#very very very aware of heart rate. and of the amount of air I’m not getting

[stemroses]

So I haven’t had eye pain/sensitivity to light in months until today.

1) is it bc the the sun is coming back?

2) is it bc I’ve been taking anxiety medication up until last Thursday when I took the executive decision to stop taking them?

Who knows.

#wish I did know #upside to stop taking the anxiety meds? #no longer feel brain fog while at work which made the pts upset/felt like I wasn’t listening to them #no longer feel emotionally stunted when it came to other people’s everything #down side to stop taking anxiety meds? #body pain. whole body just hurts. been tense all day long #nightmares. god the nightmares. very restless nights. I wake up exhausted #apparently eye pain. that’s neat said no one ever #on edge. dare I say paranoid even. something really bad is going to happen and I won’t see it until it’s too late #shaking. sometimes. in stressful moments at work #very very very aware of heart rate. and of the amount of air I’m not getting #listen everything sucks. like deadass. I would like a body that can be on edge at the right time and chill at the right time #guess I’m gonna go listen to fanfics. my eyes seriously hurts

[sashi-ya]

𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 Äs Nödt x F! Nurse! Reader

ಇ. I had this fic saved for myself, but I honestly didn't think my heart would be that broken when his inevitable end would get animated. Don't get me wrong, I loved Rukia and Byaku's win, but... you gotta understand that for a nurse, As Nodt represents those who you couldn't save. A patient whose hand needed a squeeze, but still it was too painful for him... poor thing. ಇ. tw: medical terminology. be careful if you are sensitive to illness and death topics. it is full of little metaphors, try to understand where I was going with what I wrote. you can ask me too! ಇ. wc: 1k

Before he was even a Sternritter, As was a simple man. A suffering, yet simple man. And you knew him very well.

He was sick, bedridden. It was too painful for him to even breathe. His existence was cold, sterile, and for him so unworthy.

However, there was a Sun. A Sun that would shine a light every time it walked through the doors of his ever-pristine white room… you.

His voice has never been loud, but really, really low. It wasn’t sweet, it was very raspy, as if he was trembling in fear. His short, straight hair framed his façade, the mask giving him oxygen carved red marks on his cheeks and black eyes fixed in a boring ceiling.

Oh, but you. His only reason to smile. But did he show it to you? No. Did he tell you? Neither.

But you knew…

“Hello Äs! how are you doing today?” you ask, with a metallic tray on your hands. Who knows how many pills are in there, but all of them are equally necessary for him to stay alive.

“H- hello… g- good” he said, every time. He doesn’t feel good, he never does. But does he want for you to worry about him? No.

You come closer to his bed, leaving the tray over his tiny bedside table. Taking a swift look at his monitor, you see -as always- his heart rate slightly going up. Ah… he is at least interested in feeling something besides pain and fear about his inevitable end.

“So, Sir Nödt… I’m aware today is your physical therapy day. Nurse (male name) won’t be able to attend the hospital today, would you allow me to do it for him?” you ask. Everything should be professional. You probably were waiting a “no” but instead he took a little time to answer.

“Hmh…” he nods, as much as he could possibly move his neck without grimacing in pain.

You smile, kindly. Your look softens. You didn’t want to feel sorry, pity for him. You really thought those feelings weren’t proper. But you couldn’t help it. Your heart ached too, and you wanted to help him as much as you could… “Good! Let’s make those muscles move with utmost care! Let me put on some tunes too”

You weren’t sure about him wanting for real to do it. He never did, as your colleagues said. “He is in pain, but he is equally scared to feel pain and that freezes him even more. He won’t ever get better…”

Again, your heart ached. What do they know about getting better? Why judging him? He needed help, not critics. And… who knows, maybe, he just needed someone to believe in him to feel better.

You make sure your hands aren’t cold. You wear a mask to come close to him, you don’t want to create more problems for him, a simple germ could cost him his thread hanging life.

You take your phone and press play. A soft melody starts playing. You don’t really know when it was, but you were sure he said he likes the sound of pianos playing to relax.

 Äs widens his eyes. Extremely black orbs fix on you, he is amazed by the song filling the room, he is probably glad to hear something besides the sound of the oxygen flow on his face.

“Give your hand, please” you whisper, trying not to cover the song. You let him choose which one of his pale hands will move first.

He breathes in a considerable amount of air into his lungs, and then, with trembling motion his right bony hand reaches yours. It feels soft. Lightweight.

And so needy.

You begin to inspect his joints. Of course it’s painful for him, not only because of being sick but also because of avoiding to move them for so long. “One finger at a time” you murmur, as you can feel him desiring to grab your hand.

He goes slow. Äs wants more, but he is in pain. He is afraid.

“Don’t be scared. I’m holding your hand right now. You can try to hold mine” you encourage him. You, perhaps, wanted more and even the same way he does for him to grab your hand… Are you falling in love with a patient? A.. dying patient?

He sees you. You see him. He closes his eyes. And maybe a little smile wanted to adorn his lips. His fine, chapped, lips.

“Follow me, Äs”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ.

When he opens his eyes he isn’t lying down in a mattress. He is standing, in two feet. He is still pale, his hands show that. A cold breeze kisses his cheeks, he notices his hair is way longer now as it flows with the wind around.

He can hear kids laughing, and the greenery around feels refreshing. A park… it’s been so long since he stood in the middle of one.

Suddenly, something lands on his cold nose. It’s as soft as the wind, but it’s pink. A cherry blossom petal just flew up to where he is. And like that rosy flower, a million rain down from dark wooden trees.

“Spring? Is this Hanami?” he asks and notices he can speak louder. And when he does, it’s not painful… it’s… normal.

He slowly turns around. And again, moving doesn’t hurt. Breathing doesn’t hurt. Her arms around his waist coming from behind, either.

“Äs! Love! Turn around, I wanna take a picture of you with the Cherry Blossoms in the back!” you chime. Your camera, an old analogue one, captures the beauty of a pinkish rain that doesn’t wet but only kisses your skin with a soft, soft scent.

He is absolutely stunned by your beauty as you walk back pointing the camera lens to him. Your hair also flows. You are his nurse, his sun. What are you doing there? Why is he alive?

“Smile you silly! You are scaring me! What’s gotten into you?” you scold him, his death stare creeps you out sometimes.

As the camera shots and captures his amazed look, you walk back towards his thin arms. “Wanna have some ice cream? Or do you prefer cotton candy? Oh wait, maybe you want Takoyaki?” you excitedly jump, feeling the hard edges of his hipbones against your belly when hugging him.

“I just want to hug you for a little longer…” he murmurs. It kinda scares you, because when he ever said something sweet?

“Hug me for as long as you want, sweetheart…” you whisper, nuzzled in the crook of his neck. He rests his chin on the crown of your head, it’s so soothing to feel his chest go up and down, breathing pure air…  

Don't wake up. Don't wake up. please, just for a few moments now... Your Majesty.

#as nodt #as nodt x reader #as nodt bleach #bleach #bleach fanfic #bleach x reader #bleach anime #bleach imagines #bleach fanfiction #bleach fanart #as nodt fan fic #as nodt fan fiction #sashi ya #bleach quincy

[avinryd]

candlesmoke and ozone

Author: Avin Ryd Fandom: Hades II Rating: G Pairing: Melinoë/Icarus Word Count: ~500

"Shades are, as the name implies, mere shadows of their living selves. There should be no blood-warmth or weighted touch, for all their body seems to be there. They are merely memories of both thought and form.

Maybe her ritual for Icarus did something after all."

--

Some Early Access fluffy fluff

Read on AO3

“Look Meli, I know I said…what I said, about shades and goddesses and such, but I’m starting to think— I don’t know, seeing you like this, nearly dying night after night, defying the very Fates’ wishes for you. I’m starting to think I was wrong.”

“Wrong about what?”

“About us…”

Kissing is, in general, not something Melinoë spends much of her time reflecting upon—who has time for romance or frivolous pursuits when there’s a war going on?—but as far as she’s aware, the experience of kissing a shade is supposedly different than planting one on a mortal. Shades are, as the name implies, mere shadows of their living selves. There should be no blood-warmth or weighted touch, for all their body seems to be there. They are merely memories of both thought and form.

Maybe her ritual for Icarus did something after all.

Even with such an obvious-in-hindsight cue, Melinoë is caught off guard when Icarus leans in, words getting caught between them in a muffled ‘mmhp’ before her brain catches up. Lips parted as they are, she tastes candlesmoke and ozone under the sharp salt-rime of this cursed ocean. While there is no heat in the temperature sense, no breath, something—pressure, movement, angle—conveys a tenderness in his movements that is a warmth in its own. 

It's when his hands come up to frame her face that her own breath catches. Barely more than fingertips against her cheeks, her jaw, not holding so much as guiding, his touch sends a sun-bright flare through her, warm where there should be ice. It shutters her mismatched eyes closed and something in her gives, letting the sensation pull her under. For the first time in a very, very long time, Melinoë’s guard falls, the two of them caught up in an ephemeral bubble of reprive.

It takes her an indeterminate amount of time to remember that, generally, both parties are expected to participate in a kiss—time spent unaware of anything other than Icarus’s gentle touch. Eventually though, her faculties return enough to prompt a response, a reciprocation, a tentative reach of the hand to catch a strap of his harness, keep him close— A reach that is thwarted by the inevitable return of reality.

A harsh gust whips across the deck, rocking the ship with its force and catching under Icarus’s wings. Credit to his skill, he doesn’t go tumbling, but its enough to jerk them apart and pull him far enough that her fingers swipe through empty air. The last of his touch to part is his hands, fingertips lingering until the storm sweeps him away, him and whatever words his lips—lips that she’d kissed!--were trying to form.

Melinoë stands there for long moments, after. The seas rage, thunder chasing lightning just as her heart chases what’s left of the feeling. She wants— Pointless, what she wants doesn’t matter. Maybe Icarus was right about them, maybe he wasn’t. It’s all moot until her task is complete—find the Titan, slay the Titan.

Right?

#Hades game #Hades II #Hades 2 #Hades 2 spoilers #waxwitch #melinoe x icarus #fics of ryd

[bloodofthepen]

Lachesis Pt IV-1 (Obey Me!)

Rating: T

Ship: Barbatos/MC

POV: Second Person

Chapters: 3.5/4 (Part I here)

[Read on AO3; Chapter 4 not currently posted]

Since it has been two years now since I’ve updated, I decided to post the first half of chapter IV here on Tumblr until I’ve finished the whole thing. I’m in the final stretch, but there’s no telling how long it’ll be before I’ve finished (I have actually been working pretty consistently on this for two years) but I really wanted to get something posted; I’ll be waiting to update on AO3 until the whole thing is complete. My word count for the entirety of Part IV is 41k words so far, so you can see why it could potentially be split into two.

Warning in this chapter for: blood, graphic description of injury

Part IV (1/2): You

You’re snuggled beneath familiar blankets. Take one, deep breath, then another, letting the air stretch your lungs comfortably, languidly—it feels like decadence. You become slowly aware of the vine-tangled ceiling of your room, and then, of Lucifer, sitting beside the bed. His eyes are dark with lack of sleep, but he offers a smile. Down by your feet, you can feel a weight, a soft, radiating warmth… ah, it's Mammon curled up and snoring atop your coverlet. 

“He refused to leave after I sent the rest of them to bed,” Lucifer rumbles, eyes  crinkled in a fondness he’d never let his brother see were he awake. 

You smile. “He’s a good boy.”  Gingerly, you try sitting up, moving slowly to your forearms, and then up, sliding back against the rugged headboard. There appears to be no pain at all, which is… strange.

“Simeon healed you completely,” supplies Lucifer. “But such extended exposure to magic and that much trauma left you exhausted.” 

You flex your fingers; the silvery bands of Mammon’s pact catch the low light.  “I feel completely fine…” Take another deep breath, and search Lucifer’s face. “But what about Barbatos?”

“He was also exhausted by that evening’s efforts; right now he is resting in his own room at the castle.” 

“May I speak with him?”

Lucifer’s brows pinch. “Barbatos is not conscious.” 

“Is he all right?” Push the blankets down, struggling to untangle yourself from the sheets without jostling Mammon, heart racing against your ribs. “Please—”

“Stop.” Firm hands tug the blankets back up, arresting your wrists. “You may be healed, but you can’t go running off.” He frowns, glowering, but you meet his gaze with a sharp glare of your own. He huffs. “Yes, Barbatos will be fine. He used a tremendous amount of energy and overexerted himself, but it would take a great deal more than a bit of exhaustion to kill that demon.” 

“Then…” You swallow past the lump in your throat. “He’ll be awake soon?”

Lucifer sighs, releasing your hands. “I don’t know.” 

“May I see him?” 

“We’ll discuss it with Diavolo in the morning.” 

“What time is it?” 

“Nearly three.” 

Ah… you draw your legs up, blankets wrinkling. Perhaps it would be silly to try running off to the castle at this hour, no matter how much your being calls for it. You bury your forehead against your knees. 

A gentle hand touches your shoulder, and, begrudgingly, you turn your face to look at Lucifer. “My brothers have become very fond of you. And—” His gaze shifts slightly away. “—so have I, of course. They have been worried, and I need to ask…”

Your brow furrows. “Yes?”

“How were you able to call Beelzebub? You shouldn’t have been able to communicate through the pact that way, no matter how close you may be. You didn’t summon him. You’ve never shown any magical ability that advanced; it should not have been possible.” 

 Oh. Yes, that’s… “You’re right—I never would have been able to do it without help.” You take a slow, deep breath. “Lilith—” The startled, reflexive pain in his eyes prompts you to rest your hand on his arm. “I had a vision. She’s been here, worrying for you since her mortal life ended.”

Hope, desperation. “Where? Is she—?”

“I… don’t know. I don’t know if even she does. She told me she can’t remember how to reach the Celestial Realm, and—I’m sorry.” You squeeze his wrist gently. “She lent me her power, called me her successor, though I don’t know what that means, exactly. I...” you wet your lips, chest tightening. “I don’t know if she’ll speak to me again.”   

Lucifer presses a hand to his chest, squeezes his eyes shut. “Excuse me.” He remains that way for a moment, and when he opens his eyes again, they are clear and calm. “I should have—” He shakes his head. “It makes sense now; her power was always based in communication, in emotion. Given a choice, of course she would pick you; you’d be naturally receptive. Do you suppose…?" He hesitates, brow creasing. "I wonder if it wasn’t an accident.” 

“If what wasn’t?”

He takes a deep breath. “When I chose you for the exchange program… I was so sick of reading applications that, after a breeze scattered my paperwork over the floor, I just picked up the application that landed by my feet and decided that whomever it was would be the second student… and it was you.” He looks at your hand on his sleeve. “I wonder now if it wasn’t chance at all. If Lilith...” Her name catches in his throat. “If that’s so…” He smiles. “She made a good choice.”

There’s a pang in your chest. You had always thought Lord Diavolo had made the decision, but after that night in the restaurant, you had thought it had been Lucifer’s. And now... Now, you find—all this time… have they considered you an accident? Not just Lucifer, but Diavolo and Barbatos? Your presence, mere chance? But now, in this moment… is it Fate? Or Lilith’s will? Does Lilith’s involvement make it different than if Lucifer had chosen you himself, on some kind of merit? 

“Now, then—” he sits back, folds his arms across his chest. “I imagine you want to know what happened that night.” 

Fingers curl tight into the blankets. It doesn’t matter how you came to be in the Devildom, really, not right now. What matters is this. “Yes.”

“After you left with Barbatos, my brothers were… encouraged to go into the garden to wait, while Diavolo and I spoke. Once that was concluded, we joined them, but it was only a few moments later that Beel—” He frowns, looks away. “He almost collapsed, started shouting, called for you, and—briefly, I believe the others were hit with some sensation or pain before everything stopped. Diavolo must have summoned Barbatos immediately, instantly, because I was only briefly aware of Barbatos’ power before it was over. The next thing I knew, Diavolo was catching his breath on one of the benches as Time resumed, and his first order was for me to accompany him to the House of Lamentation.”

“Barbatos told me Diavolo was lending him energy.”

Lucifer’s brows arch. “You were awake, then?”

“Only briefly. He and Simeon were there, and… Barbatos didn’t seem well.”

A chuckle settles in his chest, a gloved hand pinching his brows. “Barbatos didn’t seem well. You were dying.” His fingers ruffle his bangs, sharp and frustrated. “And all because—” 

Silence.

“I cannot repay you.”

There’s a pang in your heart. “Lucifer, there’s no need to—”

“You didn’t have to do it.” He drops his hand, letting it clench into a fist in his lap. “There was nothing personal to be gained, yet you risked your relationships, your life, without thinking. Why? It makes no sense. You owe us nothing. In fact, your safety has been threatened numerous times as a result of my brothers’ actions; I have personally lost my temper with you on no less than three occasions. You should have abandoned Belphegor, should have left me to my punishment; why didn’t you?” 

“Hmngh?” 

Lucifer freezes. Mammon snuffles, rolls, his shirt riding over his ribs, but remains asleep. You release your breath, and slowly, lean back against the pillows. 

“I might be a bit more selfish than you believe.” Close your eyes. “I’ve come to care very much for your family, and to think that they consider me any part of it is… far more than I would have thought to hope for. But when all of this started—” How to say it? “I thought… when I discovered Belphegor…” You wet your lips. “I thought I could sort it out. On my own, of course.” Stupid. “I’ve never been able to fix my own... familial issues, but for some reason I thought I had an opportunity with yours, that it was… that it was a chance for me to—to use what I had learned from my own mistakes. Maybe to pay for them. Maybe to heal them.” Bury your face in your knees again, feel your mouth turn in a wry grin. “It’s terrible being this self-aware. Makes confessing more embarrassing because you know where you went wrong… there’s no ‘I don’t know’.” Fingers curl, tight, into palms. “I know why I did it. I felt like I had learned enough, knew enough. But I still misjudged.” Take a deep breath, meet his stunned gaze. “And… I apologize. For the worry I’ve caused. For not speaking with you sooner.” 

“You—” He bites his tongue, wrinkles his brows, looks at the floor. 

And then you’re buried in dark silk, inhaling the sharp scent of ash and honey and warm, bitter myrrh. 

“Don’t you have any sense at all?” 

You chuckle, but it gets stuck behind the tears constricting your throat. “Didn’t I ask you that today?”

“Three days ago,” he rumbles. “I believe you also called me an idiot.” 

“Is that next?” You sniffle, smiling against his vest.

“Yes.” You feel an amused huff against the top of your head. “You’re an idiot. This time, I’ll waive the punishment, but if you do something like that again, you’ll find yourself strung up in the stairwell with Mammon.” 

“H—hmmn—h-hey! WHAT’S THE BIG IDEA, HUH?” 

You can feel Lucifer’s sigh perfectly timed with your own, which peters off into a wet chuckle as Mammon paws at both your and his brother’s shoulders. 

“Mammon—” But Lucifer releases you just in time for you to be crushed against Mammon’s chest. 

“I WAS SO WORRIED ABOUT YA, DON’T YOU DARE DO THAT TO ME AGAIN, YA HEAR?” He hides his face in your shoulder, and you gain enough balance to wrap your arms around his back. 

“I’m sorry, Mammon.”

“You’d better be!” but his voice is muffled. “Why didn’t you call us sooner, huh? Why didn’t you call me?” His fingers dig into your shoulder blades. “We—we could feel it, you know? When you…” Under your hands, he heaves a shuddering breath. “It wasn’t okay.”  

Hold him tighter. “I’m sorry, Mammon… it really wasn’t.” You run a soothing hand up and down his spine. “If it makes you feel better, now that I know how, I should be able to call you immediately if something happens.” 

“You’d better.” He makes a sound suspiciously like a sniffle, and you let a couple more tears roll down your cheeks, just for good measure, before you have to compose yourself. 

“Enough, Mammon.” Lucifer’s voice is terse, but Mammon just clings tighter. “I said enough. Are you really going to make them take care of you after everything that happened?” 

He pops his head off your shoulder. “Wh—no! No, I’m takin’ care of them, ya see? You’re the one that made me their guardian, now let me do some guardin’!” 

“They need rest. I’ve allowed you to stay until they woke. Now return to your room for the night; you’ll see Ambrose in the morning.”  

“But—”

“Now, Mammon.” 

You sit back just a little, and ruffle Mammon’s hair. “I’ll be all right for the night. I feel better—no pain at all, I promise.” He pouts, ready with another retort, but you embrace him again. “And I’ll call you right away if I need anything, okay?” 

When you look him in the face again, his cheeks are flushed, and he won’t meet your eyes. “Okay. But I’m comin’ first thing in the morning.” 

“Thank you, Mammon.” You give his hand a brief squeeze.

He stops before climbing out of the bed. “And you’ll call me first?”

“First, I promise.” 

He beams. “Okay. And—”

“And I’m going to make sure Lucifer goes to sleep, too.” 

“O—oh. I mean—good! Yeah! Okay. You should!”  

“Good night, Mammon.” Lucifer crosses his arms over his chest.

You smile. “Good night Mammon.” 

“G’night, Ambrose! ...Lucifer.” And the door closes behind him. 

You sigh, straightening out your blankets. “You know I really didn’t mind. He needs comfort, too… that was a bad night for everyone.” 

“It was, he does, and I let him have it.” Lucifer leans back in his chair, folds one leg over the other. “But you shouldn’t be taking care of anyone this evening.”

“But—”

“I do believe it is my job.” He tilts his head with a mischievous half-smile. “I am the eldest here.” 

Fondness and irritation are at war on your face, with neither quite winning out, so you huff and lean back against the pillows. “Then you should sort out your brothers—I’m sure Mammon needs a little more reassurance.”

“After I’m finished here; you are part of our number as well.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that you’re stunned into silence even as your heart does a very impressive acrobatic routine, activating the tears still ready and waiting behind your eyes. You rub your face with your sleeves. “Lucifer—”

“I will be staying until you go back to sleep. Then, I will tend to the rest… so if you’d like me to get on with them, I suggest you lie down.” 

You try for a disgruntled, defeated sigh as you snuggle into the blankets, but it comes out as a pitifully tearful wheeze. “Well-played.” 

“Did you really expect anything less?” He brushes a gloved hand across your forehead. “Rest. I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunity to level the playing field tomorrow.”

You close your eyes, and find the bed is much more comfortable than usual. 

“And Ambrose…”

“Hm?”

“Wait for Mammon to fetch you for breakfast in the morning.”

“Mm.”

----

You wake to the sound of clattering from the kitchen. Someone calls out, laughs brightly, and you find the hint of a smile on your lips before your eyes are even open. Another clatter, a shout. Loud, normal. The air smells of woodsmoke and eggs and bacon, and you’re up and on your feet in moments, pawing through the wardrobe before bothering to wonder what day it is, but—

Oh. You’re... probably exempt from classes no matter what day of the week this might be. Still, your DDD is lying on the table, and a quick look says it’s Tuesday. Tuesday, and no notifications. A lump rises in your throat.

You need to see Barbatos. Push your uniforms aside in favor of something appropriate for the palace, though not especially showy. Short, high waisted slacks, boots, and the loose-sleeved, purple garment that Asmo gifted you a few weeks ago are both comfortable and serviceable. 

As you peel off your nightshirt, a series of dark, even marks catch your eye, scattered across the skin of your forearm. It’s a band of runes, a spiral beginning just below your elbow, stopping halfway to your wrist; they’re black, with a deep, green sheen that catches the light when you move… wrath is there, and fire, and—”mutual,” you think? And is that… protection? You recognize power, and… “united against the Enemy?” You’ll have to get your notes out for the rest, and maybe talk to Satan about the cohesive meaning of the piece. No one else’s has looked quite like this, not even in their most basic form… the pact seals that each of the others’ started from were simply the rune of their particular sin within a pentagram surrounded by a basic iteration of their promise.  

You face the mirror to look at the other pacts, and it seems they’ve all morphed further after the… events. Beelzebub’s mark on your stomach is now a full sunburst, glittering in red and orange and yellow alongside the bold, black stripes that make up the geometric rays, its pattern grown more complex, doubling back on itself in detailed artistry. The seal on your hip has blossomed into a delicate, black and pink rosebud with drops of dew gathered upon the petals. Leviathan’s is more difficult to see, but twisting around and craning your neck reveals that the serpentine rune has transformed into a proper serpent with navy and orange scales, its tail winding in upon itself as it follows your spine. And Mammon…

You’re not sure why you didn’t notice last night, but one of the rings upon your hand has turned to gold. With a soft smile, you return to your task, and finish getting dressed. 

For a moment, you hesitate in front of the mirror. There are a few flamboyant ruffles over one shoulder, and the material of your shirt is very fine (gargantuan spider-silk, you think Asmo said? Best not think too hard about the implications of that), with a good gradient of translucence and texture, fitted just enough at the bottom to tuck into the trousers. But… no cravat. Of course, any necktie would clash with the ruffling. In fact—perhaps—this might be too flamboyant. After all, you won’t be at the palace to take tea. You could change into—

“BEEL! Don’t you want there to be enough bacon for Ambrose?” 

A mumbled response. 

One nice thing about sharing a wall with the kitchen is always knowing what’s for breakfast—

Wait. Not hell-swine bacon, Erymanthian bacon, or gloson bacon? Just—bacon?

In your stomach, a roiling hunger makes itself known, perhaps one to rival Beelzebub’s, and the question of formality disappears completely from your mind. You snatch your DDD from the table, pocket it, and start toward the dining room. It does smell sweet and mild here in the hall, like human food—it must be! 

You’re one step away from a full jog when you push the dining room doors open to find the table piled high with food, but only one face—

Dark hair streaked with white. Indigo eyes heavy with sleep, mouth twisted wryly.

Your feet refuse to move as surely as the blood freezes in your veins. “What are you doing here?”

He blinks, stirs drowsily, squints across the room from his seat at the table. The seat that was always empty before. “Me? They told me I had time to eat. Weren’t you supposed to wait for Mammon?”

Wait for…?

Oh.

You do dimly recall Lucifer’s instructions before—and that means...

Lucifer was well aware this would happen.

A slow, bright burn creeps along your forearm, lighting the band of runes there. And Belphegor just. Sits. Leaning his elbow on the table like this is a perfectly ordinary morning, like absolutely nothing happened, like—

“I will ask again.” Nails dig into palms, your spine arrow-straight. “What are you—”

“Ambrose!” Satan darts out of the kitchen, a plate of eggs in one hand, Beelzebub hot on his heels. “Where’s Mamm—”

“You knew about this?” Your heart sinks, and the runes just glow brighter, hotter. “What is he doing here?”

“I live here.” 

Blood on the blankets, a single tear gliding down your neck. We could feel it. Trembling breaths. It wasn’t okay. Lips, too pale; skin, too hot. I would do it a thousand more times. 

White-hot rage settles in your chest, burning your stomach, your fingertips, humming along your skin.

You come face-to-chest with Beelzebub. Take a long, slow, breath. “Beel. Step aside.”

“Ambrose, maybe you should wait—”

“I just want to talk.” Your fingers flex at your sides. Curling, uncurling. It’s been a few months since your last bout, and you’ve never fought out of anger, and never with a sharpened blade, but you’re wishing, wishing for a familiar weight in your hand. The runes whisper on your skin like flames. 

Beel’s brows wrinkle. “I don’t want you to get in trouble. You’re really angry right—”

“Oh, really?”  Your shoulders pull tight, square, perfectly straight. “And what else am I supposed to be? Don’t you know what he did?” 

He folds a hand over his wrist, shakes his head. “I know, and I’m… I know, but he’s—”

“He’s your brother, and that’s the only reason I’m willing to speak with that liar, now move.” Nails cut into palms. “Please.” 

“I… no.” His shoulders hunch. “I can’t.” 

Mouth curls, baring your teeth. “I don’t want to make you.” 

Beelzebub shakes his head, eyes soft. “I won’t.” You can feel a ripple of sadness, of hesitation, a knot of conflict. 

Tighten your jaw, release a slow breath. “Beelzebub, step aside, and don’t move.” 

He obeys without resisting, eyes squeezed shut, head hanging low. 

You approach the table. 

“Ambrose—”

“Satan, stop.” From the corner of your eye, you can see his face twisted with anger, but he does not move, and you continue your steady pace.

Belphegor meets your gaze with alert interest, but hasn’t picked up his head from the palm of his hand, shoulders slumped unevenly, like he doesn’t consider you a threat at all. 

The runes on your skin burn brighter. How dare he. Perhaps you hold little enough power on your own, but you could have commanded that his own brothers combat Belphegor for you.

Not that you would ever consider it. That would be cruel beyond compare, not simply to him, but to Beelzebub and Satan, and you care too much, always too much, even with wrath swimming through your veins. 

But you could. And he should respect that.

“GUYS, WHERE’S—oh, Ambrose, hey! ...what’s goin’ on?���

“Don’t move, Mammon.”

“Wait, why—”

“Shhh.”

You stop before the table, staring across at the youngest of the demons. He says nothing, but his mouth curls up in a condescending smile. Slowly, you place your palms upon the polished wood, and lean forward, so that you’re nearly nose-to-nose, only the span of the table separating you from the Demon of Sloth. “Why are you here?”

“I suppose I should be thanking you for that,” he says, eyes glimmering. 

There are several implements within reach, but none are quite what you want. “Explain.” 

“You went back in time to free me. Not just from the attic, but from Diavolo, too.” He chuckles, brightly, and a shiver dances down your spine, but you hold your breath, bite your cheek, keep steady, even as your lungs feel the phantom pang of lacerations, as your very bones begin to ache. “Awfully nice of you. It would’ve been perfect if the prince’s pet hadn’t interfered, but I understand he’s pretty bad-off himself.” 

Your fingers twitch.

But Belphegor just smiles. “Maybe there is something to what you said. About being friends.” He yawns, makes a show of covering his mouth. “And if Barbatos doesn’t wake up for the next sixty years, it serves him right for defending a human.”

A black-gloved hand snatches the platter from the air before it can collide with Belphegor’s face. Your fists slam on the table, rattling silverware. “Lucifer—!” 

 “You have no power over me, so don’t waste your energy.” He narrows his eyes at his brother, ruby irises flashing. “And you—you ought to be begging this human’s forgiveness, not antagonizing them.” 

Belphegor shrugs asymmetrically. “It’s not my fault they’re so stupid—aaaow!” 

Distantly, Lucifer examines the crack down the platter’s middle. “Ruined,” he tuts. 

The youngest rubs his head, jaw tight. “What the f—”

This time, the hefty porcelain shatters. 

“Lucifer, what is he doing here?”

A slow, weary sigh, as he meets your eyes. “He’s here because of the deal you made; you released him—as you saved me from serving my own sentence—through your actions. You fulfilled your end of the bargain made with Lord Dialvolo, and in return, Diavolo had to keep his.” He folds his arms tightly across his chest, looks down at the table. “No matter what Belphegor had done.”   

Oh, this would be funny if it weren’t so very painful. 

Squeeze your eyes shut. Draw a trembling breath. For the next sixty years. He could be winding you up. He’s probably winding you up, but—

You can still see the feverish shine of Barbatos’ eyes, the wan, sickly cast of his skin. The tremble of fingers uncomfortably hot against yours. The soft, gentle nuzzle along your jaw. Nykin, he called you nykin, and if you never find out what that means, you—

Swallow the lump in your throat. 

There’s a gentle hand on your shoulder, and you open your eyes to find Asmodeus offering a handkerchief. You bury your face in its blush folds; it smells of lilac and roses and clove. Cheeks dry, you fix your attention on the arched windows, on the hazy, green day outside. The high, iron fence, crawling with ivy. “Beelzebub, Satan, Mammon… I release you from my previous commands.” 

Another slow, shaking breath, swallowing back the thick remnants of tears. You cast a sidelong glance at Lucifer, but don’t linger too long. It’s time. Well past time. “I have a phone call to make. You needn’t wait on me for breakfast.”

Turn on your heel, head back the way you had come.

“H—hey, wait!” But you don’t hesitate, not even for Mammon. 

The eldest steps into your path. “You must eat. I will have food brought to your room if—”

“No, thank you; I won’t have time.” You do not slow, simply stepping around the demon. 

“Ambrose—”

“I said no.” Your blood quickens.

You can’t recall the last time you said that.

----

A demon you’ve never seen before opens the castle doors. She bows low when she sees you, low enough to give you a view of the crown of her head, wrapped tightly with a braid of silver hair from which tiny, graceful little mushrooms of various shapes and colors sprout. “Ser.” 

“I—” Your ears are hot. “I’m sorry. You really don’t have to call me—”

She straightens. “You have my master’s respect.” 

“Er… I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.” You fuss with your sleeves, but the loose fit means there are no cuffs to adjust. “I don’t think I’ve ever met you before.” 

The medal on her uniform, the crest marking her a member of Diavolo’s household, tinkles as she bows again. “You’ve never had a reason to; I am Arbianock, Barbatos’ second, and butler in his absence.”  

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

“It isn’t.” You open your mouth, but nothing comes out, and the lamplight catches her lilac eyes, the plain expression on her face unchanging. “You have only met me because Barbatos is unable to perform his duties; you do not need to pretend the occasion is pleasurable.”  

“Well, I—” There’s an ache in your chest. 

“Ambrose!”

Arbianock bows deeply in greeting, and steps aside. “Lord Diavolo.”

You work up a smile for the prince, who approaches with open arms, beaming. He seizes your shoulders. “It’s wonderful to see you! And to see you so well…!” His brow creases. “We were very worried about you. In fact, I was almost afraid Barbatos wouldn’t make it in time, but—well, he would’ve done whatever was necessary. There was no real need to fret, and this was certainly a dramatic resolution, wasn’t it! May I embrace you? I’d like to embrace you.” You’ve barely nodded before you’re swept up in a crushing grip. “Oh! You are a lucky, lucky human, Ambrose! Our Barbatos would never have attempted something so complex for anyone else. And you…! You performed admirably!” Diavolo drops you back on your feet, and Arbianock catches your arm before you stagger. “I’m of a mind to name you Ambassador. But—!” He must see the dazed look of trepidation on your face, because he waves both hands in a dismissive manner. “That can wait. I know you want to see him. Come!” He offers his arm, and you take it, your brain too overtaxed at the moment to do anything else. “And, Arbia, please fetch us some tea and bring it to Barbatos’ quarters.” 

She bows. “Yes, my lord.” 

“I’ll take you the proper way, so that you can find your way back if you’d like,” says Diavolo, leading you swiftly through the entrance hall and into a familiar corridor. “I imagine you’ll be visiting with some frequency.”

You can feel your cheeks getting warm again. Maybe you could convince him to lay off just a little bit; you haven’t even discussed such matters with Barbatos… all the world standing absolutely still, and yet there hadn’t been time. 

“Lord Diavlolo—”

“Just ‘Diavolo’ while you’re here, please.” 

Heave a deep sigh. “Diavolo. How is he?”

A long, musing hum as he sobers. “Barbatos is recovering; he hasn’t been responsive since he returned from the House of Lamentation three days ago. It’s really nothing to worry about, considering a demon’s regenerative capabilities—particularly Barbatos’—but… well, I haven’t seen him like this in a very long time, and… hmm... I understand that humans don’t really do this unless they’re near death.”

Your mouth is dry. “That’s correct.” 

“Well, don’t worry!” The smile is back on his face as he leads you up a side-stairwell that curves into yet another lamp-lit hallway, the walls covered in plaster, dotted with paintings in gilded frames of all shapes and sizes. “It’s perfectly natural for demons, and Barbatos is nowhere near expiration.”

It’s very easy to think of the demons as indestructible, and Barbatos, especially, as absolutely untouchable. Distant, apart from all things, ever observing, above the petty squabbles, offering a solution, an act of service for every whim. Ever-present upon the stage while the eye is trained to pass him over and find him invisible.

And yet—

A gentle touch upon your hand. Quilted jackets folded together in the crook of an elbow. The taste of tea upon your tongue, malty-sweet, warm like the pastries as fresh and light as an early-morning rain. Lips upon your skin.

Your heart is heavy, and it burns so, so much hotter than any sin.

A heavy hand pats your arm, bright and warm through your silk sleeve. “I think I’m not very good at this,” Diavolo confesses.

“Pardon me… at what?”

The prince hums, and rubs the back of his neck, glancing away. “The… comforting thing. Am I doing it wrong? Demons aren’t really known for being reassuring. Persuasive is easy, but… this really isn’t the same.”

Another stairwell, this one a spiral, its marble steps carpeted in wine velvet, lit with cool, blue-white orbs of light hovering at intervals along the plaster walls, divided every seven steps with a thin, doric column. The wisps of light seem to sing, lowly, a melody that hums along your skin in the now-familiar pattern of magic, sustained, perhaps, by their own, soft resonance. 

“You’ve made me feel a little bit better, but being unable to allay my fears entirely isn’t a failure on your part.” Gently, you nudge Diavolo’s side with the elbow tucked into his. “I’m too worried for anything anyone says to keep me from it. And… there’s so much more.”

He nods. “Yes—there’s always more, isn’t there?” The door at the top of the stairs swings open at your approach, with no signal at all from the prince. “But it does make me—well, saying ‘happy’ might be inappropriate, but!—it makes me happy to know that there’s someone aside from me that worries for Barbatos. Hell knows he doesn’t do it himself.”

You manage a chuckle alongside him; that bright laugh is truly infectious, sunshine in the darkness. It’s a wonder sometimes that Diavolo is a demon at all. 

“And here we are.”

The hall goes on for several more feet, but there are no doors beyond this one, only a latticed window at the end of the corridor looking into the morning’s grey-green sky. The door that Diavolo indicates is a heavy, black slab of wood divided into six rectangular segments surrounded by a pattern of vines that, upon closer inspection, don’t seem to be plants at all, but… you squint, focus a little harder. Abstractions? Of clouds, perhaps, wind, almost… and stars? The tail of a great beast, winding—

The door swings open into a sitting room, nearly Georgian in appearance, wooden panels of the walls painted with alien landscapes, a high-backed chair, a corner desk, one loveseat patterned with purple and cream and green in scrolling patterns of foliage, and, above the empty fireplace, the portrait of three shrouded figures, each holding a tool of their trade: the golden spindle, the silver hourglass, and the bronze knife.

“I’ve been here before.” 

Diavolo’s brows arch. “Oh?”

“We just didn’t come the normal way, I suppose. It was after the trial—Barbatos brought me here for tea.”

He’s grinning now, like he’s caught on to something and wants to share, practically nudging you with his eyes, but you’re certain you’ve missed the memo for whatever it is. “I didn’t think anyone knew what this room looked like.”

“No one…?”

“Nobody.” A devilish smile pulls at his lips, and you certainly can’t mistake him for anything else now. “This is Barbatos’ private drawing room.” 

You have no idea what to do with this information beyond feel uncomfortably warm. “Oh.” 

“And it’s the only entrance to his bedroom.” He leads you to the door opposite the fireplace, and pushes it open. 

The rooms are perfectly matched; here, the dark panels are lit by the glow of the false sun streaming through a wall of high, paned windows that overlook the garden, curtained with purple damask and velvet. Opposite, is the bed, draped in maroon and turquoise, nestled in an alcove between large, ionic columns set into the wall, four-poster, with thick, wine curtains tied at each corner. Strangely, it begins somewhat narrowly at the head and tapers outward to the foot, almost like a paper fan. It becomes clear quickly why, as Barbatos himself rests in the center, lying on his side, pillows tucked carefully around his form, one in particular supporting his tail, which curls outward and down, taking up almost more space than the rest of him. 

He is dressed in simple, light clothing, loose around his arms and legs, cool and comfortable and—you avert your eyes automatically. He seems so… vulnerable. Underdressed. Inert. 

“I do hate seeing him like this,” Diavolo murmurs, and you’re grateful for the excuse to look at him instead. His mouth is pulled in a solemn line, no trace of any earlier joviality, a heavy weight upon his shoulders. “He is well. I even had my own physicians in to make sure there weren’t any complications. But Barbatos is… he’s been with me for a very long time. Since I was a fledgling demon. And that was—well... I don��t think a human can imagine how long ago that was. He’s always there, always unflappable, reliable Barbatos. To have him removed…” Diavolo sighs. “I always notice. When I was young, that constant presence used to chafe, but—”

Three brisk knocks on the door. 

“Enter.”

