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100vern · 2 months ago

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how to cancel your faustian bargain | wjh

FAUSTIAN BARGAIN 🔥 a pact whereby a person trades something of supreme moral or spiritual importance, such as personal values or the soul, for some worldly or material benefit, such as knowledge, power, or riches. faustian bargains are by their nature tragic or self-defeating for the person who makes them, because what is surrendered is ultimately far more valuable than what is obtained.

pairing: attorney!junhui x devil!reader genre: (very lite) enemies to lovers, lawyer au; crack, fluff, smut summary: as the devil, you’re more than happy to grant favors in exchange for someone’s soul, and you’re known for having the most iron-clad contracts around. which is why wen junhui—the scene’s newest contract attorney hell-bent on returning all those souls you’ve acquired—is really starting to piss you off. rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work. warnings: member pov, reader is thee devil so needless to say there is a bunch of religious themes and topics here (as a person whose roman-catholic grandfather temporarily disowned her for stopping ccd classes i am qualified to write this dw), jihan as literal devil's advocates, hoshi as a shit-stirring angel who wears questionable shirts, i am the opposite of jovan and do not know the law (especially hell law), i also blocked out most catholicism so don't take any of this for canon, god is genderless and the devil is a sympathetic character sue me, alcohol use, low self-esteem/self-doubt, open but optimistic ending. smut warnings: kissing, mentions of a handjob (actually a major plot point), an actual handjob, oral sex (both receiving), some scratching/marking and biting, jun kinda likes/yearns for pain but it's not a whole thing, light nipple play, fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, everyone orgasms, jun is down bad. in general it's probably much softer than sex with the devil would usually be? wordcount: 22k credits: jess (@starlightkyeom) and bee (@imnotshua) for reading this along the way, beta'ing, and suggesting stupid hoshi shirts. mj (@kkaetnipjeon) and jade (@eoieopda) for helping me with law stuff. everyone in the c&e server who helped me along the way — i yapped so much about this fic that i cannot remember everyone. i am sorry but i love you. note: this somehow wound up being my longest oneshot to date. i don't know how and i still feel like there are parts not fleshed out enough, but big shoutout to my adderall for getting us here. wen junhui, you are a strange little man; i had a blast writing you. this was written for the don't hate, litigate! collab, hosted by @haologram. thank you so much for letting me participate!

The thing is, Wen Junhui is not really supposed to be here.

Not, like, literally here—sitting across from you, the literal devil, at your desk, ass burning a little because it’s really hot here and he is, admittedly, not used to the heat—but metaphorically. Big picture-ly. This is not how I envisioned my life turning out…ly.

The thing is, Wen Junhui barely made it through law school. Barely passed his licensing exam. Watched his classmates score prestigious internships and receive exclusive offers and network and schmooze and, he thought at the time, all but sell their soul to graduate with jaw-dropping salaries awaiting them and no debt.

And it fucking sucked watching that, because he was about to become a lawyer, sure, but he’d gotten scarlet fever as a kid, swore he was going to die, swore he saw not only the light but Jesus himself (his mother called this a delusion, still insists to this day the prodigal son did not travel all the way to Shenzhen to visit him), and decided if he survived he was going to dedicate his life to the church and become a priest.

(He only decided on law school after he got a little carried away with his high school girlfriend, received an honestly mid handjob that had him crying for three straight days and contemplating confession before he decided to take it to his grave, and he’d announced the next night at dinner, weighed down by an impressive amount of guilt and religious trauma, that he was just going to go to university and major in business or finance instead.)

Anyway. Turns out that whole selling their soul thing wasn’t a joke, and where others would’ve seen a loophole, Wen Junhui had seen an opportunity.

Because he didn’t have the grades. Didn’t have the family name or even the drive, because in another life he’s at least a deacon, so he had to do something. Had to think outside the box, get a little creative, carve out a niche for himself that none of his classmates would also be trying to occupy because he had student loans.

“How did you even get in here?” you ask, doing one of those really cool pen flips Jun has never figured out how to do. “A human hasn’t just strolled into my office in at least a millennia.”

Jun swallows, tries not to let show how nervous he is. “I, uh—I’m not sure? I sort of just… walked in, I guess.”

You blink. Study him for a while, eyes narrowed, before you make a small ah! sound and snap your fingers. What the heck? Jun can’t do that, either. “I know who you are now.”

“You do?”

“Mmhm, sure do. You were pretty famous around here for about thirteen seconds when you got that handjob and changed the trajectory of your own life forever. Some of the lower demons had bet money on you eventually becoming the Pope, so you can imagine their heartbreak… and the amount of coin they lost.” You click your tongue, return your attention to the scroll in front of you. “I kept telling them not to bet on that kind of stuff. Teenagers are wildly unpredictable, especially hormonal teenage boys. One of my finest creations, if I do say so myself.”

Not that he had any expectation of privacy here, but to say he’s mortified would be an understatement.

“Oh. That’s… really embarrassing.”

You nod, distracted as you press a large red button on your desk. “Yeah, I imagine for you it would be.”

Two men immediately materialize on each side of you. One is all cheekbones and sharp, calculating edges. Looks like the personification of mischief or perhaps temptation. After that handjob and the subsequent mourning period, Jun had come to really, really appreciate women, but he’s secure enough in his sexuality to acknowledge that the man in front of him—with his long, dark hair and lithe figure; his nonchalant, blasé attitude—is very attractive.

And the other one is no slouch, either. Has what Jun presumes is meant to be a friendlier disposition, a foil of the other man, good-cop-bad-cop, and they must be quite successful, he figures. Can’t imagine a world in which there’s anything that’d be denied to either of them.

Still, they’re well-acquainted with you, because they barely blink as you say, “Please say hello to our intruder,” with a frightening amount of bite.

The dark-haired one offers up a sleazy grin as he leans back against the wall. “Hello, intruder. Do you have a name?”

It’s a predictable question, and yet Jun still startles. Goes slack-jawed as he fixes his posture, sits straighter in his seat. Has the first syllable of his name sitting on the tip of his tongue when the other man sighs and gestures for Jun to stay quiet. “Don’t tell him your name. Better yet, don’t tell him anything, just pretend he doesn’t exist.”

“That’s rich coming from a person who chose to call themselves Joshua.”

Joshua pouts. “I thought there was something to be said for the irony.” A snort tumbles out of him, and Jun realizes that he is not the foil of the other man: he is, in fact, just as impish and rogue. “God is deliverance.” The dark-haired one does not react. “Aw, c’mon, it’s funny!”

“If you have to convince someone it’s funny, it probably is not so.”

Joshua rolls his eyes. “Alright, Jeonghan. As if you didn’t do the same thing.”

“At least when I strive to be ironic, it actually is humorous—”

With an exasperated sigh, you return your attention to Jun, who has suddenly found a fascinating piece of lint on his trousers. Pointedly does not make eye contact with you, because you had been intimidating and hellacious on your own��and, he’s a little flustered to admit, very attractive—but he’s extremely out of his element sitting across from the literal devil and two demons.

“So, Wen Junhui,” you say, tossing a pair of reading glasses onto your desk, “why are you here?”

(“Wen Junhui?” Joshua whispers to Jeonghan. “As in the Wen Junhui that got the handjob?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Jeonghan whispers back.)

And now it all feels a bit silly, because Jun had walked straight into Hell thinking he’d be able to… what, exactly? Strike up a friendly conversation? Start making demands? Cut a deal that didn’t include handing over his mortal soul?

Maybe the whole becoming a priest thing hadn’t worked out but he’d still learned a thing or two, and he remembers all the words used to describe you, your original purpose. Meant to reflect God’s glory, anointed, given the highest seat at the table. They’d blamed your downfall on pride, on vanity and violence, and Wen Junhui from Shenzhen, China, who once had scarlet fever and got a bad handjob, was a fool to come here and think he could go toe-to-toe with you.

Overcome with nerves, all he can do is laugh as he toys with the hair at the nape of his neck. Considers saying something like you’re gonna think this is so silly before he decides against it. You’ve been accused of having a sense of humor, but Jun can’t imagine this harebrained scheme of his would make the cut.

Still—he wouldn’t be where he is if the bad ideas sitting on his shoulder had kept quiet, and they’re still whispering to him now, reminding him how he wound up here to begin with: less fortunate than his classmates, less connected, looked over for all those internships and opportunities because he wasn’t born with the proper credentials. Those god-forsaken student loans. Desperation forced him to do this, and it’d be a real shame if he got this far only to give up at the last second, wouldn’t it?

So, he does what he did best all those years of law school: he fakes it.

“Let’s say I’m interested in… a partnership, of sorts.”

Jeonghan and Joshua share a look.

“Ah,” you reply, hands folded in front of you. “And what kind of partnership would that be?”

Let no man (or demon) ever accuse Wen Junhui of doing things half-assed, because he’s doing a concerning amount of oversharing and trauma-dumping before he can talk himself out of it. Spills all the highs and lows of his twenty-odd years, including his infamous handjob, much to Joshua and Jeonghan’s delight. They listen with rapt attention, elbowing one another as they gleefully press him for more details, and to their credit they only interrupt him once with lewd gestures before they’re slapping at and falling over one another with laughter.

He gets to his time in law school. Talks about feeling lapped by his classmates and all the advantages they’d been given, the benefits that weren’t on offer for someone like him: the oldest son of a piano teacher and a seamstress. Someone who showed up to class with a worn leather bag (repaired weekly by his mother) and secondhand books yellowing at the edges. Someone who spent his Friday nights and weekends holed up in his dorm room, not invited to parties and mixers.

“I had to do my first internship in personal injury,” he says, arms gesticulating wildly. “No one wanted those internships, and do you know why?” He pauses for dramatic effect. Jeonghan mimics a sound that sounds like game show countdown music. “Those pictures were gross.”

“Tragic,” you deadpan.

“It was,” Jun insists. He’s starting to feel fidgety. Has no idea how his plight is being received. “It wasn’t paid, either, and I had to take out student loans.”

Joshua beams. “Her second best invention.”

“What?” Jeonghan retorts, brows pinching in the middle. “No way, second-best is definitely cocaine—”

From you comes an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh, and Jeonghan and Joshua immediately cease their bickering. You turn your attention to Jun, and if he’d been able to trick himself into thinking a glimmer of patience or good humor or—god forbid—genuine affection had been visible before, no such delusions are available now. Your face is stern, the pupils of your eyes reflecting flames behind him that don’t exist, and the corners of your mouth are tugged severely downward.

He swallows hard.

“Wen Junhui, get to the point. Your human skin is starting to stink up my office.”

Subtly, he tries to sneak a sniff of his armpit. It’s not mountain fresh, but he’s certainly smelled worse, and he thinks he deserves a little leeway as his body acclimates to such extreme temperatures. He then crosses one leg over the other, ankle on thigh, and leans forward on his elbows. Tries to project some—any—amount of authority and confidence as he says, “I need a niche. Something just for me; something none of my classmates are going after.”

“Because you’re unable to compete with them,” you tack on. Unnecessarily and rudely, in Jun’s opinion, but he nods anyway. Behind you, Jeonghan and Joshua are once again elbowing one another, giddy at Jun’s impending failure while desperately trying to keep their expressions neutral. “Let me guess: you want the same deal?” You begin rifling through a drawer in your desk. “I think I still have all those contracts around here somewhere, so I’m sure I can get you something similar, but if we’re being honest you’re worth a good bit more.”

Jun blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“What part are you having trouble with?” you ask, still sorting through files. Only the top of your head is visible over the ledge of your African blackwood desk.

No horns, Jun notes. He was so sure you were going to have horns.

“Er, both, to be honest. What do you mean I’m ‘worth more’?”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes before slamming his palms onto your desk, causing Jun to startle. Just for fun. “Hey, moron, were you not listening when she told you earlier that you were supposed to be the goddamn Pope?”

“You weren’t even here when she said that,” Jun mumbles, every bit the moron Jeonghan accused him of being, because it’s far easier than acknowledging… well, the entirety of that statement.

Does the Pope get a salary? If he does, surely it’s more than Jun’s making now—

“He doesn’t,” Joshua says. Then clarifies, “Get a salary. Just some coins. A woefully underpaid position, if you ask me, considering how many babies he has to kiss.” He shudders. “Disgusting! When you could just eat them instead!”

Aside from the whole eating babies thing, Jun can’t really disagree. Only a handful of coins for being in charge of all of Catholicism and having to know Latin? And having to live in Italy?

“Also,” Joshua continues, “it’s kind of our job to know everything that goes on down here, so we did, in fact, know she told you that you were supposed to be the Pope.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “And yet he became a lawyer. Imagine if Fibonacci had done the same—the eighth circle would be so boring.”

“Boniface,” Jun corrects him, immediately shutting trap at the look the three of you send his way. “He’s really in the eighth circle? I thought Dante just said that because he was upset about the exile.”

Upset is underselling it, Joshua mumbles. Looks like he wants to say more but has enough sense not to. Beside him, Jeonghan is once again rolling his eyes, growing more perturbed and borderline-homicidal in Jun’s proximity by the second.

Does he really smell that bad? Should he wear cologne next time? Is there a particular note those in the Underworld find appealing? Because Jun doesn’t mind tracking it down. He’s here on your turf asking for a favor, after all, so it’d be basic manners to smell nice and not stink up the place.

He’s about to ask when a booming sound of acknowledgement comes from you. A sly grin sits lopsided on your face as you toss a manila folder onto your desk, so thick a yellowing rubber band struggles to fit around it once. “This is you, Wen Junhui,” you say, pushing it closer to Jun.

All he can do is stare. Feels like his heart is going to pound right out of his chest, and he can’t pinpoint why, doesn’t know what’s got him so uneasy. He doesn’t have to look at it to know his entire life is in that file—perhaps even the before and the after. All the possibilities, all the could-have-beens. The consequences of him going right at the fork in the road instead of taking the left. Endless, and he finally realizes the boulder sitting on his chest is dread: existential variety.

“It’s, uh.” He licks at his lips. “It’s really big,” he finally says, feeling stupid and embarrassed at the way his voice trembles.

“Aish, this fucking kid,” Jeonghan grouses at the same time Joshua snickers and wonders aloud, “Do you think that’s what that girl said when he got the handjob?”

You press the red button again and Jeonghan and Joshua disappear without a word.

“Even in the lowest pits of Hell you must still suffer the displeasure of men,” you say, as if you’re imparting ancient wisdom upon Jun. “I must admit I’ve grown quite familiar with your file.”

“Manila,” Jun replies, also as if he’s being extremely wise. “Didn’t expect to see that around here.”

“Yes, well, the cheap ones are great for papercuts.” You pause and your demeanor grows serious, belying the importance of what you’re about to say. “You’re one of a select few, Wen Junhui. Not many files that come across my desk are this size.”

Pride swells in his chest, booting that existential boulder to the curb. “Oh,” he says, trying desperately to tamper down his excitement. “Yay!”

He does a little wiggle. Mortifying.

“Something you said earlier stuck out to me—something about certain things not being on offer for someone like you.” Your eyes meet Jun’s, and it suddenly feels like he’s been catapulted off the edge of the world. “I don’t think you realize just how much is on offer for someone like you.”

Jun swallows hard. Tries to, anyway—finds that his mouth has gone bone dry. His limbs, too, refuse to work, feel both heavy and weightless, and he’s anxious again, hands and feet saturated with sweat, no wonder he smells, and he knows, he knows, he knows who and what you are, knows this is a trick. Knows he’s offered himself up on a silver platter.

Good god, he came here willingly. No wonder Jeonghan kept calling him names.

“So,” you begin, moving your glasses to the top of your head, “what is it you want? You’re in an elite tier; I could give you almost anything you ask for.”

“Um—”

“You mentioned loans; is it money you want? You’re not quite qualified for billionaire level yet, but I think you’d find both the terms and the offered amount to be quite… agreeable.”

Oh, you’re good. Just as he had with the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, Jun always thought the story of Adam and Eve was simple: don’t do the thing you’re explicitly told not to do. But now, seated across from Temptation itself, he understands it’s not that simple, that those two never stood a chance. Because the longer he’s silent, the more relaxed he starts to feel. That headache he’s been fighting off for three days finally starts to recede. He feels confident and a bit euphoric, but he supposes everyone would feel that way if they were being offered any and everything they could ever want.

“Actually…”

Wen Junhui isn’t very religious anymore, but he used to be. Used to believe in all the teachings; used to sit at the piano in the living room and hum along as his father played processionals; used to beg his mother to read from the Studium Biblicum at bedtime so he could fall asleep and dream of utopia.

Wen Junhui isn’t religious anymore, but he remembers the basics.

Enough to steel his voice and say, “Actually, I didn’t come here to talk about money.”

Jun doesn’t know what time it is.

It’s late enough that the city has gone mostly quiet. The buses have stopped running, the elevator just outside his door hasn’t dinged in a while, and the light that’s refracted onto his bedroom ceiling is a familiar shade of blue-silver. Not long after two a.m. if he had to guess.

He doesn’t know how he got back to his apartment, either, which would’ve been the more pressing issue at any other time.

But he’s had a long day. Took a little trip to Hell, got laughed at, got offered a lot of money, and got laughed at again. Now he’s got the anxiety shakes. Keeps seeing figures in every shadow. Can’t sleep even though every part of his body is bogged down by exhaustion. All he can do is stare at the swirls in the ceiling plaster and be glad he doesn’t have to work for another two days.

At first, he thinks the knocking is on someone else’s door. Then, once it doesn’t cease, he chalks it up to hallucination. It’s only once it goes from hey, I’m here! to OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR RIGHT GODDAMN NOW does he stumble out of bed and through the living room.

Through the peephole, all that stares back at him are the dingy fluorescent lights of the hallway.

“You know, judging by the outside, I thought this place was gonna be a real shithole, but it’s not that bad.” Jun shrieks, collapses to the floor with his hand clawing at his chest. “Oops, sorry, dude. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

There is a man in his apartment.

There is a man in his apartment. At two o’clock in the morning.

“Wh-who are you?” he stammers out, eyes squeezed shut as if it’ll protect him. “I do-don’t have any mo-money.”

The man scoffs. If Jun was looking, he assumes it was accompanied by an eye-roll. “Not to be rude, but I was able to ascertain that, yeah.”

Jun peeks one eye open. Before him stands a man of average height, looks to be early to mid 20s. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a black hoodie that says FEMALE BODY INSPECTOR in large white lettering. His hat, which is so neon pink it seems to glow, simply says SWAG.

He opens his other eye and quirks an eyebrow. “Are you a demon?”

“Ew, no.”

“What are you, then?”

The man pouts. “You can’t tell by my extremely good looks and”—he pauses, clears his throat like he’s trying to remember something—“awesome sauce fashion?”

“I—no, sorry. Also, your what?”

“I’m an angel,” the angel says quickly before he starts digging through his pockets. “Do people not say awesome sauce anymore?” Jun shakes his head. The angel pulls a pen out of nowhere and strikes out something in a notebook. “What year is it?”

“Er, 2024. Almost 2025.”

“What year did people stop saying awesome sauce?”

“I don’t know,” Jun says. “Do you have a name?”

The angel sighs, the pen and notebook both blink out of existence. “Hoshi,” the angel replies. “It means star, which I am. By the way.”

“Okay. May I ask why you’re in my apartment?”

“You ask a lot of questions. You got anything to drink?”

“I don’t remember any angels named Hoshi in the Bible.”

“It’s my Earth name.” Hoshi flutters his eyelashes. “Suits me, right?”

Jun’s eyes narrow. “You also aren’t biblically-accurate.”

Hoshi scoffs, hands immediately finding the waistband of his sweatpants. “I am where it counts.” He starts to pull them down, much to Jun’s horror, and all he can think is, oh my god I’m about to see an angel’s penis, what’s the protocol for this, do I have to look at it, would it be rude not to, this is the weirdest day of my life, I must be in a medically-induced coma—

“I’m getting the impression you don’t really want to see my dick.”

Jun covers his eyes again. “I don’t!”

“Bummer. I’m gonna summon a Baja Blast, do you want one?”

“I—no, no thank you. I think I just—I really need to sleep? But I’m not tired? It’s been a long day and I’m still not one-hundred percent sure I’m not hallucinating all of this.”

Hoshi snaps his fingers and a garishly blue bottle of soda appears in his hand. He beams. “Trade offer: I help you sleep and you take me out for breakfast when you wake up. We have a lot to talk about.”

“You’re just gonna… hang out here? In my apartment?”

“Yes,” Hoshi confirms. “I’m going to look through all your stuff.”

Jun wants to say no. He should say no. Has half a mind to consider Hoshi is lying about being an angel and is instead another demon sent by you from Hell to keep tabs on him, but his aura is different—less… oppressive—so he gives in and nods.

He’s asleep within seconds.

It’s only a few hours later when he stirs awake. Sunlight streams in through the curtains, and the sounds of the city are drowned out by birdsong. Jun feels more rested and weightless than he has in years, and it allows him to wake slowly, recount the events of the past 24 hours and take stock of his body, how he’s feeling. Do some breathing exercises. Briefly contemplate if he has now twice altered the trajectory of his life for the worst.

“Get up!” someone yells from his living room. Right, the angel guy. “I want waffles and the diner stops serving breakfast in thirty minutes!”

Jun stares blankly at the ceiling. There’s no diner anywhere near him that serves American breakfast, but he assumes that isn’t going to stop Hoshi, who has no concept or time or space and no constraints on either.

Thirty minutes later, they’re sitting across from one another in a retro American-style diner.

“Where are we?” Jun asks, peering outside the large window to his right. All the cars are American makes; the walls look like they're made out of silver; all the signs are in English. He doesn’t have to ask why he can understand them. “Besides America. I’m gathering as much.”

Hoshi pours an entire sugar packet in his mouth and grins. “New Jersey. They have more diners than any other state in America, and some are even open 24 hours! It’s my favorite place on Earth.”

“Okay,” Jun acquiesces. What else is he going to do? He’s never been to America before, let alone New Jersey. “What do I order? I don’t know what any of this stuff is.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll order for you.”

Famous last words.

Whatever Hoshi had ordered for him has more sugar in one bite than Jun usually eats in an entire week, but it’s so good he can’t help himself. Half of his meal is devoured before they can get to the heart of the meeting even though Hoshi yaps the whole time—talks animatedly about things Jun doesn’t understand but thinks sound important, like his dog and his favorite music. Hoshi also talks about his love for dancing, and when Jun cocks his head to the side and asks, like Saint Vitus?, all he gets in return is a small smile.

“Okay,” Hoshi says, pushing his plate towards the middle of the table, “now that I’m ready to throw up, it’s time to talk business.” Jun swallows, no longer hungry. “I saw your entire pitch. It was embarrassing.”

Jun groans and face-plants onto the table. “Yeah.” Syrup sticks to his forehead.

“However, it was a convincing story. That’s why They sent me here.”

“They?”

Hoshi waves him off. “Whatever you know Them as: God, the Lord, The Big Boss. They also heard everything.”

Jun slowly picks his head up and studies the angel across from him. Hoshi is weird, no doubt about that, but he’s also endearingly earnest. “And They… what? Want to help me?”

“Precisely,” Hoshi confirms. “And before you ask why, I think that part is quite obvious, but it’s two-fold: yes, it’s partly out of spite, but also—some of those souls were supposed to be ours.”

Jun blinks. Feels like his brain is filled with primordial goo and is about to split at the seams. “Explain this to me like I’m an idiot.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Hoshi replies, tone measured and slightly confused. “We’re all-knowing up there, as I’m sure you know. We know who’s meant to be ours at the moment of their birth and we keep an eye on them throughout their lives. We’re not allowed to intervene, though, which the Devil knows. Free will and all that.” Hoshi rolls his eyes. “With free will comes temptation, and temptation is a powerful thing. Most people are not immune to it, which is why They took notice of you.”

“Wasn’t I—”

“Supposed to be the Pope? Yeah. They weren’t, like, super thrilled about the outcome of that, but contrary to popular belief, it’s not against Their Word to get a handjob.”

“But I spilled seed.”

The look on Hoshi’s face almost looks like a grimace. “And you’ve spilled a lot more since then. Look, all I’m saying is if the worst thing you do in your life is have sex, you’re not disqualified. We look at the entire itemized receipt, not a single purchase, if you catch my drift.”

“Yeah,” Jun replies, a little dazed. He still could’ve been the Pope. “I became a lawyer for nothing?”

“Not nothing,” Hoshi insists, shaking his head. “You’ve actually put yourself in a very unique position, which is what I’m trying to get to. Some of those souls were meant to be ours, but they fell into temptation and made deals with those fuc—” He coughs. “Those… beings… down there.”

Hoshi reaches across the table and places a warm hand over Jun’s. “They want you to help return their souls to where they belong.”

“And how am I supposed to do that? You saw it: she laughed at me, not to mention she now knows what I’m up to. And how am I meant to advertise? If these souls are already in Hell, it’s not like I can put up a billboard!”

Hoshi’s eyes narrow. “She?” he asks. “That’s how the Devil appeared to you?”

“I—yeah. Is that not how she appears to everyone?”

“What did she look like?”

Jun trudges through the slime in his brain. Tries to remember anything besides—“Pretty,” he answers. “I don’t really—that’s all I can remember. I just remember she was really, really pretty.”

“Like the kind of woman you’d be attracted to on Earth, right?” Jun nods. “You need to be careful. She’ll appear to you again in similar forms, especially now that I’ve been here and told you Their intention.”

“So you’re telling me I have to be suspicious of any beautiful woman that finds me attractive?” Hoshi nods, soliciting a tortured groan from Jun. “This just keeps getting worse and worse.”

“You won’t be able to avoid her, nor are you expected to. It’s to your advantage she entertained you at all, and she certainly wasn’t lying when she said you are of a higher status to her and everyone in Hell. If we want you, it’s only natural they would as well.”

Jun mulls all of this over. Stares into his mostly-empty mug of coffee and tries to make sense of it. “I can’t even remember how I got there. I just had the idea, and then it was like I woke up in Hell. I didn’t mean to—what if I don’t even want to do this anymore? Can’t I just go back to my regular, boring life? This is—this is too much.”

“Unfortunately it’s too late for that. You have been chosen, Wen Junhui, and not just for this.”

Jun scoffs. “You’re making me sound like Harry Potter.”

“Thankfully that lady does not belong to us. Now, would you like to go back to your apartment before we get into specifics? It may take a while.”

“...Can we take another order of these things to go?”

Hoshi grins and flags down the waitress to order another massive stack of sugar-dusted waffles. “I think I’m going to enjoy my time on earth with you, Wen Junhui.”

The specifics are thus:

Hoshi is in charge of what earth-bound lawyers would call advertising. Jun isn’t privy to the specifics; he doesn’t know how Hoshi is even capable of it, if he’s just going to waltz into Hell and hand out business cards or what, but it’s more than he’s able to do so he doesn’t ask. (Well, that’s not entirely true. He did ask, and all Hoshi said in return was, “You know Metatron?” and left it at that.)

Hoshi is also in charge of The List: the souls Heaven wants freed from their contracts and returned upstairs. He allows Jun a brief glimpse of it, who is none too surprised to find a few law school colleagues but still overwhelmed at its length. It’s long—so long it had taken Hoshi quite some time to unfurl the scroll—and it isn’t static. Anyone destined for Heaven that makes a deal with the devil while Jun’s at work will simply be added to the bottom of the list. On and on it’ll go, ad nauseam, until Jun either dies or retires.

Which, speaking of retirement—

In a shocking turn of events, the job comes with benefits. Hoshi had been reluctant to call it a salary. For all intents and purposes Jun will be self-employed: he will be provided with a small office space in a nice area of downtown with no signage, although he’s also welcome to work remotely or wherever he feels most comfortable. Money will appear in his account, though he can opt for other forms of payment if he so wishes. (He’d been offered enough to live off of for a year for even accepting the job but chose to have his student loans paid off instead.)

They will keep him healthy. They will keep his sleep schedule regular and his refrigerator stocked with nutritious food. They will ensure people leave him alone and that no suspicions are cast upon him. They will ensure Jun has every tool at his disposal to be successful.

(It was a lot. Felt like making an inverse deal with the devil—he knew he was playing for the right side, but it was non-negotiable and non-refundable. Wen Junhui had been chosen, and in a moment of self-doubt and self-deprecation, he’d joked, “Can They make me smarter?”

Hoshi’s brows had furrowed. “The list of benefits makes no mention of increased intelligence.” Jun pouted; let out a whiny little oh. Hoshi grabbed another sheet of paper. “Your intelligence stats are nearly maxed, dude.”

“I barely passed law school!” he protested.

“I don’t know what to tell you. If we made you any smarter your brain would explode. Literally.”)

After that, there wasn’t much left to discuss. Hoshi had a lot of planning to do; needed to talk to someone in the marketing department but promised he’d be back as soon as possible. Left a tome in Jun’s possession and told him to study.

Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition, it says, and Jun stares down at it full of foreboding. It’s bound in black leather, giltstamped in red. Nothing good comes bound in black leather with shiny red letters.

Still, he does what’s asked of him, lest his student loan pay-off gets reversed. He spends hours hunched over his small dining room table with a legal pad to his right, taking notes on any and everything that may prove important—what he can make sense of, at least, because it doesn’t resemble any legal or governmental structure he’s ever seen.

He groans. Tosses his pen onto the table and leans back in the stiff wooden chair, lets his head loll off the back as the wood digs into his neck. Says, “What the heck am I supposed to do with this?” to the empty space of his apartment, and before he’s even opened his eyes another book appears on the table.

Theological Law For Mortals: An Introduction (Sorry!!!! - Hoshi)

He swears.

The days bleed together. Hoshi pops in briefly to officially assign him his first case: one Kim Mingyu from Anyang-si, South Korea. Apparently sold his soul to be “tall and hot” and Heaven desperately needs him back. “This one’s important to the big boss,” Hoshi says, dropping off a stack of papers with a picture paperclipped to the front with the most attractive, symmetrical man Jun has ever seen. “He was meant to work in recruiting,” Hoshi explains.

Jun whistles low. “Understandable. Look at his face.”

“Exactly, so you get the need for a little urgency.” He tries to stamp it down, but Jun feels the panic start to rise. Has to dig his fingernails into the palm of his hand. “Hey, just do your best. Call me if you need anything.”

Hoshi turns to leave, ugly pair of brand new sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor of the kitchen, but Jun’s able to stammer out, “What—what if I can’t do it?”

The angel turns, face marred by genuine confusion. “Why would you think you can’t?”

And then he’s gone.

Fueled by Hoshi’s unwavering—and frankly incomprehensible—confidence in him, Jun finds what he needs just after four o’clock Sunday morning. There, on page 4,837 of Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition, in subsection 69 of section 567, it clearly states that souls handed over in exchange for vanity-related reasons must adhere to strict guidelines, limited to but not including:

General facial appearance

Eye and/or hair color

Penis, breast, and/or butt size

Height and/or weight

Others TBD

Pushed beyond the threshold of exhaustion, eyes going in and out of focus, he’s not sure the text following the sub-bullet point is real, but there it is: In regards to height, men must be made at least 6’2” or 188 centimeters for the contract to be considered legally binding.

“Hoshi!”

At once, the angel appears across from him. He’s decked out in another stupid t-shirt (Don’t Bully Me, I’ll Cum, this one says) and is drinking a 7-Eleven slushy through a bendy straw. His lips and tongue are stained blue when he smiles and asks, “Good news?”

Jun shakes his head. Tries to erase the scene in front of him. “Maybe,” he answers. “I need you to get an accurate height on Kim Mingyu. And I mean really accurate. Shave him bald if you have to.”

Hoshi’s smile fades as he grows serious. “You really think you’ve got something?”

“I think so.” Jun pushes the book across the table. “Take a look at that part I highlighted. I know his file says he’s 188 centimeters tall, but imagine if whoever measured him just rounded up? If he’s even a millimeter under that, the contract is void.”

Before he can comprehend what’s happening, Hoshi climbs halfway across the table, grabs Jun by the cheeks, and plants a wet, noisy kiss in the middle of Jun’s forehead. “Wen Junhui, you sneaky little minx, I may be a little in love with you.”

Jun’s face flushes hot and red.

“Just—just look into it, okay? I’ve been over the rest of this and I can’t see any other way out of it.” With a sarcastic salute, Hoshi disappears. Feels like he’s only gone a few minutes before he pops back up in the living room wearing a somber expression. “What?” Jun asks, panicked, feeling his stomach drop out of his ass. “What’s wrong?”

“Bad news,” Hoshi replies, heaving a sigh. Won’t look up from the floor. Does an impeccable job at selling it, before he looks up at Jun with a shit-eating grin, barely able to contain his excitement. “For the Devil! Ha ha ha!”

Whiplash. All Jun can feel is whiplash, and he stumbles out of the chair, can barely feel the ache in his bones. Trips over a rogue object on his way to the living room. “What? You mean—”

“You did it! Kim Mingyu officially measured in at a glorious six-foot-one-point-nine repeating.”

Jun grabs onto the back of the couch so he doesn’t pass out. Oxygen is not reaching his brain right now, nor is coherent thought. All those agonizing days in law school during which he resigned himself to being a failure. All those back-breaking nights he had to run to the bus stop to get home from his internship, only a handful of hours before he had to be awake again for class. All the meals he upchucked from anxiety before critical exams. All his classmates that’d ignored and belittled him. And now—

“I did it…” he says, voice colored with pure disbelief.

Hoshi starts doing some kind of concerning, robotic-looking dance. “Yeah, bitch!” A bolt of lightning strikes right in front of him and Hoshi startles. Rubs at the back of his neck and has the good sense to look sheepish. “I forgot I’m not supposed to swear.” He looks up at the ceiling. “Sorry, Boss!”

He turns his attention to Jun. “Go take a shower and get dressed. Wear something nice; we’re going out to celebrate.”

Whatever club Hoshi has brought him to is humid and sticky.

With what, Jun can’t be sure, but every time he presses his fingertips together it takes a concerning amount of time for them to peel apart.

