#obey me ship discussion
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I feel like people need to understand that liking a character does not automatically mean that you think they're perfect flawless beings?
Like, my fave is Belphie. I love him, his storyline is very interesting, I think he can be kind and compassionate, I love how straightforward he is, and he's the adorable youngest sibling.
He's also a fucking menace who literally offed MC, had an entire plan to commit genocide, is snarky, sassy, part of the anti-Luci league, and a manipulative brat.
These things are not mutually exclusive. I very well understand that Belphie is certainly not a completely morally-amazing character; however, I still love his development, his sibling relationships, and his general personality.
In conclusion: The characters you like do not define your personality. You can like characters because of something in your real life, but when consumed normally, fictional characters are...pretty harmless drawings.
If you want extra reassurance: I am yet to murder anyone lol.
#adding to this: this also goes for ships!#like... shipping mc x luci doesn't mean you want a potentially non-con relationship#shipping dialuci or solasmo doesn't mean you want a severe power imbalance#shipping demoncest doesn't mean you want to fuck your siblings#like...we are playing a game about demons lol#it may be rated pg12 on the app store but the TOS says 20+ without parental permission#anyways getting back to the topic: this is what I stand by#so feel free to block me if you disagree! no need to argue pointlessly#altho I will hit you up if you want an actual fruitful discussion#anyways tags:#obey me#obey me shall we date#omswd#obey me belphegor#obey me belphie#obey me characters#obey me ships#tw discourse#raelyn rambles randomly
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Ah! I'm so happy that someone is not a fan with Dialuc ship. I thought I'm the only one or in the unpopular side of this argument.
I get why people ship these two. But to me their dynamic doesn't sit well to me. So as He and Barbatos.
It's hard to ship Diavolo with anyone because what his character does to others. The only ship I can see that could work is Him and Solomon, but that is a crack ship (Also I don't ship characters to other characters without them actually having romantic chemistry or the canon pair plus who scary people tend with shipping in general)
I wish the Dev's isn't afraid of making an arc for Diavolo where they acknowledge of his controlling nature, even though his this prince placing people in situation where they can't say no isn't how to making friends or make deep connection to others.
Sorry for this rant, I just want to chat with this topic.
I definitely agree!
It isn’t just Lucifer people take issue with, it’s literally anyone he has power over. He used his dying sister to make him his servant. Messed up. Then there was that whole thing was Barbatos and threatening to abandon the thrown if he didn’t stay with him. Although the way Diavolo talks about it, I got the impression he was much younger. Lucifer and Barbatos seem to hold Diavolo in high regard but the nature of their relationship makes me feel icky for shipping them. And to be fair to the DiaLuc shippers out there I don’t think they deny these issues.
The devs were pretty close in acknowledging his controlling nature in S3 with Belphie but they were too afraid to call him out. They ended up making Belphie just get over it.
“You saved my life guess I gotta do what you say!”
In these type of discussions, Belphie is usually left out but I know the ship has a niche following. Given everything that’s happened in entirety of their relationship, the refusal to compromise, lack of understanding and especially the inability to accept no means no. Diavolo was really gonna force Belphie to wear a hat, because he wanted him to. Then he guilts MC into trying to get Belphie to wear the stupid hat! Mc could’ve easily said no themselves, but Belphie already did!
The healthiest relationship he has atm is with Levi but with his complete disrespect for boundaries and Levi’s social anxiety, I’m a bit worried. I hope this is the relationship they address his control issues. It would be good for both of them! Levi gaining self respect and boundaries and Diavolo learning to respect said boundaries!
And this always goes without saying, but ship them if you want! If you ship Lucifer and Diavolo, great! If you ship Lucifer, Barbatos and Diavolo as a poly couple, more power to ya! It doesn’t make you an awful person, you just interpret their relationship differently then I do. Which is completely valid!
I love talking about ObeyMe! Nowadays it seems all I do is rant about it, but rants are cathartic! So I was really happy when I saw your ask!
#obey me#obey me shall we date#obey me discussion#obey me spoilers#obey me Diavolo#obey me Lucifer#obey me dialuci#obey me rant#obey me ramble#obey me rambles#obey me belphie#obey me Barbatos#sparkbeast20#I feel iffy tagging dialuci because I don’t wanna ruin the fun for anyone#if you ship DiaLuc that’s ok#I’m not pro ship although it definitely comes off that way#IF I CATCH ANYONE TRYING TO JUSTIFY ANYTHING ROMANTIC WITH LUKE I WILL SUMMON THE DEMONS OF HELL THEMSELEVES TO STEAL YOUR BLACK EMPTY SOUL
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Oh, dammit, it finally happened to me. I entered a new fandom and it's filled to the brim with antis. It's for a game that heavily features dark themes and suicide, but you're not allowed to depict those or you ~romanticize~ suicide and self harm.
A ship week posted its prompts, and among the list were entries like making out and self harm. The characters involved are both 16, and lo and behold, a whole bunch of people got angry. Couldn't fathom why these prompts would ever be included in a ship week and started throwing around pedo accusations. "The fact that the organizers blocked naysayers instead of accepting criticism says enough" shows that they don't want to help anyone or have a discussion, they want people to do what they say and obey, no questions asked.
I've never been in a fandom like this. How do I keep myself safe here without going insane? I started by blocking anyone who expresses annoying sentiments, but I plan on writing some dark themes and NSFW stuff. The worst part is that it won't even be SA/underage dark themes or kinky NSFW stuff, just standard coming-of-age and mental health stuff that can be expected between young adults with depression. I already know that people will throw a fit over these aged-up 20 y/o's being depicted as sexual beings anyway.
--
Laugh in their faces when they try shit.
Bullies like smelling blood in the water. They don't like being told they're stupid children whose opinions don't count, whether that's by you actually saying that or you just blocking them as worthless in the first place.
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Fridge Mission
Lucifer needs your help. Beelzebub has been eating everything from the fridge and Lucifer trusts that you can stop him. You try and give Beel something else he can eat. >;)
Rating: Explicit 18+
Characters: Beelzebub, Reader, MC
Ship: Reader x Beelzebub
Genre: Smut
Tags: Smut, gender-neutral reader (but reader wears a bra lol), race-neutral reader, oral sex, vaginal fingering.
A/n: This idea started as a joke months ago every time I get the Obey Me notification. This is the first smut I've ever written and published, so please be nice. This took months only because I kept getting embarrassed by this and didn't think it was being written well. I decided that I no longer cared if it would be good or not and wanted to have fun writing this and test the deep waters of smut. Check it out on AO3.
Masterlist
“I need your help,” says Lucifer.
You and he are in his den, one afternoon. Earlier, he texted you and asked you to meet him to discuss something important. He did not clarify and you hoped he would now that he’s right in front of you.
“Help with what?” you ask, curious as to what he could possibly need help with. He is one of the greatest, most powerful demons in Devildom. What could he not handle himself?
“Well,” he starts, “Beelzebub has been eating all the food in the fridge. Every day at 12 pm or 6 pm he is in front of the fridge, eating everything he can get his hands on. It’s taxing on our food budget and some days we are left without dinner.”
You remember the days when Lucifer opted to order take-out meals for you and the brothers rather than welcome a home-cooked meal from whoever was on cooking duty for the day.
“Are you sure, I can convince him to stop?” you ask, “Once he gets to eating, it’s hard to stop him.”
“Beelzebub has grown attached to you and I feel that you can be his voice of reason. He has certainly failed at listening to my requests to stop. I believe that a more trusted friend, one that he has a pact with, can finally stop him. Please prevent Beelzebub from eating everything.”
“Well,” you say with a shrug, “I’ll try my best. I doubt I’ll do anything useful to stop him, but I’ll try my best.
------------------
You stand by the fridge, checking your watch. It’s 5:57 pm. Beelzebub would be in the kitchen soon and you’ll have to stop him. You have no plan. You figure that the best way to stop him would be to find the cause of the problem. But is there a reason behind him devouring the whole fridge at the times Lucifer mentioned? Beel is the Avatar of Gluttony so there could just be no discernible reason for his cravings.
“Hey,” say Beel, interrupting your thoughts.
“Hey,” you say back to him, “How’s it going?”
He towers over you. Most of the brothers do but his height even outmatches Lucifer’s.
“Uh… Fine,” he says, seeming confused by the conversation, “Do you mind moving out of the way?”
“Why?” you ask, feigning innocence, “Do you need something?”
“I’m hungry,” he says. He wasn’t being pushy, he just stated it as if it was a fact. “I just want a snack.”
“A snack or the whole fridge? Lucifer told me what you have been doing.”
“A whole fridge’s worth of food is a snack,” he says with a shrug.
“Don’t you think you should leave some food for me and your brothers?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, “Satan has to cook dinner and needs the ingredients.”
He moves closer, placing his hand against the fridge, arm stretching over you.
“I can make you move,” he says, something dark in his voice.
You realize that he's trying to seem threatening, but you know him well enough and trust that he will not hurt you. Still, there was something sexy about the way he said it.
“Then make me,” you challenge.
He stares you down, quietly and you stare right back up at him, crossing your arms.
He sighs, backing off. You can swear you see him blush but you’re not sure.
“Fine,” he says, defeatedly, “you win.”
You smile.
“Hey, I have snacks in my room,” you offer, “Human world snacks and I’ve been meaning to repaint my nails. Why don’t you join me?”
His face remains neutral but you see something light up in his eyes.
“Okay,” he gives in.
In your room, you sit him down at your desk and bring over a side chair to sit next to him. You already have the tools, nail polish and nail polish remover for the manicure set on the table. You grab his hand and start to remove his nail polish with a cotton ball soaked in nail polish remover.
With his hands in yours, you notice how big his hands are. The first time you realized how big they were was on your waist when you and he cuddled once. That was the night you shared your room during a Devil Dish Bake-off binge with some snacks.
That night made you see him less like one of the youngest brothers with a hefty, destructive appetite and more like a soft, tender demon. After you both shared so much over the months since the Belphie incident, you also became closer as friends. Friends. Which is why you can not think of what it would feel like for those large hands to explore you.
“So,” you begin, waving away the intrusion of curious thoughts, “As the Avatar of Gluttony I know you can’t resist eating a lot, but Lucifer told me that your urge to eat everything out of the fridge was fairly recent. Do you know why?”
“I get extra hungry when I’m trying to distract myself from something,” he says, avoiding your gaze.
“What are you trying to distract yourself from?” you ask, switching to filing his nails, “And are you still hungry?”
He’s silent. He gazes at you and then looks down at the hand that you were manicuring.
“I can’t say,” he finally says, “It’s a secret. And, yeah, I’m still hungry.”
“Yeah, and it’s a secret that affects the whole House of Lamentation,” you say pointing the nail file at him, “Now spill it.”
“It’s a secret about someone… I want.”
“Oh, that’s juicy!” you exclaim with delight, “Who? Someone I know? Come on, tell me.”
He looks up at you, eyes smoldering
“It’s you… That I want.”
“Me?” You are perplexed. You stop filing and are now gawking at him. “What about me could possibly drive you to eat an entire fridge’s worth of food.”
“It’s something you would not like the answer to, trust me,” he says looking down at his hand again. And you noticed that his cheeks and ears were red.
You think for a moment. Lucifer’s plea to stop Beel from eating everything swims in your mind. Maybe you don’t want to know but you have a mission.
“Whatever it is,” you say, “I can handle it.”
“Fine. It’s… Well, you’re human and you smell good, so it makes me… Well, this is hard to say out loud…”
“I make you hungry?! I know you all threatened to eat me at first when I got here, but damn! If cleaning out a fridge is what it takes to stop...”
“No,” he cut you off, now looking right at you, “You make me horny.”
Silence fell between the two of you. You were in shock. You?! But you’re human. Surely there are many hot demons out there that he wants to fuck, instead.
“Are you sure? You feel that way?” you ask slowly, “When did this start?”
He moves closer to you, staring with intensity.
“I think it started when we shared your room that one time,” he says, “We cuddled and the smell of you drove me crazy. I thought I wanted to eat you but...” He trailed off. The rouge shade of his cheeks deepen
“You thought so, but what?” you ask, urging him to continue.
“I got a boner,” he croaks.
“Oh…okay,” you say, voice high pitched, “I guess this is context for why you avoided me for a week after we cuddled. I thought I made you uncomfortable.”
And it is context for what you felt when you both spooned. You thought it was a candy bar in his pocket.
“No!” he exclaims, “I just didn’t know what I would have said to you if we were left alone. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship with… my needs.”
He looks embarrassed. It’s kind of…cute.
“Nothing you say will ruin our friendship,” you reassure him.
“Really?”
“Yes, I promise. Besides, I can’t say I’ve never thought of you that way, either. I mean, look at you. You’re so ripped.”
“I do work out a lot.”
You laugh. “It shows.”
“I think it’s my turn to file your nails,” he says, grabbing your hand.
He starts filing your nails.
“I wonder about you guys here in the House of Lamentation. Besides Asmo, do you guys get laid? Because if so, I’m not aware of it.
“I can’t speak for everyone else, but for me, it’s been a while. Lucifer made a curfew for us ever since he caught Mammon gambling at casinos late at night.”
“That sucks,” you say, and you really did feel bad for him and his brothers.
“What about you?” he asks, voice lowering a couple of octaves.
“Honestly, not since I left the Human World. And everyone besides the angels and Solomon has been a threat to even consider getting with them. It’s sad because I thought demons would be good at things like that. Maybe I have those expectations because I’ve never had good head from a human before.”
“Want to change that?” he asks. He is staring at you, his gaze longing and lustful.
Your heart thumps. Did you hear that right? His expression is serious and deep with longing.
“W…What?” you sputter.
“I said, do you want me to change that?” he repeats, voice husky and moving even closer.
Shit. You have been dreaming about this since coming to Devildom and the offer comes so easily from one of the hottest demons in Devildom? You can’t possibly pass up the opportunity.
“Yes,” you say breathlessly.
He gazes at you, with deep passion and pulls your hand to his mouth and kisses it. He traces his tongue from your wrist, to your fingers, stopping to lick them. His tongue is gentle but firm. His mouth felt so good. You bite your lower lip and close your eyes, imagining if it would feel just as good if he did the same to your cunt.
He rolls his chair over to you and his mouth is covering yours, tongue brushing over your lips until your mouth falls open. He kisses you, mouth hungry to taste all of you. And you let him, running your fingers through his honey-orange hair. His lips are surprisingly soft for someone as strong as him.
“Can we take this to my bed?” you ask, pulling away.
Wordlessly, he does as he’s asked, promptly lifting you to his chest and carrying you to your bed. He puts you down, your back resting against your bed frame, and climbs over you.
He kisses you again, tongue exploring your mouth even further. His kiss is powerful but gentle. You’ve never been kissed like this by a human or anyone before this. You lean into him, your tongue, following his lead, allowing yourself to taste him. His tongue brushes over your bottom lip before he bites it. It stings a little but in exactly the way you liked. His kisses travel to your neck, tasting the salty-sweet flavour of your sweat, licking, sucking and biting to his heart’s content, enjoying the taste. You can feel your pussy revel at the feel of his touch, wanting and wishing for more.
#
He pulls away for a moment, to undo your button-down shirt which you shrug out of throw onto the floor. His large hands grace your back and unhook your bra band. Your bra slides off to your waist, revealing your bare chest, much to his delight. He takes in the sight, smiling devilishly. You wonder what he was thinking.
He takes one breast to his mouth and fondles the other with a free hand. He fondles them, gently.
“Rougher,” you demand. He grabs them, kneading them with his hand and squeezes your nipples between his index finger and thumb. You whimper at the sensation and push your chest harder into his hands. He squeezes harder, testing which pressure gathers a moan from you.
You moan and with the other breast, he traces his tongue over the edge of your areola before flicking over your nipple. He bites and tugs your nipple and then sucks. His mouth is warm and wet. You haven’t had your tits sucked since being in the Human World and experiencing it now after the long absence of touch was nearly enough to make you unravel. You feel your body shudder from pleasure and you realize that you’re panting.
Your clit aches to be touched, too. You move your hand to your pussy and start rubbing your clit with your fingers, trying to please the parts of your body that ached for attention.
He notices your attempt to please yourself, says, “Here, let me,” and he frees his hand from your breast.
He licks his fingers and slides his hand under your pants, finding your clit. There was no clumsy fumbling to find its exact position. He just knew. You wonder if it was that your previous partners were just that bad. Or did Beel’s thousands of years being alive give him an edge?
“Oh,” he smirks, “You’re wet, that fast?”
You cover your face, feeling embarrassed.
“Yes,” you say, “It’s been a while. And you’re doing… a good job.”
He grins up at you and moves his face down to your breast again to suck.
He uses his index and middle fingers to play with your clit. His hands are rough and your body invited the texture. It was a simple motion and it did the job, eliciting breathy gasps from you.
His lips move south, kissing your solar plexus, down to your navel. You ravel in his kisses, feeling like your body was born for his mouth.
He stops kissing your body to look up at you and says, “I want to taste more of you. Can I?”
You nod, wordlessly.
He smiles and moves to pull your pants down. You adjust to make it easier for him to do this and watch him throw your pants to the floor. He kisses your tummy and then stops to tug at the waistband of your panties with his teeth and pulls them off.
He kisses your thigh and moves one of his thumbs to your clit and rubs. You gasp and press your body into his touch. His kisses lead up to your upper inner thigh and he pauses to take in the sight of your cunt, captivated by what he sees.
“You’re gorgeous,” he says, desire in his voice.
You blush and say, “Thank you.”
He leans in and puts his mouth on your throbbing clit and starts to flick his tongue on it. His tongue is firm and wet. He starts slow, circling the outside of the apex, teasing you. You breathe deeply.
With being wet, his index and middle fingers slide into you easily. You take them in for a few inches, noticing how large his fingers are.
He passes his tongue over your clit and curls his fingers inside you. You feel the pressure on the front of your vagina, on your g-spot.
He licks and pumps his fingers inside you slowly. You figure that he was testing the motion that you would like
“Faster,” you command.
He does as he asks and starts sucking, too. With that addition, you feel yourself unravel. You grip the sheets, moaning. Uncontrollably, you grind into his fingers and face, yearning for more.
You look down and realize that he’s looking right up at you, eyes lustful. It was as if he was enjoying looking at you respond to him. You’re so lost in his eyes that you don’t realize that you are approaching a climax.
You cum, feeling your body flooded with pleasure. You scream through the pleasure. You feel a dampness on your cunt and see your wetness on his face.
You see him start to remove his face from you.
You put your hand on his head, fingers entangled in honey-orange hair and pull him closer to you.
“No!” you exclaim, voice breathless, “Don’t stop!”
He does as he is told. He licks, sucks, licks, sucks and fingers you until you cum again. You scream, voice starting to feel hoarse. You lay back, panting. He comes up and sits next to you. He stares at you, eyes focused.
“Are you okay?” Beelzebub asks.
You catch your breath and finally are able to speak.
“Yes,” you say grinning, “I’m excellent. Thank you.”
He grins back at you.
He leans in and kisses you. You can taste yourself on his mouth.
“We should do this again,” he says when he pulls away.
“We should…” you start and then come to a realization. “Wait! I didn’t get you off! I think we can start on your turn.”
“Well,” he says with an amused grin, “We can take a shot at it, if you want.”
You grab him by the collar of his tshirt and pull him closer in for another kiss.
And then suddenly there is a knock at the door.
“Dinner is ready!” you hear Satan shout.
You look down. You realize that you are completely naked and your thighs are covered in your own slick and thank the heavens that Satan is one of the few brothers in the House of Lamentation that actually knocks.
Beelzebub frowns. “Damn.”
“Hold on, Beel,” you say, surprised at his dismay, “Are you actually disappointed that food is ready? Weren’t you very hungry half an hour ago? What about the fridge you wanted to eat all of?”
“Well,” he says smiling, “I found something else to eat.”
#obey me#obey me fanfic#obey me fandom#obey me fanfiction#obey me reader#obey me!#obey me beel#obey me beelzebub#obey me beel x reader#obey me beelzebub x reader#obey me mc#Fridge Mission#obey me beel x mc#obey me beel smut#obey me beelzebub x mc#obey me beel x you#obey me beelzebub x you#obey me smut
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I Want To Be Needed ~ Part 10
Pairings: Zoro x Fem!Reader, Sanji x Fem!Reader, Robin x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 5613
This is part 10 of the Series 'We've All Got Needs,' linked below:
We've All Got Needs Masterlist
Ao3 Series Link
Summary: You ask Robin out on a date. You struggle with your place in your relationships, and on the crew.
Rating/Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Fem!Reader, 18+ Only, MDNI, Reader-Insert, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flirting, Blow Jobs, Polyamory, Relationship Discussions, Relationship Drama, Vaginal Fingering, Cunnilingus, Penis in Vagina Sex, Thigh Riding, Hair Pulling, Choking, Overstimulation, Aftercare, Alcohol, Inappropriate Use of Akuma no Mi | Devil Fruit Powers, Insecurity, Tickling, Robin is mysterious, and the boys are protective
A/N: Hey y'all! Since this 'one shot' has gotten out of hand I've made this part rather long to wrap things up. I will be continuing this series, and next part will be a chaptered work that will follow after the events here. I hope you enjoy this, and where the story is headed! Thank you for reading! 😊🙏🏼
“I didn’t know you could draw like that.”
You flashed Zoro a grin. He was leaning over your shoulder while you worked on a monograph, and he’d been following you around all morning.
“I have to, it’s how we identify plants in the wild. We have to know the shapes of the stems and leaves, the textures, how many petals, every detail. If I identify a plant incorrectly it might not work the way we need it to, or it might make us sick. Or dead.”
“Damn. So you know how to poison people then?”
“Of course I do. Nature can destroy just as much as it can heal. Maybe even more.”
He wrapped his arms around you, humming softly against your neck.
“So you could probably kill any of us if you wanted. Just sneak something into our drinks?”
“Well, I won’t do that.”
“That’s pretty hot.”
He kissed your neck, nibbling with a soft chuckle as you squirmed.
“There’s something wrong with you!”
“Oh no! I bet my evil, sexy girlfriend can find a plant to fix me.”
He lifted you out of your chair, kissing and sucking your neck as he growled, sounding so playful that it made you squeal. Especially since it was the first time he’d called you his girlfriend.
