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vivalabunbun · 2 years ago

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Let's Look Over The Garden Wall

Summary: One wants an easy meal and one wants to play house.

Word Count: 9.9k

Tags: Alhaitham x Fem!Reader, Smut(r18+), MDNI, Modern AU, Vampire AU, Contract Marriage, NSFW, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Unrequited love?, Vampire! Alhaitham, Dom! Alhaitham, Human! Reader, biting, pet name? (calls you good girl) TW: Blood & Blood drinking, TW: Death, Terminally ill! Reader, slight orgasm denial, slight corruption kink, wedding night, temperature play? He falls hard, slow fic, tragedy

Authors note: This whole fic was a challenge since I wanted to write it kinda from Alhaitham’s pov. I’m not really knowledgeable about vampires, so in this fic they’re just a type of monster and not undead, and vampire blood can turn humans into monsters. Enjoy!

Side note: Here is the other side, Finale

The secretary had just arrived at the office not too long ago, shift starting at six pm and going until midnight. The typical hours for a creature of the night.

Like a sweet breeze that blew stray leaves through his office’s open window, a stranger came gallivanting through the boundaries of his door, contract in hand. Faruzan, the office receptionist trailing after you with your proper introduction.

“Secretary Alhaitham, this young lady here would like to make a blood contract with you.”

He certainly wasn’t expecting this when he walked through the sliding doors of the building. The biggest company in Sumeru, the firm that specialized in such dubious pacts.

In an age where humans now outnumber vampires, with new technologies and weapons that can now threaten the once untouchable creatures, immortal beings now have to play by mortal rules. One such rule, vampires can no longer drink human blood.

Animal substitutes were of course inferior in both taste and satisfaction, any vampire would know this. However, there’s a loophole to this law. Vampires can’t drink human blood legally unless it’s consensual by both parties, established through contracts. Business exchanges for money, power, or glory.

Of course, this practice is heavily regulated. Hunters who uphold the balance ready to rip the hearts out of those who dare make an unfair deal. Alhaitham is the simple secretary who files these contracts, not one of the agents tasked with such things.

Still, he’s intrigued. Even in this office there are many who have yet to see the face of this elusive vampire, how did this human identify him? He was looking for an excuse to stray away from dull lines of files, might as well entertain your musings.

The ashen-haired immortal pulls out a seat for you, nodding to Faruzan sending her out of his office, giving you privacy. Alhaitham ambles to the other side of the polished wood, settling down on his plush office chair.

“The process for filling a contract is straightforward, even though this consultation wasn’t planned, if negotiations go well you’ll then undergo a psychological evaluation.”

You nodded your head lightheartedly, posture relaxed in the chair.

“So,” he begins.

“What are your demands?”

“Marry me.”

Dead silence. He certainly wasn’t expecting a proposal this Monday night. Were you wasting his time with a joke?

You must’ve read his unfazed mask. Quickly pulling a pen and notepad from your pocket.

“I’m being serious, I want you to be my husband.” Hands swiftly jotting sentences down on paper.

In your graceless handwriting, you listed all your qualifications. Age, name, blood type, and financial status. You also detailed some self-prescribed personality traits.

Alhaitham skips over that section.

Marriage contracts weren’t unheard of, nor were marriages between humans and vampires. He believes such practices weren’t deemed illegal solely because of human morbid curiosity and desires.

No immortal, with their centuries of knowledge and wisdom, would waste such energy on a mortal, without a price of course. It would be a fool’s errand to not have fair compensation.

“For a fraction of your time, I’ll give you all of mine.” You point the pen toward him.

How romantic.

“I’d say you’re getting the better end of the deal, Mr. Alhaitham.” There’s a curl to your lips, resting your elbows upon his polished desk.

With a slight sigh, Alhaitham pulls out a form, pen swiftly recording the necessary information. There’s going to be a long process of straightening out the clauses, but this should suffice for approval.

“Why me?” He inquires, straightening out the proposal on his desk.

“You’re handsome, have money, and I like your voice.”

The rustling of papers and pens stopped. Dead unamused silence.

“Pfft! Too brash? Sorry, sorry, I was only joking,” giggling as you waved it off.

“Well, to be fair the real reason isn’t much better, to be honest.” You leaned in closer, creeping towards the unseen boundaries of his personal space.

“I often see you passing through the streets, guess I got enamored from there.” Your smile was shameless but your cheeks were tinted pink.

A hopeless romantic, that answer suffices him for now. He could’ve easily shown you the door, but life has been stagnant for a few decades. History repeats itself if you live long enough to see it, new occurrences are rare. As the sky deepens from indigo to midnight, two bodies sit across from each other, discussing sentences written on paper.

“I’ll contact you in three business days with the verdict, have a good night.”

“I shall await the news.” You beamed at him, warm and icy hands meeting for a handshake.

Just as you entered, you left with that same giddiness. Now left with his thoughts, Alhaitham reviewed the documents, he had three days to ponder whether or not to submit them to the legal team, and through the judgment of a certain scarlet-eyed General Hunter.

As per Sumeru regulations, all offices run by vampires must have uncovered glass windows. An attempt conquered by humans to enfeeble creatures of the night. Alhaitham’s beryl gaze traveled up the length of the building stationed across the street.

What an ironic placement for a hospital to be facing the biggest firm staffed by immortality. Or perhaps it was strategic, after all the most desperate humans are the ones who lay upon their deathbeds for one last hurrah.

The perfect scheme to keep the blood contracts flowing in.

Teal eyes observe the room right across through the glass, it seems freshly vacant. New untouched sheets, new unflatten pillow, and fresh towels.

Alhaitham can now confirm the validity of your statement, a half-truth.

When deciding on a contract, one must weigh the pros and cons, to see if they balance or if one side gives away to another. Your demands? You wanted to experience married life, all aspects of it. Your offer? Your everything.

All your assets together can’t hold a candle to the amount Alhaitham has accumulated for centuries, but it’s a decent amount. Perhaps due to a medical settlement.

Alhaitham has lived long enough to rein in primal desires, he can suffice off animal substitutes just fine. However, it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t want a taste of the real thing again. You offer him a steady supply, and to give him every last drop after seven years.

Yes, all of this for a mere seven-year contract. A deal heavily tipped in the favor of the vampire, not even a mere fraction of the time immortality offers. However, what piqued his interest the most weren’t the benefits listed.

A garden wall the tall vampire can’t peer over. Insight only attainable by those who near the end of their finite paths. What’s it like to have agency? What’s it like to have such finite time?

He’ll have seven years to observe. He submits the forms on the third day, delivering your verdict over the phone. Alhaitham agrees to entertain your little daydream.

On part that it was Alhaitham who personally filed the forms, the approval process went swimmingly, skipping the paper line. Tighnari oversaw the psychological evaluation, test after test confirming the sanity of your mind, speeding up the process of getting that stamp.

–

“What flowers do you like? I’m planning the decorations.” Your legs swinging under his kitchen table.

The contract was approved, hands held and certificates signed at the town hall, your belongings moved into his house. It’s excessive to want a celebration after all of that.

“Whichever flowers you want.”

Alhaitham will hold his tongue, after all, he’s signed to play the role of a husband.

–

The venue was spacious, high ceilings with marble floors and pillars, all of which were lavishly cluttered with Padisarahs, Sumeru Roses, and Kalpalata Lotuses. Alhaitham stood at the altar just off to the side of the wedding officiant. Tuxedo crisp and hands folded together, he scans over the rows of guests invited.

Since there weren’t any in-laws, Alhaitham assumed you wouldn’t have much of a social network. No one’s correct all the time, he ignores the piercing glares of a few eyes. The all-too-loud tones of a grand piano resound through the room. The previously shut doors open to reveal your figure. Embellished dress and veil perfectly framed by the carved entranceway as you ambled your way up the aisle.

The twilight hues of the sky dye the white gown in everchanging vibrancy as you passed by the standing crowd, up the steps to the altar, and finally in front of him. The overwhelmingly floral scent of the bouquet itches his nose.

Alhaitham pays no mind to the soliloquy of the officiant, he simply follows the rehearsed procedures. Sliding the gold band onto your finger and allowing you to do the same to him, lifting the veil to reveal your starry-eyed gaze he places a practiced kiss against your warm lips.

Is this excessive ritual over yet? No.

Alhaitham stands in the corner of the reception hall, hand nursing a glass of wine. The rich spices of the buffet offered to the guest irritated his palate. Supernatural creatures with their enhanced senses, a double-edged sword. Human food serves no purpose to vampires, it’s over-seasoned and pungent. At least your species has created drinks such as coffee and wine, delicacies even immortal creatures can enjoy.

In the center of the artificially lit hall, you eagerly greeted all your guests as they beamed at you. Giggling and hugging each person as an entourage of three friends helped with that embellished gown of yours. Two pairs of eyes from said entourage occasionally glared at him, their bodies forming a barrier to separate groom from bride. Candace and Dehya were the names you introduced to him.

Your starry-eyed self blissfully unaware of the silent cold war as the scarlet-haired dancer calls the attention of the two hunters back for the bouquet toss. Alhaitham was nothing more than just a decoration, you just wanted an excuse to prance around in a pretty white dress and throw a fancy party. He’s your husband, he’ll tolerate this daydream.

–

“Did you enjoy the reception?”

Only after the send-off and closing ceremony of the celebration, when the bride and groom were behind the thick oak doors of their suite, that you seemed to remember the decoration named ‘Alhaitham’.

“Yes, it was lovely.” The wine provided by the venue was of the highest quality, it entertained him enough.

“I hope you’re not upset at me being busy with guests.” Your arms found their way around his waist.

Quite comfortable encroaching on his space huh.

“I’m not.” Better they talk to you and not him.

As his cold hands pat the exposed skin of your back, his teal eyes didn’t miss the trail of goosebumps that prickled your skin. Shall he move on to the next scene? The lacing of your dress seems quite complicated, he assumes that it must have taken a few pairs of hands to tie it. Should he be a good husband?

“Do you need help with this?” His baritone voice was right against your ear, noticing the flush on the tips.

“Yes.” For once your voice was just barely above a whisper, a blushing bride.

The lacing weaved in and out of eyelets running down along the length of your back, how troublesome. Always one for efficiency, Alhaitham simply takes a handful of the taught lace and pulls, they snapped like simple threads. Such things offer no resistance to a creature of the night. The gasp that escaped your lips feed into something deep within.

With the bonds loosened, the embellished dress of yours lost the fight against gravity, fabric pooling at your feet. Revealing to teal eyes the lacy white stockings, garter belt, and panties, all the hallmarks of a wedding night. It’s impossible to deny the hunger crawling up his throat, no force of nature could resist such a sight.

“Aren’t you forgetting something? It’s rude to not offer the groom some help, no?” His hunger enjoyed that scarlet flush on your face.

Indecisive fingers going for the easiest button, opening the tuxedo jacket allowing him to shimmy it off his broad shoulders. Teal eyes continued to survey your flushed face, the smirk on his waiting for your hands to continue. Obeying his silent command like a good bride, you loosened the bow tie next, finally freeing him from that stiff collar.

Slowly your eyes peered up, asking if the torment was over yet, the slight rise in his ash brow directing you to resume. From your lips came the beginnings of a whine to which he sternly shushed. If you couldn’t even undress him how would you be able to do the other vulgar activities?

Finally relenting, your fingers continued with their clumsy attempt at unbuttoning his dress shirt, once a small window of his chest appeared your face pressed against the cool skin, staying there until all the buttons were undone. Oh? So even you can feel shame?

“Shall we continue on the bed, my bride?”

Your face was still hidden in his chest as you nodded, where did that shameless nature of yours go? With your gaze adverted he didn’t even bother hiding the curl of his lips. Sweeping you off the ground, he could hear the flutter in your chest increasing as the distance between the bed closes.

Upon silk sheets, Alhaitham settles down with you in between his legs and back against his chest. One key difference between humans and vampires? Body heat, one creature’s cells produces warmth, while the other simply remains the temperature of the environment. Your flushed skin seared itself into his, icy and hot mending together to create an equilibrium.

Of course, a good husband would warm his wife up. Alhaitham runs his cool palms along the length of your plush thighs and leg, absorbing the warmth as his own, soothing the shivers and goosebumps on your skin. Every now and then boldly creeping up the sides of your waist to twist at your perked nipples, enjoying every jolt and whine.

“Oh? Since when was this transparent?”

A firm hand grasps your chin, directing your vision towards white lace panties, the fingers on his other hand tracing over the shape of your cunt through the soaked fabric. Another lovely whine left your lips, face burning even more as you weakly protested in his hold, too powerless to do anything.

Skilled digits honed in on the nub that made your body jolt away, rubbing the faintest of circles over the delicate fabric, your legs trapped by his robust arms standing no chance to preserve your shattered dignity. As such, you had to follow his desires tonight.

“Or are you excited just by a few fleeting touches? What a lewd bride you are.”

It seems that you were telling the whole truth when you exclaimed how much you liked his voice, his finger could feel the slick that began to seep through the lace. Brushing the fabric to the side, Alhaitham allowed his middle finger to collect the slick along your slit allowing the rest of his digits to warm up against your cunt’s soft mounds. His throat felt parched as the sweet scent teased his nose, but now was not the time, maybe later in the night.

“Will you be honest?” The heel of this palm freely pressed against your clit as his middle finger continued to run up and down your wet lips, every now and then almost slipping.

Your body couldn’t hide its eagerness, hole clenching at nothing every time his finger passed by. However, he needed confirmation from you. Communication is important in a contract no?

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“I’ll be honest.” You pressed your back flat against his chest, trying to hide your face but his firm hold wouldn’t allow it.

“Good girl, then tell me what you desire.” His crisp breath provides your searing skin some relief.

Your plush lips pressed into a thin line as your eyes shut, cheeks heating up even more. It wouldn’t be good if you passed out from heat exhaustion so quickly. He grinds his palm into that sensitive nub, tormenting the answer out of you, nectar now dripping onto the sheets below.

“I want to c-cum,” You breathed out.

How direct, close but it wasn’t what he was looking for.

“You have to be more clear with your instructions, how do you want to cum?”

“Y-your fingers.”

“Good girl.” Finally, his finger breached your soaked entrance.

Pulsating walls welcomed him with unyielding squeezes, dragging his soaked digit further. Your sweet moans and whines resounded through the spacious suite, the volume of your voice directing him toward that spongey spot deep within. You were wet enough for another finger, so Alhaitham adds another, two digits stretching and exploring your soaked cavern.

“Mmmh! T-there!” Your toes were curling.

“Mmm.” The hum vibrated in his chest as his fingers went hard at work, thrusting into your quivering walls.

Each time his palm would slap against your clit your honest hole would clench down so endearingly. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, the muscles in your leg tensing up more and more. It’s obvious that you were close, but before he fulfilled your demands, he decided to be proactive and prepare for the next step.

Releasing your chin from his grasp, allowing your head to lull back against his shoulder. Alhaitham reaches between your bodies, hands never pausing their pace, swift fingers undoing the confines of his trousers. Allowing for his member to lay right against your back, the jolt of your body at the foreign object pressing against you made his hunger worse.

“Did you get more turned on? You’re clenching down tighter, did you want it that badly?”

Even if your eyes refused to meet his, the way your hips grind against his length, warming it up, told him all he needed to know. Your gummy walls constrict more around his fingers, it’s time to wrap up this scene, the next one is even more exciting. So his palm now digs into your clit, circling the now swollen bud in combination with his finger pressing against that nice spot deep inside.

“C-cummin-”

How cute, he didn’t even need to ask you to announce it. Letting your body ripple with the force of the orgasm, trembling limbs within his solid hold. If he was merciful, he would’ve continued to slide his fingers in and out, or maybe continue to caress your little nub, guiding you back to reality. However, hunger doesn’t allow for mercy.

Removing his soaked digits away from your pulsating cunt, teal eyes observing the transparent strings that clung to them with amusement. A small appetizer wouldn’t spoil the main meal, skilled tongue cleaning his fingers of your slick. Your head still limp against his shoulder, eyes rolled back in the throws of pleasure. To bring you back down to earth, it's best to use a new type of force.

Effortlessly, your hips were lifted up dripping cunt lined up with his impatient length below. In one fluid motion, your walls encase everything, drenched cunt giving no resistance as his tip kisses the spongy spot. Alhaitham lets a hiss escape him, it was as if he thrusted into the sun, your walls quickly bringing his member up to its temperature.

From your lips another moan was ripped out, oh it seems that you’ve plummeted back to reality. Your cunt trembled yet gripped onto his cock like a vice, coaxing him to go in deeper, encouraging his hunger to abuse your gummy walls even more. Barely riding out one wave of pleasure before another drowned you.

The hunters at your wedding could stick to your side the whole celebration, they could glare at him all they wanted, and they could try their damndest to keep the vampire at a distance. However, it was all efforts wasted in vain. For it was you, the blushing bride, who walked straight into his arms in the end, so open and receptive.

As he slides out just the slightest bit, your cunt protested by desperately clamping down, begging for his thick girth to stay in. In response he tightened his grip on your hips, lifting your body back up before bouncing you back down. What a glutton for pleasure you were, even as your little mouth whimpered and babbled, your walls thanked each slap of his hips with squeezes.

Sadistic hunger wanted more, to thrust deeper, to bully that poor spot inside of you over and over again with his thick tip as your walls stretch to accommodate the girth. His thighs collected the mixture of sweat and slickness from your body at each thrust. Your fingers dug into his hands, fingers white as you tried to grasp at anything to ground yourself.

“F-fast, too m-much.” There was drool escaping the corner of your parted lips, eyes barely back from seeing the inside of your head.

“Oh? Do you want me to stop?”

Alhaitham grinds to a stop, member still pressing deep inside you as he pulled you closer so his breath could ghost over your nape. In an instant, your mouth and cunt protested, you should be more clear with your instructions.