Hoshi leads him to the bar. Hops onto a stool and kicks his feet as he waves over the bartender. She’s cute, Jun thinks; a bright, open smile splits her face as she pulls away from Hoshi, clearly endeared by whatever it was he had said. She moves around the bar with an easy confidence, does a little twirl to avoid her coworker, and Jun doesn’t realize he’s hypnotized until Hoshi digs an elbow into his ribs.

“Take it easy, killer. I ordered us some shots.”

Jun snaps out of his reverie. “Can you even drink?”

“Of course I can, I just can’t get drunk. Not here, anyway. Big Boss made the real good stuff exclusive to you-know-where after a few, uh… mishaps. Down here.” He coughs. “Let’s find somewhere to sit. I’ll come back for the drinks.”

There’s an empty booth tucked away in a corner. Jun takes the side that gives him an eyeline shot of the bar even though it feels a little creepy, and if Hoshi knows what he’s doing he doesn’t mention it. He’s back to yapping about one thing or another, gets distracted by all the commotion in the club—the group playing darts, the packed dance floor, a couple making out near the restrooms. Quite enthusiastically, Jun might add.

True to his word, Hoshi disappears for a second to retrieve the drinks. Jun watches as the bartender hands over a tray of rainbow-colored shots and also as Hoshi pats the pockets of his skin-tight pleather plants. Watches as he panics and frantically waves Jun over. Once he’s in his personal space, Hoshi leans in and whispers, “They say they need a card for the tab. I don’t know what that is so I’m assuming I don’t have one.”

Jun sighs. Explains, “It’s a credit card. How do you survive down here with no money?” Nevertheless, he digs out his wallet and hands his card over. “I can’t believe you invited me out and I’m getting stuck with the bill.”

Hoshi tuts. Hands Jun’s credit card to the bartender without an ounce of remorse. “Relax, I’ll have Matt reimburse you.”

“Who the heck is Matt—” Jun begins to say, but he’s interrupted by the most annoying angel God ever created placing the tray of drinks in Jun’s hands, then asking, “Can you take this back to the table? I’ll be right there.”

Hoshi is not going to be right there. Hoshi is going to hover around the bar because the cute bartender was making eyes at him, and Jun is going to return to their formerly-shared table to drink alone. There aren’t many things more depressing than going out with a friend to celebrate a personal achievement only to end up downing six shots on his own.

…Which are not to Jun’s taste at all.

He’s a habitual Tsingtao drinker. Never bothers to order anything else because he knows what he likes and it has never steered him wrong. Never had his head stuck in a toilet bowl, either, which is territory he’ll rapidly be approaching if he actually goes through with this.

“Is this seat taken?”

Jun knows it’s you without having to look up. Your aura is tangible—something thick and syrupy like molasses and just as dark; something suffocating, something that would drown him—and it follows you like a shadow. Slides into the booth before Jun can answer, just a nanosecond before your physical form does the same, and when you’re at eye level he has to swallow his gasp.

You look completely different.

Still beautiful, he thinks, because it’s hard to think of anything else. Jun knows who and what you are, of course; remembers the warning Hoshi had given him. Knows that this is just another one of your tricks, another layer of temptation, but it’s a beauty like quicksand. It’s a beauty like the misunderstood creatures at the heart of every fairy tale—those haunting kinds of myths meant to both make you wary and suck you in. It’s a beauty accentuated by darkness.

Worst of all, it’s a beauty that’s making his pants a little tight in the dick area.

“What does that imbecile have you drinking?” you ask, reaching for one of the remaining shot glasses. You grimace as you hold it up to the light. “You know, I once watched a man throw back twelve of these things before he stripped down to nothing but a diaper and attempted to rob a convenience store across the street.”

“Oh. What happened?”

You sigh. Place the glass back on the tray. “A comedy of errors, of course. He somehow managed to make it into the store unnoticed, but he had neither a weapon nor something to store the money in. He tried climbing across the counter to get to the cash register, but the clerk hit him in the head with a metal step stool and knocked him unconscious before calling the police.”

“I’m assuming he got arrested?”

“Oh, no.” You laugh, and Jun’s taken aback by how normal it sounds. “He came to before the police got there. I guess the sirens freaked him out because he ran out of the store and got hit by a bus.” Jun must be wearing a particular look, because you follow that up with, “He was always meant to be one of ours, so don’t worry, you won’t have to meet him.”

Right.

Jun had expected this. Not that he’d had a whole lot of time to expect it, considering Kim Mingyu had been freed from his contract for a whopping fifteen minutes before Hoshi was shoving Jun into the bathroom to shower, but it had been a passing thought on at least four separate occasions.

You’re not going to apologize, he tells himself. Wonders if you can hear his thoughts and desperately hopes you can’t, considering he’d thought about getting a semi from how pretty you are. It wasn’t even a semi, really, if he’s being honest. What’s half of a semi? One-fourth of a boner? That’s what he’d gotten, and if you can read his thoughts it’s very important that you know that.

“I’m not Joshua.”

Jun startles. Feels all the normalcy leak out of his body and form a gloopy puddle on the floor. “Um,” he replies stupidly. “Then how did you—”

“I can feel you thinking. Always feels like chickenpox when humans overthink around me.”

He wrings his sweaty hands together. Rubs them on his jeans when that doesn’t work. “Sorry,” he says instinctually. “It’s just—I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.”

“Why?” you challenge. “Is there something you want to say?”

“I don’t think so. But I can’t imagine you’re very happy with me, and I get this sort of, um. When I know someone’s upset with me it feels like chickenpox, too. And even though I know, logically, that I did a good thing, I still feel like I’m going to throw up?”

Tense silence hangs between the two of you. Jun’s on the verge of word-vomiting another apology when you snap your fingers and turn the remaining shots into something resembling watery honey. You hold one out to him. “Drink this,” you instruct, and Jun makes a point not to let your fingers touch when he takes it.

“Is it poison?”

You heave another sigh. “Wen Junhui, there are some things you need to understand about me. First of all, this is an inherited job. Being The Anointed One comes with a lot of work and responsibility so we get burned out, okay? So there’s only ever been one devil as far as humans are concerned, but in a weird avatar-y kind of way that’s hard to explain and not worth my time to explain to you, specifically, considering you’re the enemy now. Second, I am capable of killing you in ways your human brain cannot even begin to conceive of. I do not need to poison you with ginger tea to take you out.”

Jun looks down at the glass. Raises it to his noise and takes a hesitant sniff.

Oh. Yeah, that’s ginger tea.

That you conjured him… because he said he felt nauseous?

“The last thing you need to understand is that the loophole you found was… unfortunate, to say the least, but Kim Mingyu’s contract was not one of mine. The next contract that idiotic angel is going to ask you to work on was also not my work. If you free him, too, it will be regrettable, but it will pale in comparison to what will happen to you if you even think about touching one of mine.”

You’re gone before the fear can even set in.

Jun blinks, staring at the empty seat across from him. No indication at all that you’d been there, no lingering shadow, just the taste of ginger on his tongue and one of those cartoon scribbles in a thought bubble hovering metaphorically above his head.

He doesn’t—

He can’t—

No, he decides, he is not going to have a mental break in this club. Not while “Friday” by Rebecca Black plays on a loop. Not while he can hear someone to his left vomiting all over the floor. Not while he watches Hoshi skip back to the table and he notices, for the first time all night, what he’s wearing.

“Did you change?”

Because he swears the angel wasn’t wearing that when they left the apartment. The pleather pants, yes, but not the baby pink cropped tank with a decal of a creepy child in the middle that says BOYS ARE STUPID, THROW ROCKS AT THEM.

“What? No,” Hoshi answers, sliding into the seat you’d occupied only moments earlier. “Why does it smell weird over here?”

Jun plays stupid. “One of the dartboard girls puked on the floor.” He’s not very good at it.

Hoshi shakes his head. “Not that.” An exaggerated sniff, not unlike a bloodhound. “It smells like… it definitely smells familiar. I know this smell. It’s like—you know how it feels when it’s about to snow? How the cold and the air burn your nose, but it doesn’t actually smell like anything? As if it used to have a smell, once, a long time ago, and all it is now is just an imprinted memory?”

Jun lies, “No. Nope, no idea.”

Hoshi visibly deflates. “Well, it’s kind of like that. Also a little bit like you used wet moss to put out a wildfire. It fills me with—” Hoshi pauses. Narrows his gaze as he studies Jun intently. Being stared at like this by a guy in that particular shirt is a bit disorienting, he must admit. “She was here, wasn’t she?”

He’ll know he’s lying, but Jun says no again because it’s a lot easier than explaining that being threatened within an inch of his mortal life made him cum in his pants a little.

After the club, Jun gets a few days of reprieve.

He doesn’t hear from Hoshi at all, nor does he materialize unexpectedly in his apartment. No mysterious books show up, either, which is a relief. He’d stored both Theological Contract Law: A Very Comprehensive Introduction: Cases and Materials - 2326th Edition and Theological Law For Mortals: An Introduction on a seldom-used bookshelf in his living room and now the shelf is starting to bow in the middle. One more tome of that size and the whole thing is going to come tumbling down and earn him a noise complaint.

Another one.

Because Hoshi has already racked up three in Jun’s name.

So he tries to go back to life as usual until he’s needed again. Does his grocery shopping in the middle of the week in the middle of the day when it’s not so busy and he can navigate the aisles without crippling anxiety. Goes to a check-up and has to lie about turning over a new leaf and taking his health seriously when his cholesterol levels are back within perfect range. He plays video games, picks a nice willow tree in the park to sit beneath and read (normal books this time), takes some of the Mingyu money to buy a decent watch and a few tailored suits.

For the first time in a while, he’s able to sleep through the night.

But he can’t shake the feeling that it’s all�� strange. Ever since you’d shown up at the bar, he swears he sees you everywhere: in line a few registers over at the supermarket, in the waiting room of the hospital, coming out of a fitting room in the mall. It’s that aura again. Stalks him like prey. Has paranoia pricking at his skin, and it’s not healthy, the way it has him looking over his shoulder at every turn, scurrying away from every attractive woman with a frown and mumbled apologies.

Surely this cannot be the rest of his life.

Hoshi swings by on a Tuesday. Just like you said he would, he asks Jun to work on an assignment for one Lee Chan who tried to sell his friend to the devil but accidentally sold himself instead. “Wouldn’t have really mattered,” Hoshi explains. Today, his shirt says BIG DICK IS BACK IN TOWN. “It’s sort of against the rules to try and sell other people.”

Jun spits toothpaste into the sink and prays the towel stays snug around his waist. Hoshi had cornered him in the bathroom. “So why do you want him back, then?” Rifles through the medicine cabinet for his nice hair serum. “Seems pretty open and shut to me.”

“Why do They want him back,” Hoshi corrects, “and I don’t know why They want this one.”

Jun thinks about what you said: how Mingyu and Lee Chan hadn’t been your contracts, were basically freebies; the… avatar-ness; the not-subtle-at-all threats on his life. Says, “Can I ask you something?” as he rolls on antiperspirant.

Hoshi, who’s sitting in the tub making animals out of shaving cream, simply nods.

“She said something interesting to me—”

“Before or after being mean to you made you ejaculate in your pants like a teenager?”

Jun blinks. “Before,” he answers slowly. When Hoshi makes no move to interrupt him again, he continues, “She said the Kim Mingyu and Lee Chan contracts weren’t hers. That the role is… inherited? Something about an avatar? How does that work?”

The angel hums. Adds what appear to be bunny ears to an amorphous blob that does not look rabbit-shaped at all, and Jun tries to tamper down his excitement at the impending explanation. Everything he’s dealt with so far will have been worth it because he’s going to be in the know. The powers that be will reward him with their trust. He’ll finally get some answers to all those questions he fell asleep pondering as a child.

And then Hoshi waves him away dismissively and says, “You know I can’t tell you any of that,” and everything comes collapsing down like a house of cards.

Fair enough, Jun thinks—he’s only successfully completed one assignment. It’s still early days. “But you will eventually,” he says, and whoever’s listening in must think the optimism in his voice is so pathetic, “right?”

Hoshi is not cruel. They haven’t known each other long, but Jun knows that much. He wasn’t created from some Old Testament mold, when cruelty was the point of it all—intended to impress fear and strict adherence to Their Word. So when Hoshi laughs it isn’t meant the way Jun takes it. When Hoshi laughs it isn’t meant to make Jun feel disregarded and unimportant, small and irrelevant, but that’s where it strikes him all the same.

When Hoshi laughs and has no reassurances to offer, Jun is seventeen again, reckoning with his loss of faith. Now he’s a decade older and is constantly confronted by all those old names and characters, and when you’re trapped in the middle of their bidding, where can you go when you need to hide?

Jun has the Lee Chan assignment completed by Thursday night.

A significant amount of money appears in his bank account. He wakes up on Friday to an enthusiastic message from his landlord, thanking him for paying his rental contract through the end of his lease. His parents thank him for the grocery delivery. On the side, away from the proud ears of his father, his mother is especially thankful. She’s choking back tears as she thanks him profusely, says business has been slow, tells him he’s a good son and he’s made them proud, always, even if he traveled a different path than the one he originally planned to take.

None of it takes away the ache in his chest.

None of it makes him feel any less empty. It’s hard to feel fulfilled when you know you’re just a pawn, stuck in the middle of a holy war that existed long before him and will persist long after he’s gone. Wen Junhui will always be on the outskirts, because everyone needs him, but he’s not important enough to trust. He is someone and no one all at once. He is Purgatory.

He needs to feel human—needs to make human mistakes, destroy himself the way humans do. Needs to commit a few cardinal sins and scold himself, wonder what the fuck he’s doing as he rattles ice around his third glass of baijiu. Needs to wake up with a splitting headache and a fractured memory. Needs a hoarse voice beside him to ask what time it is as he stares at their naked back and wonders how to get out of it.

There’s a bar not far from his apartment. A dive, by every definition of the word: broken, flickering neon sign out front, cheap linoleum floors peeling at the corners, 70s paneling on the walls, the stench of cigarette smoke outlasting all the old regulars. It’s the kind of place ghosts gather; the kind of place Jun was always too scared to go, knew the questioning, distrustful stares that’d be there to greet him as soon as he stepped through the door.

Tonight, though, it’ll do just fine.

He sits on a stool at the bar and orders a beer to start. Intends to stay a while. Watches a trio of old men play dou dizhu at a table near the back, empty bottles at their feet, fat cigars stuck between their teeth, insults and accusations shouted around them. To his left, a middle-aged man tries bartering for another drink. Needs it, he says, because he lost his job and his wife in the same week. Fourth job this month, the bartender replies, no pity to be found. It’s only the twenty-second.

Across the bar sits a kid that reminds Jun a lot of his brother. Can’t be much older than eighteen. Might not be old enough to drink legally at all, but that’s none of his business. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails and a large chip taken out of a front tooth. Not a clean break, all jagged edges—the kind that probably hurts to run his tongue over.

Jun feels guilty for a moment, surrounded by all these people with real problems. He’s got money and a respectable career. Has a roof over his head that’s been paid for by someone else. He’s good-looking, has his health and his youth. Has enough to take care of his family.

“Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” You sit beside him with a humored smile that shines through a truly pinched expression.

Jun snorts as he empties his drink. “Thessalonians. Gotta be honest, not one of my favorites.” Spares a glance at you: you’re different again, appearance-wise, but the scent you wear like a signature perfume is the same. Heady, like it was bottled at the center of the earth. “Is this your way of telling me that comparison is the thief of joy or whatever?”

Your turn to laugh. The bartender sets a drink in front of you that Jun hadn’t heard you order. “No,” you reply simply. “I’m not all that concerned with human joy. Just thought it was ironic. Come sit with me.”

“This is starting to sound familiar,” he snarks, but he follows anyway.

A rickety table by the window. Winter air seeps through, frosts the glass; has Jun wishing he’d worn a thicker coat. It was warmer by the bar. The two chairs you occupy are upholstered in peeling vinyl, one ripped with the stuffing peeking through. Jun takes that one, figuring you’ll laugh at his human chivalry, but you take the seat opposite him without a word. That old flickering sign outside reflects on your face.

He didn’t come here for a therapy session—he came to get drunk on questionable liquor surrounded by people who don’t know him. You do, of course, which throws a wrench in his plan. You seem to know everything about him, including that he’d be here brooding. “Why’d you follow me here?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t for your jubilant demeanor and fantastic conversation.” You put your drink to the side. Fold your hands in front of you. “Congratulations on Lee Chan. The outfit upstairs must be very pleased with the work you’ve done thus far.”

There’s no bite. No sardonic tone.

Jun realizes then how differently you treat him. How honest you are. You don’t lie or stretch the truth; you don’t brush off his questions. Hoshi is truthful at an arm’s length. Makes his stomach feel sour.

“I’m just a pawn, aren’t I? It doesn’t really matter if they’re pleased so long as I get the work done.”

You hum an acknowledgment. “People forget what They used to be like. The atrocities They committed and had others commit in Their name—humans, just like you, who were so desperate to appease their God they would’ve done whatever was asked of them.” Jun’s drink refills. He empties it in one go. “They killed their sons, waged war on their neighbors, have done unspeakable evils in Their name. It’s not only you, Wen Junhui, that has been a pawn to Them.”

He doesn’t react. A glass shatters at the bar. “And you?” he questions. “What are you, then, if those are the things They demand?”

“I’m a foil, of course. Would you still believe in good if there was no evil? Would you believe in the promise of eternal life if there was no threat of eternal damnation? Would you still be moral if there was no corruption?” Rhetorical questions. “Although you’re no stranger to crises of faith, are you?”

He isn’t. The handjob had rattled him, sure, but it hadn’t been the catalyst. Not really. Jun had still gone to church that Sunday. Still kneeled and received Communion and allowed himself to be blessed and prayed over. Still bowed his head before each meal and mouthed along as his mother said grace.

No, his loss of faith had been gradual: a question he couldn’t find an answer to, suffering he could no longer brush off with blind faith, words he used to treat as gospel that began tasting acrid in his mouth as he also lost his conviction. Everything started feeling like bullshit, and once everything started feeling like bullshit, he had to wonder what he’d spent eighteen years of his life chasing. What he spent eighteen years of his life believing in.

Until he found he didn’t believe in all that much anymore.

He has to ask: “Was it your doing?”

You shake your head. “People forget who I am, too. They call me the original liar. They say I am the source of all evil. They attribute every sin and misdeed to me, say it must’ve been my will, and yet it says right there in their holy book, in Isaiah 45:7: I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the Lord do all these things.” You focus all your attention on Jun—he feels the weight of it like a millstone. “I was the anointed one until I was overcome by sin and became the tempter, right? That’s what they say; how they wrote my story. And yet, by Their own word, it was They who created evil. It was God who created darkness.” A hefty pause. “Some may look at me and say I, too, was a pawn.”

“Do you feel like you were?”

You don’t respond. Instead, Jun watches as his view of the bar crumbles once you snap your fingers: block by block replaced with the interior of his apartment. His dining table instead of the off-balance one in front of the window. The ambient noise of his building instead of the bar. A mug of coffee in place of the baijiu.

“What the he—”

It’s within the four dull walls of Jun’s apartment building that you answer: “Even if I was, why should I feel like a victim? Did I not get the better end of the deal?” Jun feels like he’s standing atop a trap door. Like any second it’ll swing open and down, down, down he’ll go. “I rule over my kingdom and make no demands of anyone. I am a consequence of free will and not an inhibitor of it. I dole out punishment only for those deserving of it.”

The coffee is strong. Bitter. Just for a second before it melts away into something sweet. “You are temptation, are you not? Do the demons not do your bidding? Sow chaos in your name? Are you not the originator of all these contracts I’ve been tasked with destroying? If They are to be believed, those people were not meant to be yours, and yet you wound up with them anyway.”

“I like you, Wen Junhui,” you say. “You have an insatiable curiosity that is both admirable and ill-advised.”

He feels his face flush. “Sorry. Got carried away, I think.”

“It’s of little consequence to me. I must admit I have smited men for asking questions, but they were of a more crude variety. More coffee?” Jun nods. “I am who I am. It is who I’ve always been—I was created to walk this path and so I know no different.”

“Predestination.”

“Precisely, just as those dreadful fucking Puritans believed. God needed a foil, a betrayer, and so They created me. I know no other role.”

“You were an angel,” Jun argues. “They say you were beautiful, powerful, and intelligent; they say you were full of light. You don’t remember any of that?”

Sorrow etches across your face. Only for a second—blink and you’ll miss it. It is not in the same realm of pain Jun is experiencing. Yours is an ancient grief. It is something palpable and overwhelming, something liable to consume and destroy everything within its reach if left uncontrolled. Jun wonders if it has been; if you’ve let it unfurl before reigning it back in. If those are the plagues they speak of. Catastrophic disasters and genocides and everything on earth he cannot conceive of.

And then your face shutters. That grief is now nowhere to be found, borrowed features rearranged neatly once again. “Of course I remember,” is all you say.

Companionable silence. Jun sips slowly at his coffee and enjoys it. Wonders, briefly, how he wound up here, with the CEO and overseer of Hell sitting at his dining room table, before he lets those thoughts get chased away by a more pressing fact: there is an extremely beautiful and kind of terrifying woman sitting at his dining room table, and she hasn’t murdered him—yet.

He’s not above noticing it. Isn’t going to pretend he hasn’t thought about the night in the club roughly every twenty minutes since it happened; isn’t going to pretend he didn’t get a little hard in the shower that same night and that he didn’t relieve himself. Isn’t going to pretend that this isn’t doing something for him—the different disguises, each one just as enticing as the last, all of them conjured from deep within his psyche, checking off all his boxes.

Jun also isn’t going to pretend he has very much game. He hadn’t left university a virgin (although it’d been close) and nowadays women aren’t really falling over themselves to date a newly-licensed lawyer with little money and thrifted suits that feel like they’re playing at adulthood. However, if nothing else, this… partnership he has going on has served him well in the confidence department. He has disposable income and no debt. His clothes fit. He upgraded his cheap Casio watch to something that doesn’t turn his skin green.

“You didn’t really answer my question earlier.” You roll your head to the side, cock an eyebrow. His bravado falters slightly at the line of your throat. “Are you stalking me?”

What he aims for: cheeky, a little saucy; the kind of question that’s delivered with a shit-eating grin and earns him a coy laugh in response as you tuck your hair behind your ear. Oh, knock it off, you’d say as you playfully swatted at him. Of course I’m not. He’d catch your hand and press his lips to your knuckles before trailing them up your arm. The first kiss to the side of your neck would be gentle, a little hesitant, and then the heat would take over.

How it lands: an accusation completely lacking in charm and sass. Jun’s eyes widen in panic as soon as the question leaves his mouth, has him wondering how he’s still alive if the glare you send him is any indication of how you’re feeling. He should’ve known better. Jun is not the sort of person who can pull off a comment like that. Doesn’t have the charisma or the confidence. Isn’t sleazy enough. Jun is the kind of guy who lurks your social media after a one night stand to figure out your favorite breakfast so he can have it waiting the morning after; the kind who takes note of where you work so he can have flowers delivered to your desk and not for any other nefarious purpose.

Which, now that he’s thinking about it—

Every accusation is a confession, or whatever it is they say.

“That’s not—”

“What you meant,” you finish for him. Thankful for the lifeline, he nods, not trusting himself to not dig a deeper hole. “You want to know why it is I’ve shown up twice now, during both of your nights out.” He nods again. “You wanted to be suave when you said it, maybe even a little seductive, but you forgot your claim to fame is crying for three days over a handjob and how excruciatingly awkward you are.”

He waits for you to continue. When you don’t, he nods again, wishing he’d spent more time as a teenager on the degenerate parts of the internet rather than at Bible study.

“Are you an idiot?”

Not that it’s undeserved, but the question leaves him stunned. Has his mouth gaping open and shut like a goldfish. This is a trap, right? There’s a correct answer here that he’s expected to give. “...No?” he tries, and when your eyes narrow he quickly changes course. “Yes,” he says definitively. “Yes, I am an idiot. Sorry for my… idiocy.”

It looks like it’s being dragged out of you by force, but the clouds part, birds start chirping in perfect harmony, Jun feels the warmth of the sun—you laugh. You laugh, and it’s reluctant but it’s real, and Jun’s smile is so wide his face feels heavy under the weight of it. It’s so wide you say, “Wow, even your mouth is heart-shaped,” and, if Wen Junhui knows nothing else, he knows he’s in real big trouble.

“You know what else is heart-shaped?” You gesture for him to continue, except he’d just been yapping. Didn’t have a plan. There’s no punchline. And he can’t set it up as a dick joke because that doesn’t make sense. My dick is heart-shaped? What does that even mean? Unless it’s in a cute way? My dick is heart-shaped… for you. It could work, he reasons. Worse things have worked for other men. “My di—”

“No.”

He pretends to pout. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“Because you were going to make a dick joke.”

“No I wasn’t.” You roll your eyes. “I was going to say my… digantic heart.”

A pause. Another beat of silence.

“I’m not going to laugh at you twice.”

A shit-eating grin on Jun’s face. “But you would, is what you’re saying? If you didn’t already meet your one-laugh quota?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

I want to kiss you, he wants to say. Feels the words biting at the back of his teeth, begging him to open his mouth so they can escape and be real. I want to kiss you but I don’t know if it’d be real. Because it can’t be, can it? All the ways you’ve been described throughout human history, not once has anyone said you’re capable of love. Which—that’s not what Jun is looking for here, right? That’d be ridiculous. He has a crush.

A crush on a beautiful woman who looks like all of his wet dreams combined. Who’s terrifying and smart and maybe misunderstood in all the same ways he is. Who is halfway responsible for his current employment. Who conjures ginger tea for him when he feels sick and hasn’t snapped her fingers to turn him into dust… yet. It’s natural, especially for a late bloomer such as himself.

But that doesn’t mean anything.

You look like all of his wet dreams combined but it’s still just a costume. The same way Jun was playing at adulthood in his ill-fitting suits, you’re playing at being human. Take it off and you’re still the devil. Still primordial. Still not bound by the constraints and constructs of time. Not bound by mortality, which is probably the second-most pressing issue behind the whole fallen angel, prime ruler of Hell, purveyor of iron-clad contracts that are really, really pissing off Heaven thing.

“Congratulations,” you say, ripping Jun out of his spiral, “your overthinking has bypassed chickenpox completely and went straight to shingles.”

“They have a vaccine for that now.” Wow, he is really not nailing this.

“I know. Pestilence was devastated. Moped around for ages. Imagine all your hard work gone, just like that, because of science? That’s why I created Jenny McCarthy.” You sigh. “Anyway, out with it.”

Jun chews at the inside of his cheek. “I’m trying to figure out how to ask in a non-offensive way.”

You blink. “I am literally the devil.”

“Who can kill me,” he says slowly, trying to buy time. So are you, it seems, because you’re content to stretch the silence. Wait until it settles in Jun’s bones as anxiety. One of those old tricks he learned during law school that’s now being turned on him. He coughs. “Anyway, I—” He deflates. “It’s stupid, I don’t know why I even thought—”

“Out with it,” you repeat.

“Right.” He sucks in a breath. “Does this mean anything to you? Not in, like, an affectionate, I’m in love with you kind of way, but in a… human… way? Is it offensive to phrase it like that?”

“I think you’ll find not much offends me—except for you and your fucking lawyer thing ruining my contracts.” There are those flames behind your eyes again. The temperature in the room increases tenfold. “So no, it’s not offensive to wonder how human I am or am not, but I don’t know if the answer will be to your satisfaction or understanding.”

“Try me.”

You huff a laugh. Mumble something about the hubris of man. “You’ve read Their book, so you know how and why the angels were created. Ministering spirits, I think it says. Spirits without bodies. I have never known what it means to be human because I never was. I appear as one to you out of necessity.”

“Because my brain would melt if I saw your true form?”

“What? No. Because it’s terrifying. Would you rather hand over your mortal soul to someone who looked like an eldritch horror or someone who looked like one of those women you’ve jerked off to in porn magazines?” Jun swallows audibly. “Exactly.”

“But what does it feel like when you’re like this? When you’re here?”

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “It feels different, but I can’t say it feels human because I do not know what that feels like. You’ve interacted with me and have been to Hell—if I asked you how it felt to be the devil, how would you answer?”

Jun doesn’t have to think. He says the first word that comes to mind, which is, “Lonely. I think it’s lonely, because They have worshippers, Their followers are devout and love and trust without proof, and you were created to be hated and feared.” You move to interject, but Jun continues. “Maybe you have those things too, but they’re not the same. They gave you everything and then They ripped it away. Their followers heed every word of the Bible, name their children after its characters, but where’s your book? Why wasn’t anyone allowed to tell your story?”

“Maybe you should write it.”

What you aim for: cheeky, a little saucy; the kind of suggestion spoken around a sly smile that’s also a little self-conscious at someone taking you into consideration—at someone seeing you.

How it lands: fractured; words spoken slowly and intentionally so nothing is given away. How ironic that it’s the most human Jun has heard you sound.

But your bravery is inspiring, even if you’re unaware of it. Even if you aren’t making a conscious choice to be so, Jun can watch you be vulnerable and think he can do the same. He can finally say what he’s been dancing around this entire time, which is, “If I kiss you, what will it feel like for you?”

“The same as any other kiss, I imagine.”

“You’ve done this before, then? As a… human?”

Seems your patience with him has run out. You stand, make your way to Jun’s side of the table slowly. Drag a finger along the back of each chair, nails cherry red and sharpened to a point. He wants to feel them. Wants the sting as they dig into his thighs; as they scratch down the length of his back and mark him up. He wants to feel the phantom bite for days, long after you’re gone and he’s come to his senses. When he stands beneath the spray of the shower and his skin feels raw, he wants to know it was you that had done it.

He understands, now, why people make those deals and shake your hand.

As you loom above him, slowly encroaching upon his space—as the heady scent of you overwhelms him and makes him dizzy, has his eyes fluttering closed and rolling back in his head—he thinks he’d give you anything you asked for.

You lean in close. One hand on the arm of the chair, one wrapped around the meat of his thigh, just on the edge of sharp. Closer, closer, until he can feel the warmth of your breath against his cheek, the line of his jaw, the lobe of his ear. “Tell me: does this feel human?”

It does. Drives him a little crazy how he can feel each word punctuated against his skin; how he can feel your body heat seep through the fabric of his pants—heat he didn’t expect to find. And it isn’t like it matters, because he’d want you no matter how you felt, but it helps to ground him. Keep him in the moment. So he says, “Ye-yeah,” and knows you’re smiling at the need in his tone.

Need that starts in his toes and settles in his belly. Need that grows as your hand trails up his thigh and settles over his zipper, over the bulge you find there. Jun’s breath catches in his throat. He knows the mechanics—in, out; in, out; in, out—but can’t convince his lungs to work. Feels lightheaded and a little embarrassed because you’re not even touching him properly and he already feels untethered.

All you do is pull away, back out of his space, and for all he knows his world’s been turned upside down. Doubly so when he cracks one eye open and sees you on your knees, looking up at him with a half-lidded gaze, lashes impossibly dark. He can’t help it. He reaches out, places his thumbs in the contours of your cheek, cups your jaw, and presses his lips to yours.

Immediate searing heat.

Jun is engulfed in it. You taste like a storm—taste like the first deafening crack of thunder and the lightning that follows. And he knows he’s coming across too eager with the way he licks into your mouth, but you don’t seem to mind. You match his pace, groan into his mouth, palm at his cock with more intention. Jun’s hips roll, seeking the friction; wants more of the stinging pleasure. Wants to haul you into his lap and fit his hands in the curve of your waist, leave bruises on your hips with his thumbs. He wants to trace every inch of your skin and commit it to memory.

But you’ve got plans of your own.

You plant your hands against his chest and push. Jun goes willingly, chest heaving, missing your mouth already. There’s a crooked grin sitting on your face that sends a spark of excitement up his spine, has alarms sounding in his head, but he can’t look away. Everything you do mesmerizes him: the way you run your tongue along your bottom lip, the slow drag of his zipper, how your voice is husky and deeper than he’s ever heard it when you ask him, what do you want, and your smile when he answers, whatever you do.

And what you seem to want is to destroy him in record time. Pants at his knees, hard cock straining against his briefs, he feels like he’s back in high school. Has that same sense of adolescent urgency, like everything’s happening both in slow-motion and not fast enough, because he knows what’s coming. Watches with a lip tugged between his teeth as you free his cock. Whimpers when you wrap your hand around him, reminds himself to breathe; grips white-knuckled at the arms of the chair when you begin to move.

Your pace is torturously slow to start. You seem to delight in tormenting him; in hearing all those breathy moans that escape him and spur you on. You lean forward and spit and everything is slick. Jun feels like he’s going to come out of his skin. He grips at the chair tighter. Digs his nails into his thighs when that doesn’t work and lets his head roll back, neck on full display. Maybe it’s to tempt you. Maybe he wants you to sink your teeth into him and mark him up. Maybe he has a million fantasies, and not a single one compares to—

Your mouth. The sound that comes out of him is unholy. It takes every ounce of restraint he has not to roll his hips and fuck his cock deeper into your mouth, down your throat. All he wants to do is chase the bliss of that wet heat and give in to it.

But he needs this to last. If this is the only time he’ll have you like this, he needs to make it worthwhile.

He needs to tell you, needs you to slow it down before he embarrasses himself by coming in your mouth, except he can’t find the words. Doesn’t want to deny himself even a second of pleasure. Five minutes is all it’s taken to make a hedonist out of him. And that’s… well, it’s not a philosophy he ever thought he’d adopt, but who could blame him when you feel like velvet? When he starts babbling nonsense and you hum in response and everything feels electric?

“I’m gonna—” A sharp nip at the inside of his thigh has his declaration dead on arrival. His body shivers, trembles, tries to collapse in on itself. “Shit, don’t do that, I’m gonna—”

He feels your smile against his skin. Whimpers as you mouth at his balls. Wonders if he’s going to die like this; if someone will come to check on him and find his pitiful, half-naked body right here in this chair, and that is not a sight he wants anyone to walk in on, so he reaches for you, finds your hair and tugs at you gently. Seals his lips over yours before you can come up with any more ideas.