He pulled you away from your desk, spinning you to face him. Out of breath, you shivered as you looked into his gorgeous, dark eyes.
“I’m working, Zoro.”
“Doesn’t look like it to me.”
He crossed his arms, and had the audacity to look skeptical.
Your cheeks burned as you fought a grin, and you tried to move around him to your desk.
He was immovable.
“Zoro!”
“I’m the first mate, Y/N. I have to protect this ship.”
He leaned over you, his words getting heavier.
“I just found out there’s a potential murderer on board.”
“Zor- unf.”
He’d lifted you over his shoulder, and you fought his hold. Until the wind was knocked out of you when he slammed you onto your bed.
“I need to make sure all threats are dealt with.”
You hadn’t caught your breath yet, but you managed to moan as you watched your swordsman free himself from his pants, stroking his hard length as he towered over you. Your body was already reacting, readying for whatever he had planned.
“Strip. I need to inspect you for weapons.”
He seemed so serious, and the fact that your body was already caving in pissed you off just a little bit.
But not enough. That look in his eyes made you shiver with anticipation, and you needed him to wreck you.
“Make it quick, I’ve still got work to do.”
He raised his brows at the challenge.
“So you wanna do this the hard way, huh? Get on your knees.”
His growl made your eyes roll back, and you obeyed. He shoved his cock down your throat so fucking deep you could barely breathe before he practically ripped your pants down.
You’d noticed Zoro preferred you in tight pants, enjoying the violence of dragging them down your skin, of using them to restrain your legs while he fucked you hard and mercilessly.
After he made you beg him for more until you were lost in pulsing waves of pleasure and pain, he laid with you until you could walk to the shower with him.
And all of that was before lunch.
You were starting to realize you’d need to take breaks between days with the boys just so you could get some work done.
~
“You’re not gonna watch me?”
After lunch, Zoro was pulling his shirt over his head, and you forgot what you were going to say.
“Nevermind,” he teased, his smirk bringing your eyes back to his face.
“I thought I’d go ask Robin out, actually.”
His eyes went wide for a moment, but he shook it off.
“Well, uh. Good luck?”
His questioning tone brought a smirk to your face, and you gave him a playful punch.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be right back to ogle my boyfriend.”
You turned to leave, but he grabbed your wrist, pulling you into a kiss.
“I like that.”
You shivered at his whispered words.
“What do you like?”
“My.”
~
“Come in.”
Robin’s lilting voice made chills trail up your skin, and you opened the door with a smile.
Her eyes sparkled when she saw you, and she made room on that pretty loveseat of hers.
“Y/N, it’s lovely to see you.”
Settling on the couch, you tilted toward her, and felt your hands shaking slightly.
She kept smiling at you, waiting.
“You too, Robin. I was hoping that you’d still be interested in having that date with me.”
Her smile deepened, and she set down her book. She reached her hand to yours, and your skin flushed red.
She’s so beautiful.
“I’d love that. When are you available?”
She asked that question with a smirk, and you gave a self deprecating laugh.
“I’m taking a break tomorrow, and I’d love to spend it with you.”
“Can’t wait.”
Heading back on deck, you were practically skipping, amazed at how your life was turning out.
Stopping in your tracks, you enjoyed the view before interrupting.
For as much as they seem to hate each other, they always end up close to each other when they don’t need to be.
You grinned at the boys, Zoro caring for his swords, while Sanji was leaning his elbows over the railing while he smoked. They were silent, but within 5 feet of each other.
Shaking your head, you intruded on their quiet company.
“Hello boys.”
Seeing them both turn to you made warmth pour through your chest, it was such a satisfying sight.
“I’ve got a date with Robin tomorrow.”
“Congrats,” Zoro said with a small smile, seeming to be getting used to it.
Sanji on the other hand accidentally crushed his cigarette, dropping it on the deck to avoid burning his treasured hands. He stomped it out, making sure to pick it up to dispose of it properly. Smoking was bad enough, you were glad he didn’t litter.
You tried not to laugh at his beet red face, but he started speaking so fast out of nowhere that you couldn’t help it.
“What are your plans? Are you having a brunch date, or maybe a candlelit dinner? We can set up some games on deck for you, and I’ll make some desserts. I wish the last island had some decent produce, I don’t know how I’m supposed to work without strawberries.”
He kept going, seeming to be talking to himself now, You laughed even more at Zoro’s grimace.
~
Taking extra care getting ready in the morning, the thought of Robin kept tugging your lips into a smile.
“Good morning, Y/N dear! Right this way!”
“Wh-What?”
Sanji didn’t answer as he rushed you outside.
“Sanji, did you steal my rose petals?”
There was a sparse trail of pink rose petals guiding your way.
“Only one flower, my dear. New love is worth all the flowers in the world.”
“Sanji, I harvest the petals and buds, you owe me a flower.”
He turned, winking before bowing out of the way.
“I'll buy you a barrel of roses, darling. Just promise you’ll have a good time!”
You twirled to watch him go until you heard the soft chuckle behind you.
“Good morning, Y/N. It looks like we’re going to be spoiled today.”
You beamed as you met her eyes, breath catching for a moment. Robin looked stunning in a cropped vest and pants, the dark purple making her skin seem to glow.
“Good morning,” you replied, biting the inside of your lip as you sat with your favorite archeologist.
Sanji had set up the entire day, and you had to admit that he did a lovely job. Occasionally you’d have to shoo him away when he acted like a butler, jumping at every possible need, lingering for just a bit too long.
Robin’s voice, her soft laugh, her playful smile. The fact that she was here with you, on a date. Your head was buzzing, and you hardly knew what you were talking about. She asked you about your favorite flowers, your goals to discover rare plants on the Grand Line, and you hardly noticed that she didn’t share much.
She teased you, drawing you out with questions. Your mind filled in so much, your admiration for her blurring the edges a bit.
After lunch, Sanji had paraded games for you to choose from. He was almost singing as he listed them off until you both cracked up, pointing to the Shogi board to get him to leave you alone.
Shogi was not your game, and you couldn’t help but feel her piercing eyes as she maneuvered her pieces, almost effortlessly taking you down.
The sounds of Nami exercising across the deck drew your eyes, and you watched her practice with her baton for a moment. Robin’s voice pulled you back, and you noticed that your fingers had begun to dig into your thigh.
“Another game?”
“Why not,” you laughed. “I love getting destroyed by you.”
You hadn’t meant to say that in the tone it came out in, and your eyes went wide at her smirk.
“That does sound fun,” she teased, setting up the board.
You spent the entire day together, and it was just as lovely as it was at the start. The sun was setting, and you tapped your wine glasses over the incredible dinner Sanji had prepared.
He’d left the wine bottle at the table after you’d told him to stop checking if you needed refills. As you pulled your glass away from hers, your elbow knocked the bottle over.
Wincing, you waited for the crash, but Robin had sent an arm to catch it. Not a drop had spilled.
“Thank you.”
“Of course.”
Robin picked up the conversation where you’d left off, but your mind fought to tear you away.
I can’t even go a day without needing help.
You felt like you constantly had to prove your usefulness on the crew, no matter how wonderfully caring and supportive everyone was.
Your self pitying thoughts filled you with guilt, fogging your mind when you were meant to be here with Robin.
Robin, who was so powerful, she could save the whole crew. She’d saved you more than once.
So had Sanji and Zoro. Everyone on the crew.
And you were usually there hiding with Chopper. Until Chopper would transform, and save you too.
You looked at Robin, her deep eyes scanning your face. You wanted to be present, grateful to be right here.
I’ll just be everyone’s girlfriend. Everyone’s cheerleader.
“Where have you gone, Y/N?”
“Oh, I-I’m sorry, Robin.”
She tilted her head, always seeming mildly curious.
“Really, I’m sorry. I’ve just had some things on my mind lately, I don’t know why they’re hogging my brain right now.”
Robin set down her glass, leaning on a hand toward you.
“Whatever else we might become, we are friends. I’d like to know if something is bothering you.”
You cringed internally, hating how much you needed everyone. How much you’d needed Robin’s help lately.
“I’ve just… been feeling… I’ve been wanting to do more for the crew than I have been.”
Her eyes softened, but she waited for you to continue. After a large sip of your wine, you took the opportunity she was giving.
“I guess seeing the boys has made me notice it more. My work is valuable, I know it. But I want to help. I don’t want to be a burden.”
Your eyes had drifted to your wine glass, until you heard her take a breath.
“Y/N, you have saved us in so many ways. Your skills are incredibly useful.”
“Not when we fight.”
Her deep eyes held yours, and you couldn’t decipher the emotion in them.
“Knowledge is more valuable than violence.”
Now you let out a breath, trying to sort your thoughts.
“I want to be able to protect the people I care about. I don’t want my friends to get hurt because I can’t protect myself… I want to be needed.”
“Well, Y/N… It sounds like you’ve got a new project to work on.”
Robin’s light tone broke the tension, and you let out a grateful laugh. The confidence in her words shivered through you.
“I guess I do.”
She grinned at you, stretching and moving in her seat.
“Y/N, it’s been a lovely day.”
Your heart sank.
“Would you like to have another glass in my room? Away from prying eyes?”
You nodded, not sure you could say anything, but followed Robin while your pulse sped through you.
You could practically feel Sanji’s heavy breathing on your skin as he watched from across the deck. Remembering his blissed out face when you let him look up your skirt, you bit your lip. What a fucking perv.
The thought of his desperate whines, and his needy hands on you tomorrow after his obsession today made you shiver. You had to shake it off.
Watching Robin’s hips swaying gently in front of you brought you back to the moment.
You sat beside her, feeling suddenly paralyzed.
We’ve been talking all day, what do I say now?
Luckily she leaned toward you, tapping your glasses again.
“To firsts.”
You blushed, lifting your glass to your lips before replying.
“First dates?”
Chuckling, she adjusted her position, her thigh now warming against yours.
“To first everythings. Much more fun than lasts.”
Robin’s voice had shifted slightly, and you caught a slight furrow in her brow.
“Robin, ar-”
“Y/N.”
She put the force of those deep blue eyes on you then. Your breathing slowed, noticing the air touching your skin.
She brushed a strand of hair out of your face, and that little bit of contact made your eyes flutter shut.
“You are so beautiful, Y/N.”
The way those words fell from her lips made them seem more real than you’d ever heard. Your eyes flew open, and you leaned toward her, your hand resting on her thigh.
“You are beautiful, Robin, gorgeous!”
She chuckled, leaning closer as she trailed fingers along your neck and shoulder. Her face leaned closer still, and your eyes were wide as she glanced at your parted lips.
“May I kiss you, Y/N?”
You wanted to say yes, but all you could do was feel a shy grin take over your face until you nodded at her.
Then you gasped as her soft lips took yours.
Soft was the overpowering sensation. You reached for each other, your hands enjoying the smooth skin of her lower back, and the silkiness of her hair.
Her hands ran along your thigh, and traced along your jaw to the back of your neck.
Robin's lips and tongue tasted like wine, and something sweet. You couldn’t help a small moan that escaped at how intoxicating she felt.
She let a pleased hum into your mouth before sucking your lower lip between her teeth.
Your hands clenched on her skin, and she pulled you closer, trailing her fingers down your throat, teasing along your collarbones.
Robin pulled back from you, giving a quick kiss before searching your face. Your breath was heavy, and you had to fight not to pull her back in, feeling your body squirming with the ache for more of her touch.
“Mm, I think I can see what all the fuss is about.”
Your eyes rolled back at her sultry tone, and then you moaned as her lips found your neck.
You stopped holding back then, sending your hands to pull her toward you, teasing your fingers in her hair. The soft moan she gave you when you pulled that beautiful black hair had you reeling, and you climbed onto her lap to get closer.
“Robin, you feel so good, so soft.”
Her breath was heavy now, and you felt her tugging at the ties at the back of your dress. Your body moved on its own, thrusting in her lap. She paused, gripping you, moving you so you were straddling one of her thighs.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered against your neck as she moved her leg beneath you. Crying out, you grinded your center against her thigh, starting to pull at the laces on the front of her vest.
Every movement, every breath felt electric, addictive. Every sound out of her lips made you need to make more, the need to make her feel good taking you over. The pressure, the friction from her thigh filling you with twisting warmth.
You caught her eyes before you opened her vest, smiling at her small nod before revealing her perfect chest. Her full breasts were so enticing, the buds of her nipples already hardened, and you ached to taste them.
First you touched, gently caressing, massaging, before trailing small circles around her nipples while you continued to grind on her thigh. She cried out when you pinched them lightly before she pulled your dress over your head, revealing your own chest.
The look in her eyes when she leaned forward to trail her tongue along your breasts was too much. You lost your grip on her, reaching back into her hair to keep from collapsing.
Her muffled chuckle against your skin made you twitch, dancing on her thigh as you felt how much you’d soaked through your panties onto her tight pants.
You slid off of her, landing on your knees between her legs, your breath catching when you saw her heavy lidded gaze. Now you brought your lips to her smooth skin, twirling your tongue around her nipples while you started pulling at her pants.
Robin moaned as she helped you, lifting her hips as you dragged the fabric down. Her panties got pulled along with her tight pants, and you sucked in a breath when you saw how much wetness had pooled between her legs.
You both giggled as you fought to pull the pants off completely, struggling at her feet while she leaned back and grinned at you.
Settling yourself between her knees again, you gasped as she leaned over you, grabbing you by the hair into a rough kiss until you whimpered into her mouth.
She pulled back, that teasing smile on her lips again.
“What would you like to do, Y/N?”
Biting your lip, you felt your body lean toward hers, craving her touch again.
“I want to make you feel good,” you whispered, suddenly shy again.
She kissed you softly now, before scooting her body to the edge of the loveseat. She spread her thighs for you, leaning back to watch you. She trailed her fingers across her chest, and licked her lips.
“Please do.”
You moaned then, looking down at her gorgeous pussy, the wetness dripping from her folds making you shiver.
You smiled up at her, meeting her darkened eyes as you brought your lips to her, kissing her clit the way she’d kissed your lips.
Wrapping your hands around her thighs, you groaned against her folds while you felt her writhe for you.
Robin made such beautiful sounds, and you watched her face as you alternated sensations. Circling her clit with your tongue, long, flattened strokes, fast or slow, different directions. You smiled against her as she moaned your name softly, and you wanted to find what she needed.
When you sucked her clit lightly into your mouth, you were rewarded with the sight of her back arching against the love seat, her hand gripping at your fingers on her hips.
You could have done this for days.
“Please, Y/N.”
She bucked against you as you moaned loudly against her skin. The sound of this beautiful, mysterious woman begging you, gasping your name like that. It was perfect.
Pulling back to kiss your way up her thigh, you brought your fingers to her core. You traced them along her folds and around her clit, wetting them while she twitched for you.
The taste of her still on your lips made your own body clench. You watched her, taking in every gasp and movement while you dipped one finger into her. Exploring, enjoying, you added another and leaned close, breathing along her skin. Robin bucked against your hand, and you thought you’d found what you’d been looking for.
“Does this feel good, Robin,” you teased as you dragged your fingers along the soft spot you’d found deep inside her.
“Y-Yes, Y/N, right there. Gods, you feel so good.”
You felt a satisfied hum leave your throat before you tasted her clit again.
Robin moaned louder now, and you gasped as you felt hands behind you, around you. All caressing your skin and holding you in place, as if there were anything in the world that could have kept you from bringing Robin what she needed.
The sensation of Robin getting closer spurred you on, and you gave her everything you could. She screamed your name while you felt her body clenching, almost pulling your fingers deeper into her, her clit throbbing on your tongue.
You kept going, riding that high with her until you brought her down gently.
She hummed happily as she looked down at you with heavy lidded eyes.
I did that.
You felt your skin buzzing as you kissed up her body, joining her on the loveseat. You let her taste herself on your lips before pulling her legs onto your lap while you softly touched and massaged what you could reach.
She squirmed when you traced nails along her side, pulling away.
“Are you ticklish?”
“I guess I am.”
She’d laughed, but something in her words felt sad.
“Can I see how ticklish you are,” you asked with a smirk on your lips.
The grin that bloomed on her face made you forget it, and you giggled on the couch with her as she writhed under your touch.
Finally she’d had enough, laughing and breathless until she called arms to trap you.
You gasped at the warm restraints, and felt your skin flush as she stood in front of you, hands on her beautiful hips.
“Is it my turn now?”
All you could do was nod, then cry out as you were carried, lifted, and set up on her bed by a small wave of arms. She’d laid you up on her pillows so you could meet her eyes as she laid across the edge of the bed.
“Y/N, is it alright if I use my abilities to please you?”
The feel of her arms still softly restraining you, and the dark look in Robin’s made you gasp, and you breathed your ‘yes.’
Then you were moved again, a hand moving to the hair at the back of your neck, hands wrapping around your ankles, pulling your legs apart, and arms pulling your hands above your head, trapping them there. You sighed as so many warm hands slid across your skin, then cried out as you felt them pulling your panties away from you.
Robin lay on her side at the bottom of the bed, leaning on an elbow as she watched your reactions. Her lips were parted, and you shivered under her attention.
“What do you want now, Y/N?”
Gasping, you tried to remember how to speak.
“I-I want you to touch me, Robin. Please.”
Her smile was too much for you, and your eyes fluttered closed.
Then you cried out as your body was covered in sensations. She gripped your hair, tugging until you whimpered. Soft caresses, warm strokes, light tickles, and even scratches took you over, until there was no room for thought.
It wasn’t long until you were twitching, and you could feel even more wetness dripping from your core as you ached for her.
“Ro-Robin…”
“Would you like more, Y/N?”
Tears had started forming along your eyes, and you nodded desperately as your body shook.
Your eyes had closed again until you felt her weight settle between your legs. You gasped as her lips teased your thighs, all of her arms still playing with you.
She watched you, smiling as she kissed down, so close. She reached out with her tongue, the lightest of touches against your folds, and you tried to buck. Her arms held you like a vise, and your breathing stuttered.
Her tongue and lips sank against you, and you were already so close. Robin wasted no time, sending one finger, then two, curling deep inside you. Her eyes still watched you, and you felt a hand reach around your throat. You nodded, seeing the pleased look in her eyes.
She sucked your clit at the same time that her fingers squeezed around your neck. Her fingers inside of you were moving hard so fast as you came. Your body would have bucked off the bed if she hadn’t held you so still.
Your screams were high and breathy as her fingers kept their grip on your throat. You were fucking lost to bliss, and as you came down you couldn’t believe you were here with Robin.
You laid together in her bed, cuddling and laughing quietly together. Now and then cozy kisses would be shared, gentle caresses. It felt like you were living in a world of soft and simple pleasures, nothing to do or worry about.
“What’s that about?”
You’d pointed to a rather large book she’d been reading lately.
“Archaeology.”
You groaned in her arms, shaking your head at her smug smile.
“I’d like to know you better, Robin.”
She looked away, a smile on her face that didn’t seem right to you.
“It’s okay, Robin. You don’t need to tell me your life story.”
You pulled out of her arms so you could sit and face her, waiting for her eyes to return to you. Your breath felt restricted, and you realized you might have soured the perfect day. Touching your hand to hers, your breath eased as she looked back at your face.
“Robin, whatever else we might become, you are my friend. We don’t have to talk about it. But I feel like there are things that hurt you, that you hide. You’re very good at it.”
You tried to keep your words light, almost joking with her at the last part. But her eyes stayed even.
“I just want you to know that I’m here for you, that’s all.”
You stared at her face, looking for anything, any sign that things were okay, or that you’d ruined it all.
All you saw was a slight tension between her brows, and what looked like sadness in her eyes.
Then she smiled, pulling you in for a hug. Her voice was light now, but you couldn’t see her face.
“I’m here for you too, Y/N.”
~
The next morning you ignored Sanji’s pleas to stay with him after breakfast, promising you’d be his after lunch.
Instead, you found Usopp in his quarters with the door open, filling his stars with gunpowder with his brows furrowed, and tongue poking out of his teeth in concentration.
You waited until he finished, then joined him.
Luckily, Usopp had stopped seeming nervous around you after finding out about the polyamory drama. You were glad to see him smiling at you again.
“Hey Y/N, what’s up?”
“I was wondering if you could help me.”
He raised his brows at you, and your mouth went dry.
I need this. I need to be able to help the crew more.
“I know you helped Nami with her Climate Baton. I was hoping you could help with an idea.”
“Sure! What are you thinking?”
His whole face lit up, and you wanted to feel that. To feel needed by the crew.
You barely had time before lunch started, but you pulled Nami aside.
“Hey, hot stuff,” she teased before leaning in close and whispering. “Do I get to hear how things went with Robin yet?”
Laughing, you shook your head.
“Later, I swear. I was actually hoping you could help me with something.”
~
The rest of the day, you allowed yourself to be showered with affection. Sanji didn’t seem to mind that you sat between Zoro and Robin today, and the thrill you felt when she took your hand sent chills across your body.
As the crew was finishing up with dinner, she pulled you aside before Sanji could interrupt.
“I had a lovely time last night.”
“Me too.”
She grinned at your reply, touching her fingers to your jaw.
“When can we have our next date?”
Today’s events swirled in your head, and you felt you were buzzing with excitement. Sanji had made a dessert just for you, and you savored it with him while he ate his meal. He made some cocktails, and you sat together, enjoying your evening, looking forward to whatever else he had planned for you.
Sanji raised his glass, his cheesy smile bringing one to your lips.
“Here’s to my stunning girl. My sweet, Y/N. You are a treasure to this ship. Everything you do helps us so much. This crew wouldn’t be here without you.”
His words made you pause. You felt your brows furrow as you looked at him, his cheesy smile seeming a little strange now.
“What do you mean,” you asked, setting your glass down without taking a sip.
“I just mean that we- I think the world of you!”
Narrowing your eyes, you felt like you should let it go, but something about his strained smile pushed you on.
“Why are you telling me how much I help the crew?”
Your words made you realize what it meant, but you waited for him.
Sanji winced, setting his glass on the table.
“Fuck… I’m so sorry, Y/N. Last night I saw you knock over the wine bottle, and I came closer. Then I heard you. I heard you share what you’ve been struggling with. I shouldn’t have listened, I know I need to fucking stop.”
He looked away, taking a swig of his drink.