“N-noo.” Crying over the ruined tension.

“No? You wanted this.” His finger finds its way back to that swollen nub, flicking it a few times to watch the jumps of your body.

“If I let you cum, then I’ll do it my way, is that clear, my bride?” Tormenting your clit with firm circles.

“Yes! Please! P-pleasee.”

So weak against his voice, the sweet calls of a beast to lure you into the depths of depravity. Such is the fate of a shameless bride. Thus, his hips sprang back into action with renewed vigor. One hand keeps your hips still and the other remains on your clit to force that knot to reappear deep inside you.

Nothing but nonsense and moans babbled from your loose face, nectar dripping down to his heavy balls as they slapped against you with each pistoning of his hips. Your frantic hands entangled themselves into ash-mint locks as he felt gummy walls closing in tighter and tighter, your toes curling at the end of spread legs. Sinful slaps increased in frequency throughout the room as did the pace of the finger on your clit.

Your tense body held the warning of another storm, another fall off the edge into the depths. Alhaitham brushes his nose up your nape, the floral scent didn’t distract him from the goal laying just behind the skin. Your nerves were exhausted from the shooting pleasure, now was the perfect time to finally get his share. It’s only fair.

Prepping the area with a slow lick as his hips continued their brutal pace, incisors brushed against the delicate skin before piercing through. His hand shot up from your hip to your neck, a loose grip holding you still as your body tensed then violently shivered. The frenzy clamping of your cunt on his length was proof of your fall. Loose jaw uttering out broken moans as tears dripped down your chin.

The fresh scarlet flooded over his tongue and down his throat as Alhaitham continued with his slow suckling. Ah, you were very much like a flower, so delicate, so fragrant, and so bittersweet. It’s been almost a century since he last tasted the real thing, his body celebrated by filling your walls with thick release. An equivalent exchange of some sort.

A human body is quite frail, losing over two pints of blood borders on fatal territory. It’s not good to deplete a resource so quickly. Alhaitham releases your neck, running his tongue over the wound to seal it up. Teal eyes checked your complexion to ensure his measurements were accurate. Cheeks still with a healthy red flush as your chest heaved with pants, eyes glistening with tears. Such a shameless sight. He allows your head to roll onto his shoulder.

The rhythm of your heart settles back to its resting state as Alhaitham analyzes the taste he just experienced.

“I love you,” you breathed into his shoulder.

Alhaitham stiffens, the herbal aftertaste of your blood was bitter, the tang dried out his mouth causing a drawn-out pause. This is no good, he can’t miss the cue to say the line a bride longs to hear from her groom.

“I love you too.”

The choir of crickets from the world outside filled the void along with your pants.

“Pfft! Maybe let’s not say that, it’s too weird.” You shamelessly laughed, lifting your face from his skin.

What a relief, at least you seem to still have sense. Such words felt forcefully wedged into a script that wasn’t written for it. Might as well remove the line altogether. Moving on from the scene, Alhaitham lets you enjoy the warmth reflected off his body by yours.

It’s in the clauses to allow you to enjoy all aspects of marriage, so enjoy this honeymoon segment.

“Haitham, can you carry this for me please?”

“Haitham, I can’t reach, can you get it please?”

“Haitham, let’s have panipuri tonight!... Can you cook it please?”

It would’ve been better if he remained nothing more than just a decoration. It would’ve been easier if he was just a view for you to see behind glass. Perhaps Alhaitham’s acute eyes misread the contract, did you want a husband or just a maid?

Instead of sitting down in his own house to enjoy a book, he finds himself saddled with domestic responsibilities.

Must you call on him for everything?

Laundry and groceries aren’t that heavy. If you can’t reach the top shelves with the duster, then just get a chair. No ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ could prevent the downward tug of his lips every time you call him that doltish name. Your justification of a ‘nickname’ between lovers was moronic.

“Huh… Haitham how come you only use salt?”

Why do you make a creature who doesn’t consume such foods cook them? You’re more than capable of cooking for yourself every day. Although, Alhaitham would prefer it if you stopped using such overly fragrant herbs and spices.

Of course, when two breaths occupy the same space, there are bound to be pieces that don’t fit together, just as two breaths never sync. Alhaitham already factored those into his decision, but this was more proof of why a theory is always second to application. How troublesome the reality of marriage is, no wonder divorce rates are so high.

A good actor knows how to stay in character, so he’ll keep these thoughts to himself. Just as he lists your quirks silently.

One, you’re capricious. One moment silently enjoying a drama on the TV you asked him to purchase, body hogging the entire expanse of a couch. The next, you’ll be humming as plates and cups clatter in the sink, or the heavy thumps of your steps as you bound through the house with a mop. Alhaitham prefers it when you’re stationary, at least it doesn’t disturb his reading.

–

Two, you drink tea, an unfathomable amount of it. A warm cup always nestled between your fingers, bitter water mixed with honey. The herbal tang finds its way into your blood, making it taste like medicine. Thus, Alhaitham treats it as such, medicine just to alleviate suppressed bloodlust taken in moderation.

–

Three, you wanted to celebrate everything. Each square of a calender marked with scribbles. Why celebrate a celebration that’s already past? What is so special about a birthday? The past two years you purchased the same bundle of pungent flowers that made up that bouquet on that day to gift to him.

“Don’t you want a taste? I saved a slice just for you. Oh, would you eat it if I sprinkled some of my blood on it?”

Alhaitham swiftly accepts the plate from you, lifting the fork of overly sweet birthday cake into his mouth. Useless carbs take up space in his body, but such a thing causes no harm. Better to taste like pure sugar and not medicine.

–

The worst quirk of yours? You rise as soon as the sun greets the sky, adamant to not miss a single second of a day. Every day’s itinerary is filled with spur-of-the-moment decisions, such as going to a farmers market only open on Saturdays between the hours of 9 am and 2 pm. And how you drag him along.

Curses, only a human would drag a creature of the night into the day. What sadistic creatures, delighting in others' misery, you’re no exception.

“I thought you said vampires aren’t like how TV depicts them.” Curious eyes observe his slouched figure.

Vampires aren’t like how those dramas of yours depict them. No formal invitation to cross wooden thresh holds, no garlic braids as an effective shield, and no turning into a pile of ash at the mere rays of a star.

If so, then vampires would’ve been long gone by now. However, just because the sunlight can’t kill a vampire-

“It doesn’t mean it’s not unpleasant.” His stoic voice was too tired to add a bite.

You continued to stare at him with wonderment, as if what he said was the most complex theory known to the universe. Those dramas must’ve rotted that mind of yours, he concludes. You’re beyond saving.

“I see.” Gentle hands lift the excessive sun hat from your head.

Reaching on your tiptoes you place it atop his head, the straw brim providing some reprieve for his irritated skin. Shuffling the hat around until it’s securely nested along his now trussed ash locks. Satisfied, you lower yourself back down.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. We can go home..”

Tenderly, your hands clasped around his, guiding him into the shade. The whole walk your hands never left his, eyes always searching for the next patch of shadows to lead him into. For the rest of the weekend, you just watched your dramas, the sensation of guilt must’ve muted your voice.

Good. He celebrated this rare break in his library away from you.

Alas, all good things must come to an end. Monday night rolled around again, as he passes the living room, he spots your loafing body napping on his couch as the TV acted as white noise. Tsk. Regardless, it’s time to get to work, he walks toward the front door.

“Wait,” came a soft command, dripping with sleep.

From around the corner, your figure comes stumbling towards Alhaitham, his hand still firmly on the knob. Hands busy trying to rub the fatigue away from your eyes, blinking away the pleasant dream you were just in.

Why did you abandon it? Alhaitham doesn’t know.

Your frame reaches his, transferring some of your warmth to him, arms outstretched towards his neck. Teal eyes don’t miss the way your drowsy legs were wobbling. To prevent any accidents, he supports your body with an arm around the waist.

Just as he feels your body steady, clammy palms encase the sides of his face. Pulling it down as your supple lips pressed against his cool cheek. Did you traverse all the way from the sofa just for a kiss?

“Have a good night at work.” Your shameless smile beamed.

A habit formed from one of your dramas, a wife bidding goodbye to her husband with a sweet kiss to boost his spirits. Curiosity must have gotten the better of you, or maybe you wanted to amuse yourself, two possibilities Alhaitham devises.

–

“So, how’s married life treating you?” Kaveh’s smug tone grated against his eardrums as the blond rested an elbow on the bar table.

Alhaitham couldn’t stop the frown from forming, nor the heavy sigh, so he took a hearty sip of his wine. Emptying the glass in one fluid motion.

“Heh, I see you’ve been enjoying the spoils of marriage very much,” Tighnari snickered.

“Sure, if you wish to see it that way.” Alhaitham’s hand found itself pouring another glass.

It seems that everyone around the ashen-haired vampire was enjoying the spoils of this odd union, everyone but him that is. His miseries fueling the chaff nature of his acquaintances, still he needed a reprieve to drink.

Not that herbal blood of yours, but something actually palatable like the fragrant wine washing the frustrations down his throat. It’s not marriage, it’s having to work overtime.

“Regardless, you signed a contract, you must uphold the clauses.” Cyno’s scarlet eyes leered over the rim of his glass.

Alhaitham sighs, he should’ve drank alone.

–

The tavern wasn’t a far journey away from his house. The deep hues of night slowly shift to the youthful flushes of dawn. He’s been drinking for quite some time, it didn’t matter, alcohol has no effect on a body such as his.

Alhaitham twists the key, the door creaking ajar just to reveal your figure with arms crossed. Disappointment ever so clear in those eyes of yours.

“Where’ve you been?” No chirp in your tone.

After a few hours of reprieve, Alhaitham is welcomed home with an interrogation. Wonderful. Why should he answer this meek creature standing in front of him? He could just walk to bed and get the rest he deserves.

‘You must uphold the clauses.’

Right, Alhaitham has to play the role of a husband, he signed a contract, too late to just burn the papers now.

“I went drinking with coworkers,” he curtly answers.

“Why didn’t you call beforehand?” Your head tilts, disappointed eyes still honed on him.

Why does he have to inform you of his every movement? Who were you to demand so much of his individuality? Alhaitham couldn’t help the frown that reappeared, directed at you, the hurdle that blocked him from entering his own home.

The grandfather clock counted the seconds in the background, two sets of eyes locked in a stare-down. One frowning and one disappointed. How long will this last?

Your shoulders slumped as a sigh left your lungs. Eyes finally finding rest behind two heavy lids.

“My life’s too short for misunderstandings and messy communication,” you huffed.

Your back straightens again as you lean in closer, eyes recentering on his towering form. They no longer held the burden of disappointment, they twinkled with something else.

“I’m your wife, and you’re my husband.” You stated the obvious.

“So when my husband, who usually arrives home at half past midnight on the dot, didn’t arrive home until dawn without a single text or call. I got worried.”

What wasted concern, why worry for an immortal creature?

“You don’t need to report every movement to me, I don’t want that either, but if you plan on staying out please give me a simple text. So I don’t have to spend hours worrying about why my husband isn’t answering my calls.”

Alhaitham scans over the discoloration hanging heavily under your eyes. An unpleasant sensation crawled up his spine. Phone shut off by habit, unaware of how you were losing sleep as he emptied bottle after bottle. He has to remedy the situation now, it’s what a husband should do.

“I understand, I’ll do that from now on,” he answers.

Is he allowed back into the confines of his own house now?

Your hands were now positioned defiantly on your hips, brows quirked up as if expecting something more.

No.

“You’re supposed to apologize, ya know. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time, my wife’,” you advised.

“I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time, my wife,” he parroted.

The magic words to finally open the path into the house, words that finally returned that grin to your face. Arms outstretched you wrapped them around his neck as your lips warmed up his cool cheek.

“Welcome home, Haitham.”

Ah, he knows what that twinkle in your eyes was, sincerity.

Audiences rarely see the behind-the-scenes of a movie, with directors always handpicking which mistakes are charming enough to be shown as a blooper. Audiences don’t see the multiple scenes filmed then refilmed, they can’t experience the long hours, and they don’t know how many times lines were misread. Three years is enough time for actors to learn their lines.

“Is my drama too loud?”

Alhaitham peers over the top of the journal, focusing on your face peeking through the entrance of his library. Judging by the apron, he guesses it's almost time for dinner, the dialogue playing on the TV was just above a muffle from here.

“It’s fine, remember to turn on the kitchen hood.”

“Okay, which wine did you want to baste the meat in?”

“Top left, how long will it take?”

“Pfft, famished already? 15 minutes, you won’t waste away in that time right, Haitham?”

The ever-so-adventurous palate of yours and the ever-so-drab palate of his. An unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, two existences that bend and twist each other until equilibrium. Equilibrium in the form of a steak basted in red wine, rare for him and medium for you. A dinner that could be enjoyed by both breaths.

–

“Oh?” Your bewildered eyes blink at the bouquet presented to you.

A wrapped box held tenderly in your hands. Alhaitham had taken note of a certain scribble marked on the calendar, it was he who got the fourth bouquet. Placing an order ahead of time to ensure the freshest flowers.

“You said they smelled bad.”

“I’m used to it.” A half-truth.

Your lips couldn’t suppress its toothy grin, balancing the box in one hand as the other accepts the bouquet.

“Since you have every book in existence, I got you something else.” You nudged the wrapped present toward him.

Unraveling the decorative paper his eyes were greeted by the sight of a carved figure of a… what is it? Meeting your eager gaze, the quirk in his eyebrow told enough.

“It’s a hawk, I saw in storage that you used to collect these decorations.”

Ah, you found a petty hobby he had decades ago to torment a certain someone. A figure serves no practical purpose in a home, but the eagerness of your eyes was enough to find the endearing gift a place on a shelf.

–

“How does one make their blood tastier?” You pondered into his embrace.

His tongue traveled up the nape of your neck to collect the escaped drops of scarlet and to close up the wound. Your bare skin pressed against his, rising his temperature to a pleasant warmth.

He could feel every shiver as his length shifted within your overstimulated walls, recovering the overwhelming pleasure experienced just moments earlier.

What an obvious answer, stop drinking that tea of yours. However, Alhaitham prefers when you have the energy to trot through crowded walkways at dusk with him in tow. Bittersweetness is an acquired taste, one that took him some time.

“Since you have enough clarity to ask questions, I’m assuming you’re up for another round.” His husky breath ghosts over your ear.

“Wait~ I’m still sens-Ah!”

–

Over time, something as short as five years, even a trickle of water can crave a home for itself in the rocky foundations of the earth that’s existed since the dawn of time.

The side of the polished dinner table with the clearest view of the TV was your side.

The mug left in the sink with the faint aroma of tea and sweet honey was your mug.

The couch with cushions misshapen and molded by repeated use was your couch.

Such is the lull of domestic reality, each kiss at the door to bid goodbye and each kiss to welcome him back.

Nothing, not even immortality, is resistant to time.

Due to the crowd you’ve built your circle from, hunters were semi-frequent guests at his home. Much to your delight and his dismay. A husband should get along with his wife’s friends.

“Your complexion has gotten paler.” Candace’s heterochromatic eyes narrowed, her hands turning your face from side to side.

“Mmm, I haven’t been going out during the day as much.” Resting the weight of your head within her palms.

“Bullshit, he’s been using you like livestock,” Dehya snapped.

“Mmm? Not really, he says my blood taste like leaves.” Halfheartedly lifting your face out of Candace’s warm hold.

“Don’t cover for that bastard,” the Flame-Mane hunter scowls.

“Need I remind you ‘that bastard’ is still in the room?” Alhaitham breaks his silence.

“Who said you could speak?” Sapphires clash with beryls.

“Who’s home are you currently guests in?”

Even without glancing down, Alhaitham could tell that Dehya’s hand was twitching to reach for the silver dagger hidden up her sleeve. The hand then falters back down, Candace must’ve also noticed, steadfast eyes sending a warning to the other hunter.

“Of all people, why did you have to marry this vampire?” Dehya turns to you exasperated.

“Mmm,” you hummed.

With the finger pressed against your lip and your eyes wandering up towards nothing, Alhaitham couldn’t tell if you were deep in thought or just faking it.

Your pondering filled the room with silence, three pairs of eyes intently trained on your frame. Eyelids closed as you deepened your thought. After a few beats, they fluttered back open.

“Because he’s just too handsome.” There’s that shameless smile again.

The disgusted expression that plastered itself all over the hunter’s face at your response almost pushed a quiet laugh from his lips. However, Alhaitham wanted to avoid a physical confrontation from starting in his house.

If there’s one virtue you have, it’s that you’re a fair person. You perplex your friends and husband to equal degrees.

It’s now time for the hunters to start their night, much like how Alhaitham will soon report to the office. The two women and you were now at the threshold of the door bidding goodbye, their skeptical eyes every now and then glaring behind you at the vampire.

“Oh, one more thing,” your voice perks up.

Arms encapsulated two sturdy frames, pulling them close against yours.

“I love you guys.” Your words make the two robust warriors take a sharp inhale, bodies tensing up momentarily.

“We love you too, very much.” Candace’s voice forced itself to steady.

“Yeah.” Dehya pulled you closer.

After a few beats, you pulled away from your friends. Lighthearted grin lopsided on your face.

“Alright then, stay safe out there,” you chimed, waving at them.

After their figures disappeared from view, Alhaitham shut the oak door. You still peered out the curtains, daydreaming something as the stars reflected in your eyes. He observes for a moment before he collects the cups and dishes that once held tea and sweets to entertain bygone guests.

You were already surrounded by love, genuine love. Why did you sell your soul to experience something you already had? Alhaitham will save that question for another day.

Would you try saying that line to him again? Maybe this time he read his line without hesitation.

–

Alhaitham’s heavy lids shot open. The unwelcome greetings of morning birds signaled the time of day. Keen eyes scanned over the empty space beside him, sheets still trussed in the shape of a smaller figure. The bird songs rang like sirens, heightening his senses.