Arbianock does so with all the swift efficiency you’ve come to expect of the prince’s butler, pushing a low tea cart set with china you haven’t seen before. These dishes are glossy, the sheen faintly holographic over a black wash; swimming through the darkness are grey mists and flecks that look like stars, and each teacup sits tall and thin on wide feet. At a small table near the windows, already set with two chairs, Arbianock begins swiftly ordering the teapot, cups, saucers, and two plates piled high with dainty sandwiches and small, flaky pastries. Your stomach makes a most unsavory sound.

Diavolo chuckles, lightly. “You’ve been spending too much time with Beelzebub… or, maybe, you ran out of the house without eating, despite the breakfast waiting for you.”

Of course he’d heard. “Is that how Lucifer put it?”

He shrugs in the wake of your irritable frown and moves to the table, where Arbianock waits silently. “Something like that.”

“So you both made sure there was food here for me.” You sigh, and take your place and his behest. “I—thank you. I’d… forgotten I was hungry.” The way your stomach is gnawing and roiling with a vengeance, you suspect you ate nothing of substance during your bout of unconsciousness. 

“Think nothing of it! Barbatos would never forgive me if I let you go hungry. Ah—thank you, Arbia.”

The demoness bows her head and moves to fill your cup next, pouring the tea with grace; it whispers in the porcelain. “I have prepared a morning blend with nighttyme and citrus that should compliment both the cured meat in the sandwiches and the light sweetness of the puff pastries, which have been made with human-word apples.” 

Your heart feels like it’s held tight in a fist. You recognize the scent of the tea; it is the same Barbatos had first prepared for you in the RAD courtyard, months ago. And the comfort of human-world fruit… “Thank you.” If you move your eyes from the table, you won’t be able to maintain control. 

She finishes pouring, serves you and Diavolo each a triangular sandwich and a flaky, cubed pastry. The plating is almost identical to what you’ve come to expect, but the aesthetics differ slightly; this palette is very muted, with an emphasis on shape, where Barbatos’ plates are accented by space and subtle flashes of color. 

You hadn’t realized you knew that. 

“Eat,” urges Diavolo, “and we can discuss something pleasant.”

One bite of the sandwich you’ve been served only makes you hungrier and you finish it before you’re able to even consider that the gesture is less than polite—certainly not fit for the prince’s table—but another finds its way onto your plate before you can even ask for another. Arbianock’s facial expression does not change when you thank her quietly, nor does she seem to mind that the second sandwich disappears as quickly as the first, despite your best efforts. 

“I’m… hungrier than I thought.” You can’t raise your eyes from the plate as another sandwich takes its place. “Please excuse me.”

“Nonsense, eat as much as you like!” Diavolo laughs heartily. “There’s more than enough here for both of us.”

You might feel better if you could at least properly compliment the food, but even after the third sandwich, you realize that you have no idea what they even taste like beyond good and that you require more. Cured meat, she had said, and you trust that, but anything else? Not even a guess. 

The conversation witters on as you eat your fill; what Diavolo talked about, much like the flavor and content of the sandwiches, you really could not say. What you spoke, when required, you cannot recall. But the warm, sharp flavor of the tea, with slightest lingering spice on your tongue to compliment the first crisp, sweet bite of an apple square—

“...but, of course, Arbia has been around at least that long, and—you’ve met Mephistopheles before, haven’t you?”

It tastes of sunshine and home and it brings you back to your mind, to your stomach, which has ceased its complaints, to the warning edge of a burn in the lines of Beelzebub’s pact upon your skin. 

“Yes… Satan had taken me to the newspaper club meeting on a few occasions before Mephistopheles was removed as Chief Editor.”  

“Ah, yes—a shame, that, but I couldn’t dissuade Lucifer. Don’t worry, though; he’ll have another opportunity next year.” Diavolo leans back slightly in his chair and pops a pastry thoughtfully into his mouth. “Do you suppose I could get Asmodeus to do another design? Those stickers were darling!” 

Fondness stirs in your chest, but doesn’t quite make its way to your face. “I’m sure Asmo could be persuaded. We would have a whole collection of tiny demon lords.”

His eyes glitter. “Yes, exactly! Why we could—”

The hollow sound of a great bell reverberates through the air, hums through your bones.

A deep sigh, and Diavolo seizes his teacup. “Unfortunately, that means I am needed.” He tips it back in one go, and rises, but as you move to do the same, he raises a hand. “No, please; you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I’m certain Barbatos could use a bit of company.”

There’s a lump in your throat again. “Thank you, Diavolo.” 

He casts a glance back at his friend, and gives you a gentle smile. “I’ve left a comfortable chair near the bed; you’re more than welcome to make use of it. I don’t know how long my business will take, but if you wish, you can see yourself out at any time, and should you need anything…” The prince reaches into his jacket and draws out a small, silver bell that gleams in the low light. He sets it on the table amongst the tea setting. “Ringing this will summon help; if Arbianock is busy assisting me, someone else will answer your call. The staff have instructions to obey you as they would Lucifer, so please, don’t hesitate to ask for anything you desire.”  

It sounds like entirely too much, but you nod as graciously as you can manage. “Thank you. I doubt I’ll need anything, but I’m grateful.”

“I’ll return when I’m finished to see how you’re doing, and you’ll be quite welcome to join me for dinner if you wish to stay. Now, don’t hesitate if you need more tea—or water! I think I recall humans need quite a lot of it.”

Arbianock stands stiffly at his side. “My lord…”

“Yes, of course! We can’t linger.” The bright, brilliant grin finds its way again to the prince’s face. “Good morning, Ambrose.”

It doesn’t feel right to remain seated, but you offer a small, half-bow from your chair. “Good morning, Diavolo.”

He and Arbianock file neatly through the door, and it clicks softly shut, leaving you in silence. Upon the bed, Barbatos has not shifted in the slightest, but, as Diavolo had said, there is an armchair within reach. It matches the rest of the room: dark, carved wood upholstered in teal and seafoam green, giving a bright spot of color to the alcove. You… you would like to sit with him.

Your hands are shaking. 

Take a deep breath, and raise your teacup to your lips, tip back the full contents in an effort to steady your nerves. With another long, slow breath, you stand. Why are you nervous? There’s no one around to ask questions, and Barbatos—

Slowly, you approach the bed. He lies atop the comforter, but a blanket folded in an aesthetically haphazard triangle has been draped across his legs at the knee. It brings to mind the feverish heat of his skin when last you met; perhaps they’ve left the comforter off in an effort to lower his temperature. His forked tail curls around his form, over the folded throw, dull against the black and maroon and lavender, missing its usual, luminescent luster.

You settle into the waiting chair, perched on its edge so that your knees press close against the mattress. The expression Barbatos wears is gentle, peaceful repose; surely, a blessing. Could you stand it if it seemed he was in pain? That he should be in any discomfort seems unbearable, especially if he must lie here for another—

Fingers curl against your thighs.

You can’t think about that. Watch instead the slow breath that moves his chest, lifts, subtly, the arm draped across over his side; consider the way his hair falls across his brow and upon the pillow, a gentle wave of emerald that fades to turquoise. The slight, spindly shadows that cross his forehead, beneath the winglike horns perched there. The absence of a knowing glance—though even in sleep, it seems, his mouth remains turned up at the edge, ever keeping a secret. Just beneath his chin, his other hand lies upon the comforter, open and bare. Your own is halfway to it before you realize what you’re doing. 

You hover there, hand outstretched, fingertips almost, almost finding his. They tremble. The breath aches in your chest. 

“You are free to touch me, if you so wish.”

“Barbatos!” 

His eyes glitter and you—

Your fingers wrap around his, thread them together, palms kissing. 

“How—” Too much, too much, not enough. Tug his hand a little closer, press your forehead to the back of his fingers. His skin is warm, but not feverish. “How long have you been awake?” 

“Since you entered the room.” Mischief in his voice, but you can’t find it in your heart to be irritated. 

Your grip tightens. It doesn’t matter why he didn’t speak earlier, you just—”How are you?” Press your cheek fast to the back of his hand, open your eyes to find him watching, watching so tenderly that a lump forms in your throat. 

“Seeing you well, I find my condition inconsequential.” Your cheeks heat, but before you can admonish his lack of proper answer, Barbatos’ thumb caresses the edge of your palm. He smiles. “I am tired. I feel like I could sleep for a decade, but I am simply too busy for such a diversion.” 

Huff a soft laugh. Relief washes through your chest, and you nuzzle his skin. Soft—his hands are so soft…

“I trust Lucifer and the others have taken good care of you?” 

Belphegor sitting at the table, lazily malicious, springs to your mind and knots your stomach, but you can’t… not now. “Yes. When I woke up, it was like nothing at all had happened; I’m perfectly healthy.” 

Barbatos hums, closing his eyes. “I shall have to thank Simeon.” His thumb begins a slow pattern again, up and down, brushing your cheek along the way.

Press closer to his touch. “And I need to thank you.” 

"I am at your service; that you are here is thanks enough." His gaze is bright, a gentle viridian, ivy graced by the morning dew. "But... if you would stay for a while, until I sleep again, I would consider it a reciprocal gesture.” There is a strange weight in those words, a precision of diction and careful hesitation, like an offering, quiet and so hopeful—

“Of course I’ll stay.”

You wish to do nothing else. 

He smiles, the soft crease of his eyes, the smallest flash of glassen teeth, and you can’t breathe for the flood of emotion behind your breast. Gently, Barbatos untangles his fingers from yours, cups your cheek, lets his fingertips run across your jaw and chin, carefully searching your face. “All of time, every possibility, and I never would have thought this…” The smile that graces his lips is wistful, coloring his voice. “I’m glad now that I never looked; it’s much better as a surprise.” 

Your cheeks burn almost as bright as your heart. There’s nothing in your mind, nothing you know how to say, so you turn into his palm, and press a lingering kiss to his skin, earning the pleasure of a short, sharp gasp. You smile as his cheeks flush darker than you’ve seen before, painted a dusky rose, and, emboldened, kiss him softly again upon the heel of his hand. 

Barbatos chuckles, brightly, and steals your hand to press his own kiss to your fingers, lips lingering, warm and soft. His breath huffs lightly over your skin as a giggle morphs into full laughter, and your heart stutters; you’ve never heard anything quite like it from him before. It’s contagious, light and rich and warm as steam curling from the teapot, drawing a chuckle from your chest, but all too soon he covers his mouth, stifling the sound to something more controlled. 

“What is it?” you ask.

“Six of the most powerful demon lords vying for your attention. I know that was not your intention, but after what you’ve done, you could have had your choice.” His eyes scrunch in a dark sort of delight. “Six demon lords, and you’re lavishing your affection on the royal butler.” He’s giggling again, this time in that bubbling, caramel tone you’ve enjoyed before. “The Brothers are going to be exceptionally envious.” 

You’d like to feel guilty, or at least sympathetic, if what Barbatos says is true. But after this morning… “I suppose they’ll just have to come to terms with that.” Gently, you squeeze the hand that still holds yours. Affection. Something light and sweet blossoms behind your ribs. 

He returns the gesture, eyes drifting closed, though a devious smile still curls his mouth. “If that is what you wish.” 

The fluttering of your heart goes straight to your head in a soft, gentle hum, and you smooth your thumb over the back of Barbatos’ hand. Slowly, contentedly, he returns the gesture.

You watch for a moment, the steady rise and fall of his every breath. “Do you need to sleep again?”

Barbatos sighs, tugging your hand close to his chest. “Soon. I will likely rest…” He considers, glancing off into space as though trying to recall some minute detail. “...four more days.” 

Four days? “Then—why are you awake now?” Surely he should be sleeping, shouldn’t have woken at all...

“I wanted to see you,” he says, as though it were the simplest thing in the world, and you think the flush that has spread to the tips of your ears might just become permanent. “And I waited to do so until Diavolo departed as his… exuberance would have exhausted me faster.” 

Yes, you can easily imagine Diavolo’s boisterous, high energy wearing you thin if he had been the one to greet you last night. A smile tugs at your lips. “Should I not mention that I’ve spoken with you?”

“There is no need to keep it secret; I suspect he understands the situation.” Ah, and there is the all-knowing, little smile. 

“Diavolo did make some… insinuations,” you recall.

“Does that trouble you?”

“Well… not exactly. It did bother me that I hadn’t spoken with you yet, while he seemed to think—” Oh. Oh. You’d been distracted, but when the prince gave you that look after you admitted that you had been to Barbatos’ drawing room before... 

“Yes?”

“I…” Clear your throat, which suddenly seems a little inadequate for the oxygen and words you’re looking for. “I think he’s under the impression that we’ve… been seeing each other.”

His brow creases for half a moment before softening with amusement. “Ah.” He closes his eyes again. “My lord would think that was the natural progression of things; this has developed rather quickly, and out of order, from our perspective.” He draws a deep, slow breath, like the kind that appears halfway to sleep. “A demon’s perspective.” 

You have at least four questions now, but you don’t want to keep him awake, so you squeeze his hand lightly. “You should rest.”

Barbatos makes a soft sound of affirmation. “You may join me, if you wish.” He looks at you just in time to witness what must be an impressive mess of shapes without sound as your mouth opens and closes, unable to find any words. Gently, he tugs at your wrist. “You must require more rest.” 

He isn’t wrong; you find you’re more drained than normal, and you’ve only been up a few hours, but—is this not a bit fast? Then again… how many times have you fallen asleep in a pile of demons already? And, really, Barbatos is wearing more clothes than Mammon sometimes wears to sleep. Yet—you feel as though he’s entirely naked. 

You’re interrupted by a light, polite laugh. “You needn’t if you do not wish to.” 

“I’m overthinking,” you confess. After all, you share a bed with your friends regularly. This isn’t different just because you feel so tenderly for him. 

He relinquishes your hand with a soft smile, and closes his eyes again. “Take your time, nykin.” 

Five questions. But you slip out of your boots, and take a deep breath, then, carefully, climb onto the bed, knees sinking almost immediately into the mattress, much softer than you’re accustomed. You think you see Barbatos’ mouth curve upward just a little more, but he doesn’t move otherwise, doesn’t peek, as you retrieve one of the unused pillows and settle on your side—but not too close. 

There’s a small shift in weight on the bed, and it’s not until you feel fabric creeping over your legs that you realize it is his tail moving sluggishly to tug the blanket up and over your hips. But it doesn’t move back down the foot of the bed once that task is complete; instead, his tail settles heavily, gently across your thighs, rolls lightly up your spine, nestled against your back.

“Is that all right?” He’s watching your reaction intently. 

You nod against the pillow, and reach for his hand again, which he relinquishes easily, folding into yours. “Sleep well, darling.” 

The words are long gone before you realize what you’ve said, but Barbatos’ eyes are closed, and a smile lingers on his lips.

----

It’s the scent, first, of ashes and ink, of early morning mist and winter’s clean edge. You don’t recognize it immediately, beyond demon, but when you open your eyes, well, it certainly couldn’t have been anyone else. The weight of Barbatos’ embrace still presses into the small of your back, his fingers still soft against yours; you hadn’t moved at all in your sleep, probably worried about disturbing him. There is still enough light from the windows to soften the edges of his face, to highlight the curve of his mouth, to smooth away the lines around his eyes. He looks… happier, now, than when you arrived, and you’re inclined to believe you’re not imagining it. Absently, you let your fingers run across the skin of his palm, down to the wrist, and linger there a while under a silken sleeve. 

Your stomach rudely reminds you that it’s time to eat again, but you’re not ready to move just yet, so you turn only a little, and take in the rest of the room properly. While the drawing room was fairly small, and sparsely furnished, this one hardly resembles the room of a servant—these are the quarters of a duke brought into the prince’s palace. Beyond the foot of the bed, amongst the paned, Georgian windows is a massive bay window with a soft perch nestled below for lounging, complete with pillows of myriad shapes and a small duvet. 

On the far wall, beyond where Barbatos lies, there is a large armoire, countless shelves, and several chests. While it is apparent that everything has a place, there are strange devices and artifacts of all kinds scattered about—many appear to be some variety of time-keeping instrument. An interesting thought, that, since—

“I knew he would recognize you!” The voice does its best to be hushed, but there’s too much damned told-you-so sunshiny glee crammed into it to make such attempts effective. 

You freeze, trying not to roll over abruptly, though you’re sure you couldn’t wake Barbatos now if you tried. You open your mouth to say something, but what? Please excuse me for getting into bed with your butler, I swear I can explain? “Lord Diavolo—”

“Sorry! Sorry…” He’s whisper-yelling now. “I was just hoping you’d join me for dinner.” 

That had been the plan. “Yes, I’ll just…” You absolutely cannot look at him. “Give me a moment, please.”

“Of course, of course! I’ll wait in the drawing room; we have much to discuss.” 

You don’t move until you hear the door shut, and even then, you do so slowly, gradually, giving first a light squeeze to Barbatos’ fingers before letting them go, inching your hands gently back to your sides, leveraging yourself up and out from under his tail. Your ears burn when you realize you’ll have to use your hands to help move the weight off your legs, as you’ve run out of mattress, and you try your best to be… clinical and prudent about it. But you can’t help noticing how smooth the skin of his tail is, like soft, supple leather; there is a light texture to it, not unlike that of silk, no scales to speak of, just…

You adjust the blanket carefully, try to make sure he’s still comfortable, and don’t consider it any further. But it makes no difference as you join Lord Diavolo in the sitting room, for your face is burning to the tips of your ears anyway. 

The prince is half-lounging on the loveseat so he can see you over its back, smirking in a manner that is one raised brow from lascivious. “So, how is he?” 

Perhaps one day you’ll learn a spell that will allow you to melt yourself into the floor. “Still tired. He only spoke to me for a few minutes and went back to sleep.” 

He nods, and pushes himself off the seat with a stretch. “That’s to be expected. Did he mention how long he would need?”

“Four days.”

“Oh—that’s not long at all! Nothing to worry about, then.” He gestures toward the door, and you exit through it into a hall on the ground floor. “I’m glad you got the chance to talk with him. For dinner, I’m afraid we have more… unpleasant matters to discuss. If you wish to refresh yourself, please feel free to do so; I’ll be in the dining hall—we still have about fifteen minutes before dinner service.”

----

You’re seated almost directly at Lord Diavolo’s right hand; there is one empty chair occupying that space, but you are next, and, while the table is set fully and formally, no one comes to take the seat, nor to take Lucifer’s on his left. Upon the banquet table lays a feast fit to feed ten, and, dimly, you wonder what will happen to the food that shall surely go uneaten. There’s roast wyvern and a grilled fish you don’t recognize that’s almost as big as you are, and Arbianock flits about the room like the shadow of a moth, refilling your glass, serving whatever you want before you even ask for it. Even if you can’t name every side dish, you’re sure you’ve tasted them all before, and accept portions gratefully… but you can’t seem to taste much of what’s on your plate over the measured, grave pace of the prince’s voice: 

“I avoided mentioning it this morning—” He fixes you beneath a golden gaze, cutting his food without even glancing at it. “—but I know you’re already aware that Belphegor has been released, as agreed, to his normal life in the House of Lamentation. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that these were the agreed terms for your successful mission.” 

“You do not.”

“And it wasn’t all for nothing; this did clear up a great many questions for me, beyond who opened the door. Suspicions about your lineage are confirmed, and—”

“My lineage?”

“Hm? Yes, it seems Lilith not only shared her power with you, but you are a distant descendant of her human incarnation.” 

Suspected lineage. The fork’s handle digs into your forefinger. “Did you know? Excuse me; I apologize for interrupting, but did you know when I was selected for the program that I was… somehow linked to Lilith?” 

Diavolo shakes his head. “No. Your lineage wasn’t even a thought until you borrowed Solomon’s magic, and he commented on your ability to invoke more power than you’d shown aptitude for previously—and I had no suspicions about you being Lilith’s descendant until Belphegor reappeared.”

Descended. Is that really all you are? An accident of Fate? Lilith never used that word, never said… 

“It was quite the surprise, but… these things do have a habit of coming back around.” 

You had both been served a glass of water and a glass of demonus; it is the demonus he sips from now, as his words settle over the table like fog. 

“What do you mean?”

“All things are made up of patterns.” He hums. “The universe exists in a state of raw discord—call that chaos, if you will—and Existence is the movement of this energy, this matter, into comprehensible patterns. For instance, a simple thing: fire. All its parts exist, latent, in the atmosphere, but when circumstances push them together in a set, predictable pattern—” He snaps, and a small flame dances between his fingers. “—it springs into being. People, animals, plants, thoughts, every element you can conceive, whole worlds… just like this.” Scarlet and saffron, it licks across his skin. “Patterns. We call it magic, angels call it order; humans, I think, are calling it ‘science’ nowadays.” With a careless wave, the flame winks out. “So, when I transformed Lilith’s Being into a human shape… of course the action would come back here, where it started. Like the tide, everything craves balance; a push, a pull, the elements fall back into disarray but find another pattern. Without it, there is nothing.” Thoughtfully, he examines the space where the flame once was. “And yet… we have the power to create patterns of our own. In a whirling existence of order and discord, we can decide what it all means. Call that… Destiny.” 

You’re my successor, Ambrose, because you chose to try. You think you can almost touch the edge of what’s known like this. A strange turn in the pit of your stomach, like you’ve contemplated what nonexistence would feel like for a little too long. 

“Ah, but I don’t mean to lecture you! How dreadfully dull.” Diavolo chuckles. “Listen to me; I’m starting to sound like Barbatos—please don’t tell him! Now, I started all this because… aha! Yes.” He sobers. “I cannot remove Belphegor from the House of Lamentation because of the deal you and I made. And frankly, I don’t want to. It would benefit him not at all to misbehave now, so I doubt he’ll try anything further; from his perspective, there’s no sense in jeopardizing his extraordinarily good fortune. However, if it would make you more comfortable, I can have you moved to Purgatory Hall either temporarily, or for the remainder of the year.” Here, the prince straightens, and leans slightly toward you over the table. “But I hope you don’t doubt that Lucifer and his brothers care for you.”

Your heart aches, protesting in your chest. “I don’t.” You know they care, but you know they’re loyal to their brother, too. That, maybe, their loyalty should be to him first. And that you…

You…

You used the pacts against them without even thinking. 

“Good! After all, half the Devildom would like to be you right now, if only for the benefits. And yet, you seem to be completely unaware of or care not at all for that kind of thing. Power? You ask for nothing. Riches, sex, unlimited knowledge? Not a single bargain, not one favor. Your complete lack of ambition is truly a marvel!” His smile is radiant. Your head is spinning. You’re not sure whether you’ve been insulted or praised or a bit of both, and just can’t bring yourself to bother untangling it. 

You used the pacts to strip your friends of their will. 

“Still... all the same, would you like me to have your quarters moved for a while?”

“N—” Tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. “No. Thank you. I… have to go back.”

Diavolo hums, the sound resonating in his chest. “I respect your decision, though you needn’t return to the House until you’re ready. After all, you are, of course, welcome to stay here for as long as you like during Barbatos’ recovery. You are free to come and go as you please.” 

The temptation is very real. You need to—you want… you wish to confide in someone, to ask about what you’ve done, seek advice on the course of action, but Barbatos isn’t available. Reach for your water goblet, stomach heavy with knots. 

“I can have someone fetch anything you need for this evening,” the prince suggests, slowly, and you realize with no small embarrassment that you haven’t responded to him at all. 

“I’m sorry.” Concentrate on a long, warm sip of water, feel the way it restores your dry throat. “I am very grateful for the invitation, Lord Diavolo, but I… I’ll need to at least fetch my own things. I have to at least apologize.”

His brow arches. “Apologize? What for? The way I heard it, Belphegor antagonized you.” 

Fingers curl tight around the goblet’s stem. “I won’t be apologizing to Belphegor.” There’s a whisper of sensation curling around your forearm.

“Ah, of course; I heard that your rage was quite something.”

It disappears without a trace, and you find your hand shaking, so you set the glass upon the table, and let your arm rest there, gaze fixed on the silk of your sleeve, contrasting sharply against the black tablecloth. “It shouldn’t have happened.” 

“You’re… going to apologize for... being angry?” 

Well, it looks like you’re confessing to the prince himself, and it’s too late to stop now. “I used the pacts to keep them all from interfering.” You avoid covering your face, though only just, by shoving your hands into your lap. Like a naughty child. But isn’t that what you are for letting your anger control you? “I was so angry, I… I just took away their ability to act. Made what I wanted more important.”

“Everyone?”

Struggle to think back. “All… except Asmodeus and Leviathan, because they weren’t there, or—I didn’t notice they were there. And Lucifer, of course, but…” Your heart seizes. “Only because I couldn’t.” 

Diavolo is silent for a moment. “And you think that was... wrong?” 

"Of course it was wrong!" 

But Diavolo looks dumbfounded. "Then was it wrong to use your pact with Beelzebub to keep him from fighting me back in Purgatory Hall?" 

"That's nowhere near the same thing. I was stopping a fight, not starting one." 

"So the issue is that you wanted to fight, and decided to prevent anyone from stopping you?" He tilts his head. "Well, you didn't intend to try to kill Belphegor this morning, did you? If so, I would like to suggest that a porcelain serving platter is perhaps not the best method you could have chosen." He has the audacity to giggle. "I would like to have seen it, though."

"Of course I wouldn't try to kill him, and—" Your stomach rolls dangerously. "—certainly not while they watched. He's their brother."

"And yet, you would have been well within your rights to try. He tried to kill you, and is now beyond formal punishment from the crown for that action. Taking it into your own hands is not inappropriate." 

"Diavolo, I prevented them from being able to stop me even if they wanted to more than anything. Is that not cruel? I enforced my will over theirs. Their bodies wouldn’t obey them, they couldn’t—couldn’t even speak—"

"Now stop that."

Your cheeks light with shame even as you balk at the command. 

"They gave you that power in order to put you on more equal footing with them, and with other demons. Do you think they did it without expecting that you could use it as a tool of wrath or envy or greed? Tell me, how is utilizing your power different from any one of them restraining you physically to prevent your will from being enacted?"

When laid out that way—

Even so… "I shouldn't have done it out of anger." 

"Ambrose, for a demon, your intentions matter. In Purgatory Hall, you invoked the pact to protect Beelzebub from himself. This morning, you used the pacts to protect your completely justified desire to confront Belphegor. I don’t believe you would ever intend to harm the brothers, and you certainly didn't today, if this guilt is any indication." 

"No, I didn't." It eases some of the pain in your chest, until you recall the wrath that swam through your blood. "Well... except Belphegor.” Fingers curl into palms. “But now I'm just… tired. And I'm sorry I didn't even let them have the opportunity to stand up for him." 

Diavolo leans back in his chair. "Then apologize. Humans seem so… tangled up in what they ‘should’ and ‘shouldn't’ be allowed to feel that they stop thinking about why they’re feeling. Nearly every one of the brothers has threatened your well-being in a moment of passion, and yet, you act like keeping them rooted to the floor for a moment is some grave injustice because you did it while you were angry." He folds his arms across his chest. "Sometimes, I wonder if you just believe you don't have the right to your own Destiny." 

Your nails are cutting into your palms. Lamplight glints, blood-red and bright through an untouched glass of demonus. “Do you… consider Destiny and Fate different things, Diavolo?”

“Yes. I believe Destiny is precisely what I told you: creation and change through will. It is your choice, your power over the shape of your life. Fate, on the other hand, is how you start. It’s the circumstances you’re given and the world you live in, and it is where you will be at the end of all things. But Destiny is how you arrive there, how you’ll shape what that final Fate may be; nobody has a say in how they begin, but they do have a hand in how it ends.”

“That must be very easy for you to say.”

“It wasn’t always.” 

When you look up, the half-smile on his lips has the character of a grimace, distant and self-deprecating, disarming in its sincerity. But then it’s gone, blown away on the faint breeze stirred by the opening of a door. 

“Would you like to take dessert and tea in the parlor, my lord?” 

You hadn’t even noticed Arbianock was gone.

Diavolo glances sidelong at you, but you find you have no opinion on the matter. With a sigh, the prince shakes his head. “No, I think we’ll both be tending to our own business this evening, but I’ll take some in my office. Ambrose… if you change your mind about moving your quarters or requesting assistance, please, don’t hesitate to contact me.”

----

When you left the House of Lamentation this morning, you hadn’t even had time to consider that you were walking the streets unescorted for the first time since your arrival in the Devildom. Now, as the scant evening light begins to fade into night, you’re painfully aware of every shadow, each unfamiliar face that lingers on every street-corner. And…

They’re studiously avoiding eye-contact. That seems rather backward, but you’re certainly not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, nor slow your steps, as much as you dread arriving at the estate. 

The house’s slouching gables seem more grievous than unusual beneath the silver moon, the spire painfully lonesome. Would anyone notice, do you suppose, if you just turned around and retraced your steps into town? There’s not a single insect chirping tonight, no mournful breeze. The house sits, uncharacteristically silent. Perhaps no one is even home. 

Your stomach turns. Is it because you fear you won’t have the opportunity to see them, or because you might? 

The air has taken on a chill edge, and you’re not dressed for it; you can’t stand on the street forever. So, with a miserably unfortifying breath, you try the door, and find it unlocked. 

The entrance hall is dark, and silent, but the halls beyond are lit… someone must be home. You make your steps as light as possible. Should you stop by your room first? If you do, what next? What if no one wants to speak with you? What if—

“Good evening, Ambrose.” Lucifer’s hands rest on the balcony rail, at the top of the stairs. 

There’s no hiding the way you flinched. “Good evening.” 

He makes no move toward the stairs. “How was your visit?” 

“Good.” Anything else sticks in your throat.

“Mm.”

Silence.

Your heart sinks; you had rather thought you two were beyond this. Perhaps you returned too soon… or, too late. 

“Are you… here to retrieve your things?” He’s not looking at you, not quite.

Take a deep breath, curl your fingers into your palms. “I wanted to talk to you. Everyone. But—I’m—well... I’m sorry.” You look at your feet. “For this morning.” 

Lucifer sighs wearily. “Let’s not stand in the hall.” He descends the stairs briskly, gloved fingers lingering lightly on the rail. “Come along.” 

You follow close on his heels to the common room, where he lights a fire with a careless flick of his wrist. As you pass him to find a seat on the sofa, his brow quirks, nose wrinkled, but says only: “I trust you weren’t harassed in the streets on the way back?”

“No.” You sit on the edge of the leather cushion, not quite willing to be comfortable. “Actually, I noticed… they seemed to want to avoid me.”

“Yes; I didn’t worry this morning, as the wrath rolling off of you was plenty potent enough to make any lesser demon think twice, to make no mention of your pacts.” He paces in front of the fire, blocking the heat for a moment, casting long, wavering shadows across carpet and wood. “I also suspect that the story of what happened—some version of it, anyway—has made its rounds. If anyone does touch you now that you can reach the power of your pacts, knowing what you’re willing to risk… what we are willing to risk… I’ll be shocked.”

“What I’m willing to risk?” 

Lucifer nods. “It would be like plucking wings to get most demons to outright admit it, but humans are widely regarded as dangerous. Yes, you had no magic of your own when you came here, and required protection because you would have been eaten, and you know now—” He turns away, light from the flames flickering across his face until you see only his back. “You know how easily we can kill. But a human willing to risk their life for something is formidable, even without magic—such willingness is remarkable, a novelty to demons. A human willing to die for their cause is unpredictable, able to do things even a demon or an angel cannot, under normal circumstances, achieve.”

That just… doesn’t seem possible. “Surely a demon or an angel has to be even more dangerous than a human when they’re risking their lives for something they believe is right.” 

He looks back at you, a small smirk drawing his lips. “Yes.” Then his brow furrows; he shakes his head. “But you don’t understand. We don’t risk our well-being lightly, and our lives… perhaps a single instance across the realms, once an eon, and rarely for another being.” 

That doesn’t seem right at all. Didn’t every one of the brothers risk their lives for Lilith? Didn’t Barbatos sacrifice, not his life, but his health, to keep you alive? 

“I know what you’re thinking, but my family shares an unusually strong bond; what we did, even as angels, was unprecedented. For a demon, even risking one’s well-being is tantamount to love. Risking one’s life, to a demon or angel, is… it’s an expression of utmost devotion, the purest gesture of love we know.” Finally, he settles in a high-backed chair. “And yet… humans, with their short lives, their little blink of existence… so many of them do it all the time.” Lucifer folds his arms, shakes his head. “You did it for a few demons you’ve known for even fewer months; that, I suspect, I will never understand. But it doesn’t mean that I am not… grateful.” 

The fire crackles. He sighs deeply. 

“I did intend to tell you about Belphegor this morning.” 

That shatters your daze. You fold your hands tightly in your lap, study a scuff along side-table from what you suspect was a pair of Asmodeus’ heels. “Why didn’t you?”

“You were meant to wait for Mammon, who would escort you to breakfast once Belphegor had gotten his plate. I would have warned you once the rest of us sat down and had something to eat.”

“I didn’t follow the plan.” 

“You rarely do. I should have sent Mammon earlier. Or gone myself. Or made Belphegor wait for his breakfast until the rest of us had eaten.” He crosses his legs at the ankle. “Yes—you didn’t follow instructions, but by now I should be prepared for that.” 

Wring your fingers together, cracking the joints. “I was hungry, and I completely forgot you said it... I think I was nearly asleep when you told me to wait for Mammon. I didn’t intend to ignore you.” 

“I won’t hold it against you.”

That's… unexpected. You look up to meet his eyes, but he can’t hold your gaze for more than a moment before tilting his head, glancing away. 

“I… understand if you don’t wish to return, but we’ll have to break the news to my brothers carefully.” A heaviness in the air, like poorly masked despair. 

All this time, he thought…? “Lucifer, I’m not leaving. Well—I am, tonight, but I’m not moving out. I’m only staying at the castle a couple days, until Barbatos is well.”

“Oh.” His brows arch. “I see. That’s good. I mean to say, I am glad that you won’t be leaving; it saves me the trouble of consoling my brothers.” But he’s smiling; you both know what he really means. 

Your heart is lighter, but—“I still need to apologize to them.”

A nod. “Before I summon them… how was Barbatos when you saw him?”

“He was sleeping, but he woke briefly to talk with me; he said he would need to sleep for four more days.”

“And you’ll be staying at the castle during that time?”

“Yes.”

“With him?” 

His eyes are scarlet, blood-red, black, and your throat sticks. “More or less.” 

Lucifer holds your gaze for a moment. Two. Three. He rises from his seat by the fire. “You know this is… highly unusual.”

“Yes.” 

He stops, rests his hand on the back of the chaise, halfway to the door, brows pinched thoughtfully. “Did Barbatos say anything else?” 

You are free to touch me.  If you would stay for a while, until I sleep again, I would consider it a reciprocal gesture. I’m glad now that I never looked; it’s much better as a surprise. The brothers are going to be exceptionally envious. You may join me, if you wish. Ineffectively adjust your cuff-less sleeves. “A few things… why?”

“Did he say why he did it?” 

There’s only one thing Lucifer could be talking about. “No, but I thanked him.”

He nods, drums his fingers on the polished wood, and turns away. 

“But—” There is something that has been nagging at your mind. Lucifer returns his attention to you. “—Lord Diavolo did suggest… even though Barbatos was certainly acting in the Exchange Program’s interests… that he didn’t have to do things the way he did. What does that mean?”

He opens his mouth. Shuts it. “That is a question for Barbatos himself.” And he closes the distance to the door. 

----

“Hey.” Beelzebub hovers awkwardly in your doorway, so you pause after tucking another set of socks into the duffel bag Leviathan had graciously loaned you (TSL-themed, with the pattern from Henry’s armor on it; he’d stuttered that he had another in pristine condition anyway, so there was no reason for you not to borrow it).   

“You can come in, Beel.” 

There’s a nervous churn in your stomach that most definitely isn’t yours; you need to learn how to filter these things out when you don’t need them sooner rather than later. Some of the others appear to be able to shield their feelings, but Beelzebub…

He keeps looking at the table and the books you've placed there, at the bed where your clothes are laid out. After a moment, he settles on staring at the floor. "I wish you wouldn't go." 

Your heart softens. "Beel… it's only for a few days."

"I know." He tucks his hands against his chest, fingers hugging one wrist. When you gently nudge his elbow, he meets your eyes. "I'm sorry."

But… he didn't do anything wrong. "For what?"

"Belphie." He looks at the floor again. "I should've known. I wish… I wish I'd pressed Lucifer harder about getting to talk to him or—I should've known. He's my brother. And now you're leaving because—" He swallows. "...I'm sorry." 

“I’m not leaving forever.” There's a lump in your throat. "Beel… it's not your fault. It's not your fault you didn't know where Belphegor was, that you trusted Lucifer, and certainly not… not what Belphegor did." 

“I’m trying to talk to him.” He draws a deep breath through his nose. “I wish I could say I didn’t get it. Why he did it.”

A sharp pain in your chest. “Beel, you’d never—”

But he shakes his head, slowly. “Belphie doesn’t know you. He doesn’t care. It’s just like when you first came here… I didn’t care, either. Nobody did. You’re just—just a thing that reminds him of…” A deep crease settles between his brows, around the corners of his mouth. “Of what we lost. Of when Lilith died. And he hates it. And—I’m sorry.” 

You look at the floor, and pull a chair out from the table, sit heavily in it, stomach in knots that don’t belong to you. “Please don't keep apologizing.” Your head is starting to hurt. “I—” Sigh. Fold your hands together tightly. “I can’t pretend I know what it feels like. But… there is a difference between you and your brother: you gave me a chance. Belphegor had the opportunity to get to know me a little; I visited him. But I suppose… it just wasn’t enough. He doesn’t want to care, Beel, but you gave me a chance.” There’s a slight tremble in your fingers, so you twine them further together. “And… yes; Belphegor and I will have to talk eventually if I’m going to be here—and I do want to be here. But… not today.”

Slowly, he nods. “Okay. ...okay.” He reaches for the other chair, hesitates—but you nod, and he folds himself into it. 

You try giving him a small smile, but judging by the half-grimace he returns, it wasn’t a particularly successful effort. In the silence that follows, you take turns staring at the dark wood of the table, at the neatly stacked textbooks. Devildom History on the bottom. Introduction to Infernal next, with the supplemental workbook, Runes, Sigils, and Script. On top, a thin volume of Hex and Mutability: the Theoretical Groundwork.   

“It hurt so much.” 

There’s such a pain in your chest that it takes your breath away, and your hand finds his arm, grips it tightly over the table. 

Beelzebub doesn’t look up, hair shadowing his face. “I haven’t told Belphie yet. He’s not ready. But it—it hurt so much when you called me. He hurt you. You were going to die.” His large hand covers yours, squeezing over his arm, a pressure you can latch onto. “I know why you were angry at him today, but I still couldn’t let you…” Finally, he meets your eyes, gaze burning, shining with unshed tears. “I don’t want anyone else to hurt.” 

Damn it. You rest your other hand on top of Beel’s. Swallow the dampness in your throat, threatening your eyes. “I don’t, either. But—” A single tear that isn’t yours, lingering on your skin. “I can’t stay right now.” 

He nods, slowly. “You’re worried about Barbatos.”

Oh. 

“I… am, yes.” 

Beelzebub squeezes your hand one more time, and lets it return to your lap. 

“How do you know that?” Your unspoken communication isn’t going both directions when you don’t mean to, is it?

“You’re not going to Purgatory Hall.” He shrugs. “And before everything, he was giving you lots of sweets. I know, because you shared, and you’d go all pink when I asked how you got them, just like you are now.” He smiles—but then his stomach makes a terrible gurgle. “Oh, no… now I’m hungry.” 

He’s right, but you’re smiling now, too. “Go get something to eat, and if you want… you can help me pack up. I might even have a sweet stashed away, though it’ll be a little old, I suppo—”

“You do. I can smell it.” 

The giggle that draws is stuttering, but genuine. “Go get your snack, Beel.”

----

Arbianock absolutely insisted upon carrying the duffel bag to your temporary quarters, but you managed to hold on to your backpack. The room—can it be simply called a room, with arching windows and gossamer curtains?—to which she leads you is easily twice the size of your bedroom at the House of Lamentation, with your own bathroom and… is that door open to a sitting room?

“This is extremely generous,” you manage, as the butler sets your borrowed bag on a chest at the foot of a king-sized, sleigh bed done in soft, dove grey and jewel tones of green and blue.

But she doesn’t crack even the slightest smile, her face resting in pleasant neutrality. “Lord Diavolo respects you a great deal, and he has no other guests.” Immediately, she sets about sorting your clothes into an elaborate chestnut dresser with scrolling embellishments along its edges, not hearing a single word of your protest. “And though you refused to stay with Master Barbatos, we would not consider giving you anything less than quarters of equal status.” 

