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emberfrostlovesloki · 4 months

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Now You're Everything [Hotch x Reader]

Photo credits: Left (@unheartbreakable) Center (@milla984) Right (@poseidonsarmoury)

Prompt: It’s been a long time coming and after an emotion-heavy year, Aaron finally shows the BAU-reader how much he wants them.

Pairing: Aaron x fem!reader. The reader uses she/her pronouns.

Category: fluff/comfort/minor whump.

Word Count: 9.9K

Content Warnings: Light swearing and drinking, mention of kidnapping and torture [Hotch], Hospitals and IVs, Minor unwanted advances [reader]. If I missed any, please let me know.

A/N: Hi, loves! Happy New Year's Eve! This is for my love @silk-spun. It is the second fic I’ve written based on my December Prompt List (linked) Dialog prompt #6: “Let’s skip the office party and go out on the town instead!” I changed the wording a bit, but this is basically all the times Aaron and the reader don’t have the right words to confess, and the one time they don’t need them to get their message across. There is one short mention of Aaron being tortured on a case, and I plan on turning that into a full fic soon. So look forward to that (?). I hope you have a great evening and stay safe. If you like this fic, likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! Love Levi - ❤️

List wil all stories

_y/n_ = your name

_y/l/n_ = your last name

_y/f/c_ = your favorite color

_y/f/c/b_ = your favorite caffeinated beverage (i.e. coffee/tea/energy drinks)

_y/l/f/d_ = your least favorite designer

_y/f/d_ = your favorite drink

Aaron looked around the room which was shockingly full for it being 9:30 p.m. He scanned the groups of people clustered around tables and sitting in chairs talking. Some had plates of food, others glasses of alcohol or sparkling soda. The person whom the supervisory special agent was looking for wasn’t there. He wondered if she was using the lady's room. The last time he’d seen _y/n_ she was being cornered by Freddy from finance. Aaron hadn’t attempted to listen in on the conversation because it was mostly Fred talking to _y/n_. It seemed the pox-faced man wasn’t letting _y/n_ get a word in edge-wise. That sounded like a personal hell that he would avoid at all costs. He had to do enough wine-ing and small talk at the annual Winter Holiday party as it was. He’d talked to Strauss, the Director of the Pentagon, and all the other heads of teams that had made it to Quantico for the party. He’d heard about so many cases that they started to blend together, but for Aaron, nothing would top his team or the crimes they solved. Hotch listened to Bernard Shaw, head agent for the Tax Fraud department, as the white-haired man droned on about a new loophole for the Cayman Islands and how much of a pain it had been that year. Aaron looked over his team with a soft appreciation for how hard they all worked, how they had gelled to feel more like a family than just profilers doing a difficult, dangerous job. There was Derek, who could always be called on to help with anything. The built agent was talking to Spencer. The genius had been so young when he joined the team. Aaron had taken on a fatherly role with Spencer without even thinking about it. Before Jack had ever been born. Rossi had just taken Aaron’s place with Strauss, and they were talking about some half-shared hobby or new bureau policy. Both of those conversations looked the same. Hotch caught Dave’s eye and the older man gave a small shrug, indicating, “This is what the holiday party is for. Making nice one last time before we get a break.” Aaron gave a small nod of agreement before turning his attention back to Shaw. The man hadn’t noticed as Aaron’s attention had waned and then returned to him. Hotch cleared his throat and said, “I’m going to refresh my drink, but it was good to catch up, Bernard, and good luck in dealing with the fallout of S.B. 103b.” Bernard nodded, and the two men shook hands before Aaron walked back to the table with the alcohol on offer. As Hotch poured himself a glass of white. He guessed at how much the liquor alone for this party cost. His guess was around 2,000 dollars. The FBI didn’t ever recommend frivolous spending, but even they realized that sticking a hundred agents and department heads together required the good stuff.

As Aaron sipped on the cool chablis, he swirled the liquid in his glass slightly. The rare sound of mirth at this dull and quiet frankly depressing party was coming from his team. It was Emily, JJ, Garcia, and _y/n_.” As he looked at _y/n_ in her semi-formal _y/f/c_ dress that was just long enough to be appropriate, Hotch assumed it was some cocktail dress _y/n_ had pulled from the back of a closet behind all of _y/n_ business formal and work attire. The black tights made the outfit work in a fashion way that Aaron didn’t have the right words for. He had to tear his eyes away because if he kept looking at _y/l/n_ much longer, the butterflies in his stomach would soon unfurl their wings and move into his ribcage in a way that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Aaron moved to Rossi, who was free now for support. Dave grounded him, which he needed right now. His feelings for _y/n_ had been coming to a head for months now and somehow, Aaron didn’t feel the bureau holiday party was the place for a confession. Even if _y/n_ was receptive to his advances, he worried. His role as her superior and the age gap had him wondering if they had enough in common to sustain a relationship. They’d grown up in different decades, and y/n_ seemed to have the youth and energy he lacked as he neared late middle age. The part of Aaron that longed for _y/n_ in unexplored ways knew that Hotch’s concerns were self-imposed. That _y/n_ had been sending him small signs of affection and care that didn’t even think he deserved. But Aaron’s fear was real and steeped in policy and power dynamics that would come with having a committed relationship with _y/n_. Hotch moved next to Rossi and asked his friend about his New Year's plan. If he was currently seeing anyone. The basic life and catching up questions that they rarely had time for during work. As Dave answered, Hotch’s eye kept flicking back to _y/n_, as she laughed at some comment of Penelope’s. Rossi noticed and stopped talking about himself. Instead, he said, “She’s not going to wait forever you know, Aaron. _y/n_’s a patient person, but I think she deserves to know how you feel about her.” This comment had Hotch flush and take a breath in. Aaron had tried very hard to keep any of his feelings for _y/n_ hidden beneath a cloak of professionalism and feigned disinterest in the team's personal life as a whole. After all, he was their boss foremost, but it was hard to tune out when the team spoke of their weekends. It was doubly so when it was _y/n_. He’d overhear her complaints about bad dates and rent, and how her dryer was broken in her unit. Hotch had wanted to offer to fix it himself but stopped himself before the words could slip from his mouth. He’d also heard her when she talked about the good things like a new cafe she had found, or getting tickets for a band she adored. If _y/n_ was talking and Aaron was around, he listened but tried to look very hard to not look like he was listening. He wondered if he had played into that a little too hard. Hotch looked at Rossi and asked, “Is it that obvious? And what if _y/n_ doesn’t feel the same way? Her feelings could just be due to proximity, or that I’m her boss or something.” Rossi scoffed and said, “You’re deflecting, Aaron. This isn’t Fifty Shades of Grey. A young woman is allowed to have feelings for a guy, who in my opinion is a pretty good catch.” Dave’s complement had Aaron scoff, but that didn’t stop Rossi from continuing. “Listen, Hotch. I knew you liked her and that she liked you ever since you were in the hospital after the case in Indianapolis. I think what happened in that hospital room told me that there was more than just a feeling of friendship between you and _y/n_. As for whether her feelings are the same way for you and you do for her, I can’t tell you. I’m no love expert. But you’re never going to know how she feels about you unless you ask. And I think you both deserve to know the answer, Hotch.”

With those words of advice, Dave gave Aaron a pat on the arm and excused himself for the night. The older profiler had done the rounds with the higher-ups and was excited to head home, nurse a whiskey, and watch an episode of The Suprano’s. Aaron on the other hand still had about five people to speak to before he could excuse himself. The added discussion about _y/n_ wasn’t going to make small talk any easier. So, with wine still in hand, he steeled himself for another hour of conversation. Hotch had almost made it through the last of his people. He needed to “catch up with.” The room had cleared significantly since his talk with Rossi. Derek, Spencer, and Em had all left, waving or saying a quick goodbye to him as they exited. Garcia was talking to a tech friend of hers from the third floor, and JJ was speaking in hushed tones to Will. But _y/n_ was nowhere to be found. Hotch watched as Arnold, the last person he should talk to approached him. Aaron didn’t think he could take any more small talk, and because Arnold was in Legal, he always asked Aaron loads of questions. Although Hotch didn’t mind flexing his JD now and again, he preferred to do it in a courtroom, not at parties, and not with Arnold Shortes nearly taking notes over their conversation. Aaron turned on his heel and walked quickly to the elevator before Arnold could catch him. Even after a few minutes _y/n_ still hadn’t come back into the second-floor conference room which had been cleared and rearranged for the party. He considered that _y/n_ might have dipped out with Emily, but he was sure she would have told him goodbye before she had left. She always told him goodbye unless he was in a meeting or seemed overly absorbed in his paperwork. _y/n_ introducing her comings and goings had become so routine that he used it as an informal clock now. _y/n_ would always enter the bullpen at 7:45 a.m. sharp unless there was something amiss. And then in the evenings at 5:10 p.m., she’d knock on his office door and wave before skipping down the stairs and to a life that Aaron assumed was filled with much more interesting things than his own. In fact, Hotch had become so accustomed to using _y/n_’s timeliness that he had almost missed a meeting with Strauss because of it.

Hotch had been sitting in his office looking over a case report, waiting to hear _y/n_’s chipper, “Hey guys,” down in the bullpen. He knew once he heard that he’d have just enough time to grab a coffee, wave to the team, and then make it to Strauss’s office. But it seemed to be taking longer than usual. Concerned, Aaron looked at his watch and was startled when he realized it was already 7:55 a.m. Aaron had to run to the elevator and just barely made it to the meeting on time. After the hour with Strauss, he had found JJ and asked, “Where’s _y/l/n_?” A tinge of concern laced his voice. The media liaison had replied, “She caught a bad cold last night. She just called Emily to let her know that she’s taking the day off with PTO.” Aaron nodded, absorbing the information. He was glad to know that _y/n_ wasn’t in any trouble, or stuck in traffic, but being sick didn’t sound great either. Aaron had spent the rest of that day fiddling around anxiously. Hotch knew it was because of _y/n_ but refused to admit it. Finally, when 5:10 came around, he pulled out his cell and called _y/n_. She’d picked up on the third ring and sounded terrible as she said, “Hey, Hotch. What is it?” Aaron let out a breath and said, “Sorry to disturb you, _y/n_. I just wanted to see how you were doing?” There was a muffled cough on the line, and Aaron cringed as _y/n_ hoarsely replied, “I’m still feeling pretty bad, but the fever is down at least. Hopefully, I’ll be back in a day or two.” Hotch nodded and replied a little too quickly, “Take all the time you need, _y/n_. When you feel better, come back.” There was an awkward pause because Aaron didn’t know what else to say, and _y/n_ hadn’t expected to hear such genuine concern coming from her normally very composed superior. At least not over a little cold. Eventually, _y/n_ who was feeling sleepy again said, “Thanks for checking on me, Hotch. I’ll be alright, just need some sleep.” Again, Aaron nodded. He replied, “Okay. Rest well, _y/n_. See you in a few days.” After that, he hung up and put his head in his hands in desperation. He knew he shouldn’t be having the feelings he was for _y/n_ It was inappropriate. His inner voice reminded him, “She’s sick goddamn it. She probably doesn’t want you around right now.” Aaron did justify his line of thinking slightly because he was just picturing making her some tea to smooth her throat and tucking the blankets around her more tightly. It’s not like he was having sex with her… though he’d had those thoughts before too. In his waking mind, he could stop those images with ease, but in his dreams when he made love to her, it was always overpowering. A time or two, he’d even waken mid-dream to find his body aroused and tense. On these occasions, he’d had to go to the bathroom and find release below a steaming shower. The guilt of doing this weighed on him heavily. One of the times he had done this was during a case, and he hadn’t been able to look at _y/n_ most of the day without flushing and internally reprimanding his body and mind like a teenager. But a majority of Aaron’s thoughts about _y/n_ centered around mundane things like waking up beside her, or cooking dinner together. Aaron knew he was boring, and led a boring life, but if it was possible, he’d like to lead it with _y/n_ beside him. Aaron sighed as the elevator reached his team’s floor. He wished he didn’t sound so melancholic, so lovesick. It wasn’t like him. But _y/n_ pulled the emotions from him like the moon pulled the tides. If nothing else, Aaron had learned something valuable tonight; as Rossi had said, _y/n_ wouldn’t wait for him forever, and they both deserved to know how the other felt about the other.

The bullpen was mostly dark with a few lamps on some desks still on, plus the lamps in Aaron’s office burned down on the rest of the space with their soft halogen glow. Hotch didn’t want to seem like a creep, but he wondered where _y/n_ had wandered off to, or if she had just left without telling him. The latter sounded unlikely. Hotch moved to her desk and noticed that _y/n_’s chair was pulled out with her bulky coat draped over the back, and her sneakers and socks sitting underneath the desk. This indicated to Aaron that _y/n_ was still around. Aaron leaned against the desk, much like Morgan did every day when _y/n_ got into the office. Hotch flushed at the idea of _y/n_ sitting in the empty chair. Being so close and causal like Derek or Garcia were with her. Hotch rarely found himself jealous of Morgan for many reasons, but in this case, he was. He couldn’t afford to be too casual with anyone on the team, especially not with _y/n_. If he was, he knew he’d fall head over heels for her. It was hard enough thinking and dreaming about her. He didn’t need more fuel for that fire. Thinking about this sparked a memory from earlier in the year, and suddenly, Aaron had a sense of where _y/n_ was. It had been after a long day in October. The time change had meant that it was dark outside before anyone left the office. The whole team was still around filling out some reports, except _y/n_ seemed to be missing. Hotch approached Emily and asked, “Where’s _y/n_?” Prenitess chuckled at his question and said, “Licking her wounds up on the roof. Freddy Hareld from Finance just made a big deal about “Just how keen _y/n_ looked. And how she must just be dying to get to know the city better now that she’s part of the BAU, and wouldn’t she let him show her around on Sunday.” Hotch’s eyes grew wide at the story. He was rarely privy to office gossip, even though he knew stuff like this happened around him all the time. However, his co-workers kept him out of the loop, which he didn’t mind until now. Aaron cleared his throat and asked, “Did she seem alright?” He wasn’t one to notice or judge men much, he knew he wasn’t perfect either, but Freddy didn’t seem like _y/n_’s type. Hotch was surprised the man had mustered up the courage to ask. Emily nodded and said, “She just looked annoyed. Apparently, Fred talked, loudly, for about five minutes before she had to shut him down and tell him that she wasn’t interested.” Even though Aaron trusted Prentiss, he wanted to make sure that _y/n_ was okay for himself. Office drama could be uncomfortable. Hotch had spent a good bit of time on the roof himself when he was new to the team. It seemed to be one of the only places in the building where you wouldn’t be disturbed, but now that Aaron had his own office, he didn’t need to find an escape from the team or his own thoughts anymore Much like the first time he had found _y/n_ on the roof seeking an escape, _y/n_ was leaning against the railing, looking out onto the canopy of trees that surrounded the Quantico office and the highway beyond them. Hotch cleared his throat, as he stepped closer to _y/n_. She turned around and felt a blush paint across her face when she saw it was him.

_y/n_ had just been thinking about him, and there he was. _y/n_ had been considering how they had both been dancing around the other's feelings all year. And two things _y/n_ knew for sure, she wasn’t great at dancing, and her feet were fucking tired. _y/n_ had hoped that there would be a way for her to tell him how she felt without it being awkward or jeopardizing her job. She hoped that she’d at least shown Aaron her care with her actions if not her words. Unfortunately, the few times that had seemed perfect had been cut off by Haley and Jack. The first time had happened in June. A terrorist group was planning on poisoning the largest high school in the region. It had all been a test run for a bigger operation that would take place in D.C. The team had caught on the terrorist’s trail first. But not before Hotch had been taken and tortured for information. The few seconds of audio that Aaron’s captors had shared were so sickening to _y/n_ that she crumpled in on herself and almost vomited. She couldn’t hide how much hearing Hotch in pain was hurting her. When the cell had been caught, the other half of the team moved to Aaron’s location. _y/n_ had shot and then subdued three men before she, Rossi, and Spencer found Hotch black and blue and tied to a chair. He was barely conscious with his mouth gagged. The wad of cloth in his mouth was soaked with sweat and blood that had dripped down the side of Aaron’s face from a large gash on his eyebrow. _y/n_ helped free his mouth while Spencer cut off the zip ties around his battered arms and legs. Rossi was on the phone with the paramedics who were already en route. Once Aaron’s limbs had been freed, he slumped heavily into _y/n_, who supported his weight. She and Spencer helped him to the ground, and he groaned in pain at being shifted. _y/n_ quickly took off her outer jacket and covered his waist. His kidnappers had stripped him of everything but his briefs, and _y/n_ was certain he didn’t want to be so exposed. The paramedics came shortly after and took Aaron to the nearest hospital._y/n_ was grateful that she didn’t have much time to see or think about all the cuts and burns littering Hotch’s prone form. Seeing him like this felt so wrong that it twisted her insides.

Later, when the doctor had methodically detailed Aaron’s injuries, _y/n_ burned with a fit of anger even _y/n_ didn’t know that she possessed. When he was cleared for it, the team had all gone and saw Aaron in his room. He was surrounded and attached to multiple medical devices keeping him medicated and stable. Even though everyone appreciated Aaron and what he had gone through, no one particularly wanted to stay with him long after wishing him a good night’s rest. No one except _y/n._. Aaron knew it was his fault. He hated hospitals. He would gripe and groan and generally be in a foul mood until he was released as quickly as possible, so he was surprised in his pain-induced state to see _y/n_ pull up a chair close to his bed and just plant herself there. Aaron shifted on the bed to look at her better. That was a bad idea as a sharp pain moved up his side. Hotch muttered, “Fuck” under his breath. He moved his left hand which was attached to an IV toward his stomach to apply some pressure where the pain was radiating from. _y/n_ watched as Aaron moved around. He was straining the line of his IV, and _y/n_ jumped up softly saying, “Hey, hey. Take it easy there Hotch. Just stay calm if you can.” Aaron grunted, but acquiesced as _y/n_ took his left arm and rested it back by his side. She looked at him, concern etched on her face as she asked, “Where does it hurt, Hotch?” Aaron swallowed and almost said everywhere. But his stomach was especially tender and he said, “My, my stomach, but you don’t have to do anything _y/n_. You don’t need to stay here. I’m a pain in the ass when I’m like this.” _y/n_ nodded in understanding as she gently applied a bit of pressure to where he had been trying to reach earlier. He closed his eyes as _y/n_ gently rubbed circles over the inflamed flesh of his torso. Any words about protocol or regulations left him as soon as _y/n_’s hands met his clothed skin. He let out a breath and _y/n_ asked, “Is this okay? I can get a nurse for you?” Aaron shook his head no. He was sick of being poked at. Having three IVs was already putting him on edge. The possibility of more medical equipment was too much to bear. And whatever _y/n_ was doing was soothing him. Hotch softly said, “No nurse. Please. This is good.” Even saying those words seemed to exhaust him. _y/n_ just nodded and kept gently running her hand over his stomach. She didn’t want to think about how this was probably breaking ten rules, or how Aaron’s body looked under the flimsy hospital gown. She just kept moving her hands and watched as Hotch seemed to still and then finally sleep. When his breathing had evened out, _y/n_ pulled the covers over him again and took her seat once more. She didn’t care if he was in a mood or snapped at her. _y/n_ just didn’t think he should be alone right now. So she was going to sit with him until either he told her to leave or someone in the hospital kicked her out. It was at that moment that all of her disparate feelings for him coalesced into one of love. Not a fling or a passing fancy, but the kind of love that lasts through illness and grief and every other part of life. _y/n_ sighed and thought, “What a time to have a revelation like this,” as she kept watch over her boss, unable to leave his side.