For once his ageless body left the bed without protest, swift steps pattering through the dim halls until the backyard came into view. Sunlight poured in through the open door, the wooden mounts perfectly framing your slumped figure.

Tired body balancing upon the basket of damp laundry, halfway from the backdoor and clothes line, you stopped to take labored breaths.

Swiftly he was by your side, towering stature blocking you from the harsh rays. Alhaitham lifts your fatigued body from the ground, giving your aching legs relief. Even with the sun hanging high in the sky, your skin didn’t absorb an ounce of warmth.

He takes you to the safety of the dim house, settling you onto the soft cushions of your couch.

“Don’t push yourself.” Alhaitham shifts a few pillows behind your back.

“I wasn’t, the laundry needs to be hung,” you huffed.

“Just call for me.”

You sounded out a whine of protest, but your breathing steadied. Alhaitham moves to stand back to full height, ready to finish the task awaiting out in the sun.

“Wait,” came your soft call.

Plucking your favorite sun hat off, you bestowed it upon unkempt ash locks still dusted with sleep. Fussing with the oversized straw brim until it stayed in place. Once satisfied you beamed, fingers caressing his smooth cheeks before placing a peck from curled lips.

“Thank you, Haitham.”

Adamant hands smoothed over the damp clothes, ensuring that they didn’t dry on the line with wrinkles that stayed stubbornly. The morning rays felt like sand against his exposed skin, but the hat bestowed upon him made it tolerable.

–

“It’s dusk, would you like to stroll through the market tonight?” Beryl eyes inspect the curled figure of his wife among cushions and blankets.

“Mmm, maybe not tonight.” You sink deeper into your couch, drama long forgotten.

“I see.” Alhaitham moves to the armchair just adjacent to you, a frequent perch of his now.

“Come here?”

Just as you finished blinking Alhaitham was by your side again. Slowing lifting your upper body just off the cushion, you pat the now free space, welcoming him to sit. He wouldn’t be a good husband if he were to deny such a request. So he sits.

Once the ashen-haired vampire was fully situated, your head found its place upon his thighs.

“Lap pillow,” there was that giggle of yours.

Alhaitham sighs, but he couldn’t prevent the corner of his lips from curling up, so he hides it with his book. This must be something you learned from those dramas again. He’ll humor it.

His cool fingers run along your scalp as his teal eyes switched between your resting face and the words printed along the aged paper.

Maybe not today, perhaps tomorrow when the rays of a selfish star kiss your cheeks.

–

The drinks were served quietly, the tavern didn’t seem as lively tonight. Perhaps because it’s the busy season, Spring air carries with it the signs of renewing life and tax forms.

“So, how is she, the wife?” Kaveh traverses the stagnant air.

What a redundant question, Alhaitham knows they can smell the fragrance lingering on his body from you, the aroma of flowers only found in a garden beyond a line immortals can cross. The scent of an ending journey.

“I’ll send some more Kalpalata Lotus tea, one cup a day should help with lethargy.” Tighnari prescribes, making a mental note to prepare the delivery once he returns home.

“Thank you, how much would I owe?”

“None, just a gift for your wife.”

Alhaitham hums in gratitude, and the table continued to play cards placidly. Throughout the rounds, his teal eyes stole glances over to a dark screen.

The group dispersed at dawn, but it wasn’t long before Alhaitham acknowledged the presence behind him.

“Alhaitham.”

He only glanced over his shoulder at the tan vampire.

“Remember the punishment that awaits those who dare disturb the cycle of life.” A threatening crackle resounded from the curled fingers by Cyno’s side.

Alhaitham already knows and Cyno knows it all too well. After all, the privilege of a good true death was stolen away from the white-haired man many years ago. Cursing the shorter man to eternity. Thus, Cyno now spends eternity punishing those who dare break the most sacred law.

Alhaitham responds with a nod and with that the two men parted ways as the rosy hues of dawn dyed the sky. You’re probably in bed already, it’ll be his kiss to announce his return.

–

In an age where humans outnumber vampires, with new technologies and weapons that can now threaten once untouchable creatures, immortal beings now have to obey mortal laws. The most sacred of laws, vampires cannot turn humans into immortal beings. It’s illegal, it’s immoral even to curse such fleeting creatures with eternity.

However, vampires are creatures born outside the grace of god from the very start, lurking in the shadows of iconoclasm. What difference would it make?

It’s his night to make dinner, steak with red wine sauce.

What is the difference between blood and wine to the inattentive eye? The scarlet hues could be easily mixed. All it would take is a sprinkle, drops stirred into the fragrant sauce served over the juicy meat, for you to abandon your humanity. For the ticking of a grandfather clock to stop its hands.

Who wouldn’t want more time?

A scene from a night now long past resurfaces at the front of Alhaitham’s mind.

–

“Would you want more time?” Came a question that broke the silence after a moment of passion.

Your damp skin glistens under the moonlight, your chest rising and falling as the lust slowly blinks away from your eyes. Alhaitham’s hand on your back guides you down from cloud nine. You stared at him inquisitively, teal reflecting back to him as he remains silent.

Ashen hair tussled and scratches fading away from cooling skin, he awaits your answer, schemes manifesting.

You let out a hum, signing that you’ll humor his question this time, as your face rests against the pillow comforted by his woodsy scent.

–

If you had more time, he would have more time. More time to pick your brain. More time to search through the archives of your thoughts to decrypt you. More time to grovel at your feet for forgiveness after he rips the humanity away from your arms.

Alhaitham is a prideful thing, but he’s not a dense fool. He knows when an apology is necessary, insight gained from his time shared with you.

Teal eyes glance back behind him towards the living room, where your figure sat quietly, attention distracted by the pair of lovers on screen in the midst of a tense argument. Never once turning behind to glance into the kitchen, not one ounce of suspicion. The scene finishes.

–

“I was born a human.” Your lids opened again, meeting his beryl-like eyes.

Irises pure like the moonlight reflected in them. He hums in acknowledgment, fingers tracing mindless scripts into your tender back.

“I will die as one.”

He hums in confirmation.

–

A riddle he couldn’t quite solve to bypass the sphinx who guards the sanctuary of your mind. Humans are greedy creatures of conquest, always wanting more, always hungry for more. That’s why creatures like him exist and thrive, feeding into the natural greed of humans.

Every human wants more power, more money, more wisdom. Every human wants more and more and more. Every human, so why can’t you want more? It seems that the breeze who gallivanted into his office, proposing to him with a contract, won’t reveal her secret.

As it was outlined on the paper signed by two names, he shall honor your wishes for now until the end, such is the character of a husband.

Alhaitham runs his hand under the kitchen sink, shameless eyes watching as the water turns clear again, and as the skin closes up. A feature only a creature born outside the jurisdiction of god would have.

He finishes the meal with a few sprinkles of freshly cut herbs, serving the untainted sauce over juicy cuts of steak, one cooked medium and one cooked rare. He calls you over to the dinner table.

The average human life span has increased drastically in the past centuries, it’s now about eighty years give or take.

Still a mere fraction of the time held by vampires.

Eighty years, and yet you could only have a fraction of that. You could only offer him a sliver of a fraction.

–

“It’s been a while since you’ve fed, aren’t you hungry?” Your eyes peered over at him.

Alhaitham wipes the washcloth along your back from beside the porcelain tub, steamy water carrying the fragrance of Nilotpala Lotuses. The humidity of the bathroom made the shirt cling to his skin like a wet rag, but the moisture helped with your coughs.

“I’m satisfied.” Another half-truth, teal eyes scan for any signs of discomfort, he can bare it.

“Really? I’m sure my blood doesn’t taste like leaves anymore.” You rested your cheek again on the warm washcloth, eyes twinkling under the fluorescent lights as you looked into his.

The gift by Tighnari sitting untouched in the corner of a cabinet. Perhaps you’ve gotten tired of the bitter herbal taste, or maybe because there wasn’t a point in drinking it anymore.

Alhaitham fought the urge to click his tongue at your brash humor, only you would worry about how you taste during the closing days of a contract. However, his lips couldn’t form a frown when you beamed at him like that.

–

On the path to work, beryl eyes landed upon a bouquet arranged with familiar flowers, the petals dyed by the rich hues of dusk. The florist was busy gathering up the displays to bring them back inside for the night.

“Excuse me, I’d like to purchase this bouquet.”

That night at the office, the staffed vampires crinkled their noses at the overwhelmingly floral scent that plagued the floor. Alhaitham just shut his office door, bouquet resting in a hastily prepared vase, such a thing won’t kill a vampire it’s such a minuscule issue.

“I’m home.” He locks the door after him.

Keen hearing not picking up the pattering of feet along the hardwood floor. Placing the flowers on the entranceway table along with his dress shoes, the ashen-haired immortal trekked through the halls, silence ringing in his ears.

Behind the solid bedroom lay his answer, turning the knob, Alhaitham feels tense muscles loosen as the steady melody of breaths resounded through the room.

You’ve been here since this afternoon, body now imprinted into the plush mattress. Still, your blood still runs and your chest still rises, even if there were faint hints of wheezing it was good enough. Quiet as a shadow, Alhaitham removes his blazer and tie before joining you under the sheets. He’s been craving sleep.

A timeless body doesn’t need sleep, ageless cells don’t require such downtime to recover. However, claiming that vampires don’t enjoy sleep would be a blatant lie. A calm way to pass the endless time offered by eternity, a nice way to escape boredom.

Or maybe it’s because sleep gives immortal creatures a taste of an experience they’ll never have. Peaceful expiry.

Teal eyes observe the ever-present curl of your lips before cool lips are pressed against your plush ones. A habit formed after six years. The flowers were still left at the door, but they’ll survive the night. Alhaitham will show them to you in the morning, and you’ll beam that grin at him in the morning.

–

Fresh flowers rested in a vase gifted by friends on the nightstand, the last flowers of Spring. The delicate blooms give way to the vibrant greens of Summer. Such a cruel season for vampires, with days so long and nights so short. A cruel season that offered your body no additional warmth.

Alhaitham’s hand brushes against the apples of your cheeks, your unconscious body protests in an instant with shivers and curls away from the thief stealing what precious heat you had. As if burned by fire, the vampire retracts his hand.

Right, he can’t be greedy. Teal eyes watch every tremor until his legs finally remembered how to walk. Pacing to the closet Alhaitham pulls the Winter covers out from storage, insulating your body with the thick duvet.

The layers form a barrier protecting you from icy touches as he smooths out the wrinkles.

When humans walk into a garden, their eyes are immediately drawn toward the most beautiful blooms. Watching intently at how the petals of the young blossom unravel, their senses enjoying the heavenly fragrance. It’d only be a matter of seconds before their inevitable greed takes over, and they wish to claim the flower as their own.

In this sense, the gods are no different than the mortals who were crafted in their image. Greedy to pluck the most beautiful blooms from the garden for their mere amusement.

Is that what went on behind the garden wall those born outside the jurisdiction of god couldn’t peer over? Alhaitham wonders if you’d answer this inquiry of his. However, if he wants answers, he’ll have to ask soon.

How should he say the last lines of this script?

Alhaitham ponders. There wasn’t a director to give a cue, no parenthetical to follow. Perhaps he’s entertaining such futile thoughts to distract himself.

With each wheeze of your chest, the itch in his palm grew unbearable. His thumb begged to dig its nail into the smooth skin until scarlet droplets trickled out. However, it never got its chance for soon your ailing fingers occupied the space, interlocking to halt its motion as gold rings clinked together.

“My husband is such a handsome actor.” Breathy voice babbling with a giggle.

Alhaitham’s cool skin hogged your warmth, trying to permanently sear the temperature into itself.

“You don’t have to play this role anymore.” You craned your neck away with a deep exhale, exposing the vulnerable skin to him.

There’s nothing viler to a vampire than stagnant blood. Blood that no longer runs tastes rotten, cold blood is worst than bile. Your blood still ran warm, he could sense it. This time it was his incisors that itched.

Keen eyes don’t miss the way your nape prickled at the breath that ghosted over it as his lips parted. Your lids gently shut, bracing yourself. The incisors brushed against your exposed jugular, but they couldn’t break through the delicate skin. They wouldn’t. They just wouldn’t.

Like the cowards they were, they retreated. Alhaitham closes his lips, deciding to press a tender kiss on the spot instead. His free hand guides your head back into a comfortable position on the plush pillow.

“You don’t have to hold yourself back.” Your eyes were open again.

“I’m not holding myself back,” he spoke the truth, the whole truth.

You were born with blood, it’s only right that you die with it, Alhaitham concludes.

The ending clause of that contract be damned.

“What a silly vampire.” Your bell-like laughter twinkled in his ears.

Yes, he is. Even after all these centuries, Alhaitham realizes he’s still no better than a fool. A shameless fool. An idiotic hypocrite ready to stray away from the principles he thought he held firm. He’ll accept this verdict, he’ll continue this fool’s errand, if and only if you continue to giggle at his antics.

Outside the window came the dirge of Summer crickets, gentle crips accompanying your fleeting wheezes. Alhaitham shifts the thick comforter up your body, smoothing out the wrinkles as the soft warmth lulls you away.

Your still fingers in between the spaces of his, your head curled within the space between his nape.

Under the moon’s pure rays, lay two bodies atop soft sheets, curled towards each other, the fleeting warmth long dissipating. Atop silk sheets, one body envisions the two buried under cold dirt and not clean comforters with hands somehow still locked together. Deep under the garden wall.

Once the cruel sun creeps into the sky, and the night flees into hiding with her stars, Alhaitham will have to make a call.

He’ll have to speak with the receptionist on the other end, with their bright customer service greeting, and get a legal pronouncement of death. Then soon after that, he’ll have to arrange the transportation of your cold husk. He’ll have to lower you into the ground alone.

However, the morning is still hours away, the moon is still here to lend her quiet sympathies. So tonight, just for tonight humor his little daydream.

Fin~

©️vivalabunbun DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS.

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armandclocksitall · 3 months ago

Text

Object of Your Pursuit (Chapter 1)

Armand x gn! Reader (no y/n used)

Warnings: descriptions of death, suicide ideation

Armand strode into the bar. He knew he would gain nothing from being here. No human food or drink could ever quench him, but he chose to be here to escape his own thoughts of what went down just a few days prior. A 77 year long relationship torn apart in a matter of days by the first person who ever saw him for who he was. The 500 year old vampire had never been found out so fast, had never been found out ever even by himself. Louis was right, Daniel Molloy truly was as fascinating as he made him out to be.

Daniel, his fledgling. Armand never intended to make another vampire, but Daniel was different. And now he was being tracked down by him.

He sat in the corner of the crowded room as he thought about how things would play out. Maybe he’d just let Daniel kill him; 500 years was a long enough life. He never found anyone who had any interest in sticking around so why wait around any longer?

Armand was there for hours watching the people pile in and out of the building, the chatter never dying down. A rowdy bachelor party that would grow to regret their decision to drink so much the night before, a girl crying in the bathroom being comforted by her best friend over a breakup that truly will benefit her down the road, a man face down at a table, dead to the world having drank himself into unconsciousness rather than face the things that scare him, different people with different lives yet not at all breaking any molds.

They were all so boring. He winced at the word– boring. Maybe the most hurtful of insults he ever received from the man he loved. Armand was the only one who remembers that night so vividly, by his own fault of course. He can’t even claim that he thought what he was doing was right, he knew of the monumental fuck ups he committed and how they’d likely come back to bite him but he still did them. Lied to Louis, took credit for Lestat’s actions, tortured Daniel, manipulated people time and time again for his own benefit. He couldn’t tell if he was sorry for doing it or just sorry he was caught but now he sit here alone and still like a statue waiting to figure out his next steps.

The doors of the bar slammed open again, a gust of wind blowing through the bar giving a slight break from the man-made humidity indoors. A group of college students filing in talking of their upcoming exams, truly nothing groundbreaking. Complaints of a professor, what pages to study, blah blah and more never ending blah.

But finally something caught the ancient one’s eye, one of the students looked just as agonizingly bored as he felt. He entered their mind for only a second before feeling the thoughts wash over him.

They were thinking of a clock, counting the seconds until they were away from this group, this town, the school, everything. Nothing was keeping their interest and they were sick to death of it.

Sick to death, Armand thought to himself. It had been a time since he last hunted and a burnt out student would be quite easy prey, already halfway lured into wanting some long awaited rest. Normally he enjoyed a bit of a challenge but at his age, finding someone to drain wasn’t exactly difficult. He had sat there for hours with the senseless musings of humanity droning through his mind, he deserved an easy end to his night.

He stared at them, willing them to turn and lock eyes.

“Come to me.” The words were smooth as they slithered their way into the ear of his prey. “Come to me.” The words he projected into Lestat’s mind so many years ago.

The student turned feeling his breath on their neck, the words so clearly spoken and meant for them. They expected him to be just an arms length away as they turned but were intrigued to find the apparent speaker of the command across the bar with an intense stare.

They broke from their group, a muttered excuse of needing to go that was paid no attention. Slowly, they made their way through the crowded room brushing shoulders with people who each smelled of a different type of alcohol that burned their nose. Their eyes never leaving the fire like irises of the vampire, they approached his table and stared down at him.

“Mind if I sit?”

Armand wordlessly nodded his head at the chair in front of him. They sat and absentmindedly swished their half empty drink around in its cup. Their eyes met again waiting for the other to strike up a conversation. Armand straightened in his seat realizing they had no intention of speaking first.

“You’re bored.”

“Yeah?” they looked at him puzzled, “It’s a Thursday night at a bar in a college town, what’s interesting about that?”

“Not just tonight. You’re bored in general,” he said with a face devoid of emotion. This wasn’t an assumption. He just knew.

“Maybe, but you’re certainly not adding any entertainment factor,” they spoke, ready to walk away from this strange man completely.