“I was worried about you, darling. I don’t want you to feel that you aren’t needed here.”
The glass was dripping condensation onto your cold fingers. Parts of you were fighting to let it go, but the rest was too full of the empty, uncomfortable feelings you’d been harboring.
“How do you need me?”
“Wha-I…”
You gave him a break on that one. Sanji looked desperate, and you started to feel like a shitty person instead of just a useless one. Standing up from the table, you downed your drink in two burning gulps.
“Thank you for trying to make me feel better, Sanji. I’m going to go to bed now.”
Fuck, he looks fucking lost.
Biting your tongue to keep your anger from spilling onto him, you leaned over the table for a hug. He gripped you tightly, rubbing a hand between your shoulder blades until you broke away, eyes stinging.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said quietly as you tried not to run toward the door.
~
A hard knock woke you in the morning.
“Open up, Needy!”
“Don’t yell at her, moss head.”
“Shut up, dumbass cook.”
Groaning, you glanced in the mirror, and shook your hair out of your face before opening the door. Sanji leaned against the frame, but Zoro came charging in, towering above you.
“Why did I have to hear from Usopp that he’s making you a weapon?”
Sanji cut in, his tone far more even than Zoro’s near anger.
“Sweetheart, I know you’ve been feeling self conscious about your place-”
“I’m not feeling self conscious,” you snapped, seeing Sanji’s eyes go wide as you threw those words at him. You turned back to Zoro, meeting his burning gaze.
“Usopp is making me a weapon so that I can be of more help to the crew.”
“What do you mean? You’re not a fighter.”
Your jaw clenched, glaring at Zoro’s face as he shot you down.
“Not yet. But I need to be able to defend myself.”
He frowned at you, seeming to struggle with his next words.
“You’re right. As first mate, I should tell you too… But I don’t want you to fight.”
“Well I’m going to listen to the first mate. Plus, I’m not like you guys, or Luffy. I’m not going to run around picking fights.”
His narrowed eyes stared at you for too long, but you didn’t need to explain any more, so you just kept his gaze.
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it.”
“Marimo, you can’t seriously be considering this.”
You rounded on your cook.
“Sanji, I have to know how to fight if I’m going to survive on this crew. I don’t want to have to be saved all the time.”
“Y/N, please listen. Going into fights without enough training is more dangerous than hiding. We’ve always had you. I will always protect you.”
“The waiter’s right, Y/N. You’re not carrying anything like that off the ship until you show me you can handle it.”
You grinned at them, even though you felt very unconvincing in your comfy pajamas.
“Then I’ll show you.”
The boys left you to get ready for the day, but you just sat on your bed, planning your next steps. Your dream was still to discover the rarest plants in the world on the Grand Line.
But if I’m going to achieve that goal, I’ll need to learn to survive here first. Nothing’s going to stop me. Not even the boys.
Thank you for reading! 💜
TurtleTaub Fanfic Masterlist
Part 11
Tag List: @astheni-a | @ferns-fics | @heilee | @iamn1ya | @ghostfacefricker6969
A/N: Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think about Robin and their date 💜🥰
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#One Piece smut#Reader Insert#Fem!Reader#Smut#mine#Opla smut#zoro smut#zoro x reader#opla zoro x reader#zoro x you#zoro fanfic#zoro fanfiction#nico robin smut#nico robin x reader#nico robin x fem!reader#f/f fanfic#poly fanfic#nico robin fanfiction#nico robin fanfic#x reader#turtletaub fics
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What we miss when we don't talk about friendship (in MDZS)
I'd like to open with the statement that this is not about shipping -- none of my thesis is to say "don't ship this" or "this ship isn't real." People can and have shipped whatever the hell they want and should continue to do so for as long as it makes you happy. It's not even a question of "sure you can ship it but it's not CANON," because the MXTX canon is wonderfully good at being ambiguous and supporting multiple interpretations.
What this thesis is to say is that some of these themes and motifs to explore are about friendship, and they don't tend to get talked about much, because people are mostly focused on the romantic and sexual dimensions of a dynamic. Romantic and sexual dimensions are great, but they don't annihilate or even subsume platonic dimensions -- yes, sometimes you can be a lover and a friend, but sometimes you can just be a friend and not a lover and that's no less important. As a post I saw recently said which stuck with me -- don't remember the poster, alas, but it was something in the vein of -- "it's not about the intensity of the relationship, but the flavor of it." Platonic character dynamics can be just as obsessive and consuming as romantic dynamics, they can be discussed and analyzed separately without needing to invalidate romantic and sexual dynamics.
So! That disclaimer aside, let's talk about: FRIENDSHIP IN MDZS, and what we miss when we don't talk about friendship as a dynamic in this story separate from romantic and sexual interest. Friendship shows up repeatedly in this story with its own sub-plots and arcs and undercurrents and hazards separate from the romance that's going on, and it's mostly going on with the Lans.
Part 1: Lan Xichen and friendship
A cornerstone of this analysis has to do with a meta post I read very early on in the fandom about the Lans when viewed through a Confucian lens. Lan Qiren in particular is a very, very Confucian character, and he raised his nephews to those traditions and values. The pertinent one here is the topic of the "Five relationships" which outline the relationships that a man of authority can expect to have throughout his lifetime: self to ancestors, self to descendents, self to authorities and subordinates, self to marriage partners, and self to friends. Each one comes with a set of strictures and requirements which when added up combine to a world that is very, very emotionally taxing and extremely short on interpersonal and emotional support. He is expected to obey and submit to guidance from his seniors, but he can't ask them for help. He is expected to lead and govern his subjects, but he can never be wrong or show weakness or doubt. It's especially important, I think, that Lan Xichen is raised to expect that even any romantic relationship he might have (read: marriage to a woman) would not actually be emotionally supportive to him in any meaningful way; it would be another set of obligations to uphold, another place he would be expected to be remote and poised and never show weakness or ask for help.
The exception is friendship. Friendship is the only relationship structure Lan Xichen can have in his life that has any hope of actually being nurturing and emotionally supporting to him, a place he can let down his guard and ask for help with the expectation of receiving it. It becomes very clear from very early on that friendship means everything to Lan Xichen as a character. He enters the story with a strong, supportive friendship with one of the only true peers a man of station can have (Nie Mingjue) and it's clear that this has formatively set his expectation of what a friendship can and should be. Lan Xichen really wants to be the Friendship Is Magic guy. He believes that friendship is the best way to solve problems, and that everybody would be able to solve their problems if only they had a friendship like his, and that belief is a lot of what runs him into a meat grinder later in the story. He thinks that Nie Mingjue and Jin Guangyao are capable of maintaining a friendship post-war, and does not understand why they cannot, and his attempts to friend-matchmake the two of them ultimately lead both to disaster.
Part 2: Lan Wangji and friendship
The header says Lan Wangji, but this is actually about Lan Xichen again, and about Wei Wuxian. A pretty common joke in the fandom is that Lan Xichen is "the #1 WangXian shipper," that he recognizes Lan Wangji's sexual and romantic attraction to Wei Wuxian from very early on and supports him in pursuing such a relationship. It's a nice joke, but I think it misses the mark, because the looming specter of their parents' disastrous and traumatic marriage means that Lan Xichen would never approach the idea of his brother entering into a romantic relationship so cavalierly. (Lan Qiren, in some ways, had a clearer notion of what shape Lan Wangji's interest in Wei Wuxian had the potential to be than Lan Xichen did, perhaps because he doesn't have the same obsession with friendship; if he has any close friendships of his own, we're not shown them.)
Lan Xichen is not encouraging Lan Wangji to have a romantic summer fling. Lan Xichen encourages his association with Wei Wuxian specifically because he thinks Lan Wangji needs friends. Not just in the sense of any parent or adult wanting their child to make friends, but specifically in the context of these restrictive hierarchical relationships that hem in their world. Lan Xichen is afraid that Lan Wangji will be alone, and emotionally starved, and have no one he can ask for help or rely on, because that is his experience of a world without friendship. (Lan Wangji, of course, is not in the same position as Lan Xichen because he has Lan Xichen to rely on.) Lan Xichen wants Lan Wangji to have the same kind of friendship that he himself has with Nie Mingjue, and he thinks that Wei Wuxian has the potential to be that kind of friend. That is the context in which he encourages their association, and tries to arrange for them to have time together, and to become closer; not as a potential romantic partner but as a steadfast emotional and logistical support through Lan Wangji's adult life.
If Lan Xichen knew that Lan Wangji would fall in love with Wei Wuxian (had already started to,) I'm not at all sure that he would have encouraged that. In pretty much any arc past the Lan Lectures, he doesn't, both because Wei Wuxian stopped being a good candidate for supportive friendship (he's clearly got too much of his own shit going on) and because he realizes that what is developing in Lan Wangji bears very little resemblence to his own relationships. He might not outright try to sabotage the relationship but he's clearly worried about its potential to bring disaster on Wangji -- and he's very correct to be worried, as it turns out.
Part 3: Lan Sizhui and friendship
So, All Of That Happens; Wei Wuxian dies, Lan Wangji is laid low for years and seems poised to grieve for the rest of his life; Nie Mingjue dies and takes Lan Xichen's support with him. Now we come to the present day, and the present day has Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi.
Let's take a moment to step back and ask from an analytical perspective: Why is Lan Jingyi, as a character, in the story? Assuming that in a novel as polished as MDZS, each element is included for good reasons. Why is Lan Jingyi in the story and why is he Lan Sizhui's best friend? In the new world we're introduced to, the Lan are already represented, and very positively represented by Lan Sizhui. Lan Jingyi provides a convenient avenue for both exposition-dumping and sass -- saying the things that everyone else is too polite to say -- but we could have gotten that through another character (Jin Ling also plays this role) or introduced another Junior who isn't Lan, like Ouyang Zizhen. Why is it important to the story that Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi are friends?
The Juniors in general represent hope for the world to change, hope for the new generation. In Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi, we see that the terrible loneliness that drove their seniors to disaster in the previous generation, is averted. Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi have a friendship that is close and true, and we are never given reason to doubt it. Their priorities are aligned; it's unlikely that Sect politics or personality conflicts will ever drive them apart. They have what Lan Xichen craved: a friendship that will support them through tragedy and disaster. Their friendship stands to demonstrate that in the new generation, things will get better.
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Could you maybe please- if it's not too much to ask- make a pt2 of the obey me goodnight kisses story where the dateables come over to the HOL for a visit, and when MC wants to go to bed, they see them giving the brothers their usual goodnight kisses, and the dateables want to start getting goodnight kisses too, so it becomes this whole thing and- well... you get the point. 🙏🥺
Oh man, how could I say no to this? The dateables deserve sweet goodnight kisses, too, so I’m more than willing to oblige. 💕 Thanks for the prompt! Enjoy!
Story - Goodnight Kisses: Part 2
Read the original/first part here!
Main Characters/Ship: The dateables (Diavolo, Barbatos, Simeon, and Solomon) x MC
Other Characters: The demon brothers and Luke
Word Count: ~2.7k
Warnings: None, just another dose of pure fluff
“Ah, it looks like Luke dozed off,” Simeon pointed out, his voice notably softer than it was mere moments ago.
The other eleven partygoers at the House of Lamentation quieted down one by one as they each caught sight of the young angel curled up in one of the living room chairs. They had all come together that night to celebrate their efforts on the success of another event held at RAD. They had been eating, playing, and conversing since the early evening, hardly aware of just how late it had become due to how much they were enjoying one another’s company (even if some of them wouldn’t admit it out loud). At this point, Luke’s energy had been drained completely, and as much as he tried to fight off his exhaustion, he ultimately passed out while waiting for his turn in the board game they were all in the middle of.
While the group had a hushed discussion over what had happened to Luke, MC took this as an opportunity to tap out early for the night as well.
“Already?” Satan questioned the human as they stood up. “...Actually, I guess I can’t blame you. With how much everyone has been pulling you left and right since the party started, it makes sense that you’d be tired.”
“Is that so?” Barbatos wondered, concern etched in his features. “Our apologies for troubling you, MC.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” MC assured with a wave of their hands. “I’m used to hanging out with you guys. I’d just rather pass out in my bed than in one of the chairs here. So, I’d better get going—”
“MC, dear~!” Asmodeus interrupted in a sing-song tone, trotting over to the human’s side before they could attempt to exit the room. “Aren’t you forgetting something~?”
MC froze on the spot as their cheeks flushed at the realization of what Asmodeus was referring to. Their eyes scanned over everyone in the room, lingering especially on the royal demons and the Purgatory Hall boys. “Here? Now?”
“When else?” Belphegor chimed in while he approached the human from the other side. “Come on, you’re not seriously going to leave without doing it, are you?”
“But—” They looked between Asmodeus’s and Belphegor’s pleading expressions. “...All right.”
Diavolo tilted his head quizzically at the scene. “Hm? Is something wro—” His words immediately dissolved on his tongue when he witnessed MC press their lips to Belphegor’s forehead.
Barbatos, Simeon, and Solomon mimicked Diavolo’s wide-eyed silence as MC went around the room to continue placing a single kiss on the heads of each of the demon brothers.
“Oh my, what’s this now?” Barbatos inquired.
“MC gives each of us a kiss on the head before they go to bed every night,” Beelzebub answered shamelessly. “It’s something special that we’ve been doing for a while.”
“B-Beel!! Don’t tell them all about it!” Leviathan retorted.
“Goodnight kisses, huh...” Solomon muttered, cradling his chin between his thumb and index finger pensively.
“It’s too late now,” Satan sighed, already aware of what was coming.
“How nice,” Simeon commented with a genuine smile. “MC truly does share quite a bond with Lucifer and his brothers.”
“Don’t rope me into this,” Lucifer argued. “This was something the others came up with.”
“Yeah, but Lucifer participates, too,” Belphegor called out his older brother, thinking back to the time when the rest of them caught Lucifer within the doorway to MC’s bedroom.
“H-Hey, yeah, that’s true!” Mammon shouted just after receiving his goodnight kiss from the human. “He tries to be all sneaky about it, but he totally enjoys getting a kiss from MC!”
It appeared as though a blood vessel in the temple of the red-faced Avatar of Pride was ready to pop at any given moment. “Excuse me?” he questioned menacingly.
“Looks like your secret’s out, Lucifer,” MC chuckled, unfazed by his intimidating aura. Without giving him a chance to counter, they proceeded to gently tug him by his tie so that they could kiss his forehead. Fortunately for them, their actions managed to turn his bubbling frustration and plans for punishment into a simple huff of embarrassment.
“What a wonderful tradition!” Diavolo exclaimed gleefully. “If you don’t mind, MC, might I be permitted to join in?”
“I’d like to participate as well, if I may,” Barbatos requested.
“As would I,” Solomon added confidently.
“I’d like to be included, too, if that’s okay,” Simeon spoke up.
The demon brothers were inclined to protest, feeling jealous over the idea of having to share such a gesture from MC with those outside of their family; however, the decision wasn’t theirs to make. Instead, everyone focused on the “goodnight kisser” themself and awaited their answer.
The human didn’t have to think over the idea for long. They liked the four men that were patiently yet eagerly hoping to receive a goodnight kiss of their own, and since they all had just seen the tradition with their own eyes, it might be unfair to not include them in it this time. After all, the last thing MC needed was another cause for chaos in this household. Besides, even if they did say no, they were certain that the heart-wrenching looks of disappointment on those four handsome faces would be strong enough to change their mind in an instant.
“Sure,” MC ultimately replied, “that’s fine with me.”
Forget the power of their sad expressions—it was as if the sun had come down to the Devildom from how bright and warm their four collective grins were in response to MC’s words.
“Thank you, MC!” Diavolo’s voice boomed cheerfully. “Then, if it’s all right with everyone else, how about we go in the order in which we asked MC?”
While the other three voiced their approval, the demon brothers swallowed their complaints and moved aside to allow the human easier access for their next set of goodnight kisses. This was MC’s decision and a special one-time exception, they told themselves. So, they wouldn’t make a fuss and would just preoccupy themselves until it was over.
Per the verbal agreement, Diavolo was designated to receive his goodnight kiss first. He could hardly contain his enthusiasm from where he sat as MC drew closer, evident in his huge unwavering smile and the hands he outstretched for the human to take in their own. Not only was he excited to get a kiss, but he was also overjoyed to be included in a tradition that those he cared about partook in. Anything that enabled him to connect more with others meant a great deal to him. Without any hesitation, he wordlessly bent down for MC to press their lips on the crown of his head.
“Goodnight, Diavolo,” MC said afterwards, still holding onto his hands.
“Goodnight, MC,” he wished back, his voice quieter than usual. “...Did I do that right?”
They giggled at the question. “Yeah, that’s how it normally goes. You did just fine.”
The demon lord’s golden eyes twinkled in delight, and he didn’t mind how his face felt mildly strained from how wide his smile had become. “Ah, good. I quite enjoyed that. Thank you again for this one-of-a-kind experience, MC.” He gave their hands a light squeeze before reluctantly releasing them so that the human could move on to his cherished butler.
Barbatos’s composure hadn’t faltered in the slightest since he asked to be involved in the “goodnight kiss” tradition, but despite being perfectly poised on the outside, his heart was a whole other story. If the human chose to listen intently when they stopped in front of him, he was sure they would be able to hear the way it pounded against his chest with unparalleled glee, which it always did at the prospect of obtaining any type of affection from them. Luckily for the butler, he still was able to give MC his undivided attention as he acknowledged their arrival with a small, courteous bow.
“I see it’s my turn now,” Barbatos noted while he straightened his back and situated his hands on his lap. “From what I’ve observed, you seem to already have a unique spot in mind for where you intend to kiss each recipient. If you tell me where my goodnight kiss will be, I can adjust my posture accordingly ahead of time.”
“You don’t have to do that,” MC replied with an amused shake of their head. “This isn’t anything complex. The only thing you have to do is relax, okay?”
“Are you sure? Perhaps I could—”
MC abruptly rendered him speechless by cupping his face in their hands. “Barbatos, relax.”
He blinked in surprise before deciding to lean into their tender touch. “Very well. I’ll leave it to you, MC.”
After giving him a firm nod, the human proceeded to kiss the open space above his left eyebrow. “There, simple as that,” they stated when they broke away.
“So it seems,” Barbatos responded, the corners of his mouth sliding further upward as his eyes fluttered open. “How foolish of me to doubt your area of expertise.”
MC found themself laughing at his comment. “I guess I am a pro at it now, huh?” They then calmed down enough to add, “Goodnight, Barbatos.”
“Goodnight, MC. May you have pleasant dreams.”
Two down, two to go. And next on the list was the witty human sorcerer, who appeared to be carrying an air of mischief behind his pleasant features. MC tentatively stepped toward him with a narrowed gaze.
“What’s with that look?” Solomon inquired, sounding far more amused than puzzled.
“You’re plotting something, aren’t you?” MC questioned without missing a beat.
“You think so? I’m just standing here waiting for my turn.”
MC hummed in disbelief, keeping a reasonable gap between them and their fellow human.
“Listen,” he assured them, “I wouldn’t dare do something that would ruin my chances of receiving a goodnight kiss from you. I can promise you that.”
MC couldn’t deny the sincerity that coated both his words and his features when he spoke. Perhaps whatever was on his mind moments ago involved something totally unrelated to the current situation, they concluded. So, refocused on their task, MC placed their hands on Solomon’s shoulders, and once he lowered his head, they let their lips rest briefly on his right temple. They barely had a chance to move away when he snuck a quick kiss to their jawline. Their shock from the gesture would’ve caused them to stumble backwards if he hadn’t wrapped his arms around their waist in time.
“You—!” they gasped, realizing that this was what he’d been plotting.
“Goodnight, MC,” Solomon spoke over them so that no one would hear their reaction.
MC glanced back nervously, fully expecting at least half of the demon brothers to be planning a riot over what just occurred. What they found instead was everyone either focused on their D.D.D.’s or mingling with those around them. On top of that, Solomon had chosen to sit in a singular chair rather than on one of the sofas where most of the others were, so only someone who was intently watching them would’ve seen what he did.
MC sighed in relief before pouting at the sorcerer’s feigned innocence. “Goodnight, Solomon.”
Upon being released from his grasp, MC promptly turned away to meet with their final guest. However, they stopped short when they saw that the angel was not where he was earlier. After a bit of looking around, their eyes landed on his form, sitting on the chair next to the snoozing younger angel that he was assigned to watch over.
Simeon’s gaze was soft and caring as he brushed a few stray strands of hair out of Luke’s face. He had to stifle a giggle when, in response, Luke snuggled further into the cushioned chair and muttered incoherently in his sleep. Having been so entranced in the moment, he didn’t notice MC’s oncoming presence until they were right in front of the two of them.
“Oh, is it my turn already?” Simeon asked as he looked up at the human. “Sorry, I saw Luke fidgeting and thought he was going to wake up. Turns out he was just stirring in his sleep. I meant to come back to my spot right away, but I guess I got distracted.”
“I’ll forgive you this time since it was Luke’s fault,” MC joked with a smile as they knelt down. They couldn’t resist reaching their hand out to gently pat the lightly snoring boy’s head, who grinned at their friendly touch as if he was aware that it came from them specifically. “There’s a spare blanket in the common room if you think he’ll need one.”
“We might be here a little while longer, so that’ll be helpful,” Simeon replied with a smile of his own. “Thank you for telling me, MC.” A reminder then popped into his mind, making him raise his eyebrows. “Ah, but I’m holding you up from getting your sleep, aren’t I? Sorry to trouble you. Would it be better to skip me?”
“Don’t be silly,” MC dismissed the idea. “I told you I’d give you a goodnight kiss, and I’m sticking to it. You still want one, right?”
A blush slowly stretched across Simeon’s face. “Yes, if you don’t mind. I’d be very grateful for it.”
MC rose to their feet and stood over the seated older angel to cradle his head in their hands. Their palms and fingers tingled at the warmth that radiated from his ears and cheeks, and they observed how his eyes shut like the wings of a butterfly landing on a flower before they leaned down to place a kiss against his bangs.
“Goodnight, Simeon,” MC stated while they straightened their posture.
“Goodnight, MC,” he replied sweetly, opening his eyes partway to stare back at them.
“Hey, MC!!” Mammon called out to them impatiently. “Are ya done yet? Ya sure are takin’ your sweet time!”