Aaron had shown interest in her too. _y/n_ felt a bit better that she wasn’t the only one falling in love. He was more subtle about it, or at least he was trying to be. But that hadn’t stopped her from noticing how he looked at her, how his gaze lingered just a second too long in meetings. He’d pull his eyes away quickly as if he’d been caught doing something improper. Then there was the time he’d called her when she was sick and how he’d seemed a little too excited to have her back after a short four days of illness. And he looked out for her on cases. Not that Aaron didn’t look out for everyone, but he seemed to take her comfort more seriously than he needed to. He held the door for her and let her sit in the passenger seat so they could throw ideas back and forth. At first _y/n_ had thought it was just because she was the newest member of the team. But the behavior from Hotch continued, and just one time on a case, he’d pulled her out of a line of fire and rolled on top of her even though he probably didn’t need to go that far. As Aaron let out a breath of excitement over the case and the woman below him, _y/n_ caught the tells of desire on his face. It didn’t help that they were in what could be an intimate position. His pupils were wide and his breath came in little gasps. _y/n_ didn’t need to see his groin to know that he was excited down there too. After a second, Hotch quickly got up and helped _y/n_ stand too. Aaron nervously straightened his shirt and tie and after quickly asking _y/n_ if she was okay, and her response of “yes,” he moved away from her to gather some semblance of composure. The fact that Aaron was flushed and couldn’t look at her for the rest of the day told _y/n_ all she needed to know about Hotch’s thoughts about her. Or at least the uncontrollable whims of his strong body. _y/n_ didn’t let herself get carried away. Aaron was still her boss, and she was his agent. And because of this neither had said anything or acted like they were falling in love with the other because it didn’t feel like it could happen. Not to them. But now as _y/n_ sat by his hospital bed, she wondered what it would be like with Aaron. To peek behind his well-kept facade and just be close to him. _y/n_ assumed this was the nearest she’d ever come to that, so she settled in for a long night and decided if this was all she was getting, then she would accept it. Fate had never been so kind to give her something as lovely as Aaron, Hotchner, and she accepted it.

It was a long night. Hotch woke almost every hour in pain or needing to adjust for his comfort. _y/n_ moved his pillows and blankets for him, helped him drink a glass of water, and called a nurse when he needed to relieve himself. The next morning she was tired, but when Aaron woke, he seemed much improved. He softly said, “_y/n_, thanks for last night. For being here. You made being here, comfortable for me.” _y/n_ took his hand softly and rubbed over his knuckles with her thumb. Gently she said, “It was nothing, Aaron. I’m just glad you’re okay.” _y/n_ was so tired that she was about to speak transparently and say, “I’d do this all the time if you needed me to. I don’t mind staying up all night with you whether you’re sick or not.” That was the closest thing to a confession that _y/n_ could think of. But she had been interrupted when a nurse knocked on the door and said, “Mr. Hotchner, your son, and Ms. Brooks are here to see you. Should I let them in?” Hearing this, _y/n_ dropped his hand and her head a tiny bit. She stood and said, “I’ll give ya’ll some space, Hotch.” Aaron nodded yes to the nurse, and watched as _y/n_ left the room. He felt like he’d just missed something big, but didn’t know what. _y/n_ passed Haley and Jack in the hall. _y/n_ gave the pair a small smile and nod, and she made her way to the hospital lounge to get some much-needed coffee. The Hotchner-Brooks divorce was still very new, and _y/n_ wondered where things had fallen apart between the two of them. She also wondered if there was any chance at all for her and Aaro. It didn’t feel like it at the moment.

_y/n_ snapped back to the present when Aaron said her name more loudly. He was holding out his suit jacket for her and saying, “You look a little cold.” Hotch was right, she was cold. _y/n_ had wished she’d brought her coat up to the roof almost as soon as she had stepped outside. However, she was too lazy to want to go back in. She’d escaped Freddy’s boring conversation and looked at Aaron right before she moved to the roof for some fresh air. _y/n_ was pondering if she should just give up her dreams about Hotch. Neither of them seemed to be making any moves out of fear that they might say no to the other or that they might ruin the strong friendship they had now. _y/n_ was getting tired of it though. But then there was Aaron as always being a gentleman and looking out for her. _y/n_ nodded and Aaron slipped behind her, placing the jacket over her shoulders. His hands brushed over her exposed skin, and _y/n_ felt that familiar spark burn through her anytime she felt Aaron’s hands on her. Those times were few and far between. She looked over at Aaron and decided that tonight she was going to give him a line and see if he took it. If she didn’t seem interested, she’d let her infatuation go and move on. She could be happy not loving Aaron. At least she hoped she could. Hotch moved to her side next to the railing and he asked, “Was Fred trying to ask you out again?” _y/n_ flushed because it was so rare for him to ask her about her personal life. She remembered the first time it had happened she’d nearly dropped her _y/f/c/b_. That first time had been Freddy-related too. That time they both seemed embarrassed to be talking about it. Now _y/n_ was much more comfortable being open with Aaron. She looked at him and replied, “No. Not this time thankfully. I think the third time actually did it. No today he was just asking about the cases the team has been on recently, and then, inexplicably, he started talking about his pet lizard.” Hearing this, Aaron couldn’t help but cringe. _y/n_ chuckled and said, “You know he’s not a bad guy, just not the guy for me. But bless him, he needs to learn to read a room.” Aaron hummed and said, “Well I’m glad he’s ended his crusade.” _y/n_ laughed at his commentary and replied, “You know he’s right about one thing. I still don’t know this city at all. The cases keep me tired enough to not want to explore on my days off. What do you say we skip the party and you show me something worth seeing?” And here was _y/n_’s line. All Aaron had to do was give it a tug. Hotch looked at her with some surprise, like he had when he was half-dazed in the hospital bed. He cleared his throat and said, “Are you sure it’s me you want? Garcia, or even JJ could show you a better time. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind…” _y/n_ could sense that he was deflecting, and said, “No. I want you. You’ve lived here longer and you’ve gotta know the places that aren’t tourist traps. Plus, Garcia is flirting up a storm with that tech down there and JJ only has eyes for Will. I wouldn’t dare break up either of those conversations right now.” After a pause, _y/n_ added, “Come on Hotch. You looked miserable in there. You’re honestly telling me that you want to go back?”

Aaron let out a warm laugh and said, “Alright, I wasn’t particularly enjoying myself. Too much small talk makes me feel like a dog that’s been bred for show. And I never understood why they held this thing after Christmas and between New Year's. That time feels sacred in some unspeakable way.” _y/n_ was grinning and said, “Totally. I know the director said there was some sort of conflict, but that just read like bad code for, ‘Let me take my ski vacation with my family first.’ And don’t mention the playlist in there. Nobody was enjoying that, I swear to god.” Hotch had to stifle a harsh laugh to not sound unbecoming. That was another thing about _y/n_, they synced with each other’s humor. Sometimes he had to look away from her in meetings to avoid bursting out laughing. The fact was a joy and a pain in equal measure. Aaron looked over to her again, and he realized that she was still waiting for an answer. He took a breath to steel himself. Aaron left like it was now or never, and he didn’t want to let _y/n_ go. Not after all they’d been through this year. He did, however, need a moment to think about where exactly to take _y/n_. He hadn’t exactly been on the town himself since the divorce. Hotch slowly said, “I’d be happy to show you around, _y/n_, but would you give me a minute to think about where exactly to take you? I’m, um, particular about places.” _y/n_ nodded and relaxed into the railing. Aaron looked her over again. She looked ravishing in that dress, and it didn’t hurt that she had his jacket on too. He rested his hands on the cool metal and looked out onto the highway. Gently he asked, “What do you think about when you come up here? I used to spend a good deal of time up here too. When I was new to the BAU at least.” _y/n_ looked over him. Pondering the question. Trying to picture him as a green agent under Gideon. Trying to imagine him in his early thirties instead of his late forties. That all felt like a different time. She hadn’t been there then. _y/n_ moved her gaze to the highway and said, “Well most of my time up here is spent far less productively than yours was. I’m sure. In fact, three of the seven times on this roof have been an escape from Freddy. The other four times, I’m sure I was just annoyed, at myself or someone else. It’s a good place to cool off. Shake the cares of the day away.”

Aaron rolled his eyes. Most of his time up here had been spent sitting against the wall and questioning his life choices, but he didn’t verbalize that thought. He didn’t need to as _y/n_ continued, “But sometimes I like to close my eyes and pretend I can see D.C. from the rooftop. The capital or Washinton Mall. I know it’s silly, and I’ve explored that city even less than this one, but that’s why we’re here, aren’t we? To keep people safe. To keep the dream alive for everyone who doesn’t have to see the dark underbelly of this country. It gives me comfort.” Hearing this, Hotch stepped forward and placed a hand on _y/n_’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure why. He replied, “I don’t think that’s silly at all, _y/n_.” Something _y/l/n_ had said had sparked an idea in Hotch. There was a place on the border between D.C. and Virginia that he’d liked a long time ago. Politicians from either side of the aisle would meet there to make deals and broker favors. As a younger man, he had thought it was cool. Aaron looked at _y/n_ and said, “How do you feel about jazz?” _y/n_ nodded yes and said, “I don’t mind it. Improvisation is good for the soul. Gets you out there. Is there dancing?” Aaron tried to remember the intimate club and eventually nodded yes, saying, “I think so. But I wouldn’t trust me with that. I’ve got two left feet.” _y/n_’s laughter cut through the cold night and she said, “It’s alright. Me too most of the time.” Aaron shifted his hand to her lower back as he asked, “This place is too far to walk. Did you drive here?” _y/n_ replied, “No. Em took me. I was planning on taking an Uber back when I was done with my private roof party.” Aaron noticed her eyes slowly blowing out and her breath coming in faster in her chest. Aaron nodded and said, “Okay. Well, we’ll take my car if you're comfortable with it. I can drop you off at your place after?” _y/n_ agreed and said, “Sounds like a plan.”

The pair made a quick stop by Aaron’s office and _y/n_’s desk to grab their things before heading out. Neither made any formal goodbye at the party. Hotch felt oddly free as he stepped out of the field office with _y/n_ by his side. On the drive to the jazz club, he pointed out different areas of the town to _y/n_. He knew he sounded like a dad, but _y/n_ seemed interested in learning more about the area and asked follow-up questions as they cruised down the dark streets. There was no parking in front of the club, so Aaron found some down the road. The club was unassumingly nestled into the facade of a street full of high-end stores. Now it was _y/n_’s turn to point out interesting trends in the window and designers she despised. Aaron got a small tirade about _y/l/f/d_ when they passed that storefront. _y/n_ was sure Hotch had lost interest at that point, but when she looked at him, he seemed engrossed. He looked over at her and said, “Well, I’d have never known that unless you’d told me. Now I’ll have something smart to say when there’s more small talk to be made at parties.” _y/n_ smiled at Aaron. She knew she had her eccentricities, but he took them with such grace and she wondered what she’d done to earn even an hour of this man's time. _y/n_ spared him any other commentary. When they stepped into the small, dark space of the club, Aaron told the matre de that it was just two, and the man led the two toward the back of the space. The head waiter graciously motioned to a small couch near the live band playing soft jazz in the back corner of the room. Aaron let _y/n_ take a seat first, and he followed after her. Shortly after being seated a waiter came and took their orders. Aaron got an old-fashioned, and _y/n_ ordered _y/f/d_. As they waited for their drinks to arrive, _y/n_ asked Aaron, “So, how did you find this place?” Hotch did his best to summarize his first year in the BAU. How unsure he was about the shift in jobs. How Haley had been the one to get him out of the house and office. As Aaron recounted his story, _y/n_ didn’t pull away or, cringe at the mention of the former Mrs. Hotcher. _y/n_ realized as much as anyone how important Haley was to Aaron. He’d loved her for a long time before things had fallen apart. And she’d loved him too. _y/n_ was far less insecure about this fact now. She was ashamed about how she’d felt about Haley at the hospital that one time. Not only was Haley important, but _y/n_ realized that Jack was the zenith of Aaron’s life. And she respected that. Fatherhood seemed far from easy, and add being head of the BAU on top of that? Hell, Aaron made it look easy. So she listened to him open up in a way that he never had in front of her before, and _y/n_ got her small peak behind his work facade. She realized that he was just a man doing his best. Trying to juggle all of the plates at his feet, and somehow that was the most attractive thing possible about Aaron Hotchner that she hadn’t ever noticed before that instant.

Hotch looked at _y/n_ after his long-winded story and expected to see boredom there. Or disappointment at how often he’d brought up Haley or Jack. But he didn’t find it. Only a look of admiration that he couldn’t quite place. And suddenly Hotch wanted to say everything that he’d bottled up over the year and wanted to lean down and kiss _y/n_ on the lips like he had in his dreams. And _y/n_ watched as Aaron shifted in his demeanor. How his eyes were wide again and he seemed to be building to something new. Something yet said or explored between them. The sudden and insistent beeping of Hotch’s phone cut off that moment in an instant. Aaron pulled back from _y/n_ a bit and murmured, “Sorry,” as he accepted the call. After a second, Hotch’s mood changed again, as he replied to the other end of the line. “Is he alright? What’s the matter?” _y/n_ pulled back a bit more, realizing this was a private conversation and she was a bit too close to Aaron for it to be happening like one. His frown and worry lines increased, as he listened to the dialog she couldn’t hear. After a minute he replied, “Yes, I’ll head over right away. You said the doctor was on his way too?... Yeah, yeah. I’ll just be twenty minutes or so… Okay. Tell Jack I’m on my way… Yeah. Bye.” Aaron dropped his hand with this cell in it and looked at _y/n_ with sad eyes. She looked back and him and said, “Is it Jack?” Aaron nodded and replied, “Haley said he has a bad fever, and it’s getting worse. She called a doctor and she thinks I should come over. _y/n_, I’m sorry.” _y/n_ gave him a pat on the arm and said, “Go be with your son, Aaron. There are more important things than me in the world. At least in your world.” Hotch nodded with the same sad eyes. He realized how much of a sacrifice _y/n_ was making for him, how life in the BAU was a whole big load of sacrifice. Aaron stood, and just to show a fraction of how grateful he was for _y/n_’s presence in his life, he leaned down and kissed her forehead. It was chaste, and he pulled away before he could get ahead of himself.

Aaron was gone before _y/n_ could even fully register what had happened. The bell at the door told of Hotch’s departure, and _y/n_ could have screamed out of desire or despair at how the night had come to a quick conclusion. But she didn’t. _y/n_ knew how important Jack was to Hotch. Everything else but his son was at the periphery of Aaron’s life, and Jack was at the center. As _y/n_ settled back into the loveseat, now alone, she contemplated how yet again any plans or revelations of their feelings had been dashed. But _y/n wasn’t mad about it. _y/n_ had to remind herself that for the half hour, they had been together that night, Aaron had allowed her to see more of himself. And he was, as _y/n_ expected, as good a man as they came. _y/n_ thought, “How often does a girl really get to see a good man?” It was a pleasure, even if it was for just an evening.

The final few days of December passed in a wave of the hand. _y/n_ had asked Aaron if Jack was alright the morning after their night on the town, and he’d said that the fever had broken in the night and that his son was on the mend. Aaron had asked _y/n_ in the same text exchange if she’d gotten home okay after his sudden departure. She had told him that she’d called a Lyft soon after he’d left to get home. And then, before _y/n_ knew it, she was packing her bags for a long weekend at one of Derek’s properties on a lake outside the city limits. She was carpooling with Emily and Garcia. _y/n_ had heard that Morgan’s New Year’s Eve parties were times to remember and she was finally going to experience one for herself. _y/n_ was already excited to be spending time with her friends, but when Emily said, “You know Aaron’s coming too? He apparently called Morgan last minute and asked if there was still an empty bed, _y/n_’s jaw dropped. _y/n_ quickly composed herself and said, “Well the more the merrier.” Em rolled her eyes and said, “The more the merrier my ass, _y/n_. You know he’s just going there for you. When are you going to catch on that he’s in love with you?” Penelope agreed from the backstreet and said, “Honestly. _y/n_. He’s been making googly eyes at you all year. And what was that with him taking you out after the Holiday Party? Do you see Hotchy doing that with anyone else?” _y/n_ sighed exasperated with her friend's encouragement. She half-heartedly said, “Well, he could have been.” this had Garcia and Prentiss cackling and Penelope said, “This is the time, _y/n_. I swear. If it’s not, I’ll pull Hotch aside myself and give him a piece of my mind.” Despite _y/n_’s friends banter, _y/n_ felt reluctant. None of the other times seemed to work out, and she didn’t see how this was going to be any different.