There goes the thought of possibly insisting that you don’t need such an extravagant set of rooms for three days. But the ceiling is frescoed. Frescoed! Your head is hurting again. You’re quite sure you weren’t even this stressed the first time someone tried to kill you. 

The first time. 

Oh, dear. 

“I’ve also taken the liberty of drawing you a bath; I’m sure you’re ready to retire.” 

Arbianock definitely hasn’t left your side since you arrived... “How did you know when I would arrive and that I’d be staying in this room rather than with Barbatos as Lord Diavolo expected?”

“I had prepared two baths, just to be sure, perhaps an hour ago.” 

“And they don’t get cold?” You really shouldn’t be surprised by magic bathtubs in the castle, but...

This time, she does let her mouth relax into the slightest smirk, lavender eyes glinting. “They wouldn’t dare.” 

The tea won’t get cold if it knows what’s good for it. Clearly, Barbatos taught her everything she knows. You nod, slowly, and set your backpack beside the chest at the foot of the bed, and close your eyes. “Thank you.” 

“Would you like me to assist you?”

“In the bath?”

“Yes.” 

“No, thank you—that’s…” You fold your hands together and meet her eyes. “You’ve helped me a great deal; thank you. I’ll just bathe and get some sleep.” 

She bows, giving you a full view of the ring of braids woven amongst the mushrooms at the crown of her head, orange and brown and purple and red-speckled. “There is a selection of soaps and salts at the edge of the tub, and should you require assistance, there is a bell within reach; if you require anything in the night, even if it’s simply a cup of tea, do ring. You are quite safe, but wandering about the castle at night, alone, is not advisable.” 

“Thank you, Arbianock, for everything. I’ll call if I need something.” You won’t. But not because her offer doesn’t seem genuine. 

“Good night, Ser.” 

“You really don’t need to—” 

But she’s gone, the door clicking softly shut behind her. 

You sigh. The carpet beneath your feet is cream and turquoise and you really feel like you shouldn’t be standing on it with shoes. A fire already flickering merrily in a hearth that opens into the sitting room means it isn’t too cold to strip and make your way to the bath without further thought, though you do tuck your boots and dirty clothes into the empty duffel bag that Arbianock stored in the large chest. 

The bathroom is… just as extravagant as the bedroom. The bathtub—plenty large enough to seat twelve—is set into the floor below another fireplace, this one shielded with fanciful wire mesh that allows light to play through a delicate depiction of climbing roses. The tub itself is marble, with several perches below the water’s surface, and, as promised, various soaps, salts, and other products sit lined on a marble shelf within easy reach. Dark tiles cross the floor, perhaps basalt, and the walls are the same cream-colored plaster as the bedroom, accented with subtle reliefs in the shape of arches, painted with bronze. 

You try to ignore the opulence as you slip into the water, bypassing the salts and soaps… deciding what to add to the bath would be entirely too much effort. Water envelops your body, almost too hot to be comfortable; carefully, you settle on a perch that leaves you submerged to your neck, and close your eyes. 

The air smells faintly spicy—of the fire above which casts dancing shadows behind your eyelids—and sweet—of subtle, floral notes probably drifting from the shelf of soap and salt. There’s… lilac in it, and roses, like Asmodeus’ perfumed handkerchief. 

All of them forgave you, quickly, as Diavolo had predicted, but your cheeks still burn with shame: it should never have happened. You must hold yourself to a higher standard; you always have, always must. You can’t afford to lose your temper. The damage you do is greater than whatever petty relief you might feel from lashing out. 

Take a slow, deep breath, and release it amid the heavy steam. 

Look, nobody’s mad at ya for bein’ angry, you know? 

We’re all angry.

And we told ya, you’re family now. That didn’t change. 

An ache in your chest. They were so kind, more forgiving than most humans. And you left. And all because...

Plunge beneath the surface. The gentle, muffled sound of space folds over your ears, the slow hum of water drowning the phantom sensation of nerves alight with pain, of limbs that won’t move, of slicing breaths. Stay, enveloped in the warmth until your lungs begin to burn instead, and push yourself upright, where the air strikes your skin, pleasantly cool. 

It’s not fair. The burn along the base of your spine blends with the bath. 

You’re envious of… of what, all the things that could have been? 

Everything had been going so well! Belphegor would have been free, the bond of the seven brothers strengthened after learning the truth about Lilith, the House of Lamentation pieced back together... and you’d return to Barbatos, waiting for you on the other side of the door, relieved, perfectly well, not too exhausted to lift his head, nor—

It’s not fair. You were happy. You were so, so happy before Belphegor left the attic, before you admitted what you’d done, just attending classes and waking up to breakfast with your friends, going into town with Mammon and Asmo, trading books with Satan, settling in for a TSL marathon with Levi, making midnight kitchen runs with Beel, playing chess with Lucifer and Diavolo. Looking forward to stealing a glance in the hallway from Barbatos before tea, where you could savor his smile, to continue sitting slowly closer and closer together each week—

Is it such a sin—is it such a sin to just be happy? To be simple and happy for just a little while? Must it go awry? Must it be complicated? Must you be punished? Must you die for it?

It’s not fair. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.

Your eyes are hot, wet, spilling tears in that easy, warm way that they do while you’re bathing, blending with the damp already on your cheeks until they’re so diluted you can’t tell your tears from the bathwater. And then you’re coughing, then choking out racking sobs that echo sharp, too sharp, off the stone and marble and plaster. Clap your hands over your mouth, but it doesn’t stop the shake of your shoulders, the uncontrolled rock of your body in the water.

----

“...Ambrose?”

“Hm?” You glance up from the bone-china cup clasped between your fingers.

“You seem distracted.” Simeon’s brow creases. “And you look very tired; is everything all right?” 

“Yes! I’m sorry.” Take another sip; it tastes like mint and something floral, with the bright flavor that accompanies most teas from the Celestial Realm which would, ordinarily, feel energizing. “I just… didn’t sleep very well last night. I apologize.” Actually, you’re not sure you slept at all in your plush, borrowed bed, visions of that day flickering through your mind, tangled up amongst yesterday’s guilt and turmoil. 

“You don’t need to apologize for that. I can make a more restorative tea, if it’ll help, but it’s no replacement for real sleep.” 

Smile. “No, thank you, that’s all right; I’m enjoying this one… I’ll just try to go to bed earlier tonight.” It seems you’re nothing but a disaster lately. “You’ve done quite enough to help me recently—I’m supposed to be here thanking you.” 

“And I already told you that you don’t need to thank me.” The lamps in his room imitate the sun, and when he shakes his head, they light on his dark hair, glowing radiantly. “Do you really think I wouldn’t help you, knowing that I have the ability to do it?” 

Your cheeks heat. “No.” 

“Then don’t fret.” He chuckles lightly, musically. “I only did what you’d do if the roles were reversed. It was the right thing.” 

“I—I’m glad you think so highly of me.” Take another drink of your tea, already growing cold. “Are you sure you’re all right? Lucifer mentioned that you were exhausted afterward, too.” 

“Of course; I’m perfectly fine now. You were… well—there was quite a lot of damage. The Belphegor I knew...” He purses his lips, a shadow falling over his face. “The Belphegor I knew would never have done such a thing, and certainly not to a human.” He drinks from his own cup, frowns into it. “But even so, I didn’t have to do quite as much work as Barbatos did, and the healing process took more out of you than it did of me.”  

“When you say ‘not to a human’, you mean because he loved them so much?” 

“Yes... I suppose his brothers already told you about that.”

“They did but it’s… somewhat difficult to imagine now. I can only assume he placed the blame on humanity because it was the only target he could reach, after…” Your fingers tighten in your lap. “Even so—doesn’t he hate the angels that sided against his brothers?” His inner iris seems to contract, blues and greens swirling tempestuously. “I—I’m sorry; I wouldn’t wish it on you. I know you cared very much about Lucifer before, and it couldn’t have been—”

Simeon smiles, waving his hand, but the lines around his eyes are terse, tense. “Don’t worry. I’m not offended. It is rather strange to think he doesn’t, but I suspect he hasn’t completely forgiven us, even if he does seem to hate humanity more than heaven.”

“Even so, it wasn’t very considerate of me.”

“Things have been very hard for you,” he says firmly, a definite argument against your apology. “None of this is your fault, and it’s not fair that you were drawn into our ancient business.” The room is suddenly a little brighter, you think, a little warmer, like you caught a bit of sunlight on your skin. “Give yourself more credit,” he murmurs, warmly, and oh, no, you’re going to cry again. 

“Ambrose!” 

You don’t get the chance as a solid weight comes careening into the back of your chair, noisily sloshing the tea in your cup.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming over!” 

Swallow over the remaining lump in your throat. “Sorry, Luke. I didn’t know you wouldn’t be here, and when Simeon said you’d be home soon, I thought it would be a good surprise.”

The angel slides around your chair and throws his arms about your neck, smooshing your head against his chest, where the brooch that holds his necktie in place sticks painfully into your cheek, but… the comfort radiating from the rest of his little being is well worth that small ache. “I’m so happy you’re okay!” 

Simeon, thankfully, takes your tea so that you can return the embrace. “And I’m happy to see you.” Hugs from Luke feel just like seeing a rainbow as it stretches through the sky on a summer afternoon, the breeze cool, and the air, gold. 

“I wanted to see you right away, but they said you still needed rest and then you wanted to see Barbatos, and is Barbatos okay? They wouldn’t let me see him, either! They told me he’s just resting, but is he really okay?” 

You’re not going to tease him just now about worrying after the well-being of a demon but you do smile into his jacket when he refuses to release you, cheek pressed against the top of your head. “He’s really okay, Luke; I talked to him for a few minutes yesterday and he said he just needed to sleep for a few more days. Three days, after this one.” 

“But are you sure he wasn’t pretending to be okay? He’s really good at not letting people know how he feels. And Simeon said he had to be in his angelic form to heal you! Celestial magic is bad for demons. Divine Radiance like he has—”

Luke must feel you stiffen, because his hands move to your shoulders, pushing you back to look at your face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

But you look at Simeon, whose gloved hand rubs the top of his shoulder. “What is he talking about, Simeon? I remember that you said you had to change forms that night, but… it was physically painful for Barbatos?” 

Damn it; you should have put it together. He had flinched back from the golden light, just before—

“I’m sorry, I… didn’t realize you wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t necessary, but in order to utilize my full power, I had to shift to my angelic form, which… I’ve never used here, not at any of the parties when everyone else is in their demonic form, because our aura can be painful to look at. When using magic the way I was that night, I… we… have this Radiance that can pain or injure creatures from this realm. It’s defensive and involuntary. Even humans find it difficult to look upon an angel; they find themselves slow or unable to move, discover their wicked thoughts are confused and muddled, and… some go mad.”

You’re an idiot.

“He couldn’t even lift his head,” you mumble. It’s probably a miracle he could move at all yesterday, let alone… “Does Diavolo know about this?” 

“Yes, of course; I disclosed everything.” 

Which means Diavolo lied.

“And he’s fine, right?” Luke demands.

You’re so sick of being lied to. 

“If Barbatos said he’ll be up and about in three days, then yes. There’s no reason not to take his word.” Simeon’s brows draw in a troubled curve. “But, Ambrose…” His eye is drawn to the troubled tremor of your knee, bouncing up and down; for how long, you don’t know. “Maybe you should rest.” 

Force yourself to sit still. You thought you’d gotten over that habit. “Simeon, I’ve already slept for three—”

Your stomach drops. 

“Ambrose…” Simeon’s voice lilts, slow.

Luke squeezes your hand. “Hey, it’s okay. Simeon is right; maybe—”

“I was asleep for three days.” Try to wet your lips, but your mouth is dry. “Barbatos said four more, which means he’ll have been out for a week.”

“Yes…”

“A week! One of the most powerful beings in the Realms.” There’s an ache starting up behind your eyes, but this is important. “I was mostly dead but I—”

Three soft taps on the open door. “Excuse me.” You turn to see Solomon hovering there, smiling in the most obtusely friendly fashion possible, shrugging out of his RAD jacket. “Is everything all right? It’s nice to see you up and about, Ambrose.” 

You’ve never liked the feel of his words, insubstantial as smoke, and you find it grates on your already fraying nerves, despite the warmth Luke emits, half perched on the arm of your chair. “Thank you… it’s nice to be up.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem pretty upset.” 

“I—”

“About Barbatos, I presume?” His coat hangs in the crook of his arm, but he still curls a hand under his chin. 

Luke’s brow wrinkles. “How did you know that?”

“It’s rude to eavesdrop, you know,” says Simeon mildly. 

But Solomon chuckles, a soft little hiccup of laughter. “I didn’t have to… if someone raises their voice, I don’t think that really counts. Did I hear it right? Barbatos won’t be rejoining us for a week?” 

You’d like to lie. “He said he’ll be up in three days.”

“Ahh, which makes a week, total.” He hums. “And you feel… guilty, I imagine?” 

You feel cold. Don’t even open your mouth to reply.

“Well, you shouldn’t!” Solomon smiles brightly. “Barbatos resolved the situation in the way he saw fit. It’s not the play I would have made, but it wasn’t my decision. Now, I still haven’t actually heard it from him; did he happen to tell you?” 

“Tell me what?” 

“Oh.” With a frown, he shakes out his jacket, resituates it over his elbow before folding his arms. “Well, I was hoping he explained what he was thinking. It was an unnecessarily risky maneuver, you know?”

“No, Solomon, I don’t know.” You can feel the tension creeping into your voice. You know it came off as more than a little irritable but, quite frankly, things are perplexing enough at the moment without a blasted sorcerer being cryptic on purpose.

He blinks. “Oh. Well, let’s start with… what do you know about Barbatos’ powers?”

Teachable moment, your mind supplies, and you huff a shallow sigh. “He can see both the past and future—as well as what might be and what could have been. Apparently, he can also stop the flow of Time temporarily, and manipulate how individuals experience Time to some degree. He can also create doors to other times and places.”

“Very good. That’s all?”

As though that isn’t enough power?

“That’s all I know.”

“Hm. I suppose I ought to let Barbatos handle telling you the rest.” His brow creases, mouth curving in a smile that feels… genuinely apologetic. “But you should know that he doesn’t do things on a whim. I don’t know why, but Barbatos gave you a gift, so don’t disrespect it with guilt or regret.”

A gift. 

“What kind of gift?” Luke’s nose is wrinkled. “Life? Or is this like… a metaphor?”

He was giving you lots of sweets. 

Solomon tilts his head. “Not a metaphor, no, but ‘life’ is certainly one way to put it.” 

You risked your life for a few demons, Lucifer is saying in the back of your mind, as he had in the living room, in front of the fireplace. To a demon, even risking your well-being is tantamount to—

The room is suddenly too bright, the world tilting on its axis. 

“You know, Simeon, I think… maybe I do need to get some rest.”

----

Barbatos’ room is just as it was yesterday, with the addition of a covered plate, a note in neat script from Arbianock, identifying the platter as lunch whenever you’re ready to eat it, and that same, silver bell weighing down the paper’s closing remark to “call for anything you require.” But you aren’t hungry, so you bypass the table for the armchair beside his bed, where Barbatos rests in precisely the same position he had before, moved not an inch. 

This has developed rather quickly, and out of order, from a demon’s perspective.

Yes, now that you understand, you’d say it rather has. 

“I suppose you must have thought I knew what it meant,” you say softly, into the quiet of the room. Green-orange afternoon daylight filters through the many-paned windows, casting his fair skin in a gentle, bronze-silver glow. “Or were you being subtle and cryptic on purpose?” His hand remains outstretched on the maroon comforter, where you’d so carefully let him go yesterday. You hesitate only half a moment before twining your fingers together again. After all... you do, you suppose, still have permission. “I know you enjoy a playful tête-à-tête, but something more straightforward wouldn’t have gone amiss. Now I have to wait three days to ask you a whole stream of questions.” 

Trace your thumb over his knuckles, marvel at the cool, silk-softness of his skin.

“What made you decide? That’s what they all want to know. Diavolo, Solomon… even Lucifer. He didn’t say it, but I think he knew. Solomon is actually the reason I put it together, as much as I find him… untrustworthy. I won’t say unpleasant; he’s polite enough, even fun sometimes, especially with Asmodeus, but—as you said, he’s one to watch for. And yet, he spoke directly enough for me to solve this… because he’s curious? Or is it because he respects you? You’re both so silent about your pact, and I understand it’s no one’s business, but—” You pillow your other arm, and rest your head, fingers lazily laced with his. “It’s silly, and rude, I know, but it... makes me jealous. That pact. The secrecy. Neither of you owe me that knowledge, yet, all the same…” Huff a shallow sigh. “I was refusing to think about it, but now I know why.” Let your eyes drift closed a moment. Just for a moment. “I should be telling you all this when you’re awake. Well, maybe not the last bit. You don’t owe me that.”

The feel of his skin on yours is a marvel, warmed by your touch. 

“But I want to tell you—I want to say… even though I still have to return home—“ The words stick in your throat, and you squeeze his fingers lightly. “I’d like you to know, even if you already do.”

----

“You know, lying in the bed is generally more comfortable.” 

Sharp inhale. “Wasn’ ‘nvited.” 

“I don’t know… you seemed quite comfortable yesterday.” There’s a teasing smile in Diavolo’s voice.

You’re not even properly awake and you can feel your cheeks burning as you struggle to an upright position, hissing as several of your vertebrae pop, zipping up your spine like a xylophone. “Wasn’t invited today.”

That seems to give him pause as you carefully slide your hand out of Barbatos’. 

“You don’t have a… standing invitation?” 

Scrub at your face with your sleeve, blinking blearily. “Lord Diavolo—”

“Diavolo, please.”

“Diavolo, yesterday was the first time I’ve ever shared the same bed with him.” 

“Oh.” He glances away, brow furrowed. “Then… you mean you haven’t—”

You meet his eyes, mildly perturbed, an ache settling in your shoulders. “Certainly not.” 

“Oh.” He frowns, tilts his head, golden gaze cast somewhere in the distance. Folds his arms across his chest, nods a bit, side to side. “I see.” 

You’re not sure that he does, and you wait, expectantly. 

“Well—I do understand Barbatos doesn’t have much interest, but I would have thought a partner—a human partner, especially—would bring their own appetites to the table.”

You feel like you know where this is going, and you don’t like it. “...why a human partner?”

“Humans are very driven to reproduce. Or… have I understood that wrong? Demons are very emotional, and humans are similar, but they’re driven by corporeal need as well as passion.” You can see the moment he hears what he just said, golden eyes widening. “Of course, you are a very controlled individual! I don’t mean to imply that humans are driven only by need, but, well, maybe I’ve just been listening too much to Asmodeus’ escapades. Please excuse me. I don’t mean to offend.” 

You honestly had never thought about it, with Barbatos. Your pact with the Avatar of Lust has yet to ever bother you with even the smallest twinge of warning; Asmodeus has complained many times that it’s absolutely boring. The closest you’ve ever come is idly thinking, every once in a while, what it might be like to kiss the faithful steward, and your pacts have decided to mark that train of thought, when it gets out of hand, as Greed. 

And Diavolo said Barbatos hasn’t much interest, either. It’s a pleasant thought. 

“I’m not offended… many, maybe even most humans are compelled by what, erm, Asmodeus might call carnal passions but they’re certainly not entirely driven by them, and some just don’t feel them at all, or very rarely.” You fold your arms over your chest, and try to get the rest out before the surrealism of this conversation can get the best of you. “I don’t have all that much interest in it myself. Not that I couldn’t… I just don’t feel the need.” 

“Oh.” He settles back into deep thought for a moment, then brightens. “So, you’re like Barbatos, then!” 

You can’t believe you’re having this conversation with the prince in the unconscious presence of your—your something with whom you haven’t even had this discussion yet!  

“We haven’t talked about it.” 

Diavolo’s face scrunches, and he ruffles the hair on the back of his head with a hum. “This is… very strange.”

“I quite agree.” 

“I hope I haven’t overstepped any boundaries, Ambrose, it’s just—” His eyes settle on Barbatos, still at rest. “You make him so happy. Ever since you started spending time here, he’s happier than I’ve seen him in… well, I can’t remember when. It’s not that he’s been unhappy these last millenia—no, he’s usually quite content, but… that isn’t the same thing.” His golden gaze shifts to you. ”Do you know what I mean?” 

Your heart stutters. I’m so happy here, you’d told Barbatos one night. It isn’t that you were never happy at home, that you don’t have happy moments, but before coming here, when was the last time you woke up each morning, cheerful, ready and wanting to see what the day will bring? The last time you sat down and felt the bright, gentle glow of happiness—not contentment, not peaceful acceptance, not calm as you rise to carry out your responsibilities, but genuine happiness? 

And to think… to think you may have been able to give Barbatos this brilliant, selfsame simple feeling…?

“Yes… yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

----

After midnight, the fresco on the ceiling begins to make sense. 

You've stared at it off and on for hours, last night and again tonight when it became clear that your mind wasn't going to shut itself off long enough to rest. The scene, for a while, seemed incomprehensible, as though you lacked the correct context to interpret the dark figures. If it had depicted a story similar to those in the human world, you could draw on knowledge of mythology or archetypal characters to find a narrative about kings and gods, or perhaps a legend about soldiers and lovers. But the painted shapes refused to yield any familiar symbolism. 

But now, one overlooked wreath of greenery gives you something. The longer you stare, the more certain you become that the white, trifold blossoms topping a tangle of spidery tendrils are a plant you've seen depicted before—one carved into a cabinet door in the castle’s tea room. And now that you're looking for it… the strange flower appears in every segment of the ceiling, its vine-like roots or leaves weaving an interconnected web. Perhaps… it shows the order in which the images should be read? 

Roll over, and fetch your DDD from where it sits, charging in the silvery moonlight. With a steady hand, you zoom in on the plant above your head—the one that seems to crown a vaguely humanoid figure, its face veiled—and snap a picture. You send it to Satan, with the accompanying message: “What flower is this?” 

The response is almost immediate: 

Satan: Shouldn’t you be asleep? 

You: I’m an adult who took a nap this afternoon.

Satan: You’re a human who had a harrowing experience and, according to every book I’ve consulted on the subject, needs rest in order to remain functional. 

You huff. He isn’t wrong, per se, but you’re plenty old enough to know when your sleep schedule has gotten out of hand. Besides, you’ll be back to a normal routine in… two more days.

You: Should I ask someone else my question?

Satan: No.

Satan: It’s a Bloodtide Laris. Culturally significant for demons, as I’m sure you guessed. 

You: Does it have any special symbolism, particularly in storytelling or historical record?

Satan: What exactly are you looking at?

You: There’s a fresco on the ceiling in this guest room. Can you tell me what it means?

Satan: Show me. 

You turn on the lamp with a touch of your hand this time, so you can get a proper series of pictures, starting above your bed and moving to each corner of the room, bare feet padding on plush carpet. You send them one at a time, and settle back into bed. The air has gotten a little chilly since you let the fire go out a couple hours ago.

Your DDD pings.

Satan: It isn’t a pleasant story.

You: That doesn’t change my request.

Indeed, it only increases your curiosity, sparks a need to know, fluttering like butterflies.

Satan: You’ll get into a lot of trouble one day.

You: Already done.

Satan: ...yes. Sorry.

Satan: But I see it didn’t make you any more cautious. 

You’re ready to ask again when the ellipsis appears to let you know he’s typing. So, you try to wait patiently, eyes roving over the ceiling again, the veiled figures, the painstakingly detailed trees and mountain-sides. 

Satan: It’s a story about a powerful artefact forged in a shaky alliance between human and demon. The first section, there, with two Bloodtide Laris shows its creation—the Demon King from that time is present, crowned with the flower and veiled in the presence of the human, who made a pact for knowledge and the power to enchant the blade. The dagger is between them, but it probably doesn’t look like one to you. It’s represented by the second Laris with a star nestled in its roots. 

You: That’s a strange way to depict a knife.

Satan: The important thing about the knife isn’t the blade—it’s the enchantment. The Bloodtide Laris grasps a star—a popular symbol for the soul—in its carnivorous root system.

You select an appropriately alarmed demoji.

You: Maybe you could tell me more about the flower before we continue?

Satan: Right. 

Satan: It was given the name “Bloodtide” because it first grew on the banks of the Styx, which were always awash with the blood of the damned. 

You: I don’t remember reading that in the Inferno.

Satan: Dante was never physically here.

You: I’ll ask about that at a later time, I suppose.

Satan: The flowers drank the blood and purified the river. They keep it clean to this day, drinking the blood of humans and demons alike, not discriminating. An early king ordered the collection of some of the flowers for study and found that they will break down any flesh given to them. They say he even stole the spilled blood of an angel from battle and the flower drank it up just the same.

You: That’s… eerie, but the flowers don’t go searching for blood. They just eat what’s available, like other plants? Absorbing nutrients from the soil.

Satan: Indeed, though some reports have been made that people who settle among the flowers or go wading in the Styx never return. 

You: And they started being associated with the royal line because of their bloody inclinations?

Satan: Initially, yes. But Diavolo started a campaign some time ago to change people’s perception of the flower. He wants to be associated with its purifying properties. As you said, the flowers aren’t weapons or murderers; they’re a necessary part of our ecosystem. They’re white, not blood-red. He’s had limited success changing the minds of the old nobility, but younger demons are more receptive. Either way, the Bloodtide Laris is used less and less in heraldry. 

Satan: So, to understand why the blade is depicted with a carnivorous flower, you have to know that the blade was designed to be so sharp that its edge would rend a soul. It drinks the essence and power of whomever it kills. Legend says that it can destroy any being—human, demon, or even angel.

You’re almost afraid to ask.

You: Is it real?

Satan: Yes, and it is the single most dangerous weapon known to the three realms. And yet, why a human and demon would collaborate to create such a thing has been lost.

Satan: Fortunately, the dagger never saw battle on a celestial scale. The Demon King was deposed due to infighting in the Devildom, and in the fourth picture, you can see a sorcerer trick the dagger out of the first human’s possession… but not before they use it to slaughter countless of their own kind. 

The roots of the flower, indeed, spread far across the scene, its web holding a veritable constellation of souls. 

Satan: Time passes and the sorcerer, with nowhere to turn, his enemies seeking the dagger’s power, summons a demon—the effort almost killing him. The demon agrees to a pact and the dagger is returned to the Devildom, where, in the last scene, it rests, hidden, under the demon’s guard. A pact between demon and human created the blade, but another sealed it away. 

You: Is the demon anyone we know?

Satan: Quite probably. There are few demons powerful enough to secret away such an artefact and keep it hidden. But the affiliated symbols of this demon aren’t known to me. 

You: Thank you, Satan.

Satan: You’re quite welcome. But now you should get some rest.

You: You, too. I kept you up past the midnight reading hour.

Satan: Anyone else and I’d have their head.

You: I know. Thank you… I’ll owe you a coffee. 

Satan: A double espresso seems fair. 

A winking demoji arrives.

Satan: Good night, Ambrose. 

But you don’t go to sleep. Instead, you spend some indefinable amount of time staring at the ceiling as the moonlight creeps further and further down your comforter. Just below the first painted scene is the last, joining up the story like a great cycle, beginning to end to beginning. The dagger, represented as before with a Bloodtide Laris, a star ensnared in its roots, is shrouded by dark mist in some forgotten place of stone and water. The artist took great pains to represent minute, green refractions of light and shadow amongst the blue waters flowing up toward what you assume is the ceiling of the cavern, each brushstroke a meditation on a thousand impeccable textures of stone and liquid. 

Off to the side, almost removed from his own scene, ready to fade into the background, stands the demon, gesturing with clawed fingers to seal the dagger away. His four-fold gossamer wings are spread wide, and unlike the Demon King, his features are hidden only because he does not face the viewer. Indeed—nowhere does he appear that his wings are not in view, and nowhere is his face revealed. And, while he appears before the sorcerer robed in bronze and black, girded with an emerald sash, he seems to wear nothing at all in the final scene. 

Yet… the demon never registered as naked in your mind, perhaps because he doesn’t appear naked in the fashion that a human would represent himself. There is, instead, a sense of formlessness to the body through some method of painting that, you believe, must be achieved by magic. The longer you stare, the less the blended shapes and fine brushstrokes seem inclined to sort themselves into a recognizable picture. The demon is aquatic, you think, and yet, human-shaped—but somehow as insectoid as his wings, which are the only features that stay stable, glimmering in the moonlight. But, perhaps… perhaps you see something death-like, too, bones stripped bare of flesh, obsidian and white. Then the feeling is gone again, and the figure is simply an inconstant wisp of paint, no more substantial than smoke. 

There’s something familiar about it that pulls at your gut.

And then, by morning, it has retreated to the back of your mind, where all lost things go, with only the faded imprint of realization, like a dream forgotten upon waking.

----

When you touch Barbatos’ hand, it is pleasantly cool. His hair falls on the pillow in a gentle wave, and his chest rises and falls slowly. The mid-morning’s golden-green light is good to him, highlighting the planes of his face, the soft slope of his nose, the curve of pale lips, slightly parted. He looks gentle, harmless.

But soft cheeks and a tepid smile hide teeth like a nightmare from the ocean’s crushing depths... and that’s why you must decide what to do with Belphegor. Now. Before Barbatos wakes and realizes you’ve chosen to continue living in the House with your would-be murderer. Based on what he would have done to Namurta…

You can’t be sure he’ll listen to you again, and you’re not sure it would be fair to dissuade him from vengeance without a plan of your own.

“Tea?”

You flinch, and Arbianock catches the silver bell, folds it in a long-fingered hand as it leaps from the side-table. “Please excuse me. I knocked, but you did not answer.”

“I’m sorry; I was just… startled. Lost in thought.”

She hums, a creaking sound like branches disturbed by the wind, and replaces the bell. “Shall I serve tea here or in the drawing room?”

You don’t want to leave. “Here, please; thank you.” 

Arbianock bows slightly and moves back to the table beneath the window, and with a brisk and efficient pace, begins setting one place for you from the cart near the door. The teaset is another you haven’t seen before, with a geometric motif, triangles painted in thick, broad strokes and delicate, spidery lines. The mouth of the teacup and the spout of the pot have a sort of crimped effect that plays into the angular pattern painted across the porcelain. 

“My lord has sent you some Human Realm tea this afternoon,” she says, sparing only the barest glance, pupils flashing just slightly as the light from the window falls through the lens, bright white and orange, not unlike a wild cat or bear. “He requested a blend to keep your energy up for the day, and fruit paired with the sandwiches and pastries—as he has been reading that humans require a carefully balanced diet to function well.” 

You think you can feel the beginnings of a tension headache starting at the base of your skull. “Why?”

“He is concerned that you aren’t sleeping.” Her tone is flat and frank, a startling enough change from the formal and measured pace you’ve become accustomed to that you blink dumbly for a moment. 

A bowl of diced fruit is set, all from the Devildom, and the demoness removes the cover from an artfully arranged triple tier of sandwiches and small, fluffy cakes. Your stomach needles you, like it’s been ignored for too long.

“I slept last night.” 

“Which implies you didn’t sleep every night during your stay.” 

Arbianock stands back from the table expectantly as you sit with your mouth slightly agape, which isn’t helping your case at all. She holds your stare levelly until you figure out that you’re meant to get up and take your seat at the table so she can serve.

That tension headache is full-blown now. 

“It’ll work itself out,” you mumble as you sit, and the demoness sets briskly to work. “But I’ll have to thank him; I appreciate the thought.” 

Tea whispers in your cup and the hearty, warm scent of it ought to have your shoulders relaxing but your mind is overfull. 

“Arbianock… may I ask you a question?” 

She sets the teapot aside, serves a small sandwich from the tiered dish onto your plate. “You will be given whatever you ask.” With a silver spoon, she adds a small serving of fruit alongside the triangular sandwich. 

You’re not sure how to react to that. “Well… if you’re not comfortable with my questions, you don’t have to answer them.” 

Her amethyst eyes shift to glance at you sidelong, but she says nothing, only replaces the spoon and stands at attention, folding her hands over her soft waist. She doesn’t wear a cumberbund as Barbatos does for his uniform, but a strange, suede apron a little darker in tone than her skin. Her thumb brushes over one of its pockets. 

You stop staring and busy yourself with a three-tined fork and select a piece of lavafruit, juicy and refreshing despite the name. It’s a variety you ask for every time Lucifer places an order from the market, and you wonder if they know. 

Take a slow, steadying breath. “If you don’t mind my asking, how long have you known Barbatos?”

“I have been serving Master Barbatos almost my entire life.” 

“Oh—” You wish you’d made an effort to sound less surprised but—“You serve Barbatos, not just Lord Diavolo?”

Her expression remains passionless, attentive but aloof. She must have learned that from him, but her mask is not a smiling one; it is cold, distantly polite. “Barbatos is my master but Lord Diavolo is our Prince, and master of my master. I serve Lord Diavolo because he does.” 

“And… you’re that much younger than Barbatos? I hope I don’t sound rude. I have trouble telling demons' age, and you live so much longer than humans that the exact number seems almost… insignificant. Lucifer and his brothers can’t even give me a number. Not that I need it, I just…” You trail off, but when she doesn’t take her level gaze off you, does not prepare to speak, you struggle to finish the thought. “I just... wonder.” 

Her eyes linger for another moment, then Arbianock moves at last, fingers lacing together. “Barbatos is older than everyone. And younger.” She bows slightly, almost levelling your gaze, head tilted, silver brows lowered. “He walks halls that haven’t been tread in millenia and he knows all the secret spaces that haven’t yet been carved. He was born ages before our time, and never at all. He saw your heavens when they were black and he shall see them fall again into the darkness behind the stars, and what do you think we are, human and ephemeral Ambrose? What do you think he is?” 

You can’t move. You can’t move an inch, though every fiber in your body is screaming to run, screaming danger, like being alone in the dark, like a spider on your skin, like the sound you don’t know and cannot see. The demon hasn’t transformed, hasn’t touched her magic at all, but it’s like you suddenly know: a sharp, sick-sweet scent reaching your nose that you hadn’t noticed before, clinging to her skin. 

“We aren’t creatures of love, human; we are the stuff that spawned your nightmares. You cannot wholly perceive us without losing everything you are.” The shadows seem deeper, taller, the cloying stench stronger, but she never moves, never blinks, the mushrooms that crown her head gleaming like blackened stars. “Even angels are your foil, so terrible your mind would snap if you glimpsed one as it truly is. We are not gentle. We are not forgiving.” 

The seconds slip by, silent, unwavering.

Arbianock straightens, slowly, tucks her hands behind her back. The scant afternoon light again glints on silver, and the scent fades away, making room for the comforting warmth of the tea. “And so, you have a choice to make.” 

What kind of choice? Is the obvious question, but don’t you already know? You came here with one decision in mind and stayed because there’s another that you know, in your heart, you’ve already made. 

You take the teacup into your hand, and you draw a long, slow sip. It clears your mind, warms your throat, thaws the icy fear that had settled in your chest. 

“Yes.” The porcelain handle cuts into the edge of your fingers, into the tip of your thumb. “I have a decision to make, but you’re wrong about yourselves. Everything that I’ve seen the Seven do, everything of consequence since I’ve come here, they’ve done because they love. They still love Lilith—they never stopped, and it’s the pain that drives them to foolish things. And they love one another, so much that they let it blind them.” Something bright races with your blood, feeds your words, brings them to your lips. “Simeon loves those he used to call his brothers even now, even when they do their best to avoid him. Even Lord Diavolo, wanting what he does for the Realms, doesn’t hold hope and confidence and drive without a love for his people. And Barbatos didn’t save my life because he was ordered to do it.” Your stomach is in knots, but your hand is steady as it sets the cup back into the saucer. “What do you believe you are, Arbianock, reeking of decay? Does knowing, intimately, that I will die, put your people in stark relief when you stand next to me? Are we so different that I couldn’t possibly understand their loyalties, their despair?” Fingers curl into palms, and you draw yourself up straight in the chair. “I will reconcile with Belphegor. I will reconcile with his brothers. I will do what I set out to do before; I may have freed Belphegor, but I’m not finished yet.”

The corner of Arbianock’s mouth sneaks up in an uneven smile, one eye creased, the other open and glittering. “Lord Diavolo was quite right about you.” She bows. “Please, eat. Now that you have decided, you will need the energy.” 

“I—” Whatever bolstered you moments ago suddenly fizzles out, lacking a proper target. You sit, blinking at the teaset. “Excuse me.” Usually there’s much more to facing down a demon’s challenge… at least, in your previous experience. They don’t normally act so blasé about the whole thing—there’s some humiliation or biting back or a concession. Something. But the demoness goes about her business like nothing at all happened, refilling your cup, straightening a tea towel on the cart. 

No, this wasn’t a fight. What happened here is quite simple: you've been had. 

"Did Diavolo send you here to antagonize me into making a decision?" 

She tilts her head but continues with her business, exuding an air of amusement that has your fingers curling into your palms. “It has been noted that you work well under pressure. Your marks tend to go up during exams. The only times you’ve spoken strongly or acted in support of what you want are when there are things greater than yourself at stake, and time is of the essence.” She reaches, graceful and practiced, across the table to resituate your plate, as though to remind you of your untouched food, but you have no interest, and refuse to give it a second glance. “We are not the only ones to notice; word gets around quickly. Every citizen of the Devildom is interested in the exchange students and how they will fare; many are constantly listening for any sign of weakness, any opportunity to snap you up and claim victory against Lord Diavolo’s efforts, to get the credit and the reward that is a shining, human soul. But others find it in their best interest to make sure they know instead the circumstances that can bring you, bring this program, success.”  

Your stomach turns, a bitter taste on the tip of your tongue. “Like you?”

“I, personally, have no interest.” Arbianock smiles, distantly. “I am only looking after my master.”

----

A background radiation of wrath and frustration stirs your steps, shames you as your thoughts become muddled. You know the decision you made early this afternoon was not rash, though spurred by a backlash of emotions you’re not ready to sort out, not to mention Arbianock’s dubious motives and methods. If you never have to think about politics again, it’ll be too soon.

You pass the twins’ room for the sixth time.

You’ve already thought about what you’re going to say, analyzed it from every angle, but each time you think you’ll knock on the door, your mind goes completely blank. 

And so you pace the hallway again. 

You have to do it. Once you do it, it’ll be done. But your stomach turns, and your jaw trembles, and your limbs feel like they’re going to seize up and drift away. Adrenaline is not doing you any favors today. 

Satan’s room across the hall. Asmo’s room. The shared bathroom. The door to the twins’ room that you’d always thought of as Beel’s. 

“Oh.” You hadn’t even raised your hand to knock before the door swung open, leaving you blinking just as wide-eyed at Beelzebub as he is at you right now. “...are you looking for me?” 

“Yes. Well, no.” Tuck your hands into your pockets and fist them there, trying to stop your jaw from jittering. “I’m actually looking for Belphegor, but I thought you would know where he is.” It doesn’t help. The moment you stop talking, the muscles continue to twitch.

“Oh…” A crease appears between Beelzebub’s eyes. “He’s here. Do you want to talk to him?”

No. “Yes. I think I should.” 

He nods, slowly, but his worry doesn’t smooth. “I was going to get some food… Do you want me to stay? I’ll be right back and we can go in together.” 

Tempting. Very tempting. “Thank you, Beel, but… I think I should try to talk to him alone first. If I need you, I’ll call you, okay?” 

Beelzebub steps completely into the hall, and pulls the door shut behind him, leveling you with a careful stare. “I want you to call me before you need me. I don’t think Belphie will hurt you, but…” He glances away, down the hall, and then at the floor. “I don’t want you there alone if he gets angry.” 

You tug your hand from your pocket and reach out to squeeze his arm, and, thankfully, your fingers don’t shake. “I promise I’ll call. I don’t want a fight, either; I’m trying to do this… peacefully.” 

Strong arms tug you into a warm chest, squeezing without hesitation. “Thank you. He hasn’t been himself since… everything.” 

That’s what you’re counting on. You’re counting on the truth of the little brother all alone in the attic, trying not to cry even as he rails against everything Lucifer stands for. The child who still loves his family. “I know.” 

When Beelzebub releases you at last, he pokes his head back into the room. “Ambrose is here to see you.”

A muffled reply.

“Yeah. Please, Belphie, be nice.” 

He leaves the door cracked, and squeezing your shoulder, softly says, “I know you can do it.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you in front of the door, an ache in your chest, and a small swell of pride. You hope he’s right.

