FIC: Disenchanted (D&D: :Loki/Pestilence, PG-13)
TITLE: Disenchanted
AUTHOR: Demon Faith
FANDOM: Dogma AU
PAIRING: Loki/Pestilence
PROMPT: hc_bingo: brainwashing/deprogramming
MEDIUM: fiction
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Jeremiel holds Loki in his power - a reprise.
WORDS: 813
NOTES: In which the Angel of Death is maybe-sorta living with a Horseman of the Apocalypse. For believeinthis.
The tip of his sword grazed her neck, drawing one drop of blood.
She closed her eyes and made no sound, two nameless angels holding her in place.
But his eyes could not leave that perfect trail of blood, winding its ruby-red path down her skin.
A trail his lips had kissed, his fingers caressed. Where he had rested his head after a hard day of judgement and felt her laughter vibrate against his cheek.
He had forgiven her sins a long time ago. He had seen her broken in a dirty alley for Jeremiel's sense of justice.
"You hesitate. She is filth. Your loyalty is to our Father."
Jeremiel's hand settled on his shoulder and Loki tightened his grip on the sword. The metal wavered an inch, teasing apart the soft flesh and earning him a choked gasp from his prisoner.
Her blood flowing like the scarf she bought in Harrods on a cold December day, when she'd taken the Angel of Death shopping and he'd let her buy him a leather jacket, of all things.
"She may have information."
The voice was alien to him passing his lips, cold and dark. Jeremiel laughed.
"She is weak. She has no influence now. A stain to be scrubbed out."
She had killed millions. She was plague and disease and suffering, nothing more than a murderer. How had he let her touch him, hold him? He shuddered - the thought made him sick.
The sword dug in.
She'd held his sword in her hand, balanced perfectly across her palm, wondering at the shine. He'd never let anyone hold it before, but she treated it with reverence and respect, as an extension of his body and his Grace.
And when she placed it in his hand and touched his wrist, he had never felt so alive.
Jeremiel's breath was hot against his ear. "Think of her conquests. How she used you to play her game, manipulated you, defiled you. You will let her breathe after that disgrace?"
The old fire of jealousy roared through his veins and he drew the sword across her flesh, a ribbon of crimson etched into her skin. She bit her lip, rose red dents, but she made no sound.
When they sat together in silence, high above the world, nothing but snow to surround, he'd look at her and smile. With her, he could be tranquil. He could take one moment of peace for himself.
She never asked anything of him but his company and the simple press of lips. She had never demanded. She had never taken.
He was her world now - and she smiled at him, just for him.
Loki swung the sword and cut into his brother's chest.
The angel released Pestilence with a cry and she dived to the side, snatching her sword from the floor of the warehouse.
Five angels closed in - Loki took out two with one swipe, as Pestilence rose and planted her sword through an angel's heart.
He fought without pause, with anger consuming him, until he stood in the centre of the warehouse, breathing hard with lungs that had no need for air.
And there was Pestilence.
She limped towards him, a sword wound marring her leg, and she reached out a hand.
He turned away.
How could she ever trust him? He had thought himself so strong, beyond Jeremiel's tricks and lies. But it had taken only three days of persuasion and he had turned, ready to destroy the one being that he honestly...cared for.
And she had come looking for him. Walked right onto his sword.
"Loki, we need to go home."
He hunched his shoulders. Angels didn't have homes. They didn't have places to rest. They didn't have Horseman masquerading as their girlfriends and pretending they could live normal lives.
A flash - and his sword was pointed at the centre of her chest. She remained eerily calm, standing still and holding out her hands.
He recoiled, dropping his sword and staggering away. But she followed, invading his space and taking his hands between hers.
"For Darkness' sake, feathers, listen to me! We are going home. We are calling up Michael and we are going to...fix whatever this is."
When she said it, it almost became true. He could almost believe. If he were honest, he hadn't truly believed in anything for a very long time.
"But you have to come home."
She bent down and picked up his sword, pressing it into his hands like she trusted him, and then curling his other arm around her waist. Waiting.
Like it was just another day and he hadn't almost cut her head from her shoulders. Like she truly believed Michael and Raphael could solve the unshakeable feeling that he was destined to watch her die.
"I need you."