He hauls you into his lap, just like he’d wanted, and dips his hands beneath your top. Skims his hands over the warm skin he finds. Digs his nails in when you bite at the column of his throat and groans as his cock—so hard he can barely think straight; can’t think of anything except burying himself inside of you—brushes against the harsh fabric of your pants.

“God, c’mere.” You oblige. Kiss him with such intensity he no longer cares where he dies, so long as this is how he goes out. Watches as stars explode behind his eyelids when he realizes he can taste himself on your tongue, that you taste like him. Moves his hands to your chest, traces lightly over your hard nipples, delights in the way you react, that it’s him making you feel good. That it’s him you let pull your top over your head. That it’s him that presses praise into your skin like scripture.

He mouths at you indiscriminately: your collar bones, the space between your breasts, the swell of skin there. Whines as you grab at his hair and tell him how to please you. Thinks he’s learning a lot about himself when he does as you say, when he sucks and bites at your nipples, and grows impossibly harder.

You sigh, blissed out; tell him you want his mouth elsewhere, fill his mind with thoughts that have him rolling his hips uselessly, thrusting at nothing, but fuck, he wants it all. Wants to taste every part of you. Wants to drag you to the edge and watch as your body writhes in satisfaction. Wants to know how beautiful you look when you come on his tongue, head thrown back, your nails digging into his scalp.

Wants to bury his cock inside of you before you can come down and watch as your eyes roll back and know, with every thrust of his hips, that he’s leaving his mark just the same as you are.

So that’s what he does. He stands, lifting you with ease, tells you to wrap your legs around him as he carries you to his bedroom. Lays you in the middle of the bed and helps strip you bare. Tells you, in every way he can think of, how much he loves seeing you like this, how stunning you are, how lucky he is. Kisses his way down your body until he’s level with your cunt. He breathes in your scent, desperate for all of you, before he circles a thumb over your clit and follows it with his mouth.

Ironic, he thinks, that you taste like heaven.

He gives as good as he got—flattens his tongue and works you over with long licks. Laps and sucks and doesn’t let up when your legs start to shake. Places one over his shoulder and dives back in. Swears fall from your lips in fractured syllables, breathless cries in between commands to keep going. He’s a man possessed. Doesn’t want to waste a second. Doesn’t want the taste of anyone else on his tongue.

You come with a sob, his name the only thing you seem capable of saying. Jun, Jun, Jun, like a chant.

…Like something he’d hear in church.

No reprieve. He stretches you on his fingers, almost delirious as he presses against your g-spot and feels how much wetter you get. Ruts against the mattress at all the crude sounds he’s pulling from you, unable to help himself. Says, “Can I…?” and slicks himself up with what he’s gathered from you when you nod.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck. Kisses the spot just below your ear as he runs his hands up and down your thighs. “How do you want me?” he asks. “Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.”

He expects you to want it from behind. Maybe on top so you’re in control, turned away. He doesn’t expect you to say, “Just like this,” as you hitch a leg around his hip and pull him as close as possible. He doesn’t expect you to say, “I want you to look at me,” in that tone, like it’s imperative. Like you need it. He doesn’t expect you to grab the back of his neck and kiss the air from his lungs as he pushes inside.

Heat. Everything is white, blinding heat.

Jun whines into your mouth. Rolls his hips slowly as you swallow it. Your hands move to his shoulders and down his spine, settle in the small of his back, press into the dimples there. He pulls back only so he can tell you to mark him up, that he wants to feel you days from now, and you indulge him. Shallow at first—your nails ghost across his skin, more ticklish than painful, before they dig in a little deeper. Jun feels the bite as the welts begin to form and he thinks his smile must look crazed.

He keeps his pace steady. Fucks in as deep as he can and rocks back slowly, trying to hold on to the way your cunt squeezes him, but you need more. You tell him as much and don’t say please, and when Jun tries to be a little cocky, when he thinks he has a modicum of control and says, “You’re okay, baby, you can take it,” you send him such a nasty glare he immediately gives it to you harder and faster.

But he can’t help but laugh. “What, I can’t call you baby?” he jokes. There’s a rebuttal on the tip of your tongue that Jun does away with with a sharp thrust of his hips. He knows he’s playing with fire, that he’ll pay for this one way or another, but the thought thrills him more than anything else.

“I’m the—fuck,” you swear. Jun doesn’t have to ask why. Everything’s starting to feel tighter, wetter. Both of you are hurtling toward the inevitable, and Jun needs to feel you come on his cock, needs to watch you unravel beneath him.

He grabs your hand. Sucks two of your fingers into his mouth. “Touch yourself,” he says. “Make yourself feel good, I wanna see you come.” He moans, loud and unabashed, when you do as he says.

Each pass of your fingers over your clit makes you jerk, has electricity licking at your heels. Jun feels each one. Feels the way you clench and tremble. A bead of sweat runs down the column of your throat and he traces it with his tongue. Keeps fucking harder, deeper; grinds his pelvis against your clit and falls in love with the way you sound in the throes of lust. Wants to bottle it and keep it forever.

“Jun, I’m gonna—”

Another roll of his hips. Deep, deep, deep. “I know.” Two words he’s barely able to choke out. Feels like he’s being suffocated as his vision starts to go hazy at the edges. All he knows in this moment is your pleasure, your satisfaction, you.

Your orgasm hits with a shattering cry. Jun follows right after, unable to put up a fight against the vice grip of your cunt. It feels pathetic, the way his body shakes with the force of it, but when it passes, when he comes back into his body, all he feels is bone-deep euphoria.

He collapses onto your chest. Presses another kiss there. Sighs contentedly when your nails scratch lightly at his scalp. “Okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” comes your easy answer.

Minutes pass in blissful quiet. Neither of you speak, letting your heavy breathing do the talking, and for once Jun enjoys the sounds of the city outside when there’s someone beside him to hear it, too. “I’m gonna pull out,” he tells you, even though it feels a bit silly.

He feels the loss immediately.

Unsure of the protocol for something like this, Jun does what he always does: pretends there’s absolutely nothing out of the ordinary happening at all.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, punctuating his words with a kiss to your temple. He grabs a clean pair of underwear from a drawer, pulls them on, pads down the hall to the bathroom. He pointedly does not look at his reflection as he turns the tap on and waits for the water to warm. Knows his face is blotchy and flushed and his hair’s a mess and that you’re spread out on his bed looking like the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, so he doesn’t want to look at his reflection and feel bad about himself. Doesn’t want to taint this moment by feeling unworthy of it.

But a bit of that self-doubt still manages to creep in, because he returns to his room and is surprised to find you haven’t left. That, above all else, you look content: laying on your front, one of Jun’s pillows tucked beneath your head, sheets barely covering your ass. You smile when Jun puts a knee on the mattress and you feel it dip. Smile wider when he kisses the length of your spine and tells you, in a voice unrecognizable even to his own ears, to roll onto your back so he can clean you up.

If it’s too intimate, you make no mention of it. If there’s no room in this moment for this kind of care and affection, if all of this is for Jun’s sake and you’re just letting him go through the motions, you don’t mention that, either.

He works slowly and with care. Apologizes when you hiss at the first swipe of the washcloth, the water warm but still colder than your skin. Cracks a joke about taking you out for breakfast in the morning even though both of you know you’ll be long gone by then, and he waits for that knowledge to sting but it never does, but he’s relieved when you laugh anyway.

It’s when you stop laughing, when your smile slowly disappears from your face, that it all starts to sink in. Because you ask, “Did it feel real to you?” and he’s not sure how to interpret that. If it’s a masked plea for reassurance or if you want to make sure he got his money’s worth.

Maybe it’s both. Or maybe it’s neither.

“I know it can’t be for you what it is for me,” he answers, “but if you’re asking if I had a good time, then my answer is yes. And I know what this is, so you don’t need to look like that, okay? I’m not about to confess my love for you and start crying.”

(That’s not entirely true. He really might start crying, but he’ll at least have enough sense to wait until you’re gone.)

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, so I…” You sigh, avert your gaze, tangle your fingers in the sheets. “It’s just—you’re doing all this nice stuff for me, so I didn’t… I wanted to make sure.”

“‘Nice stuff’? You mean helping you clean up and offering you a glass of water?”

You laugh again, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re treating me like I’m human, Wen Junhui. Like I’m the same as any other woman you’d sleep with.”

He cocks his head. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, and that’s the end of that.

Jun doesn’t use his downtown office much, but since his apartment still smells like you, he figures he can use a change of scenery. Hoshi will know where to find him if he’s needed.

He ducks into a recently-opened coffee shop and orders an expensive latte with ingredients he’s never heard of. When he pops the lid, he’s both horrified and intrigued by the purple-blue coffee that greets him. Back outside, he breathes in the musk of the city: the exhaust fumes, cigarette smoke, the sweat from people rushing to work.

A jianbing vendor is set up at the corner, fills him with nostalgia—smells just like the ones he ate nearly every morning during law school. He smiles as he orders and asks for extra lajiao, foolishly ignoring the questioning glance he receives in return, and he’s happy as he walks the remaining two blocks to his office with it warm in his hand. Sticks it in his mouth to hold between his teeth as he digs in his pockets for the key. Jiggles it in the lock as he accidentally bites down, and it takes a second, maybe five, but then—

He should not have asked for the extra chili sauce.

All 182 of his centimeters crash through the door and carelessly toss aside his briefcase. Water. He needs water desperately, even though it’s just going to make it worse, which he knows, but his mouth all the way down to his esophagus feels like it’s been set ablaze. Feels like he’s breathing magma. Feels like if someone stood in front of him right now and caught wind of his breath, they’d turn to ash.

Which explains how he misses the person sitting at his desk, their feet kicked up and face hidden behind a newspaper from six months ago.

He finally notices them some ten minutes later, after he locks himself in the bathroom and douses his face in cold water and can be sure he’s not about to die from excessive heat intake. Not that this is any less embarrassing for him: he shrieks, clearly not expecting anyone to be there, and the stranger shrieks in turn. The shriek-off lasts approximately thirty seconds and is cut off by an elderly woman sticking her head through the door and asking if everything is alright, to which Jun sheepishly nods and bows in apology as he thanks her for her concern.

Once she’s back on the street, he whirls around to face his intruder.

“Good morning,” Hoshi says, seemingly nonplussed by the entire sequence of events that have transpired. “Had a little mishap with the chili sauce, huh?” Jun ignores him. Snatches the newspaper out of his hands and shoos him out of his chair and into one intended for guests. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

Jun glares. “Why are you—”

“Or should I say the only side of the bed, considering you had erotic entanglements with the devil.”

Annoyance flares within him. Has that lajiao heat rushing back to his skin. Hoshi’s got a lot of nerve—the same guy who refused to tell him much of anything, who just takes and takes and takes, is now criticizing him for exercising his free will. Well, Jun’s not going to accept that, he decides. Adopts a snotty little tone and says, “So you were spying on me? Wow, okay, you pervert.”

Hoshi balks. Trips over his words as he tries to mount a useless defense. “I didn’t—that’s not—no,” is the best he can come up with.

“Did you like the show?”

“Wen Junhui—”

“Very convenient that’s the thing you watched. Missed my whole crisis of faith, huh? Both of them? Didn’t think I’d maybe need some support during those times?” He shakes his head. Tries to hold on to the anger, because it’s less humiliating than crying after acting like a hard-ass. “At least she’s been honest. At least she’s always been upfront about who and what she is. You guys—you guys have all these demands, all these requirements, but at the end of the day none of it matters. We’re all just pawns, and that’s all you’ll ever see us as.”

The angel stays quiet. Can’t quite discern if Jun’s tirade is over. He narrows his gaze, opens his mouth as if he’s going to speak just to see if Jun will interrupt him. (He doesn’t.) He clears his throat and tries to remember the correct pitch for his Comforting Voice: this will prove to be a pivotal moment in Wen Junhui’s partnership with Upstairs, and he’s going to need it.

“Wen Junhui,” he attempts again. No, the tone isn’t right—needs to be a little lower. “Wen Junhui, I am… holding space for everything you’ve just told me.” That’s better. Sounds convincing enough. “Is it fair to say you feel abandoned and unimportant?”

Jun’s cheeks warm to a mortifying shade of red. “I guess,” he mumbles.

“Great!” Hoshi beams. “Thank you so much for trusting me with this sensitive information.” He snaps his fingers and another manila folder appears in front of Jun. “Since you’re feeling better, this is your next assignment! If you open to the first page, you’ll see the contractee’s name is Choi Seungcheol and that he is of the utmost import—”

“No.”

“—ance.” Hoshi, unused to being caught unawares not once but twice in the same conversation, simply blinks, limbs frozen mid-air. “Pardon?”

“I said no.”

“Right, right… See, I heard that, but I’m not following. What do you mean no?”

Jun stands and starts clearing off the desk. Not that there’s much on it besides a framed picture of himself sandwiched between his parents at his graduation and an unused candle. Peach bellini. Hoshi had procured it from who-knows-where, said it was “an important part of Internet history” (that Jun must’ve missed) and called it a “belated graduation gift,” except the smell was so sickly-sweet it immediately gave him a migraine as soon as the lid came off.

All of this is besides the point, which is this: Jun doesn’t need this office. He doesn’t need this weird job where he reports to these weird people.

He says as much.

“Hey!” Hoshi objects, to which Jun responds, “You’re wearing a shirt with a cartoon wolf on it that says Fighting the Gay Allegations Again. I mean come on, dude, where do you even find these things?”

“You don’t like my shirts?”

“No! And I also don’t like that you just pretended to care about my feelings so I’d get back to work like a good little corporate soldier!” He’s able to fit the picture frame in his briefcase, but the candle doesn’t fit. Even if they’re arguing, it seems rude to give it back to Hoshi when he’d gone out of his way to get him a gift to begin with, so he lets out a frustrated screech and decides to carry it back to his apartment. “Find some other would-be Pope to help you.”

Although his face is blotchy and wet, Hoshi seems undeterred. There are, of course, no other would-be Popes available on such short notice—especially not one that’s earned the favor of the devil—so he needs to think up a plan quickly. If he fumbles Wen Junhui, he’ll either never hear the end of it from the lower-ranking angels or he’ll be stoned, and neither sounds very favorable right now.

So he does the only thing he can think to do: he snaps his fingers.

Kim Mingyu looks exactly like his picture.

He’s just as tall and symmetrically good-looking as Jun thought he would be, dressed in an impeccably-fitting white suit that elongates his legs and makes him look far taller than the six-foot-one-point-nine-repeating he’d measured in at. Dark, slightly wavy hair frames a perfect set of cheekbones, and whatever cologne he’s wearing nearly has Jun drooling.

He might actually be doing that, he realizes with horror, because Kim Mingyu also looks supremely uncomfortable. Is fluttering from one thing to the next, never staying more than a few seconds in each spot, tidying and organizing the same items over and over, muttering apologies all the while. And the board room really is not that big, so all that anxiety is starting to wear off on Jun, who was in his own office only a few minutes ago arguing with an angel that is currently nowhere to be found.

“So sorry about the mess!” Mingyu chimes. Jun can tell he’s trying (and failing) for unaffected. “I didn’t know we were having visitors, but no matter! My mother always used to say…” He pauses. Straightens his posture. Grabs a bouquet of white hydrangeas from a stunning pearlescent vase just to drop them right back in. “Er, I suddenly don’t remember anything my mother used to say.”

Jun grimaces and hides it behind his hand. “‘Have a wonderful day at school’?” he offers.

Mingyu smiles, makes a little a-ha! sound as he snaps his fingers; seems thankful for the lifeline he’d been thrown. Says, “Yes, yes, of course!” and starts fussing over the state of the table. He squirts a concerning amount of cleaner and wipes at it so aggressively Jun fears he’s going to wear a hole in the wood. “I’ve been told there was a slight security issue, but please rest assured that the rest of our guests should be arriving very soon! Any second now!”

That last bit comes out more like a demand.

Even though he feels far less intelligent than Hoshi claims he is, Jun is still smart enough to deduce he’d been snap-blasted to Heaven, not only because Mingyu is here and there are vaguely ominous security issues, but also because there’s a placard next to the door:

Board Room 17 Pearly Gates Wing

“It’s weird seeing you in real life after staring at the picture in your file for so long,” Jun says, continuing to look around. Everything is stark white, which he expected, with accents of gold that dazzles so brightly it hurts his eyes and pink freshwater pearl, and the flowers are abundant and fragrant. Jun feels at peace here. If it weren’t for Mingyu and his rapidly-fraying nerves, he might even call it tranquil. “I think I have a crush on you.”

Mingyu flushes. Unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth to stammer out a response that’s interrupted by three more figures materializing by the door.

Hoshi stands in the middle of Jeonghan and Joshua, arms slung around both of their shoulders. The two demons, naturally, do not look pleased. Jeonghan especially looks tortured, which is at odds with his new pink hair, and he’s the first to shrug off the angel. He grabs the chair closest to him and makes sure it scrapes against the floor as noisily as possible before slumping into it, arms crossed, scowl so fierce his frown lines nearly touch his jaw.

Joshua does the same, though he looks far more delighted to have a seat at the table.

From an invisible speaker, Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C Minor comes blaring. Hoshi and Mingyu startle; the latter goes in search of a tablet, completely frazzled, mumbling oh no oh no oh no as he rummages through drawers. Jeonghan and Joshua side-eye one another and come away wearing matching glares. To his credit, Jun sits ramrod straight and doesn’t flinch. When no one’s looking he sticks his fingers in his ears to dampen the noise and smiles politely at Mingyu when they make awkward eye contact.

The music cuts out, Mingyu heaves a sigh of relief, and once the tense silence settles back into the room, he turns to Hoshi and stage whispers, “Should I put it back on, or…?” to which Hoshi frantically nods.

Opening blaring once again, it’s then that you walk through the door, flanked on all sides by an impressive security detail. (Heaven’s, of course. They’re also dressed in all white and wearing mitre hats with SECURITY embroidered across the front in gold beadwork. Jun wonders, briefly, if this is where Hoshi gets his inspiration from.)

You’re escorted to a seat. There are seven chairs on the side of the table opposite Jun; you’re given the one in the middle, and Jeonghan and Joshua immediately move to sit on each side of you. You carry yourself with an easy confidence, not at all rattled by being here in this setting. It’s almost comical how your body language contrasts with Hoshi and Mingyu: how they’re at home, where they’re meant to be, and their unease is so apparent; and you’re where you’ve been exiled from, antithetical to what you’ve been put in charge of, a place that Jun knows picks at all those old wounds like a buzzard, and your composure is faultless.

Something you have to be, he figures.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, what’s with the long faces?” you ask, brows knit in faux-concern. You look the same as the last time Jun saw you—he’s sure it’s a power play, meant to throw him off, and it works. Heat simmers along his skin as the memories come flooding back. He wonders what you look like to everyone else. “It’s so lovely to see you all again.” You turn to Mingyu, who seems to shrink under your undivided attention. “Especially you, handsome. We’ve all been mourning the loss of our favorite eye candy.”

Mingyu squeaks. “Um!” He scrambles to the head of the table. His hands shake as he tries to unlock the tablet. “There’s, uh—an ag-agenda! For this me-meeting. Very important! Just one moment, please, and I’ll—”

“Very fascinating,” Jeonghan interjects. “Do you anticipate this happening at any point today? I have to oversee a workshop this afternoon about new ways to make men insecure about their penises and I simply cannot miss it. It’s my second-favorite event of the year.”

“What’s the first?” Jun can’t help but ask.

“The social media workshops. Next month’s is about online bullying and new ways to avoid getting banned by safeguarding teams so you can continue trolling in peace without fear of repercussions. The one after that is about sending in anonymous gossip to those Spotted In Such-and-such Facebook pages for places no one cares about.”

Joshua nods. “I think the Stevenage one is my favorite. When’s the workshop about the new Lego shapes to step on?”

Mingyu’s mouth snaps closed. In an attempt to nip the derailment in the bud, Hoshi says, “I think what our Head of HR meant to say was—”

“HR? None of you are human.”

“It stands for Heaven Relations, obviously,” Hoshi snaps, “and we’ve called this emergency meeting because we’ve been made aware of a very troubling development.”

You gasp. Lean forward and widen your eyes like you have no idea what he could possibly be referring to. “No! A troubling development, you say?” You fold your hands on the table. “Tell me all about it.”

Jun, however, cannot possibly play it so cool. Feels dread overtake his body as restless anxiety sets in. The mind reader that he is, Joshua sends him a discreet wink that does very little to settle his nerves. Still feels like he’s drank fifteen cups of light roast coffee and is about to sit for a law school exam he forgot to study for.

“It has come to our attention that…” Mingyu looks down at the tablet. Looks up and over at Hoshi. Grimaces. “Do I really have to say this?”

“Yes.”

He huffs and continues. “It has recently come to our attention that one Wen Junhui, would-be Pope and recently-licensed lawyer accepted into a contracted position at Their approval, has engaged in… sexual relations… with the being known colloquially as the Devil.”

Jeonghan looks sideways at you with the most disgustedly disappointed look Jun has ever seen appear on a face. To the contrary, Joshua leans across the table to high-five him and say, “You dirty dog! I bet it was better than that handjob, huh?” He leans back, whistles low. “Goddamn, why is it every time you get some action it’s like some end of days shit? You ever consider becoming celibate?”

“Not involuntarily,” Jun mumbles.

“Shame,” Jeonghan intones. You laugh at this.

Hoshi, once again fed up with his meeting being derailed, says to Jeonghan and Joshua, “Why are you two even here?” to which they reply, “We’re her advocates. We’re advocating.”

“No advocating has ever taken place while the three of you have been in this room.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “At ease, Megamind.”

“Metatron,” Mingyu quietly corrects.

Jun snorts. Of course. Of course Hoshi is one of the most powerful archangels in Heaven. Speaker of God, permitted to be in Their presence and at Their side; celestial scribe and guide to humanity—the guy who appears earthside wearing crude t-shirts and stupid hats. Of-fucking-course.

All of this is enough to drive him to lunacy. All the things he didn’t and doesn’t know, all the secrets kept locked up tight, all the jokes he continues to be the butt of. Everyone in this room is on equal footing except him, and he’s the one seemingly on trial. Heaven doesn’t care what you do—your role is to sow chaos and they’re powerless to stop you, just as you’re powerless here. No, the only one that will feel the repercussions of this is Jun, not only because he’s the only one capable of being punished, but because he’s human.

He must sense his distress again, because Joshua mouths a watch this before saying, with all the conviction and tenacity of a seasoned prosecutor, “Allow me to advocate, then: we do not accept these accusations as fact without being presented with irrefutable proof, which I’m sure you have, considering you’ve made such a show of gathering us all here.”

Mingyu and Hoshi share a look.

“I—well, you see—”

“Surely you don’t need irrefutable proof to understand what a conflict of interest this is and why we’re concerned.”

“A conflict of interest which surely has already taken place?” Jeonghan tacks on. Joshua nods with grave sincerity. “Or have you called an impromptu, emergency meeting to discuss hypotheticals?” Mingyu and Hoshi share another look. “Gentlemen, need we remind you of the criteria that must be met before an emergency meeting may be called? I cannot imagine two high-ranking employees such as yourselves disregarded such strict protocols simply because of the parties involved?”

“Haaa, of course not!” Hysterical, frenzied laughter ensues. “No, no, we would never—”

Joshua shakes his head. “It sure is looking like that’s what has taken place here today, but I hate to assume the worst, so if you could just show us the permits I’m sure we can get this all cleared up.”

“Per-permits…?”

Jeonghan has all the patience in the world as he replies, “Section 894, subsection 12 of the accords states that in order for an emergency meeting to be called and granted between the constituents of Heaven and Hell, the proper permits must be filed and signed off on by the governing bodies of each at least 72 hours in advance. Now, it’s possible the paperwork was signed on our side, but as you know our boss is very, very busy and it seems to have been misplaced, so we have no way of confirming this.” You nod, sharing Joshua’s very serious look. “Hence the permits. Show them to us, please.”

There’s hope yet that Jun will get out of this. Be on the receiving end of his own strategy. Jeonghan and Joshua start up a show us the per-mits! show us the per-mits! chant that sends Hoshi and Mingyu into a panic. The latter, now soaked through with sweat, does a fruitless search on his tablet, while Hoshi tries to distract everyone with an interpretive dance none of them can make sense of.

“I believe this is a reflection of his current state of mind,” you say solemnly, playing the part of an esteemed art critic. “It’s histrionic on the surface, but once you dig deeper, it’s uncontrolled and frenetic at its roots. A wonderful metaphor for a fractured, disjointed mind, but severely lacking in execution.”

“Amen,” Jeonghan and Joshua say in unison.

Minutes pass. It’s clear the permits don’t exist, but Mingyu keeps up the charade of searching anyway, much to the delight of the Hell delegation. “Have you tried the top drawer of that thing?” Joshua asks right after Jeonghan suggests checking the trash folder on the desktop in his office. You, of course, stay quiet, content to soak up your victory in silence—albeit while looking extremely smug.

“Well!” you say, clapping your hands together with a wicked smile. “This was fun. Thank you both so much for the invite, but I fear we must be going. Duty calls.”

Hoshi is having none of this. Permits be damned, another snap of his fingers finds you bound to your chair, chains wrapped around each of your forearms. You hiss at the contact. “Whoa,” Jun whispers, and if Jeonghan’s and Joshua’s mouths hadn’t been removed by the same finger-snap, he assumes there’d be a crude joke coming his way.

“The three of you would do well to remember who and where you are.” Hoshi speaks with all the authority bestowed upon him. It’s a stark difference from how Jun usually sees him—aloof and unserious, more like a court jester—and it has him straightening in his chair. “None of us will be leaving this room until the matter is resolved.”

You roll your neck. Press your tongue into the fat of your cheek but otherwise don’t move. Pain flashes across your face each time the chains leave fresh wounds in your skin and Jun wants to tell them to cut it out, call this whole thing off, say it doesn’t mean anything, but he’s still so clueless. Still so far out of his depth. These matters concern him but are so far beyond his pay grade it’s all he can do to keep treading water.

And you know this, because you say, “There is no conflict of interest. Everything is business as usual.”

Hoshi doesn’t even make eye contact as he retorts, “Which is useless, coming from you.”

Mingyu offers up a tight-lipped smile. “I think what my colleague is trying to say is that we simply cannot trust word of mouth in a matter as serious as this. As I’m sure you understand, Wen Junhui is a special case. It’s quite rare They enlist the help of humans in such circumstances, and if he is no longer able to perform his duties in an unbiased manner due to your influence—”

Teeth grit, you repeat, “There is no conflict of interest.”

Mingyu sighs. Sets down his tablet and narrows his gaze. He seems to have shaken off the dregs of doubt and uncertainty, because he looks powerful. Looks intimidating, which is not a word Jun would have used to describe him twenty minutes ago. “Need I remind you of your role in this universe? Chaos and temptation; calamity and destruction. You serve no one. You do not speak in truths, nor are you concerned with them. Your ambition and pride were your downfall, and it seems you have learned nothing in the years since.” He turns his attention to Jun. “And if you doubt what I say, remember I witnessed all of this with my own eyes.”

“Scandalous! And what were you doing at the devil’s sacrament, Kim Mingyu?”

Jun nods, earning him an incredulous look from Hoshi. “Well, she has a point,” he defends. “There is that saying about stones and glass houses or whatever. He wouldn’t have seen all of those things if he hadn’t made a deal with her in the first place.”

Hoshi is quiet. Mingyu looks betrayed. “Are you not going to—”

“He, too, has a point,” the angel concedes. “I mean, did you really have to do all that? You were already hot and tall, I just don’t—”

Even with no mouths, it’s obvious Jeonghan and Joshua are snickering.

The bickering continues before eventually devolving into baseless name-calling. Jun’s head snaps back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match, and it’s not that far off. Mingyu hones in on your lack of character, prompting Hoshi to chime in with something equally cruel or just nonsensical in an attempt to back him up, and you handle both of them with ease, laughing off their taunting just to get under their skin. Which works, of course, so on and on it goes, ad nauseam, until Jun puts everyone out of their misery and puts an end to it.

“Isn’t anyone going to ask me how I feel?” At once the room goes silent, all squabbling ceased, and the sudden quiet has his ears ringing. “I know you don’t need me,” he says to you, amazed he can meet your eye when he feels like that admission is going to make him vomit. He turns to Mingyu and Hoshi. “But you two do, and throughout this whole experience I have been left out, lied to, and talked over. Did either of you ever stop to consider that’s why I refused the assignment and it has nothing to do with her? That she’s telling the truth when she says there’s no conflict of interest?”

At least they have the good sense to look embarrassed.

Mingyu is the first to crack. He bows slightly at the waist and says, “On behalf of Heaven, I would like to offer you our deepest and most sincere apologies.”

Hoshi follows suit. “Right. Exactly what he said.”

Jun studies each of them. Mingyu, he knows, is just doing what any human resources officer worth their salt would do: protect the company at all costs. Fortunately this works out in Jun’s favor. He’s important and necessary and, against all odds, has proven his worth and abilities to boot. Heaven can’t negotiate with Hell without him, and it’s this knowledge that spurs him on, has him crossing one leg over the other and folding his arms across his chest. Total power stance. Hoshi gapes a little.

“I think there’s a compromise to be found here.”

The compromise is this: just as there are souls in Hell that were meant to go to Heaven, the reverse is also true. Jun had stumbled across them during his hours of research: souls that had somehow slipped through the cracks and went north when they were meant to go south; souls stuck in an endless purgatory that a lax Judgment Deliverer let in because they didn’t feel like doing paperwork; judgment numbers in which an integer got input incorrectly. What he proposes is a one-for-one trade. Heaven wants Choi Seungcheol, so they’ll have to give up someone in return.

It evens the playing field—

“Which was the original intention, was it not?”

More importantly, and perhaps more selfishly, Jun will no longer be able to be used as a pawn. He’ll uphold his original agreement while doing the same for you—for Hell. He’ll rewrite the terms and conditions of the contracts after each soul has been judged fairly and impartially by both factions, essentially voiding the concept of sides.

“I would be working for you both,” he concludes. “It’s the only way any of this remains fair.”

(He’s also not trying to invoke your wrath and spend eternity getting dipped in hot oil, but he doesn’t feel it’s the right time to admit that.)

After a lengthy silence that Hoshi spends pressing against his ear, the angel eventually says, “Heaven is amenable to these terms if Hell is.”

You heave a long-suffering sigh that has Jun on the edge of his seat. This proposal was certainly better than the last one he’d pitched you, but you’re giving nothing away. Also of little help are Jeonghan and Joshua who have fallen asleep and are snoring loudly. Mingyu leans over to wipe a spot of drool from the corner of Joshua’s mouth. He doesn’t move.

After what feels like a lifetime, you nod. “Fine. Hell is also amenable to these terms.” A chorus of cheers. Jun does an embarrassing little wiggle out of excitement. Hoshi stands on top of the table and pumps his fist. Mingyu, still in HR mode, starts listing off all the potential new job titles for Jun.

(In the end his new name tag reads: Wen Junhui, Special Counsel to Heaven & Hell, Contracts Division.)

Before you leave, and before the celebrations can get too out of hand, Jun clears his throat. “I have a request,” he says, before adding on, “if the whole payment in forms other than money thing is still on the table.”

“It is,” Mingyu confirms.

“Great.” He sucks in a breath. Lets it go all disjointed and shaky. There’s no going back once he says this and they grant it—which they will, considering the way Mingyu’s nearly tripping over himself to give him whatever he wants. But it’s still a massive ask. It will still change the trajectory of his existence, just like that handjob had done. And even though he’s certain it’s what he wants, he still wonders if he’s making a mistake as he says, “I want to be immortal.”

Jeonghan and Joshua jerk awake. “What the fuck did he just say?”

Hoshi, too, looks stunned. “Uh, are you sure?”

No, Jun wants to say, please talk me out of it, but the words die in his throat when he looks at you. There’s not a hint of bewilderment to be found. No shock or awe. There’s just the smallest nod of your head, meant just for him, that says all he needs to hear—that you see him, that you recognize he’d gone through all of this insanity because he needed to find his own path, and that he’s finally found in it the meaning he’d been searching for.

“I’m sure,” he confirms, completely void of hesitation.

Hoshi scratches at the back of his neck. “Well, I—that’s quite a big request. I’ll have to see what we can do.”

Mingyu, however, spoils the inevitable surprise by giving him a thumbs-up.

After that, there isn’t much left to say. Mingyu formally concludes the meeting and thanks Hell for their attendance and participation, to which Jeonghan gives him the finger before disappearing in a plume of smoke that causes everyone to gag. Joshua takes advantage and slips out the door undetected. Mingyu and Hoshi are none the wiser until some of the employees down the hall start screaming. “Please excuse us,” Mingyu chokes out before he, too, disappears in the direction of the shouting. Hoshi hangs back, tries to swallow his amused smile, but then Mingyu returns to drag him away.

Only you and Jun remain. “What did Joshua do?” he asks, less to break the silence and more because he’s nosy.

“Released roughly three dozen of those terrifying tarantulas that eat birds.”

“Oh.”

Silence creeps in anyway—not awkward, but Jun can tell there’s something you want to say. Should he hover? He doesn’t want you to feel obligated (not that you would), but he can’t deny that he’s curious. You, the literal devil, reluctant to say something to him, just a human? It’s too good an opportunity to pass up.

“You’re not gonna get all clingy and weird now that we’ve had sex, are you?” he jokes.

Shockingly, you do not find this funny. “I may have lied about inventing Jenny McCarthy, but I did invent the guillotine. And the electric chair. And the rack—”

“Noted,” Jun replies, giddy all over. Can’t help it as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks and rocks back on his heels. “Should I walk you to the door?”

“Don’t you dare,” comes your response, but Jun does it anyway. Gets away with it by dropping some quip about his mother raising him to be a gentleman, and it’d just destroy her if she knew Jun wasn’t abiding by her teachings.

Your reluctant smile is akin to pulling teeth, but it still shows up.

Whatever havoc had been wreaked by Joshua seems to have been solved. There’s blissful silence as the two of you reach the door, and Jun knows his escort is pomp and circumstance, that you could disappear in the blink of an eye the way Jeonghan had, but he appreciates you going through the motions for his sake, that you’ve allowed him a moment of normalcy.