“I can offer you something that might add to it though. It might interest you to–”

They cut him off, “I’m not gonna hook up with you.”

“That wasn’t what I was offering, though I’m flattered you at least thought about it,” his stoney face finally broke into a smirk. “What I was going to say is that it might interest you to at least listen to and consider my proposal.”

The student growing from bored to frustrated at his conversational pacing motioned for him to continue.

“I have a, let’s say ‘hobby’, of tracking people down. It keeps things interesting for me at my advanced age,” he chuckled to himself. “Would you be interested perhaps in being my object of pursuit tonight?”

“Your object of pursuit?” they laughed at his wording while rolling their eyes, “I already told you I’m not interested in hooking up with you.”

“Like I told you, that’s not my intention.”

“Then what exactly is your intention and why the hell would I wanna be apart of any of this?”

“I could offer you whatever amount of money you needed to live comfortably, more than comfortably, for the rest of your life. All you would have to do is make it to a location of my choosing before sunrise,” he reasoned as if this was an everyday occurrence for him.

“You’d give me money for you to hunt me down?,” they asked incredulously. “But only if I make it to wherever by morning; and what exactly happens if I don’t make it there?”

Armand raised an eyebrow at them, making it out like the answer was quite obvious. His eyes felt like razor blades cutting into them from across the table.

Every joke they could’ve made in that moment suddenly fled from their mind realizing exactly what he was inferring. “You’ll kill me.”

“Only if I catch you.”

The stuffy bar felt cold and suffocating in an instant, like all the air was sucked out of the room and all that was left was the two of them in a standoff waiting for the next move; the younger of the two discovering just how much danger they were in.

The thought sobered them immediately. They were sat across from a killer. The way he spoke of this plan it seemed this was far from his first time making the proposal. His words popped in their head. “At my advanced age,” their eyes scanned his face in confusion. He couldn’t be more than thirty years old, but his eyes are what gave it away; he was much much older than he seemed. The glowing irises clued them in that who– what was sitting across from them was not entirely human. It terrified them to their core that they didn’t immediately jump away from the horror that was this man but he was right, they were bored out of their absolute mind of life. This offer ended in two possible outcomes; they make it to where he tells them to go and they live out their life in the lap of luxury or they die. And they felt sick to their stomach that they actually found excitement in it all; years of the mundane ended, the first sense of twisted joy they’ve felt in recent memory and its the offer of being hunted like a wild animal by this creature.

Armand watched the gears turn in their head, watched as they rolled the idea and all its potential. He slipped into their mind to see their thoughts race a thousand miles per hour until everything became clear. They would accept.

“Where do I need to go?”

He smiled warmly at them as if he wasn’t planning their death as they spoke. “There’s a church about 5 miles west of here called Saint Mary’s, no vehicles allowed; it takes the fun out of it for me.”

5 miles. He expected them to not even make it five miles before he killed them. The realization was grim but they shook his hand before standing, “I take it I’m not allowed to tell my friends I could potentially be gruesomely murdered tonight?”

“It would certainly complicate things for me, but it’s nothing I couldn’t handle quite quickly. I’ll even give you a five minute head start,” he said smugly before making a shooing motion with his hand, “the clock’s already started.”

They approached their friends rigidly saying their quick farewells for the night, a half assed excuse made about needing to wake up early the next morning. As they exited the bar they threw a single look over their shoulder, noticing his eyes never left them for a second; a shiver wracked their body as they headed into the cool atmosphere of a quickly emptying street.

They pulled up the address and directions to the church on their phone with shakey hands, their heart was pounding but despite the lump in their throat they couldn’t bring the tears to their eyes. Adrenaline was coursing through their veins and yet they weren’t upset at the prospect of dying. The student squared their shoulders and began a quick pace towards their location.

A five minute head start, Armand thought it was hilarious. He could give them an hour head start and would still catch them. Obviously he wouldn’t but he was at least generous enough to wait twenty before standing from his chair and making his way to the street. A dreadfully bored college student is easy prey but even if he wanted a simple hunt he’s never had an issue with playing with his food.

Within minutes he was caught up to the student, staying far enough away and concealed to the shadows that they wouldn’t notice. He expected slight terror, maybe some sniveling at the prospect of death, a full sprint even; adrenaline makes humans do funny things. But no, none of that when he showed up, not any of those things. He had noticed they were bored but he never predicted they would react so– odd? The two were in a park, about three miles from the church, they had made it a good distance in the time he had given them. There was no panic, they were listening to music through a pair of headphones. It was two o’clock in the morning in a park lit only by the occasional street lamp, they weren’t worried about a vampire brutally murdering them; they didn’t even seem to worry that being so unaware of their surroundings at such a time could get them killed by a random stranger.

Armand scoffed to himself. Were they not taking this seriously at all? They were at a bridge that overlooked a small stream when they stopped. He looked into their thoughts, preparing himself to be offended by this human’s apparent stupidity. They were stopping to admire how the lights bounced off the water– while a murderous creature was after them, while he was after them. The next thought is what caught him off guard though. They were thinking about how if they died tonight they left behind no real regrets; they had nothing to quite look forward to in their future. He saw they had a general disinterest in life but never suspected them to be suicidal, though most humans even when suicidal have some sense of yearning for life; this simply did not appear in the student’s head. There was no sense of hopelessness; just apathy, a preparedness for death should it come to them.

It hit him at that moment, they felt the same way he did following his separation from Louis. A feeble minded human potentially understanding the depth of vampiric loneliness? He shook the thought from his head walking away from the scene, he was simply overthinking things. This night would only end one way; he would feed on and kill them and move on with his life once again.

It was another hour before they finally approached the church. They hadn’t seen him the entire night and considered that maybe it was just some weird scare tactic. Maybe they weren’t actually being hunted for sport by some otherworldly creature disguising himself as man. They wandered up the street seeing steeple up ahead, just a few hundred feet before they were guaranteed safety. For a moment, hope swelled in their chest; they could actually succeed at something. That moment all but vanished seeing a figure standing in the shadowed doorway; it was him. The air left their body knowing this would be the end. Their feet began to drag as they walked towards the man. How did he get here so fast?

Armand’s eyes followed the student. He saw the minuscule glint in their eye thinking they had made it disappear in an instant. It would’ve brought him joy in any other situation, but for some reason now it just made him feel a bit guilty.

“So I didn’t make it in time,” they shrugged apathetically.

“No. You didn’t.”

The two were at a standstill across from one another. The older of them looking at the other with a sense of curiosity.

“You aren’t going to beg for your life?”

They shrugged, “I knew the terms of the deal, I didn’t get here before you did. I’m gonna die, that was what you said would happen.”

Armand was met with a wave of conflicting emotions; it was so rare for him to spare a human life, and never if it didn’t benefit him somehow. Allowing them to live offered him no advantage by any stretch of the imagination and yet he found himself moving aside and motioning for the student to pass him. They stared at him in confusion.

“What are you doing?”

“I haven’t touched the door yet so I suppose I’m not technically here.”

They held his stare as they walked past him and placed their palm on the door. “Does this mean you won’t kill me?”

He nodded already parting ways with the student, waving his hand dismissively, “I’ll see to it that the money is wired into your account, I’ve already got all your details so don’t worry about it.”

They stood there on the steps to the church speechless. What had changed since the beginning of the night? Before they had left the bar he seemed more than ready to kill them without so much as a second thought. They didn’t want to die but it left them with an overwhelming sense of frustration; who the hell was he? What the hell was his problem? They had half a mind to chase him down and demand these answers but by the time they had processed what had just happened he had disappeared into the darkness of the night without a single trace.

The following night, Armand was on the hunt again; tonight’s menu was a drunkard with an ego even bigger than his bar tab. He had no issue with this one, the man learned very quickly that this was to be taken seriously and was currently sprinting to his destination after Armand played a few mind tricks on him to raise the adrenaline. The vampire was waiting for a single mistake before he finally stepped in and was granted that wish as he watched the man trip over a curb, sprawled out over the sidewalk. Armand stepped out of the shadows next to him, making the man scramble away repeatedly failing to get to his feet.

“You were so close, a mile away and you would’ve made it,” Armand pouted mockingly. “You know the deal.”

The man was drunkenly sobbing, begging for his life as the creature before him stared him down apathetically. “Please, God, please. I don’t wanna die. If this is a message that I should clean myself up, I’ll do it. I’ll fix everything, please just don’t kill me, I’ll do anything. Just God, please!”

He sneered downwards. “God has nothing to do with this.” He spat, “You made your decision, you will die tonight by my hand.”

Terrified, the man finally made it to his feet and turned to run only to be grabbed by the collar and thrown into a nearby alley by Armand. He was effortlessly lifted by the 500 year old being, fangs sinking into his carotid.

Armand drank deeply from the man, his blood bitter with alcohol. It would have to do after the previous night’s happenings. The alcoholic’s heart slowed and he dropped his body waiting for it to come to a full stop. He was still haunted by that student unable to push them from his thoughts; who were they to occupy his own?

He quickly disposed of the body; he threw it in a dumpster, taking no care and breaking as many bones as needed to shove the limbs under piles of garbage. It was careless but the humans would likely write it off as another unsolved murder, no real suspicions had as long as he didn’t make a habit of this. He’s sure he would’ve taken more care if his mind wasn’t reeling thinking only of them. He was wandering the streets mindlessly having no true destination in mind. The sun would be up in a few hours, he should probably figure out where he is and find his way back to his coffin before sunrise. When he looked up he found himself in a residential part of the city, a place he’d never been before but around him he caught a familiar scent.

Armand rolled his eyes. Of course he would end up mindlessly wandering here. It was the scent of them. The apartments around him were all run down; fire escapes nearly coming off the sides of the buildings, iron bars over windows, sidewalks poorly paved and overgrown with weeds. He found himself calling out to them with the same words he had used the night before, “Come to me.”

Five minutes of prodding at their mind, summoning the student, a door to his left swung open. There they stood, in a frumpy pair of pajamas looking irritated at his presence.

“Decide you actually wanna kill me?” they jeered sarcastically.

“No, I spared you last night and I intend on sticking with that decision. I was just–” he paused, “in the area.”

They shifted their weight uncomfortably from side to side before making a decision, “Well if you wanna keep talking to me can we at least bring it inside; I don’t love wearing my pj’s in the street.”

He nodded before following them into the building up to their apartment. As he entered he noticed the inside was just as worn as the outside, albeit the decor added a bit of warmth to the room. It wasn’t highbrow interior design by any stretch of the imagination but it was lived in, something that could never be recreated by anyone else. Homemade blankets were strewn across a couch that had a few holes speckled over its fabric, the television was set to some random show on low volume, pictures framed on the wall some containing humans that the student seemed to care about, other just different pieces of art that they had collected over their time in this town. It was undeniably them.

They stared at him as he surveyed the room, silence overtook them for a full minute before he spoke. “This is where you live?”

Their eyebrow raised, “Yeah? I’ve lived here since I started college.”

“Are you going to get a new apartment with the money I gave you?”

They snorted, “Why? Are you planning on dropping by?”

His face was stone. Ignoring their quip, “Well now you can afford better, wouldn’t you want to live somewhere that isn’t so–” he chose his next words carefully so as to not offend them, “neglected.”

The student blinked, having not even considered the possibility of moving. “I mean, I guess I could. But I don’t think I will if I’m being completely honest.”

“You enjoy living here? Like this?”

“Well, a nicer place wouldn’t have my favorite sandwich shop up the street.” They laughed before thinking hard, “And just because I have money doesn’t necessarily mean I wanna completely change my lifestyle. I quit my job and paid off my student loans which is great since I don’t have to worry about those things anymore, but I don’t think buying into a luxurious lifestyle is gonna make me happy.”

“But you can buy whatever you want– do whatever you want.”

“Yeah, but money isn’t gonna buy me friends who care about me. Money won’t buy a family that isn’t constantly hovering, wondering how I’m doing since I moved three states away. I moved away specifically because of how bad they hovered and it still hasn’t stopped them. The government sucks, I’m stressed all the time, I don’t know if I’m happy with what I’m majoring in at college. Turning a hobby into a degree has taken all the joy out of what I once loved and I’m not even guaranteed a job once I get that degree. Money can buy comfort but it sure as hell won’t buy me happiness!” The words tumbled out of their mouth, their breath accelerated and tears came to their eyes. They groaned, bringing their hands to their face. “I’m sorry, that was a lot. I just don’t like thinking too hard about the future.”

Armand stood there stunned. They were right, in a very human way they were completely right. He was beyond rich and yet he also couldn’t achieve the happiness he had always yearned for. For the second time he was shocked that they had understood his exact issues. Who were they? Before he could think through his request, the words were blurted from his mouth, “Could I see you again?”

Read Chapter 2 Here

#interview with the vampire #amc iwtv #armand #the vampire armand #armand x reader #the vampire armand x reader

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vintagerpg · 6 months ago

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Mothership is the RPG that convinced me that zines were not just an excellent delivery system for RPG material, but that they are perhaps the BEST one, at least in terms of putting out and refining a project in progress. The original was released as a “beta” in the videogame development parlance and immediately inspired a robust third-party community to design for the game. It’s a science fiction horror game with a nice panic mechanic, inspired by Alien, Event Horizon, Dead Space and so on. Folks were keen for the crowd-funded formal first edition. I was too, but I didn’t expect any surprises — I already know the system and have played the game. And yet, here I am, not just surprised, but a little in awe.

I know the system. It feels cleaned up and polished and refined, but nothing jumps out at me as dramatically different from the beta (except the novel death mechanic, in which “mortally” wounded characters don’t know their actual status until someone checks on them, and the death save die is revealed). As a package, though, this thing is fantastic. Cleanly designed, expanded. The Deluxe box is gorgeous. There are standees, dice, a manual for ships, a book of monsters. The screen art is atmospheric. It’s worth the price of admission, and the wait (which, wasn’t that long).

The thing that bowled me over though, and will take some time to fully digest, is the Warden’s Operation Manual, a booklet that not only teaches you how to mechanically run Mothership, but also how to handle players a table, to think about horror, to cater to character roles, to respect agency, to mete out meaningful consequences. This is a deeply thoughtful musing on not just Mothership, but tabletop roleplaying generally. And, on top of feeling important to the hobby in that way, it also manages to be welcoming in a way very few games are. The message resounds throughout: anyone can run this, anyone can play this, being murdered by horrible aliens is for everyone!

#roleplaying game #tabletop rpg #dungeons & dragons #rpg #d&d #ttrpg #Tuesday Knight Games #Mothership

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fangsforiris · 5 months ago

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Paintings Talk

Prompt: Woman in the Painting, Ghostly Dream, Another Woman, Who is She?

Person: Beatrix [Sakamaki]

HC’s:

🫐 If Christa was known for her Forbidden Beauty, and Cordelia her Femme Fatale appeal, then Beatrix would be… Beatrix.

🫐 Beatrix was known for her stoicism and statuesque appeal.

🫐 Sometimes even being referred to as ‘Ice Queen’ or ‘Plain Woman’ for how she maintained a steady, yet un-stained reputation.

🫐 But do not let that mistake her for being ugly. She was far from it. She was a classic, vintage beauty.

🫐 As in, she was made to become a muse. Made to be a painting, a statue even. Just… something to be admired.

🫐 From the long blond tresses going all the way down to her hips, to those striking blue eyes that send shivers down spines. But it was also the way her lips were full and curled, as if she knew she was on display for the world around her.

🫐 Ever since she was a little girl, she could remember the admiration from potential suitors, remember their stares and deeply clouded eyes.

🫐 Overtime, she’d learn that she would have to play into it, lest she became unfit to be wed and bring dishonour to her family and house.

🫐 There was something intriguing about Beatrix that forced many to be pulled into her spell.

🫐 She wasn’t a femme fatale by any means, nor would she like to entertain it on purpose.

🫐 (But that didn’t mean she couldn’t pull it off, oh no, far contrary to popular belief, if she did something, the one thing she’d do is do it well.)

🫐 But she mimicked the aura of that of the old renaissance paintings.

🫐 The ones that you’d be forced to sit and stare for hours, unable to get bored of it.

🫐 She had a ghostly appeal, almost. Especially when she would go on to die.

🫐 If she was a painters muse, then what would become of her once the body’s been dead and buried?

🫐 For this reason, Karlheinz commissioned many paintings for her.

🫐 In fact, in the castle, she has the most paintings commissioned and posted about out of all the 3 wives.

🫐 Karlheinz was not immune to her bewitchery (if one could call it that,) Beatrix just had something to her that comforted the sullen, but intimidated the guilty.

🫐 Karlheinz would spend hours watching her be painted, the small details mattered. Never was he more attentive in anything when Beatrix was getting painted.

🫐 He’d even use it as an excuse to shamelessly watch her. (Not that he had any shame to begin with.)

🫐 Out of all his wives, he certainly appreciated how cordial the two could cohabitate alongside one another.

🫐 The two didn’t care for playing house, they both knew this, but they would converse as if they knew each other lifetimes ago.

🫐 Beatrix may respect Karlheinz as a superior, and as a bright mind to grace their time, but she too knew her self-worth— And Karlheinz knew that as well.

🫐 He 100% respected Beatrix the most, as he enjoyed the small company the two would share, and her willingness to listen to his rambles.

🫐 The small late nights the two would share without the need for physical activity, it was the platonic affection the two could indulge in that made it all the worth it.

🫐 They both knew they had their reasons for marriage— Beatrix for higher social standing and upholding her family name, and Karlheinz for increasing his lineage and fame as king.

🫐 They both knew they could never love each other, but it was the fact that the two held a mutual respect and understanding for one another that strengthened their bond.

🫐 Karlheinz would play with her hair when stressed, on the rare moments when his existentialism overbore his entity, Beatrix would listen and stay as a loyal ear.

🫐 Beatrix could be anything, but she was loyal until the end— even as a widow from her previous marriage before Karlheinz.