Barely a breath, a murmur - and he spread his wings.
And believed.
AUTHOR: Demon Faith
FANDOM: Dogma AU
PAIRING: Loki/Pestilence
PROMPT: hc_bingo: brainwashing/deprogramming
MEDIUM: fiction
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Jeremiel holds Loki in his power - a reprise.
WORDS: 813
NOTES: In which the Angel of Death is maybe-sorta living with a Horseman of the Apocalypse. For believeinthis.
The tip of his sword grazed her neck, drawing one drop of blood.
She closed her eyes and made no sound, two nameless angels holding her in place.
But his eyes could not leave that perfect trail of blood, winding its ruby-red path down her skin.
A trail his lips had kissed, his fingers caressed. Where he had rested his head after a hard day of judgement and felt her laughter vibrate against his cheek.
He had forgiven her sins a long time ago. He had seen her broken in a dirty alley for Jeremiel's sense of justice.
"You hesitate. She is filth. Your loyalty is to our Father."
Jeremiel's hand settled on his shoulder and Loki tightened his grip on the sword. The metal wavered an inch, teasing apart the soft flesh and earning him a choked gasp from his prisoner.
Her blood flowing like the scarf she bought in Harrods on a cold December day, when she'd taken the Angel of Death shopping and he'd let her buy him a leather jacket, of all things.
"She may have information."
The voice was alien to him passing his lips, cold and dark. Jeremiel laughed.
"She is weak. She has no influence now. A stain to be scrubbed out."
She had killed millions. She was plague and disease and suffering, nothing more than a murderer. How had he let her touch him, hold him? He shuddered - the thought made him sick.
The sword dug in.
She'd held his sword in her hand, balanced perfectly across her palm, wondering at the shine. He'd never let anyone hold it before, but she treated it with reverence and respect, as an extension of his body and his Grace.
And when she placed it in his hand and touched his wrist, he had never felt so alive.
Jeremiel's breath was hot against his ear. "Think of her conquests. How she used you to play her game, manipulated you, defiled you. You will let her breathe after that disgrace?"
The old fire of jealousy roared through his veins and he drew the sword across her flesh, a ribbon of crimson etched into her skin. She bit her lip, rose red dents, but she made no sound.
When they sat together in silence, high above the world, nothing but snow to surround, he'd look at her and smile. With her, he could be tranquil. He could take one moment of peace for himself.
She never asked anything of him but his company and the simple press of lips. She had never demanded. She had never taken.
He was her world now - and she smiled at him, just for him.
Loki swung the sword and cut into his brother's chest.
The angel released Pestilence with a cry and she dived to the side, snatching her sword from the floor of the warehouse.
Five angels closed in - Loki took out two with one swipe, as Pestilence rose and planted her sword through an angel's heart.
He fought without pause, with anger consuming him, until he stood in the centre of the warehouse, breathing hard with lungs that had no need for air.
And there was Pestilence.
She limped towards him, a sword wound marring her leg, and she reached out a hand.
He turned away.
How could she ever trust him? He had thought himself so strong, beyond Jeremiel's tricks and lies. But it had taken only three days of persuasion and he had turned, ready to destroy the one being that he honestly...cared for.
And she had come looking for him. Walked right onto his sword.
"Loki, we need to go home."
He hunched his shoulders. Angels didn't have homes. They didn't have places to rest. They didn't have Horseman masquerading as their girlfriends and pretending they could live normal lives.
A flash - and his sword was pointed at the centre of her chest. She remained eerily calm, standing still and holding out her hands.
He recoiled, dropping his sword and staggering away. But she followed, invading his space and taking his hands between hers.
"For Darkness' sake, feathers, listen to me! We are going home. We are calling up Michael and we are going to...fix whatever this is."
When she said it, it almost became true. He could almost believe. If he were honest, he hadn't truly believed in anything for a very long time.
"But you have to come home."
She bent down and picked up his sword, pressing it into his hands like she trusted him, and then curling his other arm around her waist. Waiting.
Like it was just another day and he hadn't almost cut her head from her shoulders. Like she truly believed Michael and Raphael could solve the unshakeable feeling that he was destined to watch her die.
"I need you."
Barely a breath, a murmur - and he spread his wings.
And believed.