#stgh

--

This was what Auriel was. Not a human, filled with absorption and secretions. But an angel; raw with power and fury.

And yet, despite all of time and space before them, one substance still danced across Auriel's being. That of blood. Ruby-red. Bursting with an energy and life they could not see nor understand with their many eyes. And that sensation; that push and pull of lips against lips. Hunger and fury. Hellfire and holy flames. It still grated on them. A faraway thought and memory. With no neurons to organize such thoughts, no nerves to flash with the phantom sensations, Auriel had an ache they did not know they could have.

They saw everything within the universe. And they could feel none of it.

"These are dangerous thoughts to have," Auriel told themself. Wrong thoughts. Evil thoughts.

And yet, the Thrones had not descended upon them. They were still seraph. Still good. Still pure.

"Of course I am pure. I am no demon. They are what I face. And I shall overcome such...." For the first time in their millennium, the thought paused. They could not quite finish it.

But, Auriel plowed on, "I shall overcome such nonsense. For I am a seraph. One of the most holy. And I shall not Fall nor fail."

--

CRASH!

The mirror crumbled around their fist, spiderwebs cracking out from the point of impact. The knuckles split wide open, oozing blood around the glass shards now lodged in flesh.

The pain smarted. But was nothing compared to the klaxons from before. Even now, as Auriel picked the glass out of the wounds to allow the blood to run faster, they watched as skin knitted itself back together; their own power forcing the body to stay alive. To keep them alive. A miracle that was as automatic as breathing was to living creatures. They could not fight it.

Pink. Pink. Pink. Auriel dropped the pieces of glass on the ground, not caring if they happened to step on them with bare feet. Leaning over the counter of the bathroom, Auriel pressed fingers into one of the long shards of glass clinging onto the mirror. The jagged edge bit into the pads of their borrowed fingers as they peeled it from the back of the mirror. Clenching the shard in their fist, Auriel twisted the sharp point inward, and thrust it into their sternum, piercing the diaphragm. They pushed it deeper into them until the end of the shard scraped against the front of their spine.

Immediately, blood and saliva bubbled on Auriel's human lips. They coughed, hard, as they struggled to suck in enough oxygen. Without losing grip on the glass shard, they yanked it hard out of their human body. Blood gushed out of the open wound, staining the navel crimson. The blood dripped even lower, caressing the pubic mound, until it dripped from the outer labia onto the tile floor.

Gripping the front of the bathroom sink, Auriel panted, more coughs bleeding from between the teeth. Lungs, hungry for oxygen, desperately demanded more and more air with every agonizing breath. The diaphragm trembled, unable to move properly, and so each breath caused a throb of piercing pain to shock each pain gate open, alighting Auriel's borrowed human brain with a flood of neurotransmitters. The body, too, flooded with immediate hormonal responses.

That taste of adrenaline nearly pricked their tongue, a taste so sweet against the tang of metal coating the tongue.

But death did not visit Auriel. Death did not even bother to glance in their direction. And although the heart briefly halted its insistent ba-bum, ba-bum, it, too, eventually returned to normal. Skin stitched back together. the diaphragm patched itself up, reinflating itself. The short, choppy breaths that Auriel had to fight for mere moments evened out.

The blood still dripped from the outer labia. Crimson still shone beneath the fluorescent bathroom lights. And metal still danced wickedly across their tongue. But the human body quickly returned to its balancing act of homeostasis.

The sweet taste of adrenaline. Of sweat. Of blood. Did not touch them. And even now, Auriel found the quick moment slipping through the synapses of the brain's neurons like sand through fingers.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

--

Beelzebub's eyes burned before them, the only light at the end of the tunnel. Violet and violent. Hatred so palpable, so raw, and so sweet, Auriel could taste it on their tongue despite the bitter tang of blood and bile.

"G- God--" Auriel gasped. They could not move their legs to run away. They could not raise their arms to fight.

"He's not here, Auriel. He never was."

The words were whispered against their lips like a lullaby. Beelzebub no longer sounded gleeful. Or manic. Her voice was a soft caress, the whisper of something from so long ago.

A sigh.

"Goodbye, my dea--"

Auriel cut Beelzebub off with a crashing of too human, too demonic, lips.

Despite their virtues, Auriel is arrogant to the point of prideful. Logical to a fault, Auriel knows that they are among the most powerful angels, and does not hesitate to use that fact to intimidate foes and remind friends and subordinates alike. Likewise, Auriel is neurotic, and struggle when things are not under their control. They value routine and predictability over spontaneity. They have little humor, and the majority of the time remain serious. Despite their outwardly calm demeanor, Auriel lives in a constant state of stress and anxiety.

As a seraph, Auriel does not have a true body of flesh and blood, taking on forms of different creatures mattering on the need at the time.

Appearance:

In their human form, Auriel goes by Abigail Torres. They have brown skin, long black hair, and brown eyes. Their features are plain and unremarkable with a rectangle-shaped body. They wear plain clothes in the neutral colors of brown, white, black or gray consisting of loose trousers that allow them movement, boots, and a blouse.