“Well, come in if you’re going to come in!” grumbles Belphegor’s voice, and you’re suddenly reminded of every time you’ve spoken through a door before. A time when you thought you might like him. A time you came armed with confidence.

Not today.

You push through. Belphegor is lounging on his bed in a mess of pillows, hair sticking up every which-way, looking bored. The resemblance to Namurta’s lackadaisical demeanor is startling. Guilt settles in your stomach. 

“Good afternoon.” Your hands are trembling again, so you fold them behind your back.

“Cut to the chase.”

A deep breath. “I’m here to talk to you; I don’t want us to have any problems while I’m living here.” 

“So it’s true. You really decided to stay? Guess you’re stronger than I gave you credit for.” Slowly, he sits up, one shoulder leading the other like his body is on the axis of a thread, the lazy slump of a rag doll pulled taut. “So. What should I do now? What’s gonna make you change your mind? Maybe I killed you too nicely last time by letting you sleep. Should’ve just finished the job, but…” He yawns, jaw stretching wide enough to show off his broad teeth, each overlarge molar topped with jagged points. “It seemed like more trouble than you were worth. Humans are fragile—you were already bleeding inside. You remember that, don’t you?” 

Long, slow breaths, even as your stomach turns and a phantom burn flickers in your lungs. Not now. You can’t think about it now. He’s trying to upset you. You can do this. Turn your mind to another memory: the taste of devilmint, cooled by cream and a sprinkle of sugar. The moon was silver and Barbatos smiled like the distant glimmer of a star. “I don’t regret letting you out of the attic.” 

“What?” His expression melts into confusion, almost comical, if not for your heart still hammering in your chest, starkly aware of the delicacy of this conversation. 

“I stand by what I said before. You shouldn’t have been locked in there; it was a mistake.” Belphegor’s eyes are wide and bright, mouth halfway to an expression like fascinated disgust. “I may have changed the way I went about it, but I would do it again. I’d free you again.”

“Why.”

“Because it wasn’t fair. You were suffering, and your brothers were suffering without you—especially Beel. And I know that nothing would ever get better if you’d been left up there; it would all remain the same.” 

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Furrows his brow. “Why are you being nice to me?”

Set your jaw. “Because it’s the right thing to do.” 

“Ugh.” The demon throws himself back on the bed. “Why don’t you go hang out with the angels? Nobody wants that here. Self-righteous prick.” 

“No, you don’t understand.” Your hands untwine and one rakes itself through your hair. Yes, of course that wouldn’t work, though true... you have something else. “It’s not the right thing to do in an abstract, moral sense. It’s because you’re owed an explanation.” 

“...you owe me an explanation? That’s a good one. Has anybody told you that you’re really fucking weird?” 

You can feel an involuntary half-smile tug at your lips, melancholy. “You haven’t stopped saying it since I offered to help you.” And then, a realization: “It’s almost like you wanted me to know that helping you was dangerous.”

He scoffs. “I was just surprised how stupid you were. Dumber than most humans. I think you’re potentially the most gullible I’ve ever met.”

“Gullible, maybe,” you muse. “Guileless, almost certainly, if only because I always hope people are telling me the truth. That they always want to be the best of themselves.” A bitter taste reaches your tongue. “But that’s not what I’m here to tell you. I came to tell you that I’m alive because of Lilith—”

“Don’t you dare say her name—”

“—and I’m here because she still believes in you.” 

Belphegor snarls, teeth bared.

Your pulse quickens, a phantom pain in your chest. Fingers curl into palms, slow your breaths. You must continue. “Believe it or not, I know what it’s like to believe in your brother when he’s lost all faith in himself.” 

A deep, violet energy crawls along his skin.

“If you do anything to threaten me, I’ll call Beel.” 

“I can kill you before you can say a word, human.”

“That’s the thing, Belphegor; I don’t have to say anything. Can you kill me more quickly than I can feel fear? Because that’s what it’ll take.” All the same, your fingers move to your pocket. Inside that pocket is a silver bell. 

“Nobody can summon a demon without an incantation, and you can’t even do that. I already know they found a human too useless to do real magic. You can’t bluff; I’ve been listening.” 

“Not closely enough.” 

“Even if you’re still borrowing Solomon’s power, you can’t call anybody before I snap your pathetic neck. Even with all of us in the same house, you still won’t be able to shout a name fast enough.” 

Irritation crawls along your skin, an itch, and you set your jaw. “What, exactly, do you think happened that night? How did they know where to find me?”

“It wasn’t hard to figure out! They sent you back in time to the attic, and you didn’t come back. It doesn’t take a detective. Barbatos wouldn’t even have to use his powers for that one.” 

You set your shoulders. This is it. “They would have found me too late; they were still waiting for me to return when I called. And before I did, Belphegor, while I was unconscious, I had a vision—and in that vision, your sister spoke to me.”

“Shut up!” He makes a lunge, eyes glittering, flaring black and venomous indigo, and you stumble back, knocking yourself off-balance—

Solidly, into a broad chest and arms tight around your shoulders. “Belphie, no!” 

The mark over your stomach prickles like pins and needles. One flicker of thought toward Beelzebub had been enough. 

Belphegor snarls, overlarge teeth glinting. “They started it!” But he must not like what he sees on his brother’s face and shifts seamlessly to wide, doe-eyes, genuinely hurt, perhaps, but the growl doesn’t leave his voice. “You’re really going to side with a human, Beel, a human over me?” 

“Not over you, Belphie,” he replies, softly. Never over you.” 

“Then give them to me.”

A deep hum thrums against your back. “No. You need to listen. Please. Ambrose has to tell you—”

“No, you listen—humans lie. You’re protecting nothing but a miserable sack of lies. They tell you exactly what you want to hear, and then—”

“Belphegor, that’s enough.” 

“No, not you—not you, it’s none of your business,” he hisses, as every eye turns toward the bedroom door.

Lucifer looks from Belphegor to you, still firmly clasped to Beelzebub’s chest. 

“Belphie—” his twin tries again. 

“It’s not my fault!” he insists, with the edge of a whine that sets your teeth grinding. “They keep telling me they’ve seen Lilith. It’s impossible.” He wheels on you now, that dangerous light, black and sugilite, the edge of a nightmare, dancing in his eyes. “She can’t speak to you—she’s gone!” 

You draw yourself up, pressing gently against Beelzebub’s hold until he slowly lets you stand on your own. “Have you spoken with your brothers since you left the attic? With Lucifer? With Beel?” Belphegor bares his teeth, looks away. “What did they tell you?” 

He says nothing.

“They told you she lived a happy, human life with her lover, didn’t they?” 

“That doesn’t change anything!” 

“Nothing at all? Doesn’t it matter that her life was saved?”

“She still died. She died a mortal, and she died without us. So no. It didn’t change anything, and it definitely means she didn’t visit you.” 

A deep sigh drags its way out of your chest. You had hoped—well, it doesn’t matter now. “Belphegor, do you remember a time in the Celestial Realm when you played hide and seek, and you weren’t able to find Lilith? For whatever reason, that day, it distressed you. You searched and searched—and when you did finally find Lilith, hiding in her room, you were so sad... but she didn’t know why; you wouldn’t say. But it didn’t matter why; to cheer you up, she invited you to sneak over to the observatory—you, Beel, and Lilith, all together.”  

As a human might turn white as a sheet, Belphegor’s skin fades to grey. “H—how did you—”

“I had a vision about that, too, just before she visited me in the attic. She asked me to help all of you, in any way I could.” You approach, carefully, and settle on the edge of Beelzebub’s bed. “She called you out by name, Belphegor, even though you’d... done what you did already. You almost toppled everything, and she still believed you’re worth the effort, with forgiving, or at least worth trying.” Something catches in your throat, something familiar. Who would you be, to tell someone else that their brother isn’t worth forgiving? “So here I am, and I’m willing to at least try. Are you?” 

Belphegor’s face is blank, but his eyes are shining. “Go away.” 

“I—”

“I said go away I won’t hurt you again now GO AWAY!” 

The other bed creaks under his weight as he buries himself in the comforter, bent in an awful, unnatural curve, fingers curled in his hair. “Go away go away go away go away go away—” The words are muffled, but clear enough to feel their intent. Beel goes to the side of his twin’s bed and sits on the floor, doesn’t take his eyes off him, and as for you—

You glance at Lucifer, who nods, face carefully impassive save for the furrow of his brow. Quietly as you can, you climb off the bed to make your exit, and you can hear Belphegor continue: 

“It’s my fault.” 

The invisible shudder of pain from his brothers is enough to put a tremor in the air, piercing your chest, but this isn’t your place now. It is best to give them some privacy.

---

“In the bed.” 

You know the words but they don’t… make sense... 

“Ambrose.” 

Tired.

“Then get into the bed.”

Bed? Right, somebody said…

There’s a warm, firm pressure on your shoulder, and your body jerks to one side, head popping off the… pillow? No, not a pillow, that’s a comforter, and…

A deep, sharp inhale. Yawn. “Hm?”

The rumbling chuckle could only belong to Diavolo, and, yes, this is Barbatos’ bedroom, where you’d fallen asleep in the armchair again. “You didn’t come to dinner.” 

Your brain is full of cottonseed and humidity. “I apologize.” Is that the right thing to say? 

Diavolo pats your shoulder. “Think nothing of it! Are you hungry?”

“No.” You rub your hand across your forehead and cheeks. “No, thank you.” That bit is important. The polite bit.

“Just tired, then.” He’s smiling, but things are a little blurry. 

Your eyes don’t want to focus, so you’ll just rest them a moment, clear them up… “Yeah.” 

“Arbianock delivered your nightclothes, right here.” Indeed, they’re on the end of the bed—a set of cotton drawers and long-sleeved shirt, ideal for whatever the Devildom’s weather. Very considerate. But…

“This isn’t my room.” Things are swimming into focus. Your body is still sleep-heavy, but another deep breath keeps your gaze steady on the demon prince. “I can go to my quarters.” 

“You can if you’re feeling up to it, of course.” Diavolo folds his arms, mouth curled halfway to a smile. 

You are just awake enough to feel a prickle of suspicion. He says it too lightly, too casually. “You’re not going to argue with me.” 

He feigns a look of hurt. “Why should I? You’re obviously very tired, and you can sleep wherever you want.” 

“Including here,” you observe, dryly.

“Including here.” He smiles, devilishly. 

Rub your face with the heel of your hand, and draw a deep, slow breath that stretches your ribs. 

“You’ve been so busy getting things sorted… it really is admirable, you know. But you need a proper sleep, and I don’t think you’re going to get it slumped over in a chair or in that grand, empty room in the other wing, do you?” 

You’d like to bury your face in the comforter and stop thinking, let the sand-weight of your extremities pull you back under. There’s a sort of nebulous headache in the cotton-fog of your skull, but even so—“You’re being very transparent.” 

Diavolo gives a hearty chuckle. “Only because you don’t seem inclined to consider it on your own. Is it nightmares?” Your expression must change because he shakes his head. “Even I have nightmares sometimes, you know? If you can’t sleep, and you don’t want company, at least call for help; you don’t have to solve all your problems alone. Arbia can prepare a draught that will keep you in bed all night.” 

“I’ll… think about it.” 

“Good.” He rests a heavy hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry I missed tea this afternoon; I had planned to talk to you over dinner, but once you have some rest, we can discuss things over breakfast. Lucifer told me what you did. It’s really remarkable… you could have done anything and you chose to try to work with Belphegor—and he’s agreed. Only a human could be so devoted to a better way. A new way. I’ve never seen a people so willing to practice forgiveness! You’re a credit to your species, Ambrose... I couldn’t ask for a better candidate.”

Distantly, your mind is spinning, buzzing uncomfortably, but there’s a warm rush in your chest. “I… thank you.” 

He smiles brightly, pats your shoulder lightly. “Now, have a good night, and get some sleep! Sleep promotes healing!” 

You’re quite sure he’s parroting that phrase directly from a text about human health, but you don’t get the chance to call him on it, as Diavolo dismisses himself swiftly while your mind is still working to catch up. Candidate for what? The exchange program? You suppose that doesn’t matter right now. 

Belphegor agreed. He must have said something else after you had gone, after he spoke with Lucifer and Beel. He had only said he would not harm you—and you’d thought that was enough, inclined to believe him, supposing he probably wouldn’t even want to look at you for the rest of the semester, knowing you know what you do. You were willing to settle for just that. But now? Now, you’ll just have to wait until morning to understand what happened.

A weary sigh escapes your lips. How did you get here?

Your eyes fall on him at last.

Barbatos, still more peaceful than you’ve ever seen him, supported by dark pillows, nestled among silken blankets in loose, layered clothing, and you envy that undisturbed sleep. A sleep that you need. A sleep you won’t get unless you—

There’s heat rising in your cheeks, with no one to witness it. You can’t pretend it would be like sharing the bed with Mammon or Beel. If you stay tonight, it’s like asserting that you belong. 

And… you want to. Hells, you want to. You want it so desperately that your heart constricts your throat, as though it could crawl right up and out of your chest and settle down with him. 

Your gaze falls upon the clothes on the end of the bed. You can still scoop them up and make your way down the hall. Down the hall to that huge, empty room that certainly isn’t your own. Would you stare at the ceiling again, with its masterful brushstrokes and foreign storytelling while your heart yearns? Would you lie awake as your mind refuses to settle down, reliving one sensation after another, would you feel the blankets heavy on your skin, a thousand textures so, so loud in the night? 

Or will you stay, where you’ve been invited, where you’re wanted? Have you only been avoiding it because you’re afraid?

Afraid that you’ll grow accustomed to the sensation? 

 The nightclothes find your fingers, but you make no move to leave. Your body decides without you, limbs heavily slouching in and out of place in practiced motion, shirt, pants, boots, socks, pants and shirt again. Dressing is easy. The difficult thing will be getting into the bed, and too quickly that is what you must do. 

You stand for a moment, just staring, despite the protest of unsteady legs, feeling the fine, soft fibers of the carpet on bare feet. Warm, unnaturally so, unless the floor is somehow being heated... Your eyes rake the perimeter to find what looks almost like a wrought iron radiator system winding about the nook, only slender and a bit green like oxidized copper, passing behind the headboard against the dark wainscoting. Does he have trouble keeping warm, you wonder? You know his skin to be cool to the touch, but you had assumed that he wouldn’t have different needs from a human or even other demons. No one in the House of Lamentation has—

You’re letting your mind wander. You’re stalling, overthinking.

Take a deep breath.

Slowly, you inch toward the mattress. Slowly, you brace one knee on the bed, shifting your weight with careful control, hardly disturbing his side at all. The pillow that you’d used before is still in place, and the blanket is within reach to share. Snuggling hesitantly into the mattress, over the duvet, you reach for the blanket’s corner—a whole extra length folded there alongside his body like it’s been waiting for you—avoiding brushing Barbatos’ tail as you tug it up and over your middle. 

You’re facing him. Your cheeks still burn as you watch the rise and fall of his chest, the serene expression on his lips. Smooth skin, catching the silver glow of the moon through the window-panes in fine contours, uninterrupted by lines of age, supple and soft as something just-born, almost aglow himself. Even your hand, where it rests between you, ceases at the wrist in lateral lines. There’s a thin, white scar under your thumb where you nearly fell out of a tree, many years ago, and there, a small pockmark over the main artery where an IV had slipped beneath the skin, much later. The veins show blue-green and purple, curling up toward your knuckles, branching like a tree, and one day, this skin, already creased, already scarred, will be paper-thin and wrinkled and stained with age. 

How ephemeral you are, indeed, beside something ancient and so new. 

You close your eyes. Your heart still beats.

----

The complete lack of sun when you awake is no longer a surprise, but it remains disorienting as you blink your eyes into focus. Your mind doesn’t know what to expect anymore between your room at the House of Lamentation, the guest room with its frescoed ceiling, and… You inhale the scent of ash and ink and mist clinging to grass as the first rays of sun pierce the chill air of morning. Barbatos’ bedroom. A deep, slow, hot huff of breath sounds against the pillow as you roll your shoulders and snuggle further into the plush mattress. You’re not ready to get up, though you really should. This is the best sleep you’ve had in days.

Faced with the empty armchair and its teal velvet, you know you need to get up and get breakfast and figure out what you’re going to say. What you’re going to do. You can’t stay here, as much as it feels like this is exactly the place you’re meant to be right now, surrounded by Barbatos’ sharp scent, his slow, steady breaths at your back—

“Good afternoon.” Your body freezes all at once, violently, but melts as soon as you hear the soft, honey chuckle that accompanies the words. 

“Barbatos.” You roll quickly over, and, faced with the fathomless verdance of his eyes, the open softness in his smile, your heart can’t decide whether to stop entirely or break record speed. 

“You stayed,” he observes, his hand finding yours, fingers tangling together on the comforter. 

“I did,” is all that finds voice, everything else too heavy to leave your mouth.

“I am glad.” Gently, he presses your palms together. “But you must have been exhausted to sleep so late into the day… or did you return after breakfast?” 

You shake your head; you’ll figure out what you’re going to do about the fact that you missed breakfast with Lord Diavolo later. "I was more tired than usual."

“That won’t do,” Barbatos murmurs. “You must eat.” But his hand traces your arm, cool fingers skating across your elbow, down to your wrist. Beneath the blankets, something else slides smoothly over your thigh, unfurling along your spine just as it did four days ago. “Is this all right?” 

“Yes… thank you.” You lace his fingers tightly with yours, as you did four days ago. “How are you feeling?”

“Well.” He hums, and a faint flush dusts his cheeks. “Quite well. Certainly well enough to resume my duties, but I find myself unwilling to end this moment.” 

“I’m sure you shouldn’t go directly back to your duties today no matter how well you feel.” Your hand tightens around his. “I seem to recall you saying that you wanted to sleep for a decade.”

“I did. And you’re right; Lord Diavolo would almost certainly object if I returned to my duties before tomorrow.” Then, his mouth curls ever so slightly, his head tilting against the pillow. “But fetching breakfast would be no burden.” 

“I’d be happy to—” 

“Nonsense.” His thumb begins tracing a soft pattern from your wrist to fingertip, skin tingling at the attention. “I will fetch us refreshment; just first allow me to look at you.”

If your face wasn’t hot before, it certainly is now, flushing as though it could make you invisible. The way he looks at you—the gentle turn of his mouth, lips parted just so, as though he isn’t aware of what he’s doing, the lively crease of his eyes, the light that dances in them the way a candle cheers a room. You had thought it was the formality missing from his clothing that had made him seem naked, but you realize it’s really this: the role removed entirely from his countenance.

You’re not sure you’ve ever seen anything quite so beautiful. 

His thumb brushes the top of your hand, the air charged with something like mischief. “I have a request, if you’re amenable.” 

Oh, you’d agree to just about anything right now, his face framed by dark wisps of hair, hand clasping yours, held in a half-embrace by the weight of his tail, comfortable, safe— 

Happy.

Barbatos smiles, and it crinkles his eyes, flashes his glassen teeth in the afternoon light. “Please refrain from finding yourself in life-threatening situations from now on, cynamome.” 

The heat on your cheeks shifts from bashfulness to shame. “I—I really didn’t intend—”

“I know.” He pulls your hand closer, presses a kiss beneath your thumb at the hollow of the wrist. “Forgive me; I should not have implied otherwise.” When the sinking feeling in your chest doesn’t subside, he meets your gaze seriously, all traces of mirth gone. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

Reflexively, in time with the stutter of your heart, you squeeze his fingers, but no words leave your mouth. You can’t hold his gaze, so you drop it to where your hands are intertwined, pillowed on the satiny blankets.

 You can feel the shift as he raises himself slightly off the mattress, and his tail traces its way up your back, a shiver dancing across your skin. One of its tips glides along your jaw, guides your chin up, leather-smooth and warm—warmed, you realize, by your own body heat—to meet his eyes again. The open softness is there in the curve of his mouth, the apple rounding of his cheeks. “You’ve done your best with the hand Fate has dealt you, Ambrose, and what you have done is admirable.” In his eyes… moonlight through water green with lilies and grasses that know no mark of hours, no seasons, only the heat of night reflected through rain, ceaseless, like the promise of the heart’s steady drum. 

“I only did what I thought anyone should,” leaves your lips in honesty before any thought can overtake it.  

Barbatos smiles; the moonlight dances. “And that is what makes it remarkable. You are remarkable, Ambrose; do not forget it. You have brought sunlight to this world, to your friends, to my master, and, indeed—” His cheeks flush a dusky rose. “—to me. I do not regret how this week has transpired… perhaps you’ll forgive me for that, too.” 

“What is there to forgive?” you ask, and his tail, still cradling your face, moves in time to each word.

“You were nearly lost, forever, to everyone. You were caused great pain, yet… I don’t find myself wishing that it never happened; I only find myself grateful that it brought you here.” 

There’s no remorse in his gaze, either, only that tangible gentleness as your jaw trembles, and you’re overwhelmed with the desire to sit up, face him properly, so you do, and he lets you, relinquishing your hand, mirroring your movements, letting his tail settle down upon your shoulder and across your lap, loathe, perhaps, to let go entirely. That is a feeling you can well appreciate.

Barbatos waits upon your judgment, patient, but there’s a flicker of apprehension, too, like a spark of electricity in the air. 

“Why should I forgive something that requires none?” You find his hand again and clasp it tightly. “I don’t regret what happened to me. I only wish…” The words die in your throat, knowing how foolish they sound. How real they are. How shameful. 

His thumb traces a circle across the top of your hand. “If it is within my power, I can grant it.” 

A hot coil of shame seizes your neck and chest. “You’ve done too much for me already, Barbatos. And… it isn’t something you can change. I just—wish I’d done better.” The words sound even worse than they had in your head. You know how childish they are, how silly it is to wish for something like that; what’s done is done and the outcome isn’t bad, not by far, not at all. You’ve accomplished almost everything you’d set out to do. It just… wasn’t to plan. It was a mess. It—

A hum, low in Barbatos’ chest, interrupts your thoughts. “Do you remember,” he asks, when he has your attention again, his thumb still tracing that comforting pattern on your skin, “during the first term, I invited you to tea—with apricot jam, muffins, diomese leaves—and I asked you a question. I asked if there was anything from your past that you would, given the chance, go back and change. Do you remember what you said?”

Of course you do. That day is as treasured a memory as those before and after. “That I wouldn’t change anything.”

“Because you feared a single change would have diverted your path from the destination, from being here, and now.” Barbatos lifts your hand, presses his lips to where he’d traced circles before, but does not avert his eyes from yours. “Why not this time?” he whispers against your skin. 

Your heart flutters, trembles. If he isn’t sorry for the choices he made, why should you be? “I don’t like to see you suffer for me.” Before he can open his mouth to voice the protest you can read in the crease of his brow, you continue: “You don’t regret it, but I…” A lump settles in your throat. “You didn’t have to do that for me.” 

He straightens up, slowly, mouth pulling into an expression you’ve seen only once before, something like shame, something like guilt, eyes soft, his frame struggling against some great, invisible weight. “What else could I have done?” he asks. “Selected another course of events, another reality, while you die in this one? It would have been easy, yes, certainly easier than manipulating individual timelines.” Barbatos must see the lack of comprehension on your face, because he continues: “Perhaps my greatest power is the ability to choose which sequence of events, which timeline, becomes the true reality. I could have let you die there in the attic, cut the timeline, and moved another into its place like a weaver drawing together two lengths of thread; you would die, and yet live, because you were drawn from a series of events where you remained unharmed.” His gaze, fathomless, wretched, searches your features. “And every day after, I would look into the eyes of a stranger wearing your face. Though they’d be granted your memories as the timelines synchronized... I would know. I would always know.” 

Heart aching, you pull him into an embrace, never mind that he doesn’t respond immediately, a soft murmur of astonishment in his throat. But then, Barbatos buries his face against your neck, arms tugging you close, tail unwinding so quickly from your lap and shoulder that it runs like silk, only to loop around the small of your back, secure. You hold him tighter. And then tighter still when you think you can feel his heartbeat in your chest. His breath, warm on your skin. A soft nuzzle against the hollow between neck and shoulder. 

Time stills in the gravity of relief and affection, quietly, unnoticed. 

“I love you.” It’s a confession, made nestled in the sharp scent of him, to the breath you feel leaving his chest when he hears it, for the heart racing against your ribs. “I don’t know if that’s the proper response, but it’s a human one.” 

There’s a hesitant smile on your lips as Barbatos draws back just enough to look you in the face, and there’s a smile on his, too, soft with solemn, tortured delight. “I would ask for nothing else. But please—don’t say it again. Once said, it cannot be undone.”

You open your mouth but he stops it with a hand on your cheek, thumb across your lips. “Please—consider that before deciding to say it again, in your own time. I will never ask, nor expect that sentiment from you; only… take the time to think on it before speaking it again.” There’s something in his eyes, a flicker akin to flame—not the tame dance of candlelight but the reckless abandon of wildfire. “When you do, you won’t be able to take it back.” 

Something sticks in your throat. “...I understand.” And you do, intuitively, that it means something more to a demon, that such a thing would not be easy for Barbatos, and, indeed, it cannot be so easy for you. The feelings are true, yes. The words are from your heart, words that have been present in each affection for some time now, and—perhaps they were always there? But still, you must return home. And still, Barbatos is beholden to his master. 

The rings around your fingers burn as you draw him close again.

He settles his chin atop your head, letting you bury your face against his throat in the wintry-crisp, ash-and-ink scent of him, and the sound of contentment he makes leaves you giddy in spite of the sullen mood that had gripped your heart. 

“Thank you, nykin.” His voice hums against your cheek, its thrum buzzing in your chest. 

You close your eyes. “Will you tell me what that means?” 

“The endearment?” Thoughtfully, he traces your arm over your long shirtsleeves, with, you think, his fingertips, until you realize his hands are still settled upon your back. “Has it already fallen out of fashion in your realm?” 

“For quite some time, I suspect.” 

“A pity,” Barbatos murmurs, tilting his head so that his cheek rests on the crown of your head. “I believe it’s the only one that appropriately conveys a concept that otherwise remains only in our language. Kin, the suffix: akin, ‘related,’ ‘close,’—and nigh: ’near,’ as in both space and time.” He nuzzles into your hair and, distinctly, you feel the lingering press of his lips. “You are with me, you are now, you are the space between this breath and the next. Near to me, my present, my impending moment. Nykin.”  

You’re not sure when the tears started. You just know by the time you feel them, hot on your cheeks, cool, gentle kisses follow in their wake, catching them where they fall. Barbatos does so silently, cradling your head, never shushing, never asking for your calm, and the tears come faster, and you’re laughing, and you’re not quite sure why, heart full to bursting. Your fingers tangle in his hair, at last, as they wanted to before, weaving through silken strands, and when you find his cheeks to kiss them, when you find his mouth, you’re not sure whose salt-sweet tears have settled upon your tongue.

----

@mysterypotatoink

#my fics #obey me! #shall we date? obey me #barbatos #barbatos x mc #shall we date? obey me!

[slowpoke-fics]

Scent | Mate Series

Fandom: Teen Wolf

Pairing: Derek x Y/N

Summary: Derek is getting suspicious of you, you're hiding something and he wants to know what

Warnings: not really I think but just in case, as always, read at your own risk

A/N: This is Part One | Next Part

This whole thing is a whole family pack au and mate au, OC stuff in later chapters but I really loved writing this and love the idea of a family pack <3

You walked into Scott’s house, happily smiling at everyone gathered around the table, noticing that even Derek had showed this time. The wolves seemed to carry on about their business as you muttered something about dinner and moved to the kitchen. “I don’t like that ya know?” You jumped a little, turning to Derek and smiling in confusion. He sniffed the air, “All I can smell is your strawberry shortcake lotion. You use too much.” You scoffed, turning to the food, “I don’t care, go smell someone else.” He shook his head, “Why? I don’t like not being able to smell you.” You looked at him, eyebrows raised, "Derek, I know what you wolves do, it's a violation of privacy, I like my emotions being mine." Derek huffed under his breath, "Just trying to care." He turned and walked out of the kitchen.

You couldn't help but wonder if you'd been excessively hateful, but you were right. You knew better than anyone, wolves violate your privacy whenever they can by just smelling you, let alone with serious practice what they can do. You could never keep a secret around a pack of wolves, and living in Beacon Hills with the extra wolf sense going around is no different. It's better to just hide your scent all together. You of course knew how to do this very well without the nifty supernatural trick; putting lotion over your scent glands regularly, wearing tight clothes, and lots of deodorant. You sighed to yourself as you thought of how different it could be if you could come clean.

Derek hung back after the meeting, watching as you waved everyone goodbye, claiming he was cleanup help since you cooked. "What's up Derek?" Scott said once the door shut. "Y/n," Derek started, turning to Scott, hand rubbing his scruff nervously, "has she always covered her scent like that?" Scott's eyebrows furrowed, "Now that I think about it, yeah, why?" Derek shrugged, acting like it was no big deal but wanted to put the fuze out before it went to far, "Dunno, she's just the only one that does it, even Lydia with the amount of crap she wears, I can smell her," he sighed, "it's like Y/n is hiding something man, I've just never once smelled her." Derek shook his head, "I mean, it's never bothered you? Not being able to smell her?"

Scott could sense something he hadn't ever before with Derek, a sense of need, like when Stiles called to him when he almost lit himself on fire. "She just wants her privacy, she knows we can smell fear, anxiety, joy, embarrassment," he slapped Dereks shoulder, "relax man, are you really worried Y/n is out to get you?" Dereks hands fell next to him, "Something like that." Derek said his goodbyes to Scott and happily Stiles, as over the years he's grown to love the wild man, and left wondering about you.

At the next pack meeting, this time in his loft, you were the last one in again. As everyone was catching up and cutting up, Derek found his way beside you, "I don't like that one, it smells sour, what is it?" You blushed just slightly, "I don't know some cucumber mix." Derek huffed, "If all I can smell is fake shit, at least something good, citrus, sweet or somethin'," he shrugged as he made his way to the table.

You'd all been discussing new training for the supernatural creatures drawn in by the Nemeton and handling the strays that don't fall in line with the help of the argents. Derek was next to you, something you knew was no coincidence as he'd swapped places with Scott at some point. He reached over to the map in front of you, trying to rub just your shirt, but you slyly moved your arm, muttering an apology, "Oh, sorry," but Derek didn't miss the extra heartbeat, even if just for a second. What is going on with you?

A few days later you find yourself climbing in the passenger of Stiles' jeep, just leaving your house after reapplying lotion, knowing that you were going to Dereks' for pack training. "Scott needed a ride today, that okay?" Stiles quizzed you, studying you as you answered with a hum. "Everything alright?" he reiterated, turning the music up. You shrugged, "I just have a feeling something is going on." Stiles gave you a sympathetic smile as he pulled up to Scott's.

Scott climbed in Stiles' back seat, glancing at you, consciously aware that you only smelled like mixed berry lotion, smiling, "Hey, Y/n, how was your day?" You shrugged, "The usual, excited for some pack time." Scott listened to your steady beat, kicking himself for even listening. The ride to Dereks normal while you intently listened to Stiles ramble. It was impossible not to notice that something was bothering Scott, you just hoped it wasn't you.

Scott was the first to knock on the door, Stiles following impatiently while you stood behind the two men. Derek slid the door open, looking over the two men and directly smiling at you, welcoming you all in. You followed closely in behind Stiles, narrowly missing Derek. You sense him reaching forward, out for the small of your back, you quickly stepped out of the way and to the kitchen, hoping your heartbeat was steady. "So what am I making?"

You worked on finishing up the tacos, careful to clean up any mess you made and wash the used pans. You had Liam lay out the table who was cooling off from a tough session with Isaac. He was really slinging the plates down, you put your hand just inches from his, stopping him from laying another plate down, "Liam," his eyes connected with yours, "listen to my heart, get yours to match it." Liam shook his head, starting to lay another plate down, clearly frustrated, but you spoke again, "Liam," you sighed, "it is okay to lose control and get angry, but get it back. Take a breath, control your heart rate, ground yourself." Liam took a deep breath in as you guided him, smiling at you before gently setting the plates down. You could feel the anger dissipating from him as he did.

"Thank you for helping," you muttered as you rubbed his shoulder comfortingly, making sure your sleeve covers your bare hand, smiling at him, "I'm gonna go get them." You walked into the training room, sweat and power smacking you in the face, "Dinner's ready!" Scott and Derek let go of each other, playfully draping their arms around each other, "You wanna spar, Y/n?" Derek asked and you laughed, a sound that blessed his ears, "Uh, no thank you, I'll leave that to the big bad wolves." Scott smiled, "Come on! Even Stiles trains!" Stiles jumps at this, pointing to Scott, "Hey!" Causing everyone to erupt into laughter, you smiled, "Who else is gonna cook?" At that Stiles interjected again, heading to the meal, "Not it!"

After you all ate you helped Liam collect and wash dishes, Derek watching you dodge every corner of the tablecloth, studied your moments as you put up pates, careful to not touch them with your bare hands. He thought to himself as he watched you that he was reading way too much into it. That you were just a private polite person, but something was rubbing him the wrong way, something he was missing. As you put away the last dish, Stiles stood up, smiling, "Bye, sour wolf." Derek glared at him but turned to you who was side by side with Stiles, your arm around his waist, also heading out, "See you later, sour wolf."

Scott trailed behind, making sure you and Stiles were out of earshot. "Man, what is your problem I can literally see the fury coming off of you." Derek glared at Scott, "Y/n, she just-" Scott rolled his eyes, "You can't be serious, not with this again." Derek rubbed his face, "Man, I'm telling you," he shook his head, clearly troubled, "She won't let me touch her! At all, I'm talking not even an accidental brush," Derek spoke lower, "She wouldn't train because that causes sweat, we could smell her, won't even touch the tablecloth. She washes every dish she uses, won't touch the plates with her bare hands? The plates?" Scott could tell Derek was genuinely upset by this, "Why does this bother you so much man?" Derek sighed, "I don't know," he drug broth his hands over his face, an attempt to rub the stress away, "I don't think she'd hurt us of course, but she's definitely- Scott, there's too many questions I need answered." Scott sighed, "Okay, if it means that much to you, I'll look into it." Scott started walking and that's when you snapped back into Stiles honking the horn of the car, you giggling with him as Scott came rushing out.

How much longer could you hide your secret?

#teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf fanfic #derek hale x reader #Derek x reader #derek x reader #derek hale #Scott x reader #Scott McCall x reader #Isaac x reader #Isaac lahey x reader #teen wolf fluff #Derek fluff #Derek angst #teen wolf angst #fanfiction #teen wolf #Derek Hale fluff #Derek Hale agnst #derek hale one shot #Derek Hale fanfiction #teen wolf series #Derek Hale imagine #Derek Hale angst #stiles x reader #Derek Hale one shot #Derek Hale series #derek hale imagine #Derek imagine #mate series

[anole-tv]

“I think I can jump that.” 

Oh no.

“Yeah, I can definitely jump that.”

“Jack, whatever you are thinking of doing, you stop thinking and doing that thing right this -- ” Yinx frantically commands,  attempting to locate the human, but if the human man wasn’t currently moving, or making any sounds, it was made a quantifiably more difficult task, all of a sudden.

She pulls on one of Poltoc’s tentacles, having been holding on to them so as not to get lost herself, in the very busy space port. 

“Did you take off your shoes? Already!?” She directs towards Jack again, having failed to get an answer from him the first time, Yinx trying and failing to listen for the distinct clip of the hard metal glued to the bottom of the man’s boot’s, and as they hit against the pavement.

The metal strips attached to the soles had been arranged in such a particularly careful and precise fashion, that with every step, Jack was essentially calling Yinx’s name, and in a way that closely resembled her own species native tongue, over and over again, even if the human wasn’t aware of it as anything other then just more noise.

And there was no better way to keep track of the human’s every move either, or otherwise,  and for her at least,  anyway. 

“Hey Poltoc?” Jack asks.

“Yeah?” 

“Can you hold my drink for a second? I’ll be right back.”

“Sure, no problem bud.” Poltoc says, and Yinx is besides herself with equal parts worry, and dread, and anger, that one of her crewmates wasn’t even attempting to stop the other from getting themselves killed!

Jack must have jumped then, because the next thing she does hear is a quickly mumbled ‘oh sugar honey ice tea’ before the man starts screaming on his way down from the bridge he should have still been walking on, and on their way to meet back up with the rest of the crew for a late lunch, after a day spent in port, relaxing.

Honestly? She’s a little surprised it took Jack this long to get into any trouble, in the first place.

Yinx has already let go of Poltoc, and thrown herself over the bridge, and after Jack, unfurling both of her large, and powerful wings in less than a few seconds,  diving after and hoping to catch him in time, and preferably before he hits the ground.

He screams again, and she screams back, the sound hitting and echoing off, isolating his tumbling body in the air, now that he was far enough away from the congested foot bridge, and making Jack’s plummeting form as clear as crystal for her to see. 

Pulling in her leathery wings, she allows herself to pick up incredible speed, her earlier scream having given her a good gauge on how far away the ground really was -  far, thank the Great Night -  before swooping low, and beneath Jack once they were both traveling at relatively the same rate of decent, to be able to catch him on her soft furred back without the force of the collision knocking them both out in midair.

She can hear, and feel Jack’s heart pounding inside his chest, and against her back.

“Are you done for today?” she asks, done with the human herself,  as she soars between the buildings, and over other bridges and walkways, the sounds of the port and nearby city bouncing off, and giving her a pretty good view of where they were.

It was quite nice, actually. 

“Y-yeah. I’m uh...good. T-totally done.”

“No more trouble for today?”

And she can hear Jack’s smirk, as he says next “No more trouble. Not for today, Yinxy.” and then adds. “Hey, thanks for saving me, by the way. It’s hard to make a living as a pancake, or so I think.”

“It’s hard to make a living, period, when you’re dead. Or so I know.” says Yinx, finding an updraft that they can start to ride, and rise with to meet back up with Poltok.

She’ll be having a few stern, and loud, words with the Nautilic soon enough.

”Why did you jump in the first place? And what in the Great Night, were you trying to jump to, for that matter?” 

Other than your certain doom, but she keeps this part to herself, because Jack is clinging to her tightly, and keeps tightening his grip further,  and with each mention of either death or dying. 

Jack sighs against the back of her neck. “I don’t know. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Obviously.”

“But I really thought I could make the gap. I could, when I was younger.”

“You are not a young man?”

Jack laughs. “Not in the slightest! I’m over the hill, as my people would say. I’m pushing almost sixty.”

Yinx catches another updraft, rising even higher. “Then you must look good for your age. In my species, the sound of silver fur on a male is a sign of youth, and virility.”

“Are you hitting on me, Yinxy? Really? At a time like this?” teases Jack. “What will your lovely wife say, when she learns of this ultimate betrayal? 

“You know Jack, I can still drop you.”

“Nah. No you won’t. I’d actually stake my life on it.”

If Yinx could, she would have raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you think that? Jack my not as young as he would seem friend?’

“Because, Yinxy...” Jack says, suddenly shifting his weight, and sitting up on her back. She hears over her shoulder, and sees him holding both arms straight up and out at his sides, stiffly holding the position, despite the obvious nervousness in both his voice, and etched into the contours of his face. “I knew you’d be there to catch me.”

And Jack screams into the wind, then, loud and vibrant and full of a terrifying amount of life still left to be lived, and suddenly - Yinx can also see, that she wants to continue seeing this human around, and in her life, for the rest of hers if possible, and for however long that might be.

[Though, the next time Jack decides to pull a similar stunt, she makes a point of letting him fall a few hundred feet more, before finally catching up to him, because that’s what friends are for.]

[END]

#uh...this one got away from me #and also a LOT sappier #humans are weird #humans are space orcs #humans are fascinating #humans and aliens #wriblr #my writing #i'll edit and check for mistake later #i think this is good enough for right now.

[absolutelyfizzing]

I like you because (peter parker x reader)

Peter parker x reader

description - You have a panic attack at school and peter helps you through it. Then he lets you know all of the reasons he loves you 

word count -  about 2000

warnings - anxiety! panic attack tw! negative self talk, don't read if that is triggering for you. Also tooth-rotting fluff that makes me wanna cry. also self harm warning!! hand scratching!

A/N - I just wanted to say that anxiety manifests itself in different ways in different people. This is based off of a personal experience i had with a panic attack at school and how one of my friends helped me though it. I know this may not be how everyone experiences anxiety and everyone's version of this experience is completely valid. by no means am i trying to offend or cause any harm.