As Morgan’s lake house came into view, _y/n_ tried to let everything go. Whatever happened would happen, and she planned on having fun no matter how the next day and a half went. The trio of women were the second to last to arrive. Spencer joined them a half-hour later. Derek quickly showed everyone to their rooms. It felt like an adult sleepover and an energy charged the air. For the first hour or so the team just relaxed and unpacked. Derek, Rossi, Spencer, and Aaron sat on the leather couches and talked about the year. Their highs and lows. They also debated which case was the most interesting from the year. As the men talked, Emily, _y/n_, JJ, and Garcia all tried on the dresses they had brought for the end of the night. As they were helping with the zippers and hemlines, _y/n_ said, “I’m sorry Will couldn’t come tonight, J.” JJ smiled and said, “Yeah. But I think it’s fine. We’ll be married soon enough and we’ll have the rest of our lives to be together. Tonight feels like the gang is back together in a nostalgic sort of way. You know what I mean?” The other nodded alone and Emily said, “I feel ‘ya JJ. What a year it’s been. But we’re all happy for you know. I think you got the last good guy on the market with Will.” JJ grinned and helped _y/n_ slip into her ‘dress.” The media liaison seemed to glow with a pre-marriage, I’ve-found-the-love-of-my-life aura even four months before her wedding day. And suddenly all the women were dressed, and they all looked at each other and complimented each other. Emily was in a sleek purple pants suit. JJ was in a fitted black dress. Garcia, as always, was wearing a bright orange tulle skirt with a pink top, plus white fingerless gloves. The tech noted, “And I’ve got about ten million little things to put in my hair too!” Lastly, _y/n_ was wearing something far slinkier than her friends. It essentially amounted to a lot of large, shimmery _y/f/v_ sequins held together with tiny metal rings. _y/n_ hadn’t worn it since before turning twenty and she couldn’t remember why she’d bought it. “Maybe for a rave?” She thought. Because the garment was so sheer, she was wearing sensible black underwear and a matching bra underneath, but _y/n_ flushed at the one time she’d gone clubbing without the undergarments beneath. That had been a fun evening.

The compliments made the rounds, and Garcia told _y/n_, “You look drop-dead good in that, _y/n_. The boys won’t know what hit them.” At the mention of “the boys,” _y/n_ looked at the ground and said, “You know I would have picked a different outfit if I’d known Hotch was coming.” The others snickered, and _y/n_ laughed too, saying, “I’m being serious. I’m not trying to look like a slut in front of him. The brief said ‘Fun New Year's attire and this is the funniest, New Years-ist dress I’ve got.” Emily moved forward and gave _y/n_’s shoulder a pat saying, “You’ll be fine, _y/n_. You look glorious. Plus you’re the youngest one here. That means you can get away with wearing something more risque. I’m just shocked you can wear something from that long ago. I’m lucky if I could pull off something from two years ago and it look good, I can’t even think about five or ten.” Prentiss shuddered at the thought, and that got a good laugh out of all of them.

A knock at the closed door, had them all look away from each other. It was Derek saying that he, Aaron, and Rossi were going to take a walk along the path that went around the lake nearby. And if any of them wanted to join them? _y/n_and Em jumped at the chance. The pair quickly changed back into their casual clothes and headed out with the guys. The walk was pleasant and they all just took in the fresh air and saw the trees surrounding the water. Aaron was walking a few steps behind _y/n_ and he contemplated his feelings about her once more. Even he was getting annoyed with himself. He blamed it on being indecisive in the worst possible area of his life, partnership. But he’d decided today was going to be the day. He was going to bite the bullet and ask _y/n_ how he felt about her. Even though he couldn’t picture the words leaving his mouth, he swore to himself that it was going to happen. The walk concluded, and then everyone got some drinks which Aaron happily and skillfully mixed. Then Derek and Rossi made dinner and everyone ate outside around the fire. And by that time it was already ten and the first fireworks were dotting the sky. Aaron and _y/n_ were sitting next to each other. Close enough that he could move his arm just an inch and he would be touching hers. Hotch’s eyes stayed on the sky as he asked, “Do you have any plans for the New Year?” It was too cliched to ask about resolutions, but he did wonder what someone like _y/n_ thought about the future. _y/n_ turned her gaze to him, and replied, “I don’t know. I want my apartment to feel more homey. It’s still giving college vibes if I’m being honest. I’d like to buy some better furniture, like the opposite of the stuff from IKEA. And then there’s helping JJ with the wedding, and then just going out more. Seeing the city like we did after the party.” _y/n_ felt like saying, “I’d like doing that with you,” and also, “Does this make me sound boring?” But _y/n_ couldn’t vocalize either of those thoughts as Gacia stepped out onto the patio and proclaimed, “It’s dress-up time, baby girl!” _y/n_ shook her head and chuckled. Aaron gave her a hand up and watched as she disappeared into the house. _y/n_’s list sounded just up his alley, and he wondered why he’d been putting off his feelings for so long. Why he couldn’t just man up and tell her he loved her? That he was mad about _y/n_. Aaron sighed and walked inside after _y/n_.

It was 11:15 when the girls were all dolled up with their outfits, heels, and makeup. Derek had the TV playing with the countdown to the ball drop on as ambient noise. The champagne was ready to be popped, and the new year was rung in with friends and laughter. Garcia and Derek were both oddly big about watching the ball drop. _y/n_ had interrogated Penelope about this on the way up to Morgan’s house. Garcia had just said, “It’s tradition, and you don’t mess with tradition.” Just as the group of women stepped into the light to be seen for the first time, the power went out. There was a moment of silence and then Derek said, “Really house. You do this to me now?’ That got everyone laughing, and Aaron asked, “Where’s the breaker Morgan? I’ll give it a look.” Derek told him and Hotch stood outside for a second. While Aaron was gone, Penelope and Morgan talked about what they would do about a countdown. Nobody wanted to just look at the clock. That, Morgan had said, “Wasn’t festive at all.” Aaron came back and said, “It’s not good news, the main fuse is fried.” That had Derek thinking and he announced, “Alright, change of plans. There’s a dive bar down the road. If we book it, we can make it there before midnight.” There was little complaint from the group as Morgan and Penelope hustled everyone into two cars and down the street. There was so much excitement that nobody got to see the women’s outfits until they were standing outside the bar. The space was a dive and it was packed with partiers. The walkway up wasn’t paved, so Aaron took _y/n_’s hand with his left, and even though he didn’t need to, he placed his right on her lower back. Again he felt that spark shoot through him. The cool sequins juxtaposed to _y/n_’s warm skin were doing things to him that he didn’t want to think about right now. Or maybe it was the dress that didn’t leave much to the imagination. Either of those was a good option. Inside, the team found a spot to stand and watch as the time ticked down from 11:55 to midnight. Derek joked and said, “Alright, who’s kissing who when it’s time?” Emily raised a hand and teasingly said, “I volunteer for you, Morgan.” The team laughed and then started counting down. Everyone except Hotch, who was standing a bit farther back. _y/n_ sighed, knowing he was never a big fan of crowds. She stepped close to him. Even as Aaron sought a moment of reprieve, both _y/n_ still had to stand almost body to body to avoid bumping into anyone. As “THREE, TWO, ONE” were unanimously chanted in the tight space, _y/n_ was going to try and pick up where their conversation had stopped earlier in the night. To see if Aaron had any plans going into the New Year. But she didn’t get the chance to as the call of “Happy New Year!” Hotch bent down and pressed his lips to hers.

Aaron had meant for it to be a little peck. Just something to ring in the new year with. But _y/n_ only stood in shock for a moment before she realized what was happening, and she’d waited so god damn long for this very moment that she quickly leaned into it, pressing her body to Aaron’s as her arms wrapped around him. Aaron reciprocated in kind and placed one of his hands on her hip and the other on the crown of _y/n_’s head. Holding them together like he might fall apart if he let her go. Aaron's lips were slightly chapped and his cologne, which _y/n_ knew well, crept over her like a sunray. As soon, as they’d started, they didn’t want to stop. Then it dawned on both of them, like they hadn’t been yearning for the other for over a year, that they didn’t have to stop. So they didn’t. Not until they had to pull away panting for air. And once they’d gotten breath back in them, they came together again. This time it was more cautious. More subdued as Aaron began to memorize the shape of _y/n_’s soft mouth pressed against his own, _y/n_ made a small contented sound that only he could hear and smiled as she placed her hands on his chest. _y/n_ his body in a way that indicated an intimacy that had always been there between them. The rest of the team watched them with Garcia saying, “About time. My god, I thought I was going to have to lock them in a closet together later tonight.” Rossi joked and said, “Well, there’s still time to do that later,” as he came back with a handful of champagne flutes. Dave handed one to each member of the team and then walked a pace over to _y/n_ and Aaron. Hotch was looking into _y/n_’s eyes but stopped when he noticed his friend. Rossi smiled and said, “Alright you kids. How about you take a moment and join us for a toast?” _y/n_ flushed, but nodded taking a glass from Rossi. Aaron chuckled and got a glass himself. He never let his hand lose contact with _y/n_’s side as all three walked back to the table. Rossi gave Aaron a strong pat on the shoulder as they moved to the group and winked at _y/n_, which only made her flush further. Hotch didn’t even care as the whole team's little “oohs and ahhs” sounded at their return. Aaron realized that scrutiny or affection didn’t feel so bad with _y/n_’s hand in his. He realized with full clarity that she’d been there all along, and he’d just not moved his hand to meet hers. He’d tell her he was sorry for that later. For stringing her on so long. He’d tell her he loved her more times than he could count too. But for now, as everyone lifted their glasses saying “Happy New Year!” The future never looked brighter.

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savnofilter · 4 months

Text

Makeup Sex HCs

-> dabi/t. todoroki, s. todoroki, e. kirishima & k. bakugo

Dabi | Shouto Todoroki | Eijiro Kirishima | Katsuki Bakugo x [GEN]Reader

CONTENT WARNING(S): sexual content, makeup sex. 🧍🏽‍♀️

COUNT: 1.1K words [1-3 mins each].

READ MORE: masterpost + [students | bakugo | adults masterlists]

A/N: ive been wanting to write this for a hot min and now i finally did sjdjsjdn anyways this will be my last nsfw work for students. pretty anti-climatic but 🤷🏽‍♀️ i will be releasing the rest of my sfw stuff for them somewhere else so stayed tuned for that. 👀 ANYWAYS I AM SAUR READY FOR THE DABI CONTENT IM GONNA BUST 🥰 THANK YOU ANON AND HAPPY YEAR YALL. 🤢🤟🏽🤟🏽🤟🏽

if its serious & Dabi knows hes fucked up, hes gonna force himself to talk about it.

don't think that he’ll be mature 100% but he will communicate with you.

is a little manipulative (don't come at me we know he ain't at therapy) and might divulge to get into your good graces once again.

makeup sex with Dabi entirely depends on how serious he finds the situation.

if it's something super serious (to him) then he will not go for sex and will not want to be touched physically like at all. comfort wise too.

but when it's something where all you two need to do is properly communicate, he's actually more empathetic. you could almost say the makeup sex between you when this happens is more… intimate.

if submissive!Dabi is something you like, here he is!

don't expect him to go full on tho, he’ll just relinquish a bit more of letting you take control as a form of apologizing.

[+] only you have been able to see him in such a position… you better be thrilled.

gets more needy tho? the audacity… if you love brats there here he is.

tries to say stuff to throw you off, shit like if you're teasing him he'll say something along the lines of, “stop playing and come sit on my cock, doll.” or “look at you slobbering all over my dick, you greedy XYZ.”

a little whiney about it too, has no shame whatsoever, though.

if he's the one giving you head, it's very messy and sloppy like he's making out with your nether regions. his goal is to have you c(um)e undone and having you surrender your thoughts to him.

when you two actually get to fucking though, it's really rough and grabby at first. it's as if you two are trying to fight each other whilst also attempting to one up another in pleasure.

very much a lot of rough thrusting, pinning, bite marks, hickies and hand prints galore.

then it soothes out—once all the pent up energy is exerted you two transition into a more, and this is where I talked about earlier, intimate love making.

mumbling apologies, a teary eye if you manage to make eye contact with each other and soft mutterings of how good it feels.

it's like a rollercoaster ride of high and low emotions, the end result being the balance of both.

probably the same kind of style as Dabi.

honestly it wouldn't be surprising if the root of the makeup sex being unresolved things, as in the inner conflicts that you two don't even address.

quiet aggression waiting for its release between you two.

makeup sex would be more like a week or a few days after, where you two are probably having a normal session but then the pent up and forgetting energy comes up and gets released during the deed.

Todoroki grips you way more often and holds you close as if you might disappear in one second.

uses a lot of his hands and probably toys too to let out his pent out anger.

will have you bonded up so he can freely do what he needs to do with having to keep his attention divided by keeping you down and pleasuring you.

a ton of words of affirmation here, both you and him.

that's how it normally is, but he throws in some endearing terms a lot more this time around.

“that feel good, baby?” “who makes you feel good like this?”

his attention is solely focused on you and not so much his.

will probably edge you until the point where you both need to climax as he enjoys seeing you tear up and beg for him.

the makeup sex was probably about jealousy if we're being honest here.

Todoroki is just so emotionally constipated but he doesn't know how else express it.

is definitely working on it though.

probably the most emotional out of them lol.

Kirishima is the type to cry and be a mess, super emotional and empathetic.

isn't doing crazy positions or trying to rough you up, unintentional or not.

very much, “I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry” sort of attitude 😭

feel like when thinking of Kirishima, since he has this hidden, passive aggressive side that it'd transmute into rough handling but no I think he'd let all his barriers down for something like this.

would probably get rougher near the ending tho, like harder thrusts and more bite marks.

he wants to be in your good books again and is doing his best to be that again.

everything is sloppier too, just pure rawness tbh.

the makeup session may take place a few hours later or a day later, if it doesn't then that's how you know it's something serious that can't just be mended with a bit of physical bonding.

so in a way when you two make up like this, Kirishima feels grateful because of the unspoken common rules in your relationship.

he puts his all in to make sure that even with your disagreements he still loves you a lot. :’)

surprisingly so, i honestly believe makeup sex with this man would be soft.

it's passive aggressive at most, the only thing being harsh is the rough grip here and there or a little taunting whisper every so often.

lots of eye contact and just admiring you under him.

likes to be on top so he can shield you from everything else in the room and wants your attention all on him.

make up sex with him is smothering in the way that it's like he's trying to mold himself into you and only you.

doesn't care about what you guys fought about or disagreed earlier, he's more or so focused on the connection this will bring.

Bakugo is more quiet during this time, not really saying much but lets a few noises slip by every so often.

if he does talk, it's not very loud or aggressive, more of check ins like, “you okay?” “you like it when I XYZ?”

it's like Bakugo is treating you in a fragile manner, not wanting to shatter you or startle you. :’)

this is one of the times where his energy level isn't on 1000.

ALSO HAND HOLDING FOR SURE.

prefers to mostly do positions where he can see your face too, wants to make sure you're okay.

he's very mellow and the sort of energy is needed for the mending between you two.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha dabi x reader #mha dabi x reader #bnha todoroki shouto x reader #mha todoroki shouto x reader #bnha kirishima eijiro x reader #mha kirishima eijiro x reader #bnha bakugo katsuki x reader #mha bakugo katsuki x reader #bnha headcanons #mha headcanons #not sfw #sav's sinning

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hanasnx · 1 year

Note

I got something for you, Magic Mike Anakin

oh?????

oh really?????

alright so i’ve seen both magic mikes and i gotta say i like the second one better just cos its about men exploring positive masculinity and pursuing their passions for fun instead of profit. also “the kid” annoyed the hell out of me, so did his sister. and ill be honest amber heard’s character in xxl annoyed me too :/ its a give and take really.

i did like XXL a lot because of that groom scene?? hello??? it was with “big dick richie” and it was the only dance that made me have a physical reaction. i was so skdjksjd heres the link

☥ its so very anakin coded to me for some reason. like he’d totally lean in to say something naughty in your ear after you were just “married” and brings you to the stage.

picks you up and hooks his arm under your legs effortlessly

sit you down into the sex swing. chain up your legs. whipping his tie around like he would actually whip you with it given the chance.

picking himself up like that using the bars and pretending to fuck your face. hanging upside down to shake his hair out over your crotch and tickle in between your legs.

☥ this scene had so much good energy to me it looked so fun and juxtaposed the idea of you either get one or the other when you marry— you get a gentleman that marries you and treats you right, and a freak that treats you like the slut you are when its time to consummate the marriage. very anakin

☥ i know ive talked about anakins character not being very sexual unless hes with a person he really likes, but who says this dance cant be between him and you aka his lover?

also i love the idea of a demisexual stripper that just shatters a harmful stereotype “if youre a stripper you must love sex right?” “im basically asexual” “oh” sumn about it scratches my brain

☥ anakin running around with his 501st crew to dance for fun and have beach parties and compete in a drag bar for cash bcos you only live once. he’d definitely be the thrill seeker of the group and the guy that does the most stunts just cos he can. like sets up the stage to like do a bunch of flips through hoops of fire ?? he has no sense of self preservation!! hes doing it!

☥ the way he’d be able to move his hips skfjddsfklj plsss. hed be so fluid and we all know hes already jacked. one of his hobbies is def working out and dancing like this requires a lot of work and training!

☥ not to mention those hips would be amazing in bed,,,,, aye yai yai. he’d push and pull and direct you and position you like a rag doll— hit spots inside you you never thought possible. make you clutch the sheets and drool all over yourself.

☥ he’d revel in the attention tbfh he loves making ladies feel special

☥ he’s probably a fan favorite just because of his personality. also theres a big air of mystery surrounding his scar that only adds to his sex appeal

☥ eeee imagine him flirting with you after the event like “you like what you see? interested in a private show?” he’d be such a tease

☥ he honestly would use any excuse to wear less clothes

#stripper!anakin #anon #thanks for the msg!!#indy shoots the shit #anakin #au!anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker imagine #reader insert

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bloodofthepen · 12 days

Text

Lachesis Pt IV (Obey Me!)

Rating: T

Ship: Barbatos/MC

POV: Second Person

Chapters: 4/5 (Part I here)

[Read on AO3]

This has taken an extremely long time, but I am so grateful to everyone who is still interested in this story! I have actually been working on it for the last... wow, three years??? in between various life situations, and the draft as it stood, still incomplete as of this week, was about 45,000 words. I have decided that was much too long, as even I got fatigue rereading it, and split it into two parts. I think Part IV as it is now is a fairly satisfying ending, but not in the place I envisioned, so Part V will be an epilogue that takes us through Lesson 20 of the first season.

Anyway, without further ado, with many thanks to my readers--and especially to my betas, Hylla and Tan--I present to you: Part IV.

Warning in this chapter for: violence, grief, mild horror

Part IV: You

You are 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 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 would 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, then 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 tilt your face to look at Lucifer. “My brothers have become very fond of you. And—” His gaze shifts slightly away. “— they have been worried. I need to ask…”

Your brow furrows. “Yes?”

“How were you able to call Beelzebub? 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 the choice, of course she would pick you; you’d be naturally receptive." 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 belonged to 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 that all this time… have they considered you an accident? Not just Lucifer, but Diavolo and Barbatos? Your presence, mere chance? Then… 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—” Lucifer 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, Barbatos was gone, 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 fewer 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 smile. “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 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 graceful 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!”

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

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, 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.”