🫐 On that note— she was 100% wed to another man before Karlheinz, maybe even two husbands before the Great King.

🫐 So she was not a virgin when she laid with Karlheinz.

🫐 I suppose it was third times the charm, as she became a widow to two men, but only on the third would the husband become a partial widow.

🫐 Once she died, there… was something wrong with the paintings.

🫐 It was as if the eyes moved, apart of her soul present in each and every one of the paintings located in various locations of the castle.

🫐 There was something about Beatrix’s paintings that made the hair on your arms and neck stand up. The type of thing where you get cold feet. As if your breath was being taken away under the eyes of azure.

🫐 Some have even said that their magic was drained after passing by. Some have even felt their undead heart skip a beat, before ceasing all action.

🫐 Even a whisper or a shudder of a scream would be heard through the halls.

🫐 Like… her paintings were cursed?

🫐 It was due to these strange, paranormal occurences, that some areas within the castle were bordered down.

🫐 Karlheinz didn’t have the heart in him to take down the paintings, his attachement far too strong.

🫐 Shuu remembers walking past her painting in the hall nearing the old ballroom before being renovated. For a moment, he swears blue flashed, energy being emitted from the painting. He tripped, his gaze plastered on his shaking hands. He wouldn’t tell a soul of how he slowly turned his head, his peripheral view displaying the mouth of a woman turn into something akin to a cynical smile.

🫐 Rumour throughout the castle and higher end nobles spread of her paintings being painted with her blood. A pint for each painting, as if she wanted to live on in some form.

🫐 Perhaps it also included her magic..?

#diabolik lovers #diabolik lovers fandom #dl fandom #dl aesthetic board #diabolik lovers aesthetic board #diabolik lovers headcanons #dl hcs #beatrix #beatrix sakamaki #karlheinz #karlheinz sakamaki

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camille-lachenille · 8 months ago

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Like a god of old

For @cilil

At first, there is only darkness, like mist on a winter morning. Then there is a glow not unlike dawn piercing through clouds and Théoden blinks, surprised to be able to see. He takes a breath in, shocked not to hear his lungs rattle and feel his chest ache, before noticing he does not need to breathe anymore. He breathes in again anyway, relishing in the lack of pain. If this is death, Théoden thinks, it is a hundredfold better than his last years of life. Only then does he notice the presence beside him, just at the edge of his vision.

Careful, Théoden sits up, marvelling at how easy it is, and look at the being. He looks like an old man, in the dim light, yet his stature is strong and his face unlined by the years. Théoden peers at his face, half hidden in the shadows, and feels his breath hitch. “Father?” he asks quietly, for the man looks like Thengel as he was in his prime. Yet something is off.

The man smiles and his features shift just the slightest, and he bears now a face Théoden knows from countless carved statues and innumerable descriptions in songs. “In a way,” the likeness of Eorl the young says, voice deep as the woods. “I am you father as I am the father of your forefathers, of countless warriors and hunters from Ages past, Théoden Ednew son of Thengel.”

The man’s - no, the god’s - face shifts again, taking the appearance of a dark-haired Elf of noble bearing, and Théoden looks at him in awe. “Béma, my Lord,” he whispers in awe. “So I am well and truly dead, in the Halls of my Fathers…”

This last addition is mostly for him, more a whispered thought than anything else, but Béma still answers. “You are dead indeed, Théoden King, and your death was bold and glorious like few before you. But this is not the halls of your fathers, but the Halls of Mandos. This is but a step in jour journey. Come, walk with me.”

Stunned, Théoden grasps the god’s outstretched hand to help him stand. The motion is strangely fluid, the old ache in his hip gone as if his body is more thought than flesh. Of course he cannot feel pain, he muses, he is dead and his body must be a memory of sorts, an old image he clings to.

Béma leads Théoden through vast halls shrouded in mist, the place eerily silent for their feet do not make a sound on the ground. “I heard of your valour, son of Rohan,” Béma says almost conversationally. “I looked over you on the Tapestries and saw your fate. Be proud, for your end was not in vain and brought a new Age in its wake.”

“I was but an old man riding to his death in despair,” Théoden answers without thinking. He glances at the god walking beside him, and finds he is changed again. Gone is the noble Elflord, replaced by a tall and rugged hunter. Théoden thinks he sees shadows of antlers about his head. “I did my duty to my people after I let them suffer for too long.”

There is a silence before Béma speaks again. “You were despairing indeed, knew you were riding to your death, and yet you met it in your own terms. This demands no small amount of courage, Théoden King. I heard songs already comparing you to me, charging the enemy with fury and might…”

Théoden suddenly feels like a boy barely of age and ducks his head. “They mean no ill, Lord Béma,” he says almost bashfully. “And most certainly my deeds are made grander than they are.”

The god laughs, a deep, rumbling sounds that reminds Théoden of galloping hooves pounding the ground. “Old tales are made to be sung again and again, and I have no grudge against the bards likening you to me, son of Rohan. And I may even say that they are more flattering to me than you. For, you see, I am made for battle and blood, while you had to shape yourself for this role in pain and despair. And you turned this despair to rage, to strength to face your enemy head on in a way I will never be able to. Yes, you are strong, Théoden King, and worthy of all the songs that will be sung about you in the Age to come. But we reached the path you have to take now, I cannot go forward.”

Indeed, they stopped walking, and they are facing doors that look carved out of the very mist that bathe the place. Théoden runs his hand, calloused but smooth of any wrinkles, on the shifting shapes of the doors. He sees a child crying, a woman falling down a ravine, a king lying down to sleep, a woman with her babe in her arms closing her eyes. He breathes in, for the last time he knows, and look back at Béma.

“My Lord, I am honoured you took the time to lead me here,” he says with a bow of his head, so light without a crown resting on his brow.

“The honour was mine, son of Rohan. Go now, your time has come to take this road.”

Théoden closes his hand on the door handle, hesitate. Breathes out. Looks back at Béma once more.

“Your forefathers await you, Théoden King. They are proud of you,” the god says with a warm smile that remind Théoden of his mother’s smile.

Théoden nods at Béma, smiles back and open the doors.

Inspired by this post: https://www.tumblr.com/curiouselleth/746143860815740928/the-ghost-of-jrr-tolkien-rising-from-the

#théoden #oromë #the lord of the rings #tolkien #tolkien fic #my writing

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thelightsandtheroses · 11 months ago

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Secret Smile: Homecoming (Chapter Ten)

Javier Peña x female reader

Summary: Before returning to Colombia to get things right this time, Javi’s childhood best friend asks him to keep an eye out for his sister while they’re both stationed in the embassy. Only you don’t need Javier to keep an eye on you. Your role as a new legal advisor is all about keeping an eye on him after all. Sparks fly, lines will be drawn and broken and there’s everything to lose.

Word Count: 2.8k Chapter Warnings - 18+ blog, passing mention of differences in familial status, slight secret relationship, discussions of dismissal/quitting jobs/workplaces and injustice, mentions of sex. Reader has a backstory and family but no physical descriptions. Notes - This has been a long time coming and for anyone still out there reading this, thank you and I hope it’s worth the wait. The past few months have been particularly tough IRL which has made writing Blue's work stresses pretty triggering and difficult and then made me weirdly superstitiuous about even opening the wip file. That said, the muse finally hit, I decided to fight my anxiety about it and here we are.

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You didn’t have a plan. Not really. Rather your plan was merely the rough semblance of an idea, a delicate decision tree that was completely reliant on people caring and wanting to do the right thing. That, you realise now, may have been a mistake.

Frankly, Plan A had failed so long ago, you are probably somewhere around O or P in the alphabet now.

Whatever you had thought you would do though, it didn’t work. The best result you’ve negotiated, and one that was hard fought, is to have officially resigned, rather than be dismissed. Your time with that office and career aspirations are dead though.

Sometimes that’s what happens. You live in a world where perhaps certain victories are pyrrhic, your heroes don’t always prevail - or, if they do, there’s a cost. It’s one you’d pay again. It was the right thing to do.

Only a sense of integrity doesn’t pay the bills or prevent awkward conversations with your family. You’re going to have move in with your parents again because Rafa won’t have room at his house. You need to think of a way to frame this to them all.

There’s been a cold spell in DC. You can feel it still ghosting the air as you take a sip of coffee, clutching the to-go cup tightly between your hands. It’s a change to the humidity of Colombia, the familiar heat of Texas. You remember what it felt like you first moved here years ago and how novel the snow had seemed, how romantic thick jumpers and hot chocolate by a fireplace had felt.

You look over at the building ahead of you.

Javi won’t be long.

This is the last time you’ll be in front of this building, you’ve left it for the last time and that chapter of your life is truly over. You can barely remember who you were when you first stepped into those doors anyway.

You notice Javi leaving. You watch him loosen his tie as he leaves the building, making his way towards you.

“Hi,” you say gently. “All wrapped up?” You try and read any emotions on his face; whether his meetings went as smoothly as you hoped.

“All wrapped up,” Javi says, before kissing you deeply.

“Nice try to distract me,” you say, “but you didn’t tell me how it went.”

Javi groans into your neck. “Well, Spencer offered to make my resignation go away and for me to go to Mexico.”

“Mexico?” you ask, alarmed. Javi told you he couldn’t do this anymore, that he’d reached the end of his career with the DEA. Selfishly you have only just started this with him, you don’t want to lose it yet, you don’t want a long-distance relationship just now.

“Yeah.” There’s a bitter note in his voice that signals there’s more to this, more to what was said than a simple job offer.

��What did you say?” Is it over already? Is it over before you and him even had a chance to really know what the two of you could be? Will Javi go to Mexico while you return to Laredo without a job, without him?

Practically, you will understand if he says yes. You might not agree - you don’t agree, but you won’t say that unless he expressly asks.

You steel yourself for his next words. This was just a fling, stress relief, a stress response even. It doesn’t mean anything to him. He hopes you can still be friends.

You will smile, you will agree. You will lie.

Javi looks over at you quizzically, shifting his hand so he can entwine his fingers with yours. “I’m officially no longer a DEA employee. My - my time there is over.”

Relief courses through you. “Oh. Are you alright?”

“Are you?” Javi asks.

You pause, leaning into Javi and his warm body. In all honesty, you’re not sure. It isn’t just the job, or loss thereof, and the way your time in Colombia bought up so many demons from before. It’s not that you’ve been directly involved, or even witnessed, the most terrifying aspects of Javi’s work or time in Colombia. It’s more that you’ve lost something.

You’ve lost that faith, that certainty in a system of justice, in checks and balances. You don’t believe like you used to. There’s this cynical edge to your thoughts, this sense of sadness and futility that justice isn’t what you thought it was.

You’re tired, burnt out and you have no clue what to do next.

But then there’s Javi.

“I will be,” you say, pulling away from him before immediately reaching for Javi’s hand so the two of you can walk away from this building for the last time.

Together.

You thought you would show Javi the city you used to live in. There were coffeeshops, restaurants, walks you wanted to share with him. Moments to make together in this strange in-between time before you return to Laredo.

You’ve barely left your hotel room though. Restaurants were abandoned in lieu of room service fries, a club sandwich and salad. Strolls across tourist attractions have been discarded in favour of another kiss, another touch, another moment with Javi.

You tell yourself it’s because who knows when you’ll have time like this again. You tell yourself your feelings and this situation are completely under control.

Either way, the two of you are insatiable. It could be the relief of there being a firm line between Colombia and now, it could be making up for lost time.

Javi is the best thing the year has bought you so far. He makes it all worthwhile. You’re sure of that, even if the thought scares you.

You lean back against the pillow, as you try and catch your breath.

“How long do we have?” you ask.

“Until our flight?” Javi asks, kissing down your neck to your collarbone. “We need to check out in a couple of hours and then we’ve got a changeover in Dallas, but we should land before its dark.”

“Okay, I should go pee, clean up a bit,” you say, sitting up. “Water?”

“Water,” Javi confirms, placing a hand over his head as he collects himself. You like looking at him like this; the way the hotel room light hits his skin, still glistening with sweat, the look in his eyes, the way his hair is slightly undone and curls at the ends.

You get out of the bed, tugging a hotel robe around you as you walk to the bathroom. When you return, you pour two glasses of water and hand one to Javi as you sit back on the bed.

“So,” you say, before taking a sip of your water.

“So,” Javi repeats slowly, looking you over with care and concern. “Have you -” he falters.

You look at him curiously. “What, Javi?”

“Are you - are you coming back here? Or Austin? Or - are you sticking around?”

It never occurred to you. For all your anxieties about Javi leaving you for another job, you never thought he’d have the same worry about you.

“Well, the good thing is that even a town like Laredo probably needs a lawyer or two.”

“Oh, yeah?”

You nod and watch the way his face softens. His smiles are rare, but they’re so worth it. They light up his whole face, make an already attractive man even more attractive.

“I think I need a change though and maybe I can at least figure that out back in Laredo.”

“That’s good. Are you ready for this?”

You make a face. You’re starting to think you would rather spend your time grappling with legal systems and international diplomacy than this. “To move back in with my parents with no job? Oh Javi, absolutely not.”

An unwelcome thought suddenly hits you. What do you tell your families about you and Javi? It’s still so new and you’re still figuring out what any of it means. Part of you is worried that without the connection of Colombia, of work, maybe he won’t want you for much longer. Maybe it’s not enough to make something real.

“Do we tell people back home about us yet?” you ask. “I mean, do you want to? Or do we .. should we just keep this for us for a bit? Figure everything out?”

“What do you want to do, Blue?”

“I don’t know,” you reply honestly. There’s been so much change, so much anxiety. Javi’s been this amazing bubble and you know you feel something strongly for him. You know it feels like it could be something. You’re used to decision trees as a lawyer; you feel like you know where this is heading, you like that direction to.

You like who you are with Javi. So why are you scared to say that right now?

You stare down at your glass of water, wishing you could craft the right legal argument, the right way forward.

“We’ve got time, Blue,” he says calmly, “That’s something the two of us definitely are going to have right now in Laredo.”

“Well, I will. Didn’t you say you were going to help your Pops. Be a rancher?” You raise an eyebrow at the thought of that. It’s an appealing image though, you can’t lie. Javi all sweaty and working hard, you remember that day in Curacao and how he looked in the pink shirt after running around the town.

“We can figure this out on our own time,” he says, “I want to. I don’t want this to end right now though.”

“Neither do I.”

“So we’re agreed on that?”

You nod.

Javi leans over you, taking the glass from your hands and moving you so he’s on top of you. “Well, we’ve still got some time before we need to check out.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Laredo, TX

It feels like déjà vu. Another party in Laredo, another homecoming where it sounds like a success but feels like a failure. Another day of standing around the people Javi grew up with and feeling like a stranger.

He’s changed. Colombia’s changed him again and again and again. He thinks it’s something he has to wear; a solid, distinguishing marker of who Javi once was and who he has become. Before and After Colombia.

Laredo hasn’t changed much in the last year. His father’s home is almost exactly the same. It’s reassuring somehow; this stalwart unchanging community. His dad is driving the same truck, his room is the same as he left it. Everything even smells the same.

Time stops then starts again.

The prodigal son has returned once more. Javi supposes at least he’s here sooner than last time, at least his Pops can see he’s trying.

He is trying. He’s been trying for so long.

He’s home and he’s not sure what difference he’s made at all, a point only made more obvious when Mike Spencer confirmed that his fear the cartels Javier and his team had helped bring down were nothing in the grand scheme of things.

He’s failed. He couldn’t put it right. It’s why he went back after all - though if he’s honest he didn’t know how to do anything else.

He doesn’t know how to do anything else.

It’s not for him now though- he’s done. Javi’s given it all. It feels like he’s been sucked dry by the DEA over the past decade. He has nothing left to give them.

It’s not all terrible though - he looks over at you. You are the impossible bright side in all of his mess.

Officially this party is a joint welcome home and

He takes a sip of his beer as he watches you in the corner of his eye. You’re dancing in the garden with your niece, smiling widely and laughing.

You meet his eyes and he notices the smile; the way your eyes widen for just a second, the smile he’s never seen before. Not before you and him became something else anyway.

You take his breath away.

He wants to walk over to you straight away, to take you in his arms and just be reminded that you’re real, you’re here. He wants to kiss you and lead you straight to your bedroom, to taste you, have you, to know you again and again.

He knows so much more about you now; the way your body feels, the way you like to be kissed, touched, fucked. He knows how you sound when you wake up in the morning, the way you take your coffee each day. He knows you. In the past weeks, he’s taken to wanted to commit every detail of your body to his memory, just in case.

He can’t approach you though. Not now. Not here. Not yet.

Rafa pulls up the chair next to Javi. “It’s good to have you back, Javi.”

“Good to be back,” Javi replies automatically.

“Are you sticking around for a while?”

“I think so. Pops could do with some help on the ranch.”

Rafa raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t think - I mean, that’s great, Javi. So, you’re done with the DEA?”

“Yeah, it was time to make a change.”

“Well, I guess once you’ve taken down two cartels, it’s hard to know where to go next,” he replies wryly. Javi’s always liked that about Rafa; he’s quick thinking and smart. He knows how to put people at ease too. Javi supposes that’s an important part of being a doctor, especially being the family doctor in a town like this.

He’s sleeping with Rafael’s sister. While the two of you were in Colombia, or DC, he could forget that so easily. You were just Blue to him. You are just Blue to him.

Only you’re also his friend’s sister and in a small community like this, he’s not sure how this will be received. He’s not sure how Rafa will really feel about the two of you. Maybe he shouldn’t have told Rafa quite as much as he did before he went to Colombia.

It's not just that. Standing there in your parents' home, he's struck by the differences between your families. It's not featured in his friendship with Rafa, but there's no denying your family is a different type of affluent to his own. The ranch does well, his Pops runs it really well, but your family is doctors and lawyers and businessmen. He's not sure where he stands in contrast.