MASTERLIST

Your feet hit the pavement quickly as you rushed to school. You could feel people looking at you but you tried to get to your locker as soon as humanly possible. Your heart rate was picking up and you knew you were acting strange to the people around you. You looked exhausted. Your eyes had bags under them and your clothes were a mess. You couldn't walk straight because of the lack of sleep. When you finally made it to your locker you were so out of it that it took multiple tries to get the code right. Finally getting it open, you sighed, trying desperately to hide behind the locker door and to calm your breathing. 

You didn't know why but the last 2 days had been hell. It had been the weekend so it was okay but you hadn't slept right or had the motivation to do anything. Your anxiety was worse and it seemed that everything was too bright and too loud. There was just too much going on. You just wanted to sit in your room and stare at the wall for the rest of the day but you had to come to school, both for your academic performance and to see your boyfriend, Peter. He would get worried if you didn't show up and you didn't want him to have to cancel something later in the day to check on you. Now that you were here and you could feel people looking at you, you wondered if him seeing you would make him any less worried. You felt him come up behind you and when you turned to look at him there was a grin on his face. It quickly turned into worry as he looked at you. You felt the guilt creeping in. 

"Hey Y/N, you doing okay?" he questioned lightly. You subtly braced yourself and smiled widely, purposefully making it reach your eyes. 

"Yeah I'm fine! Just in a little bit of a mood is all." You smiled, grinning so wide your cheeks hurt. You had to convince him not to worry. You couldn't have him distracted during the day because he was thinking about something so silly as you being extra anxious. You hoped the thumping of your heart and the nervous ticks you felt in your fingers would dissipate during the day. Peter looked at you a little funnily but didn't question you. You knew he could probably tell your heart rate was pounding extra fast but neither of you said anything as you closed your locker and you both began walking to your first class, which you had together. 

The day went on but the anxiety did not leave. You could feel yourself growing irritable and the lights burned your eyes. Your leg was bouncing nervously and one hand scratched at the other. You only scratched your hand like that when you really were anxious, normally right before a panic attack. You did everything in your power not to do it normally because it left your hand hurt and sometimes bleeding. Peter knew this tic of yours and so you kept your hand covered by your sleeve whenever you could and you avoided being right next to him in any classes you had together. He noticed your change in behavior but again didn't say anything as the day went on, not wanting to upset you further and figuring you would come to him when you were ready. 

By the time lunch came around, you were exhausted. You had been worrying about everything and nothing for hours and your hand was scratched raw. You could feel Peter looking at you and you could also feel the panic rise in your throat at the large amount of people in the cafeteria. You were suddenly hyper aware of the people around you and their breathing and chewing. The lights felt sterile and the feeling of exposure sent a chill up your spine. You needed to get out. You set your stuff on the cafeteria table next to peter and mumbled something quickly about needing to use the restroom. You headed for the locker room. At this time of day you knew nobody would be in there. You went between the isles to find a small corner. Once you had backed yourself in you slid to the ground, the tears starting as you breathing became harder to control. You were scratching your hand and tapping your foot, trying desperately to get rid of the excess energy you could feel in your body. Your thoughts were so consumed in how stupid you were being, how selfish, that you didn't notice the sound of the door opening and closing. 

You were mumbling something about going crazy and how you were being ridiculously self centered when you heard someone slide down the wall a couple feet in front of you. You knew it was probably Peter or MJ coming to check on you. You forced a sob to stay in your throat and you immediately tried everything in your power to calm down. You couldn't but you felt the person move closer. 

"Can I help?" You heard Peter ask, still not looking up at him. You shook your head silently. You wanted to scream and cry but you were finding it harder and harder to breathe. "Can I stay here?" he asked again. You thought for a moment, your heart pounding loudly at the lack of air it was getting. You nodded. 

You mumbled “I’m sorry” over and over, hoping he understood that you didn't mean for him to get wrapped up in this. That he shouldn't have to deal with you. The tears were coming harder and suddenly it was like you couldn't get air into your lungs at all. You started gasping but it didn't work. Nothing was working, you couldn't breathe. You weren't able to talk but you felt a hand on yours. You shook in shame at the thought of him seeing you like this. 

Suddenly his body was wrapped around yours. He was hugging you to his chest, you still curled up into a ball. He began breathing deeply and you unconsciously started to match his pace. It took at least 10 minutes but eventually your breathing matched his, slow and controlled. You were still crying though. 

"I’m sorry. I’m sorry." It seemed like it was all you could say. You refused to make eye contact with him even when he pulled back to look at you. Your hand was scratching away at the other desperately trying to get out of your skin when you felt him grab your hands. 

"You have nothing to be sorry for. Please look at me." He whispered. You took a deep breath before looking at him. Your watery eyes met his and you could see he was holding back tears. 

"Can you tell me what’s going on?" he asked quietly. You nodded but waited before speaking. You were trying to gather your thoughts and he made no move to rush you, holding your hands and looking at you lovingly. 

"I don't know whats wrong" you got out first. You took another deep breath. "A couple days ago I started to feel shitty again like I sometimes do but I didn't want to worry you so I just didn't mention it. Then I got to school today and -" you paused and took a deep breath, shutting your eyes as tightly closed as you could. "everything is so loud here. I felt like everyone was looking at me and I was worried I would snap at someone if they talked to me and I just don't want to be here or be me and I hate that I'm like this and I'm sorry you have to deal with it." You rushed out quickly. Another sob wracked your body. "I hate me" you whispered under your breath, without the intention of him hearing but he heard it because he was 1) very close to you, and 2) had enhanced senses. You slowly looked at him and he had a sad look on his face. There were tears in his eyes and the guilt wracked over you. "I’m sorry" you whispered.

"I love you." he whispered back. You were taken aback a bit. You had been together for 2 years, your junior and now your senior, and you hadn't really said that to each other like that. Not in this serious of a context. You sniffed. "I love you on any day, even when you don't love yourself. I know you are the greatest person on the planet and I believe it enough for the both of us. At least until you feel like you can work on getting to being okay with yourself."

You felt another sob wrack your body and you leaned into his chest. "And you never have to be sorry for feeling this way. It's not your fault. I am here voluntarily because I care about you. No amount of tears or snot or anxiety will change how much I care about you." he then took a deep breath and kissed your hair. You slowly stopped shaking in his arms and he kept holding you. 

"I don't know why you like me." you whispered out. The tears were no longer pouring out of you and you had fully caught your breath. You weren't fishing for compliments either, you were just expressing your genuine surprise that he wanted you around. 

"I like you because you are kind. You always ask if everyone is okay, even MJ when she is being snappy with you. I like you because you think of others first in every situation, even if it is frustrating for the people who love you. I like you because you always know what to say to people when they are feeling sad and I’m sorry I'm not as good at it as you. I like you because you always say bless you when anyone sneezes and you put the grocery cart away at the store every time. You always tell people they can talk to you if they need anything, even if you don't know then very well. You always crack your window for me so I can come in if I need you after patrols. You are the kindest person I have ever met. I like you because I will love you until the end of me. And everyone around you loves you too." By the time he was done you were holding back tears again. You looked at him and he smiled at you before saying, "Of course they don't love you as much as I do, I think thats impossible." while he smirked, trying to get you to crack a smile. It worked. You took a deep breath before straddling his legs and wrapping yourself around him in the biggest hug you could give. 

"I love you too" you said into his neck where your head was buried. He rubbed your back as you breathed him in. 

"Are you ready to go back out there or do you want to stay in here?" he asked genuinely and you knew he would be content with either choice. 

"We can go back out there but I think I’m going to head home." You muttered out, knowing you were going to crash soon if you stayed here. 

"Can I come with you?" he questioned. You looked at him and sighed. 

"Pete, I don’t want you to miss out on the rest of the day because you're with me." you said but you smiled at him. 

"Can I please? I wanna take care of my girl." He whispered the last part and you knew your resolve wouldn't last. 

"Yes of course you can come with me." you muttered, secretly glad he was coming with you. You didnt really want to be all alone as your parents were off at work. 

You didn't regret your decision. You headed outside while he grabbed your stuff from the cafeteria so you didn't have to let your peers see you with tear stains. He carried your bag all the way home and had his arm around your shoulders as he walked. When you got back you laid down on the couch and he tucked you in before going to the kitchen to make you some hot cocoa. By the time he came back into the room with cocoa in hand, you were fast asleep. Peter couldn't believe how much he cared about you as you laid there and he decided in that moment that he would spend the rest of his life proving your worth to you every single day.

#peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker x reader #x reader #avengers #avengers x reader #peter x reader #peter imagine #avengers imagines #fluff #peter parker fluff #self harm tw #panic attack tw #anxiety tw #anxiety #spider-man #spider-man imagine #spider-man x reader #tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #tom holland fluff

[llamagoddessofficial]

what was it like the first time Mc met Skull in the portal Au?

Is it story snippet time? I think it’s story snippet time.

The vent cover was loose.

You’d noticed, as soon as you’d rounded the corner. It didn’t matter that the facility was dark, quiet, deep in one of its night cycles... in the faint illumination of the safety screens and directional arrows left on, you picked up the silhouette of the cover. You were so familiar with the area of the lab around the room you slept in that you probably would’ve seen it anyway... but what immediately made all your attention snap to it was the fact that the glint of sleek metal in the darkness was, in fact, misaligned.

... Sans wanted everything neat. Sans wanted everything right. Red liked it that way, too, but Sans seemed to have the final say. And it showed- the entire facility was neat, angled, symmetrical and impossibly clean. It was so regimented and unnatural that you felt like an outlier yourself; a strange, curved, imperfect biological creature in a space that seemed to bleed robotic perfection from every corner.

... So... something about this one plating... this one vent cover, at a bad angle, tilted just against the grain...

... You were hyperfocused.

You moved over to it, bare feet cat-silent on the warm white floor, crouching down. You weren’t supposed to be out of your room at night, Sans didn’t like you wandering around when he was unaware, powered down for system maintenance and repairs... your fingers sealed around the loosened ends of the vent cover, and with the gentlest of tugs the whole thing came off, leaving a gaping hole in the wall large enough for you to crawl into. 

...

It was like you had a fog, separating one half of your mind from the other. Every day in this strange lab was confusing- and when you tried to ask yourself normal questions, like “where am I?” or “how did I get here?” or “why do I have no memories before this place?” your brain supplied you with absolutely nothing. And not only that, it couldn’t even supply you with the concern you knew you should be experiencing... the fear, the panic, it wouldn’t come. It was the most paradoxical and horrible sensation... the feeling of knowing something was wrong, of knowing you should be scared, but something in your head just not letting you access it.

... Maybe that was why the sight of the hole in the wall, the gap in the artificially perfect world around you, made your heart skip in excitement instead of fear. Maybe that was why you normally would have stuck to what was safe and not done stupid shit like going into vents...

... But this time, you got on your hands and knees, and crawled right in.

You weren’t crawling for a very long time; after what couldn’t have even been a minute of moving in a straight line through the smooth metallic system, the dark space opened up above you, more than enough for you to stand up to your full height in. Your eyes were wide, childlike in wonder- unlike the rest of the facility, that at least seemed to try and fake an air of safety, this place behind the walls... every surface around you was dirty, stained and rusty, there were tubes and buttons and tangled wires sticking out of the floor and ceiling, the whole place was lit up with an unnerving orange glow that was leaking through slits in the flooring. The air was filled with a nasty tang, metallic and almost blood-like, heavy and claustrophobic...

... It was like you’d crawled into hell. Like you’d gone from the head of the facility to the entrance of the throat. Another world...

...

As your gaze lowered...

... There was something in the room with you.

The hairs on the back of your neck bristled. Near the other end of the room there was a large, metallic box, most likely containing important wiring of some kind. From where you were standing you could judge that it was about your shoulder height... pretty big. 

... But it wasn’t the box that had your attention. It was what it was blocking from your view. A perfectly circular crimson light was peeking out from behind that box... a turret eye, bright and awake and alive, cutting through the murky coloured darkness. And the more you stared, the more you could make out, the more you could see the partially obscured hunched figure attached to the eye that was trained directly on you. 

...

“H-hello?” You whispered.

...

“sh-ouldn_t.. be.here.”

... The voice was like nothing you’d ever heard. Deep, deathly deep, you could feel it in your chest like standing next to a speaker- vibrating in your stomach, the palms of your hands, even tingling along your scalp. It sounded... automated, jittering and autotuned and with inflections no human would use, but so clearly with thoughts and feelings behind it, the unmissable edge of somebody who’s cautious, afraid... a downright uncanny mix of machine and man.

“... Should you?” Your voice sounded so... weak. So biological. Your heart was pounding.

... The eye noticeably changed; the dot in the centre became a fraction wider. It took an odd shape, too... from your distance it... looked like a heart...?

A soft, low “... no_.”

“... Then that makes two of us. Right?”

...

The owner of the eye stood up. 

He stood slowly, too. And as he did, the box he’d been crouched behind just got smaller, and smaller, and smaller... a beast, made of the facility’s leftovers. Large enough to crush you like a beetle. The dim orange light touched his silhouette to reveal thick tubes, misshapen metal plates, wires hanging off him like cut vines... a gaping cavity in his chest where a half-broken plasma motor was faintly humming and glowing. One of his hands looked vaguely humanoid but the other was just a badly affixed pincer claw... the plate on his face had been haphazardly cut away so his one red eye could see, and a skeletal nose shape had been carved into the centre. Everything about him was asymmetric, uneven, mismatched... 

You opened your mouth-

[Bleep!]

...

It floated through the room. A light noise, like a phone notification. You took note of the fact that you couldn’t hear it echoing through the rest of the facility... something that was only heard in the backrooms, perhaps? It was a very gentle little sound, nothing more than a light jingle...

... Except he flinched like a gunshot had gone off, eye blinking out entirely. Immediately, he turned around- you let out a little “H-hey, wait!” and raised your arm but it didn’t stop him. In a few giant steps he’d completely disappeared around a corner, clanging sounds moving so much deeper into the metalworks in such a short amount of time that you found yourself immediately disoriented. How... you were just standing there, how did someone that huge and heavy move so fast?

...

You wanted to pursue. You wanted to chase him deep into the bowels of the lab, down where you weren’t ever supposed to go, where no light would reach... you wanted to so badly you’d already moved a few steps without realising.

... But at the same time, you felt like you’d done enough for one day. Your nose stung from the strange smells in the air, your eyes were straining in the orange darkness... you wanted to go to sleep, back to your relaxation chamber, to rest for now and figure out what the hell you’d just seen.

What the hell you’d just spoken to.

... You turned, and clambered back through the vent. It took no time at all to re-emerge back in the regular facility... back to the whiteness, the cleanliness, the perfect and fake.

...

You had no idea why he’d reacted the way he had to that sound. What did it mean? You trailed your hand along the wall as you walked, making your way through the halls back to your chamber, the floor smooth and faultless under your bare soles. Was it... some kind of warning? An alert system? Was he running toward something, or away fr-

“subject.” 

- You almost jumped out of your fucking skin.

You were never sure where Sans’ voice was coming from. It always seemed to just spontaneously exist all around you, disembodied and impossible to describe, surrounding you on all sides as if emanating from the air in the building itself. No matter how hard you searched you could never seem to find any speakers on the cold, unfriendly white walls or floor... just further adding to the confusion and dream-like quality of this whole place. You clutched your chest, taking a little breath, trying to disguise the wild flinch that you’d just experienced.

“Y-yeah?” You said, smooth as always, and totally completely not-startled.

Sans always heard you, no matter how quietly you spoke- and judging by passing comments he’d made he always seemed to be able to see you and your expression. God, you hoped he couldn’t read the panic in your face.

“the facility is in night cycle.” Calm, emotionless, slightly autotuned, as per usual... but a little softer than the norm. “why are you out of your relaxation chamber?”

You glanced up at the nearest camera, a small black orb close to the ceiling with a gently blinking blue light.

...

“I-I can’t sleep.” Was all you could think of.

...

“... perhaps it will be easier to sleep... if you are reclined in a position, in which you can actually sleep. you should return to your chamber.”

“... I’m just walking around.” You kept moving, hoping he wouldn’t think about where you’d come from. “I mean... N-not all of us have a ‘go to sleep instantly’ button. I’m clearing my head. I’m fine, I'm on my way back anyway.”

...

“you’re stammering. your heart rate is elevated.”

Shit. Shit. No, it’s-

“... did you experience a nightmare?”

...

“O-oh. Yeah. Uhm...” You rubbed the back of your neck, eyes drifting down to the floor. “You know about those?”

“i have access to the combined entirety of human knowledge. yes, i am aware of nightmares.”

“W-well... yeah. Yes. I... had one. I’m walking it off.”

... A pause, on his part. 

...

“... i can turn the lights back on. if... you’d like to walk around.”

“No thank you. It’ll just make me feel more awake.”

“i see. ... well. i need to complete some more system reboots. i will be partially offline again. if... you need me, just call.”

“Okay. Sure. I will.”

#llama writes #portal au #llama gets carried away: the series #its creepy robot time #its a biggun too! hhehe #feels nice to write again

[amysteriousmessenger]

‘Oh, to serve a Princess’ - Ray x Reader NSFW fanfiction

Pairing: Ray x implied female reader CW: Face-riding, fingering, slightly obsessive and a little more confident Ray who just wants to be used Word Count: 4.8k Rating: Explicit

You hadn’t seen Ray in a couple of days, almost a week actually. He said he’d been so busy doing another job for the Saviour that he hadn’t even had time to sleep and had been eating at his desk. He cried on the phone that every time he’d tried to sneak out to come and visit you, a Believer had been waiting outside for him to ask where was going. You missed him, that much was obvious from the ache in your heart, but the punch in your stomach was the worry you had for him. You’d been at Mint Eye for several months, but you had yet to see what tied him so subserviently to the Saviour, besides fear. You’d hoped that he’d at least been eating decently while at his desk, but the various candy bar wrapper sounds you had heard over the phone told you otherwise. You couldn’t help but sigh as you stared out of the window into the night sky. The garden was so beautiful, and you knew how much Ray cherished the flowers growing within it. And yet, it brought you little joy to be enjoying it without him.

Averting your gaze towards the small decorative birdcage that resided in the corner of your room, you couldn’t help but see Ray flash before your eyes again as you touched one of the thin metal bars. Even in the dark lighting of your room, the cage glinted a brilliant gold. You supposed that the cage was just like Magenta. It was so pretty and ornate that, surely, a bird would  want  to fly willingly towards the gilded embrace it to be loved safely from within its bars. A small bird that longed for protection, to live peacefully. However, it was only when that bird flew into the cage that they would realise it was exactly that:  a cage.  You felt sick, wiping your fingers against the fabric of your black dress. You’d previously been wearing the dresses that Ray had brought you but they were being cleaned and he’d told you he’d gotten you a new dress, but you hadn’t seen him since he mentioned it. So, you remained in the Mint Eye standard black dress, it was pretty, so you didn’t mind. You looked back between the cage and the garden and figured that the garden would be the lesser of two evils since you’d at least be able to get some fresh air. You grabbed your phone, ID card, and a light shawl just in case it was cold. You didn’t have many shoes with you, but the ground looked dry enough to just wear some light slip-on shoes.

You looked back at the cage once again before swiftly making your way to the door, pulling it open, and having your heart jump out of your chest immediately. Someone was on the other side. It took a second or two for your eyes to adjust and to realise that it was Ray. He hardly looked like Ray. His under-eyes looked practically bruised, he’d lost more weight and he was swaying slightly. He utterly looked  exhausted.

‘Ray, are you okay?’ You asked, taking in his appearance. He had brought you a bouquet of gorgeous red roses, but you were more concerned about having him get a little bit of colour in his  cheek  than the deep rouge of the petals.

‘Yes! I am fine, please do not worry about me, my sweet flower. Might I come in? I know it’s late… I’ve only just finished my work.’

‘Of course, you can but… Ray, you should get some rest first.’ You replied, very much wanting him to get the sleep that he had been so deprived of.

‘A-ah, yes, of course… I did not mean to be a burden, I just hoped I could see you. I went to pick these flowers before I came here, to make up for not visiting’ His half-gloved hands moved the flowers towards you, a pleading look sneaking onto his face. He knew exactly how to have you putty in his hands.

‘Oh, Ray. You’re not a burden. Come in, please, sit down and eat something. They’re so pretty, you know that red roses are my favo- A-ah! Ow!’ you flinched, pulling your hand back from the roses. You’d pricked your finger on a rose thorn. It was only a small drop of blood and didn’t particularly hurt after the initial sting. It was just a tiny dot of blood but, to Ray, it was as though his love had directly hurt you. You didn’t think it was possible, but the colour seemed to drain from his face even more as you watched the panic strike across his features.

‘My princess, I’m so sorry! This is all my fault, I should have de-thorned the roses! I’m so stupid! Useless! I didn’t think and now  you’re h-hurt!’   Tears began to well in his eyes, and you couldn’t help but think he looked beautiful, even then.

‘It’s okay, Ray! It’s just a little bit of blood, I just need to take the thorn out.’ You tried to console him as he blamed himself.

‘Please, allow me.’ Ray followed you into the room hurriedly, locking the door behind him. He took the roses from you and placed them on your vanity table. He knew his way around your room very well, since he had personally designed it, and retrieved a small first-aid box from your bathroom. You didn’t think he needed to go to such an effort for such a small, insignificant injury, but figured it would probably bring him a little bit of joy to let him care for you after not being able to see you for so long. He guided you towards your bed, as though you were mortally wounded, and sat down next to you as he fumbled through the small box. He set aside a small band-aid, disinfectant spray, tweezers, and cleaning wipe. You felt bad for worrying ray, especially since he’d had such a rough few days, so you wanted to try and lessen his emotional burden by taking the blame.

‘I’m so clumsy, I usually burn my hands a lot.’ You started before laughing and adding ‘Maybe I should get a pair of gloves like yours, so I stop hurting my fingers so much.’

‘My gloves stop me from biting my nails so much. I often don’t realise I’m doing it but sometimes I just get so anxious. My Saviour told me to wear them to stop biting at my nails and to hide them from her sight, she says my hands aren’t pretty to look at. That they’re a sign of my weakness… Maybe, when I get stronger, I’ll be okay without them. I’m sorry, I need to take the thorn out…’ He whispered as he used the tweezers to remove the thin spike from your skin, making the blood form in a little bubble on the surface of your skin. You could feel your heart clenching as you heard Ray speak about his gloves, and part of you wished you hadn’t mentioned it.

‘It’s okay. I like your gloves Ray, they make you look princely.’ You smiled, using your other hand to gently place your hand on his knee. You felt him tense up for a moment before ever-so-slightly moving closer into your touch.

‘Princely? I-I don’t think I’m good enough for that… but, I’d like to be your prince, if you’d let me, princess.’ Ray replied, averting his gaze back to your finger as he delicately wiped at your finger. Clearly, he was no stranger to disinfecting wounds.

‘You look just like a Prince. I was reading earlier, ‘The Happy Prince’ by Oscar Wilde specifically, and when I read about the Prince having sapphires for eyes, I pictured yours.’ You reached your hand up to stroke his cheek softly with the back of your fingers. You didn’t have the heart to tell him how sad the story of ‘The Happy Prince’ was.

‘Ah… I don’t really know what to say.’ Ray focused on cleaning your finger, his face growing warm under your affection. He couldn’t have hidden the light dusting of a blush even if he had tried.

‘Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to embarrass you… Your eyes are just pretty.’ You added, worried that you had somehow made him uncomfortable. It was unlike you to be so upfront with Ray, but you just had a pull, a need, to make sure he knew how precious he truly was. He’d never think it for himself, so you wanted to make sure someone told him, at the very least, that he was cherished.

‘P-pretty? I’ve never considered myself pretty, but I like pretty things, like you, and flowers, and the sky… Will you allow me to do something a little bolder than usual?’ He asked, pulling his icy eyes up to meet your gaze for a moment.

‘Of course.’ You knew he’d never do anything without your consent, and you trusted Ray to always treat you with tenderness, so even his ‘boldness’ was sweet. He took a quick intake of breath before bringing your fingertip up to his lips and placing the softest kiss upon where the small prick of blood had begun to reappear, leaving a tiny dot of red on his lips when they left your flesh.

‘I want to… be a Prince for you. They kiss their beloved’s hands, right? And uhm, they- they kiss their love to break the spell.’ He spoke, looking back at your hand as he cupped it with both of his own.

‘True Love’s first kiss? But we’ve kissed before.’ You added, a little confused. You’d done more than kiss before, you’d been with Ray for a few months and the intimacy had been forthcoming. Ray’s adoration was obsessive and, whilst he struggled to accept it, no amount of physical affection was ever enough. He always craved more from the second it was over. But he was uncertain and shy, so sometimes he didn’t know how to ask for more and would, in turn, suffer until you next bestowed it upon him.

‘I wasn’t a Prince then… I want to look after you and treat you like a Princess.’ He said, wrapping the band-aid around your finger and only released your hand to tidy the first-aid box away. You noticed that he hadn’t wiped the blood from his lips despite there being no way that he wasn’t aware of its presence. It was probably the most colour he had on his face at that moment, even in the dim lighting of your bedroom. Ray was almost ghostly in appearance, and yet, so beautiful. It pained you that he couldn’t see that in himself.

‘Okay, you can be my Prince, Ray.’ You whispered. It took a moment for him to hesitate before he tentatively pressed his lips against yours. You hadn’t seen Ray for so long, you had almost forgotten how much you craved his touch. His lips were cold and chapped, more so than usual because of having not looked after himself properly. There was a small tinge from the metallic taste of blood before it quickly vanished, and you could taste the hint of all the sugary snacks that Ray had been subsisting on in his IT room. He was quicker to deepen the kiss than usual, not that you were complaining, but at some point or another: you needed to stop to breathe. It was painfully obvious by the darkening look in Ray’s eyes that he’d have much rather given you his last breath than to pull apart for just a moment longer because as soon as he could, he was back to steal intoxicating kisses from you. You supposed it was due to the lengthy separation that had made Ray be this needy, almost to the point of  obsessive , but his kisses were like a drunken summer’s evening: warm and yearning. Yearning for the heat he was so constantly deprived of.

This wasn’t your first time together, so Ray knew what you liked. He knew you liked when he kissed down your neck, when his fingertips danced along your bare shoulders, or when you could feel him whispering into your ear. He was always so meticulously focused on pleasing you that always knew what to do even if he didn’t always have the confidence to execute it without coaxing. This was not one of those times. Ray felt this hunger for you each time, but this time, he didn’t feel the same level of uncertainty that he usually did. Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation, or maybe it was having not had his hands on you in almost a week, but at that moment: you were the drug that Ray was the most addicted to. As he kissed along your neck, your hands found their way into his soft, white hair. Without either of you mentioning it, you both fell back onto the bed together, with Ray leaning over you to continue kissing the sensitive skin on your throat. You couldn’t help but let out small gasps and whimpers under his touch, you really had missed him, after all.

‘Ray…’ You half said, half-moaned. You could feel yourself getting turned on, but the rational part of your brain was reminding you that Ray should get some sleep after having worked for such a long period of time. You wanted him to look after himself, even though that clearly wasn’t at the forefront of his own mind in that moment.

‘Yes, my Princess?’ He pulled away from your neck to ask, looking down into your face from above. He was panting slightly, and you didn’t think it was just from the kissing. Like you, he was flushed in the face and his eyes were half-lidded from sheer  hunger.

‘Don’t you think… that you should get some sleep? You were working for so long.’ You said, reaching a hand down from his head to cup his face.

‘D-do you want me to stop?’ Ray asked quickly, a moment of panic flashing that perhaps he had gotten too ahead of himself, that you didn’t want his touch.

‘No, but you’re tired and-’

‘This…is nothing. What kind of Prince doesn’t give his Princess the attention that she deserves, especially after he’s neglected her all week? I-I’ll do anything you ask of me, since it’s you.’ Ray was relieved that it wasn’t him misreading the situation, and you were just concerned for his wellbeing. This wasn’t the lost endurance test he’d had; he could stay awake a little bit longer if it meant getting to be in your company. That much he could manage.

‘A-ah…’ You gasped as he turned to kiss along your bare shoulder. You had missed the sensation of being underneath him like this. His cravat was lightly tickling your chest and you laughed involuntarily. He didn’t take his mouth off of you, but you felt him reach up to his neck with one hand and tug the cravat loose, so it didn’t tickle you as much. He also undid his top button, probably to allow himself to breathe better.

‘H-how do you want me to please you?’ Ray asked, still looking for the confidence to be bolder with verbalising what he wanted to say.

‘Mhm, touch me… Ray.’ You moaned into his ear. You decided that if he really wanted to spend the night with his first moment of freedom, who were you to deny the both of you that enjoyment?

‘Like- like this?’ He asked as he tentatively laid on the bed, half next to you and half on top of you. His gloved hand slowly moved up towards your inner thigh as you parted them to grant him access. Ray’s hand disappeared underneath the hem of your black dress as his fingers found the fabric of your underwear. His confidence seemed to falter for a moment of uncertainty until your own hands found their way into his hair again and you pressed a few butterfly kisses against his sharp jawline.

Usually, Ray took his gloves off to touch you since you wouldn’t actually see his hands in the darkness, but this time he kept them on, primarily because you said that you liked them, and secondly because he wanted to live up to the princely imagery you had described to him. His fingers pressed against you gently, moving in small circular motions up and down the length of you. He’d occasionally vary the pressure depending on which spot he was touching, since he didn’t want to accidentally hurt you. He was teasing you and he didn’t even realise he was doing it. Ray quickly found the spot which made you moan the most. Since he was wearing his gloves, he couldn’t physically feel how turned on you were, so he relied on the mewls you emitted to know that he was doing a good job.

‘More… please.’ You sighed underneath his touch. Ray’s hand found its way into your underwear and you moaned into his mouth as you continued to kiss him, It was safe to say that the situation that definitely gotten heated, but you couldn’t tell from whose face the heat radiated the most, ‘Yeah, just like that…’ You affirmed as his fingers circled around your folds, occasionally teasing at your clit. You briefly wondered why he’d didn’t keep his gloves on for this more often, it felt so good. It carried a certain emotion, being touched with leather gloves, that was making you physically weak at the knees. As much as you enjoyed the feeling of his skin on you, you couldn’t deny that the gloves were definitely doing it for you too. He could feel the slickness of your arousal as his gloved fingers slid along your folds until you were melting against his chest. Ray liked that he was in a position to be able to continuously kiss you as he stroked you, he needed all of you at once. He wanted to be in every single one of your senses, the same way that you were all-encompassing to his. His fingers left you briefly, and you mourned for the sudden lost sensation.

‘My princess, would you mind, uhm, lifting your hips up for me?’ He asked in a husky manner that was almost unlike him. He sounded so needy, you immediately complied and helped him to remove your underwear. While you were there, you also kicked off the slipped that you had put on for your long-forgotten walk into the garden. Once you laid back down, Ray’s obsessive hands soon found their way back to your body.

After another minute or so of circling your clit, his fingers lowered themselves to your entrance. He waited, asking for permission, before slowly entering you with his hand. As always, he was patient with your body, especially after having not touched you for a while. He added one finger at first, moving it slowly to let you adjust, before quickly adding another. You had missed the feeling of having him inside you like this. Ray had to adjust his wrist slightly before he continued to let him curl his finger against you, rubbing along your wall in a ‘come hither’ motion. While you had some lube in your bedside table, you didn’t think there’d be a need for it, since you could feel how turned on you were from the cool air hitting the wetness on your  thighs.  You moaned out affection and affirmations to Ray as he increased his speed as he let you pull him into kisses at will or held his head against your chest. However you wanted to hold him, he’d happily go along with it.

‘It’s so good, Ray- ah, right there!’ You choked as he hit the spot that made you almost see stars. He tried to focus on hitting that spot, again and again, his hand becoming wetter and wetter which each passing tap on your g-spot. You were somewhat embarrassed that you could actually hear the motion of Ray’s fingers moving in and out of you but it just seemed to spur him on more. He really was talented with those fingers.

‘I want... more. I saw something that I want to try. I-I promise I’ll do my best to make it feel good… I don’t quite know how to phrase it. I want to taste you, from above-’ He explained, slightly haphazardly.

‘Are you sure? Won’t I be too heavy?’ You questioned; a little bit uncertain of his request.

‘Of course not. In the video I saw, they used a pillow to support their neck and-’ He started, but you couldn’t help interject with laughter.

‘Ray, were you watching porn?’ It just seemed so out of character for him.

‘No! I mean, technically, yes. It wasn’t mine… I was checking that none of the Believers were trying to look at stuff they shouldn’t be and I… found a video. I thought it looked like you might enjoy it. I found that I… wanted to please you like that.’ His face flushed with embarrassment, even after everything that had just happened, he was suddenly embarrassed that he stumbled across and watched a porn video.

‘We can try it, if you want.’ The embarrassment spread from Ray to you, realising that you were, in fact, going to be sitting on his face. You were a little bit self-conscious about your body, so you said you wanted to keep your dress on, and Ray replied that thought you were beautiful, but he understood body issues and wouldn’t push you since this was already out of your comfort zone. Ray removed his fingers from you again and, with his other hand, he laid a pillow flat on the bed and positioned it so his neck was supported at a slight angle. You were a little nervous about hurting him, but since he wanted to try it, you were willing to give it a try.

You sat up, unsure how to how exactly you were supposed to get on his face without crushing him, but still equally as desperate for stimulation. You lifted your dress up and bunched it at your hips, throwing one leg over Ray’s chest so you were almost straddling him at the next. You waited for him to give the okay to move closer and put yourself in his mouth. You felt his hands steady your thighs as he nudged you close to him, clearly equally as eager to use his mouth on you as you were to have him do it.

Ray started with a few small, sensitive kisses along your folds, earning small shudders from above. You felt a little scared to move, in case you fell and hurt him, so you intended to just let him take his time in what he was doing, he was going you so much attention after all. You felt him stick out his tongue and run it in a line up and down you, your breath hitching in your throat when he grazed it over your clit again and again. And then, almost all at once, Ray pushed your hips into your face, so you were completely on his mouth. It was as though something took over him, a hungry desire that he didn’t verbalise, but you could see burning in his eyes as he took mouthful after mouthful of you, You threw your head back in pleasure and choked out his name in broken moans. You hadn’t expected Ray to be so upfront with wanting to do something like this, and then actually taking control with it.

His gloved hands were on your hips, moving you over his mouth with speed. He was practically  begging  you to use him, to let him make you feel good. Ray wanted nothing more than to be useful to you, especially like this. He  needed  that useless body of his to be good for something, to be good for you. He’d never want for anything ever again if you were to, at the very least, allow him to stay by your side like this. This much he could do. Was it selfish of him to think such a thing? Perhaps. But he decided that, with everything he’d endured in his life, he was allowed to keep that one selfish thought close to his heart. It was a little difficult for him to manage while you were obstructing his view, but Ray undid his trousers and began lightly touching his own erection since it had become uncomfortable to ignore, using your own arousal on his gloves as a lubricant. He was already painfully hard from pleasuring you, but he didn’t need any of the attention to be on him tonight, he wanted to be there just to please you, to  serve  you.

He stroked himself with one hand and continued to guide you over his face with the other. He  particularly  liked it when you found the confidence to grip your hands in his hair and start moving yourself against his tongue, using him in the way he wanted you to. You had already been starting to get close to an orgasm when Ray had had his hands inside of you, so it didn’t take very long for the sensation to start building once again. Personally, Ray didn’t have too much stamina so he had to delay his own orgasm for as long as possible to be able to continue watching the show above him to his utmost benefit. He preferred watching you as you moved against him, and he felt drunk when you made eye contact with him whilst you did it. He was the only one who got to see you like this,  the only one.  He didn’t care what he had to do to keep it that way, he’d be possessive, obsessive, compulsive if needs be to ensure that that would remain the case.

Above, you felt the pressure of an orgasm building quickly under the merciless assault of Ray’s tongue. You could feel that Ray was picking up his own pace and moaning onto you, which felt fucking  great.  He was starting to get close too, which made sense because of how aroused he had been just from touching you. Besides, he definitely hadn’t had any time to release himself all week, he was probably just a bit pent up too.   His lips were pursed over your clit, swapping between kissing it and sucking on it and then using his tongue when you picked up speed in order to let you fuck yourself on it, praises and prayers falling freely from your mouth.

‘Fuc- Ray! I think I’m gonna-’ You didn’t even have a chance to finish your statement before Ray picked up the speed he was moving your hips at, quickly sending you over the edge in his mouth. Did he stop moving you, just because you’d climaxed?  Absolutely not.  Through the blinding pleasure, Ray continued to use his mouth on you until your legs started to twitch from the overstimulation. It was watching you writhe above him, knowing that he’d done such a good job that allowed him to find his own orgasm too, quickly releasing over his hand. He touched himself through his peak, mentally visualising how both of your arousals must look mixed between his fingertips. He closed his eyes, feeling lost in the moment where all of his pent-up frustrations from the last week came crumbling down into a moment of practical peace.

When he was done, you removed yourself from his mouth and collapsed on the bed next to him. You were both panting heavily as you crawled to his side, placing exhausted kisses along his jaw and temple. His hair was a mess from where you’d run your hands through it, but you thought it just made him look cute. You weren’t surprised to see how quickly the exhaustion took over Ray after he caught his breath and you convinced him to take the risk and sleep in your room for the night, since you weren’t entirely certain he’d made it all of the way back to his own room without passing out. You took turns in the bathroom, cleaning yourselves up from the unfolded events of the night, and crawled into bed together.

‘I love you, Ray. I really do.’ You said, embraced in one another’s arms in the darkness.

‘I love you too, my sweet Princess.’ He replied, clearly trying to fight off the sleep to continue talking to you.

You pressed one more kiss into his pale cheek, ‘I wish you’d know how precious you were to me.’ You whispered, but he was already unconscious.

#mystic messenger #mystic messenger x reader #mystic messenger reader insert #saeran choi #saeran choi x reader #ray mystic messenger #ray x reader #ray mystic messenger x reader #mystic messenger headcanons #mystic messenger headcanon #mystic messenger hcs #mystic messenger hc #mysme fanfiction #mysme fanfic

[lastxviolet]

Madripoor is for Lovers (Zemo x F!Reader) - Ch. 3

Summary: Y/N is a SWORD agent recruited to help Sam and Bucky track down Karli and the super-soldiers. When Helmut Zemo joins the team, he takes a special interest in her. The friendly union is wrought for disaster, but then things take a turn for the worst when Y/N is taken as collateral. Will Zemo keep her forever? Does she even want to escape? And what happened in Madripoor that made the whole thing so complicated?

Warnings: 18+ / smut / oral sex / f receiving

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32878015/chapters/81589774

The hypnotic bass and Zemo's enthusiastic dance moves almost got you carried away. But over the bouncing crowd, you saw Sharon, Bucky, and Sam on the stairs, looking for you.

“Shit,” you mumbled, breaking the trance. “We gotta go.”

Zemo followed your line of sight and turned to lead you back to the group in silence. You try to hide the disappointment on your face.

“We found him,” Sharon yelled over the music upon your approach.

The five of you went over the plan for tomorrow back in Sharon’s suite. You doubted that even with your experience, you could’ve found Dr. Nagel without Sharon's help. In the states, it was easy to pick a needle out of a haystack, because you always knew what you were looking for. But here, everyone was a criminal. Uncharted territory where you had to find the sharpest needle amongst thousands.

“You good?”

Sam’s voice cut through your thoughts. You looked up and noticed the dissipating group. Sharon showed Bucky to his room, and Zemo sat with his eyes glued to a book on the couch. Only Sam remained standing in front of you, looking like he was about to pass out.

“I’m fine,” you assured him. “Go get some sleep. You look terrible.”

He chuckled and nodded in agreement. “We gotta get the hell out of here. Madripoor has aged me at least ten years.”

“Me too. I miss places where being a criminal makes you the odd one out, not the other way around.”

“Goody two-shoes,” he teased before turning to find his room.

Sharon waved him on from down the hall and they got back into it about her pardon and what she’d missed in the states.

Your attention shifted to the only other person in the room. Zemo’s eyes wasted no time abandoning his book and landing on you as soon as you were alone.

“The Odyssey,” you asked, pointing to his book. “I didn’t take you for someone who enjoys fiction.”

He smiled at the attention and made room for you on the couch.

“I often find that there are elements of truth in every fantasy. The human spirit is sometimes better examined by poets than by professors. This, for instance, is a brilliant study on heroes.”

“Hmm, studying heroes? An attempt to know thy enemy?”

