to be? Still, he hopes it is enough for Michael, even now. Especially now.
Chamuel falls quiet as she rejects the thought of redemption. Perhaps it has been too long. Even God believed their fall was permanent enough to carve Hell into creation, a boundary meant to hold them forever. Perhaps he ought not to question that judgment. Even in his own mind, the idea of bargaining with them sounds futile.
“There was sorrow,” he murmurs at last. “Sorrow I did not place there. I could feel it.” He exhales, a soft, weary sound, and squeezes Michael’s hand. “You deserve so much, Michael. Kindness, certainly. Rest. Tenderness. A night of dancing, perhaps.”
I am sorry in a thin and soft voice, tripping over broken glass and catching itself bleeding. I am sorry. It takes a moment for those to break through the graying fog. The world has started to fragment there in Eden and it's catching up to him. He came back. Michael. One of yours. Face to face with Chamuel, half hearing those angelic words and half hearing Cassiel's screeching wail, he feels almost stuck.
Nothing like the creature there in Eden, all light and glory. No, he's stuck in the overlapping shades of the evening, of the mist before the dawn where the world is drenched in gray. Hardly the demon he sells himself to be, his hands almost shake when reaches forward to Chamuel's face. God is dead. I am sorry. One of you. One of yours.
Why is he here? The hand freezes and Lucifer takes it back. He should not be here. Demons move quick in the dark and it is their forked tongues he should be looking for. That's a question he barely knows how to answer. "Elsewhere be damned." It's rough, harsh, threaded through with anger and it scrapes against the back of his throat.
He doesn't stop himself this time as he takes Chamuel's face between both of his hands and directs his gaze to his own endless black, a hell without stars. "Are you hurt? Had Michael not killed him, I'd have hunted him down and killed him myself." For a moment, there's something different etched into the line of his face, the slant of his nose, the snarl in the line of his mouth, something truly unlike him. In this new fragmentary world, even the devil himself can forget himself.
It is strange to see Lucifer without the gilded grandeur that once framed him like a crown. Mortals paint him monstrous, horned and steaming with infernal power, or they imagine him as a debonair devil who never errs. Chamuel has always found those depictions almost amusing. Yet this, he thinks, is closer to the truth. The being before him now is snarled and devastated and painfully honest, stripped of ceremony yet still luminous. Chamuel sees remnants of divinity clinging to him where none should remain, like faint stars hidden beneath daylight. Devil in fractured radiance, or light trapped inside a broken man.
Lucifer reaches out. He stops. He withdraws. Chamuel stills as well, uncertain if he is being observed, hunted, or simply seen. The memory of false heaven clings to them both; he cannot yet tell which words had been truth, which had been weapon, and which had been whispered to unmake him. Does it even matter?
Then the choice is taken. Lucifer takes hold of him, and Chamuel is caught between two hands, between awareness and instinct, between every question that suddenly feels unimportant in the presence of the fallen star staggered.
“No. I do not think so. I do not know,” Chamuel murmurs. He hardly notices the cuts scattered along his arms and fingers from shattered glass. They felt small beside the shock, beside the life lost. That loss feels even smaller now that Lucifer stands before him.
“What is wrong, Lucifer? To come here…” He trails off. The answer is already rising within him, unbidden.
His own grief comes from the same well. Hate and love are mirrors, and he knows them to be twins, not opposites. For so long, God had been Lucifer’s beloved and his rival, his source of light and deepest injury. To lose Him now, by someone else’s hand, is a wound Chamuel can scarcely fathom. For a fleeting moment earlier he wondered if the demons had plotted this death, but he knows—he knows—Lucifer would never allow another to strike the final blow. His pride, his longing, his fury would not permit it.
And so what remains?
“You are suffering, are you not?” Chamuel tilts his head gently. He places both hands upon Lucifer’s chest. This time he does not claw or pull or strike as he had in Eden. He simply holds him, feels the ragged thrum of a wounded heart beneath skin and shadow.
“Even as you rage, you suffer,” he whispers. “I know. It's alright."
Here, he laughs. The stars that surround them twinkle in response. More of them appear, scattered constellations staggered through heaven. "Foolish? I would love to see the image of myself in your mind, Chamuel. You think such colorful things about me. I am well, I am cruel, I am foolish."
Resplendent, yes. Divine? Lucifer wonders. He has traces of what was but it only exists in memory. It only lives in the silver tongue of his words, shaped by light. It will never be real again. It will never be something he will ever have again. As Chamuel removes his hand, fingertips red with the blood he drew with his nails, Lucifer glances upwards toward the memory of heaven and everything dissolves back into the neon sin, heavy & slick against that lovely, lonely angelic neck.