It makes sense now, why you asked that question of him in DC. Why you’d wondered aloud about whether they should tell people straight away. At first, he’d thought you were having second thoughts.

He gets it now.

“Was my sister okay out there?” Rafa asks.

“We didn’t spend much time together. Different departments.” A story you’ve agreed, but he hates this already. He wants Rafa to know what you’re like, how good at your job you are.

“Oh. Did you try and keep an eye on her?”

“When I saw her? Yes. But Rafa, she was more than capable of looking after herself from what I saw.”

“I know. I’m just glad she’s home. Glad you both are. Everyone was proud, but - I know my parents worried about her, know your pops worried about you.”

Before Javi can add anything else, you walk over with Sofia who is keen to head inside and regale her abuela with exactly what she’s been up to.

“I spent most of my time on the other side of the embassy at Medellin,” you say smoothly, looking around before leaning against the porch post. “Lots of paperwork and calls.” Javi hates how you play down your impact, of what you did and how you really helped.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhhmm,” you say easily, your eyes meeting Javi for just a second. There’s a slight smile in your expression, almost imperceptible but Javi sees it.

“Well, I’m glad the two of you are back safe.”

“Me too.”

“Would have been nice if you’d worked together though. I mean what were the chances? Two people from Laredo in the same place.” Kismet, that’s what you called it one day, right? That’s what Javi sees it as now.

Rafa looks over to the inside of your parents’ home. “I should go check on Sofia, see you in a bit, Javi. It’s good to have you home.”

It’s just the two of you on the porch now.

“So …” you begin with a soft smile. “Enjoying the party?”

Javi shakes his head. “It’s kind, but -”

“I know.” He knows you do too.

He stands up and moves to look out from the porch, standing next to you. His hand is so close to yours and he notices how you subtly move so your hands are touching.

Oh, this is going to be interesting.

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If you want to be added to (or removed from) one of the tag lists, let me know or you can get notifications for @thelightsandtheroses-fics if you prefer. If you do not have an age or age range showing you are over 18, I will not add you to this list. I block ageless and blank blogs.

#javier peña x reader #javi peña x reader #javier peña x female reader #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña x you #javi pena x reader #javier pena x female reader #javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena #javi pena #*secret smile #fic: secret smile

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kckt88 · 1 year ago

Text

The Hand, The King & The Dragon.

Summary:

Vaera's loyalty is called into question and a King is crowned.

Warning(s): Attempt at Intimidation, Death, Suggestive Language Usurping the Throne, Dragon attack.

Word Count: 2415

Author Note: A companion piece to Wedding & Consummation/Arrival(s)/Dragonstone/A Time for Grief/The Gullet & Harrenhal and the Rivers, but can be read as a one-shot.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Vaera took a deep breath as she stood before the rooms belonging to Otto Hightower. The hand of the King had summoned her at first light, and despite Aemond’s look of confusion, she left him to see to the boys and obediently followed the maid who had been sent for her.

Vaera knocked on the door and waited patiently.

“Come in” said Otto loudly.

Vaera opened the heavy wooden door and watched as Otto beckoned her to come further into the room.

“No doubt you are wondering why I have summoned you here at this hour”.

“Yes, Lord Hand” replied Vaera.

“Seen as though time is of the essence, I’ll get straight to the point. The King is dead”.

“V-Viserys is dead” gasped Vaera.

“He passed sometime in the night. But that is not what I wish to discuss”.

“-Well, I suggest you get straight to the point my Lord” said Vaera.

“Before he passed, Viserys named a new heir”.

“According to who?” asked Vaera.

“Alicent. She claims that Viserys wished for Aegon to rule”.

“You mean to tell me that a man who has steadfastly upheld my mother’s status as heir to the Iron Throne for the last twenty years suddenly had a change of heart? The same man who also dragged himself out of his sick bed to defend the honour of his favourite child. In front of multiple witnesses” said Vaera firmly folding her arms across her chest.

“Viserys was entitled to change his mind” replied Otto.

“All very convenient is it not? That he just happens to change his mind and only Alicent was there to hear him. Do me a favour” said Vaera rolling her eyes.

“Are you saying that my daughter is a liar?” asked Otto, his eyes narrowing.

“I didn’t exactly use those words. But if the shoe fits” shrugged Vaera.

“You weren’t brought here to challenge the validity of Viserys last wishes”.

“No, I was brought here to see where my loyalties lie. You obviously have every intention of usurping the throne and crowning Aegon as King” replied Vaera.

“Very clever” muttered Otto.

“It’s just so obvious, that even a blind man could see it” snarked Vaera.

“Do you not wish for your mother to be Queen?” asked Otto seemingly oblivious to Vaera’s sarcasm.

“My mother was named heir to the Iron Throne. But the line of succession changed the day Aegon was born” said Vaera.

“What if your mother was to fight for her claim over Aegon’s?” asked Otto curiously.

“If my mother was to fight for her claim over Aegon on the basis that she is the King’s first-born child, then that’s a bit hypocritical” mused Vaera.

“How so Princess?”

“I am her oldest child, yet she named Jacaerys as her heir. I was passed over in favour of my little brother. If that doesn’t make her a hypocrite, then I don’t know what else I can say too you Lord Hand” said Vaera.

“Does your mother not deserve to be Queen?”

“She’s spent far too many years hiding away on Dragonstone when she should have been here in King’s Landing learning how to rule and earning the respect and loyalty of the council and the other Lords of the seven kingdoms. So no, my mother does not deserve to be Queen, but Aegon doesn’t deserve to be King either” stated Vaera.

“Why do you think that?”

“Oh please, Aegon doesn’t give two shits about the throne. He has no desire for duty. All he cares about is whores and wine” said Vaera.

“So, if it’s not Aegon or your mother that deserves the throne, then who does?”

“Aemond. He studies, trains with the sword and rides one of the largest dragons in the world. He knows duty and would wear the crown as intended” said Vaera firmly.

“As I said The King wished for Aegon to rule. He spoke the words to the Queen”.

“You and I both know that’s not true. But it doesn’t matter. Aegon is the King’s first-born son, the crown falls to him” quipped Vaera.

“I must say I was wrong about you” mused Otto.

“I know where my loyalties lie Lord Hand” replied Vaera.

“And where is that?”

“With Aemond and our sons” said Vaera.

After ensuring Vaera’s loyalty, Otto’s next move was to summon a small council meeting.

He’d spent years secretly planning for Aegon’s ascension to the Iron Throne and he would not concede now.

“What is it that could not wait another hour?” said Tyland.

“The King is dead. We grieve for Viserys the peaceful, Our sovereign. Our friend”

The council members bowed their heads silently, in a show of respect.

“But he has left us a gift, with his last breath he impressed upon the Queen his final wish: That his son Aegon succeed him as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms” said Otto.

“Then we may proceed with the full assurance of his blessing on our long-laid plans”.

“Yes. There is much to be done as we’ve previously discussed. Now there are two among the captains of the city watch who remain loyal to Daemon, let us replace them. Lord Lannister” replied Otto sternly.

“The treasury is well in hand; the gold will be divided for safe keeping,” said Tyland.

“Let ravens be sent to our allies, Riverrun and Highgarden” ordered Otto.

“Am I to understand that members of the small council have been planning to secretly install my son without me?” asked Alicent.

“My Queen, there was no need to sully you with darkling schemes,” said Jasper.

“I will not have this. To hear that you are plotting to replace the King’s chosen heir with an imposter” snapped Beesbury.

“His first-born son is hardly an imposter” argued Tyland.

“Hundreds of Lords and landed knights swore fealty to the Princess” gasped Beesbury.

“That was some twenty years ago. Most of them now dead” stated Tyland.

“You heard the Lord Hand. Plot or no, the King changed his mind” Jasper.

“I am six and seventy years old. I have known Viserys longer than any who sit this table and I will not believe that he said this on his death bed alone, with only the boys mother as a witness. This is seizure. It is theft. It is treason. At the least it is-“ shouted Beesbury.

“-Mind your tongue, Lyman” retorted Orwyle.

“The King was well last night by all accounts. Which of you here can swear that he died of his own accord?” said Beesbury raising from his seat.

“Which of us are you accusing of regicide Lord Beesbury?” asked Jasper.

“Whether it was one of you or all of you, I care not. I will have no part-“ snarled Beesbury

“SIT DOWN,” shouted Criston. As he placed his hands on Lord Beesbury’s shoulders and shoved him back down to the council table, impaling his head on the decorative sigil stone.

“Ser Criston” gasped Alicent horrified.

Lord Commander Westerling quickly withdrew his sword.

“Throw down your sword and remove your cloak Ser Criston”.

Criston hesitated before he quickly withdrew his sword.

“I am your Lord Commander Ser Criston. Cast down your sword” ordered Westerling.

“I will not suffer insults to her grace the Queen” retorted Criston.

“There was no insult to me Ser Criston, Put aside your blade” exclaimed Alicent as Criston withdrew.

“Has it come to this?”

“Lord Commander. Enough” ordered Otto.

Lord Commander Westerling hesitates for a moment before sheathing his sword.

“Let us have Lord Beesbury removed” suggested Orwyle.

“No. The door will remain shut until we have finished our business” stated Otto.

“Storms End is of concern. We may not assume the loyalty of Lord Borros. But he has four daughters all of them are unmarried. The right proposal could-” said Tyland.

“-Surely your not suggesting Aemond? He’s already married” said Alicent aghast.

“Yes. To the daughter of Rhaenyra. How can we be sure that the girl will not advocate for her mother to be crowned” replied Tyland.

“I can assure you that Vaera will not be a problem,” said Otto.

“She is a risk. The marriage should be annulled. Prince Aemond’s hand could be offered elsewhere,” said Jasper.

“On what grounds could the marriage be annulled Lord Wylde. Vaera has remained faithful to my son and provided him with two male heirs. I will not have you spreading lies and discord against my good daughter “ snarled Alicent.

“I spoke to Vaera this morning and I can assure you that the girl is not a risk. She will not turn against her husband or her sons, of that I am sure,” said Otto.

“Speaking of Rhaenyra. What is to be done with her?” asked Alicent.

“The former heir cannot of course be allowed to remain free and draw support to her claim”.

“You mean to imprison her?” said Alicent, wringing her hands nervously.

“She and her family will be given the opportunity to publicly swear obeisance to the new King” said Otto.

“Rhaenyra will never bend the knee, and neither will Daemon. Which you know”.

Otto hummed and nodded his head slightly.

“Y-You plan to kill them, and all here accede to this?” asked Alicent.

“Your father is correct your grace. A living challenger invites battle and bloodshed”.

“It is unsavoury yes, but a sacrifice we must make in order to secure Aegon’s succession. Then there is Daemon to consider. The King wouldn’t wish for an unsavoury-” said Otto.

“But the King did not wish for the murder of his daughter. He loved her I will not have you deny this” snapped Alicent.

“-And yet” muttered Jasper.

“-One more word out of you and I will have you removed from this chamber and sent to the Wall” shouted Alicent raising from her seat and slamming her hands on the table.

“What do you suggest your grace?” asked Tyland.

“Time is of the essence” urged Otto.

“I agree. We must act now,” said Tyland.

“Lord Commander Westerling. Take your Knights to Dragonstone, be quick and be clean”.

Lord Commander Westerling removes his white cloak and places it on the council table.

“I am Lord Commander of the Kings guard. I recognize no authority but the King’s and until there is one. I have no place here” muttered Westerling as he left the council chambers.

The Red Keep was on lockdown. Aemond and Ser Criston had been dispatched by Alicent to search the streets of silk and bring Aegon back to her chambers. Ser Erryk and his twin brother Ser Arryk had already been sent to the street of Kings Landing by Otto, but it was imperative that Aemond and Criston find Aegon first.

Which they did and after a brief scuffle, Aegon was dragged back to the Red Keep and forced to remain under the watchful eye of his mother and Aemond.

Aemon and Rhaegar were kept in the nursery under the watchful gaze of the King’s guard, along with Jaehaerys, Jaehaera and Maelor.

There was a coronation to attend.

Otto had asked Aemond to escort Aegon to the Dragon Pit, but he refused. Not wanting to leave Vaera’s side.

Aemond was still livid, that his grandsire had dared to question Vaera’s loyalty, despite her assurances that it was necessary, given Otto’s plans to crown Aegon as King.

Aemond didn’t give two shits about his grandsire, but he would not have his wife hauled from their chambers and questioned like some common criminal again.

“You seem tense my love” muttered Vaera as she approached Aemond and embraced him from behind.

“Can you imagine Aegon as King?”

“Not really, I did actually suggest to your grandsire that you should be King” replied Vaera.

“You did what?” exclaimed Aemond as he turned to face his wife.

“I said you deserved it more than Aegon. You ride one of the largest dragons in the world, you study history, philosophy and you train with the sword. You would wear the crown as intended” whispered Vaera.

“Hm”

“No matter what. You will always be my dārys” said Vaera (King).

“Say it again” ordered Aemond as he lowered his lips to hers.

“Issa dārys” whispered Vaera, her lips grazing against Aemond’s as she spoke (My King).

“My wife. My love” muttered Aemond.

“I wish that I could take you to bed and worship you as the King you are” mumbled Vaera.

“Mayhaps you can show me your devotion tonight” suggested Aemond smirking.

“As you wish Your Grace” replied Vaera delighting in the way Aemond’s pupil dilated.

“It’s time” said Alicent firmly.

“All hail his grace, Aegon of House Targaryen second of his name. King of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm”

The people of Kings Landing cheered for their new King.

Aegon unsheathed Blackfyre and triumphantly thrust the sword in the air, the cheers of the people making the new King feel valued and elevated.

Then the cheers turned into screams as the floor exploded and the Red Queen emerged.

As the huge dragon lumbered forward, Aemond seized Vaera and moved her behind him, bracing himself in front of her protectively.

“Get Helaena” shouted Alicent as she moved in front of Aegon.

“G-Grandmother” said Vaera as she stared at Rhaenys who seemed poised and ready to launch an attack.

Time seemed to slow down as Meleys reared back, opened her jaws.

Vaera encircled her arms around Aemond, pressing her face to his back only for him to spin around and envelop his arms around her.

“I love you” whispered Vaera.

“-And I love you” replied Aemond.

Vaera closed her eyes, waiting for the blast of hot flames to consume her and Aemond.

But it never came.

Instead Meleys ferocious booming roar echoed around the Dragon Pit.

The Queen who never was, staring down at them, her face etched with an indecipherable expression.

Suddenly another gargantuan roar filled the air and Rhaenys looked up in panic.

Vaera’s eyes snapped open at the recognition of that roar. Her Cannibal was on approach, no doubt responding to his riders fear and panic.

Knowing the ferocity of Cannibals protective nature over his rider, Rhaenys had but seconds to direct Meleys away from the Greens and escape the ruins of the Dragon Pit.

The common folk of Kings Landing darted out of the way in panic as Meleys lumbered through the doors of the Dragon Pit and launched into the sky, before the Cannibal landed with a colossal thud.

Roaring furiously at Meleys as she disappeared into the clouds.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond x oc #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #aemond fic

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the-haunted-office · 14 days ago

Text

There seems to be some confusion about the status of my main verse muses, particularly Thursday and Doomsday, so I'm going to make this post and hopefully it helps clear some things up. Also going to post a summary of the #the only way in is the only way out plot I just finished writing, so hopefully that also provides a little bit of clarity. Keeping in mind, this is my MAIN VERSE, so that means this is what is happening with the heart of my blog. Anything happening outside of this with Thursday, Doomsday, and the rest of the Haunted Office is considered AU - which is fine! But just keep that in mind.

Main verse Thursday is currently deceased. She died in the Office when the energy jet struck her, and permanently died in Dimension 42 when she (her soul) ascended and joined the collective of other Thursdays known as the Narrative. So, yes, she is deceased, dead, fully gone from this world as of right now. She is not permanently gone, though, and will return in a new body, but she is not back YET, so as far as anybody's muses should know at THIS POINT, she is DEAD. If your muse is responding to her in the main verse and they knew her, then you can have them respond however you feel they would respond. That is up to you to decide. (Threads that were started before these events, though, are excluded from all this.)

Main verse Doomsday is currently out of the Office. She has left to be on her own for a little while because she is heavily grieving. She does not wish to be contacted by anybody. She is not answering any texts or calls. She may answer from certain people, but it really depends on who it is that's trying to reach her and what's said. Again, it is entirely up to you if you decide your muse would notice that she has been quiet and that they would try to reach out to her. Otherwise, she isn't visiting or speaking to anybody unless I have sent her to your inbox. (Threads that were started before these events are also excluded from this.)

I don't know what all anybody has read or hasn't read. I can't make anybody read the things I post on my blog. It is a little frustrating, I admit, to not know who has read what, because to me, all I can see is that nobody's muses are reacting to Thursday being dead and Doomsday's absence. But - I don't know if that's because people don't want to be involved with the plot due to triggers and whatnot, or if that's because people's muses are not noticing or what. I can't make assumptions, so that's why I'm making this post, and hopefully that will catch everyone up to speed, and then you guys can make these decisions. I can't make anybody participate in things they don't want to participate in, and I will respect that. But I will need to know if our interactions going forward will be main verse or AU.

That said, here is a timeline of the events that took place during the plot, so that you might be able to make a better informed decision. Hopefully it isn't too long, but here it is:

Doomsday jumped into a black hole because she wanted to experience what it was like to be spaghettified by one. In doing so, she was ripped apart, which threw her Dampening energy soul everywhere, opened a rift, and pulled it all through into the Office when she respawned there.

The energy jet of her energy spewed out by the black hole erupted down the 210 hallway of the Office once the rift opened there upon Doomsday’s respawn attempt. Thursday was “called” into hallway, where she stepped into the energy jet, and was killed.

