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✵"His voice means to deceive you, Y/N. My voice just wants to lead you." "Where? Below the surface yet again..."✵ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆
DISDAIN, DISAPPOINTMENT, and a hint of betrayal lingers on Matthew's face as he stares at you--or, to be honest, as he stares at the crown atop your head.
It almost seems like a trick to the blind eye, like there is a clone standing before Matthew that is meant to look just like you, but isn't you.
Reason why he thinks that? Is because this is all too unbelievable.
You, of all people, he expected would be opposed to the idea of marrying someone--especially Lucifer, of all beings. That makes this entire situation even worse.
You were once a woman Matthew thought he could trust, someone who he could feel sympathy for...only for you to run out and marry the very angel the Ink Demons have sworn to stay away from.
Only for you to destroy that thousand year old vow in one week. The fucking slap to Matthew's face right now...
Matthew uncrosses his arms, taking one step towards you. He opens his mouth to speak, before you intervene and talk before him.
"Why did you send that letter?"
Quick to the point, exactly what is needed.
"Because it's what you are," he replies, "you left the Undergrounds and married Lucifer. Something like that doesn't get forgiven, or forgotten."
You inhale a shaky breath. You had expected Matthew to be the one opposed to such a decision. Throughout the centuries, Ink Demons were taught to fear and hate Lucifer like he's the plague.
Now that you married him, it means that the Ink Demons are forced to be directly under the palm of his hand, forced to dance to whatever string Lucifer pulls.
No wonder they all call you a traitor.
"I had to do it," you finally reply, only to flinch when you hear the hiss laced in his words.
"No, you didn't have to," Matthew glares, "we all have a choice, Y/N. You could have said no."
"And then what?" You retort, "wander aimlessly around Hell, searching for someone or something to fix this demise you and I face?"
Matthew's glare suddenly hardens, the pieces of the unfinished puzzle slowly coming together.
"Demise that we face, not you," he points out, stepping closer until he's nearly three inches away from brushing the tip of his nose along yours.