“Was it hard coming back here?” he asks, leaning against the door frame to stem his desire to reach out for you.

“Well, it’s certainly never easy, but I’ve got plenty of psychologists down there I can talk it over with if need be.” You check an invisible watch. “Do you think Freud is available for lunch tomorrow?”

“If he’s not, I am.”

A bark of shocked laughter has you covering your mouth. “I did not expect that from you.”

“Did it work?”

“No,” you reply instantly. “Have a great weekend, Wen Junhui. I’m sure our paths will cross again soon.”

Jun nods… which is about all he can do, considering he’s stuck here for the time being. Hoshi sent him here, which means Hoshi’s the only one who can send him back—some stupid security rule Jun wasn’t paying attention to when it’d been explained to him. So he sticks the corner of his thumb in his mouth, thinks about how great your ass looked in those pants as you walked away, and pivots back into the conference room to await the angel with the stupid t-shirts.

Except, as soon as he turns around, there you are. Face to face. Close enough that your scent is paralyzing, but it’s different now—softer, he thinks; something that makes him feel less like he’s been ensnared in your web and more like he’s been invited in. Close enough that when you lean in he can feel the warmth of your breath on his skin, that sensitive spot just below his ear.

“You were wrong,” you say, so quiet he’s not sure he isn’t imagining your words, filling in the blanks of what he wants to hear. “What you said earlier, about me not needing you.”

Then you’re gone.

In the blink of an eye, just like he thought you’d be.

He makes a mental note to be available tomorrow around lunchtime.

If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! Sharing and reblogging my work is the best way to say you enjoyed it, but I also accept any and all feedback and screaming in my inbox. <3

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oddlydescriptive · 11 days ago

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Reset, Chapter Fourteen

Series Masterlist

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You wake up hating everything.

The light.

Yourself.

Beer.

Beer especially.

Life in general.

The ceiling, for starters- the same one you’ve stared at for months now in your little factory dorm room. The way it’s too close, too bright, too white. Your tongue feels like it’s been dragged across the production floor. Your brain is a dull, pulsing throb- not catastrophic, but persistent. Annoying. Like a reminder that yes, in fact, you drank three whole beers -big beers, mind you- last night. Possibly four. And no, you are not nineteen anymore. You’re also no longer a particularly seasoned drinker after three months of nothing more than an occasional, polite glass of white wine or champagne over business dinners.

Oh my God. What even was last night?

The call. Sure. Great. Dream-fulfilling, life-altering, seat-securing moment, and yeah, you’re happy, thrilled, all that. Whatever. Fine.

The beers- fine. Maybe a little fast, maybe one too many, but whatever. You earned it.

But the rest?

The jukebox.

The laughing.

The fucking kneeling.

The staring.

Jesus Christ, the staring.

You groan out loud and flop onto your side like you can physically wiggle away from the memory. Like maybe if you press your cheek against the cool wall and hold perfectly still, time will rewind just far enough to let you unlive the last thirty seconds before you caught Max Verstappen watching you like he’d never seen a person before.

And he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

“God,” you mumble to the ceiling. “What the fuck was that?” No one answers.

You feel yourself heat from the inside out, not with embarrassment exactly- more like offense. How dare he. How dare you, honestly. Getting punchy in the haze of cheap pilsners and vintage ABBA.

You throw the blanket off like it’s personally offended you and swing your legs to the floor. You’ve got a flight to Brazil. You’re going with the team. To sign the contract. To smile and wave and pretend you’re not still mildly hungover from a bunch of £5 pilsner and the world's stupidest standoff.

You feel disgusting, so you dress accordingly- real clothes. Overcompensate. High-waisted trousers, clean blouse, light makeup, hair pinned into something neat. The kind of outfit that says: I have my shit together, even if your brain feels like it was run over by the taxi cab that deposits you on the sidewalk of Heathrow.

Check-in is quick. Security is quicker. One checked bag. One backpack. That’s it.

No drama. No questions. No fire suit. No helmet. No gear bag stuffed within an inch of it’s life. No extra team apparel shoved between a neck brace and your HANS device. No holding up your backpack with two fingers while someone roots through your bag- Miss, is this a lithium battery? You blink as you clear the last scanner, almost suspicious of how easy it was.

Nothing about your luggage says racer. Because you’re on the other side of it. The side that had gear packed and sent before you even had to question it.

British Airways out of Terminal 3. First class. Direct. No layovers. That alone feels like a fever dream. Your seat was booked by someone else, paid for with a team card you’ve never even seen. No expense report, no hustle, no sideways phone calls, no backdoor travel codes that you begborrowstole from dark corners of the internet or schmoozed from a customer service agent. Just: here’s your itinerary. Have a nice flight. God, you don’t want to know what a 12 hour notice first-class flight to Brazil costs. Probably more than is in your checking account.

You’re not used to that.

Thanks to the ticket and the Amex Platinum your dad insists on keeping you listed under- for emergencies only, babygirl, I mean it- you’ve got access to multiple lounges. You spent the entire cab ride over scrolling r/heathrow and watching lounge reviews on YouTube like a psychopath. The Cathay Pacific First Class Lounge came out on top.

Small. Quiet. Mood lighting. Made-to-order noodles.

You take the elevator up, nod politely to the concierge, smile too wide- because you’re still not used to being let into these places without having to explain yourself- and step inside.

Instant exhale. The rest of the airport vanishes like someone hit mute. Carpet under your boots. Leather chairs soft enough to make you want to sleep for a week. It’s small. Quiet. Dim in a deliberate, expensive way. The kind of quiet that doesn’t ask for silence, just assumes it.

You still don’t love traveling. The flights, the time zones, the disorienting lights of arrivals halls in cities that don’t know your name yet.

But the lounges?

God, yes.

You’re not new to lounges. You’ve practically got a doctorate in them. Back in America- especially during your Indy days- you were the undisputed queen of squeezing every drop out of a Priority Pass guest allowance. You learned how to hustle your way through them. Flash the card, assess your options, and above all- come prepared. Water battle. Tupperware. Ziplocs.

The trick was never about getting in, even if your greasy fingernails and stained pit polos did earn you a side-eye or three. The trick was about what you did once you were there.

Eat fast. Use everything. Fill your water bottle with their fancy cucumber water or designer espresso- yes, sir- three lavender oat milk lattes. Yes. Three. Load up your Tupperware when nobody was looking. Slip some goods in your backpack, if the snacks were pre-packaged. Grab an extra banana. Swipe a few granola bars.

It wasn’t about greed or gluttony or some deep-seated kleptomania. It was about strategy. It was about survival.

It was about landing in a town you didn’t pick, at a time you didn’t agree to, with zero food options except for -maybe, possibly- one terrifying “grill” next to the motel that definitely wasn’t making its money from selling food.

Fuck you, Steam Corners, Ohio.

You and six of the pit guys got in at a respectable 9 p.m.- not even late by race weekend standards- and found the entire town locked down tighter than a Sunday church. No grocery stores. No drive-thrus. The bar across the street had plywood in the windows and hadn’t looked like it had been open since the 2008 recession. So you all ended up huddled around a vending machine in the lobby, shoving wrinkled dollar bills into it like it held a prayer. You walked away with beef jerky sticks, off-brand chips, and a melted chocolate bar you had to scrape off the inside of the wrapper with your teeth.

That night, you learned two things:

Always carry your own fork.

Lounge leftovers could mean the difference between starving and not.

So no- it wasn’t indulgence. It was about having something edible by the time you hit the motel roulette in whatever town hadn’t updated its Yelp listings since 2011.

This time, you’re not the exception. You’re on the manifest. It’s disorienting. Not wrong. Just... new.

It used to feel like cheating.

Now it just feels... strange. Now someone is bringing you a menu with hand-pulled noodles and duck broth and you’re not even plotting how to smuggle leftovers into your carry-on. Now there’s no hustle. No sleight of hand. Just you. A seat. A name on the list.

You’ve been in lounges before. Dozens. But never like this. Never without the need to justify it- to earn it. To sneak, to scavenge, to prepare for whatever Mid-western hellscape waited for you in Indy.

Eventually, your boarding group is called. First. Naturally.

You hesitate, just for a second, then rise, sling your backpack over one shoulder, and thank the lounge attendant with the kind of southern politeness that refuses to die even under duress. Your legs move automatically. Your brain’s still catching up.

You walk past the crowd at the gate- past the boarding lane packed with families and couples and the guy who’s holding his neck pillow like it’s going to save him from the cramps that come with a transatlantic flight- and head straight through the First Class lane like you’ve been doing it for years.

One scan. A nod. “Welcome aboard, Miss.”

The jet bridge is the same as always. Too cold. Too bright. Smells faintly of metal and carpet glue. You walk it like a runway you didn’t ask for.

And then-

Left turn. And suddenly, you’re not in an airplane. You’re in another world.

Your seat isn’t a seat. It’s a capsule. A private, high-walled cocoon of brushed aluminum and butter-soft leather, wide enough to stretch in and deep enough to disappear into. There’s a pillow. A mattress pad. A console. A welcome card with your name handwritten in actual ink. Real pen ink. That someone wrote with their hand.

You take one cautious step in, and then another. Sit down like you expect it to vanish beneath you.

It doesn’t.

It cradles you. It welcomes you. It instantly forgives every cheap red-eye and Greyhound bus you’ve ever endured.

A flight attendant offers to hang your jacket. Another one brings you a hot towel. There’s a glass of champagne waiting on a tray like it missed you. You’re pretty sure you just heard someone order caviar. On a plane.

You start poking around, careful but curious- fingertips skating over unfamiliar buttons, compartments, sleek metallic seams. One panel flips open with a click. Another releases a drawer with a blanket folded military tight. You find the noise-canceling headphones. The amenity kit. The menu.

And then- curious, stupid, a little drunk on luxury- you press a button without reading the label.

Whirrr.

The divider wall between you and the next seat begins to descend. Oh no. No no no no no.

“Shit- ” you whisper, eyes widening as the panel hums down, smooth as silk and definitely not stopping until it hits the bottom. Abort, abort, ABORT. You fumble, jabbing the button again like that’s going to make the wall rise faster- or erase the last five seconds entirely. You’re halfway out of your seat, stammering out a panicked, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to- ”

And then the divider finishes its glide- and you’re staring directly into the seat next to you.

George Russell blinks. Then smiles. “Oh,” he says, like he’s amused and already halfway into being polite. “Hello.”

You freeze, still hovering over the console like you’ve been caught rewiring the aircraft. Your voice gets stuck in your throat, then comes out all at once: “I didn’t mean to do that.”

He laughs, easy and warm. “That’s alright. I was wondering when I’d get to say hello.”

And just like that, you're caught. Trapped somewhere between mortification and high-altitude diplomacy. You freeze. Because of course it’s someone you know. Because of course it’s someone from work.

And just like that, you shift. Shoulders back. Jaw loose. Smile calibrated. You sit like someone who’s been in first class before. Who’s tired of the champagne. Who rolls her eyes at warmed towels. Who belongs here.

“Hi,” you say, light and charming, like that button press wasn’t a small social catastrophe. “God, sorry about the- ” you gesture vaguely at the console, at the divider that just revealed way too much. “Didn’t realize it actually worked. Total accident.” Like you’ve been here before. Like you didn’t even expect it to work. Like you’ve been here enough to pick out the flaws. Nice. Smooth.

George lets out a polite laugh. “No harm done.” He adjusts slightly in his seat, still watching you with that carefully unreadable expression. “Nice surprise, really.”

You mirror his posture- effortless, elegant, like the seat wasn’t a mini theme park of compartments and features five minutes ago. “Wasn’t expecting company either,” you say. “But hey. Better than sitting next to someone who takes their shoes off before takeoff.”

He smiles at that. “True. Though I wouldn’t have pegged you for British Airways.”

You raise a brow. “Why not?”

George lifts one shoulder in a mild shrug. “Just assumed Red Bull would have you flying private or something.” You laugh- easy, breezy, Covergirl, like that thought hadn’t just sent a minor wave of panic rolling through your ribcage.

“Oh, sure,” you say. “Maybe next season.”

And he nods, seemingly satisfied. No comment. No follow-up. Just that watchful, polite quiet that makes your skin itch, just a little. You sink deeper into your seat, legs angled, hands loose in your lap. You sip your Coke like you’ve had a hundred of them up here. You make a mental note to google BA first class etiquette when you land, just to be safe.

He studies you for a moment longer. Not invasive, just… curious. “I haven’t seen you since Zandvoort,” he says, like it’s a memory worth revisiting.

You smile. Professional. Clean. “Briefly. Podium.”

“I remember,” George says. “You disappeared in the cool down room, no?”

You hum. “Yeah, I… wasn’t feeling great.” Which is a much classier way of saying: I threw up everything but my teeth five minutes before they handed me the champagne.

He nods slowly, still watching you. Not too intently. Just… enough. “You looked strong,” he says.

You smile again, automatic. “Thanks.”

There’s a pause. Measured. Warm. And then he shifts, smoothing his hand along the armrest. “I take it you’re headed to São Paulo with the rest of us?”

You nod. “Team stuff. Press. Just tagging along.”

He tilts his head. “Tagging along?”

“Support role,” you say smoothly. “A few meetings. A little visibility.”

George doesn’t press. He just offers a small nod and turns forward again. Still smiling. Still perfectly mannered. But you can feel it.

The curiosity. The mild surprise. Like maybe he didn’t expect you to fit in here. Like maybe he didn’t expect you to be this composed.

And you’ll be damned if you let him find out how new this is. You’ve never flown first class in your life. You still don’t know what half the buttons on this seat do. But George Russell won’t be the one to find that out. Not today. Not ever.

The divider stays down for a while.

You didn’t mean to leave it that way. But George doesn’t seem in any rush to raise it again, and you’re not about to be the one to imply conversation with a Mercedes driver isn’t worth having.

Besides, it’s... not bad. He’s not loud. Not nosy. Just casually curious in that very British way- polite questions shaped like compliments, wrapped in neutral observations. “So,” he says, somewhere over the Atlantic, after you’ve finished your meal and quietly declined the warm chocolate tart, “contract up for review soon, isn’t it?”

You don’t flinch. Don’t blink.

“Something like that,” you say, smiling into your glass.

He doesn’t push. Just nods like that’s exactly what he expected. There’s no point in pretending he hasn’t heard the rumors. But the AlphaTauri deal isn’t public yet, and you’re neck deep in and NDA, and even if you weren’t- you haven’t even told your mom. Fuck if you’re going to tell George before Marissa LeChriste. You still have some fear of God.

He turns back to his tray, wipes a crumb off the corner with a napkin, and says- like it’s nothing- “Toto and Susie mentioned you the other night.”

Your hand stills slightly on the stem of your glass. “Oh?”

“Susie said she’s been looking to get in touch. Formula Women Academy.”

“Really?” you ask, careful not to sound too surprised. “I didn’t know.” Try not to turn your nose up too fast. No ma’am- you are not racing the sideshow, noble as it might be. Susie Wolff has another thing coming if she thinks you’re interested in racing old money’s daughters in F4 cars.

George offers a polite little shrug. “Said you’d dropped off the map a bit this season. Thought you might be interested in some involvement. Media appearances, mentoring. That sort of thing.” Oh. Okay. Not driving, then. Fair enough.

You hesitate. Only a second. Then: “Yeah. That’d be great.” He pulls out his phone- new, shiny, no case- and passed it to you. You type in your number, save it under something innocuous, and hand it back with that same even smile.

“Consider it done.”

It’s quiet after that.

He cues up a film. You do the same. Occasionally, one of you makes a comment- a subtle glance, a half-smile, a dry joke passed just loud enough to carry across the shared space. Nothing that would bother a stranger. Nothing that would call attention.

The divider goes up once, midway through the flight. Not with finality. Just... a pause. An unspoken “we’ve said enough for now.” You don’t take it personally.

Hours later, after sleep and a half-watched documentary, it hums back down again. You murmur something about the snack service, and George agrees that, yes, the ice cream really is decent. You’re both groggy, faces soft from sleep, too disarmed to be fully guarded. There’s no bond here. Not really. Just a quiet agreement that being pleasant is… pleasant.

And when you land in São Paulo, it’s George who speaks to the driver first. Who casually says you’re headed to the same hotel. Who doesn’t offer- just assumes you’ll share the car.

You slide in beside him. Thank him, just barely above a whisper. Outside, the city rolls by in flickers of orange streetlight and fogged glass. Inside, you sit tall. Hands folded over your phone. Skin warm from too many hours of recirculated air.

You’ve never felt more legitimate. You’ve never felt more out of place.

After check-in, you offer George a polite nod, a gentle expression of thanks- something neat, polished, gentle- as you part ways. You throw your bags down in the corner, not the closet, and head back downstairs in search of some food. You skip the hotel restaurant.

It’s too glossy, too curated, full of white linen and waitstaff who look like they’ve been coached not to make eye contact. The menu’s in three languages and somehow still vague. You’re not in the mood for vague. You want comfort. Eleven hours in proximity of George Russel, pretending you’re someone who absolutely understands how to read wine notes, and you’re done. You’re tapped. The endurance of your soft smile has reached its absolute limit.

Instead, you find a street vendor a half block down. Open cart. A line of locals seven deep. The smell hits you halfway down the block- charred meat, cilantro, lime. You don’t even ask questions. Just hold up three fingers and exchange a few crumpled reais. He hands you a few hot skewers wrapped in butcher paper and a paper boat of what looks to be fried potatoes.

Hell yeah. You eat the first skewer on the walk back to the hotel.

And it tastes like home. Not even the flavors, per se, just the simplicity of it. Like spice and salt and honest money. Like county fairs and brandings and barbeques and long days that end in dusty tailgates. Like normal people.

Back at the hotel, you don’t go upstairs. Not yet. You settle into the corner of the lobby with your tablet balanced on your knee. One earbud in. Head low. Film pulled up- public stuff, just YouTube- past Brazil races, lap analyses, old helmet cams. Nothing you’d get into trouble for watching out in the open.

You’ve seen most of it before, but that’s not the point. It’s not about learning. Not anymore. It’s about rhythm. Sound. Familiarity. The weight of tires in your ears. Food tastes better when it’s accompanied by a racecar, and that’s just a fact. Can’t argue with the facts.

You’re not hiding. Not even a little. You’re just… re-centering. Letting the ebb and flow of the world, the people, the evening move around you like a river coursing around a stone. People watch. Enjoy a few more hours of relative anonymity in this city while you still have it. As soon as the contract news breaks it’s going to be another feeding frenzy of interviews, cameras, pictures, soundbytes.

But right now, you’re still a normal person, eating a normal meal, doing normal things. And that’s nice.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

They’re halfway back from dinner when it happens.

The three of them- Max, Lando, and Danny- trailing through the hotel’s wide, dim lobby, stomachs full, conversation lazy. Lando’s half-telling a story about a rental car disaster in Dubai. Danny keeps interrupting, loudly, adding fake details just to hear himself talk. Max isn’t really listening. Just nodding occasionally, arms crossed, eyes drifting. He’s thinking Barcelona should be able to beat out Osasuna tonight. Hopefully.

The restaurant glow fades behind them. Soft jazz filters through the lobby speakers like an afterthought. The elevator’s still a good fifteen meters away when Danny suddenly stops short.

“Hey!” he says, like he’s just spotted a long-lost friend across a train station platform. “That’s her, right?” Max follows his gaze, already knowing exactly who he means.

You’re curled into a corner of the lounge, half-lit by the warm, low lighting, legs folded under you, tablet balanced on your knees, hoodie slouched off one shoulder. One earbud in. Lost in your own world.

Trying not to be noticed.

Which, of course, means Danny notices immediately.

Max doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to, because Danny’s already moving. Like an over-eager puppy let off the lead at a dog park. Arms too loose, stride too confident, smile already forming. He drops into the armchair next to yours like it belongs to him. “You’re real!” he crows. “Jesus, I thought maybe you’d evaporated.”

You look up, a little startled- but only for a second. Then the switch flips. Max watches it. That thing you do.

That warm, lightning-fast pivot. The way your shoulders square and your posture tightens- not defensive, just rehearsed. Professional. Polished. It’s your PR mask, clean and seamless, the one you’ve worn in sponsor rooms and press pens and garage interviews where everyone’s already decided what kind of girl you are before you open your mouth.

The one that pisses him off.

Your smile clicks into place, pleasant and untouchable. “Hi, Danny,” you say, voice dry and careful, clipped just enough to keep things neutral.

And then Danny Ricciardo- human chaos engine, adult golden retriever- grins like you’ve just handed him the keys to a convertible. “Hi, Danny,” he mimics back, voice all exaggerated smoothness. “You know, I really didn’t expect you to be fast and good-looking. Bit rude, honestly.”

Your mask cracks instantly. Not subtly. Not in stages. Just- gone. Danny has that effect on people.

You laugh.

And not the clipped, controlled thing you offer when someone says something mildly inflammatory in a media pen. Not the gentle sound you offer when a sponsor cracks a joke that’s not as funny as they think it is. This is… loud. From your chest. Full-bodied and real.

Max feels his stomach twist like someone just yanked the steering wheel too hard.

You say something- he can’t hear it- and Danny throws his head back and howls like you’ve just told him the world’s funniest line. And just like that, you’re off.

You shift in your chair, leaning forward, one elbow on your knee, gesturing now with both hands like you’re trying to tell him five stories at once. Danny keeps pace effortlessly, already pointing to your tablet like he belongs there, like he was invited. You tilt the screen toward him without hesitation.

You two are obnoxious. Cringey. Instant combustion in human form. You talk with your hands. You talk a lot. You match Danny’s energy in real time, and that’s saying something. Like you’ve got the same outlet. Like you're wired into the same kind of stupidity.

It’s not flirting.

It’s worse.

It’s compatibility.

You’re not trying. That’s the worst part. You’re not doing anything performative. You’re just existing, and somehow you’re funny, magnetic, loud, and completely unfazed by Danny’s hurricane enthusiasm.

Max watches. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He’s not jealous. He’s not angry. Just… disoriented. Because he’s never seen you like this. So bright. So open. So uninterested in guarding yourself. This you is a stranger entirely, except Max doesn’t know any version of you well enough to understand what is and isn’t manufactured.

And worse- you like him. Danny. Immediately. Loudly. You’re already chattering about something Max can’t hear- something about a street vendor and suspicious meat and strange men with grills- and Danny’s practically drooling over whatever you brought back with you from outside.

And then Danny takes your fork. Max can’t tell if you offered it or if Danny just took it, but it’s in his hand, and then his mouth, and then he’s moaning like he’s never eaten before.

“Oh my God,” Danny says, chewing, dramatic as hell. “This is insane. Where did you get this?”

You shrug, smirking. “Sidewalk cart. Didn’t speak a word of English. Definitely wasn’t licensed. I trusted him completely.” He eats it. You let him. Neither of you blinks.

Seriously?

Danny too?

“Jesus, take a fucking breath,” Max mutters under his breath, not loud enough for anyone to hear. “Dumbass.”

It’s not like he expected restraint- this is Danny, after all- but something about the immediacy of it is almost offensive. Max hasn’t seen him this animated since the last time someone lost a bet with Danny and ended up in a tattoo parlor.

And now he’s here, absolutely in his element, double-dipping conversation and eye contact like he’s known you for a decade.

Gross.

Whatever. Max doesn’t bother approaching. Just stays planted, arms crossed, watching the performance unfold.

Danny’s not serious. He can’t be. He never is. He’ll say anything if it gets a laugh and everything if it gets attention. He flirts with dogs and baristas and traffic cones if they smile at him first. He’ll forget about this by tomorrow.

Still- Max shifts his weight. Doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t say a word. Lando sidles up next to him with a soda in one hand and a stupid grin already forming. “You think they’re getting on, huh?” he murmurs, tilting his head toward the chaos in the corner.

Max doesn’t answer immediately. Doesn’t have to. He exhales hard through his nose, eyes fixed straight ahead.

“They look and sound stupid,” he mutters.You and Danny are still talking over each other, bouncing jokes like tennis balls. Your laugh has gotten louder, like you’re not in the middle of a four-star hotel lobby, and Danny is eating it up.

Lando snorts and waves his hand at the two of you like he doesn’t have the words for it. Extrovert-on-extrovert extravaganza, in a way that only people from countries that don’t believe in inside voices or taking turns to speak can be.

“I mean, come on,” Max adds, sharper now, “she’s American, he’s Australian. Of course the volume doubles. You put two dogs in a room, they bark louder. Doesn’t mean they’re communicating.” He says it like a fact. Like he’s explaining gravity.

And in his mind, that’s that.

Danny will burn out in ten minutes. You’ll get bored. And Max will go upstairs with the boys, watch the Barcelona match in peace, maybe crack a beer and yell at the screen. Life will return to normal.

But then he hears it.

Danny: “You should come up.”

And Max’s heart stops. His head snaps toward the group just in time to see Danny half-sitting on the arm of your chair, holding a water bottle in one hand and gesturing toward the elevators with the other.

“We’re watching the Barcelona game,” he says, all grin, all ease. “Lando’s already in, a few of the others, right Max?” He doesn’t wait for confirmation. “You should come. Hang out.” Max goes still.

You raise an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “With you guys?”

Danny shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Why not? You’re already out, you’re already fed, and you’re way too interesting to be stuck down here watching race film alone like some weird little robot.”

Max feels something in his chest go cold. Because this was not the plan. No. Nonono. The plan was just the guys. Just the match. Just noise and a drink and the comfort of knowing nothing unexpected would happen.

And now?

Now you’re coming upstairs.

To Danny’s suite.

To the same room where Max was planning to take off his shoes and stretch out on the floor and complain about passing accuracy and not think about you.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t protest.

But internally, he’s screaming.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You’ve tucked yourself into the corner of the couch like it’s instinct. Knees pulled up. Hands folded. Half watching, half not. The suite filled up, and fast- Lando, Max, Carlos, Charles, Fernando, Danny- shoulders crammed together, half-eaten snacks on the table, bottles of beer already sweating onto coasters.

Everyone’s locked in on the screen.

Except you.

You’ve never really gotten soccer. Football. Whatever. You know the rules, kind of. Understand the basics, mostly. But the obsession? The tribal loyalty, the screaming at the screen like your voice might physically change the outcome? Not really. You’re not bored. You’re just… not about it. You’ve never been a soccer girl. You’re a ranch kid with a race car problem. This isn’t your arena.

You keep quiet. Not shy, exactly. Just aware.

You’re the outsider in a room of heavyweights. Guys with race wins, titles, legacy. And it’s not that you can’t belong in this room- it’s just... not the night to prove it. You know better than to force your way into a rhythm you don’t know the beat of. So you stay quiet.

Still, it’s… nice. In the way background noise sometimes is. The rhythm of the match, the dull commentary, the occasional groan or cheer when someone misses or makes a goal. The way Carlos keeps ejecting himself from the couch and pacing around the room is entertaining, if nothing else.

But Danny-

Danny doesn’t leave you to drift.

He slides into the cushion next to you. Casual. One foot on the coffee table, beer dangling between two fingers, eyes half on the screen. “Y’right?” he murmurs, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… not really a soccer girl. Football. Whatever.”

That gets a small grin out of him. “Yeah? What kind of girl are you then?”

You narrow your eyes. “If you’re trying to make that sound flirty, it’s failing spectacularly.”

Danny lets out a soft laugh. “Nah. Promise. I’ve hit my limit for the night. Just makin’ conversation.” You believe him. He’s settled now. Less animated. Less golden retriever at the dog park. Just Danny. And for once, it doesn’t feel like small talk.

“So where’s home?” Danny asks. “Proper home. Not the Europe version.”

You shift in your seat a little, glance at the game, then back at him. “Washington.”

He blinks. “As in… D.C.?”

You snort. “God, no. State. Eastern side. Not the rain and coffee shops. The hot, dry, endless wheat field side.”

Danny squints. “Washington has a hot side?”

“Yep. Lotta people don’t realize it. It’s farmland. Orchards. Sunburns in April.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “Still doesn’t explain the accent.”

You smile a little, tugging at the hem of your sleeve. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

He grins. “No offense, but I’ve met, like, three people from Washington and none of ‘em sound like they wanna offer me iced tea on a porch swing.”

You laugh. “My mom’s from Texas. Proper Southern girl. Real pearls-and-praise-the-Lord energy. I did most of my junior career down there. Close to her family. Think it just… rubbed off.”

Danny raises a brow. “Rubbed off?”

You shrug. “Accents are sticky. You spend your formative years getting yelled at in one, it sticks. Plus, the sponsors love it.”

He leans in a little, grinning. “Oh yeah? Bit of drawl, a little ‘yes sir’- all part of the package?”

“Exactly,” you say, deadpan. “It’s branding.”

Danny chuckles, voice warm and easy. “God. That’s grim.”

You smirk. “That’s motorsport.”

He tips his beer toward you like a salute. “Well, for what it’s worth, it works.”

You smirk sideways at him. The noise of the game swells behind you- cheering, commentary, the scrape of someone’s bottle against the table- but it all feels distant. Muted. Like you’re sitting just slightly outside of it all. By choice.

Danny shifts beside you, slow and casual, his elbow sliding along the back of the couch until his arm drapes behind you- not touching, just resting there like it belongs.

His voice drops a little. Softer now. “So… you miss it? Home?” You glance at him, surprised he asked. Not because it’s invasive. It’s not. Just that no one ever really does. Not like that. Not in a way that feels like they care about the answer.

You hesitate. But something about his face- open, kind, not trying too hard- makes it feel okay. “Yeah,” you admit. “A lot more than I thought I would.”

You twist the edge of your sleeve between your fingers, the screen across the room blurring into background noise. “I miss the quiet. The space. My family.”

Danny doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t give you that look- the one people give when they’re trying to relate but don’t actually understand. He just nods, slow and thoughtful. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

“I didn’t think I would, this much,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “I’ve lived off the ranch more than on it for the better part of ten years- but it was still just a plane ticket and a half day of flying away. I was so ready for this. But… now that I’m here…” You trail off. Shrug.

He finishes it for you. “Now it feels like you left a part of you behind.”

You nod, exhaling through your nose. “Something like that.”

Danny leans back, eyes on the screen but not really watching. “I felt like that my first year in Europe. Had this flat in some beige building in Nogaro. No heating worth a damn, weird neighbors. I was flying out every other week, chasing the next thing. Couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t sleep. Just felt… off.”

You steal another look at him, and this time he’s not grinning. Not teasing. Just steady.

“I missed my mum’s garden,” he adds. “Didn’t realize that until I walked past someone cutting rosemary and nearly lost my shit.”

You laugh- quietly. Soft. “Not the rosemary,” you say.

“The rosemary,” he repeats, mock solemn. “It’s always the little stuff.”

You smile. Small. Real. And for once, no one tries to poke it. No one rushes to fill the silence or turn it into a joke. Danny just… stays there. Still and steady. One arm draped lazily over the back of the couch like he’s holding space without needing to claim any of it.

Not fixing anything. Just there.

The moment hovers. Not long- just long enough to register. Long enough to feel it bloom in your chest, slow and unfamiliar. Something soft. Something warm. Something you forgot you missed. It’s nice. Too nice. Like maybe- just maybe- you could feel that way again. Let your guard down. Be a person instead of a weapon.

Which is precisely when Danny kills it.

Not cruelly. Not even consciously. Just- swerves. He nods toward the TV with a grin already tugging at his mouth. “So. Still not a soccer fan?”

And just like that- it’s gone. The warmth. The ache. The weight.

It snaps closed around you like a door slamming shut, and you blink as the air shifts. Like someone’s poured a pitcher of cold water straight down your spine. You try to recover fast. You’re good at that. Exhale a soft laugh. “Not really. But I am glad you call it soccer.”

He grins, all bright mischief again, like the last sixty seconds never happened.

And you? You pull the softness back where it belongs. Out of sight. Out of reach.

He grins- bigger now, looser. “Yeah, that won’t last.” You arch a brow, suspicious. He nods, too solemn to be trustworthy. “No, seriously. Stay here long enough and one day you’ll be screamin’ about offsides and actin’ like you were born wearin’ cleats. Swear it’s in the water.”

You scoff. “Doubt it.”

“Sorry to tell ya,” he says, raising his drink. “It’s a slow infection. No symptoms. One day you just wake up with a favorite team and an enemy for life.”

You laugh, and it surprises you that you’re not still stinging from the gear change in moods. It’s easy. Thoughtless. Like your body didn’t ask permission first. You shake your head, still smiling, something soft catching behind your ribs.

It’s not a big conversation. It’s not terribly deep, at least not for long. But it’s real. And it’s the first time in a long time someone’s asked about your life- not your stats, your sim times, your strategy. You.

And it didn’t feel like a test. Didn’t feel like small talk. Even if it was just a moment.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

This was a super natural chapter to write- I love this character set and all the things it's going to reveal about 66 and who she is and what her needs are and why Max and her do work so well once they're together. And it's just nice to get into the part of the story where she gets to form real relationships that are all diverse and multi-dimensional and serve different purposes. We get to build her a rich personal life that helps ground her and shape her as she steps into this new stage of her life! As always, I am shamelessly pandering for your interaction in the comments and asks- helps me stay motivated and find passion in the fic :)

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 fanfic #formula one #max verstappen x y/n #f1 x reader #max verstappen x you #mv1 fic #mv1 x reader #mv1 #mv33 #max vertsappen fic #formula 1 x you #formula 1 #formula 1 x reader

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corazondebeskar-reads · 1 month ago

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side by side with me (a tlou x hunger games au)

joel miller x f!reader

words: 3.6k

summary:

After FEDRA finally laid waste to the Fireflies and snuffed out the light, they devised a system to keep the QZs in line.

75 years later, the violence is commemorated with a special Quarter Quell edition of the Hunger Games. It gives FEDRA a chance to kill the nation's favorite victor - Ellie Williams, who they have a very good reason for wanting dead.

After all, would the QZs still obey if they knew most of the kids born in the outside world were immune now? Or would one little girl tear the fabric of their control apart?