Strange how your mind supplies the words healing coma and you don't think twice about the science fiction flavor that clings to those words. 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 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, well… 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 day 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 wrapped 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 have 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 that 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 cavalierly 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 is 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 it. 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 could 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 lifts 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 is not wrong; you find you’re more drained than normal, and you have 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 is 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 is 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 is 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 are 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 is 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.”

Diavolo 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 are 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 have tasted them all before, and accept portions gratefully… but you can’t seem to taste much of what is 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 had shown aptitude for previously—and I had no suspicions about you being Lilith’s descendant until Belphegor reappeared.”

Descendant. 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 is 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!” His fork catches the light as it twists through his fingers. “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 are 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 is not 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.”

Diavolo’s brow twists. “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. "Though I would have liked to see it."

"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 choices, 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 is 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 had not 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 a street-corner. And…

They are 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 is 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 are 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 is 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. “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 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 are willing to risk… what we are willing to risk… I will be shocked.”

“What I’m willing to risk?”

Lucifer nods. “It would be 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.”

A wry smile that quickly disappears. “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 had 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’ll only be 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 is 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?”

Lucifer 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 is 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 have 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 would 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 everything… of when Lilith died.” His voice trembles like the hum of a bee. “And he hates it. And—I’m sorry.”

You look at the floor, pull a chair out from the table, and 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 also had the opportunity to get to know me a little; I visited him, stayed and talked. But I suppose… it just wasn’t enough. He doesn’t want to care, Beel, but you gave me a chance.” There is 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. H e 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 thrice 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 are quite sure you weren't even this stressed the first time someone tried to kill you.

The first time.

Oh, dear.

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

Arbianock definitely has not 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 is 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 is not 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 had stored in the large chest at the foot of the bed.

The bathroom is… just as extravagant as the bedroom. A 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 would return to Barbatos, waiting for you on the other side of the Time-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 had done for him, 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 does not 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 the 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 energy from 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. Your stomach drops. “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 forgiven us, even if he does seem to hate humanity more than heaven.”

Fingers tighten around the delicate curves of your cup. “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 a bit of sunlight catching on your skin. “Give yourself more credit,” Simeon 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 would be home soon, I thought it might 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 very 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, his cheek pressed against the top of your head. “He’s really okay, Luke; I talked to him for a short while 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. Barbatos had flinched back from the golden light, just before—

“I’m sorry, I… didn’t realize you wouldn’t know. I would not 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 a 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 is 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 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 had 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 is 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 have 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 is 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.” The sorcerer tilts his head, that innocuous smile still on his face. “Now, I still haven’t actually heard it from him; did he happen to tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Oh.” With a frown, Solomon 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 would 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 light 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 had 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 is 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 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 is 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—” he adds after several moments, “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 is absolutely boring. The closest you have 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 is 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 un happy 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 had 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 have stared at it off and on for hours, last night and again tonight when it became clear that your mind was not 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. Had it 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 had refused to yield any familiar symbolism.

Yet 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'm have 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 are plenty old enough to know when your sleep schedule has gotten out of hand. Besides, you will 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 is 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 do not 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 does not 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 is 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 is why you must decide what to do with Belphegor. Soon. Before Barbatos wakes and realizes you have 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 will listen to you again, and you are 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 as it leaps from the side-table, folds it in a long-fingered hand. “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 a cart near the door. The teaset is another you have not 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 light from the window falls through the lens of her eye, 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 have become accustomed to that you blink dumbly for a moment.

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

“I slept last night.”

“Which implies you haven’t slept 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 are 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 are 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 cummerbund 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 is a variety you ask for every time Lucifer places an order from the market, and you wonder if the castle staff knows.

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 had 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 leveling your gaze, head tilted, silver brows lowered. “He walks halls that haven’t been tread in millennia 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?" A warning thrum hums along your skin, but it's too late. You can’t move. "What do you think he is? ”

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 do not know and cannot see. The demon has not transformed, has not 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 is another that you know, in your heart, you have 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 is 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 have 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 had 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 does not 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 is what you’re counting on. You are 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 is gone, leaving you in front of the door, an ache in your chest, and a small swell of pride. You hope he is right.

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

Not today.

But 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.”

His mouth twitches. “So it’s true. You really decided to stay? Guess you’re stronger than I gave you credit for.” Slowly, Belphegor 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 shit here.” His voice is muffled by the comforter: “Self-righteous prick.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Your hands untwine and one rakes itself through your hair. Yes, of course that route 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.”

Belphegor turns his head just enough to free his mouth. “...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 rises to his knees, snarling, 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 does not 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—”

You can feel Beelzebub’s breath, but the voice that speaks is not his: “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. For several long moments, he is completely, hauntingly still, his eyes shining.

He speaks only two words: “Go away.”

“I—”

“ I said go away; I won’t hurt you again now GO AWAY!” The 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 Belphegor’s side 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 is 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 had 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 is 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 are 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 would 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 will 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 warmth floods 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 are 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 does not 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 told you he would not harm you—and you had 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 have 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 is 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 is 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 have been invited, where you are wanted? Have you only been avoiding it because you are 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, boots, pants, 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, slender and a bit green like oxidized copper, passing behind the headboard against the dark wainscoting. Does Barbatos have trouble keeping warm, you wonder? You know his skin to be cool to the touch, but you had assumed that he would not 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 had 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 has been waiting for you—avoiding brushing Barbatos’ tail as you tug the blanket up and over your middle.

You are 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 is 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 does not 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 are 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 rise for breakfast and figure out what you are going to say to Lord Diavolo. What you are going to do. You cannot stay here in the castle 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 stiffens all at once, violently, at the thought of being caught by the prince again, but melts into the sheets 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 will 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 is really this: the role he plays removed entirely from his countenance.

You're not sure you have 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 would 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, if you would.”

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 does not 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 cannot 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 what 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 do not find myself wishing that it never happened; I only find myself grateful that it brought you here.”

There is no remorse in his gaze, either, only that tangible gentleness as your jaw trembles, and you are 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 is 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 have accomplished almost everything you had 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 had 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 have 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 does not 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 until 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 is a hesitant smile on your lips as Barbatos draws back just enough to look you in the face, and there is 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 is 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 are 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 are 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 are not sure whose salt-sweet tears have settled upon your tongue.

The hope that he will not notice your stomach growling over the gentle, rhythmic sound of fingers rustling the fabric at the small of his back and along your spine disappears when he hums in answer: “I believe I have kept you from a meal for quite long enough.”

“I haven’t been in any hurry.” You make no move to untangle yourself from his embrace, your head on his shoulder, his tail still twined around your waist.

“You require regular sustenance; I have been negligent.” He relinquishes his grip. “I should have seen to it immediately.”

You catch his hands, and find that his expression is already closed, brows drawn tight, a sharp crease at the corner of his mouth. Squeeze his fingers, your heart clenching. “This was important, too. More important, in fact.”

"Perhaps… but physical needs must be met. You are still rebuilding your strength."

You want to argue, point out that if anyone needs to rebuild strength it is him, but the kiss he presses to your hands melts your resolve with its tenderness. “Are your clothes in the wardrobe?” he asks, returning your hands to your lap, shifting off the mattress with a grace no one should possess given the plushness of its surface.

“No, I… was in another room originally.”

Surprise overtakes the professional expression that he had slid back into place. “Oh? Why is that? I seem to recall inviting you to stay.”

There is almost no doubt that he remembers quite well what he said, despite his exhaustion and invisible injury that day. “I was… unsure you’d meant that invitation to last longer than the afternoon.” You can feel your cheeks heat. “I didn’t think it polite, though Lord Diavolo and Arbianock tried to convince me otherwise.”

“You are quite stubborn when it suits you.” But there is the shadow of a smile in his voice. “Where were you staying?”

“In a much larger suite than I needed, with classical accents and a frescoed ceiling.”

Barbatos makes a sound of interest. “Do you recall what the fresco depicted?”

You almost confess that you asked Satan to tell you the story depicted on the high ceiling, but something stays your tongue. “There were both demons and humans depicted in the story, with patterns of the Laris spread throughout.”

“The Bloodtide Room.” The words ring eerily. “I am sure you noticed that this was a deliberate choice.”

“Arbianock insisted that Lord Diavolo said I should have quarters of equal status. I suspect he was trying to get me to reject his generosity and return here.”

This time, the smile shows on his face, prints little crows’ feet at the edge of his eyes. “You certainly have developed a knack for seeing through my lord’s schemes. That is undoubtedly what he hoped, but I assume things did not go as planned.”

“No, I—” Would it be hurtful to admit that your stay last night was not a decision completely of your own will? “I fell asleep here, in the chair, and Lord Diavolo decided to convince me that it was perfectly acceptable not to return to the guest quarters.”

But Barbatos’ face doesn’t fall; in fact, he seems even more amused. “He took advantage of your weakened state.”

“I wouldn’t have said it like that, but yes.”

“Letting your guard down around demons is very unwise, you know.”

“What about around you?” A note of flirtation slips into your voice, returning the casual tête-à-tête you had missed so much this week—and now you have more freedom to be direct. “Shall I keep my guard up?”

The change is gradual, but you feel it immediately. The light air becomes heavy, ponderous, and Barbatos fixes his gaze on something else. “Perhaps you should.”

“Barbatos…” Guilt; it is the same weight you heard in his voice during the trial. You do not understand. “Why?”

“I am just as dangerous as any demon you have met before—perhaps more.” He tilts his head, the crease of his smile bitter. “This is not conceit; it is fact.”

“I’ve never doubted it; Guardian of Time and Space is quite enough to distinguish you from the others. In fact, it makes one wonder what Diavolo must hold dominion over to be more feared and respected than even you—but you’ve never given me reason to fear you, Barbatos.”

He does not reply for a moment, only traces his gaze over your features, slowly, lingering. “Don’t you think that is a rather fanciful title for a demon?” he asks. “Almost no one remembers any epithet before it, certainly no human, and any other title is buried so deeply in the minds of demons that if you asked, they would not be able to place my original name. That is evidence of the power Lord Diavolo possesses; he helped me take control of my nature, and once I chose to serve him, even the ‘Guardian of Time and Space’ faded away until I became, simply, his butler.”

His hands fold one over the other, fingers lacing, unlacing; behind him, his tail twitches in a similar rhythm. “If you had the power to correct any mistake you make, you would set to it immediately, would you not?” His head tilts, eyes drawn away, to the window-panes, to his bare hands. “You do this every day, in your way—you try, without knowing whether you can truly change the outcome of your errors; that is human. Instead… imagine you could change your mistakes with only a thought. Now, imagine that not only could you correct any error you make, but erase it as though it never happened.” Delicate horns cast spindly shadows across his brow. “Would you not stop caring about whether you were truly the best of yourself when you could rewrite Time to suit your pride and desires? Wouldn’t you stop trying?” Barbatos raises his head to look at you, studying your face, searching for something, a verdant play of light and shadow drawing you below the surface, to the space between breaths, to the sound a clock makes once it has recorded its last second. “Perhaps you wouldn’t, so used to constant struggle,” he says, softly. “But then again, you make yourself content wherever you are, telling yourself it is always enough; it must always be enough.”

The words crawl along your skin, sink barbed claws into your heart. When was the last time you felt truly happy? Not contentment, but true happiness? Can you really go home, having tasted it?

You cannot meet his eyes any longer, and it is your turn to focus on the shadows cast across the sheets.

“Contentment in my power: security in the knowledge that I would be right, always, no matter how grave an error I committed. Confidence that, as a humble butler, I no longer needed to fear my sin. Tea, unattended in the garden without a thought for danger.” Your heart clenches, and in his voice, grinding like a millstone, there is resignation. “That is what I am.”

It all snaps into place. The shame with which Barbatos expressed his regret at the trial. Solomon’s finger tracing the rune in your notebook. The tea called the Eighth Sin.

Complacency.

“Now you know. And now,” he says, softly, “you will not forget. I swore myself to Lord Diavolo’s service after he showed me that I could be something more than the Avatar of Complacency. But… it seems I cannot completely escape my nature. The potential cost is much too high for you to be unguarded.” A trembling breath. “I can protect you, yes, from a great many things. But I cannot protect you from my own failings.”

“Barbatos…” You shuffle from the bed, and he waits, expression perfectly neutral; however, it does not have the same effect that it would were he crisply dressed, attired as the royal steward. A resigned air hangs about his shoulders, the sleep-rumpled tunic and drawers making him seem smaller, softer. Vulnerable even with the distant mask in place. You stand so close that his shoulder almost touches yours. “I don’t believe words can express how much I have long admired your dedication, your service, and now that I know… I—my respect for you has only deepened. Overcoming yourself is…” Your voice catches. “It’s a rare thing. Yes, you’ve made mistakes, and you’ll continue to make them, but that is—natural. You learn from each one, you grow, you do better. In fact, Barbatos…” You reach, slowly, for his hand, allowing him time to refuse, but he accepts your touch. “You have never failed me; in the garden, you had a fail-safe that protected me from any real threat. You like to forget that.” Squeeze his fingers, gently. “I do not flatter myself to think the words of a human matter in this case,” you catch his eyes with a smile, hearkening back to the comfort he gave you what seems so long ago, “but the pride you have in your work, in your power, in the progress you’ve made, is warranted; you have earned that satisfaction. I can safely say, Barbatos, that you are, perhaps, the least complacent person I have ever met.”

Barbatos looks away, cheeks flushed all the way to his ears, slightly pointed tips showing pink through sleep-mussed hair, and your heart soars. “That is… perhaps the greatest compliment I have ever received, and my years are not few.” His fingers wrap tightly around yours. “I do not promise that I can take your word entirely to mind, but—I thank you.”

“You are most welcome, but you needn’t thank me for honesty.” His fingers squeeze perhaps too tightly, but you smile, cherishing the nearness, the gentle heat from his blushing cheeks. “May I kiss you again?”

He grins, full and genuine, glassen teeth on unabashed display, and you cannot imagine a greater endearment. “Please.”

“Just look at the two of you!” booms Lord Diavolo, leaping up from his chair when you join him on the terrace. “Arbia, have you ever seen two people so happy?”

Barbatos, his smile polite and indeed genuine, relinquishes your arm only to bow, something you notice the demoness observing keenly, without surprise.

“Indeed not, my lord.”

Diavolo chuckles and moves around the small luncheon table, arms spread wide in welcome. “I’m so pleased to see you both—especially you, Barbatos, back to yourself.”

“As I am pleased to—”

Without warning, you find yourself scooped into the prince’s right arm and crushed against his chest with Barbatos likewise in the left, feet dangling above the marble floor.

“My lord, please!” The protest is muffled and you can’t help but giggle. “This is quite indecorous.” But there is no bite to his words.

“I know, but I find myself overwhelmed with joy! Everything is coming together so favorably.” Gently, your feet touch the floor again and Diavolo’s grin has lost none of its luster. “Come—let’s have lunch to celebrate, and then tea, I think; there is much to discuss.”

His hands, one heavy on your shoulder and one on Barbatos’, give a firm squeeze before he returns to his seat. Barbatos mirrors the gesture with his fingers twined in yours, and leads you to the empty chair on the prince’s right, giving you a lovely view over the balcony of a mountain range far in the distance, of black forests covering the land at their foot. He tugs the chair out for you to sit, and makes sure you’re settled comfortably before taking the seat opposite.

Arbianock, silent as ever, taps her fingers on the edge of the table, and the ceramic dishes upon it fill with rice, light meats, and thick stew made with the Devildom’s equivalent of legumes, not dissimilar to lentils. Heavily spiced, savory fragrances make your mouth water, your stomach turn over hungrily, reminded full-force of the fact that you have not eaten since yesterday. Before you can make a decision, a full dish is pressed into your hand, the empty one at your place drawn away from the table’s edge. Barbatos’ eyes crinkle with merry amusement as you look from him to the shallow bowl in your hand, and he begins filling the empty dish that had been yours as he sees fit. The one you are holding is arranged neatly with exactly what you want—rice, stew in an elegant swirl, and long slices of golden-yellow sashimi.

“Thank you.” Warmth settles in your chest as you rest the bowl on the table’s glossy surface.

“It is my pleasure.”

“I told you, didn’t I, Arbia, that you’d be all but superfluous as soon as Barbatos was on his feet?” Diavolo takes a carafe of stew and generously pours it into his own bowl.

She flicks a dark nail against his goblet so that it rings, and water rises from the bottom as though seeping up from a natural spring. “Nearly,” she agrees, her low, resonant voice absolutely neutral. “But it is Master Barbatos’ right to dote on whomever he likes.”

Your face heats, but Barbatos’ methodical movements do not slow, and his voice is perfectly measured when he replies: “Perhaps if you were more attentive to our guest, I would not feel the need to remain attendant.”

It is very difficult to gauge whether Arbianock approves of the arrangement, but the corner of her mouth does quirk at the jab, and there is a curl of amusement in the air; you, meanwhile, don’t have the capacity to ignore your lunch any longer.

The first bite is dark and savory and finishes with a sharp, peppery spice related distantly to the anise of your world. Heat prickles behind your eyes with the second bite, and it has nothing to do with the spices—this simply seems the most exquisite thing you’ve ever tasted after nearly a day’s fast. But you’ve already had a good cry today and suspect that Arbianock would appreciate a happy tear about as much as she would appreciate spontaneous humming at the table, from which you also refrain. You reach for the fish next—cocytus perch—and it is just as clean and sweet as the first time you had tasted it, chasing the lingering feel of pepper on your tongue with a soothing wash of brightness.

Something nudges your foot with two firm taps, and you glance up to find Barbatos observing with no small amount of amusement, head tilted slightly… the expression reminds you of the time he had caught you—

Ah. You had thought about the humming but neglected to make sure you weren’t doing the Happy Food Dance.

He nods when he sees the realization dawn, and you try to cover up the embarrassment with another bite of rice. He had told you before that he found the gesture flattering, but lunch with the prince is perhaps not the best time to show your appreciation in such a fashion… and a glance at Arbianock confirms that she is indeed of a less forgiving opinion.

For his part, Lord Diavolo either notices not at all, or pretends not to. “The news continues to be good,” he begins over a sip from his goblet, “from the House of Lamentation, to Purgatory Hall, to RAD. Those who haven’t already resumed their scholarly activities will do so with the beginning of the new week, including you, of course, Ambrose. I do truly appreciate everything that you’ve done in the interest of the exchange program so far, and hope that we can continue to have such a fruitful relationship.”

“Of course, Lord Diavolo; it would be my pleasure.”