Heaven may have traced Chamuel with memory, softened the edges of that little heart but Lucifer cannot deny his earlier thought. Sin would look decadent on him. To have him wanting and filled with wanting? Asmodeus would be put to shame.
"The company I keep has their wants and desires, yes." & his gaze falls to the cheek where the tears fell, to the throat where his honeyed voice lived, to the dip of his collarbone, to fabric of his suit and the warmth that hid beneath. He lets want and desire to hang heavy in the air, lets them curl into Chamuel thoughts, lets them paint everything dark. "That, however, is why they are the company I keep. We might all be branded as liars but none of us ever denied the truth of what it was that we wanted."
He lingers for a moment before he reaches for him. A final time, perhaps. He puts a kiss there to his temple, light and soft but then whispers dark against his ear: "Even now, I can't take what I want even as he stands in front of me. I wish you would have followed him. Even if you were never mine, at least you would have been close to me. You haven't the slightest idea, little heart, how much I've longed for that moment to have been different. I can't change the way you think of me but at least you have my truth of it."
“We might all be branded as liars, but none of us ever denied the truth of what we wanted.”
He cannot deny Lucifer this. Yet it was the truth of their desires and the means they chose to claim them that led to their ruin. Greater power, a hierarchy bent in their favor, equality with the most divine being, a refusal to bow or beg for forgiveness. They were greedy and covetous and proud, and their new realms wear the shape of those sins. A badge of honor to them now, but forever a stain.
“Is that all true?” he asks, voice quiet as the breath before dawn. Something thin and frayed tugs at his consciousness, urging him to follow the thought he has avoided for ages. “Perhaps it is for them. But for you… leader, provocateur… could it have been simpler?”
He has turned this question over like a stone in the palm of his mind for centuries, smoothing it down with doubt and dreams, and only now dares to speak it aloud.
He knows what the loss of love can do. Only Lucifer can understand what it is to feel the fullness of divine, all-encompassing love from the Holy Father. Only he, and perhaps the mortals who have stumbled into grace. To have been held so dearly, then to feel that love slip away in a single breath… it must have been ruinous. It must have felt like the end of a world, a shattering so complete that nothing remains but the desperate urge to reclaim what was lost.
Another kiss. Another whisper. Another truth buried under the ashes.
He would never pretend to be untouched by any of it. His hands tremble with tenderness, or fury, or something that lingers painfully between. He studies Lucifer as if the answers might be written across his luminous form in ichor and ink, as if the devil will glow with truth or smolder with lies.
“The truth is that you wanted more than the things you claim,” Chamuel says. “You could have done without me, or your brother, or any of them. All you truly needed was for Him to turn His loving gaze back to you.” And he steps back, as if to deny Lucifer all else until the devil accepts this much.
what do their hands feel like: soft, calloused, trembling ?
Soft! He takes care of them with lotions and oils, always wears gloves during even the most mildest labors. He finds so many things trying on mortal skin.
₊˚⊹ 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 ?
"Awfully serious, aren't you?" Chamuel mutters, perturbed. Still, he does not move from his pose, gaze only darting to and settling on the artist. "Is this about the perfume? Michael already lectured me, and I've since been less heavy-handed with my recipes and more selective with my clients." A pause, and he sighs at Jophiel's knowing silence. "You as well, you know. You can be quite dangerous when you want to be."
Send “&” for a LOVING text.
[sent to lilith 9:55PM] For all the terrible things mortals have called you in their stories and lore, I adore that they seldom get your bravery wrong.
Send “⁇” for a DRUNK text.
[sent to lilith 1:02AM] tobaggn
[sent to lilith 1:04AM] Send to Lilith that I will pay my tab tomorrow please thank you
[sent to lilith 1:50AM] gondight
✨ ( for muse to talk about their favorite thing about my muse )
"Her resolve." For who else in heaven could save it from ruin but Michael? Even if others were capable, it was she who could not be quelled nor tempered, it was she chosen to battle her brother despite the burden on her heart. Yet, for all the pain she has endured for the sake of duty, she goes on. She claims that she was always second in her Father's eyes, despite all that she has done in His name. But does not the most beloved sword show the most wear? "I only wish she allows herself love and rest. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't tie her to a chair and force her to do nothing, to be still for herself and herself only."