“Yeah, everyone got their goodnight kiss,” MC answered, holding back the urge to roll their eyes at the Avatar of Greed. “I’m heading to bed now.”
And with a final wave and goodnight wish to everyone, the human went to their bedroom to retire for the night.
~~~
The following evening, MC and the demon brothers were in the middle of watching a horror movie when the sound of the doorbell echoed through the house. The unexpected noise, coupled with the silent suspenseful scene on the television, caused a domino effect of shrieking and flailing limbs among the group (mostly from Mammon). While Lucifer scolded his brothers to pull themselves together, MC scurried to the entrance hall to see who exactly had come to visit. Upon opening the door, MC was met with a grinning, cross-armed Diavolo.
“MC, it’s good to see you!” Diavolo greeted them. “I’m glad you’re still awake.”
“Hi, Diavolo,” the human said with a smile and a nod. “What brings you here?”
“Why, I’m here for my goodnight kiss, of course!”
MC blinked twice while the gears in their head gradually turned. “...Huh? But we, uh, already did that last night.”
“Yes, but you give goodnight kisses every night, don’t you? That’s what Beelzebub had said. And you agreed that we could be included in this tradition.”
“‘W-We?’” MC repeated, their voice a bit shaky.
Once Diavolo took a step inside, Barbatos and the three exchange students from Purgatory Hall were revealed to have been standing behind him.
“Pardon the intrusion—and for not greeting you sooner,” Barbatos stated with a bow.
“Hi there, MC,” Solomon greeted cheerfully with a wave. “We got here at the same time as Diavolo and Barbatos.”
“I hope your evening has been going well,” Simeon chimed in.
“Diavolo?” Lucifer wondered aloud as he entered the common room with his younger brothers in tow. “And you all as well? What’s going on?”
Luke squeezed through the group to stand before MC and firmly question, “MC, is it true that you’ll be giving Simeon, Solomon, and all of these demons a goodnight kiss every single night? If so, I— I want to be included, too!”
With wide eyes and gaping mouths, MC and the demon brothers quietly stared back at the five guests for the next few seconds.
“Wh— WHAT?!” the eight of them screamed.
From then on, it became commonplace for the royals and Purgatory Hall trio to visit the House of Lamentation each night to partake in MC’s goodnight kiss routine.
(You’d think MC would’ve seen this coming after what transpired when Belphegor first asked for a goodnight kiss...)
#ask response#obey me#obey me shall we date#obey me mc#obey me diavolo#obey me barbatos#obey me simeon#obey me solomon#obey me diavolo x mc#obey me barbatos x mc#obey me simeon x mc#obey me solomon x mc#obey me demon brothers#obey me lucifer#obey me mammon#obey me leviathan#obey me satan#obey me asmodeus#obey me beelzebub#obey me belphegor#obey me luke#short story#fluff
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Jade gaslighting anon here, sorry if I sounded offended. Gaslighting is a very specific type of abuse that I went through for a very long time and while Jade is very toxic and problematic, he is not a gaslighter so it bothers me when people slap that on as a catch-all for all manipulative characters. Again, sorry if I sounded angry or offended.
Anon, I heard you. And I am sincerely sorry that you went through some very bad stuff in your life.
However. I want to say something and I am not going to mince my words this time because I need to make one thing clear.
Here is TLDR if you don’t want to read the whole post: No offence, but I can’t keep in mind everyone’s trauma, I don’t think Rook is a gaslighter, we will continue to post content about Jade being one.
I disagree with you on Jade not being a gaslighter and Rook being one. I don't think that this is the case, in fact, I think the opposite is true. But we are not going to have a character discussion right now because this clearly isn't the point of the situation that’s happening here. Based on what you’re saying, your opinion is influenced by your past experiences. Which isn’t a bad thing, we all have our own biases, but it makes a proper discussion quite difficult, especially when there is trauma involved.
Here is the thing. I know what gaslighting is. I myself was also a victim of gaslighting, believe it or not. I was in a very bad place for a lot of years, and some of the events from that time affect me to this day. There are a lot of things that trigger me, ruin my mood, make me panic, in fact, all of us have those things to some degree. And all of us have content that is deeply upsetting, even if it’s not related to one’s past trauma. But that doesn’t justify asking people on the internet to stop talking about characters a certain way or reading them a certain way. How is it different than people asking us not to post Shroudcest or not to talk about them in as a romantic ship? There might be people who don’t just use it as an excuse, but are actually getting triggered by me drawing these two, so what should I do about it? Obey every single one of those people? Then it’s just easier not to post anything about any character.
Unfortunate as it is, I cannot take care of all of you: it's impossible. You have to take care of yourself. Mute the word, avoid our posts about Jade, whatever feels more suitable. Because we are not going to rewrite the way we view certain characters because of someone else’s bad associations or even just different reading of the said character, it just isn't fair to ask that of someone. You didn’t say “you know, I personally don’t think that Jade is this way, because of this, this and this”. This isn’t how you approached this; you were upset about the fact that I made Jade into a gaslighter instead of making Rook one, and this is clearly your bias. Which is, once again, not a bad thing in itself, it’s just that I still have no idea what exactly you wanted me to do. Even if Rook reminds you of someone from your past, even if Jade is your comfort character, I can’t take those things into account about every single one of our followers, so why should I do it for you? This wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the people here, right?
We are all entitled to our own opinions and feelings, and I wouldn’t dare to argue with you about it anywhere else: this topic is clearly hurting you; so arguing about it would just be mean and uncalled for. But this is our blog, our space and our territory; and we are going to talk about the characters in the way that we want. Especially when this is a hc post, for fuck’s sake.
You didn’t sound offended or mad, you sounded upset. And I might also sound upset, but I actually am a little mad because if you are the person I think you are, I am a bit disappointed by you saying this to me via Anon.
Please understand. I am being this strict because I feel like I need to remind you about certain boundaries that I don’t want to get violated.
Having bad associations and getting triggered by a character is a horrible thing, and as someone who had to rewatch a bunch of stuff to get new fond memories of quite a lot of characters, I understand that, believe it or not. I actually had to rewatch a lot of shit to get to love some characters again. And it was my fight to fight that Katsu was kind enough to help me with because Katsu is my partner who wanted me to get better: I am a part of Katsu’s life, that’s why Katsu listened patiently when I was mad at a character that had nothing to do with the thing I was actually mad about.
My point is that we have our own circumstances, and you have no idea how bad of a timing this whole shit is. You don’t know what kind of life we live and what we go through right now, and, to put it mildly, it’s not the best, so we’re really not in the mood.
So please. Take care of yourself and just ignore shit that you don’t like because while it might be traumatic for you, to us it might be one of the few things that bring us happiness.
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1778 (My Soldier Boy)
Rowaelin Month, Day 28: Wartime Sweethearts AU
A/N: this might just be the most American thing i've ever written lmaooooo 😂😂 so here's the context: the fic is set during the American Revolutionary War, which took place from 1776-1781. Rowan is a soldier in the Continental Army (the American side) and Aelin is the only daughter of a Loyalist (sympathetic to the British) family. and they're star-crossed lovers, yay!! posting this partially as a lil birthday treat to myself but mostly for you, hope you enjoy :))
Word count: 2.8k
Warnings: archaic language (i'm a nerd lol), mentions of war, old outdated traditions, mentions of battle, brief mild angst, flirting
enjoy!!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
16th July 1778
Heart of my heart,
I write this in secret, barely able to make out my letters by the faint light of this single candle. I apologize for the sloppiness of my script; my governess would have a fit if she were to see this chicken scratch. Of course, I would then retort that she ought to have taught me to read and write in near darkness, as that is the more useful skill these days.
A few words, my love–we are leaving in three days.Yes, leaving! Mother has only said that it was what she and Father thought best, given the current…unrest. I am perfectly capable of reading the unspoken words. We are leaving because they fear what our neighbors might do while we sleep. We are leaving because the English are so hated here. We are leaving because nobody has seen or heard from my brother in months. Nobody save me, that is. I know where Aedion went, and I know what he is doing.
If you love me, Rowan, please send word that my brother is safe, that he is well clothed and has some form of roof over his head. Please. It will calm my nightly worries at least a small bit.
I do not know where we will go, only that we cannot make a scene of our leaving. We must pretend that we are only going into town like we typically do, except that our cart will be full of our belongings, rather than grain and butter to trade. I suspect we shall attempt to head east, towards the port at Baltimore, and from there we shall attempt to book passage on a ship. Father seems convinced that returning to England is the best course of action.
I do not want to leave.
They do not know that, nor do they care. It breaks my heart to admit it, but they do not. They expect me to keep quiet and obey. I have heard them discussing the possibilities of our lives once we return to Mother’s family estate in England–marriage. My marriage. To some titled landowner’s spoilt son, who gives not a whit what I want or who I am as long as I can give birth. I refuse to subject myself to such a fate.
Rowan, my love, I write this both as news and as a warning. I will not silently accompany my parents in their hasty retreat. I cannot abandon my brother in the middle of a war, nor can I leave you, the other half of my soul.
I will be waiting for you, my love. I swear it.
To whatever end,
AAG
~
Heart in his throat, Captain Rowan Whitethorn marched in step with his regiment up the muddy road leading into Baltimore. The bustling port city was largely unmarred by the war that continued to rage on, continuing to serve as major sea access for traders and soldiers alike. As he and the men that called him their leader entered the city proper, Rowan breathed a short, soft sigh of relief. They had two weeks of leave, unless they were called back into battle, and he fully intended to use those two weeks to the fullest.
“Enjoy your leave, men.” He saluted. “We shall regroup here in two weeks.” The blue-jacketed men broke ranks and ambled into town, most of them probably dispersing to the nearest pleasure house for a good strong drink and as many hours with a woman as their few remaining coins could buy. Rowan didn’t begrudge them their pleasure.
After years of war, they all needed whatever solace they could find. As did he.
Fingers instinctively wrapping around the small, precious bundle of letters in his jacket pocket, Rowan strolled towards the calmer part of town, the residential section not so crowded with soldiers on leave, traders, merchants, shouting vendors, and all the rest of the noise, chaos, and diverse cast of characters that populated a thriving shipping town like Baltimore. He glanced at the street markers as he walked, searching for the one with a blue stripe painted around it.
There.
Pulse hammering louder than gunfire, he turned down that street and walked past tidy clapboard houses interspersed with the occasional grocer, butcher, baker, and seamstress. He was certain every single one of the handful of people he passed could hear his thundering heartbeat, but none of them had said anything to the young man whose ragged blue jacket marked him an officer in the Continental Army who was walking up their quiet street like it was perfectly normal for him to do. One motherly lady had simply offered him a smile and a “thank you, son,” which had struck him right to the heart.
He emerged into a busier street, full of shops and taverns and public houses, the businesses bustling but not crowded with soldiers and sailors like the cheaper taverns down by the wharf were. Eyes scanning the signs, Rowan walked up the side of the street. The building he was looking for appeared suddenly in front of him. A brightly painted kingsflame flower adorned the pub’s wooden sign, its carefully wrought petals the work of a singular artist. An artist Rowan knew as well as his own heartbeat.
With his heart in his throat, Rowan walked into the pub. Immediately, a peal of soft, faintly raspy laughter caught his ear, and his attention snapped to the bar at the back of the softly-lit, cozy space. Behind the well-worn oak bartop, her golden hair tied back with a blue rag that he recognized as his own old shirt, stood the woman who owned every last shred of his heart.
Aelin Galathynius glanced over towards the door, and the whole sky lived in her vivid eyes.
Tin clattered against the bar.
Surprised grunts arose from a table full of stocky, gray-haired farmers.
And with a rush of air and a strangled gasp of his name, Aelin was in his arms, tears glittering in her eyes, warm and solid and real and clinging to him as if her life depended on it.
~
He was here.
Rowan was here, whole and healthy and standing on his own two legs in a much-patched blue jacket and dirt-stained trousers and battered boots, and his eyes were on her alone.
Aelin flew across the pub floor and all but leapt into her soldier boy’s arms, clinging desperately to him as if he would vanish unless she held him tight. She buried her face in his shoulder and drew in a deep lungful of his scent, the faint trace of mountain pines clinging to him even beneath the layers of sweat and grime. Hot, salty tears of joy leaked into his shirt through a tear in his jacket’s shoulder.
She felt his deep, familiar chuckle rumble beneath her ear. “Why are you crying, my love?”
“I’m crying,” she sniffled, raising her head to meet his adoring gaze, “because you smell so bloody awful that my eyes are watering.”
He tipped his head back and laughed, loud and unrestrained. “God above, I missed you.”
“I missed you more,” she returned, tracing her thumbs along the sharp juts of his cheekbones. “Every day felt like the longest one yet.”
“I’m here now,” he murmured in the soft voice he only used for her.
With tears pooled in her eyes, Aelin leant an inch forward and kissed him, her soldier boy, with all the pent-up fervor of the last several months. She’d been so terrified when her parents announced that they were leaving the Colonies, afraid that she would be uprooted from the life she’d come to love and forced to marry some stuffy lord and shut away in a manor house forever. The very idea that she would be forced to leave Rowan, her love, and Aedion, her brother, without knowing whether either of them would make it back to Baltimore unharmed was enough to disrupt her sleep. She had hardly dared to hope that her desperate escape plan would work until she stood on the pier and watched her parents’ ship depart without her on it.
Every long day of pouring pints of beer for rowdy sailors, handsy soldiers, and disruptive drunken no-goods was worth it to have her soldier boy back in her arms.
“Where–ah, Rowan!” Breathless, Aelin poked him in the ribs, pretending to disapprove of the promising way he kissed her throat. “We’re in public.”
“Let’s fix that, shall we?” He set her down onto her feet, caught her hand, and grinned. “I believe I need a bath, my love. Could you help me with that?”
“You are incorrigible,” she laughed. She pecked a quick kiss on his lips and led him out of the pub and down the streets, turning into a quiet neighborhood and leading him up the front steps of a tidy little brick cottage with a blue front door. “Please be kind about the mess.”
“I’ll show you a mess,” he whispered into her ear, far too tempting for his own good.
She flushed, her cheeks staining bright pink. “Rowan!”
“Aelin,” he mimicked. They were safely inside the house, so he looped his arms around her waist and pulled her flush against him. “I’ve been dreaming of you for months, love.”
“And you’re going to bathe before you act out any of those dreams, my love.” Giggling, she ducked out of his embrace and led him down the short hall to a washroom. “The tub is full, but it might be cold.”
“I don’t care if the water is cold.” He shrugged off his jacket and stepped out of his boots. “It’s a hell of a better bath than we get in the army.”
She sighed fondly. “I’m still going to boil some water.” He made to protest, and she placed her fingers over his mouth. “Ah-ah, soldier boy. Let me spoil you. Besides, the hot water is half for your filthy clothes.”
“Fine,” he acquiesced. He shed the rest of his dirty, worn clothing and climbed into the tepid bathwater, groaning quietly as he sank into a proper bath for the first time in too long. “Join me, love.”
“Soon.” She kissed his forehead and dropped a washrag and a bar of soap into the tub. “When you stink a little less.”
His playful growl followed her all the way out to the front room.
~
Following the bath–where she had indeed joined her soldier boy and taken his mind off the weight of war for a few moments–and a hearty dinner, Aelin exchanged her regular blouse and skirt for a soft cotton nightdress, braided her hair, and settled into bed with a lantern lit on the side table and a novel in her hands. Rowan was in the washroom; the faint splashing of water indicated that he was scrubbing out his uniform like he insisted he wanted to. So she opened her novel to the page where she had last left off and lost herself in the tender romance unfolding amidst the pages. She was so absorbed in the novel that she didn’t notice the mattress shifting as Rowan climbed into the bed and settled down beside her.
His soft, low chuckle drew her out of the novel-world. “Good story, Ae?”
“Wonderful,” she murmured. Reaching the end of the chapter, she placed the bookmark, closed the book, laid it aside, blew out the lantern, and tucked herself into his side, her head against his chest.
“I missed you,” he whispered after a peacefully quiet interval, stroking one hand idly up and down her back.
“And I you.” In the faint moonlight, her eyes met his, months of pent-up yearning and uncertainty glossing their turquoise depths. “I am sorry I didn’t write more.”
He soothed her worry with a gentle kiss. “I would likely have found you before your letters found me. ’Tis the life of a soldier.”
She hummed in agreement. “On that note…when did you last see Aedion?” Her older brother, whom she loved dearly but whose rashness she did not ignore, had vanished from the Galathynius home early last spring, leaving no indication of where he was going or why. Aelin alone had an idea of what he had gone to do, because he had confided his wishes to her. He had gone off to be a soldier in the Continental Army, but his unit were scouts, which meant that he could be anywhere between Philadelphia and Yorktown.
Rowan exhaled a long, controlled breath. “The last time our paths crossed was in September, at the camp outside Newport. He mentioned going south, but no details.”
“South.” Aelin rolled the idea over in her mind, forcing herself not to consider the harsher implications. “Was he…how was he?”
“Healthy, as far as I could tell, and tired, but so are all of us soldiers.” Rowan ran his hands along Aelin’s tense shoulders, encouraging her to relax. “He said to give you his love and that he’ll do unspeakably horrible things to me if I hurt you.”
Aelin laughed. “Now that sounds like Aedy. Too protective for his own good, he is.” Idly, her touch trailed along the slope of Rowan’s shoulders, tracing the new scar that slashed from his right shoulder down towards his pectoral muscle. “Tell him that I will return the unspeakably horrible favor if either one of you does anything stupid.”
“Indeed I shall.” Laughing softly, Rowan pulled Aelin flush against his chest, her heartbeat atop his, and kissed her. She sighed into the kiss, threading her fingers into his overgrown hair.
“I don’t want you to go back,” she murmured after they had separated.
He swallowed thickly. “We both know I must.”
“I know.” Her voice was a fragile thread. “I’m keeping you all to myself for the next two weeks, though. It’s only fair.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I love you, my wildfire.”
She smiled tenderly at him. “I love you too, my soldier boy.”
~
Mid-November, 1778
Aelin,
I apologize both for the shortness of this note and the fact that it took me so bloody long to write it. There is something I must tell you, and I can only hope that you hear it from Rowan rather than me and my paltry excuse for a letter.
We are marching to Savannah. Intelligence has it that the Redcoats intend to advance upon the city, and we cannot let the stronghold go without a fight.
I cannot promise that I will be able to write for any amount of time, and as much as I hate to do this, I leave you all my affection. I will stay as safe as possible, that I can promise. The moment I am able, I swear on my blood that I will come to you, and if possible, that I will bring Rowan.
Stay strong for us, dear sister.
Yours,
Aedion
The short note had reached her in late January of 1779, after three and a half months of ever-increasing tension and worry spurred by the grim reports coming up from the South. Before he left in mid-November, the same time Aedion’s letter was dated, Rowan had revealed that his unit was headed to Savannah to reinforce the troops already there. He had been confident that, with the extra reinforcements, the Army would be able to stave off the British–if not all on their own, then at least long enough for the shipment of French troops to arrive.
Just before the New Year, the newspapers reported Savannah’s defeat.
Since then, all Aelin had received was silence. No letters, no notes, nothing listed in the papers, no weary soldiers showing up on her doorstep. The fact that Rowan’s and Aedion’s names remained out of the papers was but a small measure of comfort; all too often, fallen soldiers’ names never made it onto the listings.
The cloth tying back her hair was black now, the only outward sign of suffering she would allow herself. The people who came into the pub noticed her quiet demeanor, the way her usual vivacious cheer was dampened, and passed quiet condolences to her across the worn oak bartop–a squeeze of the hand, a mourning mother’s shared tears, a word of comfort, a “thank-you” from someone who rarely spoke those words. It lifted her spirits a bit, but not much.
Every night, she trudged home to her quiet little house, cradled a small watercolor portrait of Rowan–done a year ago, it was the only portrait she’d ever convinced him to sit for–stared down into his painted face, and refused to let her captive tears fall. Though her heart and soul ached for her soldier boy, though her sleep was disturbed by nightmarish imaginings of what could have happened or could be happening to him, she refused to let her tears fall until she knew his fate for certain.
If nothing else, she owed him--and the child just beginning to stir inside her womb--that fragile hope.
~~~
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Unbound | Chapter 7, "Night Orchids & Wine"
Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.
Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.
For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.
Summary: The group takes some well-earned rest after a second unexpected run-in with gnolls. Scratch makes his reappearance and joins their camp. Lae’zel learns what a dog is. As a result of overexerting herself, an old injury flares up for Áine and Shadowheart offers to help her alleviate the discomfort while having a second agenda in mind as well. Astarion sees it as a new rivalry. Shadowheart and Áine take some private time away from camp that Áine only realizes is meant to be a date after it becomes abundantly clear. The two discuss their respective pasts and Áine’s potential future with a certain vampire.
Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC
Warnings: Mentions of graphic fantasy violence; suggestive content & dialogue; fluff; angst; lightly proofread
Word Count: 9.7k
Listening to: Your Bones - Of Monsters & Men
“I will admit I’m happy to have evaded a full-on second round of those awful things,” Wyll said, looking beaten within an inch of his life like the rest of his traveling companions. “But seeing that may have been equally traumatic, Áine.”
“Traumatic for you—what about me? I’m the one that did it,” Áine sighed, her lavender skin blackened by bruises. She absently worried the split in her lip with her teeth as they trudged forward, just trying to find a sequestered spot well away from the road to set up camp and recover. Something felt gone in her mind, something lost to the parasite. It unsettled her beyond words, but they would’ve all been killed otherwise.
Their fears of the escapee gnoll Áine had frightened off going in search of more packmates had come to fruition, and they hadn’t known until they’d gone further up the road. Their ghoulish pack leader had proven to be infested with a tadpole of her own, in the midst of painting crude bloody sigils of the Absolute on rocks when they’d unwittingly approached. Knowing they would never survive another fight with that many gnolls, Áine had turned to the illithid connection between them to convince her to turn on her own pack and then, ultimately, on herself.
“I’m as horrified as I am impressed,” Wyll admitted. Gale, still reeling, nodded in speechless agreement.