To find out, she'll have to win the games again. And the odds were never in her favor.

warnings: major character death, suicidal ideation, reference to suicide attempt, canon-typical violence, canon-typical systems of oppression, we hate fedra in this house, i look liberties with tlou and hg, p in v, oral, ellie is the mockingjay basically, there's far less plot here and mostly just angst, bittersweet ending, dead dove do not eat

for @guiltyasdave who was enabling me and whose own hunger games au with joel i CANNOT fucking wait for.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

are you—are you comin' to the tree? wear a necklace of rope side by side with me.

He knows, somehow. He’s toward the back of the crowd, still in his work clothes, faded and filthy jeans with a denim shirt, soil-caked boots and all. Sweat from the sun drags mud down his brow. The bandana around his neck is saturated from the heat.

He didn’t bother to change, didn’t see a point in dressing up. The cameras knew who he was. And he knew for certain he was about to be on that little stage.

It shouldn’t have been a sure thing. There were three other male victors there. But he knew.

There were two female victors—one older than him and one far too young. So when they called for Ellie Williams, two years out from her victory at twelve, there was no question.

The year she’d won, he hadn’t mentored. Couldn’t stand in that room again and watch another little girl die. He stayed home like a coward and threw up every time the bell tolled, and he didn’t know where she was. Each time, he caught himself prayin’ to no one, begging forgiveness that he didn’t try harder. Should have gone and schmoozed, should have got her a better chance.

In the end, she didn’t need him.

He wasn’t going to let her go alone again. Didn’t need to know a damn thing about her other than she had been promised survival and then this. The fuckin’ Quarter Quell.

So when they called out for Mitch, Joel stepped forward instead.

“I volunteer,” he said. He didn’t wait for the peacekeepers or the crowd’s gasps to fade. He strolled right on up to the stage.

And that was that.

Your fate was sealed when they announced the Quell. As the only surviving female victor, you were going back in that arena. You took a day to mourn and rage and let the numbness overtake you.

Nothing to be done about it.

So, while you wait, you live. You swim each day until your skin is stretched dry from the salt and let your waterlogged legs drag you home. Sometimes you sleep there, near the water. You know you’ll never see it again.

It does occur to you to give in to the call you’ve heard since you returned the first time. The lapping waves whisper a song: come home, come home. The crinkle of the water under the heavy belly of the setting sun reminds you of your mama’s old quilt, and a tug in your navel urges you to paddle out and let it tuck you in.

Instead, you let the sun hold you, warm and safe. On the last day, you bring what’s left of your food and have a feast upon a rocky ledge jutting out over the water. You spread butter thick on soft bread, nibble at rich cheese, and sink your teeth into melon so juicy it bathes you in red. Practice for the arena, you think, and your raw laughter gets carried away on the breeze.

As the only living female victor, you have a man for a mentor. It all feels stupid, anyway. You didn’t need someone to tell you how to do this dance. You barely listen as he droned reassurances about securing sponsors. When he starts suggesting you encourage them on your knees, you stop listening entirely.

That is, until you hear the other mentor tell Nick, your male tribute counterpart, to “steer clear of Miller at all costs.”

You sit up. “Miller? As in Joel Miller?”

“Yeah, didn’t you hear? He volunteered,” Nick says.

You hadn’t heard. “Huh,” is all you say, leaning back against the window.

Joel Miller won his games only to lose his daughter, Sarah, to them at 14.

You won yours not so long after Joel. Close enough that you remember his viciousness. Close enough that you remember watching him mentor his daughter in the arena. Close enough that you remember the crack and the blood and the ensuing screaming after he tried to join her.

“Back off,” he growls when you approach him in the training rooms.

“I want to make an alliance,” you offer instead.

“Nope.” He turns to walk away.

You grab him by the shoulder, and he flings you, but you anticipate that, curling your body when you hit the ground so you can roll right out of it.

There’s a buzz, and a speaker crackles to life. “Save it for the arena,” the voice reminds you.

He’s glaring at you, and you step closer anyway. “Let me help you,” you say quietly.

“I don’t need your help.”

“No. But she does. You’re only here to save her, right?”

He’s scowling, but he nods.

“I don’t plan on walking away from this. Not if she can,” you say.

You remember Ellie’s games. There was something broken inside of her before it even started, you think, something with the potential to be wicked. She could have let it fester and grow, and no one would have blamed her.

She was feral and violent, but wicked she was not.

On cue, she popped up at Joel’s elbow. She clearly didn’t trust him, but she trusted you even less, eyes narrowed. “The fuck do you want?” she snapped.

But Joel puts a hand up to quiet her, watching as you hold steady under his scrutiny.

He remembered your games. He’d already been mentoring by then. You didn’t win by brute force, but that didn’t mean you didn’t kill. No, in fact, the final shot of your games was you soaked in blood, having slit your last competitor open from below.

He had done whatever was necessary in his. Tommy was alone back home, and if Joel didn’t make it back, the chances Tommy would meet the same fate were monumental.

But he remembered enough to know you had skills he didn’t. He was a brute; you were a survivalist. Ellie would need both.

They don’t want to interview him. There are a lot of attempts at coaching that he ignores.

But it’s not just him. The general sense of injustice has settled in on the stage tonight.

He goes along with minimal fuss; it doesn’t matter what he looks like or says. He’s already a ghost. They dress him in a grotesque facsimile of his real work clothes—inappropriately tight jeans, a silk guayabera with too many buttons undone, an ornate belt buckle, and unbroken leather boots. They even put a stupid hat on him, so he looks like he stepped out of a textbook about cowboys.

At least it’s better than the dress they forced Ellie into. One look at her, and you’d know it wasn’t right, wasn’t her. Two years ago, they had shoved her on stage in a plaid frock and pink riding boots. Now, they’ve clearly decided the cutesy, innocent look is over. They dolled her up like a goddamn southern belle, complete with a very padded corset.

It didn’t bode well for their plans for her if she won, but Joel knows there’s nothin’ he can do when he’s dead and gone. All he can do is get her out of there and hope.

You’re already on stage when they go up. He watched from the sides as your droll counterpart tried to make himself seem charming and handsome. They’d put him in skin-tight leggings covered in glittering scales, and a billowy white blouse left open to his navel.

You were dressed like a fucking mermaid. It was a gown, still, but your midriff was only covered by thin netting. The bottom clung tight to your curves before flaring out at the train. It was also covered in scales.

“You’re prettier than a picture,” the host oozes. “You could sing us a siren song, and all the men’d follow you into the sea. And some of the women!”

“Don’t you know what happens to those sailors?” you scold. Your voice is playful, but your eyes are cold.

The host, Flipper-something or some other absurd name Joel can’t remember, leans in conspiratorially. “They win the fishing tournament?”

You laugh. “They get their heads bashed against the rocks, silly.” You aren’t smiling anymore.

Joel found he was, though. Grinning with sharp teeth, a look Ellie returned. Yeah, you just might have a chance for her, he thinks.

You sneak into his room the night before. It’s against the rules and probably a bad idea in general. Might have been smarter to seek your satisfaction with a future enemy rather than risking this.

But you don’t want any of them. You want Joel, who, for all his brutality and intimidation, is going to die for a kid he doesn’t know.

You don’t want him to walk into it alone. Nor do you want to be alone. So you’ll follow him there, maybe stand beside him at the end of your time, so long as you fulfill your mission.

It’s funny, you think, in the way of things that aren’t funny but leave you nothing to do but laugh, that you had sex for the first time just like this. At the end of the world, the noose all but wrapped around your neck, just to say you had.

The other tribute from your district had also been a fumbling virgin, so it had gone about as well as it could. But you had done it, and no one could take that from you.

So tonight, you’ll offer, you’ll feed that desperate ache to feel something of your own volition, with another dead man. The irony that you might have to kill this one, too, doesn’t escape you.

He knows, when he answers the door. He’s in low-slung gray sweatpants and nothing more. But he takes your arm and pulls you inside without a word, locking the door behind him.

You appreciate that there’s no need for words. It’s on your faces, behind your eyes. His hand around your wrist draws you close before slipping to your waist, the other already wrapped around the nape of your neck as you meet. The first kiss is gentle, sorrowful. It’s all of your “what could have beens” until it turns sharp and hungry.

He peels your t-shirt and shorts from your body, hands gliding over every inch of you. You sink to your knees on the plush carpet and mouth at the line of him before tugging his pants to his ankles. He steps out of the loose trap, and you toss them to the side before taking him as far into your mouth as you can.

Together, you and Joel sink into the finality of your lives like gelatin. The last cock you’ll taste, the last mouth he’ll fuck. The last cunt he’ll devour, the last god you’ll cry out to.

Except the god you cry out to isn’t there. There is only Joel. Broad and hardened, marred by the cruel lick of the world and his own misfire. You offer yourself at his altar, and he drinks of you until he’s satiated, knowing the last of his days will be spent starving.

For all the clashing teeth and hurried hands, he’s slow when he climbs up over you. You think he might be frightening in any other moment, the intensity and sheer dominance imposed by his physical form and his soul.

He’s beautiful like this, though. He’s got you caged in, sweat dripping from his brow, and as he sinks into your cunt, he imparts the apologies he cannot say. They’re in his kisses and in his slow, torturous thrusts. They’re in the way he keeps closing his eyes, as if it’s too much to see his reflection in yours.

His mouth makes its way to your neck, and he leaves his assurances there. That it’ll be okay, when you come to the end. That no forgiveness is needed when you kill him. He’s sure that will be the way of things, that his cowardice that shook his hand so long ago will crest, and you’ll have to be the brave one.

He bites and sucks as blood bursts under your skin; each blossom left to tell you this was real, this happened, for one last moment, we were alive. That for one last moment, you each mattered to someone as more than a meat shield. As more than a martyr.

His rough fingers pluck at your clit and nipples. His mouth works its way down to your breasts as you writhe before he pulls his cock out completely.

“No,” you gasp, breaking the bargain.

He says nothing, eyes shining, as he bows to your core and drinks again. It’ll all be over soon, and he needs one last taste, needs to feel you shake under his tongue one more time.

When he’s taken you apart, he climbs back up into the welcoming heat of your cunt. The gentleness is gone; you’re too wrecked for it now. Each of you aches to hurt and be hurt, and so he takes, bruising hands on your hips as he pounds into you.

He gives you a look, the unspoken question plain as his tongue dips out to wet his lips. You nod, and he brings a hand up to tangle in your hair, searing your lips together as he fills you.

In the end, there’s one last moment. The last tenderness you’ll feel. He presses your sweaty foreheads together, cradling your head, and you take turns pulling kisses from one another, chaste but aching, swollen lips trying desperately not to part.

For a moment, he cups your face in his hand, a finger brushing over your cheek. The hurt is too raw, and you turn away from his pretty brown eyes that hang heavy with grief.

He rolls off you, and you sit up, legs swinging off the edge of the bed. His hand lingers on your back for a moment, and when you stand up, you feel the brand of it there for hours. Silently, you slip back into your clothes and pad out of the room. Though his gaze falls heavy on your back, you don’t look over your shoulder.

II.

You don’t like it, but it’s not up for negotiation. When the chime sounds, you bolt to Ellie and Joel to the cornucopia. You can’t watch, not without losing ground, so you beeline to Ellie and grab her by the arm, dragging the both of you off to the woods.

Right before the bell tolled, you had shared one dart of the eyes with Joel, looking to each other and then to the copse on the cliffside at the northeast corner.

It’s nightfall before he finds you. The two of you have tucked away behind an outcropping. There’s solid rock behind you, scaling higher than you can see. The rocks near the cliff’s edge are tall enough to hide you, and there are paths on either side. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do for the first night.

Almost everyone will still be getting their bearings, but you’ll need something better in the morning.

Ellie is wide-eyed, eyes darting at every whisper of a snow drift or creaking of a spindly branch. She’s tucked up against your side, failing to comply with your order to sleep.

When there’s a sudden crack, she full-body flinches, and you’re up in a flash, crouched and ready.

Then you hear it. The tell-tale tick, like a film reel kicking on.

A Clicker.

It’s enough to choke you up, fear colder than the tundra around you holding you in place. Long-forgotten instincts.

When you hear it again, wandering further, your brain kicks back into action, and you copy the sound.

“Shh, what the fuck are you doing?” Ellie hisses.

Joel comes around the corner. “S’that your idea of being quiet?” he whispers to her.

She jumps again, clutching a hand to her chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Joel shoots you a glare, and you grimace.

“I forgot to warn her,” you say. “Sorry, El. That’s our signal.”

And impossibly, somehow, he’s holding a backpack. It has a sleeping bag hooked to the bottom. He sees your stare and hands you the bag; no need for even a glance between you before you immediately give the bedding to Ellie.

“Dunno what else is in there,” Joel murmurs. “Didn’t have time to check.”

But he has a bow. And arrows. And a sleek little knife that he hands to Ellie.

Holy shit. You might just be able to do this.

You don’t think about it; you just throw your arms around Joel. You realize your mistake right away and take several steps back, out of the range of his fists. But he’s frozen in place, eyebrows raised.

“This is amazing. Thank you.” Your gratitude doubles when you finally realize he’s covered in blood. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s not mine,” he says, shaking his head.

“How many?”

“Three. Plus eight from others.”

Later, the guilt will eat at you, but for now, the relief is euphoric. Every body now is a body you don’t have to fight later. Eleven down is amazing. Minus the three of you, that means there are ten tributes between Ellie and freedom.

You don’t count yourself or Joel as bodies in her way. When the time comes, you know you’ll each make sure the other doesn’t chicken out, doesn’t make her bear that burden.

It works, until it can't anymore. Until both of you are on borrowed time. Four bodies stand between Ellie and life.

Two tributes, and the two of you.

“Let go,” you hiss as you thrash in his grasp.

He can’t make his fingers straighten. Can’t stop the way they dig into your arm, slippery as it is.

You’re not even trying to scrabble for solid purchase. The roar of the river below must seem menacing to him, you think.

“Not like this,” he pleads.

You fall still. “Joel,” you say, shaking your head. “It’ll take me home. I want this.”

“The hell are you talking about?” He snaps. “Drownin’ ain’t the way to go, darlin’.”

“It’ll take me home,” you repeat.

You watch him understand. The clarity doesn’t help, not really. But he closes his eyes and nods. You’re starting to slip, now, and he’s starting to let you.

It’s not a long fall, but the water is deep. It’s cold, colder than you’ve ever been, and when you gasp in shock, you suck in water.

Just like you knew you would. If it doesn’t fill your lungs, then the cold will steal you. If that’s not quick enough, the powerful current will strike your body against the stone.

You always thought it’d be peaceful, when the water took you. But this is okay, too.

“What are you doing?” Ellie yells.

He looks away from where you’ve been lost. She doesn’t know he let go, he realizes. All he can do is stare at her.

“We’ve gotta help her, we have to—“

“Ellie.” It’s soft but horrible. Maybe the worst sound she’s ever heard. Joel shouldn’t sound like that, shouldn’t sound sad.

“You have to do something,” she says, but it’s devoid of all hope.

“She’s gone, baby girl. It was always gonna be this way, you know that. We said we’d get you out alive.”

As soon as the words leave his chapped lips, the world around them bursts.

When Joel wakes up, he sits straight up on the gurney. One wrist is bound to the rail in a velcro strap, IV piped into the back of his hand. He peels the tape away and removes it, pressing down on the puncture to ebb the flow. He yanks the sticky monitor pads from his chest and swings his legs over the side, only to find himself wobbling when he tries to stand.

He ends up grabbing at the gurney to stay vertical, releasing the wound and letting blood drip down his arm.

A strangely familiar blurry shape comes through the doors, and Joel panics, rearing back and balling a fist.

“Joel! It’s me, stop, please. It’s me. It’s Tommy.”

Joel faints.

When he wakes up the second time, he has the sense to stay down. He blinks up at the now solid shape of his brother.

“Y’know,” he says, reaching up a hand to see if it connects or if he’s hallucinating. “I never really thought hell would be a hospital. Makes sense, though.”

“What’re you talking about?” Tommy asks, swatting Joel’s hand away. It’s still bleeding, after all.

“Said it makes sense. Wakin’ up to the time I lost ya.” He closes his eyes, the sting already bringing tears. At least, he thinks, it’s not the most painful memory he could’ve been forced to re-live.

Tommy makes a wounded sound. “Joel, you’re not dead.”

“S’that part of the trick?”

“Look at me,” Tommy says, sitting down on the sliver of unoccupied padding. “This is real. That was ten years ago. I'm not leaving you here, not this time, and I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Joel blinks. He tries to sit up on his elbows, but Tommy pushes him back down.

“Where’s Ellie? Did she—” he chokes on the thought.

“We got her. She’s okay. She’s gonna be just fine.”

“What do you mean you got her?”

“Ah shit, this ain’t really the time or place to tell you everything. You’re just gonna have to trust me. We got y’all out of the arena, and we’re safe.”

“No,” he croaks. “I wasn’t supposed to make it out.”

“But you did. We got you,” Tommy says reassuringly.

Joel closes his eyes, brows pinching. “I let go. You’re tellin’ me I let go, and if I’d have just held on for one more minute…”

"I'm sorry," Tommy croaks. "There was nothing we could do."

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #hunger games au #the last of us x hunger games #tw character death #dead dove fic #the last of us fic

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suugarbabe · 1 month ago

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firefighter!mattheo x barista!theo ; paramedic!enzo x you

summary: mattheo asks for a coffee break to see his favorite guy, enzo doesn't expect to also find something he likes

an: a touch of mattheodore in this universe as well; a product of a yap with @musingsofahufflepuff

Matty put on what he hoped was his best puppy dog eyes, “I swear we’ll be so fast, Enzo. We’ll stop in, grab a cuppa and I’ll see Teddy then we’ll leave. Bing, bang, boom, in and out in a jiffy.”

Enzo ran his hands over his face with a groan, “You know I hate going to coffee shops in our uniforms…everyone stares at us and at least three people will say they think they’re having an allergic reaction.”

A small smirk graces Matty’s features, “That’s just because everyone thinks you look so pretty you take their breath away.” Mattheo goes to pinch Enzo’s cheek playfully only for the latter to swat it away.

“You’re insufferable, you know that,” Enzo grumbles and he parks the aid car in the back of the coffee shop's parking lot. Mattheo simply waved his friend off as he all but falls out of the aid car to get into the cafe.

The chime above the cafe’s door alerted you to incoming customers. “Welcome! Just one second and I’ll be with you,” you poured the latte you were working on into a cup and called out the owners name, giving a big smile and nod when they thanked you.

Walking back to the register counter you’re met with a gleaming smile and fluffy curls. You gave him a once over, noticing he was dressed in only half his turn out gear. You met his eyes again with a smirk, “You know, Mattheo, without the whole outfit you only seem half as impressive.”��

Mattheo wiggled his eyebrows, “So you think I’m impressive, huh?”

The scoff and eye roll combo couldn’t take over your features quick enough, “Actually, I retract that statement. You’re actually insufferable.”

“Why is everyone saying that today?” Mattheo’s brows furrowed for a moment before his eyes scanned the cafe. He turned his attention half to you again as he asked, “So, darling. Where’s my Teddy?”

You crossed your arms and sat into your hip, “Theo is on his 30. He’s in the back.”

Mattheo peered around you, trying to look through the two slim windows on the door that led to the back area, “Well can you get him for me?” His eyes met yours in a big, round state. He jutted his bottom lip out slightly for emphasis.

You let out a groan, turning around to face the doors to the back and filling your lungs with air before, “THEO! YOUR FIRE BOY IS HERE!”

Mattheo cleared his throat, “Erm, man. It's fire man.”

You waved your hand over your shoulder, effectively dismissing him. A grumbling Theo bursts through the door, spewing what you have come to learn as Italian curse words.

“Interrompendo la mia pausa, stai scherzando? Oh, hello Tesoro, mi amore,” Theo’s frustrated tone and scowl instantly flipping to silky sweet and smiley.

You turned back toward the register and noticed Mattheo wasn’t alone. His friend was taller, and presumably his coworker as they wore the same navy shirt donning the firehouse symbol. However, instead of turnout pants he just wore a pair of matching navy trousers that fit him very well if you did say so yourself.

He seemed a little nervous standing at the counter as Mattheo and Theo schmoozed over one another. You decided to try and help him out, maybe offer a distraction, “Can I get you anything, sir?”

Mattheo’s friend looked at you a little confused, “Oh, erm, no. Well..sorry, I just meant, erm, I’m with Matt. Erm, I’m Enzo.” He held out his hand for you to shake.

You looked at his outstretched hand before meeting his eyes again. You could tell he felt a little out of place, so you shook his hand and told him your name.

“The matching shirts were kind of a give away that you were also a firefighter, but I appreciate the clarification,” you teased.

Pink dusted Enzo’s cheeks as he stumbled slightly over his words, “Actually, hah, I’m a paramedic. We, erm, were just slow at the firehouse and Matt asked if I wanted to grab a pick me up and we ended up here.”

You laughed lightly, “Yeah, sounds like Mattheo.” Enzo laughed as well, the corners of his crinkling and for some reason that made your stomach feel fluttery.

“Can I get you anything while you’re waiting? It’ll be on the house,” you gave a timid smile, not understanding why you were feeling so nervous all of a sudden.

Actually, you did know why you were nervous. Because this was the first time Mattheo brought a coworker to come bug Theo at work and your worst fear came true. He was insanely attractive.

Even reading over the menu behind you he was attractive; eyebrows furrowing together, lips moving slightly as he read each item, scratching the back of his neck as he tried to make a decision.

“Em, maybe I’ll just get an…iced coffee?” The phrase felt foreign coming out of Enzo’s mouth, but he hoped he didn’t appear as awkward as he felt. You donned a charming smile as you leaned over the counter a bit, and if Enzo wasn’t overanalyzing this entire interaction he’d say you were being flirty.

You held your hand to the side of your mouth, making it seem like you and Enzo were sharing a secret, “Our blend isn’t actually that great, how about an iced blonde latte with some salted caramel.”

Enzo nodded, not wanting to make any comment and have it be obvious that he truly had no idea what you were talking about. In all honesty he was more of a tea person, but he wasn’t going to deny you anything right now.

He just observed as you worked, not wanting to interrupt while you looked so focused. Enzo watched as you grabbed different things, messed with different machines. You gnawed on your bottom lip slightly while you concentrated and to Enzo it was quite cute.

You caught him staring, peeking up and meeting his eyes which caused an immediate blush to cover his cheeks and over his nose. He cleared his throat, checking his watch before turning to where Mattheo was still talking with Theo. “Matt, let’s go, we don’t wanna miss a call!” He yelled only to get Mattheo’s attention more than actually feeling rushed.

In actuality he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his shift here in the coffee shop, talking with you. Mattheo sidled up next to Enzo, “Teddy’s making my usual and then we can go. Sorry it took a little longer than I said. Did you order anything?”

Enzo started stuttering out the order you were making him, “Erm, yeah a salty blonde…ehm, I mean an iced something..”

You saved him then, reading his order back to him as you handed him his cup, “Iced blonde latte with salted caramel. You guys seem a little busy so I added an extra shot for you.” You punctuated your sentence with a wink and Enzo mumbled a shy and slightly flustered thank you.

Mattheo eyed him suspiciously as he took his own drink from his boyfriend, giving Theo a quick kiss goodbye before following Enzo toward the exit. You watched until they both walked through the door, maybe even looking a little too long.

“He’s cute huh,” Theo’s question makes your cheeks redden, but there was no denying. You sighed, turning around to lean back on the counter and face your coworker. You crossed your arms over your chest, “Do you also think it’s hot when Mattheo yells?”

Theo nodded, “Mmm, yeah. Especially in his uniform.”

Matty and Enzo made their way over to the aid car, hopping back into their usual seats. Enzo set his drink in the cupholder before getting behind the wheel.

“I think I like coffee now,” Enzo announced, starting the engine and pulling his seatbelt across his chest. Mattheo’s head tilted curiously, “You haven’t even tried it yet?”

Enzo shrugged, checking the mirrors and avoiding eye contact. His behavior made a lightbulb go off in Matty’s head, “Ohhh, you thought Teddy’s coworker was cute, didn’t you?”

Enzo tried to pretend like he was looking out his window for the road to clear, but he could feel his blush running up the back of his neck and completely giving him away. Mattheo only started laughing, “Well this works out very well for me.”

“How’s that?” Enzo’s attention now peaked by Mattheo’s words.

Mattheo was grinning from ear to ear, “Because Teddy is the boss. He makes the schedule. I’ll just have him schedule his cute coworker the same days and times he’s working. That way, you’ll never complain about us stopping by again.”

Enzo rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t exactly opposed to that idea. However, Mattheo didn’t have to know that, “I meant what I said earlier, Matt.”

Mattheo sat up straighter, “Oh, and what was that?”

“You’re insufferable.”

#sab and micah yaps turned fics #we love nervous enzo #mattheodore #firefighter!mattheo #paramedic!enzo #enzo berkshire x you #enzo berskhire x you #lorenzo berkshire x you #enzo berkshire x gn!reader #enzo berkshire x reader #gn!reader #x reader #reader insert #mattheo riddle x theo nott #matty riddle

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musings-of-a-rose · 1 year ago

Text

Not Without You

Pairing: Lucien De Leon x f!reader (nickname: Poppy)

Word Count: 2800+

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story.

Notes: Listen. I saw that clip of him making out in The Uninvited. That's it. That's the explanation. This is not betad. This one is for the sluts.

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**Reader is not described

Main Masterlist

Lucien Masterlist

--------

I get out of my car, staring up at the ridiculous mansion in front of me. The sound of the ocean, just out of sight behind the giant home, is soft and gentle in my ears, calming me. Giving me a little mental boost before I sigh, smoothing down my dress. I make my way to the front door, weaving between a few cars that were parked out front. Expensive cars.

It's not that I'm jealous of my childhood friend. Emilia deserves to be happy and she's happy that she married money. Some fancy producer out here in LA that fell for her big eyes and bright smile the second he saw her.

But that doesn't mean I wanted to come to one of her dinner parties, having to schmooze and pretend to be interested in what everyone has to say. I've been here before, met the people, fucked the party boy actor that eventually broke me, and yet here I am, unable to say no to Emilia.

I raise my hand to knock, dreading what the evening will bring but the door flies open before my knuckles touch anything. Emilia stands before me, a few rollers still in her hair, stress all over her body.

"Poppy, you're early! Thank GOD!" She pulls me inside and hugs me, the door closing heavy behind me.

"I always come early because you need me," I smile as she chuckles, lightly punching my arm. "What can I do to help?"

"You're angel, I swear! Can you make sure the table settings are right? There's extra silverware in the-"

"I know, Emilia. Everything like normal?" I'd been to so many of her parties, I know exactly what the set up is.

She nods, her smile growing wider. "Keep it simple and classy. You know me!"

I nod. "So what kind of party is this one? Another schmooze for Mr.?"

She waves her hand. "Yeah something like that. He's meeting with a bunch of actors for some upcoming project. He's hand selected them."

"Cool."

Emilia thanks me again before running off to finish getting ready. I pause for a moment, looking around trying to remember where the dining room is. I head down the hall and into what I think is the dining room. It turns out I remembered correctly, my eyes roaming over the table and making small adjustments to the settings already there. I end up pulling out more silverware, fixing them to Emilia's standards. I hate that I know this stuff, but I've saved her ass more times than I can count at these things so it helps to know what to expect.

As I work, my mind goes back to all the parties past. The ones she brought me to when she first started dating the producer several years ago. She had been so nervous, as if the producer wasn't already head over heels for her. That's where I met-

No. Not going down that road again. I can't do that to myself.

I shake my head and finish the settings, adding some minor touches to the decorations and finally lighting the candles. A knock at the door brings me out of my head and I walk over to answer it. An older gentleman stands there, putting out a cigarette with his shoe. He introduces himself as the director. What an ego.

Several people arrive after him, a mix of actors and a screenwriter. They all mingle in the sitting room for a few minutes before Emilia and the producer make their way in, everyone doing introductions.

The producer claps his hands together, looking around. "We're still missing one, but I doubt he'd mind us getting started. Who's hungry?"

Everyone gives their approval but as they move towards the dining room, a knock raps on the front door.

"That should be him. Guess I tried to start too soon!" Polite laughter at the producer as Emilia moves to answer the door, a quick glance in my direction before she disappears down the hall. The producer is telling some little story about a prior movie he was involved in, one I've heard a zillion times. But his story is short and he motions behind me.

"Just in time! We were about to eat. Welcome, Lucien."

My back stiffens. The room starts to spin my chest heaving. He didn't say Lucien. Did he? Maybe it was another Lucien. It couldn't be my Lucien? No. He's not my Lucien. He made that very clear when he wanted to continue partying and I wanted to settle down.

"Perfect! I'm starving."

Fuck. There was no mistaking that voice, the one that sets my skin ablaze, makes warmth pool between my thighs, the one that told me he needed to focus on his career and couldn't be with me. Not in the way I wanted him.

A small hand on my elbow squeezes me and I know it's Emilia, gently guiding me towards the dining room.

"I'm sorry, Poppy. He invited him and I didn't make the connection until the last minute."

"You couldn't have given me a heads up?" I yank my arm from her grip and swallow hard. I can't let him see how he makes me feel. He doesn't deserve that. I turn, letting the others file past me until he stops in front of me.

"Poppy. I..I didn't know you'd be here."

I'm determined to show him how much better off I am, that he means nothing to me now. I look up into his eyes and all of my resolve goes completely out the window. Were his eyes always that big? That round? So soft? I want to yank him to me by the thin chain around his neck, press my lips to his and never let go.

Way to show him, Poppy.

"I didn't know you'd be here either."

A silence stretches between us, a heavy, loaded silence. His eyes soften the longer he looks at me and is that regret I see? No. I'm projecting. But then he offers me his arm, taking me completely by surprise.

"We can be adults. Shall we?"

Don't do it. Don't take his arm, Poppy. Don't do it, don't do it, don't-

My fingers close on his offered up arm. "I'm sure this is a great opportunity for you."

Fuck, he's still warm. His skin smooth where my fingers touch him. Way to go, Poppy.

He escorts me into the dining room and I feel Emilia's eyes glued to us. He pulls out my chair and I sit, him scooting the chair in behind me before walking around the table, looking for his name card. Which was conveniently placed directly across from mine.

The producer clears his throat after everyone sits and starts making some speech about the project, about handpicking everyone here, blah blah blah. I zone out, trying to use my peripheral to steal glances at him. It's been several years since that night we split, the yelling match that had devolved into quite possibly the hottest sex I'd ever had. No, don't think about that. I need a better look so I turn my head to take a drink and chance a glance at him, only to find him already looking at me, still with the soft eyes. I nearly choke on my drink, managing to swallow it and clear my throat.

He finishes his speech and everyone claps politely, starting to eat and talk amongst themselves. I sit, deciding to choose silence while eating but then Lucien looks directly at me.

"So, what do you think?"

"Uh what?"

Fuck him with those big, stupid eyes.

He gestures towards the producer with his fork. "The project."

"Oh. Well I'm not involved so," I shrug. "I'm just here for Emilia."

He chuckles. "How many rollers were in her hair this time?"

I laugh, my body betraying me. "Four."

"But seriously. A good project?"

"I think..I think it's an honor he hand picked you. I'm not sure what the project itself is, but I'm sure it would be great for your career."

His eyes study my face as I take a bite of my food. "It's not always about the career though."

Anger surges up through me. "Isn't it?"

"How are we doing over here?" Emilia had walked up, cutting off whatever Lucien was about to say to defend himself.

"Great, Em. I'm just going to get something from the kitchen." I set my napkin on the table and push my chair back, Emilia giving me the smallest squeeze to my arm before I turn and head into the kitchen, the door closing behind me and effectively cutting off the sounds of the dinner party.

I lean over the kitchen island, my hands splayed out over the cool marble, trying to calm myself down. I hear the door open, the chatter from the party momentarily loud again before the door swings shut and it's quiet again.

"Em, I'm fine. Really. He just...caught me by surprise. I can hold it in."

"What if I don't want you to hold it in?"

My head snaps up, meeting his gaze, embarrassment making my skin heat up. "Oh. I thought you were Emilia."

Lucien takes a few steps towards me, the light glinting off the thing chain around his neck. "You didn't answer my question."

I stand up straight, crossing my arms. "We've done this dance before, Lucien. It didn't end well."

He smirks and I want to slap him. "I think it ended just fine. In the doorway, on the floor, in the front yard. I had to move my neighbors were too jealous."

My body betrays me with a small smile at the memory but then I reign it in. "I'm still not paying for that end table."

He's closer now. When did he move closer? Almost close enough to touch. His voice is low and raspy. "I'd destroy every end table on this planet if it meant having you under me again."

Fuck. Me.

I turn away from him, not giving him the pleasure of seeing what he does to me. "Flattering. But you made it very clear I was not number one in your life."

"I was stupid. I guess I needed to prove to you, to myself, that I could actually do this acting thing."

Finally composing myself, I turn to face him. "And how'd that work out for you?"

His eyebrows furrow together. "Have you not seen any of my films?"

I had. I had seen them all. I know I shouldn't have, that it wasn't helping me get over him. But Lucien has this pull, this hold on me I've never been able to fully shake.

"Some. But I'm asking your opinion. Off camera."

His jaw ticks a moment before he takes a swig from the glass I only just realized he was holding. "It brought me here."

I scoff. "Yeah, the producer hand picking you is actually a very high honor. I'd be-"

"No, you misunderstand." He shakes his head and sets his glass down on the counter. "I lied earlier."

It was my turn to furrow my eyebrows. "When? You've lied to me a lot."

"Earlier, when I said I didn't know you'd be here. I knew, well...more like hoped you'd be here. Knew it was a long shot but the only way you'd talk to me again."

My heart was racing, nearly bouncing out of my chest as he takes another few steps right into my personal bubble, my lower back against the counter. "I already told you I'm not replacing that end table."

He's right in front of me, the warmth from his body radiating onto mine. "I was a fool, Poppy. I..I love you."

I've waited years to hear him say those words to me again, to hear him actually mean them. To hear them not sandwiched between things like "but I have to focus on my career".

His lips are so close to mine, his breath fanning over my face.