“I am glad to hear it.” The prince doesn’t seem nearly as interested in lunch as you nor even Barbatos, who is taking his meal much more freely than you have ever seen before, the smallest wink of his spear-tip teeth visible from time to time. “In fact, your performance has been so exemplary, so integral to our success so far this year, that I would like to extend an offer—I may have broached the subject once before.”

You stop mid-chew, scrambling mind searching for what he could possibly be—

“There will be room for an official ambassador between humans and demons once the exchange program ends; we would be quite honored and lucky to have you serve in that capacity. I can’t think of a better choice than such a bright example of the human species, and your understanding of demons and willingness to learn and cooperate in such a short period of time make you an outstanding—dare I say perfect—candidate.”

The meal does not taste nearly as delicious as it did a moment ago. You swallow, slowly, on a suddenly dry throat, and reach for your water goblet. You have to say something. Anything.

“Please, take your time; you don’t need to have an answer now. This is, of course, not the official offer— that would take place under more formal circumstances, and I wanted you to have the opportunity to really think it over and ask any questions you would like.”

The lukewarm water does little by way of comfort. Barbatos’ placid mask is in place, which tells you that he is very interested in your reply but does not wish to influence the events.

In all honesty, if Diavolo had asked this of you only a week ago, you would have said no without further preamble. You have to go home; your family is waiting for you, your neglected duties standing by for your return. But after the events—after this morning—temptation positively burns: the rings on your fingers, the serpent, the sunburst, the runes spiraling along your arm, and for the first time, the rose settled on your hip.

“What… kind of responsibilities would that entail? How much travel?”

Lord Diavolo visibly brightens, as though in asking, you have agreed. “Typical ambassadorial duties. At first, you’d mainly serve as a consultant, as our existence isn’t widely known in the Human Realm, and such a revelation will take years and care. You’d serve as a consultant on human affairs and relations, you would help develop any necessary legislation that would affect humans visiting the Devildom, and, of course, future treaties would require your presence and input, in addition to…”

Ambassador. Yes, right, proper ambassador, the kind that prevents the outbreak of war and helps regulate trade and protects their people within a foreign land, that kind of ambassador. You completely miss the next several items, and fold your hands neatly together on his lap as he finishes the list.

“Lord Diavolo…” Your voice scratches in your throat. “You must know that I’m not qualified to hold that position.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I have no political background—”

“All the better! You’ll be honest.”

“I’m not educated in—”

“As I recall from your transcript, you already possess an undergraduate degree, and this year, RAD has started you on your journey through the equivalent of a graduate program, as requested. You are quite educated, Ambrose, and only grow more knowledgeable by the day!”

Resist the urge to puff out your cheeks in frustration. Resist also the urge to make a face at Barbatos, who is not bothering to hide his amusement over the goblet in his hand. “That does not change the fact that my education was neither political nor geared toward governmental structures, certainly not those outside the Human Realm—”

“You’ve been embroiled in the political process almost since your arrival, and things have only spiraled from there. Have you forgotten your experience in our court proceedings? In the nuances of the pacts you continue to collect? Even dealing with the Demon Prince himself—” His golden eyes glitter with amusement. “—to secure the freedom of a prisoner?”

There is little you can say to that.

The prince himself grins, sharp and broad; he knows he has you. “And you performed admirably in every situation. You even got what you wanted out of the trial without having your own voice—which, I must say, is extraordinary—and proved that you are willing to do whatever work is necessary yourself in securing the freedom of someone your pact-mates care about. You’ve proved not only to me, but the whole of the Devildom that you are willing to extend the compassion and understanding you have toward humanity to demonkind.” He laughs, boisterously: “Not qualified? I don’t believe there is anyone who could be more qualified.”

You don’t even try to argue this time, your cheeks burning from the praise. Perhaps—perhaps he is right. With some preparation and a little on-the-job training, you could probably do it. In fact… you recall the surge of pride when Diavolo had agreed to your terms to free Belphegor, the passion that gripped your blood and steadied your words in court, the exhilaration of defending your friends, in winning each argument. Indeed, you know that you could do it, given time, support, and practice. And, given Diavolo’s own passion for this project, given your courses and activities so far, you know you would be granted all of those things.

In fact…

In fact, you want it.

You want it so badly that the burn of your pacts creates a pleasant buzz, a background radiation of support, encouragement, a whisper of yes, yes, you can, anything, anything you wish, reach for it. Speak, and it will be yours. Simply grasp it. Something tugs, tugs, tugs at your heart like a golden thread.

You want it.

But a breeze stirs the air, whispers upon your cheek. From the garden far below, the cry of a cicada rises toward the day-moon, hanging sallow and silver-green in the sky. Back home, there is sunlight. Sunlight, and home, your parents, brothers of your own. Tasks left undone. Words left unsaid. Who are you if you can reconcile the cares and trials of strangers but not your own?

You have a duty.

When you meet Barbatos’ eyes, the smile that settles there is knowing. It is a smile that recognizes the look on your face, a look he knows only too well because he has worn it himself for centuries.

“Consider what it is you desire.”

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

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ceilidho · 3 months

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Hey! I think youre an amazing writer and i really look up to you. Ive been reading your works since reylo, you inspired me to write my own reylo stuff. I think youre wonderful and could read your works over and over again. I was just wondering if I could ask you advice. I'm trying to get into writing second person pov fanfic, but I'm terrible at it. I can write it from third person or first person no problem. I was wondering if you had any tips.

oh thank you, i really appreciate that!!! and im so glad you're giving writing a shot!! honestly it's so tough to actually make the decision to sit down and write something and then show it to other people (and it's very scary and kind of humbling as you get better and better and look back at your old work haha) so that's so awesome!!

i actually wrote so much beneath this so i needed the "read more" lmaooo

actually, i'll tell you what, when you first transition from writing 1st or 3rd person to writing in 2nd person, it feels weird and abnormal, but i've actually grown to love 2nd pov. i just love the way it sounds in my head when i'm constructing a sentence. and tbh there's actually not a huge difference from writing 1st and 2nd pov in my opinion.

like my general thoughts around 2nd pov are:

obviously since it's an internal dialogue (like the perspective is rooted in the person you're writing from rather than some omniscient 3rd pov), while you can still describe what's happening on the main character's face ("you purse your lips" "you frown, annoyed" etc), it's still coming from their perspective, so there's a level of depth there that other characters around them don't have. like Price in my western fic is a bit more mysterious on account of him not being a narrator figure in the story.

if you're using 2nd pov because you're writing an x reader fic, and you want to keep your reader character quite neutral, ensure that you're avoiding big descriptors like skin colour, hair texture/length, body size (unless you're specifically writing a fat reader or a reader with a specific body type, in which case, go wild!), height, etc. your reader character is never going to be 100% neutral, but just pay attention to any descriptors you add and you can make sure they're as neutral as can be.

this is probably obvious, but you don't have to start every sentence with "you did x" or "you said y" or whatever. you can still be loose and flexible with your sentences like you might be in a 3rd person narration. like, i'll take apart a paragraph from my fic and highlight where i've added the "you/your" pov:

The worry making your body tense and stiff finally releases once you’re alone. You curl up on the bed without pulling down the sheets or taking your dress off. The journey's left you weak, sapped of energy. Worn down to your base elements. Hardly unexpected after what you’ve gone through, after leaving behind a cooling body two states away. The days since have left you sick with worry, nerves shot when you consider how the authorities will look to you first, the maid, and find in your absence all the answers they need.

notice that i only started one sentence with "you" here. i think some people mistake using 2nd pov for thinking that the entire story/fic has to be a direct narration of what the character is doing (i.e. "you walk to the end of the hall and then you sit down. you notice a silver bullet on the table near you. you pick it up.") but that's not the case.

the narration is coming from this character, yes, but it's also still a story. this is hard to describe, but there's almost a weird, unconscious 3rd pov in the story at the same time, like you're looking down at this narrator and you're speaking through them, but you still have some externality. in order to tell an evocative, interesting story, you HAVE to know and notice at least a bit more than your narrator consciously does.

this kind of mirrors real life in a way actually because your brain picks up a lot of information that you as a person don't consciously absorb. it's why humans are able to have quick reflexes and dodge/duck things or whatever without realizing what they're doing. (look up "unconscious perception"). you can do this with 1st pov as well, but 1st pov is very useful for stream of consciousness stories or really getting into a character's head. 2nd pov is still governed by that narrator character, but it's picking up on other details and information in the surrounding environment.

anyway i hope this is in any way helpful haha - it's how i like to think of writing in 2nd pov!

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aslongasimhereyoureinvincible · 10 months

Note

what are your neurodivergent headcanons for hq characters?

asdfjhgfds sorry this has been in my askbox for a few days ive been busy w/ Life Stuff TM but anyways ND haikyuu headcanons lets gooo

hinata:

ik bc hes Sunshiney and Loud lots of ppl read hinata as adhd, which i can deffo see, but personally i read him as autistic

hes extroverted and good at adopting introverts (kageyama, kenma, yachi, tsukki) but when u stop to think abt it hes also actually kinda bad at social ques and 'normal' behaviour?? i think ppl dont notice bc hes also rlly nice but hinata is actually pretty blunt lmao

his special interest is literally volleyball cmon now

its canon that he dislikes being in classes too long or doing homework bc he finds sitting still for too long difficult, both me and my autistic older brother used to get up and pace around our classrooms when we were younger

even though hes rlly athletic and has insane reflexes obviously, hes also pretty clusmy and especially bad at judging distances which to me looks like dyspraxia which is really commonly comorbid w/ autism

ive also read a few fics where he has tourettes syndrome w/ body tic and i can deffo see why ppl would hc that

idk hes just reads as autistic so well in my mind like idk why its not a more common take

kageyama:

this one is less of a headcanon and moreso just interpreting the text correctly; hes definitely autistic

like its my belief that furudate either knowingly wrote kageyama as autistic or like based his personality off of an irl autistic person they knew or SOMETHING bc its actually insane how well he reads as autistic

the lack of social skills? the anger issues? the deep special interest in volleyball? the just wanting to express your feelings/opinions but coming off as rude but not knowing how to fix that? middle school being a living hell? having that one family member who Got you? the high level of skill in one particular area? hes literally the texboox definition of autism

even the little things like how he files his nails and jokes go over his head and he accidentally insults ppl bc hes calling it how he sees it and how he basically had no friends growing up bc he was too focused on volleyball and how he struggles to smile on command like!!! thats autism babe!!!!!!

oh also hes dyslexic bc im dyslexic and i say so

ushijima:

same as kageyama i bet he was either knowing written as autistic or based off of an irl person who is

blunt as all hell, monotone voice and facial expressions, volleyball as a special interest, bad at social interaction, accidentally rude, the list goes on and on

like his whole thing about how his left handedness makes him different but is also a gift that benefits him in some ways? thats a metaphor for neurodivergency dont @ me

oikawa:

i hc him as having narcisstic personality disorder, not in the ableist reddit-user 'all ppl w/ npd are evil manipulative abusers' way but in the ' i have npd and know what it actually looks like' way

hiding massive insecurities by acting like youre amazing?? that fuckin marina lyric thats like 'i feel like im the worst so i always act like im the best'?? that was abt oikawa tooru and npd

feeling threatened the second someone as good or better than you shows up? fixating on one specific thing that you have to be the best at? those are npd as fuck traits

the way he can basically get along with anyone and adjust his play style to suit them but only has a few close friendships where he can let his true personality rlly shine through

hes literally so npd coded augh <3

bokuto:

i read him as adhd and having cyclothymia

i think he was unmedicated in high school and unknowingly had depressive and hypomanic episodes which affected his play

he also very much reads as having rejection sensitive dysphoria if u ask me

and the way he talks and bounces around and has All That Damn Energy gives me adhd vibes, esp pared w/ his poor volume control ad the way he ignores social cues lol

okay quickfire round bc im getting tired of typing

atsumu is autistic, so is osamu for that matter, theyre just at very different points on the spectrum and rub each other up the wrong way a lot of the time bc of it

kita is also autistic bc no neurodivergent person is that particular about doing things the 'right' way

hoshiumi is autistic and adhd

asahi and yamaguchi read like they struggled w/ anxiety and depression

sakusa has ocpd and ocd (contamination ocd specifically) and mysophobia

kyoutani has aspd, again not in a 'aspd = violent agressive psychopaths' way but in a 'i actually have a cluster b personality disorder' way, and adhd also

kenma is autistic and has social anxiety

yachi has social anxiety too bc cmon now

tsukki reads to me as having chronic depression, i think i could also make a case for him being autistic too ngl

tendou is some flavour of neurodivergent, probally audhd, probably some other stuff, idk but hes definitely not neurotypical

like hinata, lev reads as autistic to me even tho hes got that goodball energy thatd make lots of ppl read him as adhd bc like,, he just fuckin sucks at social interaction like he is accidentally rude all the damn time lmaoo

fukunaga and aone are both autistic w/ selective mutism and/or partial to moderate non-verbalness

obviously its none of my business and i think having headcanons abt irl ppl is Fucking Weird but i wouldnt be surprised if furudate themself was autistic bc truly so many characters in haikyuu can be read that way if u ask me, although maybe im just projecting lol

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu!! headcanons #q and hey hey hey!#tumblr: akiraetzchen #og post //#theres prolly more im missing but these r off the top of my head #obvi theyre just hcs tho ppl are free to have different interpretations #except kageyama being autistic. i KNOW im correct abt that one.#also i promise this blog isnt dead i do still love haikyuu v much im just also super obsessed w/ bluelock rn

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pinkfluffybunnyy · 2 years

Text

i heard from the heavens

summary: (Y/N) saves Sasha from the brink of death, and Armin crumbles into a million shards in her embrace.

(part of the sidelines series, oneshot, alternate universe - canon divergence, hurt/comfort, fluff & angst, possible medical inaccuracies {i dont work in the paramedic field so im not 100% sure on proper procedures and protocols, i just used what little knowledge i do have lmao}, gender-neutral hange zoe, listened to 'hold my hand' by lady gaga whilst writing this lol)

content warnings: guns, gunshots wounds, blood, near death experiences, needles, medications, medical jargon, mentions of hurting children

Jean burst through the door, his face drained of all colour.

“(Y/N), we need you now! Sasha’s been shot! ”

Her heart stopped for a second before she regained composure, her body feeling as if it had been drained of all blood.

“Get me the crash trolley!” she yelled at Artemis, who frantically ran to the back room.

(Y/N) shot up like a whippet, bounding into the back of the airship, Mikasa and Armin following behind her.

The scene before was something from a horror film.

Sasha laid on the floor in a pool of her own blood, Connie bent over her, holding her face, desperately trying to keep her awake. There was a crowd of men in the corner, shouting and screaming, kicking and hitting. It took a second for (Y/N) to see what they were exuding all their energy on, the crowd parting for a fraction of a second to reveal two children huddled into the corner, one holding a gun.

“Stop it, now! ” (Y/N) roared at them. “They’re children, just arrest them, for fuck sake!” Her blood boiled at the sight of a hoard of grown men beating children, whether they were killers or not.

It’s not their fault that they’re brainwashed, trained to be killers of an enemy they didn’t even know.

She crouched down next to Sasha, gently cupping her face.

“My my, Sasha, what have you gotten yourself into?” (Y/N) half-joked, trying to keep the brunette from panicking. Sasha let out a small breath in response.

Not a good sign.

(Y/N) began assessing the wound, looking for the entry point. Artemis barged in with the red metal trolley, immediately throwing gauze onto the floor for (Y/N). (Y/N) pulled on a pair of gloves before attempting to take a better look at the wound.

“Get me some towels!” she commanded, Jean instantly scrambling to oblige her command. When he returned, she took them from his hands, gently blotting at the excess blood.

Abdominal gunshot wounds were critical, she had to act as quickly as possible.

“Help me sit her up.” (Y/N) said, Artemis coming to Sasha’s other side to help her sit up with her back against the wall.

“You’re gonna be okay, alright honey? We’re gonna fix you up.” (Y/N) soothed. Artemis held Sasha steady as (Y/N) applied an occlusive dressing, wrapping it tight around her with some bandages.

“Jean, take over from Artemis.” He nodded in response and crouched next to Sasha, holding her up against the wall.

Mikasa and Armin were a sobbing mess, watching the scene unfold before them through bleary vision. Connie slumped to the floor, completely silent in his grief.

“Artemis, I need a tourniquet, cannula, a bag of 10mg IV morphine and a bag of 0.9% isotonic IV fluids.” (Y/N) took a pair of scissors and cut the sleeve on Sasha’s shirt, granting her access to the skin on the inside of her elbow. Artemis practically threw her the tourniquet, (Y/N) wrapping it just above her elbow before prodding at the skin, desperately searching for an adequate vein. Sasha was blessed with good veins, blue protruding from her paling skin, and (Y/N) thanked whatever gods may be out there. She pushed the cannula into her arm, Sasha hissing at the sensation. “I know darling, I’m sorry, I just need to give you some painkillers and some fluids.” she soothed, completely focused on attaching the IV bags to her cannula.

“Radio.” she requested, Artemis pulling the radio from her pocket and handing it to (Y/N).

“Calling Trost hospital, I have a medical emergency, over.” she spoke into the radio, her eyes flicking over the Brunette as she pulled a torch from her pocket. “Sasha, I’m going to shine this torch in your eyes, just keep looking ahead for me as best you can, okay honey?” Sasha nodded weakly in reply.

“Patient status? Over.” a voice buzzed back from the radio.

“Nineteen year old Eldian female with a gunshot wound to the abdomen, occlusive gauze applied, 10 mg/ml of IV morphine and 0.9% isotonic fluids administered. Normal observations shall now commence, over.”

“Ambulance will be prepared upon arrival, over.” the radio answered.

“Roger.” (Y/N) replied into the small, plastic device.

Artemis dashed off to get an OBS machine, Sasha relaxing against the wall.

“It’s too loud in here…” she murmured weakly.

“I know darling, it’s going to be okay.” (Y/N) soothed, offering the brunette a soft smile.

Artemis ran back in with an OBS machine, hooking up the wires to Sasha’s arms and hands. The machine whirred as the blood pressure cuff swelled with air, causing Sasha to wince. (Y/N)’s eyes flickered over the screen, breathing a sigh upon seeing the results.

She held the radio to her lips. “Figures. Heart rate is 34, SATS 85, blood pressure is 75 over 40. Over”

“Is that good?!” Connie asked, his voice laced with hope.

“The best we can ask for.” (Y/N) confirmed, stroking Sasha’s hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. A heavy collective sigh was released by those in the room.

“Roger. Let us know of any status changes. Over.”

“Roger, out.” (Y/N) replied before breathing a heavy sigh.