“Vexed as I am to admit it, it was a necessary manipulation of the ghaik tadpoles,” Lae’zel declared. It surprised Áine, who had figured that the githyanki would be the most adamant about not using anything supplied by the illithid force in their minds under any circumstances. “You did well to put an end to them before we could be defeated in more permanent ways,” she said specifically to Áine.
“Despite not particularly wanting to agree with Lae’zel,” Shadowheart said, earning an annoyed look from the gith, “I do. It was a necessary evil. And…” She weighed her next words, seeming to debate on the right ones. “...pretty hardcore, too. It suits you.”
“Indeed,” Astarion piped up. “Ever more a reason to see what these tadpoles can do for us before we go getting rid of them without a second thought.”
“Chk, this isolated incident does not mean they will always obey us,” Lae’zel snapped. “They remain illithid tadpoles, their sole purpose to create more ghaik from our festering, feverish husks, for that is all that will be left after ceremorphosis makes its belated arrival. Do not be a fool, Astarion.”
Astarion knew better than to debate with Lae’zel, especially about mind flayers, but his opinion remained unchanged. As far as he was concerned, the little bugger in his brain was doing more good for him than bad, and if he could harness that energy and keep things skewed in his favor…well, he was well on his way to true power, true freedom as he’d never had it. The way he saw it, for his removed weaknesses, he may have been the most powerful vampire in the world at the moment. Certainly the most powerful spawn. The thought made him smirk.
“Is this far enough?” Gale asked, finally breaking his thoughtful silence. “I think we’re well enough off the road. I at least can’t smell all the blood anymore.”
“I still can,” Astarion commented. “But I don’t mind so much, I suppose. Even if I am getting a bit thirsty again.”
“You will take great care to keep your fangs clear of my neck, vampire,” Lae’zel warned him.
Astarion made a little distressed sound in his throat. “Oh, but I do love spicy food…”
“That’s enough,” Áine said, her voice firm but on the edge of a laugh as if scolding a couple of mischievous children.
“If you’re so thirsty, Astarion,” Wyll suggested, “why not partake in the veritable buffet back on the road? It’s free for the taking after all.”
Astarion grimaced. “I will never be choosing to eat carrion again, Wyll, and for the record, gnoll blood smells absolutely rancid. No, I will be hunting later for something fresh.”
Áine winced a little at his mention of eating carrion “again,” something that had gone over the rest of the party’s heads. She could still see, smell, and hear the awful, rotten rat from the memory of his she’d seen via the tadpoles. Bile rose in the back of her throat just remembering it. To Gale, she finally said, “This is fine, we can stop here. We should stop here.”
At her word, the group stopped to set up tents. In time, Withers reappeared as he did nightly and so did his spell upon their living spaces. Áine noticed that instead of having to move the floor pillows that usually appeared in a decorative heap outside her tent into the interior, the spell or Withers himself went ahead and did that for her tonight. She was relieved to not have to put any extra pressure on her sore muscles for the night. Even after downing a vial of health potion, she still felt like she’d been bodyslammed by an ogre. Which, to be fair, she’d been almost bodyslammed by a gnoll twice her size, so perhaps her body’s pains were more valid than she was giving them credit for.
After she was settled, Áine sat outside her tent, checking her side where the gnoll’s claws had raked her ribs before she’d scared it off. She let her tunic drop back down and was reaching for the scimitars she’d scavenged—one in the first fight, one following the second after they’d spoken to the Zhentarim mercenaries the second pack of gnolls had cornered in a cave—when Shadowheart approached her.
“Let me have a look at that,” she said, nodding toward Áine’s side. Knowing better than to say “no” when Shadowheart was in medic-mom mode, Áine moved her arms off her sides so the cleric could roll up her shirt and check her wounds. “Hm, not too deep. That’s good. The potion you took should do most of the work for these, do you need anything else?”
“No, I’m fine,” Áine said, rolling her shirt back down. “Go ahead and see to the others. And please don’t forget about yourself.”
Shadowheart smiled, dark bruises already blooming across her milky complexion. “I’ll do my best to create a balance,” she said. “Thank you.”
After Shadowheart left to move to Astarion’s tent next, Áine set to work wiping down her blades, her brow pinching with discomfort as she felt a familiar clinching stiffness in her back and shoulder the longer she worked to burnish them back to brightness.
Her gaze lifted from her weapons when she heard Astarion shoo Shadowheart away from tending to his wounds, shying away from any sort of tactile activity that wasn’t his idea in his usual way. At least his wounds seem minimal, Áine found herself speculating. Being a sharpshooter as skillful as he was did thankfully mean that he could stay out of the thick of their fights for the most part. It gave her one less thing to fret about in the middle of a battle.
Áine startled at the sound of a bark off to her left, at first fearing more gnolls. Her worry melted away in full, however, to see their canine acquaintance of just a day or so ago trot happily over to her tent.
“Scratch!” she exclaimed, an elated grin blossoming on her lips. At the sound of his name, Scratch’s trot turned into a run. He paused just at the edge of the rug she sat on and seemed conflicted, which was when she noticed the ball he held in his mouth. He seemed to debate whether or not to set his toy down for a moment before ultimately doing so for the tradeoff of lavishing Áine’s face with doggy kisses.
She squirmed away giggling and it sent a sting through her side but she could not have cared less in that moment. She was sure there was nothing like the euphoria of a beloved animal companion showing they loved you back. Perhaps the only things that came close were the person-to-person adoration equivalents, but those she was much less versed in and wouldn’t be convinced that they were in any way superior until she was maybe one day granted the experience. For now, she just ducked and dodged around the excitable pup who was more than happy to playfully antagonize her so long as she was laughing and happy.
Across the camp, Áine’s giggles had attracted the full group’s attention. Even Withers’ stony gaze softened to see someone genuinely joyful in these dark times, even if it was fleeting. Perhaps because it was fleeting.
The others all had some variation of a warm smile on their face. Gale almost looked close to tears, the wizard feeling a deep sentiment for the smaller joys in this sometimes dismal life as one unfolded before him, and missing Tara terribly as a result.
Only Astarion’s expression bordered a bit closer to a sneer. He was more of a cat person, he supposed, but Scratch seemed sweet enough. Perhaps his preference was because he’d never really been around a dog—a living one anyway—given that he’d lived in Baldur’s Gate his whole life and the city, by law, didn’t allow dogs. Perhaps it was because cats tended to be a bit more regal, sometimes even sinister. He could relate to that. If Scratch’s presence continued to result in Áine’s laughter ringing through the camp though, Astarion decided he could allow it with minimal protest and returned to his reading.
Lae’zel, however, was flummoxed at the creature’s reappearance, noting that it seemed friendly albeit a little slobbery. She wasn’t entirely sure she’d ever seen a dog before they’d come across Scratch in the woods that day and, while she didn’t mind him, she didn’t have a clue what to do with him should he approach her. The githyanki was soon to contend with exactly that, as she’d been halfway to Áine’s tent when Scratch had arrived on the scene and descended upon the seated bard.
Áine noticed Lae’zel’s suddenly cautious approach and smiled at her. “Did you want to pet him?”
Lae’zel looked at Scratch and his wagging tail and lolling tongue with some measure of doubt. “I lack the familiarity with his species to know what that would do to benefit me,” she said, her chin tilted as if admitting she didn’t understand what Áine’s happiness at being bowled over by the furry creature resulted from was a show of weakness.
Scratch barked excitedly at the prospect of another person giving him affection and Áine noticed the slightest jolt in Lae’zel’s frame, realizing she was unnerved by the loud, sudden noise. She shushed the dog, who gave a quiet groan of recognition much to her amusement. “He’s not upset, he does that when he’s excited,” she explained to the githyanki. Áine patted her lap and Scratch obediently laid across it, placing his head on his paws. His ears remained perked and his tail swished idly as he watched Lae’zel. “I know how jarring the barking can be. It took me a while to get used to it too when I was around dogs for the first time.”
Lae’zel’s lips pursed as she evaluated Áine’s words and then Scratch’s calmer behavior. She watched how Áine ran her hands through Scratch’s fur, along his back and ruff. It didn’t look difficult… And if the creature was to travel with them, she supposed she could try.
Warily, Lae’zel knelt next to Áine, some caution returning as the dog raised his head to greet her, his mouth open and tongue lolling again as he panted. She eyed his teeth and then looked to Áine for an explanation. “He won’t bite you, Lae,” Áine told her in a lowered tone that only they and Astarion’s vampiric hearing across the way could hear.
Her expression turned suddenly vulnerable as she was caught in her worry, her lips thinning even further as she felt a reflexive, self-loathing reaction to someone seeing her afraid. Her pulse jumped, what little adrenaline her body could spare after the day and the extent of her injuries out on the road flooding her veins. Lae’zel had to remind herself that she wasn’t among her kin—something she missed, but something she was feeling strangely grateful for at this moment.
The gith took a deep breath and leveled a look at Áine, who was just watching her with a mixture of patience and concern. “Do you think me weak?” she asked the bard in a lowered tone that matched hers. “For being wary of such a seemingly benign creature?”
Áine frowned and shook her head. “Of course not,” she said. “I think it’s admirable that you’re approaching something this new at all. I assume they don’t have dogs or something similar where you’re from?”
While they spoke, Lae’zel hesitantly moved a hand toward Scratch, who gave an excited whine that gave her pause until Áine nodded for her to proceed. She set her hand against the top of Scratch’s head and gave him a couple of awkward pats.
A held breath eased from her chest when he didn’t attack her and she answered Áine’s question as she gently investigated the creature’s ears. “There is little use in any githyanki crèche for ‘pets.’ Apart from Vlaakith’s red dragons awarded as mounts to kith’rak, a kept animal would only be seen as a point of weakness, a liability in battle, and an easy target for one’s rivals,” she explained.
Scratch turned his head in Lae’zel’s offered palm to sniff her skin, his tongue darting out for a single affectionate lick—he seemed to be being careful with her too, possibly sensing her nervousness. Lae’zel was yet again confused at the gesture until she saw Áine’s approving smile granted toward the dog. “I think he likes you,” she said.
“I think I like him, too,” Lae’zel said with clear hesitation, still unsafe in her perception of any emotional attachments. Áine thought after this interaction she understood the githyanki warrior a little better and was grateful for it. “Does he understand us when we speak?”
Scratch barked in response to hearing the word “speak,” mistaking it for a trick command. Áine and Lae’zel both jumped and then both relaxed when Áine laughed. “He understands certain words, apparently, like ‘speak’,” she said, repeating the word to show Lae’zel that this was why he’d barked and not for any reason that should disconcert her. “Dogs can be taught commands by training them, usually with familiar words. He might also know how to ‘sit’?”
The white dog rose from Áine’s lap and sat down on the ground, perfectly postured and waiting for her to give him another word he knew. Lae’zel was fascinated by this development and it pulled at Áine’s heart. They were truly a band of weirdos, but she did find something so endearing about each of them. Even Wyll and Gale when they weren’t up her arse about one thing or another.
“Good boy!” Áine praised Scratch, who lost his doggy mind over hearing those most treasured words, his tail thrashing wildly with joy. “Who’s a good boy, who’s a sweet li’l baby?”
Astarion bit down a smirk at hearing Áine baby-talking to the dog, amused and warmed by the sound of her voice and affectionate tone.
Scratch was in a tizzy now, spinning in circles until he remembered he’d brought his ball with him. He snatched it up off the ground and shook it around before focusing on Áine and bowing playfully toward her, his tail wagging uncontrollably. Áine snorted and reached out to take it, laughing when he danced back from her and resumed his original position.
“Come here, you little stinker,” she laughed, patting the rug in front of her until he did a four-legged version of an army crawl to where she beckoned. Áine reached out again and he let her put her hand around the ball this time but didn’t let go, making her wrestle him for it while he quietly growled and shook his head to try and knock her hand away. “This is how he plays, by the way,” she told Lae’zel, who still sat by and observed with rapt attention. “If you do this, just be gentle with him and his teeth. I’m not really pulling on the ball, I’m just kind of holding it until he loosens his jaws or lets go.”
“Is there a point to such practice?” she asked, wondering if perhaps it helped Scratch to train for battle or helped to strengthen him somehow.
Áine shrugged, simply playing a tug-of-war with Scratch with one arm while she looked at Lae’zel and responded to her question. “It maybe harkens back to his hunting instincts? But it’s just for fun with us because we’re his friends.”
“What happens if you get the ball from him?” she asked, eying the drool-slick leather sphere with some reemerging skepticism.
Just as she asked, Áine felt a little bit of give in Scratch’s hold on his prize and pulled it from between his jaws, a string of slobber stringing for an instant between his mouth and the ball. “Gross,” Áine laughed as Scratch barked and hopped around, waiting for the return of his toy. “Well, in that case, we get to play fetch!”
Before Lae’zel could ask for further explanation, Áine threw the ball across camp and Scratch tore after it, nearly taking out a chuckling Gale in passing while he worked on their dinner over the campfire. The camp felt so much lighter and warmer with their newest addition and Áine’s heart felt quite full suddenly as she took in their cozy little camp. Suddenly the gnolls and the pain in her side and her back and the stresses of the day felt inconsequential.
In no time at all, Scratch came bounding back to them, skidding to a stop in front of Áine and setting the ball down on the ground and bowing in anticipation again only to dart in and scoop the ball back up when Áine reached for it.
“OH, you rat!” she laughed as Scratch proceeded into a round of erratic “zoomies” around the camp. When she looked at Lae’zel, the githyanki was smiling with undisguised amusement and Áine thought that may have been the happiest she’d yet seen her, at least openly. “Well now that he’s off on an adventure, did you have something else you wanted when you walked over? Other than an impromptu lesson on dogs, I mean?”
Lae’zel smirked. “It was an appreciated lesson. Much continues to vex me about Faerûn, but it becomes evermore comprehensible as it is explained by willing parties. You and Gale, mostly,” she said and Áine rightfully recognized this as her words of thanks. “Wyll as well at times, yet I admit at times his language is a little too…flowery for me to fully understand his meaning.”
Áine smirked. “He is, at all times, a bit poetic, I agree,” she said. “Any time you have questions, you can ask. In the moment or later if you don’t want to ask in front of everyone. And if I don’t know the answer, we’ll find it out together. Probably from Gale.”
The two chuckled in unison and Lae’zel nodded toward Áine’s swords. “I was preparing to sharpen my blade and decided I would ask if you would like yours tended to as well. They look in relatively good condition, but they have also seen the road in more ways than the one,” she explained, not realizing that Áine was more than ready to agree already just because the offer was so thoughtful.
“That would be really nice, thank you, Lae’zel,” Áine said, the touched expression on her face making Lae’zel a little unsettled but not in an unwelcome way.
Lae’zel inclined her head and picked up the scimitars, taking them with her to her tent and setting them to the side while she took to the likely much lengthier task of tending her longsword. Áine heard the whetstone whirr to life across the campground, the warrior very clearly in her element as she cleaned and sharpened her weapon with pure focus in her eyes. Áine noted with an iota of hope that regardless of Shadowheart’s feelings toward Lae’zel, she must’ve gone to great lengths to heal her wounds for her to be so mobile after the state she’d been in earlier that day.
It wasn’t long before Gale called them all to dinner, taking Lae’zel hers at her tent when she appeared conflicted about pausing in her work. The rest of them—even Astarion—settled near the fire and served themselves from the pot of stew Gale had been tirelessly working over since they’d set up their tents. A bowl of sliced meat and carrots was set aside for Scratch, who quit his laps around the camp for the promise of food.
Áine, seated comfortably between Astarion and Shadowheart, enjoyed her dinner with as much contentment as she’d felt since they’d settled for the night—Hells, perhaps even since her abduction, perhaps even before that. Occasionally, she’d adjust her sitting position to try and compensate for the stiffness in her back and shoulder, rolling the joint to try and work the sensation out of her muscles to no avail.
“Are you quite alright?” Astarion asked abruptly after seeing Áine readjust for the third time since they’d gathered by the fire.
Amused, Áine looked at him and volleyed back, “Why, is my discomfort bothering you?”
“Yes,” he said, giving a faintly amused smirk when she laughed. “What’s wrong with you?”
“We don’t have enough time in the day for me to answer that,” she bantered back, effectively entertaining and frustrating Astarion at the same time when he was humored by her responses and repeatedly unenlightened by them. Across the fire, she heard Gale say, “Relatable,” before she smirked and answered more fully, “My back is just messed up from today, but I’m fine.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Astarion murmured, but his expression hinged on showing hints of concern. He glanced at Áine’s back but didn’t see anything on her tunic that signaled she’d been hurt there like she had on her side. He thought back to the night he’d seen her down by the river, and ruminated on the scars he’d seen on her front near her shoulder. Would that have had something to do with it? How deep did her scars go?
The scars on his own back seemed to pulse with a sympathetic phantom pain when he wondered about hers.
“I could try to work on your back later tonight if you want,” Shadowheart chimed in. “In more of a hands-on than magical approach. Maybe over one of the bottles of wine we found today if you’d like.”
Áine, blissfully unaware that this was a date being proposed, smiled and nodded. “That may help, thank you.”
Astarion felt a distinct urge to scream into a bag. Bloody Shadowheart, why hadn’t he thought of that?!
Was he losing his touch? What he saw as his singular useful skill set still felt reflexive in its nature—blessing or curse, he didn’t know now—but he was somehow still so late to head off the others to get to these positively decadent setups he could create for her to further his plan. Even earlier when he’d heard Lae’zel offer to sharpen her new swords, he’d kicked himself a bit, and that wasn’t even his field of expertise. A massage though? He could’ve taken that by storm, but the bloody cleric had swooped in before he’d even formed the thought.
Some of his internal conflicts must’ve shown on his face because when he focused back on the present and glanced toward Shadowheart and Áine, Shadowheart was eying him with something that looked frighteningly akin to a knowing look. Astarion’s eye twitched and she bit down on her lips to stifle a smirk at his silent turmoil.
Oh, so it’s war then, Astarion thought, smirking back at her with a challenge in his eyes. Nevermind, this was much more fun than simply winning over his prize with ease. It had been a dance before, now it was a game and from his side at least it was far from over.
Her eyes flitting away to fasten back on Áine’s face while the bard spoke, Shadowheart could only feel bemused but entertained by Astarion’s accidental honest albeit subtle display of emotions. She’d gotten the sense that those two were getting increasingly more comfortable around each other and, while she wasn’t fully certain what that meant from Áine’s side, she now felt like she knew what it meant from Astarion’s. This was partially why she’d suggested their little outing later—she was curious about their bard and needed to understand some things for herself about her relationship with Áine and where it might go. And at the rate she’d seen Áine and Astarion grow closer and Gale and Wyll’s, even Lae’zel’s, different levels of interest in their half-drow leader take root, she’d started to wonder if she’d have much more time left before she missed her chance.
Shadowheart was historically only one for short-term amusements, but she found herself relieved that she’d get the chance at least now to investigate the possibility of what something like that might look like with Áine—and perhaps a little smug that she’d gotten there before the others. Particularly Astarion, as suave and flawless in the art of seduction as he seemed to be. Given that though, she did wonder if his fumbles meant that he was more interested in Áine than he let on. She also wondered if he was self-aware enough to realize it. If that was the case, she’d perhaps be a touch sorry if she hit things off with their sweet hellion of a bard that night because the prospect was awfully cute.
The rest of dinner passed without consequence as night fell around them and everyone stole to their tents to decompress for the evening, just the ambient sounds of Wyll and Gale chitchatting with scattered attempts to loop in Astarion or Lae’zel, both of whom were too absorbed in their own activities—or thoughts and schemes in their vampire’s case—to be social. Shadowheart approached Áine’s tent about an hour after they’d left the fireside, the promised bottle of wine and two goblets all held deftly in one hand.
“Ready?” she asked, offering her free hand down to Áine to help her up. Áine smiled gratefully and accepted the assistance, already in the throes of comfortable chitchat as they left the camp together.
Astarion’s eyes followed them until they were out of sight and their voices left even his sensitive range. He frowned, already perturbed that he didn’t have some sort of window into what was going on and feeling equal discontent at having no valid way to interrupt it. He felt a weight press down on the book he held and he looked down at it, finding that Scratch had situated his head perfectly between the pages, staring up at him pathetically.
“What?” Astarion asked, even his flat acknowledgment enough to make Scratch wag his tail.
He sighed, removing the book from under Scratch’s chin before he could drool on it. “I don’t suppose I could coerce you into rampaging on their little rendezvous, could I?” he wondered aloud to the dog, who instead of stepping away when his headrest was removed took advantage of Astarion’s raised arms to scoot in even closer. Close enough to put his head on Astarion’s chest instead, still just staring up at him while his tail tapped the ground.
“Bleeding Hells, what do you want?” Astarion asked, receiving a quick lick to the chin. “Now we’ll have none of that, understand? No.”
Scratch whined in response, but didn’t attempt another doggy smooch. Astarion gave the dog a withering but considerate look before he sighed dramatically. “Fine, you can stay but no drooling or licking me or my things,” Astarion griped. As much as he could, Scratch seemed to understand and settled himself into Astarion’s lap while the vampire returned to his book.
“Now that is adorable,” Gale commented as soon as he saw that Astarion was letting Scratch sit with him, drawing Wyll and Lae’zel’s attention to the sight as well.
Wyll smiled and agreed, but added, “I’m surprised he would warm up to you so quickly, Astarion. For no fault of yours, just given your nature…I’d have to imagine that an animal could pick up on that, no?”
“They can,” Astarion drawled, not looking up from his reading again, “and unlike you, the smart ones can comprehend that I don’t feel compelled to eat everything that crosses my path.”
“You did say you were thirsty earlier,” Gale pointed out. “Is it not made more difficult with a beating heart in your lap?”
“I’m around you all at all hours, including when I’m inclined to feed,” Astarion said. “I am more than comfortable in my ability to stave off my thirst in favor of things I’m not inclined to bite.”
“And it is much appreciated, my friend,” Gale said emphatically.
“I didn’t mean anything against your character, you know,” Wyll said suddenly, looking a bit sorry after Astarion’s cool responses. “From now on, I will take more care in my word choice when I speak of—”
At the word “speak,” Scratch gave a loud bark that startled the vampire he sat upon, which caused Gale and Wyll to fall into a fit of chuckles as Astarion, disgruntled, lifted his literature to regard the mutt again.
“You must tell him he is a good boy,” Lae’zel advised him and, by extension, Gale and Wyll. “He has heeded your command and must now be praised.”