Both Thursday and Doomsday are stuck in a continuous respawn process by the jet as it remains in the hallway at the Office.

Dorian is in a lot of pain as the energy jet is piercing two exterior walls along with multiple interior walls.

Both Thursday and Doomsday have found themselves in Dimension 42, a realm of staircases. The staircase they are on is an endless one encased in a tower made of white bricks, stretching off infinitely up and down.

The Narrative begins speaking to Thursday and tells her that she is dead, and that she is to ascend the staircase.

It’s revealed that Cyrus witnessed on the video recording of the energy jet manifesting in the Office, that Thursday stepped into the blast rather than stepping away from it.

The Narrative reveals Themself to Doomsday and explains that They needed her to open the doorway for both she and Thursday to enter Dimension 42. Doomsday is unhappy with this knowledge and breaks out of the staircase tower, only to discover she can’t escape.

Thursday continues her ascent of the tower, seemingly happy and content with her journey. The Narrative asks if she’d like to stay there with Them and become a part of Them, revealing that Dimension 42 is a dimension where all Thursdays go when they die, and that They themself are a collective of Thursdays that Thursday may join if she chooses to ascend.

The Narrative speaks further with Doomsday, to clarify Their intentions. They reveal that all the other Thursday souls Doomsday had been previously bonded with when Doomsday was a ghost are now a part of The Narrative, explaining the same to her that They did to Thursday. They explain that choosing to ascend and join the collective means choosing to die, and that They will be with her and support her decision no matter what.

Thursday is still ascending the staircase. The Narrative explains that the process of ascension is individual to each person and only that person will know when they are ready. After hours of traveling the staircase, Thursday is stricken by painful memories of when her mother was diagnosed with a terminal illness and is almost rendered unable to continue. The Narrative firmly encourages her to get back up and continue ascending. After much struggling, Thursday is able to continue, only to discover a few steps later that her struggles are only beginning.

September, antagonized by Oleander (who is in her phone, which is floating around inside her gelatinous body), makes a bold move and enters the energy jet in search of a way into the rift to see if she can retrieve Thursday and Doomsday from wherever they ended up.

While ascending, Doomsday is reminiscing about her life and realizing that there is too much she missed about it while she was a ghost. She realizes she does not want to die. She expresses this to The Narrative and also tells Them that she wants to take Thursday back home too, at which points she is told she cannot, that Thursday must make her own choice. Doomsday refuses to let it go at that. The Narrative tells her that she must figure it out on her own then, but hints that she is on the wrong stairs. Doomsday breaks out of the staircase again, finds Thursday’s stairs on the opposite side of her own, and runs off to find her.

Thursday continues her ascent of the staircase, encountering voices from her past criticizing her. She nearly gives up, but The Narrative encourages her to "Rise" and "Ascend". She is finally able to get back up and continue, at which point she transforms into The Narrative itself, and has finally ascended.

Doomsday is running up the stairs when the tower breaks apart. She falls and ends up back in the Office, screaming for Thursday, who she wasn't able to reach.

September is also thrown back out of Dimension 42, but not before witnessing the cosmic horror that Thursday has become, although she doesn't recognize her as such. She lands back in the Office on top of Doomsday, squishing her, much to her dismay.

Doomsday and September are drawn outside by Dorian, who has witnessed a strange thing in the sky. Doom recognizes that the thing is Thursday, now The Narrative. They have a brief talk, where Thursday says they should all start a new narrative and go from there.

That is basically the end, although this story has no real end, because it's only the beginning.

Please let me know in a comment if you'd like for your muse to continue interacting with mine in the main verse, or if you would prefer for things to be AU going forward. That would help me out a lot! Thank you!

#📝 the author #please let me know in a comment if you want to

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khaosundivided · 1 year ago

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He’s building a snowman.

Well. A snow...creature. Something. It’s definitely a shape with eyes...

#Not Dead Yet ( Muse Status );#//home :3c

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bandaged-writer · 2 years ago

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𝗔𝗞𝗥𝗔𝗦𝗜𝗔 [𝟬𝟭] — 𝗗𝗔𝗭𝗔𝗜 𝗢𝗦𝗔𝗠𝗨

akrasia. lack of self-control

pairing. mafia! dazai x executive! reader

genre. romance, mystery + smut

warnings. mori, dazai's musings of dying

words. 663

summary. among the graves, you reminded him of the faceless angel statues.

note. this story came to be, because i'm horribly obsessed with makima

masterlist || ao3 || next

Above the graveyard, scarlet bled into the lilac sky and blackened branches of naked trees spread across the heaven’s canvas like capillaries. A gentle breeze passed by, rousing leaves and a group of birds that flew away to seek shelter from an incoming storm.

“As you know, I want to see you in the executive ranks, Dazai,” Mori spoke in calm tones, yet something cunning was woven underneath the surface. Something that Dazai couldn’t quite place; or maybe this was merely Mori’s usual persona. “You will need a letter of recommendation from either myself or an executive,” he explained. “As much as I would love to write such a letter, I can’t. Or else, I’d be accused of favoritism. That’s why I’ll have you join a special someone’s side.”

Dazai followed Mori through the empty graveyard. Faceless statues of angels acted as protectors of the dead, as guide to the afterlife. A path which the brunette desired to go down rather sooner than later, in hopes of finding something that exceeded his abyssal expectations. If life couldn’t manage to leave him thunderstruck, then death certainly could, right?

“A special someone?,” Dazai echoed, brows raised in mild interest. Rarely did the boss of the Port Mafia ever call anyone special. Only a handful of times did this certain word fall from his lips and usually, it wasn’t a positive association.

Mori pushed his dark hair out of his face, let his hand disappear into the depths of his coat’s pocket and suppressed something like a worried sigh. “She is one of my top 5 executives, however..” His gaze wandered over to Dazai, standing a mere handful of meters behind him. “You will also act as a safety measure.”

Caught in a brief moment of stasis, a raven landed on a groaning branch. Curiously, the animal regarded Dazai with its ruby eyes, scanning him from head to toe as if it was assessing his worth as a human being. Tough luck, Dazai thought.

He had failed to be a proper, functioning human being from the moment he was born. Never did he find his match, his equal, someone or at least something that genuinely fascinated him. Perhaps, an ill-fated star had cursed the bloody threads of his fate.

“I get the feeling you’re scared of her,” Dazai commented then cupped his chin in thought.

Was it possible for the head of a crime organization to be scared of his own underlings rather than a likely assassination? The gears within Dazai’s head were turning, going round and round, trying to find a plausible reason for Mori to feel something akin to fear towards his own kin.

Loyalty was a fickle thing, it could be swayed like a chime in the wind. Money, family, the opposite sex and so many more factors could be the root of potential betrayal. It was as easy as turning your back towards the mirror; out of sight, out of mind, or so they said.

“There she is,” Mori announced. “The embodiment of control and domination. [Name].”

Dazai raised his gaze and was greeted by a calm smile upon your lips and a voice that was oh-so-lovely. The kind of voice that could sing him the lullaby of eternity and safely guide him into the afterlife. But your eyes were so pitiless.

Among the graves, you reminded him of the faceless angel statues.

They looked like his own, Dazai concluded.

“I suppose you’re the one they call the Demon Prodigy,” you greeted him kindly.

“And you’re the one they call the Control Devil.” He smirked. “Sounds like we’re on even ground.”

Was it reasonable for a monster to strip another off their humanity? Oh, the irony.

A smile graced Mori’s face, a wave of his hand promptly followed. “It’s good to see you again, [Name]. As you already know, someone is hunting down our executives. Take Dazai with you and solve the conflict as you see fit. You know what to do.”

#fic: akrasia #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #dazai osamu #dazai x reader #dazai osamu x reader

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k155355 · 1 year ago

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[(the Muse)] DRABBLE

Start: 07/24 — Finish 07/24

Links: Rules & Masterpost

DISCLAIMER!! SFW. None really.

Featuring: Bloody Painter & GN!Reader

It was a strange thing.

The rustling of people alike all flooded down the hallway — Older woman in turtlenecks and glasses gazed upon abstract pieces, the grazing hand of a young child passing their leggings. Children running around or eating snacks as parents takes sighs of relief at their little one finally calming down. Young couples and single teens may occasionally pass by. You stared fixated, unmoving, among the sea of bustling folk chattering their days away.

The museum was high in people. But it was quiet. Talkative, but low in volume. You had worried when walking in it’d be unbearably loud and leave you no mental space to admire the different pieces hung on the walls in their cases.

You saw small displays of miniature paintings, paintings that took the whole wall, paintings, that spoke an undeniable message through detail and emotion, and, paintings with provoking thought placed upon the shapes and colors.

You were out of place.

You were not apart of the picture.

Wealthy families, upper middle class and upper class folk alike wandered the falls of the museum. And then there was you. A seeming statue dead center of the hallway. People walked past you, some peeking behind them as you stood there in complete fixation. “Something”, they thought, “Something must be captivating”.

Your weight was supported by one leg, the other bent slightly at the knee. Your left hand was on your hip and the only was loosely hung around ur abdomen.

Everything was so much brighter than before.

The fluorescent lights seemingly “not doing their job” in ur opinion.

Your breath was shallow and slow.

You stood there in ur baggy pajamas from the night before; A baggy sweatshirt, plaid pajama shorts and slippers. Your only addition this morning being a thick scarf. It was cold.

Your messy hair was sticking out in places and the bags under your eyes were more prominent the longer stared, your eyes squinting - mind floating around unaware of the bleeding bright lights on the ceiling. Your brain didn’t notice, but you did. Yet wanted more light.

He sat there in a seat, a small commune area with a couple picnic tables. In his hand was a ballpoint pen and on the table was a small sketchbook. Your were staring at some random man, and you didn’t know why. You didn’t know why seeing some random man was one of the things you were looking at in this place of beauty. But you didn’t want to look away.

It was a moment of piece away from your life. A moment of inspiration.

Taking aside the tough times, you dragged yourself out of bed. The slowly crept down the sidewalk to the museum, handed the security guard an entrance fee and wandered the halls. Looking. Looking for something to strike a nerve with you. Something to show you a new perspective or something to give you an answer to what you’ve been desperately searching for what seemed like forever now.

But it wasn’t some centuries old paintings or some new art from the painter down the road. It was man in a blue button up and black dress pants. He looked well off. He looked peaceful. Something you do desperately craved. His black hair waved over his face, his eyes unknown to you. His pale skin seemed to glow, and his calloused hand held the pen with dainty care.

You didn’t know what to do. You didn’t know what to think.

You were just staring.

Looking at a man you’ve never seen before in your entire life. A man that was so put together. Someone who didn’t look like their homeless, or some kind of druggy. Someone who could go their entire life without ever caring to know who you were or what you were doing. Someone who knew what they were doing.

Your heart ached. You didn’t know why.

This was all a moment of peace you didn’t expect, yet it all came fading away when his hair moved. His blue eyes came into view and he looked up for a moment, scanning the room, stoping when his gaze landed on you. He stared for only a moment before retreating back into his sketchbook and scribbling. A beautiful glass was drawn on his paper alongside other doodles at the bottom. But, in truth, you weren’t paying attention.

It was a drooping feeling. Something that grounded you. A single look - a single look to make you realize how weird you look. Slowly leaving the pose you were in, you glanced around and found no one looking at you. That was your cue to leave.

#creepypasta x reader #x female reader #x female y/n #x you fluff #x ftm reader #x m!reader #x male reader #creepypasta #creepypasta x male reader #creepypasta x you #creepypasta x female reader #creepypasta x y/n #creepypasta yandere #creepypasta fanfic #Creepypasta bloody painter #bloody painter

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pengychan · 2 months ago

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[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 25

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: E Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** Sometimes, the session goes smoothly and the characters complete their mission without setbacks. This is not one of those sessions. ***

As he would one day tell an unlikely group of adventurers in the equally unlikely setting of a high-end brothel - not the most fitting backdrop for a dramatic tale, perhaps, but why say no to some luxuries? - Raphael was indeed there when Netheril fell.

Eileanar had been floating over the High Forest at the time, and it was not someplace Raphael had visited often while carrying out his duties as the Steward of Avernus. Unlike most archdevils, Bel did not have a cult of his own in the Material Plane. With all his efforts directed to the Blood War, he was not interested in creating and growing one either,

“The other layers owe us souls to support a war which protects them,” Bel had said with a shrug, one time Raphael had brought up the matter. “We have no need to go seek them out the way they do.”

Still, a few extra souls were never unwelcomed. Raphael had taken to using his spare time to return to the Material Plane; it was not that he had in any way missed that plane, but he had always taken pride in a job well done, something he had a talent for. So whenever he had the chance he returned among mortals, making contracts as he used to do when he lived at his father’s court.

Some souls would go to Avernus, others he’d keep for himself; Bel did not mind. Perhaps, he’d mused, he may make a few deals for a warlock or two of his own, if a good chance presented itself. That day, however, he was not in Eileanar to win a soul, or take on his first warlock - although he was talking to someone who was very interested in becoming one. He was there because he’d been told by his sources that something was about to happen.

Karsus has created something special, they whispered. A crown, to become more powerful yet, as a god. He wishes to do something extraordinary.

It seemed a ridiculous notion, but Karsus was the most powerful archmage to ever have lived - not something anybody in Cania would say before the archmage of the Hells - and it had piqued his curiosity. There was some merit to the claims, he felt it in his very bones. So he was there on that fateful day, listening to the bleating of a woman eager to have him as her patron with only half a mind but mostly gazing around, waiting to see what that something would be.

It was safe to say that an archwizard attempting to wrestle godhood over all magic from Mystryl herself - and destroying the Weave as a result, for a handful of deadly moments that brought to the abrupt end of a mighty empire - was not quite the something he had expected to happen.

As a half-fiend, Raphael was born a spellcaster. A sorcerer, his father would say with all the disdain only a wizard could possibly put into that word, and Raphael had been careful not to wonder too hard if that disdain had played a role in his decision to lean more into his bardic tendencies than on the sorcery which was his to wield from birth. But with all magic gone, neither came to his aid when something gave way beneath him - the entire city. Unable to plane shift, he plummeted towards the ground alongside it.

Dying in the Material Plane would be no great tragedy, as he’d return unharmed to Avernus as all fiends did, but the notion of shattering to the ground, his body exploding into a fine mist along with every other screaming creature around him, was unpleasant enough to fill him with a sort of terror that he’d have struggled to put into words later, if he ever bothered to.

Had he been in his human form, unable to switch back, he’d have experienced his first death that day. But he’d been wearing his cambion form, showing the aspiring warlock he was precisely what he claimed to be, and he’d hand wings.

Even with his magic gone, he required no arcane power to become airborne: only sheer muscle power, using all his strength to escape the powerful winds caused by the entire floating city’s fall. But escape he did and when he turned in mid-air, screams still ringing in his ears, the sight of what Karsus had brought upon his own empire left him breathless. Eileanar was not the only city to fall. In the distance he saw more floating cities plummeting to the ground, every creature upon them fated to die screaming.

Above, there was a sound like the crack of thunder. Raphael looked up, away from the mortals whose screams were so abruptly silenced, and for a moment he saw him: Karsus the archmage suspended in mid-air, something glinting on his head.

He felt it, a new godhood taken by force for one blinding instant before it was ripped away once more. He saw Karsus move, saw him reach up and then go still. He saw him turn to stone, and fall the same way his cities had. And most of all, he saw the glinting something which had made a man into a deity for one single, shining instant fall to the ground with him.

A simple human, wielding godly power if only for a moment. What could a devil do with that? What could I do with that?

Karsus had seen himself a benign new god of magic, bent to ensure the Netherese empire would never fall. Raphael saw himself on the throne of Avernus and on the throne of Cania, on the throne of every layer in-between, on the throne of Nessus itself. He saw Asmodeus broken at his feet, he saw his father forced to bend the knee and bow his head to swear fealty to him. He saw every fiend at court who’d ever mocked him cower in terror, and he saw himself forcing them to keep living in fear while holding all their lives in his hands.

He saw himself ruling the Hells, he saw himself ruling the Material Plane and Celestia and everything in-between. He saw himself as a god, never to be looked down on again .

Few devils are ever satisfied with their station, those with my blood least of all. It's what we're meant to endure, this hunger for more, Mephistopeles had told him not long ago. You wish to reach out and take, because what you're handed can never be enough.

But perhaps this would be enough after all, a crown to make him as a god - if that did not end his hunger, then nothing ever would. Worth a try, was it not?

As Mystra came into being and magic hummed back into existence, too late to save any but a few cities of a once mighty empire, Raphael beat his wings and dove to the ground, after what would remain his greatest desire and obsession for centuries to come.

***

“I still maintain they could have saved us a lot of time, if they’d brought us to the scab directly instead of forcing us on the worst ever road trip.”

“We have grown more powerful in the journey. I suppose there is that. Learning to fight devils may yet serve us well.”

“Do you always have to think up a bright side, love? I’d like to complain, if you don’t min--”

“Well then, complain under your breath. This is not the time to let ourselves be caught,” Raphael snapped, cutting him off. Or at least, Astarion could guess that was Raphael, under the guise of a tiefling with storm-gray skin. One annoying bit of these illusion spells was that he was never sure who he was talking to.

Was the half-orc Karlach, or was it Wyll and Karlach was the elf? It had taken him an embarrassing amount of time to work out the halfling was Halsin, and Durge was the drow. It all seemed a bit useless, since the plan was not to get spotted and Zariel herself surely would not be fooled by a simple illusion… but in case someone did spot them before they got to her, it didn’t hurt to be careful - especially with Karlach and Wyll’s faces likely well known around there. At least, Astarion couldn’t complain too much about his own guise.