"You broke my heart, Lucien."

"I know. I'm sorry. Let me put it back together."

"Lucien, I-" but he cuts me off with the softest touch of his lips I've ever felt, a whole slew of emotions flooding my body, including the one pooling between my legs.

"I can't do this without you, Poppy."

"Do this?"

"Life. I don't want to do it without you."

Fuck.

I grip that chain around his neck and pull him to me, our lips crashing together, his body pressing into mine. But then the counter scrapes across my spine and I jolt, breaking the kiss to gasp in pain. Lucien steps back, offering me his hand.

"Let's go somewhere where we won't break the furniture."

I shouldn't take his hand. I can still back out. But a small voice in the back of my head believes that he means it. That he wants a life with me, wants what I wanted all those years ago. And right now, I'm letting that voice win. I take his hand and he smiles, that smile that makes me feel like I'm the only person in the world. He guides me out the back door, past the pool, past the changing tents between the pool and the beach, and down the walkway alongside the neighbors cement wall that leads down to the beach.

He spins me and I laugh, tasting the salty ocean air on my tongue. I back up towards the wall and he follows me, lowering himself to my level. His large hands wrap around my hips, gliding down to cup my ass, and I moan into his kiss, my hand gripping his shirt to pull him closer to me. He kisses me, his tongue sliding into my mouth like it had so many times before. One hand still firmly on my ass, the other slides up my side, cupping my face so tenderly, full of love. He pulls back slightly and looks at me, like he's shocked I'm really here. That he's really kissing me.

"I love you, Poppy. I never should have let you go."

"Then don't let me go. I've always been yours."

He kisses me again, his hips pressing into mine and I can feel him hard, my cunt desperately throbbing, begging to feel him inside me again. Somewhere in my haze of desire, I hear myself begging, whispering pleas in his ear to take me, that I need him inside me before I die. His hands slide my dress up my thighs, reaching under and ripping my underwear in two, tucking them into his pocket. He had ruined so many good pairs of my underwear that way, but I honestly couldn't care less. My fingers fumble with his zipper, but I manage to get it down, reaching in to grip him, a sharp intake of breath when my fingers close around him, pumping him a few times. His hands slide under my ass, lifting me up as he presses me against the wall. He slides into me and the world stops moving, colors are brighter, and I finally feel right, like I'm actually here on this planet. Every thrust of his hips brings him deeper into me, holding me here, holding me to him. His breath comes out in short pants, desperate pleas of love and apologies between our moans as he fucks me against the wall.

And then the light blooming inside me breaks, my head pushing back, my nails digging into his skin, my entire body tingling as pleasure radiates out from where we connect. Lucien follows suit, moaning my name as he spills himself inside of me, pushing as deep as he can. We stay like that for a moment, trying to catch our breaths.

"I want to stay inside of you but my legs are fucking shaking."

I laugh and he yelps, quickly trying to pull out of me as my laughter contracts my body around him. He sets me on the ground and zips his pants as I smoothe out my dress, my laughter slowly fading. I look at him and he looks back at me, his eyes still soft and gentle. He tucks some hair behind my ear before cupping my cheek again.

"I wasn't kidding, Poppy. I was fucking stupied before. I need you next to me. When we're together, I feel...right. like I belong here. I don't think I can face this life without you."

I know it's a possibility this will end the same way it did before, but something in his eyes is different this time. He's had time to think, time to experience life without someone with him. Without me. He's grown, matured - well, matured some at least. But do I want to open my heart back up to him? Knowing that he could shatter it again at any moment?

"I'm still not replacing that end table."

He smiles and it lights up my entire world. "That's ok. I have plenty more furniture we can ruin with our love."

-------

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love-quinn · 14 days ago

Text

— THE GOOD WITCH

summary — you’ve done a lot of growing in the 4 years you and patrick have been broken up. you’re hoping he has as well because you’re still desperately in love with him

pairing — 2009!patrick zweig x fem!reader

track one — “the good witch” by maisie peters

warnings — swearing, weed mention, alcohol/drinking

word count — 2.2k

note — first patrick fic i struggled with the dialogue for him SO much cause he’s such an asshole from start to finish but there’s also something so incredibly endearing about him so i did my best i hope you enjoy, i’m super excited to be getting these fics out as quick as i can. ty for 350 (already????) thank u i love u i love u i love u :]]]]

You hadn’t had a martini in about three years.

It wasn’t ever a conscious decision, you’d realised. One night you went out and had one, and then the next time you went out you got something different. And then every time after that, and every time after that.

The gala was dragging on, and you were regretting accepting the invitation. It had been a hesitant yes on your part, done after a lot of thinking it through. Not enough, though, you were counting down the hours until you were able to leave without being rude. Sports journalism hadn’t been what you wanted to do at all with your journalism degree, and it still wasn’t. Writing about tennis every week in hopes that your boss would finally let you take the open politics slot wasn’t where you thought you’d be when you graduated Stanford, but it was your best option to actually use your degree.

The USTA had invited the top 100 ranked players to a charity gala for something or other, you weren’t listening. All you knew was that there would be important people there, people whom you could potentially use as connections.

What you hadn’t been anticipating, though, was your tennis player ex-boyfriend schmoozing the very people you’d come to meet.

You’d known Patrick was good at tennis. He’d been playing professionally when you’d met him. But then he’d been 474th best in the world, and he won one in every five matches. Everything you’d learned about tennis had been through Patrick at the time that you were together. It was pretty much the only thing he spoke about over the course of the ten months you were together, and unfortunately it had landed you a job you hated but needed.

So there you were, drinking your first martini in three years, seeing Patrick for the first time in three years, wishing you were anywhere else but here.

He looked good, you admitted begrudgingly. He had more muscle definition, he’d grown out his facial hair slightly, and was wearing a nicer shirt than you’d ever seen him wear. You were wondering if he’d bought it or if it was rented to him. Your boss had given you a company card and a low budget boutique for the event because you were press for it.

Googling your ex boyfriend at an event he was at was too much of a rock bottom for you, so you instead busied yourself with the toothpick from your drink, plucking the olive off with your teeth. Your glass was almost empty, you’d taken enough notes on your phone, you’d gotten quotes from your standard three athletes, you didn’t need to do any more work and you didn’t think that a second martini would cause much harm.

“Can I get you another?”

You didn’t even turn around. “Fuck off, Patrick.”

He’d sidled up to you the second that you put your guard down. He’d been watching you too, and he’d clocked it the second your shoulders dropped, the moment your eyes unfocused, the instant you turned away from him.

There was something different about his voice – it had less polish, more gravel. He’d changed in his chest over the last few years, going from someone who thought he was better than he was to a man who really was that good.

You’d always had high hopes for Patrick while you were together, you’d believed in him, you’d thought that he’d make it big if he just had slightly better luck. Now? You couldn’t give a fuck if he broke his hand and never played tennis again.

You’d been his number one supporter, and that was the first part of yourself you’d thrown in the trash once the two of you had broken up. You’d done a lot of growing, you’d matured, you’d realised that Patrick’s “bad luck” was a lack of hard work. He’d grown up rich, and that had been where you guys had the most disconnect. You’d worked for every single thing you’d ever had, and Patrick thought that you guys had that in common. You’d been sympathetic, you’d wanted to help him, you’d probably given too much of yourself to him in an effort to help him with his tennis and he had seemingly only developed a work ethic after the two of you had broken up.

Patrick laughed, leaning back on his elbows on the bar top. He was tall enough that it didn’t look uncomfortable enough (fucker). “You always were a bitch, weren’t you?”

You clamped your eyes shut putting your toothpick back in your drink. “What part of fuck off do you not understand?” You asked. “What do you want?”

He tsked, throwing up two fingers to the bartender, who nodded at him. “It’s okay,” he said sympathetically. “I like it.”

You accept the new martini from the bartender, who puts it on Patrick’s tab. “Great.”

It took you a lot of time to get over Patrick, and you weren’t going to let him get under your skin.

“It looks good on you,” he said, leaning in and taking a sip of whatever asshole IPA he’d ordered. “You here working?” You didn’t reply. “You need a quote?”

“Not from you.” You wanted to leave.

He was so close to you, you’d deliberately not noticed for as long as possible. But now that he was right next to you, you could smell his cologne. You realised that you’d never smelled cologne on him before, despite the fact that his mom had definitely bought him some nice ones. His scent of choice at 19 years old had been Unilever Axe Body Spray and weed. At the very least a cigarette was never far.

This smelled like a thing, not a concept. Citrus and florals. It was nice.

“Come on,” Patrick sounded like you were teasing him. Playing hard to get on purpose. Like if he just called you out on it, you’d fall right into his arms and swoon the way you would when you were nineteen and he had a “promising career in front of him” that made up for all the ways he was an asshole.

Not today.

“You’re not charming enough for this to work, Patrick.” You rolled your eyes, taking a sip of your drink. It came out surprisingly calm; 19 year old you would have wanted to hurt 19 year old Patrick. Would’ve wanted to win the interaction. Now? You didn’t want to give him space in your mind, didn’t want to acknowledge him. You did not need Patrick taking up your time, looking at you like he knew deep down you wanted his tongue down your throat.

“Still pretending you’re better than me?” he scoffed.

“Still pretending you’re better than Art?” You glanced across the room at the blond, who was standing arm in arm with his fiancee. You’d met him through Patrick, or rather you’d met Patrick through Art. You and Art had gone to one of the same parties in college, along with his then-girlfriend Tashi, and Patrick had tagged along with them despite the fact that he wasn’t a student. Patrick had been better than Art when you’d known them all in school, but Art had spent more time honing his skills before going pro, and now that him and Patrick were in the same field it was clear the extra four years spent in training had benefited him more than Patrick’s eight month losing streak he’d had at nineteen.

Patrick laughed like he hadn’t been expecting for you to actually call him out on it.

You stood, leaning against the bar and watching the way Art interacted with Tashi. They moved through the party in sync, a shared rhythm you’d never been able to find with Patrick. It was a reminder that the two of you would never work out the way that they did.

“Don’t bring him into this,” he snapped, condescension deep in his voice. The two of you stood side by side, never touching, both of your eyes glued to the pair. You had spent years as Patrick’s backup plan, at the back of his mind as he clawed his way through the ranks, too proud to admit he had it made and too embarrassed to admit he couldn’t make it. “I always knew you liked him more than me.”

He was too close. The way he was speaking was too comfortable for someone you hadn’t known in years. You didn’t reply, instead swirling the liquid around gently in the glass, looking down at him. You didn’t want him to see how you’d rattled him.

Maybe you had liked Art more at first. He worked hard, he was kind, he didn’t laugh at you when you’d gotten wasted and spilt a drink all over the couch at the party you’d met at. But the second you’d learned he had a girlfriend it was like a switch had been flicked in your mind; he was off-limits, you didn’t even want him anymore.

Unfortunately, Patrick hadn’t had a girlfriend at the time, so there was nothing that had stopped you from letting him take you home that night, or every night for the next week before he left to go on tour again.

“Well look at that,” you snarked. “You are self-aware.” It was a lie (mostly), you had really loved Patrick. You’d never told him that, he was never there enough for you to spill that detail, but you were pretty transparent that you’d at least liked him.

“One of has to be,” he was so close your shoulders were pressed together now. “Look at you, too-nice dress, your little quotes from your little connections for your little magazine.” He was borderline cooing at you. “It looks good on you, sweetheart, almost like you’re a real journalist.”

“Fuck off Patrick.” You hissed, anger settling in your chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I thought that maybe you would have grown up since I last saw you, but maybe that’s my fault for having any faith in you whatsoever.”

He frowned at you, not sincerely, but like he’d expected better from you. “What happened to my biggest supporter?” He murmured, bringing a hand to stroke your chin. You didn’t stop him.

“Grow up,” you spat. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, and I don’t really care to-” he was so close you could feel his breath fanning against your breath. “You’ve never given a single fuck about me, have you?”

He could feel how hot your face was under his palm, trying not to watch the way your chest was rising and falling furiously. “I never made you feel that way did I?” His voice was so quiet he was sure only you could hear it. “I was a bad boyfriend sure-” he ignored the way you laughed bitterly and doubly ignored the pang in his chest from the sound, “but I never made you feel like I didn’t care about you.”

You still didn’t reply, despite the fact that his mouth was so close to yours he could almost taste the lipgloss you’re wearing. Your eyes were fiery and your hands had found their way to his biceps, gripping onto him like were trying to snap him in half. He’d let you.

He wanted to lean forward, to take your lips on his and to feel you properly again, for the first time in years. You’d changed, that much was obvious, but there was one question he’d had to ask for the first time since the night he’d met you: Did you want him?

“You were an asshole,” you muttered, still clearly annoyed. “‘Bad boyfriend’ is putting it lightly.”

His hands found your waist, running the material of your dress under his thumb. “I’m sure I had some redeeming qualities, right?”

“If you think I’m going to inflate your ego right now, you can fuck right off.”

He broke at that, a snicker falling from his lips, and you shoved him away. “Okay, I’m sorry!” He tried to pull you back into him, yearning for the closeness he’d almost pulled out of you. “I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere, that was the only reason you let him touch you.

“I have work to do.” You said stiffly.

He disregarded that. “I’m sure you do.” You had another quip ready about how he wasn’t well-known enough in the space to make him worth your time as a journalist, how you should go bother Art and Tashi and ask if they’ll help you with the article that’s going to be due on your editor’s desk by tomorrow, but before you could force it out of your mouth he’d finally closed the gap, putting out the fire that was burning in your throat.

He pulled you closer so you were completely flush with his front, your hands coming to grab fistfuls of his suit jacket. Definitely paid for, you decided.

When your article was released the next morning, Patrick would be a little bit miffed that he wasn’t mentioned, scrolling through it one-handed on his phone. He couldn’t be too unhappy as he read it though, as he used his free hand to trace patterns on your back.

#patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig fic #challengers #challengers x reader

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k-pepp · 1 year ago

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With the final season of YR coming up, I’ve been thinking about Wille’s journey again. Because he’s 16, we won’t know if he actually chooses to renounce his title or remain in his role as future king, but I have a feeling this season will give us an indication which way it will go. So, before we get any type of confirmation, I want to get my current thoughts out. I’m aware that a lot of YR Tumblr skews toward King Wilhelm so my pro-renounce post might not resonate with anyone and that’s ok. I just want to put all my thoughts together before S3 comes along with something that totally blows all my opinions and assumptions out of the water 🙂 I understand the idea of wanting Wille to be King because he could be such a great leader. He is kind and compassionate and can be good at taking charge. BUT just because a person could be good at something, doesn’t mean they should be forced to do it. My number one reason for being in favor of Renouncing his Title is the sheer fact that Wille doesn’t want to be King. He doesn’t want the title. He doesn’t want that life. Wille has been shown a multitude of times talking about how he struggles with the duties that come with being a prince. Whether it’s with Erik:

Or August:

Or Boris:

(honestly, this boy will spill his guts to anyone who is willing to even half listen to him. My god. I’m so glad they gave this poor kid a therapist) He's also talked about how he feels trapped in this position. For him, to renounce the throne would be freedom. Freedom to live a life he actually wants.

Even the mere idea of staying in his current position makes him physically ill.

Some people take the end of episode 2x06 to mean he’s moved beyond all that and accepted his role as the future king. I didn’t personally see it that way. I saw it as a combination of a few things. 1) When come face-to-face with it, he just couldn’t let August give the speech (But the fact that he was initially willing to let someone who distributed revenge porn against him become king really speaks to how much he definitely doesn’t want that position) 2) He didn’t want Simon to have to compromise his happiness and give in to a situation he didn’t actually want 3) He didn’t want to hide anymore. He wanted to be himself. Wille is a person who craves authenticity. Which brings me to a bigger point… Life as the Crown Prince / King is inherently inauthentic. One of the main pro-King arguments is that he would blaze his own trail and do things his way. But how? Being a member of the royal family is a job. The basic responsibilities of that job are to do things like diplomatic visits, hosting events, being part of photo ops, schmoozing with people… pretty much all things having to do with putting on a public persona. It’s great that he could be himself in the sense that he would be the first queer Crown Prince / King, but the baseline duties he would have to fulfill are still inherently inauthentic. And I don’t know how he would “do it his way” aside from just not doing it. He hates putting on fake smiles

the photo ops

the schmoozing with people

Erik even told Wille, the way to get through that stuff is to just pretend to be someone else.

We know he’s capable of doing it. We saw how charming he could be at Parents Day weekend. But that was because he wanted to sit with Simon and impress Simon’s mom. Other than that lunch, he mostly hid in his room. And it goes back to my original point. Just because someone may be good at something doesn’t mean they should be forced to do it. (And yes, even if he walked away from the line of succession, he could still have familial obligations, but it wouldn’t be anywhere near the level of what is expected now) At this point, Wille is only continuing as Crown Prince because of a commitment to his family. Mainly Erik.

He doesn’t want to let him down or feel like he’s betraying his legacy. To Wille, Erik was perfect. We only saw two full conversations between them and in both conversations, Erik was telling Wille to get his act together because “it’s not that hard”.

That quote is probably something he told Wille a lot. So much that Wille later regurgitates it to Boris. Three different times.

Going on to say that Erik could handle everything easily.

Based on the fact that Erik was going to Boris, he probably wasn’t managing everything with ease. But in Wille’s perception, he was. Wille is basically chasing a ghost. Self-imposed pressure of unattainable perfection. He bears a guilt that pushes him to want to be someone he thinks Erik would be proud of. The problem with that is, Erik was a monarchist. Maybe he struggled a bit (which is why he went to Boris), but based on the things he would say to Wille, he backed the monarchy / family completely.

Ultimately, I just want Wille to be happy. Maybe S3 will completely change my outlook and I’ll root for him to become king because that’s what he wants. But right now, I think he only wants it out of a sense of obligation to Erik. And honestly…maybe my most controversial opinion…if he did stay in his position because of Erik, he probably wouldn’t change that much within the institution. I mean, he couldn’t change much even if he wanted to. He wouldn’t be allowed to do big things without the consent of the Swedish parliament and maybe a public referendum. And I doubt he’d even have the capability to make small changes. As already pointed out by @piebingo in this great post, Kristina didn’t actually want August to be next in line. But she was overruled. The Royal Court has a lot of power and making any sort of reforms or independent decisions is not that simple. Especially within an establishment that relies on keeping everything exactly the same. But even if that weren’t true. Even if Wille could snap his fingers and make all these huge changes… part of me doesn’t think he would. I know a lot of the folks who are pro-King Wilhelm want him to become the king just so he can completely destroy it from within. But to me, in Wille’s eyes there would be no bigger betrayal to Erik’s legacy than Wille burning the institution to the ground. And if he wants to live up to Erik’s legacy. Not betray him. Not let him down. He will act as he thinks Erik would act. If Wille becomes king because of Erik, he’ll maintain the establishment because of Erik. And he would be miserable doing it. Miserable and without Simon. Yes, my other controversial opinion. If Wille stayed as king, Wilmon wouldn’t make it. Simon is described to us as a socialist. One of his introductory scenes is him calling the monarchy the country’s biggest welfare scammers. I can’t imagine Simon giving up his musical dreams to join an institution that he hates. I also can’t imagine Wille letting him do that. That was such a big part of Wille’s growth in Season 2. Wille wouldn’t let Simon sacrifice his happiness for the sake of his own happiness (being with Simon). Even if Simon didn’t end up pursuing something in music, he made it clear in his talk with Rosh and Ayub that he wants to work hard to make something of himself.

I mean, look at him. Look at this sweet baby angel’s face when he’s told he has an opportunity that will open doors to his future. I can’t imagine him giving up his ambitions or autonomy to become prince consort. Having to live every day under royal rules and protocols. Maybe he would. I personally can’t see it. And finally, I know a main reason people like the idea of King Wille is because we like the idea of a queer king. But as much as we all want queer representation; I don’t think it should be anybody’s responsibility to be the political representation that people want to see. Wille shouldn’t be in a position he hates because he’s queer. A queer person living their life and getting out of a toxic situation is also good representation. A person can’t fix the problem by becoming part of it. Having him be the face of an institution that’s been about exploitation and oppression isn’t going to solve it. It's always been said by Lisa and Edvin that Wille’s problem is not that he’s queer. It’s that he’s a prince. Everything about what’s making him unhappy is about him being prince / the future king. Him walking away from his title would be about him escaping a future that would make him miserable. Personally, that’s what I’m hoping for.

#I’m sure all of this will be useless when S3 comes out #Since Wille is only 16 it’s pretty useless now 😅#But I’m happy to finally have these S1 and S2 thoughts out of my head #young royals #pro (eventual) abdication

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loulou-land · 9 days ago

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Touch You Once, I’ll Touch you Twice

rockon | smut, possessive behavior, semi-public sex, hand jobs | 1.8k words | also on ao3

written for @cull3nblaze thank you for the prompt ❤️✨❤️

Deacon stands near the back offices with Luca, taking a short breather before they have to get back to schmoozing and shaking hands. SWAT is hosting one of those fundraiser events again—where the city’s elite can roam through HQ, cocktails in hand, checkbooks at the ready pretending they understand their tactical gear and demonstrations while deciding how much to donate like it’s a silent auction for public safety.

He understands the importance. He really does. Donations mean better equipment, more training resources, and smoother operations. But that doesnt mean the whole thing isn't mildly frustrating. Everyone’s got a part to play, memorized spiels and demonstrations to rotate through. Right now, the team’s scattered throughout headquarters, fulfilling their roles.

Deacon scans the room automatically. Hondo’s holding court with a lively group. Tan’s leading a tour toward the gun range. Street’s posted by the boxing ring, surrounded by a group of tittering women eating up every word he says. Deacon shakes his head, then spots who he’s been looking for all along.

Rocker.

He’s over by the main computers and he’s not alone.

There's a guy beside him. Short, dressed in an expensive suit that probably costs more than Deacon’s monthly salary. The kind of man who wears entitlement like a cologne. He’s practically clinging to every word Rocker says, laughing too loudly at something that clearly wasn’t that funny. Rocker looks bemused but continues with his explanation, polite and professional.

Then the guy’s hand lands on Rocker’s forearm.

And stays there.

Rocker doesn't move it. Just keeps smiling, effortlessly charming, still explaining something about the main hub systems.

Deacon’s eye twitches. Something twists in his gut. A low churning feeling brews in his stomach—foreign, and uncomfortable.

“Earth to Deacon. Deacon!”

“What?” he snaps, jerking toward Luca.

“I've been calling your name for, like, a full minute,” Luca says, lifting an eyebrow. Then he follows Deacon’s gaze and grins. “Oooh.”

He practically lights up. “You’re jealous.”

“I'm not,” Deacon replies, too quickly.

“Uh-huh.” Luca crosses his arms, blue eyes gleaming with mischief. “Calm and collected Deacon’s got a green-eyed monster in him. Who would've guessed?”

Deacon exhales slowly through his nose, sending him a pointed look. “I have nothing to be jealous about.” He hates how much it sounds like he's trying to convince himself. He's not jealous. He's never been the type. But he can't ignore the way his stomach keeps twisting itself in knots.

“Right. Totally,” Luca says breezily. “Well, good thing, then—because someone's feeling up your boyfriend's arm like’ he’s on the menu.”

Deacon whips his head back toward them just in time to see the guy’s hand slide higher, squeezing Rocker’s bicep. He looks like he's considering going for his chest next.

Deacon’s jaw clenches. “Excuse me,” he mutters.

Luca cackles behind him as he strides away.

He’s not really thinking. Just moving. Something about that guy touching Rocker like that, as though he has a right—it feels wrong. Off. It sets something ablaze in his chest.

Rocker spots him approaching and immediately lights up, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes in that special way that always hits Deacon a little harder than it should. It goes a long way to soothe the sharp and irrational burn clawing inside of him.

“Hey, Deac,” Rocker says, bright and easy.

The guy drops his hand but doesn’t move away, eyes flicking to Deacon with a touch of curiosity.

Deacon keeps his expression neutral, clinging to professionalism like a lifeline. Growling like a damn caveman probably isn’t the best move here. It wouldn’t do to alienate the people they’re trying to gain support from, even if they look like smarmy assholes. Besides, not everyone knows about them yet—and this? This isn’t how he wants it to come out. Rocker deserves better than that.

“Sergeant Kay,” he says coolly, nodding to the man. He doesn’t offer his hand.

“Joshua King. I own—”

“Nice to meet you,” Deacon cuts in. Then, turning to Rocker: "Can I have a word?”

Rocker straightens slightly. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just need your help with something real quick.” He jerks his head toward the locker room.

Rocker gives a polite nod to the man. “Nice talking to you. Hope I didn't bore you with all the tech talk.”

“Oh, the pleasure was mine,” King practically purrs. “And not all, it was fascinating. Come find me later. I’d love to talk some more.”

Deacon snorts, barely disguising it as a cough. He steps just slightly closer, positioning himself between Rocker and the other man. He catches the aborted movement of King’s hand and feels a satisfying flicker of triumph roll through him.

Rocker shoots him an amused glance but follows Deacon without question.

As soon the locker room door swings shut behind them, Deacon’s on him.

He backs Rocker against the lockers, the metallic clank echoing in the otherwise quiet room.

Rocker gasps in surprise, but Deacon swallows the noise, kissing him hard, fierce, and with a hunger that surprises even him.

They separate briefly, both of them breathing harshly, the air between them thick with heated tension. Rocker’s eyes flick over Deacon’s face—wild, wanting—and then he fists his shirt tight and yanks Deacon back in.

Their mouths collide again in a scorching teeth-clashing kiss. Rocker bites down on Deacon’s lower lip, the pain-pleasure dragging a guttural groan from his chest.

“Deac,” he gasps into his mouth, needy and desperate in a way that makes Deacon’s blood pulse faster. He almost feels lightheaded with how quickly it’s rushed south.

Deacon slips a leg between Rocker’s, pressing his thigh up against the hard line in Rocker’s pants. The noise Rocker makes—sharp, stifled—is fucking addicting. And Deacon wants more. Wants to hear Rocker moaning and gasping his name.

Rocker’s hands drop to Deacon’s waist, trying to pull him closer, grinding down on Deacon’s leg eagerly, chasing friction. Deacon grips his hips, anchoring them together. Rocker tilts his face up, and Deacon is caught, completely hooked by the curve of his neck.

He buries his face there, sucking hard at the sensitive skin just below Rocker’s ear. Something possessive and primal unfurls in Deacon’s chest as he marks him. Branding him with his lips and teeth.

“Fuck, yeah…” Rocker moans, hips jerking against his thigh. “Deacon, I—”

“What do you need, baby?” Deacon rasps against his neck, lips brushing over flushed skin.

“Need you to touch me,” Rocker breathes.

Deacon grins. “I’m already touching you.”

Rocker pulls back, one hand fisting in Deacon’s hair, tugging until their eyes meet. He hisses in pleasure at the strong grip. Rocker tries to scowl, to give him that signature bitchy look—but it's wrecked by his parted pink lips, the flush blooming across his cheeks and neck, and the blown pupils swallowing up the blue of his eyes.

“You know exactly what I mean,” he pants. “You dragged me in here, got me all hot. Now do something about it.”

Deacon’s lips twitch, amusement and desire flooding through him at the demand. “Sir, yes sir.”

He notices the hitch in Rocker’s breathing. Hmm. That's something they'll have to explore later. But for now, he slips a hand between them, popping open Rocker’s pants and shoving past the waistband until his fingers wrap around him—hot, thick and already leaking.

Rocker moans, head tipping back with a sharp gasp. “Yes.”

“Mmm. Already so wet for me, princess,” Deacon murmurs, thumb teasing the tip of Rocker’s cock, slow and torturous. Gathering slick before stroking down his length just to watch Rocker twitch.

Rocker’s hips stutter. “Just for you, Deac. Only for you.”

And fuck, doesnt that just do it for Deacon. The jealousy he'd felt earlier burns hotter—focused now, not bitter or angry, but electric. Entirely narrowed on making Rocker feel good. Making him fall apart under his hands, his touch. He crashes their mouths together again, his free hand dragging Rocker’s pants lower.

Rocker in turn doesn't hesitate. His hand moves just as fast, unbuttoning Deacon’s cargos with a practiced flick. He slips his hand inside, groaning into Deacon’s mouth when he finds him hard and already twitching against his palm.

They stroke each other in tandem, gasps and curses shared between sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. They match each other, grip for grip, a flick of the wrist here and a hard pull there. The locker room is filled with the sound of skin on skin, the slick slide of hands, the creak of boots shifting for better leverage, belt clips clinking as they come together, and the metallic clang of lockers echoing in their rhythm.

Rocker’s breath stutters. “Gonna—Deacon—I’m close.”

Deacon speeds up his pace just slightly, thumb catching under the head, before he moves his hand over it on an upward flick and Rocker whines. He slumps forward, biting down on Deacon's shoulder to muffle his sounds.

“God, you look so fucking good like this,” Deacon growls. “Sound so good panting in my ears. Letting me touch you. Where anyone can walk in and see.” His hips stutter into Rocker’s tight grip.

“Deac—nghn—ahh.”

“Want everyone to see how good you are for me. All mine, yeah?”

“All yours,” Rocker moans against his throat. “Always.”

Deacon doesn't last long after that. “That's right, sweetheart, all mine. Just like I'm yours.”

They fall over the edge together, bodies trembling. Breath mingling as they come, warm release spilling over their hands.

For a moment, it’s just the sound of their heavy breathing and the thrum of their satisfaction hanging in the air. Then Rocker lets out a breathless laugh against his neck.

“So…” he says, voice still hoarse. “You gonna tell me what that was about?”

Deacon huffs, brushing a kiss to his temple and shrugs. He opens up his locker and pulls a towel, cleaning up Rocker—and then himself.

“Uh-huh,” Rocker mutters, as they both fix their clothes. “For the record, jealousy looks damn sexy on you.”

Deacon sighs, chuckling. Of course Rocker knows. He searches his face for anger or resentment and finds nothing but teasing amusement. He leans in to nip at his jaw.

“Don't get used to it.”

Rocker hums, “Sure.” Not convincing at all.

The locker room door opens suddenly. Both their heads snap toward it—just in time to lock eyes with Tan’s expression of confusion, then dawning horror as he takes in their flushed faces and still-rumpled clothes.

“You know what? The locker rooms aren’t all that exciting. Let’s check out the kitchen instead,” Tan says, backing up and slamming the door shut before the rest of his tour group can catch a glimpse.

Deacon and Rocker stare at each other for a beat—then burst into laughter.

“We're never going to live that down,” Deacon groans, already lamenting the teasing he's going to get from his squad.

“Nope,” Rocker grins. “Tan’s going to make us pay for that one.”

Deacon looks at the satisfied smile and the happiness shining in those blue eyes, then leans in and kisses him.

And he thinks, totally worth it.

#prompt fill #rockon #david deacon kay #donovan rocker #jealous deacon #smut #swat cbs #swat fic #my writing #my fics

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all-pacas · 3 months ago

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Rewatching s1 and its making me wonder what chase was like when he started working for house especially with house some how knowing that the last thing chase wanted to do was be a doctor, also how would the other fellows feel about chase who at least looks like a complete nepotism hire at the start? And how would chase act before he got to know house?

i've seen takes that are like "rowan called to ask house not to hire him," which i don't know if i quite agree with, but i agree with the spirit of if that makes sense - house hiring anyone as a favor to another doctor is pretty wild, but at the same time, he's really not going to go out of his way to scoop up chase, who he doesn't know, out of spite towards rowan/curiosity, either, you know? maybe house hires chase out of curiosity, but that buys chase a week to prove himself, not an entire career.

nor is chase actually that inclined not to take advantage of his privledge. he spent his first 3 years in diagnostics living off his dad's money/trust fund, even though he hates rowan, right? tbh, i don't think he'd be that bothered if rowan got him hired somewhere, either: chase… is pragmatic at best. he looks out for himself first and foremost. even if he hates his dad, his dad can make his life easier. so even if house hired chase to spite rowan, chase still showed up on his first day with his trust fund and swiss ski vacations: house would have been pretty disappointed. (which is another reason i doubt chase's hiring was at all "personal" on house's part; house wasn't trying to adopt or save the kid.)

that said, we know why house hired chase: his observational skills. chase is a fucking good manipulator. he's good at reading people. there's several throwaway lines in s1 where chase talks patients out of suing (paternity) or is asked to talk someone into something (damned if you do) or is just generally house's "schemes guy" (poison, deception -- in family house actually calls him sneaky and asks if he has any ideas on how to manipulate the patients). so clearly chased passed whatever nepo-hire thin ice he was on pretty quickly and settled in.

i doubt he was all that buddy-buddy with the other hires at the time. chase is lowkey standoffish, he's superficially friendly but doesn't really open up to people or anything, and i'm sure house cracked enough nepobaby jokes that the other fellows probably looked at him pretty askance. but on the other hand, chase is good at schmoozing and faking nice (even if it's pretty transparently fake), so i doubt they were in all-out conflict or anything: chase avoids confrontation and fights and tries to keep his head down generally, see also the sort of running joke that he books it out of the room whenever any drama starts. he probably tried to kiss house's ass a bit, kept his head down, and focused on what he does best: surviving.

#malpractice posting #robert chase

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pocket-watcher · 9 months ago

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So I (female) suck at holding eye contact in informal/social situations but can maintain a hard stare in professional/serious ones, even if I'm not fully paying attention. Could I have a hypno-fic about someone taking advantage of that?

Hi lil Watchling! No problem, I’m sure I can whip something up for you…

We first met at a bar.

They were wonderful, really. Very interesting to talk to. Engaged in what I had to say. They asked me about my interests, where I worked, what I did for pleasure.

Such a charming person.

And attractive too, not that you could tell I thought that from the intense gaze I had on my half-empty glass.

The night had continued and they began to trail off… most people didn’t last this long. Only friends who knew how hard it was for me to keep eye contact. I was so interested, though. I just couldn’t fully express it in a way they’d understand.

The second time I met them was at this little after-work thing.

I hated not leaving as soon as the clock hit 5, but it was important to build good relationships with coworkers or something like that. My manager had suggested it.