Astarion gave an exhausted sigh at his choice of company, his mind wandering again to the companions that had wandered off together into the dark as he rested the spine of his book against Scratch’s back and skimmed the text to locate where he’d left off on the page. “Thank you, Lae’zel,” he said with as much patience as he could muster for the learning githyanki, lifting one bone-white hand to give Scratch’s neck a few affectionate pets.
In a secluded lakeside spot the pair had scouted together, Áine and Shadowheart admired a waterfall while seated on a blanket across a patch of grass. The cleric uncorked their wine and filled their goblets, handing one to Áine. “What should we drink to?” she asked.
Áine gave that some thought, swirling the wine in her goblet and inhaling the fruity notes wafting up. “Erm… I would say to no more godsdamn gnolls, but I don’t want to jinx us,” she said. “How about to…Scratch finding us safely?”
Shadowheart’s expression softened and she clinked her goblet with Áine’s. “To Scratch.” They took long sips and Shadowheart looked thoughtfully at her goblet afterward. “You know, for road wine, that’s not bad at all. I wonder if that was a merchant cart we took apart today.”
“It’s very nice,” Áine agreed. “For ‘road wine’ of course. Although it’s been so long since I’ve had wine that’s not been purloined from an upended crate or cart that I forget what not-road wine tastes like.”
The cleric laughed softly. “I can relate to that,” she said, her long ebony braid falling over her shoulder as she studied the drink in her hands. “I also think my standards have lowered some for what is ‘good’ wine.” She smirked at Áine. “Maybe after all this is over, we can meet up in Baldur’s Gate for a wine tasting to reset our palates.”
Áine smiled at the notion. She could feel the tension in her expression, even if it didn’t show, at the simple thought of returning to the city. It was unfair for her to project all her bad memories on the city as a whole, but she’d never quite been able to cleanse her image of the city for all the sins of her past. To Shadowheart, she said, “That sounds nice. I’ve been to the city a handful of times, but never really for recreation. I wouldn’t even know where to go.”
Shadowheart furrowed her brow as she refilled her goblet. “If I could remember much at all about my life there, I would suggest a place, but… Well, you know. After I’ve fulfilled my duties to Shar and my cloister, perhaps I’ll have some ideas for us.”
Áine warred with herself, between her past-born prejudices against Sharrans and what she knew so far of Shadowheart. Part of her wanted to ask point-blank why she subjected herself so deeply to Shar’s darkness, but she also knew why. Shadowheart had shown her herself via their tadpole connection. The leader of her cloister had saved her, taken her in, and raised her amongst her own. It only made sense that Shadowheart would feel as if she owed her very life to the goddess that same cloister worshiped. Áine just wished for Shadowheart’s sake that it had been someone else’s god. She justified Shar’s teachings and the way she had been raised and trained beyond measure, but Áine saw plainly the pain in her eyes every time she did.
“Are you still certain my loyalty to Lady Shar doesn’t bother you?” Shadowheart asked, softly challenging Áine out of her own thoughts that wondered the same thing. When Áine hesitated, Shadowheart explained, “The silence is quite loud following my mention of Her.”
“I’m sorry, I was just thinking. Apparently a bit too deeply,” Áine admitted. “Any hesitation I still feel regarding it comes from a place of concern alone. The wound in your hand, your memories, what I know of Sharrans’ training… It pains me to think of all these things happening to my dear friend, despite understanding why her loyalty is so cemented to the Dark Lady.”
Shadowheart smiled faintly. “I can appreciate that. And I would be lying if I said that I never wondered why I must suffer in the specific ways that I do in Her name. But that’s part of faith, isn’t it? Allowing a hand in the darkness to lead you, trusting that they’ll see you safely to the other side.”
Áine shrugged her shoulders, wincing when the movement did nothing positive for the ache in her back. “I wouldn’t know personally. Faith in a deity wasn’t something that I was raised in proximity to while growing up.”
“Not even Lolth?” Shadowheart asked, surprised. “Sorry, I suppose I’m as readily making assumptions about your drow heritage as I condemn others for doing the same about my Shar worship.”
Áine’s mouth drew into a thin line, but it was one of discomfort rather than anger. “Lolth and Eilistraee were prevalent in trinkets and paintings I remember from long ago, but active worship of either by my blood? Not that I can recall,” she said.
“There’s a lot of pain for you there, isn’t there,” Shadowheart observed and Áine thought she was making a keen observation about her tone when she noticed instead that the cleric’s eyes had homed in on her left shoulder and, indeed, the source of her aches.
Most willingly, Áine leaped away from discussing her past, nodding in response to her question. “Old wounds left to heal on their own for longer than I should’ve allowed them left things in more than a little disrepair,” she explained, adjusting her tunic collar to show Shadowheart the fanned edges of the scars on her chest. “It’s my fault for putting pressure on it today when I rolled around with that shield on my arm. It takes that sort of movement to aggravate it and put it out of commission, but usually only for about a day.”
“A day is all it could take in our new line of adventuring,” Shadowheart reminded her with a frown, throwing back the last bit of her second goblet of wine. Áine began to wonder if she possibly espied a coping mechanism at the bottom of that cup, but hardly felt entitled to judge another for the way they worked around their trauma. Still, she made a mental note. “Right, let me have a look at it. Do you mind removing your blouse?”
“Sure,” Áine said, loosing the little strings at the collar and maneuvering the garment over her head. Holding the fabric against her breasts, Áine used her right arm to settle herself on her stomach and then rested her head against her forearm.
Shadowheart shifted over to straddle Áine’s bum, smoothing the half-drow’s pearlescent locks away from her shoulders. On Áine’s back, she found similar scars to the ones on her chest, perfectly positioned over the same locations. Whatever had hit her from either side, it had hit her hard enough to come out the other. Twice.
“Gods, what happened to you?” Shadowheart asked as her probing fingertips began to investigate the area around the old wounds. “Let me know if I do anything that causes you pain, by the way.”
“I will,” Áine said, her snowy lashes fluttering as her eyes closed. She felt naked in more ways than the way she was physically without her shirt on. She’d never shown another person her scars before and she’d certainly never let anyone touch them. But she trusted Shadowheart and she respected her clerical expertise and healing touch. More than that even, she supposed she was finally ready to understand the extent of the bodily damage she carried with her. She wanted to know if there was anything she could do for her physical scars while she tried painstakingly to heal the ones in her heart.
“You are riddled with scar tissue,” Shadowheart said, her voice troubled. “Particularly here and here as well.” Her hands gently prodded the areas she wanted to highlight to Áine. “Which is likely why you end up with so much resistance around the joint when the musculature flares up.”
“Is there anything I could do for it or is this just how it will always be now?” Áine asked, carefully keeping her anxiety in check as she felt Shadowheart continue to prod around her weak points. She could hardly touch her own scars without remembering what had caused them. Having someone else do the same and not immediately knowing where their hands would land or press added to the nerviness of it all.
“How old are these?” Shadowheart asked before she answered.
“A little over ten years,” Áine replied. Ten years and 39 days.
“We could try and make this a more regular thing,” Shadowheart suggested, finally ceasing in her prodding and beginning to massage the area after dabbing some lavender oil on her hands. Her fingertips ground deep into her muscles and tissue and it did hurt, but it was a gratifying sort of burn that was left behind. “Of course, it needn’t be me doing it every time if you’d rather I not and you can likely work on the scar tissue collected around your chest, but your back will be harder for you to reach on your own. Aside from seeing if massage will start to break down the tissues… I’m not sure. There have to be some advanced healing magics that could help, I’m just not versed in them yet.”
Áine nodded against her arm. “I understand.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have a better solution for you,” Shadowheart said, her voice a little strained as she dug more deeply into a knot she found until it released. “Or at least a faster one.”
“Please don’t apologize,” Áine insisted. “You’re already helping me plenty now. I’ve lived with it this long, if I find a way to mend or improve it down the road, then that’s unexpected good news.”
“Truthfully, I don’t know how you do it sometimes,” Shadowheart commented.
“Do what?” Áine asked.
“Stay so hopeful,” the cleric said. “Especially now. We have actual worms burrowed in our brains and you still manage to find joy in the smallest things and possibilities.”
“I will admit that I occasionally forget about the tadpole and that may be why I’m so stupid in my optimism,” Áine admitted, causing them both to laugh. “And then of course it moves the slightest bit and the world’s crashing down around me again, reality returned.”
Áine felt Shadowheart raise her weight off her backside and the cleric’s hands guided her to turn over on her back. It was only at that moment (much belatedly in retrospect) that Áine realized why Shadowheart may have suggested a secluded spot and wine for what would’ve otherwise been a purely medicinal massage that could’ve taken place with ease in one of their tents.
Shadowheart settled her weight back across Áine’s hips, leaning down over the bard until their faces were a breath apart. Áine could feel the thump of Shadowheart’s pulse vibrate in her own sternum as the leathers of the cleric’s camp attire pressed through the thin blouse Áine still held over her chest. Áine was somewhere between shock and panic. I’m such an idiot for not catching the intention here, she was already thinking. Shit, she’s going to hate me for this.
While Áine was trying to slow down her thoughts and sort out how to best manage whatever fallout came of her expressing her lack of romantic interest, Shadowheart had closed the distance and pressed a curious, soft kiss to Áine’s lips, testing the waters. She tasted like the wine they’d shared and was perfectly pleasant to kiss, but the chemistry was simply not there.
When Shadowheart withdrew and regarded Áine below her in the moonlight, she gave the bard a faint, shy smile. “Nothing?”
“I’m sorry,” Áine whispered, her voice laced with apologetic shame. “I was too thick to catch the signals before, well…before just now, honestly.”
“Really?” Shadowheart asked, giggling. “I suppose I could’ve made it more clear, but I thought the wine might clue you in. A professional masseuse wouldn’t drink on the job.”
“I’m an idiot when it comes to these things,” Áine sighed. “Thinking back, you couldn’t have been more clear.”
“Stop calling my friend stupid,” Shadowheart ordered, giving Áine a light flick in the nose that caused the half-drow to smirk. “You don’t need to be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong here either.”
Áine frowned, resting her good arm behind her head to cushion her skull against the ground. “I feel like I did. Honestly, I always feel like I do.”
Knowingly, Shadowheart asked, “Have your past lovers made you feel that way?” Áine froze, at a loss for words, which was answer enough for Shadowheart. “Then that is on them, not on you.” Instead of getting up, the cleric just continued to lay on top of Áine, only shifting slightly to get more comfortable. “I can move if you’d like, but I’m also not opposed to a platonic cuddle if you aren’t.”
Áine laughed and shook her head. “Those, I’m versed in and happy to oblige,” she said. She could have cried from relief that Shadowheart wasn’t angry with her, which just informed her better how unfortunate her past encounters had been thus far to have so thoroughly taught her that rejecting advances would lead to damnation and rejection of both her character and her claims. Hesitantly, Áine said, “Thank you for not being angry with me.”
“Not a thing to be angry about,” Shadowheart said. “I admit it was more a test of the waters than anything. I don’t have a speech prepared in my pocket to declare my undying love, sorry to say. But you’re a lovely person and a friend I’ve come to treasure, so I needed to at least try and see. Especially before the rest of our group headed me off at the pass.”
Áine’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
Shadowheart gave her an obvious look. “Maybe you are thick in the head,” she teased. “There is not a single person back at that camp that isn’t interested in you. Fair warning.” At Áine’s frightened look, Shadowheart laughed with mirth. “So if I may indulge my curiosity… Do you solely like men in that way?”
Áine sighed. “Tragically, I’m afraid so,” she joked, earning a snicker from the cleric atop her. “At least I believe so. Sometimes I have trouble reading my own heart, so I can only make educated guesses to serve as answers.”
“Well that may speak to your heart,” Shadowheart said, “but what about your…more carnal inclinations?”
“There are no carnal inclinations without a connection of the heart for me,” Áine said. “Therefore I more often than not don’t ‘like’ anyone in that way.”
Shadowheart’s brows rose into her bangs. “Not even the vampire?” Áine’s lavender skin turned a deep shade of reddish purple and a grin spread across Shadowheart’s lips. “Ah, I see.”
“Don’t be smug or I’ll roll hard enough to launch you into the water,” Áine warned her.
A look of genuine concern crossed Shadowheart’s face. “Please don’t. I can’t swim.”
Áine frowned. “Truly? Or are you teasing me again?”
“No, I really can’t,” Shadowheart said seriously.
“I’d be happy to teach you at some point,” Áine said, wincing when she adjusted her shoulder. “Perhaps when I’m not already ailing. What else don’t I know about you?”
“Plenty, but primarily what I also don’t know,” she said, lacing her fingers over Áine’s breastbone and resting her chin against the bridge they made. “I do like night orchids.”
“Of course you do,” Áine teased her, earning an eyeroll. “I like lilacs.”
“A good choice,” Shadowheart said, smiling slyly as she continued, “but let’s not change the subject. You’re interested in Astarion?”
“It’s complicated,” Áine said, her words coming out with a heavy sigh.
“Try me,” Shadowheart suggested, rolling over to lie on the ground beside Áine instead of continuing to lie atop her and be a menace. Besides that, even if Áine didn’t protest, Shadowheart couldn’t imagine it would help with the shoulder situation. Her brow furrowed, remembering the layers of scar tissue she’d dug into. Based on her scars, Áine had been shot with something, but what? And by whom?
“There’s…tension,” Áine said. “A lot of tension. Which can sometimes be the best parts of these things and given my obvious fickleness with this stuff, I’m genuinely afraid to broach the subject only to realize I read my own feelings wrong.”
“Is how you read your feelings really the problem?” Shadowheart asked. “You seemed to know precisely what you didn’t want tonight. You were just afraid to say it because you thought it would upset me.”
Áine felt properly seen and she wasn’t completely sure she liked it. “Not everyone is as gracious as you were,” she said in response. “What if he isn’t either?”
“So what if he isn’t?” the cleric challenged her, turning onto her side and propping her head against her arm to look down at the bard. “As I said before, it would be far more his problem to react that way than it would be yours.” As she inspected Áine’s conflicted expression, Shadowheart began to understand something a bit more. “...This one’s different for you, isn’t he.” It wasn’t exactly a question.
The half-drow somberly regarded the moon above them as she said, “Without getting into where I come from, I can tell you it wasn’t a pleasant environment in which to grow up. The people grew up just as twisted and gnarled as the world around us. It didn’t make for a good first few ‘romantic’ experiences.”
“You didn’t end up that way,” Shadowheart suggested gently. “Despite what sound like perfectly good excuses to do so. It’s exceptionally easy to just lean into what we’re taught without question.” She paused. “But I do wonder what that has to do with Astarion?”
“Very little apart from perhaps making me a poor choice of mate,” Áine said with a soft laugh. “I’m not what happened to me and I know that, but it left its marks.” When Shadowheart’s eyes dropped down to her scars, Áine shook her head. “Not those. Invisible ones.”
“Ah,” she said knowingly, mentally ruling out the possibility of a past lover giving her those scars. “Well, we all have those. I’d imagine he has his fair share, too. Although it can be difficult to tell with him sometimes.”
“That’s the other piece,” Áine admitted. “There are times I look at him and I see him, but then others that he knows I’m looking at him and shows me something else instead. He has this sort of mask he likes to throw on when he needs to disengage. Or when he’s aiming to make me swoon within an inch of my life.”
Shadowheart laughed. “He does have a way with words and, well, what goes with them. But I’ve seen the mask you mean. Only fleetingly because he’s not trying to impress me, his sights are set on you,” she said.
“Don’t say that,” Áine groaned.
“It’s the truth of it,” Shadowheart insisted. “Listen, from a third-party standpoint, it’s quite clear that you two have eyes for one another. Why not just lean into it and see where it goes if you’re curious? It’s not as if you have to marry him if you test the waters and don’t like what you find.”
“What if I’m wrong?” Áine asked. “About him or me? Or him and me?”
Shadowheart shrugged. “Then you’re wrong and you move on. It really isn’t as complicated as you’re making it for yourself, Áine.” She took in the doubtful twist of Áine’s lips, the concern creasing her brow, the quiet fear in her eyes. “Gods, you’re half in love with him already.”
“I am not,” Áine laughed. Her laughter suddenly died soon after. “...I’m not, am I?”
“This is adorable,” Shadowheart said instead of answering Áine’s question. “I am finding myself particularly grateful though that this isn’t my usual pattern. These things in the short term are my cup of tea in large part—feelings just get too messy.”
“And I have to imagine that either Shar or your Mother Superior wouldn’t be in support of such distractions as a practice,” Áine said.
Shadowheart shook her head. “Not at all. So it works out that such things don’t interest me.” Áine wasn’t entirely sure she believed that. “And, as it seems that they interest you, I suppose it’s a good thing that sparks didn’t fly between us.”
Áine smiled sheepishly. “Anyone else you have your eye on?”
Shadowheart shrugged her thin shoulders. “Gale and Wyll are both sweet in their ways, but they both strike me as the type who prefers long-term relationships, too,” she mused. “The gith, not in a million years, and the vampire is taken.”
“He’s not taken,” Áine said.
Shadowheart shot her a teasing smile. “He’s taken with you.”
“Shut up,” Áine laughed, exasperated with her friend and her implications. “Ready to start heading back?”
“I suppose so,” Shadowheart sighed, glancing at the night sky with a sense of reverence. “Thank you for coming out with me. I promise if there’s a next time that I work on your shoulder, it will be just that and nothing else.”
Áine smirked. “Okay, thank you. Although I would take the chat as well. It was nice to talk.”
“It was, wasn’t it,” Shadowheart said with an affectionate smile Áine’s way. “I haven’t had many who I would call ‘friends’ in this lifetime, but it does feel very nice.”
Áine nodded after slipping her shirt back over her head. “I share that sentiment and it does, truly,” she said as they began to retrace their path back to camp.
“For the record,” Shadowheart said, giving Áine a pointed look, “if you were attracted to women in that way…”
“You would be the first to know,” Áine said with a lighthearted smile.
“Thank you, I can preen again with confidence now,” Shadowheart said, putting on a posh sort of air that reminded Áine of Astarion and caused them both to laugh. As if reading her mind—Hells, perhaps she did given their tadpole affliction—Shadowheart said in a more serious tone, “I can’t speak for his intentions or really anything else about him, but I do know lust when I see it. And that man would run off with you for at least a night if you gave him half a chance to do so. Maybe just see what happens? And then tell me all about it, of course.”
Áine’s face flushed again. “We’ll see. Perhaps I will, my strange sentimentalities be damned,” she said. “That aside, we all may be mind flayers come the morrow. Not exactly a great time for me to be precious about my heart.”
“I suppose not,” Shadowheart agreed sadly. “What a mess this has all become.”
They made it back to camp without issue, their conversation quieting as they neared the vicinity of their sleeping companions. The two parted ways to their tents and out of habit, Áine’s eyes trailed over to Astarion’s tent before she reached her own. She was surprised to catch sight of him still sitting out on his throne of floor pillows where he almost always retreated at the end of the day. Curiously, Áine glanced over to make sure Shadowheart had gone inside her tent before silently stepping closer to see if he was okay. It wasn’t like him to be up this late, at least as far as she knew. Maybe he’d just come back from hunting and didn’t intend to go back into a reverie after or—
Áine froze when she rounded the side of the pillow mound. He was indeed in reverie, his long fingers perfectly curled to touch his middle finger to his thumb on both hands. What she hadn’t anticipated was finding Scratch across his lap, sound asleep. Her hand moved to her mouth, where she was fiercely biting down a tender smile that threatened to make her eyes water. Was it possible for something to be so precious it could break your heart?
Her eyes lifted from the sleeping pup to the face of the man he sat with, a stately white elf in perfect repose. Gods, he was beautiful. The effect he had on her had all the potential to be devastating and she knew it. She hadn’t told Shadowheart the whole truth of things—how part of her nerves stemmed from knowing in the tiniest doses that his past was as riddled with darkness as hers, how she feared adding to that mass of pain neither of them deserved, how the deeply rooting tangle of this budding attachment on her heart could become either her biggest heartbreak or a trip into uncharted territory that she was suddenly aching to explore.
Astarion was a duality before her very eyes at all times—the rake and the prince. A mask and the face beneath that she’d already grown to care for. The more she grew to care for him, the more offensive the mask became when it appeared. He was a master flirt and seducer, the lines and advances practiced and predatory, the entire thing a cat-and-mouse game. Learned behavior, either by his own chosen lifestyle before the Nautiloid or by something else.
Maybe this was his distraction of choice, his coping mechanism to deal with his bastard of a master she’d only seen a glimpse of in his memory because their tadpoles had decided to shoot their shot before they had. It was equally possible that she was entirely wrong and was reading into it and he simply enjoyed the persona she’d come to think of as being a mask.
But she didn’t think she was wrong. Not about that at least.
She let her gaze linger just a moment longer on the smooth, relaxed planes of his face, her smile lingering too. This was the man who had brought her a snack to make sure she got her energy back after helping him with his thirst. The one who’d remembered that she was curious about learning to lockpick from one past conversation. The one who’d saved her from being crushed by a harpy, who had been headbutted by her twice and still felt emboldened to be close to her whenever he saw the opportunity, who bantered with her and teased her and smiled all manners of smiles at her, sweet and rakish and sad.
He was also the man who’d frozen in the wake of her frustration and asked if he was dismissed from their traveling party with all the measure of a person who knew enough of people and their potential cruelty to know how to brace to be hurt. Who had accepted that she’d seen into his mind, the safe space that was his private memories, with all the grace of someone who wasn’t accustomed to owning anything for himself. Who sometimes looked almost sorrowful amid his most exuberant displays of the grand and romantic.
Astarion wasn’t something so simple, so garishly superficial as a rake. She wasn’t sure he knew that though. Or perhaps he did but he didn’t want anyone else to know. But why?
Scratch woke up then and Áine met his soulful eyes, smiling as his tail gave a little wag. “Stay,” she mouthed to him, holding up a hand. The dog did as she asked and she decided it was time she turned in before she got caught and had to explain herself. She crept back to her tent, nestling into her pillows and tugging her threadbare blanket up to her chin.