He laughed and turned to you with his elbow up on the back of the couch, bringing him less than a foot away from your face. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the lights down the hall go out. There were no interruptions, or easy outs, now. All that was left was you, and the only man who’d ever made you truly nervous.

“Y/N, if you were in Odysseus’s place, content and immortal, would you give it up to go back home?”

“You’re asking me if I’d abandon my legacy and family to shack up on an island with some mistress?”

He chuckled and nodded in approval. “Very wise. But what does he gain by leaving? Struggle? Hardship? Mortality?”

You tilted your head to match his. “Are you telling me that you’d stay on the island?”

His expression shifted for the first time since you’d stepped foot in Madripoor. The overconfident, smirking Baron dissolved into a man.

A man who hid the sense of riotousness that he carried with dramatic flair. A man whose charm and wit seemed fabricated.

This man now, fighting off sleepy eyes and grappling with the moral quandary posed, seemed burdened. You wondered if his quest for justice would ever get to be too much. After all the destruction he’d caused, could he still see himself as the exactor of fairness? Were the Avengers still his enemy? Were you?

“No,” he confessed looking down at the copy in his hands.

Your lips twitched but you didn’t smile. “You’d make the hard choice — the hero’s choice if it came down to it.”

He looked almost somber at your words and nodded.

“In another life…perhaps.”

His voice wavered, almost as if he regretted saying it out loud. The briefing that Sam and Bucky had given you about him flashed in your mind.

A hero's choice was the right thing to do; the hard thing to do. You knew that he was a soldier before everything happened. Just like you.

Was that not a hero’s choice?

He tore the Avengers apart in an attempt to stitch up his own heart. An eye for an eye. Avenging his country because its destruction had been glossed over by the world. His loss fueled his anger but he was more capable than most. A man without armor, or mystical abilities was able to wreak havoc on those who had wronged him.

Was that heroism?

If losing those you love didn’t permit revenge, you weren't sure what did.

He broke the silence by tapping his knuckle on the book.

“It is the perfect testament to the valiance of heroes,” he continued. "But, I must say that the wisest thing Odysseus did was marry his wife.”

You laughed and nodded, remembering how she saved the day. Without her, Odysseus’s homecoming would’ve been much more perilous for him.

“I often find that behind every great man is an even better woman.”

He smirked and didn’t miss a beat. “Like you with…your Avengers.”

“I stand beside them,” you corrected.

He raised an eyebrow and waved a hand. “Semantics."

You gave him an eye roll in return.

He smiled then, wider than you had ever seen. It almost made him seem shy. Perhaps it was because he was making a genuine point, masked in humor.

You were well aware of your importance to this mission and yet burdened by the fact that it didn’t make you a member of their special club. When this was all over, you wouldn’t be an Avenger, or anywhere close. You’d go back to S.W.O.R.D to wait until called upon again. It hadn’t occurred to you before, but there was a pang of sadness there where the thought rested. It’d be a mistake to let Zemo know but it seemed to be too late.

“You’re making fun of me.”

His hand brushed yours. “No. I am merely expressing my concerns about your allegiances.”

Still aware of the small amount of alcohol left in your system, you looked away from his quirked moving lips.

“Enlighten me, Baron. What wrong decisions do you think I’m making?”

Frozen in place, you let him brush his fingers along your wrist to your arm. He took his time, tracing patterns on your skin and inspecting his work with an unwavering gaze. Only when his thumb caressed your cheek, and his hand landed on your neck did he look you in the eyes again. The air in your lungs was gone and your body betrayed you with a furious eruption of butterflies.

“Living a hero’s life,” he said somber-eyed and serious.

Your heart rate quickened. As if you’d learned nothing in S.W.O.R.D about manipulation, you were back to watching his lips. They parted slightly, as if he had something else to say but thought better of it.

A hero.

You didn't feel like one.

A sidekick, maybe. But even then, no one knew your name. No one sang your praises at home or breathed a sigh of relief knowing you were out there in the world fighting evil. It seemed that the only one who thought of you as more than an assistant was Zemo.

Your heart felt heavy then. The two of you were impossible. An inconceivable pair brought together by chance.

But that didn’t make his dark eyes any less enticing or his words any less intoxicating.

That didn’t make you any further from his lips.

He was a breath away, but so was your own destruction.

In another life, the island might tempt you.

“Look,” you said glancing past him to find something to change the subject. “It’s a full moon.”

Without sparing him another glance, you crossed the floor in four quick steps to the large windows. Never one to give up easily, you heard him follow close behind.

He beat you there and pushed open the glass door before gesturing towards the balcony in silence.

You looked down at your feet until the skyline drew your eyes. The plan to diffuse the tension had not worked in the slightest. The moonlit balcony overlooking the beautiful city had only made it worse.

You heard him stop a few feet from you and then settle on the lone armchair. The reality of the situation hit you like a train. Away from the windows, you had privacy. This high up no one would see you and everyone else was in bed. You'd meant to creep out of the lion's den but instead, you'd locked yourself in.

“The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to,” Zemo mused from behind you.

“Carl Sanburg,” you confirmed, so he knew you didn't think he'd made it up.

Both of you were silent then. Swaying in the tension you'd built. Sanity pulling you back inside, inexplicable hope keeping you planted in place.

“Are you lonely, Baron?”

The words fell from your lips more delicate and intimate than you had meant them to. You let slip that you cared about his answer. That you might even care to cure him of the ailment.

“Me? No.”

You turned and scoffed.

“Liar. You were in a cell for years and you hardly talk to anyone now that you’re out.”

He leaned back in the chair, arms on either rest and a leg crossed with the ankle of his right knee. His demeanor was harmless in the same way that a predator poised to pounce was. Elegant, still, and ready for the kill.

“Not true,” he corrected. “I talk to you.”

“One person isn’t enough,” you said, taking a step closer.

Were you walking into disaster? Or being pulled? You couldn't tell the difference between his seduction and your own reckless desires any longer.

“The right person though…can be,” he half-whispered. “And you, Y/N, are more than I deserve.”

He gazed up at you from the chair. Kings throughout history, in war-won golden thrones and elegant capes, paled in comparisons to how regal he looked. Anointed with a crown of moonlight, ruling over whomever he pleased.

Your eyes widened with the admission. “Baron — ”

“Helmut, please.” He stood then and met you near the railing, his hand grazing your hip. “Only if for tonight.”

You shook your head, knowing this was a bad idea. His hand made its way to your waist regardless. He pulled you against his chest before searching your eyes for any signal that you were going to run. You knew he’d find nothing. You knew you mirrored his look of lust with blown pupils and flushed cheeks.

“Have I gone too far,” he whispered, bringing his other hand to brush loose hair behind your ear.

“No,” you sighed, letting him pull you closer and brush his lips to your cheek and jaw.

“Tell me if I do,” he whispered again before finally capturing your lips with his.

You uttered no complaints as his tentative kiss turned bruising and possessive. His arms wound around your waist, crushing you into him. But you needed to feel closer. He grunted as you sprung to action, flinging your arms around his neck, deepening the desperate kiss. He tasted like whiskey and something sweet. A cool breeze brushed against the exposed parts of your body. You let your hands wander beneath his coat, chasing warmth and proximity. He let you do as you please, only insisting that his lips stayed on yours.

You let out a whimper as his hand explored the front of your dress. He stopped to press his warm hand against your breast, before holding your face.

It was then that he pulled away, steadying your searching lips with a grip on your chin.

“Ich esse nicht,” he sighed, kissing a pattern to your ear. “Ich schlafe nicht, ich tue nichts anderes, als an dich zu denken.”

His teeth grazed your pulse point, leaving you gasping for air.

“I don’t speak German,” you managed to stutter out.

A hand slid up the back of your dress, gripping the zipper before undoing it in one swift motion and the fabric fell to the floor. The cool air seized your naked torso for only a moment before Zemo pressed himself against you again. The coat you’d complained about before, now provided warmth and security. You tipped your head back, almost over the edge of the balcony as he continued worshipping your neck and chest.

“I don’t eat, I don’t sleep,” he said between wet open-mouthed kisses on your breasts. His hot mouth left purple spots that cooled instantly in the chilly night air.

“I do nothing but think of you,” he finished before toying with your hardened nipple between his teeth.

You moaned then, louder than you should’ve, and let your eyes flutter open. The world was upside-down but you made no motion to move. You were making Madripoor proud by being pressed up against a balcony by an international criminal.

Utterly pleased with himself, Zemo raised his face back towards yours, leaning you both over the edge.

“Shhh liebling,” he cooed.

He pulled you back over, kissing your shoulder before removing his jacket and draping it over you. Each brush of his lips feeling more improper than the last.

“We would not want your friends to see you like this.”

In the next second, he swept you off of your feet and hoisted you into his strong arms. You watched the world sway around you and then settle when he placed you on the lounge chair, letting you get some warmth back from the coat and cushions.

He draped one of your legs over an armrest, exposing you to him except for a thin pair of underwear.

“Not with you spread open for me,” he growled. He towered over you for only a moment before kneeling between your legs. The man whose stature made him the tallest amongst giants; the most important in any room he chose, knelt before you.

“What would they say,” he mumbled in a trace. His hands gripped both of your thighs, causing an eruption of goosebumps across your whole body. “If they saw you like this, with me?”

He looked up at you then, raising an eyebrow, and tracing the inside of your thigh with his thumb.

You answered him breathlessly. “They’d tell you to stop.”

“And what would you say to that?”

His voice sent shockwaves through your system. Dark and sultry, with a hint of danger. You threw your head back again, barely able to keep a single thought straight. Your body shuddered but you couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or the need for his touch. When you looked back to him, he was surveying your body with the hunger of a starved wolf.

“Would you want me to stop?” His voice was gentle and sweet then, asking in earnest.

“Meine Liebe," he taunted you for consent as he flashed a smirk and pulled something from his pocket.

Cold metal grazed your thigh. A moan escaped your throat as he unsheathed a serrated knife and caressed your skin with the dull side.

“I wouldn’t want you to stop,” you gasped, almost vibrating with anticipation. “I don’t want you to stop — Helmut — please don’t stop.”

He chucked again, before focusing his attention on the area between your legs. You bucked slightly as the icy knife slid underneath the fabric. He made one strong slash upwards and you felt the fabric fall away from your wet core. One of his hands gripped your ass, but only for a second before he tore the rest of the fabric from your body.

“How could I ever withhold something from you, liebling?” His nose grazed your inner thigh, inching closer and closer to where you needed him most. It was only a moment before you felt his breath between your legs.

“How cruel it would be,” he growled. You moaned and slapped a hand over your mouth as he kissed your sensitive bundle of nerves. “To not give you everything.”

His tongue swirled against you in a tantalizing pattern, stroking you deliciously. He licked you methodically like he was reading the blueprint of your body right then and there. He held each thigh in a punishing grip, pressing you deeper into the cushions as he made a meal of you. The stars above your head blurred and the universe shifted.

If this was your destruction then it was illustrious. You'd do it over and over again until you landed in a cell right next to him.

“Helmut,” you whined with a heaving chest.

“Tell me what you want,” he mumbled between flicks of his tongue. “And it is yours.”

You would’ve begged him to let you cum but he beat you to it, making your back arch and mouth fall open in ecstasy. You trembled beneath him, over and over, but he didn’t let up. Your legs strained from being extended by his unflinching hands. You tried to stutter something out to him but no sound came except for content sighs and haphazard gasps. But his eyes remained closed regardless of the noise.

Without his mouth on you, he would’ve been mistakable for a good Christian, deep in prayer. Brow's furrowed in focus and devotion; lips moving in silent divine appeals. Only he could make you feel worthy of an alter. You couldn't picture anyone ever worshipping you in the same way again. It was his, you thought. I am his.

Lost in pleasure and shock, you reached up to run your nails against his scalp. Only then did he release you, and raise to meet your waiting lips as they trembled.

“You,” was all you could manage to whisper. “Only you.”

He pulled you from the seat, to wrap your legs around him. You brought your forehead to his and let him pepper you with chaste kisses.

“When I have you,” he said, before pulling the coat around you again. “It will be in a proper bed.”

You stared at him, confused and overwhelmed. The space between your legs ached with a longing to be filled but he let your legs fall away, and stood up.

“We can’t…I mean not now — they’ll hear.”

Zemo smiled and nodded while looking for something on the ground. After a moment of searching, he picked up the torn pieces of the red underwear you had been wearing. Before you could retrieve it, he pocketed the shorn fabric and stared you straight in the eyes.

“Worry not, Y/N,” he purred, reaching a hand out to help you up. “We have all the time in the world.”

#zemo fic #baron zemo fic #baron zemo x you #baron zemo x reader #baron zemo #helmut zemo smut #helmut zemo x you #helmut zemo x reader #helmut zemo #zemo smut #zemo x reader #zemo fanfic

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

The d’Avenir Treatise on the Essentials of Monster Hunting (Vol I) - Preface and Introduction

The timing of this whole thing with the campaign is pretty amazing, as it turns out. In the middle of absolute work hell and attempts to sort out my general apartment/living situation, a little while ago I entered a fic into the /r/CurseOfStrahd second annual fanfic contest. It was one of my attempts to kind of write out and process the way our own run through the module went, stretch out some poor, suffering, unused writing muscles, and it was also super duper self-indulgent. So I'm very, very proud to say it won first place amidst some really great competition, and super happy to rep my best girl Ez.

Summary: In the aftermath of Strahd's destruction and the not-quite-loss of her mentor, Ezmerelda d'Avenir sets out to tie up loose ends and lay some ghosts to rest, and continues carving out a path for herself in the Domains of Dread.

Word count: 9999, as there was a 10k limit. I had fun.

Rating/Warnings: T, with canon-typical violence, and dealing with death and loss in a general gothic horror setting. Spoilers for the Curse of Strahd module.

---

The d’Avenir Treatise on the Essentials of Monster Hunting (Vol I) - Preface and Introduction

Being a compendium of successes, failures, tricks, and warnings relating to detecting, tracking, fighting, and ultimately destroying undead, fiends, lycanthropes, and assorted monstrosities.

-

1.1. Introductory remarks

Their ride back to town is a quiet one. The silence is broken only once they are sitting, their hunting and travelling gear half-unpacked and strewn about, in the library just above van Richten's herbalist shop.

"Were we in any other profession, this would be a cause for celebration," van Richten's lips twist into a bittersweet wisp of a smile, and he pushes a warm cup of tea into her hands. "A demonstration of pride in an apprentice's first job well done, for all to see and revel in."

Ezmerelda tries to look up at him and meet his gaze properly, but her shoulders, her head, her eyes all feel too heavy. A leaden weight seems to have settled on every bit of her. She is tired, bone-deep, but the very thought of lying down and closing her eyes to attempt to sleep fills her with disgust and no small amount of dread. She knows exactly what she will see. The man, just on the cusp of middle age, entirely unremarkable at first... features quickly twisting into a mask of monstrous hunger, then to wide-eyed horror, and, finally, resorting to desperate pleas for mercy as the stake hits home and his screeching form dissolves to ash. 

It feels like the ash still coats the back of her mouth. The tea smells of strong herbs, with just a whiff of something even stronger that van Richten must have snuck in from the liquor cabinet. Her hands clench around the cup, and a burning need to justify and defend herself drives her to finally speak up.

"I was ready," she insists. "I am ready."

"I know," van Richten replies, softly, sadly.

The tea scalds her tongue, but she drinks it anyway.

---

Getting up from the damp, cold floor of the tomb again feels like an impossibility. She can barely keep her head above the ground, eyes stinging with a mixture of blood and sweat and the glare of pure, magical sunlight. The clawed gashes on her ribcage burn with every weak, hard-won breath, and a metallic taste coats the back of her tongue.

But she is not done yet. She has one last lightning bolt left in her, and Strahd and his dusk elf lackey are so beautifully, perfectly aligned. Ezmerelda can't keep her lips from curling up into a smirk as she raises an arm and mutters her incantation, feeling that familiar tickle of static rising all around her.

She holds on, builds it up as much as she can, teeth grinding together, ears buzzing - until she can hold on no longer, and the energy flies from her, the flash near-blinding, the roar of accompanying thunder ringing in her ears.

She sees it hit home, the first traces of foggy vapour swirling around Strahd's convulsing form, and a beautiful satisfaction fills her. 

Then, she lets herself go.

An instant or an eternity later someone is shaking her into jarring and painful wakefulness, jostling her head against the rough floor. Her mouth is filled with the bitter aftertaste of a potion, and she grimaces as she feels the familiar residue on her lips and chin.

"Fine, fine, old man, relax, I'm up," she manages, slurring the words, struggling to blink her eyes open and into focus. "I'm awake. Stop it."

But it's not him.

It is Ireena, wide-eyed gaze somehow growing wider still at her words. The reason for this becomes abundantly and agonisingly clear as she points to somewhere behind Ezmerelda... to where Rudolph van Richten lies, very pale and very still, a greater and more profound calm upon him than she has ever witnessed.

"No."

She didn't even see him fall.

"Why didn't you help him?" Ezmerelda knocks the empty potion bottle away, and it clatters loudly against the stone, finally finding rest near a streak of dark ashes. "What are you waiting for, what--"

"I tried. It was... it's too late," Ireena whispers, "I'm sorry." 

Ezmerelda feels shame flood her immediately at the misaimed anger. "No. No, I'm sorry. It's not your fault. I'm sorry. I just-- wait." Awareness of just where they are and what they were in the middle of doing suddenly overwhelms her, and she feels panic crawl up her spine. "Is it over? Did you stake that bastard once and for all?"

Ireena nods, mouth curling in visible distaste. "I did, just like you said to. Your last hit - it was enough to force him to turn into mist, and then, when... when he reformed in the coffin, I did it."

The relief Ezmerelda feels at that is so bitter it burns. "I missed it, then," she murmurs, and feels ridiculous immediately afterwards. Ireena shakes her head, and helps her sit up.

She allows herself a few precious moments of rest against the cold, damp wall of the crypt, eyes painfully locked on van Richten's still, still form. As soon as she feels half-capable of moving, she all but drags herself to his side. Feeling for a pulse, a breath, anything at all to help her disbelieve what is plainly before her eyes.

She finds no such thing. He's dead, and it feels like a stake through her own heart. After all her efforts, after getting into Barovia just to get the damned foolish old man off his self-destructive warpath and out, only to lose him now, to fail right at the end...

A pale shimmer falls over the scene before her, like a curtain right before her eyes. Ezmerelda blinks and shakes her head, but can't make it go away. She reaches up, and--

Erasmus all but swoops down to be face to face with her.

It takes her a moment to properly grasp what she is seeing. Erasmus. Somehow still there, his ghostly form hovering over his father's body. Gesturing at her wildly, pointing down at something, and, finally, using his ectoplasmic paint to draw... a circle within a circle, hanging in mid-air.

She follows his wordless instructions to the best of her current ability and, with some painfully suppressed reluctance, looks down at van Richten. And there on his finger is a ring that was certainly not there before.

Erasmus seems insistent and quite unusually agitated, so Ezmerelda takes the ring, trying not to register the coldness of the hand it was on, and puts it on numbly, feeling utterly beyond thought.

Suddenly, cutting through the fog that seems to have descended upon her mind, bubbling up like an idea from her own consciousness, a thought - a voice. A familiar voice.

'Ezmerelda? Ah. I see. Well, that could have gone decidedly better.'

She feels tears welling up in her eyes, an unstoppable burning in her chest. She wants to laugh until she can't breathe, or sob her lungs raw. 

Instead, she sits back against the cool stone wall. As the adrenaline wears off, she becomes more aware of the extent of her injuries: the sting where foul claws raked across her midsection and upwards; the burns of magical fire on her palms. She fishes out the last potion from her pocket, and downs it in one greedy gulp. The relief is near-instant.

Her faculties at least somewhat returned to her, she opts for a laugh as she recognises the ring for what it is. Ireena looks at her with some concern, but Ezmerelda waves it away.

"A ring of mind shielding. Protect the mind, and store the soul, should the worst happen. Of course you of all people would come so prepared."

Ezmerelda twists the ring on her finger, marvels at the detailed engraving.

"Should I... we could... there's ways. To get you back. I mean..." 

She trails off, and there is a brief pause before the voice in her mind pipes up again. 'No. No, I think, at long last, it is time for me to stop. And rest.' 

Even though her entire being wishes to rail against this, to insist on the need for Rudolph van Richten to exist, and protest the injustice (just when she'd gotten him back!), Ezmerelda manages, barely, a soft, "I understand." 

'There is still some work to do before that, though, no? Loose ends for us to take care of before, well...' 

That, she feels far more comfortable with. It almost comes as a relief. "Yes, of course. First order of business, we will sit down, and we will work out a plan. And we will stick to that plan." 

There is a soft chuckle in her mind. 

"What's so funny? You love plans." 

She imagines, in better, happier days, the old man - only slightly less old - shaking his head at her with a long-suffering smile. 

'Thank you for humoring me, is all I'll say. Now, go handle things here properly and finish up, while I think of a list of priorities for us. Miss Kolyana is waiting for you.' 

-

1.2. A brief reflection on personal experience

Ezmerelda is pulled into a room, hand clamped over her mouth. The door slams shut, and she almost stumbles as she is suddenly released.

"What in all the realms are you doing here?" The colourful half-elf carnival master hisses at her in a voice decidedly unlike the one he was just using in the downstairs taproom. Now that they are close, she can see the magical disguise of the Great Rictavio is utterly impeccable, but the eyes... the eyes are unmistakable. 

They are also flooded with the closest thing to panic Ezmerelda has ever seen in them.

"I'm here to help you. You don't stand a chance on your own."

"How did you find me?"

Ezmerelda shrugs noncommittally, and doesn't look behind him. "I have my ways."

He shakes his head. "That isn't good enough. If his agents - and there are many, I assure you! - catch even a whiff--"

She finally glances at the ghostly form of Erasmus, just barely visible over Rictavio's shoulder, unable to be perceived by the one man he wishes he could reach out to and reassure. He meets her eyes and holds his finger up to his lips.

"I recognised your horse," she says, at long last. 

"Dear Drusilla? Oh..." Rictavio seems to almost deflate at that, though his nervous pacing doesn't slow. 

Erasmus' visage shows what has to be gratitude, or relief, or both. Then he closes his eyes, seemingly tired, and the shimmering remnants of him disappear from view. 

"Damned stubborn, foolish girl..." Rictavio moves deftly around the small room, securing the shutters on its single window, locking the door from the inside, gaze darting around wildly. Then he reaches up and removes his hat, and Rudolph van Richten, looking more old and more worn than Ezmerelda was perhaps ever prepared to see, stands in his place.

"I had a plan, you know," he sighs, tossing the hat onto the bed. "One that I can now no doubt forget about entirely."

"There's no time for your endless preparation and planning. Any waiting game we try to play is a losing one. There's a young woman who desperately needs our help, a legendary weapon to be found, and there's a monster to hunt, feeding on an entire land. I've been to the castle, scouted out--" 

"You've done what?" 

Ezmerelda doesn't look at him and chooses to pace a small circle around the room herself. "The castle. Ravenloft. Getting in was a breeze - getting out was the hard part." She suppresses a brief shudder at the memory of her invisibility spell running out and Strahd's eyes boring directly into hers, as if he'd known she was there all along. "But, well, I managed. And more importantly, I found a way into his crypt."

Van Richten sits down on the bed, rubbing circles into his forehead.

"Ezmerelda, you can't be here." His voice sounds pained, almost. "You know you are not safe near me. My curse--" 

"Sincerely, fuck your curse," Ezmerelda spits. "After all these years, it can wait a few days before striking. Can't be worse than what will happen to both of us and anyone involved if we can't manage to work together on this. We have to. I tried, by myself, but..." 

She tries not to dwell on the terribly brief confrontation, the bite of the cold, cold grasp that seemed to steal the very life out of her, and her rather desperate escape.

"Ezmerelda," van Richten starts again, then pauses, and just looks at her - a long, heavy look. "Why?"

"There are still people who care about your well-being," she replies simply and softly, "no matter what you may believe." 

Then she straightens her shoulders and allows the steel back into her voice. "So listen to me. We are going to stake that devil in his lair, and we are going to get out of this cursed land. Together."

For once, he doesn't argue.

---

Their lord and master may be gone, but there are plenty of foul things still crawling around Castle Ravenloft - and occasionally crawling out of it as well.

How lucky for the Village of Barovia, then, to have a monster hunter visiting.

"...so I think that should do it for that particular area of the barracks," Ezmerelda flicks a stray bit of zombie gunk off of her bracer, then casts an apologetic look at Ireena. "But who knows what else he has buried under there."

Ireena Kolyana, the girl haunted, hunted, and tormented by the vampire, deciding she's had enough of running, turning on him and wielding a sword of pure sunlight against him. Poetic justice, if Ezmerelda fancied herself a poet.

Ireena Kolyana, looking exhausted in a very different way, now caught up in burgomaster duties, barely finding time in her overstuffed schedule to hear about the results of Ezmerelda's latest expedition to the castle.

"You know," Ezmerelda begins, eyeing the stacks of papers and growing chaos on the desk between them, "if you ever get really tired of this, and miss life on the road..." she nods towards the window, and the wagon just outside it. "I have room for one more. And could always use a deft hand with a sword." 

Ireena smiles, but the sadness underpinning it is palpable. "I can't, not now at least. There is too much to take care of here. And without Ismark..." a shadow falls briefly over her face, then she visibly forces it back. "Some day, maybe. I would honestly love to." 

Ezmerelda nods, then moves to stand up, and holds out a hand expectantly. "Come on, you have time for a walk. A minute to escort me out and say goodbye, at least."

Ireena chuckles quietly and shakes her head, but pushes away from the desk and takes the proffered arm. 

The sunlight is bright, tempered only by a wisp of white cloud here and there. Ezmerelda feels a light pull on her arm as Ireena stops on the threshold of the house for just a fraction of a moment. The hesitation is brief, barely noticeable, but the pause as if needing to catch her breath and the subsequent dawning joy - pure, almost radiant by itself - as the sunlight hits her skin--

Ezmerelda realises she's staring, blinks, and makes herself look away.

Their stroll is indeed brief, and as soon as they turn the corner and reach the parked wagon, Ireena sighs and stands half-ready to hurry back to her office and her duties.

"Hey," Ezmerelda puts what she hopes is a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I know you can handle all of this. Never doubt that." 

This wins her a sincere smile. "Thank you."

Knowing there's no more point in delaying, Ezmerelda pulls away, moves to arrange her things around the wagon and prepare to leave. 

"The offer stands," she says as she climbs into the driver's seat. "Keep it in mind."

"Maybe next time," Ireena replies with another sad smile. But then she pauses for a moment, almost as if thinking something over. Then she darts in quickly, and kisses Ezmerelda's cheek.

"Don't stay away too long," she says, quietly, then draws away again. Ezmerelda nods her agreement, and takes up the reins of her conjured horses.

Ireena waves her goodbye, and stands, looking on, bathed in sunlight. 

And then the road turns, and she disappears from Ezmerelda's view.

'Well.'

"Shut up." Ezmerelda can feel her face burning. "Absolutely no need to read into things." 

'You know I mean no offense. I only want the best for you.' 

"I am perfectly fine," Ezmerelda grumbles. "Besides, this is the last thing she needs right now." 

'You don't know that. Ask her sometime, perhaps, to tell you herself. Too many people have assumed too much about that young lady, I think. Myself included.' 

"Oh, what do you know..."

There is a distinct sensation of stinging grief, never quite healed, as the voice comes again. 'You seem to forget I was young once. In love once. More... than once. And though it never ended well, like few things in my life did, the only thing I have ever regretted was not acting sooner. And regret is...' 

"... the enemy of progress. I know." Ezmerelda sighs, the old man's oft-repeated saying rattling around in her mind as she snaps the reins and takes them down the road westward. "Maybe next time."

-

1.3. Materials and methods, an overview

Her balance is off still, but the past few weeks have brought incredible improvement. She flicks her rapier upwards, then lunges - back, forth, back, forth, fully and properly bearing weight on her right side in the training yard for the first time in months. The new prosthetic is truly a work of art and a masterful display of craftsmanship. Ezmerelda feels almost giddy at the sensation of ducking and weaving under the wooden limbs of the training dummy, feinting deftly, ignoring the burn in her arm and shoulder. The maneuvers are not yet close to her peak speed and fluidity and elegance, not after the long, arduous recovery she is only now reaching the end of. But it is all so very, very promising.

It also brings to mind - because how could it not, when for the better part of the past half-year she has had more time to think, and remember, and reflect than in her entire life? - van Richten's drills. He was always far more of a theoretician than practitioner of swordfighting, but he was certainly no slouch with a blade. The precision and perfection of form he insisted on instilling in her initially seemed to clash with her more free, improvisational, off-the-cuff approach, but ended up blending with it to great effect in ways that occasionally surprised them both.

She goes through attack patterns he's drilled into her and realises she misses him, the cantankerous old man and all his frustrating ways, and suddenly finds herself fervently wishing she wasn't doing this alone. She spares a moment to imagine the amount of fussing over her he would likely have insisted on, with his overprotective bedside manner that she used to chafe and scoff at whenever one of their hunts went badly for her. She thinks of all the lovely, fleeting drawings Erasmus would have made for her.

Her next step is careless, thoughtless, distracted, and as a result only a little off. The lunge is misaimed, unbalanced, and her knee twists unpleasantly. For the briefest flash of a moment she could swear she can feel the teeth sinking in again, and the horrible tearing.

Ezmerelda winces, fingers clenched around the rapier's handle, knuckles white. Her teeth grit as the wave of pain subsides so very, very slowly, but doesn't quite go away. She remembers, belatedly, that she has an audience.

"Ah, almost there," she calls back to the artisan eagerly awaiting her feedback, voice forcefully kept steady, without turning to face them, and taps her rapier on the metal plating running up from the heel. "We'll need to make another slight adjustment to the ankle joint, I think. But this is definitely and by far the best one yet. Let me get some more practice first, and we can go over the details in the afternoon."

Ezmerelda doesn't wait to see if her words are acknowledged. She hefts the rapier back up.

---

Before she reaches the first crossroads west of Vallaki, she turns the wagon south and into the woods.

"I have some unfinished business of my own to settle first," Ezmerelda states very matter-of-factly, preempting any interrogation from the ring's general direction.

The wagon trail to the top of the hill is easier to navigate than ever, and the camp is abuzz with activity, as it usually is. But this time the feel of it all is a bit different.

Ezmerelda knows it well; the air of a caravan packing up to leave.

Arabelle sees her weaving through the horses, strolling towards the large central tent, and darts towards her immediately, then freezes not three feet away. Ezmerelda can tell plain as the new Barovian day that she is torn between looking dignified and throwing herself at her in a hug.

So she crouches down and opens her arms first, and is almost knocked over when Arabelle rushes in. 

"I want to show you something I've been practicing," Arabelle whispers conspiratorially, "but you'll need to lend me a dagger."

Ezmerelda's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but she obliges the girl after only a moment's contemplation, still crouched down and one arm around her narrow shoulders.

The dagger is one of the smaller ones she usually keeps concealed, but even so it seems far too large in Arabelle's hands. Nevertheless, in a few surprisingly dextrous motions with only a couple of moments of hesitation, she seems to make it disappear - then produces it again as if out of thin air.

"Huh. Impressive. Did your uncle teach you that little trick?"

Arabelle nods, but her pride is palpable. "Papa was so mad! He says that both him and you are a bad influence and I am far too young to be handling blades."

"There's no such thing," Ezmerelda scoffs, but motions for her dagger back and tucks it away safely. "Where is your father? I wanted to speak with him."

"Luvash is busy," another voice cuts in cooly, and Arrigal steps out of the fading, scarce shadows, somehow slipping under her notice even with the bright streams of sunlight all around. "But you can speak with me."

Ezmerelda stands up slowly, and can see him sizing her up.

"Run along now, Arabelle," Arrigal says in a much warmer tone of voice, but without taking his eyes off Ezmerelda for even a moment.

Arabelle gives her one last look as she turns to leave, and Ezmerelda tries to give her a reassuring smile - but then she realises Arabelle doesn't seem concerned or reluctant or... anything at all. She seems supremely calm, and not seven years old at all.

Arrigal steps forward and, even as uncannily quiet as he always is, it startles her back into the moment. Then, he reaches out a hand.

Ezmerelda meets his gaze, steps forward, and takes it. The handshake is firm, and she smirks. "Looks like you backed the losing side, cousin."

The term of address rolls off her tongue with some bite of irony in it. Arrigal inclines his head in acknowledgement. "You can't say it wasn't a fairly sure bet. A matter of survival, of course. We do what we must to keep our people safe. But," and he draws a bit closer, as if letting her in on a secret. "I'm glad he didn't send me after you."

Ezmerelda nods, and decides she isn't in the mood for a debate. "You know, so am I. I would have hated having to kill you. Instead, here you are, in an excellent position for a little introspection, changing your ways... much better this way, isn't it?"

He shakes his head with a grin, and finally lets go of her hand. "You are a menace. But we follow the traditions, and you have a place here. Where are you going?"

"Borca," she says, and pointedly doesn't elaborate further.

Arrigal laughs. "Off to more of your grim business right away! Well, one has to admire your tenacity. You can stay, of course, and leave with us tomorrow. We will share the road at least part of the way."

So Ezmerelda stays, and exchanges news of recent caravan routes and planned Mist-traversal with Luvash. The fire roars to life as the sun sets. Tales are told, and she contributes some of her own.

"Regale us, cousin," Arrigal says, grinning wolf-sharp, arms open wide as if to encompass the entire camp, "with the story of the fall of the devil Strahd." 

Arabelle is a delight, as always. The truce with Arrigal, if it can be called that, is uneasy, but holds. The ring is quiet.

Arabelle insists on riding with her in the morning ("You did fish her out of that lake... brought her back to us," Luvash grumbles. "I suppose there's no harm... I'll have none of that monster-hunting nonsense, though!"). Her delight at the summoned magical horses is palpable, even as she tries to hide it. Ezmerelda gives her the reins until they need to enter the Mists, and is only slightly surprised to see her managing well, with just a few pointers here and there.

The whole way, Arabelle demands stories of her and van Richten's exploits very matter-of-factly - interrogates, almost, at times. Her eyes are large, intent, focused, as Ezmerelda obliges, for hours. 

"I knew you would win," Arabelle says at one point, breaking a rare longer stretch of silence between them. "Uncle didn't want to listen to me, but I knew."

Ezmerelda looks at her, matches her seriousness. "I hope he will learn to listen, one day soon."

-

1.4. Common pitfalls

Ezmerelda inches back to consciousness more than wakes, and hisses as she almost reflexively tries and fails to sit up. She recognises her own bed in the former guest room above the herbalist shop, but the details of how she got there are fuzzy at best, completely absent at worst. She is, however, very aware of a merciless pounding in her head and that she has most certainly just pulled some fresh stitches.

A swirl of colourful ectoplasm greets her when she next opens her eyes, Erasmus' fleeting but always lovely and cheerful greetings hovering above her.

Well. Ezmerelda forces a pained smile at him, knowing that if he is here, his father cannot be far, and--

Ah. Familiar footsteps on the stairs, and the distinct creak of the second one from the top, as Rudolph van Richten enters the room with uncanny timing. 

He doesn't seem to be surprised to see her awake as he gives her a quick look-over, even as concern and frustration clearly war on his face.

"I thought we had reached an agreement," he begins at last, very deliberately calmly.

Ezmerelda doesn't reply.

"I thought," he continues with that same calm tone, "that we had made a plan. That was my distinct impression of our last conversation."

Ezmerelda clenches her teeth, then grinds out, "I couldn't just stand by and let that beast--"

"You could have voiced your disagreements with the plan and brought your concerns to me, instead of running off on your own in the middle of the night," van Richten is clearly struggling to keep his voice level. "You almost died."

"Fine, I am voicing my disagreements. We know it's a wereboar. Just go at it with our silvered weapons, set up an ambush where we found its lair... why wait? Why give it more chances to hurt people?"

"To be absolutely certain we have all the information. That we have looked at it from every angle, that we have not overlooked a crucial detail. Minimise its chances to hurt us."

"But by then it might have mauled half the village to death, or worse!"

Van Richten's gaze on her is sharp. "And if we get ourselves pointlessly killed, are the villagers any safer for our hasty, brash, ill-thought sacrifice?"

"Hasty, brash, and ill-thought. Fine, if that’s how it is, how you think of me," Ezmerelda throws her hands up, and wishes she could march off, slamming a door shut behind her for good measure, as childish as the thought makes her feel.

Van Richten sighs deeply, and pulls up a chair to sit next to her bed. Ezmerelda recognises it as one from downstairs, and feels a small stab of guilt at the thought of him setting up a vigil at her bedside.

"We can't go rushing in on half-checked information," van Richten begins, after a brief silence, looking down at his hands. "We can't, because... because I have done that, in the past. And people - good, brave, dedicated people who chose to stand against evil, people who trusted me - died as a result."

"I have been wrong," he continues, still not looking up. "I have followed faulty sources without the due diligence of thorough enough vetting. I have overlooked things, and I have lost many. I will not and cannot allow that to happen again. We have to be careful, patient, and vigilant, always."

"I'm not advocating for blindly rushing in," Ezmerelda protests, "I'm merely--"

"I won't have you on my soul as well. I have far too many already."

"And I won't have any more innocents on mine! We had all the relevant information two days ago. Four people could have been alive today if we had acted on time. We were right."

"And what about when you aren't, Ezmerelda? What about when you aren't?"

Ezmerelda looks him right in the eyes, steely. "Then I will make sure I am the one who pays the price for my own mistakes."

"Oh," van Richten smiles sadly, "If only that were possible."

---

The letter arrives just as she is preparing, to her great relief, to leave Port-à-Lucine for good. It is hand-delivered by an ostentatiously dressed man in a stylised fox mask, entirely - and Ezmerelda feels her lips curl in annoyance - unassuming and usual for the land of outrageous pretense that is Dementlieu. The way he seems to disappear in the moment it takes for her to glance down at what he has thrust into her hands is also something Ezmerelda finds hard to marvel at anymore.

Overjoyed to be able to return to the relative privacy and safety of her wagon, she tosses away her old harlequin mask in the sincere hopes of never having to put the damn thing on again. Then she throws herself on the bed and focuses on tearing into the sealed envelope, absorbing its mysterious contents.

After she reaches the end of the letter's brief text, she stays very still for a long while.

'Not a name I thought I would see again, if I am to be honest,' van Richten's voice comes slowly, sounding very wary.

Ezmerelda breathes out a frustrated sigh, an unidentifiable jumble of feelings warring in her chest and burning up her throat. She tries to reply several times, then stops, and closes her eyes. Collects herself, at least somewhat, and decides to focus on the practical. "How do we even know this isn't a forgery, or some sort of trap?"

'We don't. But it is a loose end I, for one, am not prepared to simply overlook.'

"She's tried before, but I never... I don't have time for this right now, I--," she throws the letter and the shredded envelope onto the chest at her bedside, and runs an annoyed hand through her hair, again, and again, and again. Thinking, or at least trying to. 

'We have time. You and I both know it's not time that is the problem.'

They are nearing the end of their planned journey, finishing up their business with Alanik Ray and Arthur Sedgwick's latest investigations and bidding farewell to Dementlieu. And then it was supposed to be on to Mordent, to call in at the Mordentshire shop briefly, and afterwards to Darkon - to Rivalis, and the villages surrounding the old Richten estate. Some ghouls to fight off, wraiths to purge, ghosts to lay to rest, to help the villagers out, before... well. They'll come to that when they do.

Ezmerelda can't deny the detour would only be a brief one.

"A 'loose end'," she huffs. "Really."

'I am just trying to help you. Don't waste years of your life like I have, either bitter or wondering or fleeing. Confront your - our - past, at least this part. Lay it to rest, if you can.'

"The past does not lie behind us. It is part of what we are, and part of what we always will be," Ezmerelda recites, then sighs again. "Old Vistani saying."

A moment of silence. 'Make sure it is a good part, then.'

-

Ezmerelda's memory of her mother feels... not fuzzy, but perhaps a bit tweaked and twisted over the years, more by feelings overtaking it than by any fault of recall. The images of what she remembers and what now stands before her don't match, but have a strange, dissonant overlap, leaving visible in the centre a woman Ezmerelda could almost, almost imagine seeing in the mirror. One she hoped to never see again after that night of wordless parting, many years ago. 