Commander Hange pushed open the door, taking in the scene displayed in front of them. “We have 30 minutes until landing. How is she?” they asked, striding over to where Sasha was sat on the floor.

“Stable.” (Y/N) replied, looking up to the brunette. “We have an ambulance prepared for her upon landing.”

They simply nodded in response and retreated back into the front of the airship.

“Jean!” a voice called, causing everyone to turn their attention towards the source.

“These two got aboard using Lobov’s vertical manoeuvre gear. I’m going to toss them overboard. No objections, right?”

(Y/N)’s heart seared with rage, eyes widening at how the redhead could even begin to comprehend such a deplorable suggestion. “You have to be fucking kidding me?!” she roared.

Jean slammed his fists against the wall, resting his forehead against the wood, lips pulled back in a grimace.

“Is throwing some kids off an airship… going to end this bloodshed?” he murmured, his voice strained, laced with frustration and pain.

(Y/N) looked away, unable to take in the scene before her. She instead focused all her energy on Sasha. Artemis brought her a damp towel, (Y/N) wiping it over Sasha’s face, cleaning the blood from her skin. Sasha smiled slightly at the comforting sensation, her eyes closed, head laid back against the wall.

(Y/N) smiled back at her. “Sasha, keep your eyes open for me honey. Can’t have you going to sleep yet.”

“I feel… like I’m floating…” Sasha whispered, her eyes glazed over in bliss. (Y/N)’s heart stopped for a second, her eyes flickering to the OBS machine before returning to the brunette. “Morphine does that to you…” she chuckled lightly, hoping that it was in fact the morphine causing her serene state and not her body failing on her.

The next 30 minutes felt like a lifetime. Time dragged itself along, seconds feeling like years. When they finally landed, Artemis and (Y/N) transferred Sasha onto a hospital bed with the help of the paramedics. As the paramedics rushed Sasha into the ambulance, (Y/N) gave the doctor a run down on Sasha’s current condition and her state of injuries. She went to follow the doctor towards the ambulance, however he stopped her, holding a hand out in front of her.

“(Y/N), get some rest. You’re covered in blood, you’re exhausted, and I’m sure you haven’t eaten nearly as much as you need to. I’ll take it from here.”

She scoffed lightly, going to push past the man stood in front of her. “I’m fine-”

“(Y/N).” he commanded, grabbing her arm. “Go. Home.”

She huffed a sigh, looking at the ground beneath her. “What is it you always say to us?” She pursed her lips before replying. “You can’t properly take care of your patients if you don’t take care of yourself first, I know, I know.”

“Yes. And that applies to you as well.” He gave her a kind smile, releasing her arm.

She returned his smile. “Thank you, Nate. Please keep me updated if anything changes.”

“I will.” he said before turning to join the paramedics in the ambulance.

Just as she was about to turn around and walk away, she shouted back at him. “And if you don’t give her the best care possible, I’ll come back and I’ll beat your arse!” she shouted with a giggle.

Nate just laughed and waved her off before shutting the ambulance doors behind him.

She stood for a second, watching the vehicle speed away before breathing a weighted sigh, rubbing her face with her still gloved hand, wiping semi-dried crimson on her face. She pulled her hand back and grimaced. “That’s a hygiene violation right there.” she chuckled to herself before pulling the gloves off her dainty hands and pocketing them.

All of a sudden she was encased with a tight embrace, the force nearly knocking her to the ground. She looked up to see Connie, clutching her petite frame with a death grip, tears flooding from his eyes.

“Thank you so much!” he wailed, and (Y/N) smiled, gently returning his embrace.

“Don’t thank me, Connie. It’s what I’m here for.” she soothed.

The pair stood like that for a while, Connie wailing into her shoulder, soaking her tunic with his tears, (Y/N) returning his embrace and rubbing his back in an attempt to comfort his overwhelming emotions.

She laid on her bed, still in her blood-covered tunic, her hair a dishevelled mess, heavy bags hanging under her eyes. Breathing a sigh, a knock at the door stirred her from her daydreams, a golden halo and aquamarine eyes greeting her as the door opened.

She smiled, “Hi, Armin.” Her voice was weak and strained.

“Hello, angel.” he whispered, walking over to her. Her heart skipped a beat at the pet name.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, placing her hand on his thigh as he sat beside her.

“...As okay as I can be.” he replied with a sad smile, brushing her hair from her forehead, gently cupping her cheek in his palm.

She knew that look. The sorrow in his eyes.

She knew the toll the war was taking him. Knew how much it obliterated his heart to have to crush an entire port to smithereens, killing hundreds of innocents he didn’t even know in the name of freedom. She knew it killed him as well, rotting him from the inside out.

Armin’s grief was quiet and reticent, silent and all consuming. He didn’t shout or scream, he wrapped it up within himself and saved it for when he was alone, decaying in his organs until there was nothing left.

She sat up, pulling him into a tight embrace, her hand flying to the back of his head to stroke his blonde locks gently. She heard his breath hitch as he snaked his arms around her waist.

“I know…” she soothed. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Armin. I know you never asked for this burden.”

He nuzzled his face into her neck, tears burning his eyes. She rubbed soft circles into his back with her other hand, placing a soft kiss atop the crown of his scalp.

“I can’t do this anymore, (Y/N)…” he whispered, his breathing quickening in pace as he tried to control his emotions.

“I know, darling. I know. But I’m here, I’m with you. I’ll always be with you…”

There they sat, perched atop her bed, a god of destruction and death clutching onto a goddess of love and healing. The juxtaposition was almost laughable, but that made it all the more soul crushing. Opposites coming together and bleeding into each other, singing a bittersweet symphony of equity and harmony, balancing each other on the precipice of a steep cliff.

“This won’t be forever, Armin. It’s just now. And we’ll get through it together.”

Her words earned a harsh sob from the blonde as he let go, his emotions overwhelming and consuming him. She just sat there, holding him as he crumbled into dust before her.

“Let it all out, angel. It’s okay.” She rested her cheek on his head. “I know you’re scared, I know you’re in pain. But everything will be okay. Even heaven has clouds of grey sometimes.”

#im sorry again lol #my writings #aot #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #snk #armin x reader #armin x y/n #ocean prince #mikasa ackerman #sasha braus #jean kirschtien #connie springer #hange zoe #floch forster

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chiskz · 1 year

Text

《 CHICHI ON MAMA 2022 》

》 I Interactions:

DAY 1

- she talked a lot in Japanese while being backstage with Kazuha and Sakura from LE SSERAFIM, with whom she also ate some snacks in their waiting room

- she exchanged a few words with Yeonjun when they passed each other on the way to the toilet, he promised to call later (and he did)

DAY 2

- Chichi was absent from the couch during the others' performances, she was only at the opening performance of 3RACHA and Tiger JK

- after the whole event, she met J-Hope for dinner - fortunately, none of them were caught by the press

》 II Red Carpet Look (DAY 1)

》 III Solo Performance (DAY 2)

☆ Chichi performed covers of ATEEZ songs.

Title of the performance: Let's Break The Wall - Answer x Guerilla x The Leaders (ATEEZ).

☆ Outfit.

☆ Performance.

Chichi gave a lot of energy to both ATINY and STAY, perfectly preparing the performance in accordance with the theme of this year's MAMA - Music Makes One. The audience's involvement in the energetic chanting could really give the impression that everyone gathered, if only for a moment, actually became one. In addition to the substantive part of the performance, Chichi also looked really fierce, and once again proved how great stamina she hides. She sang and rapped live performing the entire, uncut choreography for both songs.

The performance started with Chichi walking to the stage and addressing the audience. After the lights went out, she lined up among the dancers to perform Answer segment. This was followed by the second part of her speech, involving the audience, and then flowing seamlessly into a performance with Guerilla. Without slowing down for even a moment, she transitioned equally smoothly into The Leaders.

"Our dear ATEEZ can not be with us today, 'cause they're doing right now their really best during their world tour to make their ATINY so happy. But... MAMA without ATEEZ feels so empty right? So I've got a special permission from no one other than captain Hongjoong and the rest of the pirates to perform in their behalf.

Hongjoong, Seonghwa, Yunho, Yeosang, San, Mingi, Wooyoung and Jongho. I hope we can meet soon.

Are you guys ready? Cause I sure am."

ANSWER began

'geonbaehaja like a thunder

ne modeun geol chaewo neomchyeoheureul deusi

modu janeul meori wiro

sesang eodieseodeun boil su itge'

short dancebreak

break the wall...

"We're so good at breaking the walls. So let's break all the walls around us today. Cause Music... Makes One!"

let's break the walls, let's break the walls, let's break the walls, let's break the walls, let's break the walls, let's break the walls.

'Cause Music Makes One. Today. Tomorrow. Always.

Okay, let's go, let's break the walls, okay let's go, let's break the walls, okay, let's go let's break the walls, let's break, let's break...

We. Are. The Guerrillas.

Guerrilla + The Leaders

》 IV Award.

Chichi won MAMA's first ever new "Little Independent Award" awarded to idols for their incredibly large, independent contributions to their careers. Chichi is the first MAMA independently awarded idol who did not debut solo. The selection was guided by her being a choreographer (independently creating choreography for a group of nine) and independently preparing such a varied performance at the gala.

☆ Speech.

"I never thought I'd be standing here all alone." She laughed through her tears, all the while looking at Stray Kids who were standing in front of the couches instead of sitting down. She wiped her cheeks quickly and sighed. "This is a very valuable prize for which I am incredibly grateful. If it wasn't for STAY and my Stray Kids, I wouldn't be able to fulfill myself in what I love and I wouldn't have a chance to use the acquired knowledge so well. However, I know that this award is not entirely 'independet', because without the aforementioned huge support, I would not be here now. Even though I did these things myself, behind my back I just have a lot of amazing people who wish me well. STAY, Stray Kids, this is my award, from me to you. I'll be working even harder from now on. Thank you!"

#kpop addition #kpop oc #stray kids 9th member #idol au #idol oc #kpop added member #stray kids oc #koc #kocnet #kpop rp #mama2022 #mama awards #mama fake awards

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the-gayest-sky-kid · 1 year

Text

realized i never posted this outside of the aeventi discord server and im actually kinda proud of the pictures so

now with annotations!!!

venti is nothing but a short king to me and i refuse to believe he'd be anywhere above my chin. aether gives off 5'4 energy and somehow everyone agrees with that. aether is always taller to me

age is obvious. we only know so much but i think the traveler is a lot older so thats why aether gets ++.

gender is for losers real bitches use he/him pronouns because they're cool and imitating their dead bestie. paimon ate aethers but. he/they. in my heart and soul.

my headcanons for venti depend solely upon the time of day or the weather or smth idk. regardless he is on the aroace-spec. aethers like fuck if i know???. and he doesn't fuck so he doesn't know

aether doesn't care that much but he leans more towards holding people cause then they dont run away from him in his dreams saying he came too late. or something. venti doesn't really care for spooning roles but he's actually always liked being held so (i see you sitting on your statue bozo)

venti keeps throwing his cape on aether. aether never actually asks for it but they do like it a lot. they both think it's really cute.

aether uses pet names ironically sometimes but only with people he wont see often or needs to sass. very aware of the importance and power of names. venti 'my warrior' 'my shining star' 'my hero' 'windblume' barbatos comes up with some new overly sentimental and important nickname every 10 seconds and he's about to make it everyones (aethers) business

i dont think aethers actually that introverted. we know they enjoy social gatherings and hanging out with friends and stuff. i think hes more just. normal. ventis a lot more social than him but he's not actually that extroverted.

venti 'my warrior youve worked so hard i understand how you feel' 'youre the gentlest soul ive ever met' barbatos is really good at conveying his affections through his words. of course though, hes more than familiar with the power of actions. aether knows how to give good advice and sweetalk but they definitely rely more on their actions to convey their thoughts

traveler 'your eyes remind me of the colour of the sky in my hometown' 'do you like the windblumes i picked for you' 'do you like the decorations in my house i can change them all if you hate it' aether is 100% the one that confesses first. i think venti would wait for them because he doesn't want to tie him down to anything but like. hes not oblivious.

aether completely and totally squashes bugs with his shoe on sight. i think it'd be funny if venti was really scared of them but he does appreciate all the life in this world so i feel like he's not actually that scared of them. he would scream for aether if there was a bug in the house just because its funny and they look so cool doing it

okay the thing is. they both have the potential to be equally good and bad drivers. venti can guide dvalin but he totally couldn't drive a waverider. aether could be decent at the waverider but he'd crash the dragon. they both could suck too.

venti can cook like 5 recipes total. hes pretty good at those, but like. only those. aether should definitely open a restaurant but they also like it sometimes when venti tries to cook. more often than not however aether makes dinner and ventis not complaining

aethers kinda neutral about it? there are times and things he could bare but ehhh. but he likes holding ventis hand a lot so he leans slightly more towards PDA. venti wants to kiss his boyfriend and its a free (and his) country so. but he definitely takes care to only do it when aethers comfortable. i feel like he only uses the really sentimental petnames alone though too. like 'my darling honorary knight' in front of people and 'my starfell apostle' or smth equally sappy and weird at home

aether knows venti can take care of himself. he knows everyone is more than capable of taking care of things. but their ally at low hp line (LET ME AT EM) leads me to believe they do have a protective streak. venti has seen his boyfriend fuck shit up literally everywhere they go and he knows a lot more about it than he lets on. He's definitely very chill about everything (like in the GAA) but that doesn't mean he isn't concerned sometimes.

i literally dont know. they're both like we've had a couple things that kinda went somewhere and kinda went nowhere at the same time. idk

horny level???? they are Asexual to me. i think ventis like. pretty low libido ace and aethers like while you were having sex *I* studied the blade. bitch. i think they make out sometimes but that's more of an intimacy thing

i choose to believe aether is kinda awkward. like dont get me wrong traveler is hilarious!!! in dialogue options and with paimon. and mona said they dont talk much so. i think hes only really funny in private, thoughts, or in his native language because some jokes dont translate very well. venti has his occasional moments but ultimately he is the more social one.

THEY ARE NOT VERY JEALOUS. TO ME. like they definitely have a large degree of healthy communication and trust. if they are jealous they talk to each other. i choose to believe aether is slightly more prone to it just because hes the more overprotective one and doesn't have like. song time powers.

so in conclusion: they are gay. your honor. homosexual even

#aeventi #venther #longer post #long post #my art :d #swearing cw #im normal about them can you tell #so normal 👍

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yongislong · 2 years

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[ ncity playlist event ]

now playing ... LEE TAEYONG

tokai - taeko onuki

female energy - willow

crushcrushcrush - coco and clair clair

summer - the volunteers

seven - men i trust

the only exception - paramore

friend zone - thundercat

strawberry privillege - yves tumor

let it pass - jakob

beach baby - bon iver

now viewing ... // he smothers you under his favorite blanket. tonight was the night and unbeknownst to him, the way he was squeezing his pink bunny had you worried. he had been using 'pinky' to try and ground himself as he builds up courage for his upcoming love speech (lol)

you knocked the breath out from his lungs as soon as he saw you in his modern sexuality class. he thought you were the coolest person in the world and therefore made it his life's mission to at the very least be your friend

little does he know you were planning the same confession and had thought the same things about him all semester long as well

it isn't the first time you're at his place, but something about the december air makes it all the more intimate. music aka the secret playlist he made titled 'lovely y/n' plays from his pc as you trace the doodles on his walls. his eyes follow your fingertips. after a moment of revelation and foolish confidence, you sigh deeply and spin around almost as fast as he whips his head around to pretend he was staring at his fish tank the whole time fists balled and eyes shut tight, the only things leaving your lips is a tight mutter about your feelings about him, quick and insecure, confidence from 5 seconds ago melting away

he's so focused on not being focused on you that he doesn't catch your confession. you stand there waiting for an answer. after a couple seconds you groan and thump the nearest marker at his head. before he can pick a fight, you're repeating what you said with flaming red cheeks. that does him in. moving to sit next to him for an answer

all he does for the next couple of minutes after your untimely love confession is squeal and mutter

'you're so mean!! don't lie to me, you're serious? no way...wow....wow, wait no....oh my god...stop! your lying!! STOP LAUGHING!!'

after a lot of comforting on your part, he lays on your chest silently muttering wow every couple of seconds until he falls asleep. //

idk if i like this :( ive been working on it so much i just wanted to post it alrdy

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cpunkwitch · 1 year

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Describing the feeling - anemia

being descriptive about what its like standing up and generally functioning with my severe anemic body.

i dont just stand up too quickly and lose my balance for a second, i dont just stand up and immediately sit down because the room started spinning.

when i stand up my vision goes hazy around the edges, a black vector around my vision creeps in, my VSS makes my vision look even more like a 1980's video recording, my head gets fuzzy and light, my vision shrinks to a small spot as the rest is blocked out by the dark, my body threatens to black out, drop passed out right where i am. i get nauseous and exhausted like i just saw something that grossed me out so bad it made me sick, i go pale and my face gets hot at the same time.

it only lasts a few minutes maybe, but its still scary and slows me down. i can pass out without even realizing it sometimes, without this kind of warning. i'll feel sick and pass out or i'll be fine and still suddenly wake up in a new position or entirely different room and someone will tell me they moved me.

my energy is constantly drained, leaving me breathless at even the most minimal of movements like a short flight of stars or just getting out of bed. all i can manage leaving the house is a brisk walk without my cane. i feel like i had taken a 5 hour hike when its still only 11am and im just getting over starting my day.

im always too tired to do many tasks, go places, i find myself taking a nap if it werent for coffee.

this would of course happen less if i was able to take my supplements more often, if i could eat enough food containing the needed iron more regularly/consistently. but theres complications with that too.

i get constant pounding headaches for several reasons and on days where my anemia literally makes me bedridden i am often laying there waiting on the medication i was able to take to finally kick in and calm the raging ache burning and rattling inside my head.

anemia is not just standing up and feeling dizzy or falling over, its chronic fatigue placing a hand on your shoulder, shaking you around and putting a white noise filter over your eyes before pushing you down to let you catch your breath. its feeling like a vampire stole half your entire body's amount of blood without even touching you. its being even more tired and slowed down after a nurse takes your blood more than you usually are and more than most people are for a longer amount of time, sitting there for almost 5 minutes or so with an orange juice box in your hand before you can get yourself to stand up and leave her office.

i originally got my cane to help with the dizzy spells and constant unbalance and exhaustion i felt, to help me walk up and down stairs easier and keep me from walking to fast and steady my pace more. then i realized how bad my back was and noticed how lessened my back pain was with it and i was even happier to have gotten my cane.

every day i think about how all my life i've missed out because ive been too tired to do something or go somewhere. every day i fear falling over, collapsing and passing out and it happens too frequently for me to say im okay any day.

i miss the days i used to have energy when i was much younger, i miss the days i didnt have to fear falling over, i miss the times i was able to do more with my body.

doesnt mean i live in constant misery, im just learning to live with it. this is my life, its a constant battle and struggle, but i make do, i push myself as far as my body lets me without letting myself overdo it too much.

knowing this, you can probably imagine how scared i often am about summer. i get uneasy and close to passing out if i just take a shower with the water too hot, the heat of summer does so much worse.

in summer my vision goes white, no matter how much water i drink the world goes brighter and brighter, i nearly passed out on the road once. i get heat stroke fairly often, even wearing light clothing and having a cold cloth on the back of my neck isnt enough at times. in summer im like a dried up plant, dehydrated and overheated, somehow hanging on while looking and feeling like im one step through death's door.

anemia's a dick guys, i never realized how serious it was for me when i first got diagnosed, but i learned. the hard way unfortunately, but i learned about it nonetheless.