Even without telling Shadowheart all her inklings, she’d still landed on the correct summation of Áine’s emotional state. “Gods, you’re half in love with him already.” Perhaps she was, but she had nothing to compare it to. But she did care for him. That, she knew without a doubt, no matter what form it ended up taking in the end.
Through his reverie, the lingering scent of lavender oil touched Astarion’s senses, and a deep calming exhale eased from his chest.
Next chapter: Chapter 8, "Áine's Favorite Princess"
#angst with a happy ending#astarion x oc#astarion x female oc#astarion fanfic#astarion fluff#bg3#bg3 fanfic#bg3 fanfiction#bg3 astarion#astarion bg3#astarion ancunin#astarion#baldurs gate 3#baldurs gate#tav#astarion acunin#astarion x tav#tav x astarion#astarion romance#baldur's gate 3#baldurs gate 3 astarion#baldur's gate iii#baldurs gate astarion#baldurs gate tav#baldur's gate#baldurs gate iii#bg3 tav#tavstarion#unbound fic#spawn astarion
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Shaw and Seven
So, we're back to Shaw disrespecting Seven and calling her Hansen, and everyone losing their shit over it. But I just rewatched both Dominion and Surrender and I have some thoughts about this.
First, let's just deal with the elephant in the room, that most people seem to be ignoring. When he was in the turbolift with Vadic and her hench-goons, Shaw gave Seven a direct order to blow the turbolift. He knew exactly what he was doing and why he was doing it, he had far more information about the situation than she did, and he, correctly, deduced what would happen if the turbolift reached the bridge and Vadic gained control of the ship.
Seven promptly ignored his order - she had plenty of time to carry it out - she just chose not to obey it. It doesn't matter why she chose not to obey the order, it only matters that in a situation where a superior officer with more information than she had about a situation gave a direct order specifically to protect the crew, she chose to disobey.
When Shaw is lying on the deck at the end of Dominion, the despair is just radiating off him, there are tears running down his face (Todd Stashwick just killed it in that scene); he knows exactly what is going to happen next - people, his people, are going to die - all because Seven chose to spare him. It's the Constance all over again, but worse, because he's the captain and his job is to protect these people, and he tried, but he was thwarted by an XO that defied him.
(Better picture now I can screenshot)
Which brings us to the bridge scene in Surrender. Shaw is pissed at Seven, Shaw is rightfully pissed at Seven. No one on the bridge has died yet, but Vadic has control of the ship and his crew are dying, he can hear them dying and, as we later see thanks to Jack, some of them are dying horribly. None of that would have happened if Seven had blown the turbolift when she was ordered to. He's absolutely right when he says that being a Starfleet officer means not just obeying the orders that feel good.
She tries to defend herself by saying she "doesn't trade lives". But he isn't buying it, nor should he, because she has traded lives, she's traded Shaw's life for the lives of his crew, possibly dozens of his crew.
Then it gets worse when Vadic executes T'Veen in front of them.
So, if calling her "Commander Seven" is a mark of respect (as she states previously) then he's demonstrating in that moment of contained rage and despair, that he doesn't respect her. And I'm not really sure he should, her action (or lack of action) has caused the deaths of his crew.
By the end of the episode it appears that all is forgiven, when he grants Seven the honor of destroying the Shrike, but that feels cheap; as did her "Captain Shaw, may I present your ship back". That implies that she had something to do with retaking the ship, and she didn't, she made a grand gesture which might actually have screwed up Jack's plan, and really didn't contribute anything to getting Vadic off the ship - that was all Jack, Data and Picard.
Don't get me wrong, I love Seven, but Shaw is absolutely in the right in this entire exchange and the idea that much of the audience thinks that his disrespecting her by calling her "Hansen" is a far more heinous crime than her disrespecting him by disobeying his orders and getting people killed, is bizarre to me.
ETA: If you show up in the comments or reblog to hate on Shaw, I will block you, just a warning. Reasonable debate and discussion is welcome, shit-talking is not.
#captain shaw#seven of nine#liam shaw#todd stashwick#jeri ryan#picard spoilers#picard s3#shaw&seven thoughts#shaw&seven#please don't kill another of my captains#I know this isn't a popular opinion#but IDGAF
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Perrito: Chapter 1 - Lalo Salamanca/FTM Reader (NSFW!)
you were supposed to be doing 6 months in prison for drug possession and prostitution. that is, until you met lalo salamanca, and he decided to make you his puppy. for $10,000 a week, you were to wear a dog collar around your neck 24/7, and once he clipped the leash to you, you were to obey his every command.
tags/warnings: petplay, dom/sub, bdsm, possessiveness, implied stalking, face slapping, praise kink, degradation/humiliation, oral sex, vaginal sex, squirting, needles/syringes/injections, medical exam, a few tiddlywinks of blood, non-consensual body modification (you'll see >:33)
anatomical terms: cunt/pussy/hole, (t-)dick/cock
words: 6,918
ao3 link
author's notes: baby's first multichapter fic!!! had a LOT of ideas for this concept and im super excited to write more for this 🥺 y como siempre no soy un hablante nativo pero estoy aprendiendo. entonces por favor corríjame si se encuentra algo de errores :3
“Where do you see yourself in 5 years?”
A generic job interview question meant to gauge your desires and plans for the future. 5 years ago, you would’ve said the best case scenario would be a life of modest success and comfort. You would have never imagined that by this point in your life you’d be living in a lavish estate and making 10 grand a week.
Let alone the fact that you were making 10 grand by wearing a dog collar for the drug cartel boss who owned said lavish estate.
Whichever deity wrote your life story had a fucked up sense of humor. Your thread of life was being used to draw dicks on the tapestry of existence. You’d gotten great at lying to friends and family. As far as they knew, you were moving abroad to work as an on-call assistant for a shipping executive. You rationalized that it was technically true, but it was an egregious lie of omission. Don Eduardo Salamanca, or “Lalo” as he preferred, was a wealthy businessman; there was no denying that. Though your assistance was the furthest thing from business that anyone could fathom. It was a stable position that came with steady income, job security, and benefits. Sure, these benefits just so happened to include the best sex you’d ever had on the comfiest bed you’d ever touched, but that was neither here nor there.
It all started how most job interviews go: prison. You were supposed to be doing 6 months for drug possession and prostitution, but Lalo took a liking to you the moment he saw you. He said that your skills would be highly valuable in an organization such as his, which was jobspeak for “I want to get my dick wet”. You thought he was talking out of his ass, but judging by the respect he got from your fellow inmates and even some of the guards, you took his word for it. He promised you a job when you both got out, if you’d take it.
You agreed; it sounded a hell of a lot better than going back on the streets. He promised to set you up with his lawyer, who’d been working on a way to get him off. Luckily, the lawyer actually knew his shit. He had found some tiny loophole in your case and was able to get the charges dropped and your record expunged. Much to your surprise, Lalo was waiting outside the jailhouse to pick you up when you got out. He dropped you off at your place and gave you a week to get your affairs in order. Then, you’d be moving to his place across the border in Chihuahua, Mexico.
The week after, he showed up at your apartment in a car that, if it could speak, would definitely call you poor. On the way to his house, you discussed the specifics of your position.
“So!” Lalo declared in a cheerful voice as he adjusted the rearview mirror, “What do you remember from what we talked about?”
You combed through your memories, the many conversations you two had in the prison showers, cafeteria, and rec yard. “10 grand a week, I wear a dog collar 24/7, and when the leash is clipped to it, I’m working. When I’m working, you have full control over me, and I have to do everything you say. Is that right?”
“Yeah! There you go. That’s the gist of it.” Lalo affirmed, “But, you won’t have to do literally everything I say. If you’re uncomfortable, you have your signals, and I’m not gonna press your limits unless you say I can.”
That was one of the promises he’d made that had put your mind at ease. Discussing this over state-sanctioned lunch one day, he had asked you your boundaries, things that you would never ever do under any circumstances. He was receptive when you told him. Plus, he’d given you safewords to use: green for “I’m okay. Keep going.”, yellow for “Ease up a little bit.”, and red for “You need to stop everything right the fuck now.” There were also corresponding hand signals in case you couldn’t talk: 3 fingers up for green, 2 for yellow, and 1 for red.
“Right, yeah. Thank you for that.” You said.
“Ah, don’t be silly. You don’t have to thank me. I want you to enjoy this. It’s a lot more fun for me if I know you’re having fun.” He patted your shoulder, “And, if you want to really have fun,” and squeezed it tighter than you expected, “you can talk back once in a while. You can be a naughty little puppy, if you want, but you’d better be prepared for discipline. So make sure you know what you’re getting into, alright?��� He put his hand back on the wheel.
That was generally good life advice, but you’d be lying if you said you knew entirely what you were getting into. “Alright, sure. Fair enough.” You gazed out the window at the desert terrain. Nothing but cacti and sand for miles and miles. You’d weren’t entirely sure which side of the border you were on anymore, or if it even mattered. “Question,” you posed.
“Yeah?” Lalo prodded.
“So, like… what am I supposed to call you while we do this? Just Lalo, or…?” Your voice trailed off, as if you were expecting a different answer out of him.
“Oh, good question! I was actually getting to that. Such a smart boy.” He laughed and ruffled your hair, making you jump a little in your seat. His touch felt nice, but it was definitely something you’d have to get used to. You probably shouldn’t react that strongly every time. “You can call me Lalo when the leash is off, but if it’s on, you need to be professional. If you’re working, you call me ‘Don Eduardo’, ‘sir’, ‘master’, ‘señor’, ‘jefe’, or ‘patrón’. Those last two basically mean ‘boss’. Make sense?”
Sense was made. “Yeah, alright. Easy enough.”
“Very good. And how’s your Spanish?”
You shrugged, “Mediocre at best. I can understand more than I speak.”
Lalo chuckled, “Well, I appreciate the honesty. I’ll have to teach you to speak it, then, no worries. Also, if the leash is on and I have you speaking Spanish, call me usted, not tú. That’s just when you’re working, though. Es formal, ¿comprendes? (It’s formal, understand?)”
Okay, sure, you could do that. It might take you a bit to figure out, but you’d get there. “Sí, yo comprendo. (Yes, I understand.)”
“Bueno. Now, what can I call you?” Lalo poked you in the arm, “And I don’t just mean your name.”
Your first thought was an idiot. That seemed like a fitting label for someone in your predicament. Thankfully, your second thought was much more receptive. “Well, uh… what did you have in mind? I’m pretty open.”
“Oh ho, you wanna hear what I think of you? I got a whole list of ‘em in mind. They might not all be flattering, just so you know.”
You secretly hoped they wouldn’t be. “That’s fine. Go for it.”
“Well, there’s the animal related ones. Puppy, dog, perro, cachorro (puppy), and then variants of those like doggy and perrito. Reminds you what you are to me, y’know? There’s also other animal terms like conejito (bunny) and osito (little bear). Basically, anything that lets you know how cute you are.” He reached over to pinch your cheek.
You giggled. The attention and praise was definitely a perk to this whole arrangement. “That all sounds good.”
“And, if you’re a naughty little puppy.” His tone darkened to a rich growl and he dragged his hand down to your upper thigh, squeezing it hard before he spoke, “I may call you chucho, or a dirty little mutt.” He spat that last word at you with mock disdain.
The idea of him changing up like that, getting rough with you, putting you in your place, that was another perk. Honestly, you weren’t sure if you were more excited for the praise or the punishment. “Oh… Oh wow…”
He leaned in closer to you, his breath hitting your face. You wondered how he could watch the road like that, but maybe that’s why he drove you through the middle of nowhere. In his mind, you were the only thing worth watching. “You like that?”
“Yeah…”
He showed you how quick he could change by pulling back and switching back to his friendly tone. He gave you whiplash, but not from how he was driving. “Good! ‘Cause I got more. You’re okay with me being mean to you?”
You were more than okay with it, especially if he would say it in that same sexy tone. “Yeah, I mean, like, just don’t call me a girl and you can pretty much say whatever you want.”
“Heh, I’ll keep that in mind.” He patted your thigh before putting his hand back on the wheel once more.
A few more hours, a few more rest stops, and a few more hundreds of miles, and you pulled up to what looked more like a military base than your future home, complete with friendly, welcoming armed guards and a concrete wall topped with warm, fuzzy, barbed wire.
Actually, the armed guards were friendly and welcoming, once they realized who was coming at least. Lalo rolled down his window and spoke to a man with a ponytail, who greeted him with a smile.
“¡Buenas tardes, señor! (Good afternoon, sir!)” He pointed at you in the passenger seat and leaned on the window. “Ooh, ¿es este el nuevo chico? ¡Él es más lindo de lo que usted dijo! (Ooh, is that the new kid? He’s cuter than you said!)” Apparently, his other employees referred to him with the same formalities.
“¡Ay, ay! ¡Mucho ojo, cabrón! (Ay, ay! Watch it, asshole!)” He laughed and pushed him off the side of the car. “Pero sí, es él. Parece un buen chico, ¿verdad? (But yeah, that’s him. He looks like a good boy, right?)” He turned to you. “This is Miguel. He’s one of the guards I have working here.”
Your eyes were fixated on the gigantic rifle across the man’s chest, enough so that you forgot your vocabulary from Spanish 101. “Bien a… bien a conocerte? (Nice to… Nice to meet you?)”
The two men laughed, but you could tell it was all in good fun. Lalo smiled, “Ah, tan tonto… (Ah, so silly...)” and petted your hair again as he corrected you. “You’re kinda right, but ‘Mucho gusto’ is what you’re trying to say, mijo (my boy).”
You blushed the tiniest bit and course-corrected. “Oh, lo siento. ¡Mucho gusto, Miguel! (Oh, sorry. Nice to meet you, Miguel!)”
“Igualmente, chiquito. (Likewise, kiddo.)” Miguel turned around and punched in a code on the keypad. “Listo, patrón. (All set, boss.)” Another term you shared for him.
“¡Bien! ¡Gracias! (Nice! Thank you!)” Lalo waved him off as he pulled through the gate. He could see the tension in your face and slung his arm over your shoulder. “What, did the gun freak you out? Ah, don’t worry about that. He’s just compensating for something, y’know?” That got a hearty snort from you. “Nah, but really, he’s a nice guy. All of my people are great. I told them all about you, y’know.” He drove up to a spot in his massive driveway and parked the car.
His last statement tied your stomach into a knot. You couldn’t imagine facing an entire army of employees, your potential coworkers, knowing what they knew. “Uh… all about me? Like… what exactly?”
Lalo turned the car off and unbuckled his seatbelt. “Well, basically, your personality, your looks, how we met, and what you’ll be doing here. They don’t need to know all the details. Just enough to know what to expect, right?”
You unbuckled yours as well, even though you were now mortified to step out of the car. “What I’ll be doing here? How the hell did you explain that?”
Lalo waved off your concerns, “Oh, what, are you worried about? That they’re gonna judge you for it? Don’t be silly! They know better than that. Honestly, they’re all psyched to meet you. Now, c’mon, you’ll see what I mean!” He opened his door and saw you reach for yours, “No, no, let me get that for you, sweetheart.” He stepped out of the car and walked around to your side, opening your door and offering his hand for you to take.
“Thanks.” You gave him a timid smile as you took his hand and stepped out. Sure enough, a couple steps later and you saw an eager crowd of people waving you over.
Lalo raised the hand you were holding and called out to the crowd as he approached, “¡Aquí él está! Entonces, tengo suerte, ¿o qué? (Here he is! So, am I lucky or what?)” He let go of your hand and patted you on the back. Knowing his ego, he definitely wanted to show you off.
An older woman was the first to answer him with a voice that sounded like how fresh baked cookies smelled. “Claro, tienes razón, mijo. (Of course, you’re right, my boy.)” She approached you and held her arms out for a hug, which you graciously accepted. “¡Bienvenidos, querido! Estamos encantados de tenerte aquí. (Welcome, dear! We’re happy to have you here.)” she said, hugging you with all the love in her heart. Oh, god, that wasn’t his mother, right? You dreaded to think of how that conversation must have gone.
Lalo introduced her as she let go of you, “This is Yolanda. She’s my housekeeper, cook, and the reason why I have such a fat belly!” He laughed and patted his stomach, clearly exaggerating. In reality, he was only slightly pudgy, but hey, you liked a man with a little squish. Much better to cuddle with. “Let me tell you, she looks sweet, but her cooking is dangerous. I’m told she's got something great planned for us, you’ll see.”
A young man, even younger than you were, raised his hand to ask a question. He looked tense, probably afraid to speak out of turn. “Uh, perdón, ¿señor? ¿Él habla español? (Uh, excuse me, sir? Does he speak Spanish?)”
Lalo scoffed, “¿Por qué te importa a tí? ¿Qué, le vas a decir que huir? (Why do you care? What, you gonna tell him to run?)” He was staring him down like he was trying to melt an ant with a magnifying glass. The kid looked like he was about to piss his pants, he was so nervous. Suddenly, Lalo burst out laughing and flicked the boy’s forehead. “¡Ah, solo te estoy jodiendo, chamaco! (Ah, I’m just fucking with you, kid!)” He then turned back to you. “This is Ciro. He’s another one of the guards here, believe it or not with a babyface like that. He was asking if you speak Spanish.”
“Oh! Hi! Uh…” You took a moment to think of an answer for him, “Comprendo más que yo hablo. Solo hablo un poquito. (I understand more than I speak. I only speak a little.)” You glanced over at Lalo, who gave you a thumbs up.
Lalo snapped at him, both physically and verbally, though his words had an edge of sarcasm to them. “Entonces, no le digas algo estúpido a él. ¿Entiendes? (So, don’t say anything stupid to him. Understand?)”
Ciro nodded, “Sí, señor. Entiendo. (Yes, sir. I understand.)”
“Bueno. Pues ve a llevar sus cosas a mi habitación. Tiene dos maletas en la cajuela. (Good. Then go take his things up to my room. He’s got two suitcases in the trunk.)” Lalo patted the boy on the shoulder and handed him the keys.
“Si, señor. (Yes, sir.)” Ciro replied before he ran off to get your bags from the car.
While he was doing that, Lalo took the time to introduce you to his remaining staff: Cecilio, the gardener, and the other two guards, Herardo and Raul. Everyone seemed like decent, hardworking people, and you couldn’t wait for dinner tonight. After having said your hellos, Lalo said there was one more person you had to meet, a visitor, and he was waiting in the living room.
Lalo led you into the house, guiding you with his hand on the small of your back. To the right of the foyer was the living room, where sure enough, someone was waiting for you: an older man in a white lab coat. A doctor?
“So!” Lalo gestured to the man standing before you. “This is Dr. Cruz. He’s been with my family for years. Actually, he helped deliver my little cousins Marco and Leonel when they were born, so we have a lot of trust in him. I just brought him in today to give you a quick checkup and see that you’re fit to work. Is that okay?”
A physical? That seemed pretty excessive, but this was a new job, at the end of the day. You figured it wasn’t entirely abnormal. “Uh… yeah! Sure. I think I’m actually due for one, anyway.”
Dr. Cruz smiled at you. “Great. I just need to talk to Lalo here for one second, and then we can get started. Please, have a seat on the couch. I think that will be the best place for everything. It’s a pleasure to meet you, by the way.”
You returned the smile. “You too.”
As you sat down on the examination couch, Dr. Cruz walked Lalo over into the next room. You could hear bits and pieces of what they were saying, but you couldn’t decipher any of it. He spoke in a hushed voice. “Está seguro que yo no pueda disuadir a usted de esto? (Are you sure that I can’t talk you out of this?)”
Lalo responded at the same volume. “Estoy seguro. No quiero que él se pierda. Te pagaré doble por el molestia. (I’m sure. I don’t want him to get lost. I’ll pay you double for the inconvenience.)”
The doctor sighed. “Bien. Entonces… (Alright. So…)” He put on a friendly grin as he walked back over to you. He reached into a bag that was sitting on the coffee table and started pulling things out. Needles, syringes, bandages, alcohol wipes, and some other medical supplies you couldn’t quite name. Then, he pulled out a file and handed it to you. “These are your medical records from your time in MDC Albuquerque. Would you just tell me if the information here is up to date?”
You briefly wondered how in the hell he was able to get his hands on those, but hey, the cartel family doctor probably had connections. You scanned over a list of medications, vaccinations, diagnoses, allergies. Everything was correct. “Yeah. Looks good.” You said plainly and handed the file back to him.
“Alright, perfect.” Dr. Cruz accepted the file from you and placed it back in his bag. “Now, we need to take some blood to run labs. Just to make sure that nothing has changed and that you’re clear for work. Don’t worry, we won’t need much. Just a finger stick will be enough.”
Bloodwork? That seemed excessive too. But, come to think of it, you’d basically be sucking Lalo’s dick for a living. He probably wanted to make sure you wouldn’t give him anything. “Okay, yeah. Hit me.” You held your hand out.
Dr. Cruz snapped some gloves on before he grabbed your wrist and stamped the needle into your fingertip. You winced at the stab, but it was over in a flash. Then, he milked your finger to get some blood, enough to fill up a small vial. “This will be used for STI testing. We’ll have the results back in a few days, but we’ll only call if you test positive for something. As far as we’re concerned, no news is good news.” Once the vial was full, he capped it and bandaged you up. He put the vial in a bag, sealed it, and stored it with the rest of his equipment. “Okay, last thing on the agenda. Your records state that you’re due for a tetanus shot. It’s a big injection, so I’ll have to numb you first. The injection site will bruise and be sore for about a day or two. Now I’m sure this is probably different from how they do it in the states, but this is how it’s done in Mexico.”
“Oh, really? Interesting.” You pondered, none the wiser to your boss’s plan. He’d exploited your naivete and trust in him to get you to do this, and it worked like a charm. You had no clue. “Yeah, I mean, if I’m due for it, might as well.” You rolled up the sleeve for your non-dominant arm.
“Perfecto.” Dr. Cruz said as he grabbed your forearm. He sanitized the underside of your bicep with an alcohol wipe. “First is the local anesthetic. Tiny pinch, but then you won’t feel a thing when we do the second one.” He positioned the syringe just below your muscle. “I’m gonna have you breathe in and out twice, and on the second exhale I’ll inject. You ready?”
“Yep.” You said, closing your eyes and calming your nerves.
“Alright. Breathe in…” Inhale.
“And out…” Exhale.
“And in…” Inhale.