In fact, she stood about ten feet away schmoozing with the CEO’s son.

Wonderful,

That was when I bumped into them again, and learnt their name was Kai.

Again, they really helped guide the conversation to myself as well as their own input, which I greatly appreciated.

And once again I could feel them pulling away slightly the more I stared at my nails instead of at them.

We were sitting in a small booth when my manager approached.

“Hey Riley, can I run over some proposal stuff for tomorrow? There’s been a few tweaks and I don’t want you to be caught unaware tomorrow.”

My eyes locked onto hers as she slid into the booth.

That was when I heard Kai make a sort of choking sound.

“Are you okay?” I asked, watching my manager spread documents out on the table.

“Yes, fine thank you. Is it alright if I stay and listen?”

My manager looked quizzically at them.

“Not at all, are you interested in working here?” She said.

“I am, actually. I find your work miles ahead of the industry.”

Kai could charm anyone. I was sure of it, as my manager smiled at him and turned to talk me through the next day’s proposal.

I could feel Kai watching me, but I didn’t pay them too much mind. They were thinking, though. About what, I had no clue.

The next day went incredibly smoothly.

A week later my manager put me in charge of interviewing for a new role in our team. I told her I wouldn’t let her down.

The first applicant seemed nervous, and couldn’t meet my eyes. I didn’t hold that against them though. They warmed up as the interview continued and by the end I saw them as a strong contender.

The next told me to smile and that my stare was unnerving. I told him to go to another company.

The third was, surprisingly, Kai.

“I know, I probably should have warned you… I hope you can be impartial with me?” They smiled, and for the first time I held eye contact into those deep, warm brown eyes.

It was no bother though. Of course I could remain impartial.

I rattled off questions and Kai answered them confidently.

Their eyes lit up as they talked about confidence and taking charge, making the role their own. I felt myself losing focus on the interview at hand.

Under the desk I pinched myself awake slightly, continuing, but my thoughts drifted back to their eyes.

The way they caught the fluorescent lights above. The way they seemed to almost shine. It was mesmerising.

“Um, are you okay?” They asked me, after I’d been silent a beat too long.

“Yes, fine.” I cleared my throat, tucking my hair behind my ears. “Sorry, the question was what makes you feel like you deserve this role?”

Kai fidgeted for a moment, not once breaking eye contact with me.

“I think because I’m trustworthy. I’m someone who’s reliable and you could trust to take care of any problem, big or small. I’m strong in the face of resistance, and I’m good at leading others. I’m also a great people person,” they laughed, “I don’t know why but it seems that most people tend to like me.”

My pen dropped to the floor, my hand now entirely limp.

Something about it all had just captured me so thoroughly,

Kai stood and leant over the desk.

“Finally, that was more of a chase than I expected, but I got you in the end, didn’t I?” They tucked my hair behind my ear.

My mouth hung open, and my mind was empty.

“Now, how about you give me that job and I can make you feel this nice and relaxed and fuzzy every day?”

#hypnok1nk #hypnosis #mind control #brainwashing #hypnotized #watcher answers #mindfuck #watcher writes #watcher’s stories

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100vern · 3 months ago

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how to cancel your faustian bargain | wjh ✦ TEASER

▏pairing: attorney!junhui x devil!reader ▏genre: enemies to lovers, lawyer au; crack, fluff, smut ▏summary: as the devil, you’re more than happy to grant favors in exchange for someone’s soul, and you’re known for having the most iron-clad contracts around. which is why wen junhui—the scene’s newest contract attorney hell-bent on returning all those souls you’ve acquired—is really starting to piss you off. ▏teaser rating: mature. however, the full fic will be explicit, and i ask that no minors interact with this or any of my work. ▏teaser warnings: member pov, reader is thee devil so needless to say there is a bunch of religious themes and topics here (as a person whose roman-catholic grandfather temporarily disowned her for stopping ccd classes i am qualified to write this dw), jihan as literal devil's advocates, swearing, mentions of a handjob. ▏teaser wordcount: 1.3k ▏release date: 25th february (tentative) ▏note: this will be apart of the don't hate, litigate! collab, hosted by my beloved @haologram. thank you so much for all your hard work and letting me participate! i have had so much fun writing this and am finally feeling like myself again. current wordcount is sitting at 7k, but i'm anticipating the full fic to double that, if not go over by a bit.

The thing is, Wen Junhui is not really supposed to be here.

Anyway. Turns out that whole selling their soul thing wasn’t a joke, and where others would’ve seen a loophole, Wen Junhui had seen an opportunity.

“How did you even get in here?” you ask, doing one of those really cool pen flips Jun has never figured out how to do. “A human hasn’t just strolled into my office in at least a millennia.”

Jun swallows, tries not to let show how nervous he is. “I, uh—I’m not sure? I sort of just… walked in, I guess.”

You blink. Study him for a while, eyes narrowed, before you make a small ah! sound and snap your fingers. What the heck? Jun can’t do that, either. “I know who you are now.”

“You do?”

“Mmhm, sure do. You were pretty famous around here for about thirteen seconds when you got that handjob and changed the trajectory of your own life forever. Some of the lower demons had bet money on you eventually becoming the Pope, so you can imagine their heartbreak—and the amount of coin they lost.” You click your tongue, return your attention to the scroll in front of you. “I kept telling them not to bet on that kind of stuff. Teenagers are wildly unpredictable, especially hormonal teenage boys. One of my finest creations, if I do say so myself.”

Not that he had any expectation of privacy here, but to say he’s mortified would be an understatement.

“Oh. That’s… really embarrassing.”

You nod, distracted as you press a large red button on your desk. “Yeah, I imagine for you it would be.”

Still, they’re well-acquainted with you, because they barely blink as you say, “Please say hello to our intruder,” with a frightening amount of bite.

The dark-haired one offers up a sleazy grin as he leans back against the wall. “Hello, intruder. Do you have a name?”

“That’s rich coming from a person who chose to call themselves Joshua.”

“If you have to convince someone it’s funny, it probably is not so.”

Joshua rolls his eyes. “Alright, Jeonghan. As if you didn’t do the same thing.”

“At least when I strive to be ironic, it actually is humorous—”

With an exasperated sigh, you return your attention to Jun, who has suddenly found a fascinating piece of lint on his trousers. Pointedly does not make eye contact with you, because you had been intimidating and hellacious on your own, but he’s extremely out of his element sitting across from the literal devil and two demons.

“So, Wen Junhui,” you say, tossing a pair of reading glasses onto your desk, “why are you here?”

(“Wen Junhui?” Joshua whispers to Jeonghan. “As in the Wen Junhui that got the handjob?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Jeonghan whispers back.)

And now it all feels a bit silly, because Jun had walked straight into hell thinking he’d be able to… what, exactly? Strike up a friendly conversation? Start making demands? Cut a deal that didn’t include handing over his mortal soul?

So, he does what he did best all those years of law school: he fakes it.

“Let’s say I’m interested in… a partnership, of sorts.”

Jeonghan and Joshua share a look.

“Ah,” you reply, hands folded in front of you. “And what kind of partnership would that be?”

#jun x reader #jun smut #seventeen smut #junhui smut #seventeen x reader #junhui x reader #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #jun imagines #junhui imagines

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queenimmadolla · 1 year ago

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hi babes

word? Chronic

character? Steve

genre? Humor

trope? First time

xoxoxox

atomic betty, you have no idea how excited i was to see you in my inbox! i love your shit so much, this one is for you! i hope you like it, you wondrous woman ♡ 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐲 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩

Steve’s nervous.

Steve Harrington is very nervous.

And Steve Harrington is rarely—when not in mortal peril—ever nervous. Ever.

Regardless of discussion pertaining to the size of his head, Steve Harrington is blessed with genetics that leave most envious. He’d been an adorable baby, who’d grown from a cute kid turned heartthrob teenager to a handsome man.

Steve has also gone through every stage in relation to those age frames. He’d been one pompous asshole when he was a teen and he’d grown significantly as a person in the years since.

The crown of King Steve was left behind, encased in the glass display of trophies and framed headlines of high school glory days. He’d traded it in for a new outlook on life, trying his hardest to remove himself from the claws of his father’s control and live a life completely of his own.

He’d gone into the Business world right after he’d been able to move out, climbing, schmoozing, and sometimes low balling his competitors, to reach the top. Complete financial independence was finally his, and when Steve’s parents were ready to move on from Hawkins, he’d purchased the Harrington home from them—intent on filling those once lonely walls in that big house with laughter, love, and his own family. His kids. And…his wife.

Steve’s love life fared more notoriously in high school than as an adult.

It’s not that he lacks charm or the interests of women—he’s had numerous hookups and one night stands since—when he’d been building a career, romance hadn’t been on the top of his list of priorities. He’d just wanted to scratch the itch; fuck a lot, and get back to business as soon as he’s had his orgasm, and she’s had her several. Personalities didn't matter. He didn’t need anything other than a willing body, warm mouth and wet holes. That was made clear to all his sexual partners, not a single one of them went in expecting more, though a few had left it craving so.

Steve was sure all of them had fled the earth by the time he was finally ready to provide.

He had the home, he had the income, and he had all the love to give. And not a single woman he encountered in two years of dating since, clicked with him. There had been a couple he thought would be more permanent, stick around longer. It had been wishful thinking.

None of that mattered now, though. Not with you perched on the edge of his swimming pool, bare legs dangling in the water as you watch him do a few laps.

You’d been dating for a couple of weeks now, and it almost terrifies Steve how much he cares for you.

It had started off as a friendly encounter, though Steve was immensely attracted to you, and when you didn’t seem to hate him, he’d gone in with some flirting. You’d returned it, he asked you out on a date, and the two of you hadn’t stopped; sharing something intense and electrifying in the best of ways. With you, he felt a level of comfort he hadn’t ever achieved before—which surprised him, as he once believed Nancy was his soulmate given how comfortable he had felt with her. You made him feel safe in ways he hadn’t known he was desperately searching for.

He’s pretty sure it’s going to be you that shares his home with him. You whose belly swells with his babies, ready to fill the rooms. Or at least he’s hoping, praying, ready to beg whatever deity he has to that it’s going to be you.

That’s still not why he’s nervous.

Steve Harrington is nervous because he’s pretty sure the two of you are gonna fuck tonight.

He’s fucked a lot, alright? He’s probably slept with more women than the average man, but it was all in good fun for both parties and solely based on getting off.

This is not one of those encounters.

He’s not just fucking you. There are so many strings attached and he cherishes each and everyone of those strings, so he’s nervous because a lot is riding on this, and while he’s eagerly looking forward to the possibility of you riding him, he doesn’t wanna fuck this up.

He’s pretty sure you’re it for him, The One, and he’s also pretty sure he won’t last the second he’s inside you, can feel you around him so yeah—he’s really fucking nervous.

Apparently, it shows.

Once he’s done trying to tire himself out—maybe that’ll make him last longer—he wades over to you and uses your lap to prop his arms up on.

“You okay?” You ask, amusement coating your voice as you run your hands through his wet hair and Steve has to pry his eyes away from your tits. Letting you convince him to skinny dip with you after he’d cooked you dinner had also proved fatal to his libido. There’s no way you don’t notice what’s going on with him under the water.

“Wha─? OH! No, yeah, I’m fine. Just. Swim.”

Your tits also seemed to do his brain in. God—you look so good.

“I saw. You swam a lot. Looked like you were training for the Olympics.”

“I could have made the Olympic team.” He blurts out and you push him off of you to dunk him in the water instead. He emerges laughing as he wipes water from his face. When the two of you just started dating, he might have bragged a bit about his time leading the swim team enough to make it a taboo subject and now he does it to playfully annoy you.

“So, what exactly are you nervous about?” You lean back, torso stretching out and hands on the ground behind you. Steve has a difficult time remembering how to speak English. He’s pretty sure he’s drooling.

“Huh? Nervous? Me? You’re mistaken, honey.” He knows he’s caught. You already seem to know him like the back of your hand. It makes his heart flutter and his dick twitch.

“You were nervous at dinner, too, not like right now but I swore I saw you sweating.” You muse aloud, legs swirling in the water again and Steve’s eyes fly to the space between them just as they close to conceal it.

He glances up to see you hadn’t even been looking at him, your stare focused on the lights he’d had strung up above the pool for night swimming as you ponder. You were just unknowingly teasing him.

“No, no. Not nervous, remember?”

“It can’t be the house, I’ve been here before…” You trail off.

“So, we’re just pretending you can’t hear me.”

“But this is the first time I come over so late,” The smirk on your face is dangerous and Steve is positive he’s not lasting tonight, “Stevie, am I making you nervous?”

Your demeanor is so teasing, Steve can feel his face heating up despite the allocation of most of the blood in his body being below hip level.

“…You’re very beautiful.”

You throw your head back as your pretty laughter rings out and Steve grins, happy to amuse you and reap the benefits of watching your chest.

When you're done, your head lulls around and the smile you offer him would make his knees go weak if he was using them, “I might be able to help with that. Can I offer you a smoke?”

“A cigarette wouldn’t hurt,” He muses, eyeing you curiously.

“Not a cigarette, Stevie, though I know you’re a chronic chainsmoker.” You pull your legs out of the pool and stand to retrieve something from your purse. Steve proves the phrase hate to see you go but love to watch you leave applies to your relationship as he unabashedly stares at your ass the entire time.

When you return, you’ve got a yellow prescription pill bottle in one hand with your lighter in the other.

“Think it might calm your nerves.”

Steve is on you the moment you re-settle yourself, crowding his upper half onto your lap as he smirks, “I think you might be right.”

After you pull out a joint from your stash jar, and the filter is between his lips, you spark a light and he mumbles around it, “It’s been a while, be nice.”

You know what that means, so when Steve takes his pull and hands you the joint for your turn, he immediately begins violently coughing and you expect it.

You don’t expect him to be so focused on his violent coughing that he somehow forgets to float and immediately sinks into the pool. You let out a little shriek, toss aside the items in your hand, and push yourself into the pool after him, water rippling enough to splash over the sides.

A few moments later, you both break through the surface of the water, Steve spitting out water he’d inhaled when he’d been coughing and gasping down there, and you lead him to the wall of the pool. Steve grips onto the edge, and you grip onto the sides as well.

After Steve’s done coughing, he starts laughing hard, leaving you to throw him a bewildered look. It only makes him laugh harder, and you truly fail to find any humor in the situation until he wheezes out, “That was so embarrassing.”

You roll your eyes, but a chuckle sputters out of you and soon you’re laughing with him, despite having ruined your hair and soaked the joint you’d left on the ground.

“We are telling no one about this. It stays in this pool.” He declares around his laughter. You move closer to him and Steve’s laughter stops but his smile remains, soft eyes filling with lust as you’re nearly nose to nose.

”I won’t tell anyone.” You promise in a whisper and Steve barely has to lean in to claim your mouth, the taste of him and chlorine flooding your tongue. He dominates the kiss, mouth easily working yours as he pulls you in closer. Despite his slip up moments ago, you trust him to keep you afloat and press yourself to him, arms wrapping around his shoulders as his hands move to grip your ass, hauling you up and you can feel his head nudge against you.

Steve doesn’t last long at all. But he makes up for it in recovery time and you go at it again in the pool. And once more on one of the lounge chairs, again immediately after the two of you make it inside, then in the shower, before finally ending in his bed.

Turns out, he had nothing to be nervous about. You’re completely satisfied with everything he’s got to offer.

#Queenimmadolla’s smoke sesh #This is my first non smut for steve #As you can see i still got a little saucy with him #Steve Harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fluff #Steve Harrington blurb #steve harrington drabble #Steve Harrington #i’ll tag it JUST in case #steve harrington x reader smut

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avo-gal · 4 months ago

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Varigo villian au lore (pt2?? Ig?)

Soz this took longer than expected lol.

So originally I had two ways for varigo to meet but this is the one I ended up liking more.

Varian

In this au when Rapunzel frees Quirin that was sort of Varian's breaking point bc Quirin didn't survive the Amber. Quirin possibly being alive and things going back to normal was the only hope Varian had left without that he.. lost it to keep it short. Andrew tries to work his way back in and Varian practically freaks out and kills him. Whether it was intentional or not he's still not sure. But a part of him that sick twisted part enjoyed it. So now his mission is to kill all those that cross him and in doing so rise to power. Varian in this au is (for lack of a better word) very insane. He's kinda similar to jinx from arcane? Except less childish. He's like a mix between Jinx and Silco personality wise.

Hugo

Hugo meanwhile is still a thief. He finds the abandoned village of old Corona and decides to raid one of the few remaining houses for any goods. That house was old and messy. The rooms were filled with blueprints, designs, lab equipment, tools, metal, etc. Hugo is fascinated with these designs and is a good engineer. that's when a raven haired boy sees him and initially freaked out and is about to kill him (which he's kinda into cause like damn). But Hugo is able to schmooze his way out of that with a good ol "I hate the rich. You hate the rich. We should kiss- I MEAN build these robots and weapons and take over the kingdom together!" Over the course of about a year (more or less) Varian and Hugo build everything and take over (it actually wasn't too hard). Hugo in this au isn't too different from his regular self. He's more energetic however and isn't afraid to get gorey. He is def a masochist in this au lol. Whilst Varian does constantly give him opportunities to have the same level of power as him Hugo never takes it. One reason is he does want the responsibility another may be that he likes being below Varian.

Varigo

Over all Varigo have a sort of situationship? They'll refer to the other as their partner, boyfriend, fiance, etc. But their relationship is very toxic. I wouldn't say manipulative exactly more power hungry? Or fear fueled? They do care very deeply abt the other (since they are the only ones that care abt the other) and if U hurt one of them the other wouldn't hesitate to kill you. But they often threaten each other physically and emotionally (and not always in a playful way). Hugo on the outside seems like he's only in the relationship for the money and sex and Varian seems like he's only in it for reassurance and weaponry. But they both have common interests and are almost unstoppable when they work as a team. There are a lot of layers to both of them the closest couples I can think of to reference them to is stolitz more so in the earlier seasons and maybe Harley Quinn and the Joker? I'm not very good at explaining their relationship but they are very fun to write lol.

Donella

I haven't given Donella much thought in this au. I think after finding out Hugo has taken over Corona with Varian she tries working with them offering her men and resources.

TTS Cast (may change)

Rapunzel, Cass, Eugene and the others have a sort of rebellion in the snuggly duckling. I haven't thought too much magic hair wise but I think Raps has lost her powers by now so they have a very low chance of winning. The current state of this au is abt a year after Vat7k would have happened.

Someone asked on the last post if I plan on writing a fic for this au.

The answer is not currently no. If I did write a fic for this I would want to have more planned out and there's alot in this au I'm still not sure abt. If it got enough attention or if someone also wanted to write a fic I might do a couple's one shots just to sort of show the characters and how they act in this au. But for now I'm prob just gonna stick with occasionally posting abt it. As I said if it gets enough attention or if I come up with more for the au then I might do something big or post more often abt it.

Okay byeee U guys are amazing make sure U eat today <33

🥗🍟🍕🧁

#forgot to add tags lol #vat7k #varian and the seven kingdoms #varigo #varian vat7k #hugo vat7k #tts #villian au

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phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess · 4 months ago

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Mildly emotionally devastating concept, that I haven't found anyway to put into a fic or idea yet so here goes:

--------

The echoing chords of 'Happy Day In Hell' are ringing across the hotel grounds. Cannibals and bettes are carefully hacking away at the different corpses; some angelic, some sinner, some cannibal.

After all, the best way to honour a fallen cannibal was to ensure they lived on inside you... funerary rights in Cannibal Town could cause some distress if you weren't aware of why the mourning would bring their own condiments along...

Several members of the hotel are pointedly Not Looking at the way the angels are being dissected and broken down into a number of tupperware containers that apparently the cannibals just happened to have on themselves. Which was... alarming, buut practical.

Susan was easily visible haranguing the best cuts of wing meat from at least a half-dozen other cannibals and bettes within a four metre radius. That walking stick was a bit charred but it still packed a wallop.

"Should I... maybe go stop her?" Charlie asks, half-joking, because even despite her great power that woman terrified her. It was the aura of disapproval and scrutiny, she thinks, it's like Susan assumed you did something wrong and she was waiting for you to confess.

"Oh I wouldn't think so, it'd be a shame to have you survive that bore of a First Man only to be ended by her wrath, Charlie dear!" Rosie interjects, looping her arm with Charlie's as they turn towards the refurbished hotel. "Why, between you and me, I think she'd even have the audacity to wallop your father over the head with that stick if he tried to get her to stop... she's quite the... I believe the term is 'Karen'?"

Angel lets out a spluttering honk. "Holy shit, she's right! Careful Short King, you get too close and she'll leave you a 1 star Velp review..."

Husk grumbles, hiding his smirk behind a hand. His eyes keep snapping over to where Niffty was running free with The Blade in her hand, yelling excitedly. These little bouts of mania never last, after all.

His ears twitch at the annoying buzz of drones above them. That fuckin' television too cowardly to come help but always interested in watching, recording, putting some twist on reality for his own gain. Hated the schmooze on the guy even back when Husk was an overlord in his own right, you knew he was hanging around and paling it up in search of something.

The cat is pretty sure that Vox is part shark, which makes the anaolgy both better and worse. Sharks like to circle their prey, by the time you've seen them the damn thing has already made up its mind if you're Dinner... and there's not a damn thing you can do about it. Huh, actually they also use electromagnetic waves to sense prey, so, it kind of fits with the tv thing too...

Not for the first time, he wonders who chooses sinner forms and how that determination is made. Some of them are scary creative and yet entirely accurate... like Husk, he'd been a bit lazy and quick to lash out, always darting from place to place. Now he was a cat with fuckin' wings. Ain't fully sure about Angel's spider thing but the guy did always seem to be amidst a web of chaos, tangled in the threads.

And Al? Well, fuck, the guy was a not-deer. Sure, he looked the part of the stag, but it made more sense that he was one of those creepy cryptid Not-Deers that seemed all innocent til you got up close and bambi took a bite of you. He's also wondered if the guy was part voodoo doll, on more than one occasion... all those threads. But he's never had proof. Just some sort of cannibalistic deer.

Pretty sure it was a fucked up joke about how the Overlord died, and that he used to hunt down victims. But eh, who was he to figure it out? Maybe one day Husk'd get Lucifer drunk at his bar and ask how this whole shitshow worked.

He recalled meeting a jellyfish/cactus sinner once, and always wondered how in the 7 rings that'd come about.

"Husk? You good?" Angel elbows him, and he blinks back into the moment to see a cautious Vaggie trying to wrangle the Knife from Niffty.

"Zoned out. Wondering about why we drop down here like this... then went down a mental rabbit hole." he replied, easily. Information, but not enough to pin down his thought process. The trick with a good poker face was also a great poker mouth, but he refrained from sharing that analogy with Angel, because the demon would absolutely make a pun about poking things in mouths. And Husk had had a Loooooong Day so far.

"Char-char, why are there so many little winged camera things around?" Lucifer asks, jabbing upwards with his cane. "They've been everywhere all day, the exorcists seemed to just ignore them, but they don't seem Heaven-made. Actually, I don't think most of those stuck up fuckers would be aware of what the upper councils decided to do down here..."

"Hmmm? Oh, that's just Vox, ya majesty. He's got a little obsession with... well, someone else here. There's normally wards keeping him out but I think they fell with the old hotel... might want to get onto that unless you wanna risk your next shower being pay per view." Rosie tosses back, carelessly, stiffling a laugh. "No manners, that television... ugh, he used to be such a sweet little thing but then he met that moth..."

Her tone dripped with derision.

"Why, the other day he was waltzing into my town demanding an audience and I just about set Susan on him, because for some reason she's immune to his little eye trick, and I tell you! If I wasn't brought up to be a gracious hostess, I would've called Al over to help me figure out which bits of the smug bastard were edible, I've always assumed it's like trying to find the non-toxic bits of a blowfish when you really get in there. Flesh and circuitry for days!"

"Oh? Why would he deign to go anywhere in person, isn't that what those expendable and often delicious little interns of his are for?" Alastor asks, ears aimed right at Rosie now, a sparkle in his eyes at the schadenfreude being offered.

"Quite! The last one was some sort of octopi sinner, tasted fantastic with a fine white wine, I believe I still have some in the fridge if you have time later, deer. In any case, he'd gotten wind that Princess Charlotte had inspired my people to fight." Her expression soured momentarily. "Felt that he might be able to counter the offer with his new 'Angelic Security' devices, let us be something called a beta tester... still not sure what that means. Anyway, the poor fool was so out of sorts that he was even willing to make a rather significant deal between our two territories, wherein he would provide any employees or former employees who were... waiting to reform. All we needed to do was step back from the fight."

Lucifer felt hellfire escape his mouth with each exhalation. "Some upstart overlord thought he could try to usurp the allies from my daughter? On the eve of battle?"

"Now, now your majesty, in all fairness it was only Vox. This is what he does. I'm certain he also made an attempt at a Deal with Carmine once he saw the shipments coming in, and likely used all two braincells to work out why..." Alastor counters, grinning. He was never not grinning, of course, but this felt... genuinely delighted at the overlord's failures. "He failed, so why not simply allow it to go unpunished for now? His drones have seen us discuss this, he knows we know... let him grow paranoid and jump at shadows in that little tower of his."

Lucifer... blinked, and felt his horns fade out. "Heh, that's actually a good idea there, Bambi. Didn't think someone as outdated as you could get those anymore... not enough bandwidth. But you are, as painful as it is to say, right. Let him know the King of Hell knows his name and his sins... and he has all eternity to ensure that Vox will atone for them."

"...I do hope we all get front row seats to the performance, then. Unless you feel the need to designate on this task, in which case I would be more than happy to offer my services in this regard!"

"Awwww, Vaggie, they're getting along!" Charlie stage-whispers, looking simultaneously delighted and perturbed at the subject matter. She was angry at the idea someone had been trying to undo all their work around managing the incoming threat... but, maybe they could try verbal conflict resolution before jumping to beating them up or say, eating people?

"Well that's just fucking terrifying. We need to put a stop to that." Vaggie deadpans back, finally getting hold of the Blade. "Uh, can we put this somewhere she can't get it for now?"

"What? Oh, yeah... we can put it in a frame later on, but for now, just toss it through the portal, 'kay?" Lucifer glances over, swirling a portal open behind her revealing a dusty room filled with ducks. Vaggie dropped it through and it snapped shut before Niffty could dive after it.

"Nooooooo, that was my shiny! I got the angel!" Niffty protested.

"Come now, Niffty, that's no way for you to act now is it?" Alastor admonishes, taking the small sinner from Vagatha and letting her curl into his chest. He pets her on the back with a practiced ease that spoke of more than a few incidents of this very situation. "Do remain calm, if you can, and we shall see if perhaps an angelic needle might be procured so you can ensure those bugs never come back again, hmmm? Would you like that as a reward?"

Carmilla would likely be confused by such a request, but... for the right price, anything was available. And money meant nothing at the Sovereign rank, it just Was.

For some Sovereigns, that meant security and not having to fight every moment; that their souls were cared for and given the means to serve as healthy and well as possible. For others, who had forgotten how it was to suffer, it meant dragging every dollar earned from the filthy, desperate claws of their souls.

Husk may never admit it, but Alastor kept a standard for his souls, and ensured their needs were met. A starving, half-mad creature would be an unlikely helper; but a sinner who was fed, clothed and lived in an alright apartment where they had access to electicity and water and radios? They would be a good bet to back up the person who kept the lights on.

Husk was one of the few who didn't get an allowance... outside of certain matters. Mostly because everything was provided, and he had an unfortunate habit of gambling it away and accruing further debts. Really, Charlie needed to add in some sort of Gambling Addiction group or something... it was getting tedious eating loan sharks for Huk and Mimzy.

Ah, perhaps that was why Husk disliked her so deeply... the fact that they were, to a degree, a mirror for one another. But where Mimzy revelled in her chaos; Husk felt shame and self-loathing, both fine and entertaining qualities but ultimately unhelpful.

"Yeah, it's all good Niff. Besides, you took out the big bad guy, or the not good bad guy, not sure how ya classify it... but Adma was an ass and he had it coming. There's no more not-me angels to stab right now." Angel soothes, hovering a hand as if not quite sure if Alastor would bite him for breaching their space.

"See? Nothing is as bad as it seems, dear. Remember, you're never fully dressed without a smile... and you are a beacon of hellfire when you do, so why not buck up and tell Angel about how much fun you had with the winged pests today?" Alastor coaxes, handing the maid over to a slightly stunned Angel.

"Er, yeah... tell me about how ya got all the not-me angels, Niff."

"Oooh, well, there were so many of them and then you were shooting them and Husk was throwing booming things at them, and your yelling friend threw bombs at them and I liked how they made crackle boom noises, and then the angels fell on the-..."

"Don't panic, she has quite the lung capacity for someone her size. She'll breathe when she needs to." Alastor laughs, assuaging the dawning expression of horror on Angel's face as Niffty just kept talking in a massive run on sentence. He seemed to be waiting for her lips to go blue or the little thing to pass out or something.

"Terrifying to know. Thanks."

"Right, so... pancakes?" Lucifer hedges, turning to the gathered sinners at large and mainly aiming the question at Charlie. "I think everyone worked hard and could use something to eat, then maybe a nap. Or three. Anyone who doesn't want to participate in group naptime can always... shut up and lay down anyway because otherwise I will knock you out. Got it? Excellent. Now who wants chocolate chip? I can also do strawberry, chocolate, banana, pineapple, maple syrup, and ugh... even blood flavoured if anyone here is into that. Whipped cream straight from Gluttony ring, you'll kill for more!"

There was a pause.

"No one is allowed to kill for more. I've decided."

Charlie can't block the little snort that erupts at how ridiculous her Dad was. She wipes at her eyes, heart feeling full and tender at the strangeness of her old and new family coming together under the new hotel roof to celebrate their victory.

Her eyes do rest on the portrait of Pentious, and her throat constricts momentarily... but there's no time for that! Vaggie squeezes her shoulder, somehow knowing as she always does, when Charlie's thoughts have grown heavy. No, Pentious would want them to celebrate victory... not mourn. Not tonight.

That's what tomorrow was for. She could clear the schedule and having morning calisthenics and cathartic sobbing from 10am - 11am, then maybe some art therapy and scrapbooking or drafting letters to Pentious until lunch. Maybe an art class for free expression afterwards? No, too similar. Oooh, what about some primal screaming? That might be good!

"Whatever the Princess is thinking, I want to volunteer to not be part of it." Husk says, concerned about the face journey they were witnessing. It felt very... therapeutic. Which was alarming, in its own way.

"Aw c'mon kitty, I'm sure it'll be fun..." Angel coaxes, shifting Niffty to his left arms, waving at the approaching Cherri through the open front doors. He points up at the drones, and she frowns as she follows the movement.

A few little bombs take care of the technoflock.

Angel can't help but relax knowing the boss of his boss wasn't keeping tabs anymore.

"Pancakes sound good right about now, so let's get t'cooking. Then I'm taking you up on that nap business, for as long as Val will hold off on callin' me inta work."

"Why, my dear fellow, if he calls you into that Studio then perhaps it would be best for the hotel if you were escorted. Someone could... renegotiate your terms, by tearing the moth's head off, for example..."

Angel's breath caught in his throat. "Ya'd do that? Why, whatta ya want in return? Cause I already offered ta suck ya-..."

Rosie burst into laughter at the mildly offended expression on Alastor's face. "Oh, you are a delight Mr Angel Dust! Make no mistake!"

"...I have been meaning to remove the moth for a while, it was merely a matter of identifying a convenient time. All this extermination nonsense and all..." Alastor waved off the inquiry.

Angel felt a flare of resentment, because that waiting had cost him a lot... but he could see what was being offered, what was not being said directly. If it wasn't a service specifically for Angel, there was no debt accrued. Heck the wording sounded like Angel might get a favour out of it for getting him into the Studio.

Well, fuck, the Radio Demon was trying to make friends without actually saying it. Angel could work with that.

"Well, if you want to see where the magic happens... sure, I have the right to do Studio Tours." he shrugs, feigning nonchalance. The whole exchange has gone under the Royals notice. They might've tried to... help. And that hadn't gone over so well last time.

"Yeah, yeah, come on, let's get something to eat so I can sleep for a week..." interjects Husk, rolling his eyes at all these ridiculous theatrics. Ugh, theatre kids. You put em in the same room and it becomes unbearable being in the midst of their cryptic charades and subterfuge bullshit.

He might have a soft spot for Angel, and a weird bruised place for Al, but these two needed to knock it off. "How about we deal with all of Hell tomorrow and just have a day we put our feet up, huh? Won't even get wasted... might teach Legs here how to play poker properly. Which means the pants stay on, I'm warning you in advance, before you get any ideas."

"Awww, kitty scared to see what I got ta offer?"

There's a record scratch noise. "My good man, most of Hell is fully aware of what you have to offer, and so is everyone at this establishment after your very... creative... decisions around show and tell night presentations."

Rosie has tears beading at the corners of her dark eyes, she's laughing so hard behind her hand. "I'm sorry, Al, but the mental imagery that evokes is truly something... was that a... hah... was that a group therapeutic activity?"

"Well, it coulda been a group something, but no one was interested... shame, really. I rarely do things for free, it's a professional standards thing. But, I'm always down to give out a coupon if that'll help..." Angel waggles his eyebrows.

There's a rather pointed 'whump-whomp' sound effect as Alastor levels a truly unimpressed gaze at him. "Do not take it personally if I decline, dear chap, but that sounds like a lot of unnecessary workplace fraternisation... we'd have to run it by the Manager, unless you envision Charlotte also being involved? In which case, I expect his shortness would immolate us on sight."

Angel cracks up. Something about the idea of a wild bangsesh with the hotel staff being tidied up under the title of 'workplace fraternisation' absolutely sent the spider.

Husk, on the other hand, shuddered. "No thanks. Not even for you, Legs. You ain't seen some of the stuff in Niffty's notebooks... you let that side of her loose and none of us'll ever walk again."