[ID: banner reading "This blog is protected by De Rolo family and co." in all caps. It has an orange cloud background. On the left is the De Rolo coat of arms and on the right is the symbol of Vox Machina]

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skadream · 7 days

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happy ummm 8th month on t? (9th if i were actually on t continuously but i ran out for a month that one time) i used to do monthly t updates on tiktok but i dont rlly feel like doing that rn so i'll yap about it here (its actually wild how little stuff i have about my transition on my tumblr generally speaking? as if this isnt the website that transed my gender in the first place)

it really is hard to notice such gradual changes from month to month, especially if its just me lookin at myself, compared to seeing a doctor in person which, i am getting rx'd T thru telehealth currently as my nearest planned parenthood or even a neighboring one does not actually do gender affirming care which is. insane and whack. esp when i do live in a pretty populated county maybe second or third to nyc and albany area. and i have to call in to a pp THREE HOURS BY TRANSIT from me. but like, its been working for now ok!

mentally and emotionally ive been very up and down overall but i think thats largely due to my medication changes rather than hormones. ALTHOUGH. when i ran out for a month in november and my period came back... dude it was so horrible like genuinely the worst period of my life. its one of those things where i didnt realize just how dysphoric something could make me feel until i had a taste of being able to alleviate said dysphoria. so mentally speaking testosterone is probably pulling the mental train even more than the wellbutrin lol. and im trying not to account too much for circumstance/environment cuz like OBVIOUSLY if things were going smoothly for me there a lot of my emotional issues would be at least somewhat relieved, but im working with what i got.

physically, since starting t in july i have lost weight. at first i was very scared it was my medication, and i think a part of it was at least a little, like two of my meds can cause some weight loss, but i am no longer losing weight in a concerning way but just yknow the regular amount of daily fluctuation. so i do think a lot of my weight loss was due to hormones just shifting around my fat and all that, or something idk lol. everyones so diff with hormones, i know some trans guys gain weight on t and not necessarily from muscle training, i know girls on e who have lost weight without any changes to diet or exercise, it really depends so as always, this is just my experience etc etc

i do have more facial hair but its still quite patchy, i think i might start filling in my stache tho. with my shitty goatee, its not my fav so i shave it off when im not just sitting inside all day, but also idk it makes my chin feel less. round. or smth. i do always think of my one friend telling me ill look like the lead singer of a nü metal band and honestly maybe i should start giving that energy more anyway! embrace goatee lifestyle!

oh yeah my voice dropped in like the first two months and has gotten deeper since, and on timtom i talked a lot about wanting to maintain the vocal range i had pre-t? i dont think thats fully possible like i think the highest notes i used to reach are just inaccessible to me, but i think if i did some like vocal singing warmups i can get back up to reach those higher notes. in retrospect the way ive sung my whole life has actually prob been destructive on my voice, partly from lack of proper training and partly intentionally trying to sound deeper and more gravelly, but now that i can access deeper sounds more naturally i really do wanna work on singing in a better way where i can reach some of those notes.

overall yea im liking whats happening so far, i do wish it was happening faster but i understand that some people dont get the progress ive gotten for like, YEARS, and new progressions will be happening to me for years after today. if you think about "real" puberty, it is a gradual shift its not like you suddenly grow a chest as soon as you Bleed or whatever its different for literally every person and since im the only one in my family that i know of who has done this, im kind of a guinea pig. but like im okay with that! anyway yeah really recommrnd testosterone if u want it i like it :)

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dontfeeltoohot · 2 years

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Adrenaline + Spite Steddie 6.1K Warnings: Use of IV’s Summary: Sound check, to none of his surprise, is mind numbing and like a new brand of torture. His monitors are making his ears feel uncomfortable and achy, and every time Gareth hits a drum or cymbal, it rings out through his head like a gunshot. He’s pretty sure he’s five seconds away from throwing the man’s hi-hat off the stage when he then changes to his mic, the one only the band can hear in their mix. Notes: Rockstar AU! This is basically just a one off from the actual AU I’m writing that shows how he and Steve meet. This fic though is established relationship steddie. Band jargon is based on my own time in a band, though obviously mine wasn’t big like Corroded Coffin. They are loosely based off of P!ATD, but metal. In the actual fic I eventually post you’ll get a lot of background about Eddie and the band. I hope you guys enjoy!

As they head into the large, twenty thousand person arena, Eddie sniffles and rubs his nose on his shoulder, one hand holding his water bottle, the other carrying his guitar case. He’s been fighting the sniffles off since last night, but now his throat’s starting to hurt in a way that doesn’t bode well for the show that’s in ten hours. When he’d woken up, it had been barely anything, but in the hour the guitarist has been up and about, his throat’s turned raw, and swallowing is agonizing.

“Did you see how many people are already lined up? Crazy huh,” Jeff says to no one in particular.

They’re used to playing a venue this big, but this is Chicago , and the sheer amount of dedication the fans have around here is kind of surprising. Tim nods and Gareth laughs, taking a long sip of his coffee.

“And how many are here for the VIP thing?”

“Thirty,” Chelsea; their tour manager speaks up, her blonde hair coiled into a neat bun on the top of her head, similar to Eddie’s messy one.

“Okay, not too bad then,” Tim breathes a sigh of relief.

“Not like DC. Jesus Christ, like…why the fuck would Zack add to the amount?”

“Because, Gareth, he lives for chaos,” Eddie finally speaks up, thankful when no one seems to notice anything is amiss.

It’s true. Zack, their bodyguard, assistant manager, and close friend thrives in chaos, and while usually he goes easy on everyone and only picks a few people out of the line every show, four nights ago he’d picked an extra fifteen. If he picks that many again, Eddie might actually tackle him. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with almost fifty individuals. Jake, their photographer and videographer for the tour; another friend of theirs that they’ve been working with for nearly eight years, comes up in front of them, getting some of their conversation. Eddie makes a face for the camera before getting up close to the lens, sticking his tongue out.

“If you lick thi-”

“I’m not going to ruin your precious seven thousand dollar equipment, Jacob,” Eddie rolls his eyes fondly, then takes another long sip of coffee.

They get down to the green room, a big room with a large vanity on one wall, mirrors above it. There’s a few couches and seats, a large coffee table in the middle with their usual food requests like peanut m&m’s, popcorn, and packs of water. Everyone sets their bags down, and Eddie’s eyes move from one couch to another before picking the one in the middle, sprawling out.

“Nice man, leave room for the rest of us,” Tim rolls his eyes but there’s no heat, and Eddie just grins back at him, making no attempt to move. Gareth walks over and sits directly on top of the eldest member, half on his thighs and half on his stomach.

“Dude, get the hell off!”

“Nah, I like this seat.”

About to protest again, the twenty six year old opens his mouth but a cough bubbles up and he turns quickly, shielding his face with his arm so he doesn’t cough all over his band mates. As he twists back, congestion floods his head, like it’s been knocked loose by the jagged movements. His nose is no longer runny but completely stuffed up, serving only to make Eddie feel worse.

“Can you hand me a water bottle? Swallowed the wrong way,” he looks at Jeff, who nods and snags one for him, even going so far as to uncap it. The drummer currently on his lap moves so he’s able to sit up, and as the water slides down the man’s throat, he does his best to hide a wince.

Taking the cap from the bassist, Eddie leans forward a little, propping his arms against his knees, holding the water bottle to his forehead lazily while Chelsea runs through what their timeline today is. He knows it’s the same as every other show, but the woman always insists on going through it anyway. The two other bands touring with them are still on their way after hitting traffic, so the boys end up all at the vanity in a line, signing forty posters, passing them down like an assembly line.

Mindlessly signing, Eddie feels his nose twitch from congestion, so he rubs a knuckle against it. The feeling only intensifies into a tickle that winds its way through his sinuses and into his nose, making him finally pause mid signature, pulling the neck of his black tee-shirt up and over his face.

“hih’ATSCHuhEW! ihKKch’uhew!”

“Bless you,” Gareth throws his way, and Eddie nods before-

“ihGKkheshuhEW! Christ,” he sniffles, though with his nose completely blocked it doesn’t do much help at all.

“Man, you good?”

“Yeah, Jesus, sorry,” Eddie doesn’t see any tissues around so he gets up and heads to the bathroom that’s connected at the end of the green room, grabbing some toilet paper to blow his nose into. It doesn’t help much, but the need to sneeze retreats. When he gets back to his seat, he sees he’s fucked up his signature entirely. Taking his sharpie, he writes ‘oops! sorry!’ and then puts an arrow pointing to the signature. Hopefully that makes up for it.

As the other two bands arrive and start sound check, the band members, Jake and Zach play around the arena. For once, Eddie isn’t on his skateboard whizzing around or throwing a football like usual. Instead, he’s lying on the concrete ground near the sound guy, feeling the kick drum being played reverberating through his skull.

A chill runs up his spine, causing him to sit up and rub his face. Arena’s are always cold, especially to him since he’s already cold natured, but it’s almost different, this chill. It’s deeper somehow, like it’s clinging to his insides, burrowing into him with no intention of letting up.

Sniffling into his wrist, Eddie coughs quietly and sits up. He feels exhausted and wants to lay down on something better than cold concrete. Standing, he heads over to Chelsea, giving her a smile.

“Hey, I’m going to the green room for a few minutes,” the twenty six year old informs, thankful when he doesn’t sound too terrible.

Chelsea nods, typing away on her phone. “Sounds good, I’m ordering some lunch for everyone. It’ll be here in a bit,” she responds, not bothering to look up.

Walking back down the hallway and stairs, the curly haired man makes it to the green room and collapses back onto the couch he’d occupied previously. He wishes Steve was laying with him instead of at home, probably watching tv with Robin since Not Just Coffee is closed Tuesdays. Grabbing his phone, he pulls up their text thread and sighs.

Miss you.

It’s innocuous enough that his boyfriend won’t think much of it, but will probably reply. Shutting his eyes, Eddie shifts so he’s on his back, stomach and hands resting on his stomach as he waits. As he relaxes, everything starts weighing down on him- just how sore this throat is, how achy he feels, how his sinuses feel stuffed with congestion and his nose is running.

A few minutes pass before his phone vibrates against his skin. Slowly bringing the screen close, he smiles.

Miss you too. Robin says hi.

Hey Birdie. What’re you guys up to? Adventuring and causing havoc?

Very funny. No, we’re just having a slow day. Made pancakes, now we’re waiting for Nance to come over. It’s raining here so we’re just watching movies all day.

Jesus I wish I was there, could cuddle up with you and take a nap.

Tired? You guys had a long drive last night right?

Yeah. Long drive, slept like shit.

I’m sorry babe. Hopefully you can rest a little before run through.

Currently alone in the green room laying on the couch.

Alone huh? 😏

As much as I would love to indulge in getting each other off, I wouldn’t be surprised if Zack came down. He’s too good at knowing when we are. Plus lunch will be here soon.

Damn. Not that I could really do it either right now.

Can’t wait to see you again. It feels like it’s been years.

Four days you goof.

Still. Feels like 4 years.

I miss you too Eds. So much. You go try and relax some before lunch. I’ll talk to you later. ❤️

Love you Stevie. Have fun watching movies. Tell Nancy I say hi.

Love you too. I will.

The second Eddie finishes reading the last text, he deflates. He shuts his eyes again and ends up drifting as he thinks about his friends and boyfriend, about Eggnog their cat and how he can’t wait to be home.

“Food’s here!”

Eddie jerks awake, sitting up as everyone clambers through the green room door. Quickly, he rubs his eyes and brushes a few stray curls from his face. He feels no better, but no worse, so that’s a win in his book. Chelsea, Jeff and Gareth are carrying bags of food in their arms. He tries to sniff the air to see what they’ve brought but when he does he’s met with a stuffed up nose and he holds a cough in.

“What’s for lunch?”

“Chinese. She ordered some of everything,” Tim tells him as said bags are placed on the table.

Everyone gets what they want, but Eddie’s not concerned with the race for it all. He knows there will be a little container of lo mein somewhere in a bag, his usual. As expected, the white box is handed to him and he’s grateful this is his favorite thing and not spicy orange chicken.

Zack and Jake crack open fortune cookies as Eddie stabs at a piece of carrot to go along with some noodles, knowing he needs to eat even if he doesn’t want to. Feeling like one big ache, the guitarist eats silently.

“Dude are you good? You’ve been weirdly quiet today. And you’re like…not being you.”

Gareth looks at him with concern, and Chelsea and Zack seem to realize this too, turning toward him.

“I’m good. Just tired,” he lies. “Trying to save all my energy for tonight.”

When they all look skeptical, he sighs and throws his head back dramatically, ignoring the swimming sensation that overtakes his brain.

“Don’t you worry you’re pretty, mother hen heads, I, Eddie Munson, am ready for a great night. Someone just happened to keep me up last night from snoring,” Eddie shoots Jeff a look, who looks guilty.

“Sorry dude.”

“No harm done, as long as you guys don’t continue to talk shit about me,” he gives a grin.

That seems to placate everyone, and they go back to eating lunch. Eddie relaxes a little, not wanting to have to deal with everyone being annoyed at him. By the time they’re all finished, he feels just slightly better, his head isn’t hurting as badly and the chill seems to have receded somewhat. He can do this.

Sound check, to none of his surprise, is mind numbing and like a new brand of torture. His monitors are making his ears feel uncomfortable and achy, and every time Gareth hits a drum or cymbal, it rings out through his head like a gunshot. He’s pretty sure he’s five seconds away from throwing the man’s hi-hat off the stage when he then changes to his mic, the one only the band can hear in their mix.

After going through Jeff’s guitar and vocals, and then Tim’s bass, they reach Eddie, who’s flopped on his back yet again, making it harder for their sound guy Brian to see when he needs his mix adjusted. Oh well. Standing, Eddie heads up to his mic that’s placed in its stand, and starts reciting his usual sound check spiel about how they need to stay focused tonight, how they need to put on the best performance of their lives.

He keeps his mouth directly against the mesh of the mic, lips dragging over it. He’s probably germing it up like crazy, but it’s only for him through the whole tour, and he can wipe it down later. After talking, he knows the next step is singing a few bars, so he takes a breath and hopes to whatever deity is out there that his voice doesn’t crack.

Miraculously, it doesn’t. That is, it doesn’t until they’re halfway through running their first song with the full track and lights, and his voice catches as he goes to hit a higher note. Eddie winces, Tim and Jeff laugh, and Gareth’s voice rings through their in-ears.

“Damn, that could have been on a highlight reel. Was Jake recording?”

Eddie shoots the finger towards the drummer, continuing to sing, though he sings ‘fuck off Gareth’ instead of the actual lyrics.

They go through only three of their 17 song set. It’s the lead guitarist and vocalist who calls it, his throat screaming in protest. He’s starting to worry about how exactly he’s going to get through tonight’s set. He’s pushed through a show with a stomach virus, even performed last year with a high fever, but he’s never had to deal with a sore throat this intense before.

“Okay, I think we’re good. We just played everything yesterday. If you guys have stuff you need to work through, go ahead, but if you don’t need me, I need to pee,” Eddie addresses his band mates, who all look at him skeptically as he sets his guitar down.

“You’re good man, go before you pee your parents,” Tim assures, and Eddie slides off the stage to find the nearest restroom.

A couple of minutes later, after peeing, blowing his nose a few times and washing his hands, the musician makes his way back out, hands still damp due to no paper towels. He refuses to use the hand dryers that blow air out thanks to having read some article online about how they harbor bacteria. Chelsea is right outside the door, waiting for him, making him jump.

“Jesus Christ, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

The woman smirks and shakes her head before going back to looking serious.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve been…unusually unenergetic today. And if you’re too sick to perform, I need to know now, instead of an hour before the sh-“

“I’m fine, Chelsea. Do I feel a little under the weather? Yeah, I guess. But definitely not bad enough to cancel,” he shakes his head, feeling suddenly prickly and ready to fight.

“Because the flush on your cheeks and the sound of your voice is very convincing,” she deadpans, and Eddie tenses.

“I know what I’m doing! I know my limits. I know what I can and can’t do. Don’t try and tell me you know how I feel.”

Arguing isn’t usually something he does with people on tour, but if he does, 9 times out of 10 it’s with Chelsea or Gareth. She looks at him and he stares back, as if to challenge her. Finally, she breaks eye contact.

“If you pass out on stage, don’t blame me,” she says tersely, and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, alright. Tonight’s going to be the best show yet, just wait and see.”

An hour later, the vip stuff starts. 36 people are lined up outside the green room, hanging out in the expansive hallway. A few at a time, people all over the age range spectrum come in, meeting and talking to the band for a couple of minutes. Jake gets a photo for everyone, and then they move to the next people. Eddie keeps his energy up, though not as high as he usually would. A few girls in their young twenties seem to notice, one asking if he’s alright.

“I’m good sweetheart, don’t worry. Jeff just kept me up all night snoring,” he jokes playfully, tossing a look back to the guitarist, who gives him the finger.

By the end of the meet and greets, Eddie feels significantly worse. There’s only thirty minutes till the concert, which means an hour and thirty minutes until Corroded Coffin goes on. Sitting down, he leans his elbows and forearms against his thighs, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Hair falls in front of him. Fuck.

A hand on his shoulder has him looking up. Zack’s standing there with Chelsea, everyone else looking from behind the two.

“You’re sure you’re alright to do this tonight?”

Eddie nods, giving what he hopes is a convincing smile. “Yep, I’ll be good to go. Preserving my energy,” he explains, waving a hand in the air lazily.