Years of imprisonment seem to have been surprisingly kind to Madame Irena Radanavich. She has wormed her way into some kind of favour with someone powerful here, no doubt, as has always been her utterly unscrupulous way. The cell is clearly a formality, more of an office than anything, a parlour for receiving agents and lackeys, as well as bosses. There is even a chair - a worn, old wooden frame with faded red upholstery - placed a little ways away from the bars, facing them. Ezmerelda also gets a distinct impression that the guard standing in the corner is not there for any visitor's safety or protection.

The woman in the cell seems to light up the moment she sets eyes on Ezmerelda strolling into the cell space with a pretense of casualness.

"My, how you've grown! My, and yet-- oh, darling," concern seems to flood her face and voice, and - there, a subtle, wry twist - Ezmerelda thinks she catches a false, even mocking undertone to it. A flash, and it’s gone, and perhaps she merely imagined it, or even wanted it to be there, an ache for some semblance of simplicity to box this woman in. "There's both more and less of you than last time I saw you." 

"Really?" Ezmerelda scoffs, and almost wants to laugh. "All those tales I've heard of your vicious, clever, insidious scheming, and that's the best you can come up with?" She crosses her arms, and clicks her metal heel against the floor loudly. "Not an angle you can use against me, I'm afraid. Try again." 

"You wound me!" A dramatic hand placed over her chest. "Treating your own mother like that, who has never had anything but your best interests at heart. Who you've never even come to visit."

Ezmerelda slips the opened letter through the bars, letting it land on the hewn stone on the other side. Then she moves to sit down on the solitary chair.

"I'm only here because I got your letter."

"Oh! Good. My dearest Ezmerelda, I was--"

"I am here to tell you I want you to leave me alone," Ezmerelda continues, acting as if she hasn't heard a word. "For good. Forget I exist, preferably. I want nothing to do with you, and I never will. And the only thing I might want to do with your plotting and scheming is foiling it, so it is in your best interest to leave me out of it all. And van Richten..." 

The saccharine smile dips down, almost into a scowl. "And here I'd heard you'd finally seen sense and parted ways with that old fool." 

"You hear much, I see," Ezmerelda replies, cooly.

"I have my ways. My sources. People loyal to me, who have yet to abandon me."

Ezmerelda feels the swipe like an airy almost-cut of a dagger that just barely misses. "Well, here's something new for you, then. Something your little web-weaving spiders seem to have missed. You'll be happy to hear he's dead." 

"And right away you come back to me! Time to end your silly games, eh, Ezme? Good, good. A start--" 

"You have no right to call me that," Ezmerelda cuts her off, rapidly losing her will to restrain herself.

"Come now, dear. That's no way to talk to your mother, your own flesh and blood. It's about time we set all this nonsense aside, don't you think? Your family--" 

"You're no family of mine." 

"Please," she scoffs loudly. "You sound like an angry child. And... oh, really, what kind of name is 'd'Avenir' even?"

"My name," Ezmerelda replies, perfectly matter-of-fact, and refuses to even entertain further discussion of the matter.

"I wonder how you'll do," Madame Radanavich smiles, but this time the threatening edge is obvious, pretense briefly abandoned, "all alone. Playing your little games of pretend with your make-believe name. You'll come crawling back to me yet." 

Ezmerelda finds herself thinking of Erasmus, and almost believes she can see him, out of the corner of her eye. Tries not to think of what this confrontation might be bringing back for him. Thinks of the Martikovs welcoming her with open arms and offering shelter even in the darkest and dourest and most dangerous of days; thinks of Ireena with the sunsword and an entire wealth of feeling tangled in a tired, relieved smile somehow brighter than the blazing sunlight itself. Of nights around the fire in the camp outside Vallaki, and little Arabelle pulling on her coat, extorting promises of lessons in both swordfighting and divining. Of Arthur Sedgwick and his honest, caring eyes, and his patient instruction in properly using a flintlock, as his husband gleefully offers detailed scientific explanations of the weapon's workings from the side. She twists the ring on her finger.

"I'm not alone," Ezmerelda says simply, and feels resolute steel pouring back. She stops to consider her next words more carefully.

"I watched your actions and your curse destroy a good man's life. But I want you to know that you wanted to take from him, and in the end you took from me, the daughter you profess to care about so much. And now you crow at me about flesh and blood and expect me to, what? Beg you to let me come back? Back to what? A mouldy cell and as short a leash as the current master feels like giving you?"

"Bold words for one given to following an old wretch around like a sad pup, even as he keeps trying to kick you away," Radanavich sneers, then shifts back to sad pity in the blink of an eye. "Oh, yes, my dear, it's so very tragic... I've heard it all. Look at you - you're wasted on him."

"Oh?" Ezmerelda raises an eyebrow cooly, clamps down on the sting to her pride and the deliberate scrape against old wounds, and almost wanting to scream you are the reason he feared that daring to care about someone would be a death sentence for them. "And what would you prefer to be using me for?"

"How dare you! After all I've done for our family, while you throw your lot in with the man who killed your brother and imprisoned your mother!"

Ezmerelda feels suddenly tired, more than anything. "You know he did no such thing. And I've done very well for myself, despite you." 

"Have you, now? What price have you paid for your... profession? What has it cost you already?" 

"Nothing I wouldn't be ready to pay ten times over if it meant ensuring the safety of an innocent, or beating back those such as you. You still don't understand," Ezmerelda just smiles sadly, allowing only the slightest undercurrent of danger. "I'm neither lost, nor settling for anything, nor desperately grasping at a chance, nor tragically misguided. This is what I want. This-- this cause, this fight, this is exactly what I was meant to do. And I am very, very good at it."

"Oh, Ezmerelda, if excitement and adventure and glory is what you are after, I know of much that you could do! So many causes that your... talents... would be an excellent match for. You do have a certain reputation, and I know several highly influential actors who'd know exactly where to put your skills to use, no matter how they were acquired. You could do so well for yourself! Rise right to the top of the ranks in the blink of an eye, become truly great."

Ezmerelda shakes her head, and sighs, and moves to get up from the sad, solitary seat. 

"Ezmerelda--"

She quickly turns towards the bars and leans in, baring her teeth and grinning widely. "I killed the devil Strahd," Ezmerelda smirks at the look of shock she gets in response. "I think your petty schemes are a little below me, don't you?" 

She turns to leave, not waiting for a response. The guard leans back in his corner as she moves away from the bars, waving him off.

"Oh, do feel free to let your masters know," she tosses over her shoulder nonchalantly as she makes her way out. "Though I have to say I haven't really looked into whose lapdog you are nowadays." 

Ezmerelda hears a frustrated growl behind her as the sickeningly sweet, pleasant mask falls for good. As the door slams shut behind her, she doesn't look back.

She lets the noise of the city drown out her thoughts as she slowly makes her way back to her wagon, more than ready to be on her way elsewhere. Until, after a while, a familiar voice comes swimming up through her mind.

'How do you feel?' 

"I don't know," Ezmerelda murmurs, after a long silence. "Ask me tomorrow."

-

1.5. Notes on useful classification and categorisation

As she finishes rattling off the information she's gathered on a series of apparent annis hag encounters that van Richten asked her for, he looks-- well, 'impressed' is the only word Ezmerelda can think of to describe it.

In the ensuing moment of quiet, he takes off his spectacles, fidgets with them briefly, polishes off a smudge with his handkerchief. Then, he looks her right in the eye. "You, girl, are a veritable sponge."

Ezmerelda flashes him a smug smile, then remembers the other matter she wanted to bring to his attention. She clears her throat, and begins, with uncharacteristic hesitance. "I've also been looking into some... other things. Another way I can contribute, I think." 

The only reply is a raised eyebrow, so Ezmerelda steels herself and decides to go forward with her planned demonstration. She quells the nervous fluttering in her stomach, and instead focuses on the points of her own fingers as they trace well-practiced patterns in the air. With a final flick and a quick mutter of the incantation she's quietly recited so, so many nights in her room when she was supposed to be asleep, the very air around her right hand shimmers with heat. A few tense moments later, a small mote of flame appears in her palm.

Ezmerelda bites back an exclamation of joy at the success, tries to keep her expression fairly neutral, and looks to van Richten expectantly.

His eyebrows are, very amusingly, trying to climb into his hairline. "Where in the world did you learn to do that?"

She lets the little flame dance between her hands, casually skip from one to the other, flickering giddily, and feels an odd sense of relief wash over her.

"I saw it in one of your books. Almost by accident, and it... it just made a lot of sense to me, even just skimming over it. So I thought, why not? If I could get a handle on a few of the spells, I could complement your arsenal quite well. Bring more to the fight."

Van Richten nods, but there is a wary undertone to his words. "As long as you aren't making any ill-advised deals and pacts - which, I'll remind you--"

"-- are all of them. I know. Don't worry. I'm only interested in things I can glean by myself."

"Well, I'm not much of an arcane practitioner, though I am quite familiar with a lot of theory. I'm afraid I won't be able to provide any elaborate training or instruction--"

"That's fine," Ezmerelda rushes to say. "I can continue like this. The research, the books - it's..." 

She trails off, not quite knowing how and what to explain. Arcane magic is fascinating, surprisingly enjoyable, and strikes a deeply satisfying balance between being hard-won and feeling like it comes naturally to her. 

It also feels... hers.

"It's very engaging material," she finishes after a little while. She moves to close her fist and extinguish the tiny fire, but something stops her at the very last moment.

"Indeed," van Richten replies simply, and gets up from his seat. "Well, I do need to go tend to the shop, but rest assured we will discuss the tactical applications of this later today." 

Just as he is out the study door and about to start down the stairs, he pauses, and turns back to look at her, a bright and sincere smile on his face. "Very well done, Ezmerelda."

The flame flickers, ready to fly from her fingers, bursting with potential.

"Thank you," she murmurs long after he is gone.

---

It is deep nighttime when Ezmerelda shakes off the last tendrils of the Mists and sets eyes on the cliffs of Mordentshire. The wagon's wheels clatter over rain-slick cobblestones as she navigates the still-familiar streets of the seemingly unchanging harbour town. The cold sea wind makes her tighten her coat around herself, to very little avail. 

She can't say she's missed the weather.

By the time she spies the sign neatly painted with the words Herbalist - Dr. Rudolph van Richten, she feels soaked through and entirely miserable, and spends only a moment giving the place a quick look-over.

The shop is in fine shape - if she didn't know better, Ezmerelda could easily believe its owner closed it up for the night and left just yesterday. The wolfsbane and garlic in the planters underneath each window are flourishing. She makes a mental note to make her first order of business in the morning calling in on the neighbors and discussing further arrangements with Mrs. Polk, in whose capable hands van Richten has been leaving things for years.

In the meantime, she fervently hopes for dry clothes and a workable fireplace.

A quick rummage between two bushy wolfsbane plants - the second and third one on the right - produces a spare key, and Ezmerelda remembers with mild amusement her shock at this mundane weakness in van Richten's usually impeccable and overthought defenses, years ago.

"Keys," he'd looked at her over the rim of his spectacles, "are hardly a problem for things that truly want to harm me."

The little bell chimes as she opens the door. Catching a glimpse of herself in the very precisely placed full-length mirror just opposite the entrance, she wastes no time before going upstairs. The second stair from the top creaks its old, familiar reassurance.

Ezmerelda enters the room that used to be hers, in between harrowing hunting trips and trying adventures, during her years training with van Richten. It doesn't seem to have changed much - nor does it seem to be in use as anything but spare storage space.

She does her best not to think about how empty and quiet the house is, or how she's never truly been alone in it. Instead, she hangs up her coat, rolls up her shirt sleeves, unpacks some of her things, and, by the time she gets a proper fire going, realises sleep is the very last thing she feels like doing. Her eyes alight on the small desk in the corner, and she instead decides to do something she hasn't in a while.

She sits down to write. 

First, Ezmerelda takes off the ring and sets it aside, muttering a quick good night, Doctor under her breath. Then she takes out some of her collection, observations accumulated over the years - jotted down on everything from thick parchment to old wrapping paper. Combining it with the wealth of van Richten's remaining material and into something eventually coherent will no doubt be a challenge, but a challenge is not something Ezmerelda d'Avenir has ever shied away from.

It is just haphazard, quick notes on anything of consequence that comes to mind at first, carried by an odd nervous energy. A more systematic approach will have to come at some later point.

While knowledge is a key weapon in any hunter's arsenal, honing one's body as well as mind is absolutely necessary, she writes, tapping her foot on the wooden floor in a way that often drove van Richten to distraction. Many of the creatures of the night become, in their cursed states, inhumanly strong, and in such instances one must be particularly careful of engaging them in close quarters, for even the greatest strongman would be at a disadvantage.

However, not all of these encounters need be solved by violence. Many ghosts 

She pauses, pen slowly dripping ink onto the half-filled page before her, and sees Erasmus out of the corner of her eye. She turns her head to face him, and for once in their long and unusual life-and-afterlife-spanning acquaintance, she finds she can't quite read him.

Many ghosts are held in their in-between existence due to unfinished business. Tethered to some regret or incomplete task from their mortal lives, they seek resolution and closure. Many hauntings can thus be resolved by investigation, and what I must term a primarily sympathetic approach. Of course, one must also always be wary and on the lookout for deliberately misguiding spectres who seek to play upon one's pity.

The first signs of dawn creep into the room by the time she has moved on from ghosts to wraiths to trying to sort out her notes about creatures that lurk underwater - old notes that have been, to her chagrin, very appropriately and unsalvageably waterlogged.

Ezmerelda manages to light another candle just before her current one sputters out, and rubs at her tired eyes. Then she pauses, gazing idly at the ink stains on her fingers.

She reaches over for a new page, setting her current work aside. There is something else she wants and needs to write, something other than dry facts or hopefully helpful guidelines. The first few sentences come in fits and starts, but soon enough she finds them flowing out of her pen almost of their own accord.

What I would like to make clear is that this is not an inherently bad place. The lands themselves can be beautiful - wondrous, even. Worth living in, and worth fighting for. And the people who live in them do not deserve to live in fear. I, and many others, could simply leave for some better, tamer prospects, yes - but then what? Nothing is gained if we merely surrender an entire world, a collection of lands so fantastically varied and so full of promise, to a cruel, merciless, hungry night. It can't all be abandoned as collateral damage in a great punishment intended for a horrible few. I can't, and won't, allow this to happen.

Maybe the foes are overwhelming, and the fight endless. But a life saved is a life saved. A victory is a victory. One innocent snatched away from a grim fate, one tendril of darkness beaten back - that is enough. But only if we persist at it, day after day after day. And evil may be impossible to ever completely destroy, but it is far weaker and less widespread than it could and doubtlessly wants to be, in at least some small part thanks to our continued efforts.

A dour prospect? Perhaps, for some. Ezmerelda smirks to herself, and gazes down at her veritable manifesto, and thinks back to that cell in Il Aluk. 

What better life is there to lead? None, for her.

I, for one, don't intend to give up anytime soon. I hope that in you, dear reader, I can find one of like mind. And perhaps one day we shall find ourselves standing together.

She lights another candle, and continues.

-

1.6. Conclusions and remarks on future work

She clenches her hands as she steps into the sitting room that morning, decisions made after a long, sleepless night of contemplation. As if fate is conspiring against her, the first thing she sees is Erasmus, hovering over his father's shoulder. He turns to face her as soon as he notices her, a bright smile he saves just for her on his pale, ghostly face. She knows what a struggle it is for him to manifest this way, how much it takes out of him. The thought of his precious few minutes today being this... 

It takes immense effort to speak up, interrupting van Richten's apparent focus on the post strewn about the table in front of him.

"I think... I think it's time for me to go."

"Go? Where?" He blinks, looking up from his papers.

Ezmerelda swallows, but hesitates only for a moment. "I don't know," she answers, chin tilted up, almost proud. "But I know we can't go on like this. I don't want to go on like this."

They butt heads and scrape against each other constantly. Chafe and grate and, and, and. She can't remember the last time they agreed on even the most cursory thing. It has reached a level where she fears his presence will become intolerable, and anything binding the two of them together become irreparably soured and tainted.

She refuses to allow this to happen.

Erasmus has drawn a coin. Two sides. He indulges in a small, semi-teasing pantomime, pointing at the two of them as his shimmering, ectoplasmic drawings hover briefly before vanishing like so much smoke, and Ezmerelda shakes her head sadly.

"I don't want to come to resent you, that is all. I don't think I could bear it if I did."

"If you think it for the best, by all means," van Richten says simply, and leaves it at that. He never turns to fully look at her. There is an undercurrent to his voice Ezmerelda can't quite place - something deeply tired, and far more complicated than plain sadness.

It rains heavily that morning as she sets off, as if the world itself wants her to rethink this. The muddy road squelches almost threateningly under her horse's hooves as she leads him forward.

Van Richten doesn't come out to see her off.

"I'll miss you," she breathes to herself, and half-hopes it somehow reaches both of the companions she is leaving behind. But she has only the rain and her horse's steady trot on the trail for company. 

It is quiet.

---

Finally, the familiar mists of Darkon, and the countryside of Rivalis, lie before them. The inevitable, at a familiar estate fallen into quite a state of disrepair. 

'No, leave it be,' van Richten said, at her hesitantly presented idea of including returning Richten House to at least some of its former glory on their list of unfinished business and loose ends.

Still, this is where he wanted to come. At the end.

Ezmerelda never saw it in its prime. She was a mere child then, kept well away from her family's machinations. Until she was (inevitably, irrevocably) drawn in, her fate forever entangled with that of the van Richten family. But even now, in all its disrepair, rich traces of what the gardens, the orchard, and the house itself used to be permeate the atmosphere, like ghosts themselves.

She walks across the hills of the grounds, all the way around the mansion to the family cemetery. She slows as she moves up to the two most recent graves, so easy to find, and thinks, briefly, of the body van Richten insisted on being burned before they left Barovia, just in case. 

Just in case, she agreed, knowing all he knew about what foul magic and foul intentions could do to physical remains in the wrong hands, and built him a pyre.

The headstones before her are simple but elegant, as is the tidily engraved lettering on them.

Ingrid van Richten

Erasmus van Richten

'Well, here we are.' For a disembodied voice softly projecting into her mind, almost as through a mild haze or over some great distance, it is one of the heaviest things Ezmerelda has ever heard.

'A few words, if I may,' van Richten's request comes, gentle, and she nods, finding herself oddly wordless.

'I am so proud of you,' he begins, and the ferocity of it almost startles her. 'I hope you know this, always. If I have ever made you doubt this, as I pushed you away - I am sorry. I regret many things in my life, as one does, no matter what I like to say - but most of all I regret that I didn't tell you this sooner. 

You are the best of my life. But more than that, you have grown far beyond me, into a finer person than most could dream of being. And I am sorry I wasn't there for you, that you had to do so much of it on your own. But know that when I see you... I couldn't be happier, or more in awe.' 

There is a very brief pause, and then the voice softens again.

'I love you as my own, and am deeply honoured you would consider me, and that I get to consider you, family.' 

Ezmerelda swallows once, twice, struggles, then finally lets her tears fall freely. 

'Look at you. You don't need me anymore. And I can only hope your legend will far surpass anything I have ever done - there is so much ahead of you! Your light stands so very bright against the darkness. But I am glad, so very glad - selfishly, perhaps - that we were there together, at the end.' 

"So am I," she manages a whisper. "Love you too, old man." 

'Now I suppose it is time for me to go.' 

Erasmus looks at her, bittersweet pouring from him in waves, and he gives a small nod. His form flickers, and then disappears, and Ezmerelda knows she will never see him again.

She knows how the ring works, too. The soul within it can choose to depart whenever it wants to. She knows she doesn't need to do anything - that she couldn't, even if she wanted to. It brings with it a strange sort of peace. 

Ezmerelda inclines her head. "I hope you see them soon." Tell Erasmus I'll miss him, she wishes she could say. 

She spins the now-inert ring around on her finger, a habit she will need to break. She wants to tear it off, and throw it as far away from herself as she can. She wants to never take it off as long as she lives. 

A soft rain starts up, and Ezmerelda feels oddly grateful for the feel of it on her face, even as she knows there is no one here but her.

It is quiet.

---

With gratitude to the notes and tutelage of the esteemed Dr. Rudolph van Richten, whose guidance and wealth of knowledge have proved invaluable on countless occasions, and whose friendship changed the course of my life more than once.

#ezmerelda d'avenir #rudolph van richten #curse of strahd #dnd #dungeons and dragons #fanfiction #my fic #oathkeeper writes things #erasmus van richten #ravenloft #gonna take my horse to the old svalich road #tabletop

[joontopia]

Find You Now | KSJ Oneshot - Preview

pairing: kim seokjin x female reader

genre: smut, angst, dashes of fluff

au: ex childhood friends to lovers, college drop out

rating: explicit, nsfw, 18+

current word count: 7K and growing

preview word count: 1.5K (unedited)

fic warnings: TBD

preview warnings: slight angst, slight pining

summary:  It’s been 4 years since the last time Seokjin has seen you. Four long years since he has seen your face, since he’s heard your voice, since he left you behind in your small hometown to find himself. But the only thing he found was how empty his life was without you. Following the downfall of his most recent relationship and the news of his brother’s engagement, Seokjin’s back home looking to fix the mistakes he tried to escape. To fix the friendship he lost, the pain he caused, and to find his happiness again. If only he could find you now.

This is a part of the Not A Phase Collab hosted by @suhdays​ - Inspired by the song Ocean Avenue by Yellowcard

Release Date: By Monday May 31st, 2021

It’s just past midnight as Jin pulls into his mom’s driveway, softly closing every door of his car as he gets out and retrieves his suitcase from the trunk. He turns slowly, taking in the stillness and quiet of the street he grew up on, stopping the moment his eyes fall on your house across the road. Not much has changed about your house, save for the vacancy of your car. Your typical parking spot in your parent’s driveway is empty, leaving Jin to wonder if you’re not home or if your father finally cleaned out the other half of the garage, allowing you to park inside.

From the faint illuminance of the street lights, he’s able to see the hibiscus bushes that line the outside of your home. The flowers not yet in bloom due to the time of year. His eyes shift over to the cherry blossom tree at the corner of your yard, sight trailing up its growth until his gaze ends at the highest point. The top of the tree still reaches just above your bedroom window on the second floor. Jin’s lips twitch up into a smile as a memory surfaces in his mind.

6 years earlier

“It was intentional. I’m telling you!” You rant, pouting as you stab your spoon into the cup of ice cream in Jin’s hand.

You’re sitting next to each other outside of the local ice cream shop, sharing two big scoops of chocolate and strawberry that had cost Jin the last of his weekly allowance. You had begged him to take you out for a treat, having just endured one of the most awkward conversations with your parents, promising him that he could choose the flavor as a form of sweet talk to get him to agree. He ended up getting a scoop each of both you and his favorites, his heart fluttering at the sight of your bright smile when he joined you outside on the park bench. The moment Jin handed you a spoon, you immediately dived in, a mixture of the two flavors disappearing into your mouth in a flash. A subtle hum of satisfaction slips past your lips from the taste. Jin shakes his head as he smiles, dipping his own spoon in for a scoop. “Chocolate and Strawberry is a match made in heaven. Two favors that go together perfectly. Like best friends, just like us,” you would say each time Jin asked you about your favorite indulgence.

You remove the spoon from your mouth, waving it around in the air as you share with Jin the scarring conversation with your parents that led to this impromptu outing. They finally decided it was time you had ‘the talk.’ If the topic at hand wasn’t bad enough, your dad even shared with you how he used to sneak out his childhood bedroom, your current bedroom, to meet up with your mom. Information that you stated you’d be better off never knowing.

“Did you know there used to be a big oak tree there? Branches so thick, dad brags about how easily they held his weight as he climbed down them,” you grumble. Jin’s eyes are on you, nodding along to your story as he listens. His attention is slightly distracted the moment he feels your hand cover his causing the both of you to hold the ice cream bowl together as you try to steady it, scooping up a generous portion of the treat with your spoon. The subtle touch redirects his mind from your words to his surroundings, suddenly aware of how closely you two were sitting next to each other on the bench.

It’s not unusual for the two of you to be this close to each other, having known one another since you were in diapers. But now at the age of 16, Jin can only blame it on teenage hormones. What else would explain his rise in blood pressure being this close to his best friend? Surely not the intoxicating scent of your perfume. The one he quickly recognizes as the very brand he got you for your birthday last year. Nor the change in how you do your makeup, the natural tones and faux bare minimum style accentuating your facial features. Allowing your natural beauty to shine.

Jin observes as you bring the plastic utensil up to your mouth again, turning the spoon upside down at the last second before placing it on your tongue, your glossed, plush lips closing before pulling the now clean spoon from between them. He watches as the tip of your tongue peeks out, swiping at a rogue drop of melted chocolate ice cream on your bottom lip and he’s momentarily mesmerized. Lost in wonderment at how his favorite flavor would taste from your lips. He’s brought back to reality from a painful thump on his forehead, the result from where you flicked him with your fingers.

“Yah! Are you even listening?” you scold him, doing a terrible job at stifling your giggle from the pout that forms on Jin’s lips as he rubs his wound. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“What’s the big deal? I thought you liked the Cherry Blossom tree,” Jin asks, ears turning red as he looks away from you. Scooping a hefty amount of ice cream into his own mouth to avoid answering the second part of your question. You roll your eyes at him and continue in your rant. Jin quietly lets out a small sigh of relief at you letting his obvious avoidance go.

“I did like it. LOVED it even. My dad said he had the old oak tree removed and the new tree planted shortly after learning I was going to be a girl. But now I just see it as a traitor tree. With branches not thick enough to let me sneak out.” You’re back to pouting, Jin catching the down turn of your lips from his peripherals. How badly he wants to kiss that frown away, the sudden urge to see you smile filling his thoughts.

He hadn’t realized he turned towards you, fully facing you with his spoon in his mouth until you were speaking to him through a fit of giggles, the sound of your amusement like music to his ears. “What are you thinking about, Jinnie?”

Jin is at a loss of words the moment his gaze meets yours. Your eyes full of genuine curiosity as you look up at him, a soft smile one your lips as you wait for him to answer. A slight breeze picks up, causing loose strands of your hair to blow into your face. On instinct, Jin reaches with his free hand, moving your hair back and tucking it behind your ear. Not missing your tiny gasp as your cheeks turn a soft pink from the intimate action. “Have you always been this beautiful?” he thinks to himself as he lets his fingers linger on your cheek. Unsure if it’s just wishful thinking, he swears your face is getting closer to his. Not able to tell if it was from him leaning in or you or both. The moment is suddenly broken by the sound of a car horn blaring from somewhere behind you, causing the two of you to jump slightly back from each other as Jin drops his hand from your face. Clearing his throat, Jin spoons another helping of ice cream into his mouth before passing the bowl towards you.

“Well,” he says, breaking the tension between you two as you take the ice cream from him, “Guess we’ll just have to think of another way for you to sneak out then.”

The smile you award him knocks the breath right out of lunges. The beauty of your happy expression being the most wonderful thing Jin has seen all day. A similar smile reactively graces his face, telling himself then and there that he wants to only ever make you look at him that way all the time.

A somber feeling takes over Jin as he brings himself out of his memory. Turning back towards his house, he walks up to the front door, quietly turning the key and going inside. Locking the door behind him, he carries his suitcase up the stairs, his head turned down the whole way to his old bedroom. He hadn’t kept his promise to himself, so easily breaking it only two years after making it. Entering his room, Jin drops his suitcase on the ground and closes his door. Falling onto his bed, he hopes that once he is able to find you, you will grant him the mercy and honor for him to redeem himself. Allowing him to see that beautiful smile once again.

#btscreatorscorner #bangtanuniversity #bangtanarmynet #bangtaninn #kwritersworldnet #btswritingcafe #hyunglinenetwork #bts fanfic #bts angst #bts smut #seokjin angst #seokjin smut #seokjin fanfic #seokjin x reader #jin fanfic

[winchesterxxi]

A Human Wiretap (Poe Dameron x Reader)

GIF BY @captain-flint​

Rating: G (General Audience)

Type: Fluff

Summary: While in Kijimi, Reader is shocked by the revelation of Poe having been a spice runner before becoming a Resistance pilot, unaware that he knows about her own secret

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: None

A/N: let the stream of Poe content commence

MASTERPOST | REQUEST HERE | KO-FI

✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸

Kijimi was the last place you wanted to be right now. You had always known of this place to be infested with pirates and all the lawless beings of the galaxy, the country being practically a crime heaven.

The destination had been appointed as The Thieves' Quarter, the place you were told you could find Babu Frik, and to your unrest, your husband seemed to be able to navigate the streets of the foreign planet pretty well, occasionally stopping against a wall at any given corner, looking around for any threats.

“Are you sure you never came here?” you ask one time while leaning against his side on a cold brick wall, waiting for the safe sign.

“Not really.” He says looking over at the snowy empty street, before turning his head back at you for a split second “Coast’s clear, let’s go”

And just as he took the first step to round the corner, an armoured woman came into view pointing a blaster at Poe’s face.

Not even allowing a second to process another thought, you reach for your own blaster, pulling it from its holster and aiming it perfectly so that it was secured in the direction of the person’s head on both of your steady hands.

“Heard you were spotted at Monk’s Gate. Thought He’s not stupid enough to come back here.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” Poe mumbles from his stance.

“Blaster off him. Now.” You warn from your spot, a scowl upon your face, ready to shoot, in case she dared to make another move.

“Zorii!” Poe exclaims in fake enthusiasm, before snapping his head quickly between the two of you. “She won’t ask twice, I would listen to her”

“You pull that trigger, you’re next, honey.” You assure her, readjusting your fingers as to place a stronger grip around the camera.

“She used a pet name, she’s serious.” Poe nods and nervously warns the woman whose weapon was now closer to his forehead, almost pressed against it.

“We’re only here to find Babu Frik, we don’t want no trouble.” You tell her cordially, expecting to explain your presence in the clearly unwelcoming planet and maybe have her help you. You eye the woman up and down, eyes scanning the shining golden armour, before settling on the deep black visor.

“Who are you?”

“Honey,” Poe speaks, being careful not to make any sudden moves that could make the woman pull the trigger “this is Zoriii. Zoriii, this Y/N, my wife.”

You are a little taken aback by the fact that they seem to know each other fairly well, given the assurance that Poe had just given you moments ago, that he’d never step foot on Kijimi.

Her helmet turns to you “Wife?” she scoffs “I guess there really is someone for everyone.”

“You have no idea.” he smirks, a momentary lapse, and you snap a look at him.

“I could pull this trigger right now.” She says, pushing the blaster harder against Poe’s head, and you take a step forward.

“You do that, my blaster is the last thing you’ll see in this life.” Sharp words leave your mouth, both you and Poe knowing damn well that you were badass enough to keep the promise.

“Babu only works with the crew. That’s not you anymore.” Zorii says, still talking to Poe, as if your presence and the one of your weapon aimed at her is non-existent.

“What do you mean crew?” you ask her, and for a moment, her attention is directed to you, before slowly tilting once again in your husband’s direction, whose hands were still up in the air in a surrendering feat.

“Oh your wife doesn’t know?” her voice, goes up an octave, clearly amused by whatever is about to unfold. Your eyes scan between the two of them waiting for some kind of explanation of whatever secret conversation was going on in front of you. “Funny he never mentioned it…”

“What is she talking about?” you question Poe but he gives himself no time to utter a word at you, just quickly waving his hand and facing Zorii.

“Zorii, married people are still allowed secrets- “ he tries but she is too quick to reveal the information you were dying to be delivered.

“Your husband was part of the Spice Runner Gang.”

You can’t stop your jaw from going slack at the revelation, not being able to form any coherent words and instead just moving your mouth like a fish out of water, dwelling on whether you felt hurt, angry or any other emotion of the rush that caught you in that moment.

Poe’s shoulders slump slightly and he bites his bottom lip, eyes closed in frustration. He then turns at you, hands still up, as you were still gripping the blaster, which was now pointed at him as he was walking towards you, cautious steps, one at a time.

“I can explain.”

“You were a smuggler? AND A SPICE RUNNER AT THAT?” You drop your blaster to your side, stepping towards him, your brain having decided on anger as the momentary emotion.

“Y/N-“

“In 2 years of marriage NOT ONCE did it occur to you to mention that!?” you yell the two middle words, incredulous at your husband’s secret, having spent your whole relationship that he had always been a resistance pilot, just like he had assured you.

“Oh, don’t act like I’m the only one with a secret here!” his hands drop to his side, and he is no longer trailing in front of you like a lost puppy looking for forgiveness but instead returns to his conflictual side, a defence mechanism, you’ve come to learn.

“What is that supposed to mean?” you scoff, genuinely clueless as to what he could be referring to. And definitely not expecting him to voice the secret you fought years to keep.

“I know you’re a Sywalker!” he says loudly, and its as if your spirit has left your body, the blood draining from your face, and for a moment you forget that breathing is a necessary bodily function.

“H… How do you…”

“The week before we got married I-…” he takes a deep breathe in, running a hand through his wild curls, now dusted with white snow. “I heard you and Leia.”

Poe was making his way to the X-Wing hangar when he stumbled across an ajar door from where he spotted your figure passing across it and disappearing multiple times.

It wasn’t until he stepped closer and leaned against the wall, that he got the full picture.

You were pacing back and forth in an empty resting room of The Radus, pattering your boots across the white floor as Leia sat by the window, looking at you in this impossible frenzy, fingers pressed against your mouth while the other hand rested on your hip.

Your motion comes to a halt in front of her, turning on your toes to face her.

“Should I tell him?”

“I think you should do what you think to be the right thing.” Leia answers her, reaching forward to grab your nervous hands in hers.

“We’re getting married next week, but I don’t think telling him would be any good…”

That’s when Poe’s heart sank to the bottom of his chest, tightening at the implication of your wedding and a number of awful possibilities running across his mind as to what you could be hiding from him.

“He’ll think…I don’t even know. I’ve spent more than half of my life hiding this and if he finds out… What if he thinks I’m a freak? And…And just leave me?”

Poe, from across the door, inches closer, curiosity getting the best of him and brows furrowing.

“Y/N, honey, Poe has been around plenty of force-sensitive people. I can assure you that my niece being one won’t scare him away.” Leia assures you while giving your hands a firm squeeze, and you let your head fall back, closing your eyes.

Wait, what? Poe was really trying to connect the dots at the amount of information that he had been bombed within this short amount of time.

“Not the daughter of Luke Skywalker.” You sigh.

“You knew?... All this time…” your eyes brim with tears.

Poe turns to Zorii who still stood behind him, the blaster having been lowered.

“Can you…give us a moment?”

“Who the hell do you think you are to be asking favours right now?” she snaps but Poe’s eyes plead at her for a single ounce of sympathy. “I’m staying right here.”

Poe turn around to face you, still very aware of the blaster pointed at the back of his head and he lowers his voice so that only the two of you can share the conversation.

“Honey…”

“You still married me?” you are looking down until you speak, watery and red eyes finding those of Poe who’s demeanour completely changes upon your question. He rushes to your front, gloved hands finding your upper arms, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “You knew I was lying to you and you still… you still…”

“Honey,” his hands slide up from your arms to your cheeks “Look at me. I love you. I know why you did it. I probably would’ve done the same. I’m not mad, never have been, never will be.”

You were fighting the urge to ramble on, but upon looking into your husband’s sincere eyes, you relaxed your whole body and he takes that as a cue to pull you in for a hug. With your face flush against his chest, you mumble an apology, fists tightening around the fabric of his cloak.

“I’m sorry… for snapping at you earlier. It was very hypocritical of me.”

Poe smiles against your forehead, before placing a tender kiss against its warm flesh.

“It’s okay, honey, I swear. At least…at least I think I owe you an explanation.” Poe takes a deep breath in “I… When I was a teen, still living on Yavin 4,… their ship crashed near my hometown and I just… I needed out of there, I wanted to be reckless. So I joined them.”

You pull your head away from his chest, craning it upwards.

“Zorri’s mom was… she was the leader of the Spice Runners and she had this plan of inviting other crime lords here to form alliances, but she really was just planning on killing them. Zorii offered to fight against her with me and take control of the Spice Runners but I was done. Honestly, I wanted a better life.”

“And you got it. Congratulations.” Zorii’s voice makes the two of you snap back at her, Poe’s hand rushing down to your side, grabbing your hand and stepping slightly in front of you. “You know, I’m still digging out of the hole you put me in when you left to join the Resistance.”

Her helmet then turns in your direction and you have no time to manoeuvre the blaster back to pointing at her, afraid that she’d shoot.

“You. You’ll do.” She says referring to you “A Skywalker. A bounty for her might just cover us.” She says and you frown at the word us until you find your peripheral vision starting to get dotted on the sides by equally armoured soldiers who you assumed to be Spice Runners.

“Djak’kankah” she commands.

“Don’t djak’kankah” Poe pleads, knowing the meaning of the word.

Just then, when you perceive that the smugglers are running in on you, you quickly snap up your blaster and take them all one by one with perfect aim, sliding your leg under Zorii’s feet and akeing her fall to the cold ground right in front of you, both of you pointing your blasters at each other.

“We could really use your help. Please.” You huff, trying to calm your beating heart from the adrenaline of the previous moment.

“Not that you care…But I think you’re okay.” She breathes through the helmet.

“I care.” You let a sly smile tint your lips, sliding your blaster back into its holster and offering the woman who just seconds ago was dead set on killing you your hand.

When she is hoisted back to her feet, she walks ahead of the both of you signalling for her to be followed but as she is about to pass Poe she throws him a few words.

“She’s a keeper.”

“Don’t I know that.” He smirks, turning back to see you walking to catch up to him. Before you can say anything, his gloved hand is already pressed against your cheek as he brings his lips down to crash against yours.

“I love you.”

“I love you.” You whisper against his lips “But I still need to-“

“You can tell me all about it tonight. While laying in bed. No rush.” He smiles assuringly at you and you swear if you didn’t have a mission at hands you would melt into his embrace for as long as the galaxy aloud you to.

“Let’s find that droidsmith.” You smile at him, before placing one quick kiss against his jaw and walking towards Zorii, leaving the former Spice Runner, current lovestruck Resistance Pilot, completely enamoured and stunned behind you.

 ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸ ✸

TAGLISTS

PERMANENT TAGLIST

@blondekel77​  @pedrobreakmyback​

POE DAMERON TAGLIST

@niall2017​​​

#A Human Wiretap #Poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron fluff #star wars #return of the jedi #oscar isaac x reader

[dinamitae]

i'm yours | ksj

part of the life goes on series

pairing: seokjin x f. reader genre: modern/quarantine!au, established relationship!au, fluff, slice of life word count: 2.5k+ girl what happened to drabbles??! rating: pg15 warnings: set during quarantine, talk of the pandemic, mentions of sex, suggestive comments, a gross amount of affection, literal tooth-rotting fluff summary: this is the second birthday you’re celebrating in quarantine and your boyfriend, seokjin, vows to make it even more memorable than the last.

a/n: uhh surprise!!! i planned to have jungkook's out next but i somewhat spontaneously got inspiration for this one and ended up cranking it out in about a week. but tbh this was so fun to write and i hope it shows :))

one more thing - this is the ring i used for reference ;) happy reading!

The lingering warmth of your boyfriend beside you slowly dissipating is what wakes you up this morning.

Previously beside you, actually, and you’re only about half awake at the moment. You’re vaguely aware of the comforter being pulled back, the chilly morning air tickling a sliver of your now-exposed back. You roll fully onto your stomach and fold your arms above your head as you listen to the soft rustling of fabric, your boyfriend quietly getting dressed. “What time is it?”

Seokjin chuckles, voice deep and still a little rough with sleep, and ignores your inquiry. Instead, he puts one knee on the bed so he can lay his head right by yours, nose centimeters from brushing your own. “Good morning, birthday girl.”

“Morning,” you rasp, eyes still closed. “What time is it?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he mumbles softly, tilting his head up to kiss your nose (you scrunch it almost reflexively, and he chuckles again). “Go back to sleep, angel.”

You pout at that. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Yeah, I need to...run an errand.” You manage to pry one eyelid open to glare at him suspiciously. “Since when do you run errands?”

“Okay, your first birthday gift from me is that I’m not going to retaliate to that. I’ll be back in a bit.” The one eye you have open rolls ever-so-slightly at his wit before fluttering shut.

“Whatever,” you playfully sigh, reveling in the way his soft lips feel on your forehead. Completely oblivious to the adoring expression that your boyfriend wears, the last thing you hear is his receding footsteps before sleep overtakes you once more.