"Ah, she is a darling girl with quite the imagination... I noted that her more recent drawings are getting quite good." Rosie agrees, studiously ignoring the wide eyed glare she got from Alastor, whose neck did a full 180 to stare her way. "Oh hush now, you... you know she loves to show me her achievements as much as she does to you. Why, she's our delightful murderous not-child after all..."

Angel pauses on the cusp of the kitchen, from which a number of concerning bangs and crashes were echoing, to stare between the overlords. "Wait, are you two a thing? I got a discount for couples and-..."

His next words are cut off by a dark tendril covering his mouth as Alastor reached his breaking point. The eyebrow waggle suggested that if the Overlord released the man's mouth, something truly and devastatingly lewd might slip out.

Rosie was no help, laughing uproariously to the point Lucifer peeked his head out of the kitchen to check all was well. He seemed to be wearing several egg yolks and flour... and his apron was singed. What on earth were they doing in there?

"You guys uh, good out here?"

"Of course, Sire, of course! Just fixing a little misconception, that's all... and then this charming starlet here made Quite the Suggestion! Oh dear, I haven't laughed this hard since I saw that upstart Velvette walk into a pole, too enamoured in her phone to notice, hah!"

"Why that sounds like a blessed event." Alastor agreed.

"What? You know what, you're all alive and I'm going to check on Char-Char... Vaggie's running out of extinguishers." Lucifer says, and disappears.

"Hmmm, she doesn't seem to have gotten your talent for cooking, my dear. You should rectify that soon, before this lovely establishment burns to ashes after all the effort put into gussying it up again."

"Believe me, I have tried, Rosie... our Princess can't seem to crack the fundamentals of even the most basic dishes. Even Angel tried, and between us we have managed to teach her to boil water without melting the pot. Truly an enigma."

Angel taps the tendril, and he is allowed free. "Whew, okay, yeah that was something and I will make a statement about tentacles later on. BUT, Smiles is right... dunno what it is about our all-powerful ball f optimism... but she can't cook to save herself. We're lucky it was a battle and not a bake-off or we'd be screwed."

Alastor can't help but laugh at that, Rosie's own curling around his tone. "Oh, now that would have been a delightful disaster to spectate..."

Rosie whaps him lightly on the arm. "Come off it now, deer, you know you would have found a way to help her or at least give her the answers... a poppet under the table, perhaps. I know you quite like the little powderpuff, don't go denying it!"

He flicks his ears at her, in a fit of pique, and she laughs harder.

"Yeah, I think she likes ya too, Smiles... and Charlie don't seem like the type to just let go of an attachment. So we're all stuck with her, in the best way possible. Good luck with that. I'm enjoying watching you get dragged, kickin' and screamin' into this weird family at the hotel." Angel grins, all teeth, the smug bastard.

"Husker, do remind me why I have refrained from eating your paramour so far?" Alastor asks, jovially, as a shrill scream echoes from the kitchen and the too familiar blast of an extinguisher in use.

"Cause he's a good source of entertainment, and gossip about the Vees..." Husk answers automatically. He's got a few answers on the backburner, just in case Al ever asked or needed to be talked down after another... Sinsmas lapdance incident. It'd been as funny as it was terrifying.

"Hmm, I suppose..."

The kitchen doors swung open and a rather dishevelled trio stumbled out with smoke trailing behind. Lucifer's magic was combating whatevver was happening in there, and the King's eyes were wide with disbelief as he stared at his daughter.

"Okay then, I'll just conjure up some pancakes then... while that fixes itself up. And then we ban my darling duckling from ever stepping foot in there again." Lucifer says, shooing everyone towards the dining area. "Well that was... informative."

"Mmm, that's why Angel or myself tends to run the cooking classes, whenever Charlotte here schedules them." Alastor adds, unhelpfully. "Rather safer that way..."

"Hey asshole, she's trying!" Vaggie snaps.

"And it's appreciated, but wouldn't you agree that if all members of staff work to their strengths it is... safer and more equitable overall, dear Vagatha?"

"I-... okay, that's a fair point, but back off Charlie. You know she really wants to get better at cooking..."

"And she will, in time, I assure you. But for now... I undderstand there may be pancakes on offer that would suit even Rosie's refined tastes, so if his Majesty could get to conjuring...?"

Lucifer whacks Alastor with one of his wings, shoving him out of the way with a sharp blow to the chest. Not anticipating wings appearing from nowhere, only Rosie's sure footing keeps him upright as she grabs him.

With a laugh, she twirls and dips him, leaving the pair chortling at the whole situation and utterly ticking off Lucifer, whose malicious grin dropped to something rather frustrated.

Alastor rights himself easily. "Why Rosie, old gal, I just realised we haven't danced in a while. Would you have any of the charming little Balls or Soirees coming up?"

"Not officially no, but I was thinking of putting some of the angelic meat on ice and setting up a festival in the next few weeks to celebrate our victory today." She replies, clapping her hands and crinkling the corners of her not-eyes. It would be a grand affair, as every event Cannibal Town hosted was purported to be.

"Well, the hotel staff and guests will naturally attend, though I do believe we may need some substitutions to be made... apparently even dear Angel Dust, who is no stranger to Sinner meat, isn't a fan of digesting it for some reason." Alastor responds, expression nonchalant as if he didn't just make a joke so blatant Angel nearly inhales a whole pancake in shock.

Cherri saves the day as she triumphantly bursts in to whack him on the back hard enough to dislodge the offending food. It hurtles across the room and is caught in Niffty's dustpan tray.

Angel wheezes, "Did I go insane or did Smiles just make the joke I think I heard?"

Rosie looks scandalised. "Why Alastor, are you not using your impeccably worded ill humour here? For shame, young man! For shame! Why, I still remember the time you made that statement about electical ports that made Vox short-circuit and explode a jukebox... oh, his smoking screen was delightful!"

"I have no idea what you refer to, madam."

"You stop that rot or I'll pull your tail in front of everyone, Al... just like you're pulling my leg with this faux innocence nonsense." Rosie chuckles. "Oh deer, you're lucky I'm Fawn'd of you... the things I Doe for you. I really should stag for it."

"That last one was a reach and you know it, Rosie." Alastor shot back and side-stepped her playful attempt at mauling.

"There's some kinda chemistry here, but I'm getting the feeling its less romantic and more like... whatcha gotta do to make a bomb." Angel says, narrowing his eyes at the pair. Starling a laugh out of both overlords.

"Oh, speaking of bombs, there's a few out amongst the wreckage I can't seem to find. They're gonna go off in a bit, timed the little buggers cause I wasn't sure if we'd need to put a little surprise on our corpses and all. So, don't go digging through the rubble for a bit, alright?" Cherri says, hoiking a thumb over her shoulder.

"Er, maybe we go see if Dad can find them before an ally gets blasted into chunks, huh?" Charlie says, nervously.

"Probs for the best, princess. Vox still has his little spy eyes floatin' about outside... might not be good to let the idiot box get a pic of you blowin someone sky high after the battle." She shrugs. "No skin off my nose either way a'course."

"Persistent today, isn't he deer?" Rosie says, rolling her dark voids and bumping their shoulders together as the late breakfast of a thousand pancakes is abandoned in favour of finding explosives to prevent future disasters. Or watch them first hand. Given the audience.

Lucifer was practically dragged by the wrist towards the front doors by his frantic daughter; Vaggie trapped by the other hand. Angel had his phone out, curious to see where this went as Cherri came along for shits'n'giggles.

"Come along, Husker..." Alastor said, pointing out the door and putting a too-companionable arm about the cat's shoulder as he dragged him out. "Well, my good fellow, let us see what chaos the rest of the day brings..."

There was some deep mumbling of almost insults, but the cat capitulated easily enough. His ears flicked in interest as someone outside shrieked and something let out a deep muted boom.

"Oho, the fun is just beginning!" Alastor grinned, and released an array of poppets from his shadows to help scour the field. Rosie also grinned, noting how much her foolish friend clearly cared, and how devastated he was going to be when he actually realised it. Why, that was going to be hilarious to weather!

"...-veryone could just stop digging for a minute while we, AHH! Oh, they're just helping look... could use more warning next time, Al!" Charlie called as they broached the front doors behind her. "As I was saying, anyone digging, step back we're looking for explosives!"

Vaggie added to the command with a more authoratative tone.

Lucifer was above them all, hovering with eyes a blood red scanning the area about them. He pointed to different devices and tossed them into the sky to detonate. A few of the poppets found devices and piled on them until they triggered.

Those damnable drones watched them the whole time. No matter how many were blasted by accident, ahem, during detonations... another two would turn up. The proverbial hydra indeed.

There was an interminable beeping coming through the airwaves aw well, rather pissing off the Radio Demon, because it seemed only he and possibly the King and Princess were aware of it. Although Vagatha was rubbing at her temple and glancing about.

"If anyone is interested in the source of that noise, I suspect the drones are emitting it. Not certain why, though. Possibly just to annoy." He informs, glaring at the cameras and feeling his distortion field flare persistently.

"Oh is that what that is? Going to have a word to Socks about his meddling, it's annoying." Lucifer mumbles, batting a few drones to pieces with a flex of his wings.

Vox, in retaliation, ramped up the sound. Everyone was now able to hear this incessant beeping rhythm; and of course, the blasted thing was just out of synch enough that one couldn't possibly try to ignore it. It was like someone had forced morse code, a dying furby and an old dial up modem to procreate and then they fed the child through a blender.

It took up residence in your brain and shook the foundations.

"This fucker is going the right way for a Royal Fucking!" Lucifer growled, and then paused. "Of the ass-kicking kind. Just to clarify!"

Vaggie was covering her ears, "Ugh, can we make him stop?!"

Alastor was directing his shadows and tendrils to start destroying anything hovering above them, and definitely being sure to only land glancing blows on the king...

"What a sloppy little tantrum this is, I can't fathom what he thinks he'll gain by ticking off the royal family and most of cannibal town. You may get your wish to try butchering his vile corpse, my de-..." the jovial tone cut off with a choked exhalation of surprise. Followed by a rather confused, "...Rosie?"

Alastor collapsed as her bloody hand pulled free of his back, clutching the struggling heart in one fist, expression devastated as she bit her lip to shreds.

Charlie whirled around and screamed.

"S-sorry deer, Vox... came to visit..." Rosie mumbled, disgusted at how she couldn't make her own body stop, how she couldn't drop the heart. How his eyes locked onto hers, hazy with pain and betrayal before they fell blank.

Husk snarled as the chain and collar appeared, her dusky pink subsuming the mystic green all the way to his throat. Niffty's agonised cry came from inside the hotel and she burst outside in a panic.

Rosie couldn't stop it. She couldn't...

And Niffty's expression was as devastatingly accusatory as Husk's was infuriated. Charlie was shaking the deceased overlord at her feet, begging him to get up, for her father to help them.

And those damnable drones watching, recording, likely streaming to millions of souls the sudden betrayal of Sovereign Overlord Rosie to Sovereign Overlord Alastor. She would be reviled, if allowed to live. Vox had broken both of them.

"Please, Dad... can you... can you fix this?" Charlie sobbed. Not another one, not today, they couldn't even bury Pentious... and now this?

"I... he's a sinner, ducky, he'll reform once he grows his heart back." Lucifer assures, and snaps up an obscuring barrier when he feels too many eyes intruding upon the moment.

Vaggie has her spear pointed at Rosie. "Give. us. his. heart. back. BITCH."

"I don't... think I can..." she manages, through clenched teeth. "Said... to eat... it..."

"Who?"

Husk's eyes went wide. "Vox. That motherfucker came to visit you and put a little trigger in your head so you'd betray Al... cause you two together are a threat to his little Vees." There's a pause. "And he always thought Al liked you... that way, but didn't like him. Jealous fucking prick. Shit... never thought I'd hate the day he didn't own my chain anymore but... this ain't right."

"H-he'll be fine, he'll reform soon enough." Angel asserted. "I've seen some fucked up shit in Hell, but in one of the Studios there's a whole gore and vore section, they... they pull out stuff and eat it and it just takes a bit of time and a boost down the chain to get 'em back up and running. Not sure about time frames, though."

Niffty is biting Rosie's arm and it hurts, but even now she can't drop the heart. He'll regen faster with it, but her brain wants her to eat it, like she was ordered to.

With a wet thunk, her hand drops to the ground and finally the fingers release the organ. Niffty scoops it up and hands it to a horrified Charlie... which is intercepted by the more practical Vaggie, and she searches the wound for the best way to get it back in in position.

"Sir, can you... do anything? About this? I'd hate to drop it in upside down and-... are you okay? Your wing... there's blood on it."

"What? Oh, not mine... that's Sinner blood, still got the golden ichor thing going on. Wonder where it-... oh." Lucifer's expression tightens as he turns the deceased sinner gently onto his back, mindful not to let the wound touch the cement. Because it would stain. Not because little bits of debris in the wound would be irritating as hell to the healing process. Definitely the first reason.

Okay, this is fine. It's not Terrible. But... oh, Char-Char is not gonna like this. Lucifer makes sure the barrier is transparent before he snaps open the overlord's ridiculous amount of shirts to reveal a rather messy line of stitches on a wound that sang with angelic grace.

"Well, okay, that could be a problem... Char, do we know how he got hit with an angelic weapon?" Lucifer asked, trying to ascertain if this would count as something fixable, or if he'd have to have the same talk with Char he had when her last pony had 'gone back to the earth'.

"He faced Adam on the roof, and then disappeared." Vaggie adds in, helpfully, and it makes the king cringe. "I didn't think it would be this bad. I felt some residual but... they'd been snacking on angel bits after the battle, so..."

"Yeah, okay. Char, I know you liked the annoying deer, but I need you to understand that the fact he was already severely injured by fucking Adam..."

There was a pause. "Okay no, I heard it that time. I meant that he was hurt, while fighting adam, who is a motherfucker. Slightly more literal in the case of you, Charlie, but to be fair, I also-... not the time! Got it! Okay, let's fix your overlord... if I can. Because what I was trying to say is that there's a chance that... it might be permanent."

"Did Vox know, when he set this all up? He's been obsessed with Al for decades... no way he'd risk killing him for good, right?" Husk says, ears flat.

Angel and Cherri are flipping through their phones, expressions darkening with each post.

"He knew. There's a video taken of Al's fight with Adam, he's kicking the guy's ass up until his staff gets snapped in half by that axe thing... looks like the light from it blinded him for a sec, and then Adam did that. Vox's got it on every news channel, right beside a video of Niffty stabbing the guy and his majesty over here letting Adam go. Got his own spin on it already..." Angel grounds out.

"The fucker's also already got the video of the creepy hottie over there killing the hot psycho up on Vitter and Sinstagram." Cherri reports. Velvette was a fucking nightmare when it came to spreading information online. No one in hell would be ignorant by this time tonight.

"And even if he does live, Rosie gets his soul or she frees him and his souls are forfeit. The fact she killed him without a challenge is going to be more against him than her." husk explained. "You can take a soul in a challenge, like Al did to me, or a battle... but this? This is gonna tank her reputation as well."

"Would a statement from the Royal family, who witnessed it, help?" Angel asked, jerking his head at the pair. His Majesty was doing something with oddly burnt-looking golden light, hauling it hand over hand into a ball that Vaggie was holding with the enthusiasm of someone handed a well-used nappy.

"Maybe... but he was associated with the hotel, the princess's hotel... they could see it as saving face." Husk mused, trying not to think about the fact that the body beside him was getting cold. "On the other hand, if Vox is forced to admit the truth... that might save it. But that depends on if what the King is doing is gonna work."

"Not. Helping." Lucifer snarls. The gold light is finally coming to an end, and he's hoping that the lack of it might get the body to recognise it wasn't, in fact, double-dead from an angelic wound but instead a regular sinner death. So it might trigger the reanimation magicks saturating the Ring.

He prodded the Overlord's chest, realigning the heart to the correct position with a gentle nudge. Vaggie had been pretty spot on, actually. Good head in a crisis, gorgeous, first aid skills and a warriror to boot... he can't wait to welcome her into the family!

Wait, focus on the now.

"Okay, come on you smug fucker, I need to win one of these weird dad-offs against you, I can't have the score be 1-0 due to a death-based technicality. Oooh, I';'m gonna make you eat so many sugary snacks after this, little mister i-don't-do-sweets, until you puke..."

Charlie is distraught, but also verging on worried. She's hoping that's just the sound of her dad letting his mouth move to keep it busy so his brain could think, because otherwise she might need to do an emotional check in around the hostility between Al and her Dad.

Rosie just stares, her blood is plip-plip-plopping on the ground in a growing puddle that Niffty is ignoring in her worry. Her Overlord powers are boosted from the influx of new souls, so the wound is scabbing over. Why, by tonight she'll have a new hand... but at what cost?

Even if he lives, will he ever trust her fully enough to turn his back to her, as he had done today? How many decades of trust had that taken?

He used to turn his back on Vox, too... before the fallout. And now Vox, in his pique, had seen fit to remove Rosie from the very brief list of people Al trusted absolutely.

Would he allow Husk to dip him like she had? Possibly, in certain circumstances.

He would let Niffty climb him, and dance with him. She was even sighted curled against him when she'd had a nightmare, and he held her back without his skin crawling.

The little Princess, perhaps he would let her close enough... but something else held them apart. She hadn't yet guessed at it.

Angel Dust, surprisingly she could picture Alastor allowing the other within 5 feet. As long as the spider kept his hands and mouth appropriate... there was a lot she sensed from that sinner, he didn't seem a terrible sort. But... he was also a toy for a Vee.

And that would put him high on the list of suspicion.

All these thoughts hinged on if Alastor lived.

And right now... he seemed unresponsive to the best of the King's efforts, to the growing awareness of those around them.

She reached for his chain, perhaps a boost would help? That always gave her cannibals and bettes a better chance of avoiding certain demise.

...and she gasped.

That drew attention to her again.

"What?" snaps Husk, his tail lashes. He wants to be angry at her, but he's restraining it, given he knows this wasn't her choice. "I mean... look, I didn't mean to be short with you, it's just-... ya covered in his blood and Vox is too far away to turn into a scratching post."

"I can't find his chain to give him a boost. Even if he was... there'd be a broken chain there, whipping in the ethereal wind." she says, voce quieter than she's used to.

Husk's pupils turn to slits. He knows something.

"Husk...?" she hedges.

"If he lives, he's gonna kill me for this, powers or no powers... you know he was a fucking nightmare from the minute he landed, and the Overlord status, the souls, they only boosted it to the next level."

"He won't, if it's important enough, he'll understand after a bit of a rampage. Now spill it, mister!"

"Look, I dunno who it is... but he has a deal. Reckon it's why he went missing for 7 years or so without warning. His soul doesn't belong to him, anymore... but all his souls do. I don't understand how that works, so don't ask. But it would've had to be someone extremely powerful or the most fucked up situation to force him into a Soul Deal."

Lucifer spared a hand to resonate with whatever was sitting about the Sinner's throat, and made a rather disgusted sound at the ludicrously tight manacle that started to manifest now he was paying attention.

"Yeah, Hunk's right... someone very powerful put their mark on this. Obscured it a bit, but I'm the fucking king of hell, so... one sec." Lucifer concentrates, and then jerks back with a hiss like a scalded cat. "I must have read that wrong because... that felt like Lillith's magic all over, and she's been gone for-... oh."

"He knows where mum is?" Charlie's eyes are wide with longing and betrayal. "Why didn't he-... do you think she told him not to say anything?"

"Oooooh yeaaaaaah, there's a lot of clauses on that bad boy he's locked in. A gag order wasn't even close to the most fucked on the list... but there is something we can use. Two of the clauses I can make out deal with only dying in defence of the hotel, and not dying until his task is complete or otherwise negotiated."

"Well he did. Die I mean. And sort of for the hotel." Vaggie adds, haltingly.

"But, the chain isn't gone." Lucifer counters. "Meaning the deal considers him alive and able to regenerate because he didn't meet the criteria!"

"Sir is going to be okay?" Niffty near shrieks in his ear. And wow, when did she get there?

"Er, seems like it..." Lucifer said, applying another little pulse of his own magic to the body, sealing up the torn arteries and ventricles to give it a headstart on the healing. "I-...oop, there we go, I felt a heartbeat. And there's another... and another. Excellent. Your pet is going to be okay!"

She throws him A LookTM that is all Lillith.

"Daaaaaaaaad..."

He laughs, the sound cathartic. "Okay, okay I'm KIDDING char-char. He's an asshole that I'd love to pound... er, like as in fighting... but he still fought for you and so far none of his weird shennanigans have actually hurt you. And if he's here on behalf of your mother then I want the chance to ask about it."

"Should we move him?" Vaggie asks.

"Can't stay here forever, unless you think he might like to regenerate with a tan?" Lucifer jests. "Alright, rock paper scissoring for who wants to carry the fucker inside?"

Angel and Cherri look interested in that version of the game, but husk steps in. "I got it... wouldn't be the first time. Not as heavy as you think, but also not as light as someone that thin suggests. C'mon you antagonistic deer, let's get out of lens range. Pretty sure you'll rip it off when you wake up, but we don't need to make Vox's cock any harder than it is..."

"What the FUCK could you possibly mean by that?" Vaggie looks like she might throw up. That could also be the adrenaline crash coming on.

"Er, well even I know that Vox has a... thing, a kink or a fetish or something like that, for hurting the strawberry pimp here. Seein' him hurt and brought low. Got something to do with their breakup or whatever, sometimes Val bitches about it but never gives clear answers on that." shrugs Angel, looking uncomfortable. "I've seen some specific shit in my time, but the guy... he's obsessed. There were a few times Val had me play with him and Vox, and there were... there's a whole closet of body pillows with Smiles on em. He usually tears them to shreds... but it was the wig and the cosplay that really made my skin crawl."

There's a pause.

"He ain't the only infamous person here who Val has outfits for, for the studio... but if the King of Hell wants to deal with the fact there's a film coming out called Prince-yes of Anal: The Cummination, with a weirdly accurate casting for the main characters... you didn't hear it from me." Angel adds, making pointed eye contact.

Lucifer has already passed all five stages of grief the humans know of, experienced the other seven, and has passed into a sea of pure calm fury. "I'll take that under advisement... I'll be tearing your boss limb from limb in the next 3 to 5 business days!" He says too cheerfully.

"For that, I'll let ya have the Deluxe Package for ya own pac-..."

"Please stop. Today's been a lot so far... and we still have to undo whatever this mess is." Lucifer silences the porn star. "I mean, thanks for the consideration, but boy howdy do I want to kill your boss and setting you free is a bonus. No price necessary."

"What do we do about Rosie?" Vaggie asks, eyeing the Overlord.

"Well, first we go inside then I'll see if I can pick out the exact magical frequency Vox uses and erase it from her completely. Then, we''ll see about that hand... and then... I have no idea how we fix the optics or whatever its called. The fallout?"

"The moment he's awake and well enough, I will return Alastor's souls and contracts to him. That's what we're going to do, my good man!" Rosie interjects, allowing the King to lead her inside with a frm grasp on her upper arm.

Husk has laid Alastor down on a couch, and Charlie was sitting as close as she could in an armchair, staring intently at every faint inhalation. Angel was carefully trying to alternate between wiping off the excess blood from teh healing wound with a wet cloth, and keep Niffty from 'helping' with her cleaning rags.

Didn't need an infection on top of unanticipated heart amputation, now did we?

"Say Niff, can you help Al by going and getting him some new clothes? These'll need washing and repairing."

"Yes! YES I CAN!" She's gone in a blink and back almost as fast with abundle of everything that is placed reverently by the couch.

Rosie is led to a chair further away from the group, and the King stares right into her eyes the second she's seated. It's like having your brain x-rayed, its the only way to describe it.

His eyes are red, and things shift around in her mind before something is tugged, dragged and snuffed out. He blinks. "Alright, that should do it. Any compulsions to murder the deer again?"

"Not at all."

"Great. Don't do it again. Charlie was very upset."

"I promise."

"Cool, excellent, let me fix your hand." He waggles fingers and the appendage starts to regrow in a golden light. "This might feel odd... I've been told it's like when you sleep on your hand and it goes tingly for a bit but then it's fine."

Angel's wrangled some of the shirt off and Charlie is valiantly not looking to allow Alastor maximum privacy. Cherri, on the other hand, is clearly getting a sticky beak in and committing it too memory as one of the few people alive to see the great Radio Demon half starkers.

"Fluffier than I thought..." she tosses out, testing Charlie's resolve, and the Princess peers through her fingers. "Hah, caught you snooping, just look... can't be too picky when you're half torn apart. Looks like it's pulling together though, s'all good."

"Oh, it does seem to be healing pretty fast. That's good right? Wait... doesn't reforming need a lot of energy - should we get him something to eat for when he wakes?"

"Oh I think you can scrounge somene up from outside. See if they haven't wrapped up all of Ignatious and Berthilda, those two were kind souls who wouldn't mind if we used their remains to help a friend heal properly." Rosie pauses to think. "Unless of course you find Susan deceased out there, in which case she would be the ideal candidate for us both to share."

She laughs.

Charlie give a nervous, uncomfortable laugh and Niffty lets out an unhinged gale. She doesn't know why they're laughing but likes being part of things.

In a move that gave at least three occupants of a room a rather ironic heart attack, Alastor sits upright, startling everyone in four feet.

"...she would be far too tough to bite through, have you gone mad, old girl?" echoes from somewhere around Alastor's head, but distinctly not from his mouth. He tenses, hand going up to his half-dressed front, and snarls. "What...?"

"What do you remember?" Charlie hedges.

"Dealing with explosives, and then seeing Rosie's hand erupt from my chest like the creature from Alien..." Alastor realises, too late, that perhaps he shouldn't have shared that he knew that particular cultural phenomenon. "I mean, to say, that I have read a book about the-..."

"You've seen a movie? I thought you'd rather die than-..." Angel cuts himself off.

Alastor lets out a strained laugh that does emanate from his mouth this time. "Quite. The picture box was insistent I see things he deemed cult classics... some were more fun than others. That is neither here nor there."

Rosie stepped towards Alastor and noted, crestfallen, the small flinch he can't suppress in time. Several bodies move between her and the overlord she'd been practically family to for nigh on a century.

"Deer, I am so sorry for this... Vox, he seems to have left a nasty little surprise when he visited Cannibal Town the other day. I didn't realise or I would never have been so close to you... I promise." She says, sincere as possible as the words dodged between a number of bodies to reach her fawndest friend. "Do lay back down, you'll only tear things further, I'm afraid that was not my best kill... you know I value precision, normally but this was haphazard."

A sigh. "I suppose that this has spiralled out of control and he's already gloating about it on his little machines?"

"Afraid so. Everyone is painting this is an opportunistic ambush... we shall need to work hard to correct it. But between your network and mine, I think we can turn the tide back." She pauses. "Speaking of back... I'm afraid I need to return some things to you that I accidentally acquired. Would you let me close enough for that?"

"It's not me keeping you away." The radio voice said over the airwaves. Several people shifted, letting her closer, but staying pointedly nearby just in case.

Rosie knelt beside her best friend, and put out her hand. The one barely regrown, of all things, the skin not quite the right shade but it would fade as the magic settled.

"I, Sovereign Overlord Rosetta of Cannibal Town return to you, Radio Demon Alastor, the souls which belong to you through contract, combat or otherwise made deals as they were unfairly obtained. This will return your status as Sovereign Overlord, and I will speak up to advise the truth of the matter to the public to thwart the current rumours of your demise."

Without hesitation, he took her hand. The magical backlash took several of the assembled off their feet as ducky pink and blinding green writhed through the air. Faint screams echoed and chains clanked.

Niffty and Husk felt their collars activate, the chaisn changing colour once more. It was a relief as much as it wasn't.

The rush of power seems to have gone straight to work aiming for the injuries, just as she'd hoped.

"Bit soon, wasn't it? The guy was dead a minute ago." Angel questions, still holding a spare shirt for Alastor.

"Well, yes... but holding onto souls you didn't earn is like... ah, like food poisoning. It's fighting you back the whole time. And to the Overlord they belong to, soul bonds and the power they bring can be enough to seal even normally fatal wounds with the right application."

"It's fine Angel, though I do understand your apprehension, I did somewhat promise to deal with your pest problem and then had the audacity to go and dide on you. The height of rudeness!" Alastor laughs. "Never you worry though, I will deal with him shortly when I no longer have a window through my torso."

"Okay for one, I was genuinely worried ya died it wasn't about the promise or nothin, cause you're a spooky fucker but the minute I can get a clear photo of ya, guess who's going on the wall with my other friend pics? That's right, and you can't stop me!" Angel says, glaring down, hands moving a mile a miinute. "And two, don't you go worrying about Val... Short King is gonna kill him first for the porn parody of Charlie he's got in the works."

"A picture can be... negotiated. If that is what you wish for, though the sentiment is hardly necessary." Alastor says, and Rosie fight the snort at his nonsense. "And secondly, no I don't think so. How can you trust in a man who can't recall the day of the week to carefully deconstruct your owner until he is a bundle of sobbing nerves? No, no, I shall go and do it this instant! Can't leave it to chance... and the Vees need to Pay For This Insult..."

Shadows rise up from the couch amidst much horrified yelling... and then Lucifer snaps his fingers, vanishing them in the same instant golden tethers appear around Alastor's wrists.

"Oh no you don't, bellhop. I spent way too much time putting you back together like the proverbial kings horses did to humpty dumpty, so we're NOT going to fuck that up again by dying on me again. Got it?"

"It seems I have little choice but to obey... a rather common trait amongst the royal family." Alastor snarls.

"Oho wow, okay. Also, how the FUCK do you know my wife? We;ve got time now, while you sit there and let healing happen, so come on and spill it."

He appeared alarmed, then covered it.

"If you know of it, then you know I cannot possibly share than information. And I do believe that I would much prefer to be in my room-..." the stubborn man tried to dissolve into shadows again, and when that failed, he started to get up despite some very vocal protests. The hands reaching for him paused and jerked back when they noted how stiff he'd gone at their approach.

Angel remained still as stone, knowing he was standing behind a man who had just had a Bad Day involving a literal backstabbing.

Lucifer, annoyed and perhaps slightly a small amount a little not at all if you checked on a cosmic scale concerned... was having none of it. He didn't relish the way the other twitched back as he flew over, getting in the Overlord's face, not like he would have under other circumstances, but he needed to get the point across.

"No, we're not doing this. You straight up died today, and it was pretty fucking awful for us too, the others moreso because I was already working out what kind of pet memorial I'd need to rig up in the palace garden for you. Like all of Char's other pets..."

The indignity was radiating off Alastor now.

"But this whole blustering thing has to stop. I know you're prbably hurting and don't feel able to trust anyone, heck that was my first three thousand years in hell after we fell because boy does it take a while to reform after burning to ash after your family betrays you. But anyway, what I'm trying to say is that everyone here helped bring you back and keep you safe. No one's gonna waste that effort just to off you while you take a nap to finish sealing up those jagged nightmares in your torso."

Alastor's ears are pinned flat in some kind of negative response but honestly lucifer is beyond caring. The guy has to hear it.

"For some reason, they like you, and I know it's hard to trust because your weird psycho-ex stalker got your bestie to kill you publically or whatever... but these guys won't do anything right now. They might beat the shit out of the picture box if he comes within four feet of here, though."

"No, it's about optics, Rosie and I need to be seen together acting as if it was merely an elaborate prank... we can't let Vox win."

"Why not? He's gonna be dead in 48hours, let him enjoy his hate boner for a bit." Lucifer shrugged.

"His wha-... ? I don't want to know. Rosie, you understand what I'm saying, surely?"

"Well, yes, but we can allow it time to fester. How deeply disgraced would he be if you appear fine and hale in a few hours time and throw his information under suspicion. So many assume the news is doctored as is."

"Rosie... you have betrayed me a second time in one day..."

"Ouch, that wasnt really called for, was it Bambi?" Lucifer winced. "Sounds like you could use a timeout... goodnight."

He taps the sinner dead centre of his chest, and a golden burst of power drains the consciousness from the Overlord. Several hands manage to catch the lanky form before it crumples, and he's laid back on the couch with care.

"Well, now that's sorted, who wants me to reheat the pancakes while we plot how best to destroy these Pees I've heard so much about today?" Lucifer grins, clapping his hands.

"Oooh, me me memememememememeeeeeee!" Niffty yells, and then stills. Eye going horrifyingly wide. "I want to pour Vox's blue blood on my choc chip pancakes until they go soggy..."

"Love the enthusiasm, but I can only offer whipped cream or maple syrup today. Maybe blood if there's some uncoagulated around here." Lucifer replies.

"Oh, okay... I'll have whipped cream and sprinkles please!"

"Coming right up, little lady! Now, Charlie I-... oh, I see you've brought in a whiteboard for this. Excellent. Who has an idea how we can ruin the Gees? No idea is too silly... let's get creative. I have an excellent idea involving a giant wooden duck..."

Husk tucks the blanket back around Alastor, holding a disgruntled expression taut on his face as best he could. But secretly relieved things had at least gone back to the status quo.

He watched idly as Angel added an idea involving something that couldn't possibly fit in any orifice in Hell, and explained why he was justified in requiring three large shark sinners wiedling chainsaws. That was noted down as Plan K by a mildly bemused, mostly horrified Charlie.

He nudges the sleeping Overlord. "Hey fucker, turns out more people care than I think you'd even imagine... so it's gonna be amusing to watch you fumble through that incoming affection. Might be worth keeping my chain. But you know what the best bit is?"

He craned in right next to that fluffy ear. "See, I think you also like 'em back a bit and that scares the hell out of you... so I'll be sticking around to keep your ass alive long enough to see you have a meltdown over this unconditional affection. So you rest up now, Al... we've got all eternity ahead of us."

--------

No real end, its 2am fml ive written what was meant to be a brief concept for several hours and it has no conclusive end

mostly it was meant to be 'how fucked would it be if Vox got to Rosie and she, the only one alastor trusts, was the instrument of his death in a betrayal so strong he'd never trust again?'

My thinking is either Al dies, or he's so shaken that Vox thinks he could step back in with open arms and get what he wants.

#hazbin hotel #phoenixwrites #alastor #lucifer #vox #charlie #niffty #husk #angel #vaggie #headcanon #rosie

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