Zack doesn’t look fully convinced, and he must not be, because a moment later, the back of his hand connects with the musician's forehead. The bearded man looks back at their manager, sharing a look.

“Definitely need to find some Tylenol, maybe a thermometer too.”

“I’ll go find someone on the event medical staff,” Chelsea scurries off, leaving all the boys alone.

“Dude, don’t push yourself,” Tim says worriedly. “Canceling one show won’t-“

“I’ve performed through far worse than a cold, dude,” Eddie says, not bothering to open his eyes as he shifts so he can lay down, stretching his legs out.

Zack, Tim, Jeff and Gareth all start horsing around, telling jokes to Jake’s camera. Jake moves closer to Eddie, talking.

“Sick as hell and still going strong! What a trooper he is.”

For his part, Eddie just cracks an eye open and sticks his tongue out. “Nothin’s gonna keep me from performing, baby!”

A few minutes tick by and then Chelsea is walking back in with two women dressed in navy shirts and bdu’s. Their shirts have little ‘Fulton County EMS’ emblems on the upper right corner, the man notices as one crouches in front of him. She’s got long dark hair pulled into a ponytail, and he thinks she’s maybe from some eastern country. She’s pretty, and he gives her a tired smile.

“Hey, Eddie, right? Hear you’re not feeling so great,” she says sympathetically. “I’m Violet, that’s my partner Julie,” she gestures to the other woman who’s rummaging around a red bag.

“Nice to meet you,” he rasps, clearing his throat and wincing. “Sorry to be such a pain in the ass.”

“It’s what I’m here for, don’t worry. Trust me, this is more exciting than dealing with a split lip or concussion,” she assures, slipping a stethoscope off that’s hanging around her neck.

He stays cooperative as she listens to his lungs and takes his blood pressure and heart rate. Julie slips a thermometer under his tongue and holds it there. When it beeps, she slips it back in its pouch.

“101.5.”

A few of the guys in the room make sympathetic noises.

“And you wanna perform?” Violet asks, grabbing her own light from her pocket. “Open wide for a sec.”

“Just because I have a silly fever doesn’t mean I can’t perform,” Eddie shrugs before complying.

“Damn, those are some of the worst looking swollen tonsils I’ve seen. No wonder you sound awful.” She pats his shoulder and grabs a bottle of water. “Alright, I’m gonna give you a strong dose of ibuprofen, and we’re gonna get a banana bag; electrolytes basically, hooked up to you. That should be able to get you through the show. But I’d suggest finding a doctor to check you over fully tomorrow. Not sure if you should really continue going for the next couple of days,” Violet explains.

“Thank you, we’re definitely going to be seeing someone tomorrow,” Chelsea nods.

Julie’s been unraveling some tubing and getting things hooked up, and soon Violet’s swabbing the crook of his left arm.

“Alright, just a quick pinch okay?”

The IV is started and Eddie shivers, taking the ibuprofen as the electrolytes start getting pushed into his body. There’s only 45 minutes before they start, 35 until they need to head up. Eddie hopes this shit will work, because it’s starting to hit him now, just how sick he really feels.

He’s been laying there for 24 minutes when his phone buzzes. Grabbing it, he sees Steve’s name on the screen.

“Hello?”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were sick?” Steve’s voice is all worry, and he’s confused as to how he would even know.

“What?”

“Jeff posted a photo of you with the caption ‘fever of one-oh-one and still determined to rock tonight’s show’. You sound miserable, baby.”

“I’ll be ok, got an IV giving me the good stuff,” Eddie says softly. When he sees Tim starting to get up, and the other two following, Eddie sniffles and sits up. “I have to go. I’ll talk to you after. Love you.”

“Be safe. Love you too.”

Violet comes over and takes his IV out, wrapping his arm with a bright red bandage, laughing when Eddie grins.

“Matches my guitar.”

“I tried to, at least,” she grins back.

“Thank you, seriously.”

His voice sounds no better, but he can tell the fluids have helped a bit, no longer feeling like death warmed over, more like death lukewarm-ed over. Coughing into his arm, the curly haired man stands and shivers, but takes his sweatshirt off, revealing a plain black tee. He grabs his signature denim vest from his bag and slips it on, realizing he probably should have put some kind of makeup on to at least hide the dark circles under his eyes. Too late now.

Downing half a bottle of water as they walk up the stairs and down the hallway to the back of the stage, the others turn to him.

“You got this man!” Jeff squeezes his shoulder. Tim nods in agreement.

“If anyone can do this while sick, it’s Eddie fuckin’ Munson.”

“…if you need a second at any point, just…please take it?” Gareth looks at his best friend. Eddie nods.

They head out on stage where the curtain is drawn. Picking up his guitar, the twenty six year old lets out a breath, coughs a few times, then tries to relax. This is what he was born to do. A cold isn’t going to get in the way of it. He can hear the crowd on the other side of the stage for a moment before slipping his in-ears in, then it’s muffled considerably.

“5…4…3…2…1…”

They all start playing as the curtain opens, and Eddie lets himself get lost in the adrenaline high, energy suddenly thrumming throughout his body.

They have seven songs left when Eddie, who’s been doing great all things considered with the past ten, starts flagging. He’s as energetic as always, no different than any of the other concerts. Anyone who doesn’t know he’s sick shouldn’t have a clue that he’s still sporting a fever of 101. Corroded Coffin starts up on another song and the lead vocalist sings out, turning once to cough in the middle of the verse. While Jeff plays a solo, he uncaps a bottle of water and takes a few gulps, trying to soothe the pain in his throat that’s now back with revenge.

He goes back to singing seven seconds later, fingers moving effortlessly across the guitar neck. As they fade into the next song, Eddie wonders if it’s the lights beating down on him that’s making him feel a little too hot. Swallowing, he comes in on the verse a half second late, but manages to pick back up and correct himself. This song turns out to be the one that alerts all the fans of just how sick Eddie actually is.

It’s long, he and Jeff both have guitar solos, and it also happens to be the one that’s maybe the heaviest vocally there is, with louder and harsher demand on his vocal chords. The adrenaline high is crashing rapidly. Halfway through the song he pulls back from the mic, coughing raggedly into his arm, wincing at how it hurts his throat. Jeff manages to step up and continue leading when Eddie; red cheeked and suddenly wan looking, takes a shaky sip of his water.

When it doesn’t help anything, he continues to let Jeff take it, walking to the back of the stage to cough more, gagging from the force of it.

“Dude, you okay?” Gareth’s voice comes through their monitors, and Eddie waves him off, nodding as he straightens back up.

As soon as he turns to make his way back, he coughs again, wincing as it tears at his throat and makes his ears ache. His right temple is throbbing and the musician feels a wave of weakness wash over him, like his whole body gets its bones replaced with jelly, like his muscles are now spaghetti noodles. Holy shit this isn’t good.

“Eddie, man, what’s going on,” Gareth tries again. He looks over past the stairs off to the side of the stage at Zack and Chelsea, who start moving to the sound booth to get to the only way to communicate with them, the mic that their engineer has.

Jeff is finishing the song now, and as the band lapses into silence to change the tuning of their instruments, they look at each other. Eddie looks at Gareth and shakes his head, feeling fuzzy. He knows this isn’t good. The crowd is starting to get a little rambunctious, and Eddie feels like if he tries to sing one more note he might actually cry or throw up. Or both.

“Eddie, what’s going on? Gareth is he ok?” Chelsea’s voice is loud in the four band mates' ears. Eddie pops one of his IEM’s out, then meets Gareth’s eyes.

“I feel really fucking shitty Gareth…I need to sit or something…fuck…” he says close to the man’s ear. His voice sounds like he’s swallowed glass, like it’s a mouthwash he’s gargled with, and he sounds exhausted and weak. The drummer winces and goes to hold his own mic close.

“We’re gonna have to stop. He can’t…”

No one really knows what to do exactly. They’ve never had to stop a show before. Finally, even through his fever-fogged brain, Eddie goes back up to his mic and takes it off its stand, guitar still hanging from his shoulder.

“Hey guys.”

The arena goes silent, all 19,000 people suddenly hushing. It’s almost eerie.

“Uh, some of you might know if you follow Jeff on Instagram but…” Eddie runs a hand through his hair. “I’m really fucking sick. I thought I could get through the show tonight, got an IV and everything beforehand,” he trails off to cough away from the mic.

“I don’t think I can finish, my whole body is basically screaming at me if I don’t lay down in the next ten minutes it’s gonna make me lay down whether I want to or not. I’m so sorry, this isn’t fair to any of you guys, and it sucks major ass. I’ll uh, see if we can do something for you guys, so don’t lose your tickets,” he talks with as much energy as he can muster, but it’s falling flat even to his own ears.

“Thank you guys for being understanding, and for coming. It means the world to get to see everyone enjoying our songs. I hope you guys don’t hate us too much for cutting it short. Thanks again, and have a good night.”

Eddie sets his mic back into its holder, then takes his guitar off. Gareth, Jeff and Tim are all watching him with worried eyes, scrambling to get out their equipment down too, and follow their friend.

“Fuck,” Eddie mumbles, stopping just to get his bearings.

He leans back against the cool brick wall, shivering, simultaneously too hot and too cold. He slides down into a sitting position, knees against his chest. A second later his band mates, Zack, Chelsea, Jake, and both Violet and Julie are around him. Zack’s on the phone, Jake’s camera is loosely around his neck, and his eyes are wide. Chelsea looks stunned, and so do the other three band members.

“Hey, Eddie, how’re you feeling?” Violet asks.

“Like fucking garbage.” It comes out weak and shaky, the opposite of what he’s trying for, wishing it had come out playful and dramatic.

A thermometer is once again slipped into his mouth, and he stays silent. A beep, and it’s pulled out.

“102.6. Let’s get him moved back to the green room, that way he can actually lay down. Eddie, hun, do you think you can walk?”

“Yeah,” Eddie stands, feeling entirely too shaky. He stubbornly walks the whole way, not embarrassing himself more than he already has by needing help. He gets to the couch in the green room just as he feels himself woozy.

He hears Jeff and Tim talking about his fever, wondering how he performed at all. Gareth’s on the phone with someone.

“Alright, so…do we just let him try to sleep this off? Or do we get him to an ER? Or?” Chelsea bites at her lip.

“With the fact he’s had fluids and a fever reducer in the past two hours and is still this sick, I’d probably suggest transporting to the ER, just so they can figure out what’s going on. I know you guys travel a lot too, so it’ll probably speed the whole process up. We can get him hooked back up to fluids, get him an ice pack or two, see if we can get that fever down. Eddie? How’s your chest? You breathing alright?”

The guitarist looks up at Violet with fever bright eyes and nods. “S’good. Throat hurts, body hurts, head hurts,” the man mumbles, shivering.

“Eds, she thinks it’s best to go ahead and take you to the ER, that’ll help get you feeling better. Is that alright?”

“S’fine…can I have my phone?”

Gareth hands it to him and he fumbles to get it in his pocket.

“Alright, we’re gonna get you on the stretcher okay? It’s just a few steps away, you think you can make it there? These guys can help pick you up if you wa-“

“They’ll drop me, I got it,” Eddie attempts to joke, knowing they wouldn’t actually, not in this serious of a situation.

“Hey man! I wouldn’t drop you!” Gareth says indignantly, now off of his cell phone. He moves close to the gurney as Eddie gets on, giving him a smile. “We’ll try and see you in a bit. We’re gonna go head down to see some of the fans as a consolation prize,” he laughs, and Tim squeezes his shoulder. Jeff jokingly presses a kiss to his head.

“Feel better man.”

“Thanks. Have fun getting trampled and felt up.”

From there it’s a blur. Eddie starts dozing restlessly, catching tiny things like him getting a new IV, being asked about his last oral intake (which he barely mumbles out), and getting taken into the freezing night air. He holds the scratchy, thin blanket tighter, then opens his eyes for a moment. Hundreds of fans are looking over, most with their phones out.

Weak and shaky, he makes the ‘rock and roll’ hand sign, keeping his pinky and pointer finger up, then raises it in the air, arm shaking the whole time. Violet snorts beside him as they maneuver and lock the stretcher into place before electronically raising the wheels up, sliding it into the truck.

“Alright mister rock and roll, we’re gonna out this IV into your hand, have a preference which one?” Violet smiles, and Eddie just stares confusedly.

The next time he’s coherent and lucid enough to truly process what’s going on, he’s got an ice pack on his forehead and on both sides of his neck and under his armpits. He’s no longer in the back of an ambulance, instead he’s in a room with sterile white walls that smells of antiseptic and plastic.

Feeling like he’s been hit by a bud, Eddie’s about to fall asleep again when a noise to his left has him forcing his eyes back open. There, sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair is Steve, scrolling on his phone. Blinking, the musician coughs a little, which makes his boyfriend look up.

“Eds.”

The nickname comes out shaky, and Eddie instantly reacts, moving his arm out, but it catches on something and he hisses. Looking down, he now notices that there’s an IV line coming out from the top of his hand, blue veins standing out against his paler than normal skin. Oh. Right.

“Stevie…” he coughs, just barely able to turn away. A shiver runs through his body and he lets his eyes shut again. A hand scoots under his own, making him smile a little.

“I was eating dinner with Robin and suddenly my phone starts blowing up with Twitter and Instagram notifications of people asking if you’re okay,” Steve says softly. “I didn’t even know you had to stop the show, I just suddenly saw all these photos of my dumb boyfriend getting wheeled on a stretcher into an ambulance.”

“M’sorry…”

“It’s not your fault…mostly. I mean. It is. But…right now I’m just glad you’re relatively ok,” the twenty four year old shifts his chair close enough he can lean against Eddie’s shoulder.

“Where’s everyone?”

“Chelsea and Zack are out grabbing some food. The guys are staying in a hotel for the night, everyone else is going ahead and heading to Indianapolis to hang for a few days till you’re feeling well enough. How are you feeling?”

“Worse than I think I’ve ever felt in my life,” he admits, fiddling with the IV tube.

“Well you have strep, and the beginnings of an ear infection. Doc said this is one of the worst cases of strep he’s seen that hasn’t progressed to scarlet fever,” Steve explains, running a hand through his hair. Eddie melts into the touch.

“Thought scarlet fever was from like, the 1800’s.”

“Still around. It’s when strep progresses.”

“Ugh this sucks. I had to cancel in the middle of the show,” Eddie rubs his face with his free hand. He starts coughing, not stopping until Steve holds a straw to his lips and he sips at water. It hurts like a bitch.

“Yeah, a bunch of people dm’d me videos. You sounded so fucking sick Eddie, how the hell did you even do that much of the concert?”

“Adrenaline and spite.”

Snorting, Steve shakes his head and kisses his temple. “Try and rest ok? They’re pumping you full of fluids and antibiotics. Think they also said something about giving you a dose of steroids for your poor throat if you want it. Your tonsils are apparently very impressive. Three nurses came in to see,” he laughs.

“Damn right they are,” Eddie gives a sleepy grin, sniffling. “Love you Stevie…thanks for driving up.”

“Eh, it was more for me than you,” the blue eyed man teases before nodding. “Even if I was 10 hours away I would have come. Just might have taken a little longer. Sleep now.”

When Eddie wakes up again, it’s dark. Steve is asleep in the plastic chair, and the musician feels bleary and disoriented. Blinking, he sees his phone and tries to grab it but it clatters to the ground, effectively waking his boyfriend with a jolt.

“Wha?”

“Sorry, sorry…tried to grab my phone,” Eddie rasps. He notices his throat isn’t making him want to cry anymore. It’s still ridiculously painful, but nothing compared to twelve hours ago.

“Here…” Steve grabs the black iPhone and hands it to him.

Eddie shifts until he’s on the edge of the hospital bed, then looks at Steve with big eyes. “Join me?”

Moments later, they’re both snuggled against each other. The musician unlocks his phone, eyes widening at the sheer amount of notifications he has. There’s a bunch of texts from people on the crew, his band mates, as well as Wayne, a few friends, and even a couple of other musicians. Twitter and Instagram he’s afraid to even look at. Finally, after replying to the texts, he heads to Twitter, wincing at all the photos he sees of him doing a metal hand sign on the stretcher. He doesn’t even remember doing it.

Clicking the button to compose a new tweet, he leans his head against Steve’s shoulder.

To everyone at Corroded Coffin’s Chicago show- thanks for coming out and putting up with my sick as hell ass. Turns out strep throat, swollen tonsils and a fever don’t mix well with singing. If I’m honest, I barely remember the show at all. Anyone who got the meet and greet and hugged me, you should probably bathe in bleach. If you do get sick, DM me a photo of your ticket and your meds, and I’ll send you something special. Stay Metal my friends.

Extras:

#my fic #em #sh #st #cc #au #rockstarau #did i use a hard to see photo of stevie nicks for eddie? maybe

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bloodofthepen · 1 year

Text

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—”

“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.”

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.”

Hope, desperation. “Where? Is she—?”

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.

“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.” 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.”

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.”

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

“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.”

----

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.

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?

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?”

Wait for…?

Oh.

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

Lucifer was well aware this would happen.

“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—”

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.

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.”

“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.”

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?”

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.

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.

----

“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.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

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

“Ambrose!”

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

She bows. “Yes, my lord.”

“Lord Diavlolo—”

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

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

Your mouth is dry. “That’s correct.”

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—

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?”

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 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.”

“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.”

“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.

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.”

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

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.

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.”

“...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.”

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.”

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.”

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.”

Your hands are shaking.

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 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.

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?”

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.”

“Of course I’ll stay.”

You wish to do nothing else.

“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.”

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...

“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?”

“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.”

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.”

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.

“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.

“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.”

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.”

----

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:

“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.”

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.”

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.

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.”

“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?”

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."

"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."

"Now stop that."

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

When laid out that way—

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

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.”

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

You hadn’t even noticed Arbianock was gone.

----

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.

“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.”

“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.”

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?

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.”

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?”

“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.

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

----

“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 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.

“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.”

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 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.

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.”

“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.”

“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.

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...

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.”

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.”

“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.”

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.

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.”

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?”

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—”

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.

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?”

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

“Very good. That’s all?”

As though that isn’t enough power?

“That’s all I know.”

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.”

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.”

----

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.

----

“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.

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?”

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.

“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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

----

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?”

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.”

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.

The seconds slip by, silent, unwavering.

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.

“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?"

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.”

----

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.

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?”

“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?”

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?”

“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.

“Why.”

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?”

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.”

“Don’t you dare say her name—”

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

Belphegor snarls, teeth bared.

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.”

“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.”

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.”

“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.

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.”

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.”

“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."

“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’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.

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—

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.

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.

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.”

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

“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?”

“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!

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