You wake up again about an hour later to the aroma of coffee wafting into your bedroom.

After slipping one of Seokjin’s big t-shirts and a fresh pair of panties on, you pad into your bathroom to brush your teeth, blankly staring at yourself in the mirror and watching the minty foam collect around the corners of your mouth. You’re turning 25 today. This is the second birthday you’re celebrating in quarantine, which at this point just feels...normal. You remember how sad you felt during your 24th birthday, how uncertain you felt about the state of the world around you. It almost felt wrong to celebrate anything, even your birthday, while there were people out there dying. Luckily, Seokjin was there to very level-headedly remind you that the same can be said for just about any point in time, and that you deserved to celebrate your birthday regardless of the circumstances. And so, albeit a little reluctantly, you did.

Honestly, being with Seokjin has been your saving grace during quarantine. The two of you had only recently started living together when everything shut down, and you’re both fairly busy (you recently started your last semester of law school, Seokjin is the co-editor in chief at a local newspaper), independent people— needless to say, there was definitely some trial and error when you first had to work from home. But you eventually fell into a nice rhythm that suited both of your work and solitude needs, and for that you are so, so thankful.

You finish the rest of your morning routine before heading downstairs, where you’re greeted by a box of pastries, two cups of coffee, and your boyfriend leaning his hip against the counter. He looks up from his phone with a smile when he hears you approach. “Good morning...again.”

“An errand, huh?” You eye the baby pink and white stripes lining the box on the counter, indicating that they’re from your favorite local bakery. You raise an accusatory eyebrow at Seokjin and mirror his stance.

“Yup,” he gives you a tender kiss on the lips. “Only for you. Happy birthday, babe.”

You smile and thank him softly, standing on your tippy toes to peck him on the lips again before grabbing an apple turnover. Seokjin takes that as an opportunity to wrap his arms around your waist from behind and rest his chin on your shoulder. You sink your teeth into the pastry that’s still warm on your tongue, then you blindly try to offer your boyfriend a bite. Giggles escape both of your lips when you miss entirely and some jelly ends up on his cheek— you dutifully turn your head to kiss it off of his face before actually putting the treat in his mouth.

“As much as I love my apple turnovers,” you loll your head to the side so your face is half buried in the crook of his neck, “I’m a little disappointed that morning head wasn’t my first present.”

You feel just as much as you hear his rumbling laugh behind you. “Don’t worry,” he plants a kiss on the side of your head with a smirk, “I’m saving that for later.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

So far, the day has consisted mostly of responding to a gracious amount of birthday text messages, phone calls, and even a few brief but heart-warming facetimes. At around noon, you and Seokjin pick up some fried chicken takeout for lunch, talking and laughing and eating in the safety of his car, before making a brief trip to the grocery store to get some ingredients for dinner along with a small birthday cake.

Evening rolls around, and Seokjin’s stomach grumbles impatiently while you’re cuddling on the couch— with a laugh you take that as a sign to start making dinner. As you’re opening a can of tomatoes for the vodka sauce you both love, your boyfriend puts on some music— more specifically, the playlist he curated for your birthday last year. You cook in comfortable silence alongside each other, save for the occasional “‘scuse me” when you maneuver around one another and the sound of your voices softly singing along to the lyrics. You’re just about to turn the heat down under the sauce so it doesn’t burn while the penne finishes boiling when one of your favorite sappy songs, Sunday Morning by Maroon 5, comes on shuffle.

“Awe, ‘cmere,” Seokjin coos and gently tugs you into his arms with the hand closest to him, holding it right above his heart while his other arm wraps around your torso. You snake your free arm over his broad shoulders and rest your cheek on the other side of his chest. The two of you resume your comfortable silence, basking in each other’s presence as you sway to the jazzy tune.

Sometimes you can’t believe that this is your life. Slow dancing in the kitchen with the love of your life was something you honestly thought was an exaggheration— just one of the many ways people romanticize love and all that it entails. Finding someone that understands you like no one else and loves you for all your flaws was something you merely dreamt of, something that seemed so unattainable. But here you are, dancing in the kitchen with the love of your life, feeling understood and loved and cherished in every way imaginable. And it’s all because of Seokjin.

In light of your thoughts, you let out a blissful sigh. “I love you, you know that?”

Your boyfriend peers down at you fondly, taken aback by your seemingly random proclamation. “Gee, after dating for three years I would hope so.”

You smack his shoulder with a tsk despite the warmth creeping onto your cheeks. “Shut up, I’m just feeling...soft. And it’s your fault, by the way.”

“Is it, now?”

“Yeah,” you mumble into his chest, before looking up to meet his eyes. “You just...make me feel so loved— so special, even when it’s not my birthday. And I hope I make you feel the same, because I really do love you, Jinnie. So much.”

Seokjin rubs a soothing hand on your back as he sucks in a breath and gives your hand, still in his, a reassuring squeeze. “Well, I hope you know that you make me feel the same and more, y/n. You make me so happy and I— I fall more and more in love with you everyday.”

You struggle to find the words to describe just how greatly you reciprocate his sentiment, so instead you pull him impossibly closer, your lips meeting in a languid kiss. Seokjin moves to deepen it, his hand gently cupping the side of your face while one of yours slides into his hair, when the timer set for the pasta rings through the air.

You reluctantly pull away, a faint smile on your lips. Seokjin huffs in mock annoyance as you wipe some lip gloss off of his bottom lip. “Sorry, I love you but I love properly cooked pasta more.”

After finishing your delicious homemade meal, you find yourself sitting at your kitchen table once again, your store-bought cake with mismatched candles lit on top sitting in front of you.

(“There are only five in here!” Your boyfriend calls to you from the kitchen, as you’re currently in the bathroom.

You bark out a laugh, unable to contain your amusement. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah, leave it to us to forget to buy candles while we’re literally at the store getting a cake.” A pause. “Don’t worry, each candle can count for 5 years!”

“...Fuck off!”)

Seokjin hurries back from the light switch to sit across from you so he can properly sing you a happy birthday before the wax melts onto the cake. You listen intently, mesmerized by your boyfriend’s singing voice that’s just as beautiful as everything else you love about him. When he finishes, your eyes flutter shut, both out of serenity and obligation.

This is the part where you usually pretend to make a wish, but this year you feel like there are some important matters to be wished for. World peace, maybe? The pandemic ending soon would be nice— for everyone but especially for you being able to kick some attorney ass in person and not just on a zoom call. Happiness...is that too basic? Oh, also—

“Yah, are you writing an essay to the birthday fairy in that head of yours?”

You open your eyes to shoot him a glare that’s met with an amused smile from Seokjin. “That hardly makes any sense,” you weakly rebut, though you concede that you did have your eyes closed for longer than probably necessary. You extinguish all five candles in one blow.

While you cut two generous slices of your cake (red velvet with cream cheese frosting, your favorite), Seokjin goes into your bedroom to fetch your gift, flicking the lights back on as he exits. He returns with a small purple gift bag that has white tissue paper peeking out of the top and hands it to you, sitting beside you this time instead of across the table.

You open the card first (like the polite person that you are), which reads “Happy Birthday to my main squeeze” with lemons wearing sunglasses on the front. You’re still giggling at the pun when you unfold it completely, a few slips of card stock falling out as you do so.

“Coupons…?” Your voice trails off as you read the hand-written tickets. “One free chore, one free tickle attack— ooh, a free kiss! I think I’ll cash that one in now,” you wiggle our eyebrows comically at your boyfriend. He lets out a hearty, window wiper-esque laugh before leaning in to give you a peck on the nose, positively endeared.

You bite your lip in excited concentration as you flip through the remaining ones, before releasing it into a fond pout. “Thank you, bubs, these are so cute.” You’re still admiring your boyfriend’s doodles while he takes a deep breath in lieu of a response. “There’s one more thing in there.”

Your eyebrows pinch a bit in confusion at his sudden nervousness, but you don’t question it just yet. You put your hand back into the bag and fish around in the sea tissue paper until your fingers land on a small, velvet box. You freeze, wide eyes immediately flitting to meet your boyfriend’s. “Jin…”

“This is not a proposal I promise,” his words jumble together in his rush to calm your nerves. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in, before pulling the box out of the bag. Opening it up, a small gasp escapes your lips at what lay inside. The ring is delicate in every sense of the word; a thin, gold band holds a total of seven gems, three small diamonds on either side of a stunning, oval-shaped emerald. “O— oh my god, this is beautiful, I’m— Jin, I’m at a loss of words…”

“I’m glad you like it,” he hums, taking another deep breath. “I know we agreed that we don’t want to get married just yet, but I...I also know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Like I said earlier, y/n, you make me so happy— happier than I’ve ever been— and living with you during this stupid pandemic only solidified that.” He looks up to see you already admiring him through teary eyes, the enamored smile painting your features giving him the confidence to say his next sentence. “So this can be your reminder that I promise to marry you one day, and that I’ll do anything in my power to make you just as happy, if not more.”

You sit up a little straighter, caressing his cheek lovingly. “God, you already make me so incredibly happy...and you remind me every day that we’re in this for the long run— all the little things you do for me, every time you’re patient with me, constantly talking about getting a dog,” he lets out a watery chuckle at that. “I love this...so much, don’t get me wrong— but I don’t need a ring to remind me, you know?”

“I know, baby,” he turns to kiss the palm of your hand, “but I’m also tired of fending off guys at the bar. Now you’ll have a pretty little ring on your finger to let ‘em know you’re mine.”

The combination of his words and the playful, yet sincere grin on his lips strikes a chord within you, and not just in your heart; he is yours, and you are his. This isn’t exactly news to you— you’ve had this conversation with him a handful of times before, where you both agreed that you weren’t ready for marriage just yet. And while you were truthful in saying that you don’t need a ring to remind you that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you, it’s still one of the most thoughtful gifts you’ve ever received (it also makes you want to jump his bones...and soon).

Despite your racing heart and your thoughts that are far from innocent, you opt for rolling your eyes and inching closer until your faces are mere inches apart. You feel your eyelashes brush his cheeks as you briefly look down at his lips, then back up into his warm, inviting eyes. The same warm, inviting eyes that you’ll happily gaze into for the rest of your life.

“Yeah, I’m yours.”

a/n: if anyone happens to recall, this one was originally titled "a promise" on the series masterlist, but i decided to change it after writing that last bit :,) i hope you enjoyed reading, & feedback/comments are always appreciated!!!! <3

#sappiest shit i've ever written but i loved every second of it #seokjin fluff #seokjin x reader #seokjin fanfiction #bts fluff #bts x reader #bts fanfction #seokjin x female reader #kpop fanfiction #btshoneyhive #bangtaninn #my writing

[katnissmellarkkk]

for the shippy ship ask thingy: Lark and/or Kathony

Lololololol I was gonna do both but it took me so long to do just everlark that I’m gonna call it good for the night. I do wanna do Kate/Anthony though. Send me Kathony tomorrow pleaseeee and I’ll do them then!

Send in two (or more) names and I’ll fill all this out about the ship!

Everlark :

/

General:

Rate the Ship -

Awful | Ew | No pics pls | I’m not comfortable | Alright | I like it! | Got Pics? | Let’s do it! | Why is this not getting more attention?! | The OTP to rule all other OTPs

- How long will they last?

canonically, forever 😘

- How quickly did/will they fall in love?

took them a while honestly 🤣. it took the entire series for them to truly end up together. although they definitely fell in love during the first quarter of catching fire so I suppose it took them about 1.25 of a book. the books didn’t offer a calendar though so someone do the math 🤷🏼‍♀️

- How was their first kiss?

actually, according to Katty Deen, really bad since he was dying and she was under stress ( understatement of the century ). but if we’re looking at the first one they were both aware of, right after she woke up after the feast fight at the cornucopia, then pretty good since it made Katniss want more.

/

Wedding:

- Who proposed?

Peeta.

- Who is the best man/men?

they just did a toasting so they didn’t have any of the traditional wedding party members.

- Who is the braid’s maid(s)?

Same answer as above.

- Who did the most planning?

Effie 🤣

- Who stressed the most?

also Effie

- How fancy was the ceremony?

Back of a pickup truck | 2 | 3 | 4 | Normal Church Wedding | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Kate and William wish they were this big.

- Who was specifically not invited to the wedding?

Gale. for very obvious reasons.

/

Sex:

- Who is on top?

they alternate 😏

- Who is the one to instigate things?

they also alternate on this 😎

- How healthy is their sex life?

Barely touch themselves let alone each other | 2 | 3 | 4 | Once a couple weeks, nothing overboard | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They are humping each other on the couch right now

- How kinky are they? (ugh I wish this was canon)

Straight missionary with the lights off | 2 | 3 | 4 | Might try some butt stuff and toys | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Don’t go into the sex dungeon without a horse’s head

- How long do they normally last?

depends how long it’s been since they last did it 🤣.

- Do they make sure each person gets an equal amount of orgasms?

of course! rude if they didn’t 😭.

- How rough are they in bed?

Softer than a butterfly on the back of a bunny | 2 | 3 | 4 | The bed’s shaking and squeaking every time | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Their dirty talk is so vulgar it’d make Dwayne Johnson blush. Also, the wall’s so weak it could collapse the next time they do it.

- How much cuddling/snuggling do they do?

No touching after sex | 2 | 3 | 4 | A little spooning at night, or on the couch, but not in public | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They snuggle and kiss more often than a teen couple on their fifth date to a pillow factory.

/

Children

- How many children will they have naturally?

canonically two. in my headcanon, four.

- How many children will they adopt?

none canonically and I don’t have any headcanons at this point that include them adopting.

- Who gets stuck with the most diapers?

Katniss would make Peeta do more of them 😂. and since she pushed the babies out, he gives in and takes the brunt of diaper duty.

- Who is the stricter parent?

my heart kind of says Katniss but honestly neither are that strict in my opinion.

- Who stops the kid(s) from doing dangerous stunts after school?

Katniss is much more of a worry wort than Peeta so her. without a doubt. he’s the one tossing the babies too high in the air and showing them how to play wrestle.

Katniss does however take them to the woods though, even as infants, like her father did with her and that scares Peeta since he’s never been fully comfortable in the woods (it reminds him too much of their first arena) so the idea of his babies out there gives him heart palpitations.

- Who remembers to pack the lunch(es)?

Peeta, their baker daddy. although remembers isn’t the right word. it’s just the task he chose to take on when he and Katniss were delegating duties.

- Who is the more loved parent?

their kids love them infinitely. I always imagine their daughter really idolizes both of them, but in completely different ways. their son is a bit more quiet and introspective than his sister, less likely to tell them how much he loves them, but he feels similarly. but overall I wouldn’t say either of them are more loved than the other by the toast babies.

- Who is more likely to attend the PTA meetings?

God, imagine Katniss or Peeta at a PTA meeting 🤣🤣🤣.

- Who cried the most at graduation?

both. especially because their children’s graduation won’t signify the same thing it did in their day. when their kids graduate, it won’t be a celebration of them making it through six reapings without being chosen and it won’t mean it’s time for their babies to go off to the mines or take over the family business. it’ll just mean they’re done with school and onto the next phase of their lives. for the toastbabies, it’ll seem like less of a big deal to them than it is to their parents but they try to be understanding of their mom and dad and their emotions.

- Who is more likely to bail the child(ren) out of trouble with the law?

both. and honestly I don’t see either Katniss or Peeta being too angry at them for breaking the law tbh. rebellious streaks can be genetic and we know they both had a tendency to rebel/break the law for survival or the greater good, so as long as the toasts don’t commit murder or a heinous crime, they probably wouldn’t be too put out about it imo.

/

Cooking:

- Who does the most cooking?

Peeta. Katniss canonically can’t cook very well. As she told us near the beginning of either The Hunger Games or Catching Fire.

- Who is the most picky in their food choice?

Neither really?

- Who does the grocery shopping?

Katniss. I can’t really conjure up a real solid career for her post-canon so she’s the one, in my mind, who goes to town to pick up all their necessities besides bread and treats.

- How often do they bake desserts?

all the time, since Peeta is a literal baker 😂. although I can imagine he’d get sick of it and need a break every so often. even bakers have burn outs. great pun, samantha. great pun.

- Are they more of a meat lover or a salad eater?

meat, for sure. Katniss still likes to hunt, not even out of necessity but because the act genuinely brings her peace and salads would just remind her of times when she was starving and had to eat grass/leaves/dandelions to survive.

- Who is more likely to surprise the other(s) with an anniversary dinner?

Peeta. For sure.

- Who is more likely to suggest going out?

To eat? I don’t imagine either of them being too into going out to eat.

- Who is more likely to burn the house down accidently while cooking?

Katniss. I even wrote her accidentally burning down the bakery as a plot point in my growing-back-together fic, Gravity.

/

Chores:

- Who cleans the room?

Katniss.

- Who is really against chores?

equal split. they both got beef with a different chore.

- Who cleans up after the pets?

Peeta. Katniss didn’t want the pets to start with but he let their daughter get attached and now they’re stuck with a mangy cat called Porcupine 😭.

- Who is more likely to sweep everything under the rug?

Katniss.

- Who stresses the most when guests are coming over?

depends on the guest, I think? but probably Katty Deen.

- Who found a dollar between the couch cushions while cleaning?

Peeta. and he sticks it in his pocket and forgets until Katniss is doing the laundry and then she accuses him (half teasing) of hiding money from her 😠.

/

Misc:

- Who takes the longer showers/baths?

Katniss. But they do like to take them together. Especially in my fics 😂.

- Who takes the dog out for a walk?

they don’t have a dog. Katniss would never allow it and Peeta is reminded too much of the mutts from their first games to contest her decision when the toaster strudels whine.

- How often do they decorate the room/house for the holidays?

I feel like Peeta gets real into the holidays after the war and if Katniss wants to make him happy, which she usually does unless she’s put out with him, she’ll help.

- What are their goals for the relationship?

to be happy? and live a long, loving, safe, peaceful life together with their children.

- Who is most likely to sleep till noon?

Katniss. but that’s rare.

- Who plays the most pranks?

hmmm, it would have to be a pretty soft prank since I don’t think they’d find like jumpscares too funny after all they’ve been through. With that said, Katniss did a jump scare on him in the middle of the Quarter Quell with Finnick’s help so I guess the obvious answer here is her. But Peeta is so sassy I wouldn’t be surprised if he got her back.

/

thanks for the ask! 😘😘😘

#play with me 🥰 #everlark #cate 🦋🧸💗💐

[jungkookiebus]

The Lord’s Kiss | jjk

Genre: supernatural x smut x period piece Pairing: vampire!jungkook x reader Rating: 18+ Word Count: 5.1k Warnings: blood play, fingering, mentions of death, stockholm syndrome? Summary: You shouldn’t have stayed in the village for as long as you did. The woods are dark as you try to make your way home, only to be walking in circles. Is it convenience or fate that a stranger is now offering you help? With him, you seem to step into another reality all together.

The night was cold and the air bit at your skin. Ice cracked beneath your feet as you walked along the path towards home. It clung to the dead leaves and grass that still sprouted in spots through the dirt. The woods around you were dark and ominous, quickening your pace. The lantern you held swayed in your hand. The flame inside created a macabre dance of shadows against the trees that had you jumping when paired with the snap of a twig. It had taken you longer in town than you had anticipated, so when you hit the trailhead back home the sun was already dipping below the horizon. Your family would probably soon worry about you. Pulling your shawl even tighter, you hoisted the basket you were carrying a little higher and tried to walk even faster; even to the point that it was uncomfortable. The lantern swayed on your arm and casted light against twin trees that grew together from the roots. Didn’t you pass that tree earlier? A large, moss covered boulder came into sight and you knew you had been here before. Were you going in circles somehow? You started to stumble as you grew more desperate to find the right path home. You really should have started home before the sun went down and now you were in danger of running into a wolf or worse a—

“What do we have here?” The voice echoed all around you and seemed to be coming from every direction. It wove through the trees before getting closer until it almost whispered in your ear. Startled, you dropped the basket and the lantern which went tumbling down the path before burning out.

“No, no, no, no,” you whispered as you dropped to your knees and crawled towards the lantern. You were an arm’s length away when someone stepped into the path in front of you. You could tell by the shift in the air around you and you froze in place. Night birds and insects silenced their songs with only the wind to remind you that you were in the forest. You heard the telltale sound of the lantern being picked up and seconds later it lit with fire once more. Shiny boots stood in front of you and as your eyes traveled upwards you noticed the person was dressed in expertly tailored clothes.

“Let me help you.” His voice was smooth as cream, but as menacing and sharp as a knife’s edge.

You shrank back when he extended his hand and he laughed. Looking up, you saw that his smile did not quite reach his eyes which made you even the more hesitant. The lantern cast harsh shadows on his face, and he was both beautiful and terrifying. His dark hair was swept off his forehead and his skin was eerily translucent. Eyes as black as pitch stared back at you, but the lantern light seemed to be absorbed into their depths. Your heart quickened and his brow furrowed.

“You’re lost, little one.”

You knew you were lost and all you wanted to do was get home.

“Why don’t you come with me?” His voice had a strange airy quality to it as if he were trying to come off as gentle, but you knew he was anything but.

“I-I know my way h-home,” you said weakly.

He fully smiled now, and his teeth glinted as he held the lantern a little higher. Clicking his teeth, he kneeled to your level smoothly, one knee in the dirt and ice. He leaned forward, coming dangerously close to your face but you were too afraid to move. You had never met another person whose skin was not marred by the sun or work, but up close, his had no blemishes or scars.

“It doesn’t seem that way.”

Unfortunately, he was right. At night, the woods deemed themselves entirely different than the day and you were hopelessly lost. What were your options? Continue roaming the woods, possibly getting attacked by some wild animal or dying in the elements or—you could take your chances with a stranger. Your breath came out shakily and clouded in front of you. The temperature was dropping.

“Are you scared?” he breathed.

You were suddenly aware than when he spoke his breath did not cloud like yours, yet his outward appearance seemed normal. The feeling he gave off, however, was not. Your fingertips began to numb as the night air descended upon you two fold. What choice did you have?

“I’m not afraid.” Maybe, if you seemed strong, he wouldn’t harm you. Thoughts of your family raced through your head. They were probably wondering where you were if not already looking for you.

He held out his hand once more and you looked at it hesitantly. This decision could quite possibly be your last and it made your body all at once hot and cold. Tentatively, you reached out and placed your hand in his. His skin was cold as ice, but you deemed it because of the weather. He smiled again and stood up, pulling you with him.

“Shall we go, then?” He looked at you as if you had a choice, but you knew you did not.

You simply nodded and he let go of your hand in favor of leading the way. The path seemed familiar and strange all at once the further you walked into the forest. It was still silent save for the wind and an ominous chill ran through your body. Never had you heard it so quiet.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s not much further.”

His footsteps were silent where yours crunched along the ice still. You swallowed thickly and tried to keep your head up as you followed him. As if by some sort of magic, the trees seemed to part in front of you and he stepped out onto a rocky overhang that looked down into a valley you had never seen before. Was that always there? Surely you would have seen it before. Nestled amongst the trees stood a stately stone manor with every window lit from within. You stood, shocked, on the ledge and the wind whipped around your skirts and tangled your hair around your face.

“Let us go before you fall ill.”

He struck you out of your astonishment as he stood near a path leading downwards, lantern still swaying in his hand. You followed him and within half an hour you were stood before the large home. You had never seen anything so extravagant before, having lived close to the small village and never ventured into bigger cities. Beyond its high, stone walls stood a decrepit old church that looked as if it had not been used in many, many years. Ice hung dangerously sharp from the roof tiles and the heavy wooden door looked impossible to open. He walked up to a smaller door that was set into one of the large two and opened it. Warm light spilled out into the dark night and inside you saw an impressive hall with two lit fireplaces.

“Are you the lord of this house?” you asked as you froze, looking inside. You were suddenly afraid of trespassing. There were mentions of wars in distant lands and you were afraid to find yourself in the home of some feudal lord.

“I am,” he said smoothly. He had put the lantern out and was patiently waiting for you to enter.

You were still hesitant as you crossed the threshold. Your shoes echoed off the stone floor and into the Great Hall. Tall fires roared and warmed the room, instantly thawing your sore muscles. You heard him softly shut the door behind you before making his way to your side.

“You must be hungry. Follow me.”

In full light you were able to see him a little better. He was richly dressed and clean which meant he had an abundant amount of money, if the manor were any other indication. Large, plush rugs lined the floors of the hall and various chairs and tables were arranged neatly around both fires. Art that seemed larger than life hung on the walls, some were portraits while some were simply landscapes. Other than the two of you, there was no other soul in sight. He walked leisurely and you followed close behind trying to take in as much of the home as you could. A hundred of yours could fit into this hall alone. He turned into a doorway which led you down a hall until you reached an equally stately kitchen with a table and chairs situated inside as well. If you had to guess, there was probably a dining hall close by.

“Take a seat,” he said as he waved his hand towards the table.

He moved fluidly and as if he had all the time in the world. He pulled out a loaf of fresh bread, cheeses, dried meat, and various fruits and brought them to the table. He set them out before you as he grabbed what looked to be a bottle of wine and poured some into a cup. Once he had them out in front of you, he sat across, and looked at you expectantly when you did not move to touch any of it.

“It’s not poisoned,” he laughed.

“Then why don’t you eat?”

His eyes narrowed a little before he composed his expression once more. He drummed his fingers on the table patiently, never breaking eye contact with you. Soon, he sighed loudly as he reached forward for an apple and bit into it. It sounded crisp and juicy. You shuffled slightly in your seat to mask the sounds your stomach was making as you watched him chew.

He swallowed as he sat the fruit down on the table. “See? Not poisoned. Besides, I am not very hungry. Not for that, anyway.”

The way he said the last sentence sent chills down your back, but right now you were too hungry and tired to care.

“What’s your name?” you asked as you reached for the bread.

He hummed as he sat back, placing both feet on the table casually as he watched you eat.

“Jungkook.”

“You’re not from here are you?” The bread tasted freshly made and the crust crunched in your mouth deliciously. Not even your mother made bread this good.

“I’m from a lot of places. Here is just where I choose to be for the moment.”

His answer was odd, but you decided not to press since he seemed to be so aloof. You missed the way his eyes traveled from your face to your neck as you grabbed some of the dried meat. His met yours again as you looked at him.

“You can stay here for the night,” he said as he swung his legs off the table. “It’s much too cold for you to be wandering the woods so late at night. Plus, you never know what you might run into.”

Him? For example. You were not entirely sure he wasn’t a threat yet, but you felt your resolve melting the more he talked and the fuller your stomach became. Sleep clung heavily to your body and the ache in your legs was now a mild, manageable pain. Tendrils of sleep nipped at the corners of your mind. You blinked a little slower.

“My, look how tired you’re getting already.”

He stood from the table and was at your side in seconds. Your eyes drooped and he scooped you up with no issue. Your head lulled against his shoulder as you slipped deeper and deeper. How was this all happening so quickly? You did not have time to answer you own question before you were cloaked in a sleep so deep it could be debated whether you’d come back or not.

Mrow. The sound was distant and familiar. You were still somewhere nestled in the darkness with nowhere else to go. Mrrrow. The sound was a little closer this time and you tried to concentrate on it. Where had you heard that before? Where were you? Confusion hazed your thoughts. Were you at home? Mmmmrrrrrroooooooow. Blurrily, you opened your eyes to a dimly lit room. Heavy, velvet curtains surrounded the bed, but the end was open. You blinked a couple of times to adjust your sight. Next to your legs, sat a large white cat with green eyes. It stared at you inquisitively before meowing again. A fire burned in the fireplace. Oh, right, you were in the manor still. Lightning flashed, lighting up the room in its beautifully terrible display, before it fell dark again, and thunder rumbled in the distance. The cat stood and walked to the edge of the bed before it sat down and meowed again. You scooted closer towards it and it jumped to the ground before turning and waiting. Your feet touched down on an expensive rug. By the light of the fire and the occasional lightning, you could see the room was just as richly decorated as the rest of the manor. The cat meowed again, and you turned to see it sitting by your closed bedroom door.

“What do you want?” you whispered. You still were not entirely sure what to do with your situation. It was clearly still night if not incredibly early morning at this point and a storm was blowing in over the mountains. It would be suicide for you to go out into it. But was there danger within these walls as well?

The cat meowed and you sighed. You tried to walk as quietly as possible. You were not sure what you would disturb, whether it be him or some ghost, you did not want to find out. The door opened silently, and the hallway was lit dimly with candles that lined the walls. The house was dead silent, and you felt a strange chill go through your body. Your curiosity was piqued at the same time you wanted to run as far away from this place as possible. The cat walked lazily down the hallway leading to your right, so you slinked out after it. You did not even want to breathe. You followed it down a few turns of a hallway and the once silent house began to take on life again. Music played somewhere within the home, but behind closed doors. Were those voices? You had never heard a crowd so large before. The cat still walked as if it were not bothered by it in the slightest. The music, some waltz right now, was beginning to grow louder. There was a din of noise as you began to hear laughter and the clink of glasses. The cat now sat in front of heavy, double wooden doors and blinked at you as if it were bored. The voices on the other side were loud, but happy. The music picked up and you could hear dancing. You were pulling open the door before you even had a chance to register what you were doing. The brightness of the room blinded you for a second as you squinted your eyes. When you opened them again you were able to take in the gilded room. It was so unlike the rest of the manor that you began to question where you really were. The ceilings seemed impossibly tall, like the cathedrals father had told you about. A small orchestra was at one end of the room playing music, while hundreds of dancing bodies twirled amongst strange jesters on stilts, aerial dancers unraveled themselves from silk ribbons, and a constant dusting of glitter always seemed to fill the room. Every guest was opulently dressed and not one was without a mask. Some masks covered their whole faces, some half, and some just the eyes. They all ranged from beautiful to grotesque.

“I was wondering when you’d come,” you heard behind you as they handed you a mask. Shocked, you held out your hands, looking at the mask. That was when you noticed that you too were dressed in what seemed to be the finest of silks you had only heard stories of. Intricate flowers were handstitched into the fabric in an array of brilliant colors mixed with gold thread on a background of deep blue. The mask covered your eyes and was as red as blood. Fine crystals were inlaid into the mask, creating a twirling design of jewels that made you look both menacing and beautiful. You turned to see who spoke and it was undeniably your host despite the mask he wore. It covered half his face, but it was crafted beautifully to accentuate his cheekbone, it sloped delicately with his nose, and formed perfectly to drift right past the corner of his mouth, allowing you perfect view to his somewhat crooked smile as he looked down at you.

“You look stunning,” he commented.

“Where am I?”

“In my home.”

He wore a high collared shirt under a deep, rich blue coat that was decorated similarly to your dress. It was paired with dark, high waisted pants that were tucked snugly into shining boots that reached his knees.

“I don’t understand—”

He cut you off by grabbing your hand and led you to the center of dancefloor. He lifted your hand in his and placed the other on your waist as he led you through a waltz. His eyes glittered and shined in the brightness of the room and a fine dusting of diamond powder seemed to cover him head to toe. His dark hair shined under the thousands of candles perched precariously in their sconces. All around you, partners were jovial and laughing as they danced, whispering in one another’s ear while others embraced like lovers. At the edges of the room there were women entangled in the arms of men and even some men touching other men lovingly on their faces as they whispered in dark corners.

Jungkook kept his eyes on your face as you still tried to assess what was happening. The song ended and with it an eruption of cheers from the dancers as waiters came through with trays of drinks. Just as quickly as they appeared, they disappeared again, coming back bearing just as many drinks as before. He stood, still, before you as you watched the celebrating dancers begin to disperse before the next song started.

“Follow me,” he said, extending his hand. You placed your hand in his, and it was warm, inviting, as his hand enveloped yours.

Your thoughts and feelings felt real, but not your own. Something about him warmed you from the inside out as well as sent a stabbing pain of ice through your heart. Your mind told you to run as your body told you to stay.

But what if…?

You shook your head to rid yourself of the thought. His presence seemed to draw you in and keep you there and you felt the edges of the moth’s wing beginning to burn. You winced at the thought of staying here, but the pain was not nearly as bad as before. The crowd around you parted fluidly, filling back in on itself as you passed. No one really looked in your direction; they were caught up in their own worlds, in their own bubbles, completely unaware of anyone around them. You began to question if the scene around you were real. You smelled the sweet scent of champagne, felt it bubble under your nose as the waiter passed, yet the warmth was almost gone from the room.

He pulled you from the brightly lit ballroom, to a small door that blended so well with the wall you did not even know it was there and was pitch beyond where the light reached. He stepped inside and pulled you with him, door shutting quietly back into place. He reached out, pulling your mask from your face. He moved in the dark quickly as if he had the pattern of the house memorized. He took you up several sets of stairs and further away from the party until it was so muted that you had to strain to hear. At the final landing he opened another door. Moonlight flooded the room. The largest window you had ever seen created a clear wall that looked out onto the valley and the surrounding mountains. The moon was full and closer than you had ever seen. A large, heavily draped four poster stood against one wall while an ornate fireplace flanked the other. Large rugs covered the floors and even more beautiful paintings covered the walls. Dark, purple wallpaper that seemed to also be lined in gold covered the walls which also boasted dark wood paneling. Everything about the room seemed warm and mysterious despite his cold hold on yours. He led you across the room until you stood before the large window. Your breath fogged the glass as you gazed wide eyed into the night. An owl swooped past and into the trees, the trees cast ghostly shadows as the moon moved slowly across the sky. Rain began to fall softly as its clouds perfectly framed it.

“This could all be yours,” he whispered into your ear.

You shivered as gooseflesh rose on your arms. That rational part of your brain that had been telling you to run grew quieter and quieter until it was almost gone. Your brain was now connected directly to your heart and for some reason it seized in a way that sent butterflies into your stomach.

Eyes still fixed on the sharp edges of the evergreens, you asked, “What do you mean?”

His lips were warmer than his hands as he pressed them to the base of your neck. You shivered again as he sighed. He inhaled again as if he were smelling a freshly poured glass of wine. His hands were on your upper arms squeezing lightly.

He ran his nose up your neck and let his bottom lip skim your skin. “I’d give you everything you wanted…will you stay with me?”

What was he asking you? Some deep, dark part of you knew exactly what he was asking, exactly what he was, but you had to be wrong. There was no way you were right. His hands slid down your sleeved arms until they reached your wrists. Swiftly, he pulled your hands behind your back while tilting your head back with the other. His lips were on your neck again and you felt him quiver against you. He seemed drunk, but he appeared sober in the ballroom…

“Stay with you?” You wanted him to say it. You did not want to have to face the harsh truth of this and how much you wanted it. Your family would get over you. Right?

His teeth grazed your skin and the ice that you had felt through your heart melted, seeping into your stomach, and downwards. Your body reacted to his touch in a way that scared you.

“_____, you know exactly what I mean,” he whispered. “You knew the moment you accepted my help.”

And you had. His breath did not fog against the glass like yours. Where the wood stairs creaked beneath your feet, his did not. His skin, though warm, had ice beneath its surface.

“Y-your one of those creatures from the s-stories,” you muttered as his grip on your wrists tightened. He seethed against your skin at the word ‘creatures’ and you winced.

“I’m not a creature,” he said as he nipped lightly at your skin, but you felt the warning behind it. “I can create you into something new.” He began to grow excited as he inhaled deeply against your skin once more. His grip loosened a little on your wrists as he became preoccupied with what was underneath your flesh, pulsing in time with your heartbeat which he heard so loudly in his ears. “Stay with me. I can show you the rest of the world, ____. Just let me…” He trailed off as he hotly kissed down your neck, leaving it wet as he began to salivate over your scent.

“Yes,” you whispered, barely above a whisper. Your heartbeat slowed as your body relaxed. It seemed as if the affirmation, the answer to all his questions, was what you needed to do. It felt right. He froze behind you, fingers tightening as he moaned.

“Let me show you…”

His lips trailed to your exposed shoulder as he released your wrists in favor of bunching your dress in his hand. He pulled the hem up quickly, holding it in his hand as he slid it up your bare thigh. He reached beneath finding your center and cupped you gently. You moaned, leaning back into this shoulder. His hand still cupped your jaw, keeping your neck as exposed as possible to him. You were already beginning to soak the cotton of your undergarments as he slid his fingers over you. He nipped a little harder into your neck while he pressed the fabric against your clit. You heard the distinct pop of breaking skin, but the pain never registered as he circled his fingers on you. He laved his tongue across your skin, gathering the first droplets of blood that threatened to spill into your collarbone. He felt the first tingles of electricity go through his body at the taste. It started somewhere in his dead heart and made his fingers feel as if he just touched fire. He slipped his hand through the waistband and now had his skin against yours. You reacted, hips shifting forward as he attached his lips to the bite and sucked lightly. He gathered your slick wetness on his fingers and rubbed over the now swollen bundle of nerves. You had never been touched like this before and you felt high on the experience. He pushed you into his hips as he pressed down on your clit with his palm and pushed two fingers inside of you. You cried a little at the intrusion and he whispered reassurances against your skin that had your body relaxing into his once more. The soreness in your neck was subtle, but there. What masked the pain was the way his fingers curved inside of you exactly right, pushing against something inside of you that had your muscles going lax while all at once so stiff your legs were cramping.

“Do you feel good?” He was pumping his fingers faster now, grinding his palm against your clit. His entire hand was wet, and it made his efforts easier.

“Y-yes,” you muttered as you clung to his wrist. Your other hand was sliding helplessly against the glass.

He could hear your heart fluttering. Hearts beat differently, each had their own unique pattern, just like a fingerprint. But just like people, hearts conveyed emotions like the faces of strangers. Yours beat in a pattern of lust; right where he wanted you. His lips were back at your skin, searching, until he found what he wanted. The vein he needed. The one he had been smelling all night. He took a breath, closed his eyes for a few seconds, suspending time as he meditated. This would be an almost religious experience. He never did choose lightly, but he was sure of this. You would not have to see his teeth sharpen and you were so lost in the feeling of his hand between your legs that you did not really feel his teeth sink deep into your skin. Hot, fresh blood flooded his mouth as he pierced the vein. The taste was all at once bitter and sweet, like a wine with raspberries on the nose and ripe tannins. He drank graciously from you as he curved his fingers at each thrust, pushing you dangerously close to the edge. You had wet the cotton and your thighs as his hand slid faster and faster. He detached his lips, feeling your heart skip a beat. He was not ready for that yet. His lips were wet with your blood and he licked at them greedily. You moaned as your head lulled. You were in a subspace you had never been in before and your body was a mixture of molten warmth spreading from your center and something cold that seeped from where your neck met your shoulder and it spread across your chest. He pumped his fingers until he had you clenching around him. He bit into the flesh of his wrist and brought it to your mouth; your head still laid against his shoulder as your breath shuddered in your chest. He let the dark blood drip across your lips and tongue, and he watched as you instinctively swallowed. Then you winced. He wrapped his arm around your waist as you began to cry out. He ground his palm harder against your clit as he licked at the blood leaking down your shoulder. Your entire body was shuddering as you began to feel too many things at once. You came around his fingers so hard your vision blackened, then a sharp pain in your chest ripped through your body all at once. You cried again as your knees gave way. With his arm still around your waist, he dropped to his knees with you. He leaned back, bringing you to his chest as your eyes rolled back and your body convulsed in his arms. Nestling your head into his lap, he brought his hands to the sides of your face as you laid out before him, arms at your sides, as you felt your heartbeat slow. His face hovered above yours, his dark eyes fixed on your face as he watched your lips quiver. They seemed to be turning blue and your shuddering breath began to slow. He listened intently as your breathing weakened and your once strong heart slowly began to die out. He closed his eyes, hands still gentle on your face, as your entire body slumped in death, the last beat of your heart echoing in his ears. He sat patiently, waiting, as he evened his breathing and concentrated. He reached out with his thoughts, searching yours, waiting for those first few tendrils as the disease took you. A new life breathed within you. A light blossomed, something that he felt more than saw, and it spread through your body like melting snow. Life came back to your limbs as your fingers moved, then a slight movement of your foot. He heard you sigh as you took a breath. Slowly, your eyes fluttered open and you were looking into his endlessly dark ones. He smiled, and it was genuine, as his palms pressed into your skin. He leaned down, placing a metallic kiss to your cool lips.

“Welcome back, my love, I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”

#ficswithluv #btswriterscollective #ksmutclub #smutcentralnet #bangtanarmynet #bts smut #jungkook smut #vampire!jungkook #jungkook x reader #reader insert #supernatural!au #tw: blood play #tw: mentions of death #nonidol!au