“And out…” Exhale. Pinch.
“Beautiful. Now, it’ll take about 30 seconds for the numbing to kick in. I’d advise that you keep your eyes closed while I prepare the vaccination. The needle size may frighten you.”
“Sure thing.” You obliged, keeping your eyes closed and your arm out. You could hear the doctor rifling through his bag, unwrapping sterile equipment and popping containers open. It was hard to picture exactly what he was setting up, but you could tell he was done when he grabbed your forearm again. “Can you feel me touching you?” He asked. “Not where I’m holding you, I mean right here.” He poked your bicep again, not that you knew, of course.
“Where?” You asked.
Dr. Cruz chuckled. “Okay, you’re numb. Now, same thing as the last one. I’m gonna have you take a deep breath twice before I stick you. Ready?”
“Yep.” You repeated.
“Breathe in…” Inhale.
“And out…” Exhale.
“And in…” Inhale.
“And out…” Exhale. You didn’t feel a pinch this time.
“Amazing. You can open your eyes.” As you did, you watched Dr. Cruz set the syringe on the coffee table and grab some gauze. He debriefed you as he wrapped it around your bicep. “The numbing will last for a few hours, so it’ll probably wear off in your sleep. You may bruise and be a bit sore tomorrow morning, and you can take the gauze off then as well. Try not to overwork the muscle for a day or two.” He taped the gauze to secure it, then patted you on your shoulder. “And you are good to go, my friend. I wish you all the best in your new position.”
You gave him a friendly smile. “Sounds good! Thanks so much!”
“No problem. I’d say see you around, but hopefully you won’t have to deal with me too much.” He laughed as he finished packing his bag. Once he was done, he grabbed it and turned over his shoulder to Lalo, “Y enviaré a usted la factura mañana. Me llame si él se molesta. (And I’ll send you the bill tomorrow. Call me if he has any problems.)”
“Claro. Gracias otra vez. (Of course. Thank you again.)” Lalo replied as he led the doctor outside, patting him on the back for a job well done. He shut the door, and finally, finally, he could focus on you, and he was chomping at the bit to get started. “Alright! We’re good to go! Got the formalities out of the way, so now,” He sauntered over to you, swaying his hips as he walked. When he got to you, he snaked his hands behind your back and grabbed your ass. “Now, we can put you to work.” You barely had time to react before he let you go, but not before giving you a playful spank. “Follow me, doggy.”
You squeaked at the literal pet name. Being ordered around by him felt better than you thought it would. This was going to be amazing. He led you up the stairs to his bedroom, though you were practically chasing him up with how excited you were. When you arrived, he closed the door behind you two. “Stay right here.” Lalo commanded. He walked over to the dresser and opened a fancy box that sat atop it. You heard the clinking of metal, and when he turned around, he was holding a black leather collar in one hand, and a chain leash in the other. You beamed at the sight of it. This is what you were here for. You couldn’t wait. You’d be such a good boy. Lalo knew that, but still, he had to ask. “You ready, puppy?”
“Yes, sir!” You responded cheerfully.
Lalo smiled and fastened the collar around your neck. His calloused fingers swept your hair out of the way; his hot breath billowing against your sensitive skin. It was intense. You could feel your thoughts fading away as you focused on getting into your new role; a cute, silly little puppy. You closed your eyes and let the warmth of his embrace dress you up.
Lalo cupped your face in his hands and pressed a kiss to your forehead, whispering sweet nothings in his native tongue as he petted your hair and scratched behind your ears. “Oh, mi chico hermoso, eso es. Se veas perfecto con ese collar. Es como tú has nacido para ser mi perrito. Vas a ser un buen chico para mi, ¿verdad? ¿Vas a hacer lo que yo digo? Oh, sí, sí, buen chico. (Oh, my beautiful boy, that’s it. You look perfect in that collar. It’s like you were born to be my puppy. You’re gonna be a good boy for me, right? You’re gonna do what I say? Oh, yes, yes, good boy.) Such a good boy.”
Your head lulled from side to side, following his gentle touch. As he pulled back, your eyelids lifted up, and you saw his gorgeous face. Dark brown eyes half-lidded, his mouth curled into a smile. You were so happy to see him. You really did feel like a puppy, so bubbly and playful at the sight of their master. You gave him a goofy grin and said, “Hi…”, one of only a few words left in your brain.
“Hi, puppy.” Lalo cooed as he caressed your cheek. “You ready to get started for real?”
You nodded. You’d been ready for hours.
“Bueno.” Lalo hummed as he clipped the leash on your collar. Thus began the start of your first shift. You were working now. Henceforth, you were at his beck and call, his perfect little lapdog. “Now, I’m gonna teach you some tricks. I’ll say them in English and Spanish so you learn a bit. Okay?”
You giggled, already feeling hazy and obedient. “Okaaay…”
“Perfecto. Entonces… (Perfect. Now…)” Lalo backed off you to straighten his posture, and pulled the leash taut. “Siéntate. Sit.”
You dropped to your knees without a second thought and gave him a cherubic smile. If you had a tail, it’d definitely be wagging. You were anxious to make him proud of you.
“Good boy! So smart!” Lalo praised as he crouched down on one knee and held out his hand. “Dame la pata. Shake.”
You laid your hand in his and waited for your next command.
“Bueno. ¿Puedes hablar? Can you speak for me, boy?”
You could. Barely. “Yes, Don Eduardo.”
Lalo smirked and shook his head. “Oh, no no no. Not like that, mijo. Like a dog. Habla. Speak. Let me hear you bark, okay?”
You blushed, but you wanted to be a good boy. And good boys do as they’re told, no matter how embarrassing it may be. “Woof! Woof!”
Lalo couldn’t help but laugh. You were just so cute! “Oh, that’s perfect! Good boy!” He kissed your forehead again before standing up. He tugged the leash to get your attention. “Stand up. Levántate. Two legs.”
You rose to your feet and stood upright, hoping it wouldn’t be for too long. It was hard to act like a puppy when you were standing like a person.
Lalo could read your mind. His next command solved the problem you were thinking of. “All fours. Cuatro patas.”
You smiled and went down on your hands and knees for him.
He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on the leash. “Ven aquí. Come here.”
You crawled over to him and knelt between his legs. Instinctively, you rested your hands on his thighs, before realizing he didn’t tell you to touch him. You started to pull away, but Lalo interrupted you.
“You can keep them there. That’s fine.” He traced his fingers from your collar up to your chin and tilted your face up to his. “You’re a real lapdog, aren’t you? You want your master to take care of you, right boy?”
You nodded.
Lalo tugged the leash and gave you a firm command. “Habla. Speak.”
“Woof!”
He snickered again. God, you were just perfect for this. “Oh, good boy. I’m gonna have so much fun with you.” He tapped his hand on the bed. “Arriba. Up. Up on the bed, and then get in my lap.”
You crawled onto the bed, the smile never breaking from your face as you sat in his lap. Lalo’s hands dragged down your back, mapping the curves of your hips. He took his time admiring his new pet. “You can use words now, puppy. ¿Quieres tu patrón que te haga sentir bien? (You want your master to make you feel good?)”
You whimpered and nuzzled into his neck, trying to translate and then answer him in Spanish. “S-Sí, patrón… (Y-Yes, master…)”
Lalo’s hand made its way back up your spine, your breath shuddering as he traced his finger up. “Mírame. Look at me.” He took a handful of your hair and tugged your head off his shoulder. You let out a soft gasp and met his gaze. He was staring you down. Before, you’d felt calmed and nurtured by his attention. At this moment, you felt weak. Exposed. He was just so intimidating. He had you quite literally in the palm of his hand, right where he wanted you. He kept you waiting for longer than you would have liked, almost like he was sizing you up, trying to see when you’d break. Once your anxiety reached its peak, he pressed his lips against yours.
You sighed into the kiss and collapsed onto him, your arms slumping onto his shoulders, gripping his silk shirt. Lalo’s lips enveloped yours, his tongue pushing inside your mouth to swipe across your own. His teeth tugged your bottom lip. Since he was holding onto you by your hair, he slipped his hand through the loop of the leash and let it explore, groping your chest, your ass, your thighs, eventually letting his hand rest on your front between your legs, cupping you through your jeans.
Even though you were the dog, you praised your master, “Oh, fuck, Lalo...”
Your master yanked your hair back and reprimanded you. “No, no. You’re working. What’s my name?”
Panting like the dog you were, you tried to parse the meaning of his question. When you got it, you said it. “Don Eduardo…”
Lalo confirmed your answer, “Good boy,” and took your lips back in his. He released his grip on your hair and moved to unbutton your shirt, unwrapping you like a gift with his name on it, “Oh, chico, you have no idea how much I missed this.” He placed an open mouth kiss on your neck, just above the collar, “I missed that tight little hole,” and on the other side, “Always so wet and needy for me,” and bit down enough to leave you with a glaring mark.
You wanted to moan his name again, but hesitated. Lalo seemed to roll off the tongue more easily than Don Eduardo, especially when you lacked the brainpower to talk more than absolutely necessary. Thankfully, you recovered. “La-ah… oh, fuck, patrón…”
Lalo peeled your shirt off and let it fall to the floor. “Yeah?” He asked, biting on the other side of your neck. “You like that, puppy? Habla.”
This time, your bark wasn’t loud and confident. It was akin to the yip of an overstimulated Pomeranian. “W-Woof, woof…” you whimpered.
“That’s it…” He pried himself from your neck and tugged the leash. “Date la vuelta. Roll over. On your back.”
You scurried off his lap and onto the full expanse of the mattress, flopping onto your back with your knees propped up. It was much softer than the prison bed you two were on last time you did this. Lalo climbed over you and worked your pants off, then everything of his except his boxers. He pushed your legs apart and smiled at the visible wet spot in your underwear.
“Aw, perrito, look at you! I got you all worked up, huh?” He was honestly one to talk, judging by the tent in his boxers, but you weren’t about to argue, especially when his face was mere inches away from your core. Lalo slid your underwear off and threw it over his shoulder. He laid down on his stomach and pushed your thighs up to your chest, revealing your weeping, aching hole. He bit his lip at the sight, and flicked his eyes up to yours. “It’s good to see you again.” He said before diving in headfirst.
You gasped as his tongue swiped up and down your cunt, lapping up as much of your wetness as he could. He pulled away to warm you up some more, leaving wet kisses and sharp bites on your squishy thighs. The teasing made you whine, though not as loudly as he’d like. He took your t-dick into his mouth and started to suck, which gave him the exact response he was looking for.
“Ah! F-Fuck! Fuck!” You cried as your hands scrambled for something to hold on to. One found the sheets, and the other his hair. Keeping him still, you bucked your hips up and started to fuck his mouth, whimpering pure nonsense the whole time. Just combinations of “please”, “fuck”, “more", and the cutest little sounds he’d heard in a while.
Lalo let you have your fun. He even winked at you, which you interpreted as a signal for “Yeah, you like that?” He took one of his hands off your thighs and brought it down. You didn’t realize why, until you heard some soft grunting. You felt the mattress bounce, just a tiny bit, and strong vibrations against your cock. He was stroking himself, feverishly so, to the point where he couldn’t take it anymore.
Lalo ripped his head up and gasped for air. “Dios mío… (My god…)” He laughed breathlessly before getting off the bed and tugging his boxers down. “I hate to rush this, but… I don’t think either of us can wait any longer.”
He was right, of course. You’d been waiting for this moment ever since you got out of prison. No bars, no guards, no spectators, no worries. Just him filling you up and fucking you into the rest of your life, a life of luck, luxury, and lust. He hopped back onto the bed and positioned himself in front of you. You held your legs open for him, making it easy for him to slide inside. He gripped the base of his cock, and looked into your eyes for approval. You nodded, and he pushed in.
The sensation of being full was too much for you to keep quiet. Reflexively, you moaned his name. “Oh! Lalo! La-ah!” Your praise for him was cut short by a slap across the face.
“No! Bad boy!” He tugged you up by the leash to face him. “I told you, you’re working. And what’s my name when you’re working?” He snarled.
You hastily corrected your mistake. “Don Eduardo! Don Eduardo! I’m sorry, Don Eduardo!”
“Much better.” Lalo lessened his grip on the leash, allowing you enough slack to fall back against the pillow and hook your legs around his waist. He gave you a hard thrust, making sure he bottomed out inside you. Then another. And another, until he had a good rhythm going. His efforts earned him a slew of pathetic babbling from you.
“Don Eduardo! Don Eduardo! Ah! Fuck…! Fuck me! Please!”
As much as he loved hearing you beg, he didn’t want you bossing him around. He was the master here, not you. You were his dog, his bitch. He lowered himself down, pressing his elbows into the mattress, and shut you up with a kiss. You hugged him tight, whining into his mouth as he rutted inside you. He pulled away and growled into your ear. “Eso es. Tómalo. Tómalo, puto. Eres mío. Eres mío y de nadie más. Perteneces a mí, y voy a follarte como la perra que eres. (That’s it. Take it. Take it, whore. You’re mine. You’re mine and no one else’s. You belong to me, and I’m gonna fuck you like the bitch you are.)
You couldn’t hear a word he was saying over your own cries and the obscene sounds your bodies made. He held you tight against him as he used your body like a toy. You couldn’t move or fight him off, not that you’d want to, but you were completely powerless, and in turn, he had complete power over you. From now on, at any time he wanted, he could clip a leash onto your collar and take you for himself. You’d spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, knowing that you could be stripped naked and fucked senseless at any moment. Exhilarating, thrilling, intoxicating, none of these words seemed to fully encapsulate what you were feeling.
You choked on his formal title as you pleaded for mercy, mercy that you didn’t expect to get. “D-Don Eduardo! Don Eduardo! I’m gonna…! Oh, fuck, I’m gonna cum!”
“Oh, already? Is that right?” Lalo sneered and slithered one of his hands in between you two. He gripped your dick and started to stroke it, knowing that was the key to making you break. “Do it then! C’mon, puppy! Be a good boy and cum for me!”
You didn’t need him to tell you twice, or even once, for that matter. You orgasmed on his command, squirting hard enough to force his cock out of you. You sobbed into his shoulder, overwhelmed and overstimulated, clinging to him for support through it all. When it was over, you collapsed back against the bed, gasping for air and relief.
Lalo sat up for a moment, admiring how beautiful you looked when you were too pleasured to think: your face flushed, chest rising and falling, tongue hanging out of your mouth. You really were like a puppy, all tuckered out from playtime. It was adorable.
You stared up at the ceiling as you basked in the afterglow of climax. It was like lying on the beach at sunset. The warmth of your body heat being cooled by the dots of sweat on your brow; the oxytocin flooding your brain like waves on the shore. Blissful. Peaceful. Serene.
Yet you had no vacation time left to use. You were called in to work by your master slamming his cock into you and bringing you back to reality. You yelped and stared up at him in shock as he pumped in and out of your abused hole.
“What?” He scoffed. “What did you expect, doggy? You’re not finished ‘til I finish.”
You weren’t sure how many times he made you cum that night, but the last thing you remember was dozing off with his seed spilling out of you.
–
You woke up the next morning in Lalo’s bed, alone. On his pillow, there was a note. You reached for it and rubbed the sleep out of your eyes to read it. It said:
Good morning, puppy! Great job yesterday! Come to the kitchen when you’re awake and I’ll cook you breakfast.
XOXO,
Lalo.
You smiled. He was so sweet. You folded the note and stretched to put it on the nightstand, but suddenly, you felt a jolt of pain in your bicep. Right, the tetanus shot. The numbing had worn off. Oh well, at least you could take the gauze off by now. You unwrapped your arm, and just as you suspected, there was a nasty bruise at the injection site. Going against better judgment, you pressed down on the mark. Something you felt shocked you enough to recoil, not the tender bruise itself, but rather the foreign object implanted underneath it.
That’s when it hit you.
When Lalo said you were gonna be his dog, he meant it. You were to be collared and at his beck and call 24/7, and in return he’d give you food, water, a place to live, companionship, everything a responsible dog owner should provide.
And what else do responsible owners do for their dogs?
They microchip them so they can’t run away.
#bcs#bcs x reader#better call saul#better call saul x reader#better call saul smut#better call saul imagine#better call saul headcanons#better call saul hcs#lalo salamanca#lalo salamanca x reader#lalo salamanca imagine#lalo salamanca smut#lalo salamanca headcanons#lalo salamanca hcs#ftm reader#ftm puppy#lalo salamanca x ftm reader#perrito
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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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A compilation of Nesta "sitting on her ass"
Tamlin had been wrong when we’d discussed whether my father would have ever come after me—he didn’t
possess the courage, the anger. If anything, he would have hired someone to do it for him. But Nesta
had gone with that mercenary. My hateful, cold sister had been willing to brave Prythian to rescue me.
My sister snapped, “Give them the Book.”
And the eldest queen hissed, “No.”
The word clanged through me. But Nesta went on, flinging out an arm to encompass us, the room, the world, “There are innocent
people here. In these lands. If you will not risk your necks against the forces that threaten us, then grant those people a fighting chance. Give my sister the Book.”
The crone sighed sharply through her nose. “An evacuation may be possible—”
“You would need ten thousand ships,” Nesta said, her voice breaking. “You would need an
armada. I have calculated the numbers. And if you are readying for war, you will not send your ships to us. We are stranded here.”
The crone gripped the polished arms of her chair as she leaned forward a bit. “Then I suggest
asking one of your winged males to carry you across the sea, girl.”
Nesta’s throat bobbed. “Please.” I didn’t think I’d ever heard that word from her mouth. “Please— do not leave us to face this alone.”
Beron shot to his feet, not bothering to brush off the dust, and declared to no one in particular,
“This meeting is over. I hope Hybern butchers you all.”
But Nesta rose from her chair. “This meeting is not over.”
Even Beron paused at her tone. Eris sized up the space between my sister and his father. She stood tall, a pillar of steel. “You are all there is,” she said to Beron, to all of us. “You are all
that there is between Hybern and the end of everything that is good and decent.” She settled her stare
on Beron, unflinching and fierce. “You fought against Hybern in the last war. Why do you refuse to do so now?”
Beron did not deign to answer. But he did not leave. Eris subtly motioned his brothers to sit.
Nesta marked the gesture—hesitated. As if realizing she indeed held their complete attention. That
every word mattered. “You may hate us. I don’t care if you do. But I do care if you let innocents suffer and die. At least stand for them. Your people. For Hybern will make an example of them. Of all
of us.”
“And you know this how?” Beron sneered.
“I went into the Cauldron,” Nesta said flatly. “It showed me his heart. He will bring down the
wall, and butcher those on either side of it.”
Truth or lie, I could not tell. Nesta’s face revealed nothing. And no one dared contradict her.
She looked to Kallias and Viviane. “I am sorry for the loss of those children. The loss of one is abhorrent.” She shook her head. “But beneath the wall, I witnessed children—entire families—starve
to death.” She jerked her chin at me. “Were it not for my sister … I would be among them.”
My eyes burned, but I blinked it away.
“Too long,” Nesta said. “For too long have humans beneath the wall suffered and died while you
in Prythian thrived. Not during that—queen’s reign.” She recoiled, as if hating to even speak
Amarantha’s name. “But long before. If you fight for anything—fight now, to protect those you forgot.
Let them know they’re not forgotten. Just this once.”
Thesan cleared his throat. “While a noble sentiment, the details of the Treaty did not demand we
provide for our human neighbors. They were to be left alone. So we obeyed.”
Nesta remained standing. “The past is the past. What I care about is the road ahead. What I care
about is making sure no children—Fae or human—are harmed. You have been entrusted with
protecting this land.” She scanned the faces around her. “How can you not fight for it?”
Nesta stared toward that armada, toward our father fighting in it. “Use me. As bait.”
Choking, blood dribbling from his lips, the king gaped at Nesta. My sister lunged to her feet.
Not to go to Elain. But to the king.
Nesta wrapped her hand around Truth-Teller’s obsidian hilt.
And slowly, as if savoring every bit of effort it took … Nesta began to twist the blade. Not a
rotation of the blade itself—but a rotation into his neck.
Elain rushed to Cassian, but the warrior was panting—smiling grimly and panting—as Nesta
twisted and twisted the blade into the king’s neck. Severing flesh and bone and tendon.
Nesta looked down at the king before she made the final pass, his hands still trying to rise, to claw
the blade free.
And in Nesta’s eyes … it was the same look, the same gleam that she’d had that day in Hybern.
When she pointed her finger at him in a death-promise. She smiled a little—as if she remembered, too.
And then she pushed the blade, like a worker heaving the spoke of a mighty, grinding wheel.
The king’s eyes flared—then his head tumbled off his shoulders.
“Nesta,” Cassian groaned, trying to reach for her.
The king’s blood sprayed her leathers, her face.
Nesta didn’t seem to care as she bent over. As she took up his fallen head and lifted it. Lifted it in
the air and stared at it—into Hybern’s dead eyes, his gaping mouth.
She did not smile. She only stared and stared and stared.
Savage. Unyielding. Brutal.
“Mother save us,” Azriel whispered, and it was undiluted terror, not
awe, hushing his voice as the dead rose from Oorid’s depths.
A line of them; a legion. Some mere collections of upright bones, jaws hanging and eyes unseeing. Some half-preserved, decaying flesh flapping over exposed ribs. Judging by their fine armor, they were warriors and kings and princes and lords.
They rose from the water, standing in the shallows near the thorny
island. And as that golden light broke the surface before them, the dead knelt. Every word emptied from Cassian’s head as Nesta, too, emerged from the water, as if lifted on a pillar from beneath. A golden mask sat upon her face, primitive but embossed with whorls and patterns so ancient they’d lost all meaning.
Water sluiced down her clothes, her hair had been ripped from its braid, and in her hand, clenched there …
A kelpie’s head dangled by its sheet of black hair, torn-up face frozen in a scream. Exactly as the King of Hybern’s head had hung from her hand. Only silver fire burned behind the eyes of the Mask.
And the baby … her nephew. Blood of her blood.
She would save him, save them, even if it took everything. “Show me,” she pleaded. No one answered. The Harp stopped its echoing.
As Time resumed, noise and movement roaring into the room, Nesta
whispered to the Cauldron, her promise rising above the din, “I’ll give it all back.”
And a soft, invisible hand brushed her cheek in answer.
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