He looked devastatingly handsome as a human too. Or at least so Durge had told him, ever the flatterer. Astarion opened his mouth to inform Probably Raphael that he was going to complain how he pleased, only to trail off when yells, curses, and the creaks of massive chains reached his ears. They peered from behind the boulder they were all crouched by to see that gigantic chains were being pulled, and the Flying Fortress was being lowered to the docks. Droves of low-level devils were preparing to secure it in place, and send souls directly from the Styx into the engines keeping the entire, immense structure afloat.

According to Karlach, it would take several hours for the Fortress’ refill. “It’s the only time you can be sure to find her in, too, instead of mowing down demons in the middle of a battlefield,” Karlach had said. Above them the fortress was massive enough to make the House of Hope look like a fisherman’s cabin in terms of size, but it exuded none of its elegance. It was a brutal construction carved out of black stone and infernal iron, with turrets and cannons on every side - more war machine than residence. “The docking is when the Fortress is at its most vulnerable, and she knows it, so she always remains in it to defend it,” Karlach had added, like that monstrosity could ever be called vulnerable . “It makes her restless, though-- well, more restless. There were times I could swear she was hoping for an attack.”

Well then, Astarion supposed it was time to make her happy and give her just that. “This is her lucky day, then,” he commented. Fluttering above his shoulder, Lulu - no changing her appearance until they were in, or else the ring wouldn't fit - let out a noise that somehow sounded scared and excited at the same time.

“It will be lucky, I just know it! It has to be!”

“... Are hollyphants always so unbearably optimistic?”

“Most of us. I mean, I knew one who wasn't. Always the odd one out, so cynical all the time. She kept telling us that the Ride was a bad idea, and I think I was really rude when I told her to shut up.” A sigh. “Ah, that really wasn't nice of me, was it? She was only trying to warn me. And she was right too, even if she was always half in her cups.”

The drow - Durge - tilted their head. “... Are you speaking of Valeria, by any chance?”

A quicker flutter of Lulu's wings. “Oh, yes! You met her? Where is she? I should apologize for not listening. How is she?”

“In Baldur's Gate, last we checked. She did help us with the Netherbrain, and then… well, I'm not sure. She worked with the Flaming Fists, I suppose she went back to that.”

“Oh. Is she still, er…?”

“Entirely in her cups.”

“... Does sound like her.”

A sudden, whooshing sound covered whatever else Lulu may have tried to add. At the Stygian docks, a huge contraption had been lowered to the water, sucking up souls. It was the signal they had agreed upon, and they each dug into their pockets for their rings.

Time to find out if Bel's agents have fucked it up, Astarion thought. He looked up, met the others’ gazes for a single, long instant - and then, finally, he put the ring to his finger.

***

“Oh, you're finally here, pup. Took you long enough. But what fine company you've brought with you! Raphael, is it you? What an honor, even if it's only half of you who deigned to come - I imagine daddy dearest still holds the rest, yes? Could have done without the hollyphant…”

“You! You're the one who killed me!”

While half his companions threw themselves between Mizora and a rather furious hollyphant to prevent a most counterproductive fight, Raphael took the time to look around. The dungeons of the Flying Fortress, or at least that section of it, was empty of prisoners. It was easy to guess that whoever had occupied those cells until moments earlier had likely been on the receiving end of some peculiar rings. Not a bad idea, he had to admit. They would not have turned down a chance to escape any more than Raphael did, back when-- mother -- a mortal soul had been sent to give him the ring, in the bowels of Mephistar’s dungeons.

“Don’t lie, fiend! You put a dagger through my heart!” Lulu was yelling somewhere on Raphael’s right, entirely too loud for a covert mission, and caused him to turn back.

“And I loved it, don’t get me wrong,” Mizora replied, sounding rather bored and just a touch amused by the sight of several people holding onto one furious hollyphant to keep her back. “But it was not for my pleasure alone, I assure you. I was told you’d return to life within the Citadel, and that blasted place’s doors can only ever be opened in your presence. If you didn’t return to the Citadel one way or another, all of my pup’s pure heart would not have been enough to open its doors and reach the Sword. Which… you do have with you, do you not?”

As the hollyphant finally calmed down, if grudgingly, Durge reached into their bag of holding to pull out the sword, grasping it by the hilt rather than by the handle just to be on the safe side.

The sword glowed, and it caused Mizora to narrow her eyes, instinctively on edge before the celestial artifact. “As unbearably holy as I imagined,” she hissed, not coming any closer to it. “No wonder it may end her. Yet, none of you has turned angelic.” She clicked her tongue, and turned to Wyll. It was rather obvious that she could see easily through the illusion, and tell who was who at a glance. “No wings on you, pup. Not that I am not glad you’re keeping those devilish good looks I gave you, but… who plans to wield the sword, precisely?”

“Why, is it not obvious?” Raphael spoke, crossing his arms. “Zariel herself shall. Once she attunes to it, the archdevil Zariel is no more - thus meeting your demand.”

For a few moments, standing in the middle of the dungeon, Mizora said nothing and only stared at him as though she suspected he’d entirely lost his mind. Then she laughed, loud, mocking… but first, there had been that hesitation, that twitch of her mouth. “Oh! Oh dear. Daddy must have taken all your good sense, if you had any, alongside the half of you that was worth anything,” she muttered, the cold disdain in her voice just a touch too forced. “What makes you think Zariel would willingly attune to her old sword to become a celestial again? She can destroy that thing at will, and if she’s allowed to grasp it, she will--”

“What makes you so certain that she would not attune to it?”

That barest hint of hesitation, again. She was not, he could tell, all that certain. “It is everything she left behind--”

“Yet when you brought her old friend to her, she did not kill her.”

“Right, see!” Lulu shrilled, much too close to his ear. “ The power of friendship will save her!”

Raphael sighed. “Please refrain from destroying my argument as I'm making it,” he muttered, and allowed the illusion to dispel, leaving behind his human form. He and Mizora were never much of anything other than aware of one another’s existence, but they had met a couple of times in the Material Plane. She knew that face of his, and it would not hurt to remind her who she was speaking with. He’d lived far longer than she had, and was older than nearly any cambion ever got to be. She knew that much, and he knew she respected it.

When he stepped forward, she did not step back… but she did not laugh again, either. “No, she did not,” Mizora conceded, ignoring everyone else’s gaze on her to look back at Raphael. “But it does not mean she would want to go back.”

“When I decided to leave behind what I’d been in the Material Plane, I killed the woman who raised me. It did not work as I thought it would, but that is beside the point. I killed her. I had it in me and I did it. Whereas Zariel, mighty ruler of Avernus, couldn’t bring herself to harm what is frankly the most annoying hollyphant who ever came into existence. A fatal weakness, some would say.”

“Hey now--” Lulu began, only for several pairs of hands to reach out and cover her mouth, and for Raphael to entirely ignore her as he spoke again.

“When Zariel found her dead, did she know she would spawn again at the Citadel?”

“... No. No one here did. I was given that information by a different source.”

She did not name Bel, but she may as well have. “And did she mourn?” he asked.

Mizora pressed her lips together, and did not answer. As far as Raphael was concerned, it was a good enough answer in itself. He shrugged, and spread his arms as though to rest his case. “As I imagined. There is more of the old Zariel there than you’d like to admit. I suspect that is the reason why the conspiracy to dispose of her was put in motion - with, I am certain now, the knowledge and agreement of Asmoseus himself. She is cracking, and we are to take her out before those cracks lead to the fall of Avernus in the hands of demonic hordes.”

“... Couldn’t Asmodeus depose her himself?” Durge asked, and Raphael sighed. There he was again, he thought, having to explain the obvious.

“Of course he could. If so he wished he could depose any and all archdukes of the Hells - but this does not mean that he would, when he can get others to carry out his will. Replacing Bel with Zariel as the archduke of Avernus was a move that raised more than a few eyebrows at the time. It is not for me to say whether there was indeed a good reason for it, but the fact remains that if Asmodeus demotes her now to reinstate Bel, some may see it as an admission that he made the wrong decision then.”

“So he’d rather pretend he had no hand in it,” Wyll muttered, and Raphael nodded.

“Precisely. If Zariel is taken out by a force outside the Hells, and Bel seizes his chance… then the Lord Below will have obtained precisely what he wanted, with no direct intervention.”

Karlach made a face. “Ugh, hellish politics. They give me a worse headache than infernal wine the morning after a party.”

Mizora scoffed. “A lot of things more complex than the swinging of an axe give you headaches,” she muttered, but her words lacked bite. She looked back at Raphael, frowning. “A lot of clever words from Mephisto’s least favorite bastard,” she added, as though she too was not the result of a fiend’s dalliance in the Material Plane. A spurt of seed willed to quicken a mortal’s womb, as his father had so charmingly put it once. “But there is no guarantee your plan will work.”

Raphael tilted his head. “Zariel is powerful, and a warrior down to her bones. An attack may not work, either. If our plan works, we may yet take her out with no need to fight and risk defeat. Would you not say it is worth a shot?”

For a few moments, Mizora said nothing. In the end, she sighed. “... She was perfect,” she spoke in the end, frustration and something a lot like fury barely in check. “The only being fit to rule this layer, and I curse the day that thing was brought here. You ruined her.” She cast a look at the hollyphant which may very well have caused a mortal to drop dead.

From her part, the hollyphant in question glowered back. Honestly, it seemed as though Halsin’s outstretched arm in front of her was the only thing keeping her from trying to charge again. “You are the ones who brought her low. I’m going to bring her back. ”

“Why, you little--”

“We will present the sword to her,” Durge spoke up, putting the sword in question back in their bag of holding. “Whether or not she takes it is ultimately her choice, and we’ll act accordingly when the moment comes.”

“Mph.” Mizora scoffed, and glanced over at Karlach. “I am surprised, I must say. I thought you’d jump at the chance to end her, instead of trying to… what? Save her?”

Karlach scowled. “None of your business. We promised to get rid of the archduke of Avernus, and we’ll do that. How we do it is up to us.”

“Rude as always,” Mizora sighed, but she waved a hand. “Very well. If that is how you wish to go about it, I have no reason to stop you. As long as she is no longer an archdevil by the time you’re done, I do not necessarily oppose the idea of doing this without killing her.”

She doesn’t oppose it at all, Raphael thought, but did not say as much aloud.

“Well then,” Astarion spoke, glancing around the dungeon. “Where is Zariel, and most importantly how do we get to her without having to fight half or all the fiends in this fortress?”

Raphael smiled. “Why is it not obvious?” he asked. He picked something from the ground - a pair of manacles made of infernal iron. He held them up. “By bringing her some prisoners. ”

***

On the day an empire fell from the sky, Raphael came only minutes, perhaps moments away from being the phoenix which would rise from its ashes. He almost did get to the Crown of Karus, amidst the smoking ruins that had been Eileanar. Even in the midst of that devastation, the hum of its power called to him… but not to him alone.

Mephistopheles, archmage of the Hells, must too have known that something may happen that day - and for a moment, when he saw the dark blue skin and the wings of a fiend amidst what had once been a city, Raphael almost thought he had come face to face with his sire.

Then the fiend turned, and the fear and surprise fizzled out into anger. Standing above him, a black crown with three shimmering stones in his hands, was the Steward of Cania.

For the briefest moment, Raphael considered trying to attack, to wrestle the Crown from him; for that same brief moment, Adonides seemed startled to see him there. They stared at one another, the Steward of Avernus and the Steward of Cania, the exiled son and the dutiful servant of Mephistopheles. Then Adonides’ handsome features twisted in a mocking smile that did not reach his jet-black eyes. Dust and smoke covered the sun, yet those eyes shone.

“Steward of Avernus. This is an unexpected meeting indeed, but a fortuitous one. You came on time to witness me taking possession of the Crown of Karsus on behalf of the Lord of the Eighth,” he spoke, mockery in every word, before he tilted back his head and called.

Summoned by his cry, four gelugons appeared around him in a burst of cold, cold light - to act as witnesses, no doubt, as well as to act as a deterrent in case Raphael was truly foolish enough to try and attack. But of course, there was nothing he could do. Even if he could best all of them - and perhaps he could, in his Ascended form - the simple truth was that by Infernal law, the Crown now belonged to Mephistopheles, the master of the one who’d claimed it in his name. As a fiend himself, Raphael was beholden to that law.

As long as the Crown was in Mephistopheles’ possession, he could not touch it.

“Behold - this I claim for my master Mephistopheles, Lord of the Eighth, ruler of Cania, master of Hellfire, Archmage of the Hells!”

This too he claims as his, and he needed not lift a finger.

Fury clouded Raphael’s vision, threatened to choke him; he did not voice it but it had to show on his face, for Adonides chuckled, lowering the Crown.

“Do not look so sour, Raphael,” he said, still smiling in that way that told him clearly he would tell everybody in Mephistar about this, how he’d taken the Crown from under his nose. “Believe me, this trinket is in good hands. If anyone may uncover its secrets, it is your lord father. Lord Bel wouldn’t have known what to do with it,” he added, not knowing - or pretending not to suspect - that it was for himself and not for the Lord of the First that Raphael had come there, to try and claim the Crown.

He did not tell Adonides that, of course. He wasn’t that much of a fool. He only watched, in silence, as his father’s steward left with the Crown and headed to Mephistar - where the most powerful artifact created in thousands of years would collect dust in a vault alongside all of Mephistopheles’ novelties, trophies and projects, which inevitably failed to hold his interest.

But he would not give Adonides the satisfaction of seeing more of his fury. He did not move, said nothing, until he knew for a fact he was alone, the only living thing standing in the midst of utter ruin.

And then he raged.

***

The roar which rose from the bowels of the palace was faint, yet audible enough to make the entire hall - the upper crust of Mephistar enjoying a lavish banquet, nearly all pit fiends with the notable exception of a rather sour-faced steward Adonides - freeze, as though the glacial winds of Cania had somehow found their way into the heart of the citadel.

The silence that followed was brief, but it felt like hours to Dalah, who clutched the pitcher she had been carrying in silence. Another distant roar, and all eyes in the room shifted to Chamberlain Barbas. The one, everybody knew, who had been put in charge of the vaults’ new guardian.

There was a tittering laugh from one end of the table, where Justiciar Bele sat. “It seems to me, Barbas, that your charge is once again misbehaving. I heard he destroyed several servants and killed two guards only last week. Shall you bring it to heel permanently, as you said you did last time, or should you perhaps inform Lord Mephistopheles that the beast needs… correcting?”

The mere thought of Mephistopheles approaching Israfel, doing anything to him, made Dalah want to scream. Part of her wanted to plead to be sent back to work in the vaults instead of serving at those hideous banquets, where she’d been put to work on a whim, picked at random after some sort of incident befell the souls who’d been put to work there before.

It was lighter work, yet she’d despaired. How could she keep watch over him, how could she protect him, so far from the vaults where he dwelled? She could not, and each time she heard him roar in the distance she felt as powerless as she had on the day he’d been born.

She’d been helpless then too, feeling her life slip away alongside the blood, too exhausted to deliver the burnt lining of her womb. She’d seen Rahirek’s stunned face when he found her, the horror, the grief; she had seen him raise his sword to kill what must have been a vision of horror indeed, that creature nursing at her breast like a leech taking its fill of blood from a dying body. Yet he had stilled when she’d cradled it tight and raised a hand to protect it, when she’d spent her last moments pleading for her husband to let her offspring live so that he too could keep drawing breath, to not let her death be for nothing.

Now, it was worse. She couldn’t even plead, not without eliciting questions she could not answer.

I can make it stop, it’s me he wants, can’t you see? Are you all so blind you cannot see this only started when you took me from the vaults? Take me to him, let me soothe him, let him know that I am well.

At the end of the table, Barbas was standing with a scoff. “Bothering our lord is unnecessary. He is on the cusp of a breakthrough in his studies, and should not be disturbed for minor inconveniences. The creature can be brought under control quite easily, as long as the guards have enough nerve,” he added.

A lie, that: no guard in the vault was a match to Israfel’s perpetually ascended state. But the chamberlain did not want Mephistopheles to think he may have lost control of the new guardian to his treasures, plainly enough, and so lie he did. As transparent as that lie was, every devil at the long table pretended to believe it, only letting their lips curl in mocking smiles when Barbas left the hall with hurried steps.

In truth, everyone knew that Lord Mephistopheles was on the cusp of no breakthrough at all. He was rather in one of those dark moods of his, when he was alone in his quarters with none allowed even in the vicinity but ever faithful Duke Hutijin, guarding the doors to keep everybody else out.

Even so, it was not unusual to hear the horrifying noises coming from that closed off wing of the palace, the shrieks like those of the damned, the devastating onslaught of unleashed, uncontrolled arcane magic. Some murmured of horrifying experiments on souls, causing them to cry out so; others murmured, their voices even lower, that Mephistopheles’ fury and hatred would turn inward when alone and in such a dark mood - that once he destroyed walls and furniture he’d tear at his own robes, gouge deep lines across his own skin in his wrath, drawing black blood thick with rot and arcane magic.

“My consort may enjoy company upon occasion,” Duchess Baalphegor had once said, in a rare moment of talkativeness on the subject. “But there is company which he cannot bear when in a particularly foul mood, and unfortunately enough it happens to be his own.”

Whatever the truth was, the screeching would eventually cease and the Lord of the Eighth would emerge from his quarters dignified and even courteous as ever, no trace of destruction in his rooms, no marks on his face nor tears on his robes. Everyone would pretend to have heard nothing, just as everyone pretended not to know of the hellfire burning away beneath Cania’s ice… and so it would go on until the next crisis.

As of now, pit fiends were clearly happy to turn their gossip to an easier target - the chamberlain, and Israfel. “I heard he had to get the High Cantor in the vault to sing for it, last time, to soothe it,” someone said, and the comment brought laughter around the table.

“A voice so lovely, it can even tame that beast.”

“Rumor has it that Raphael was sweet on her, when he was young. And, well, whole.”

“Well, of course. A halfbreed she may be, but Lady Antilia is as beautiful as they come.”

“Rumor has it she was sweet on him, too.”

“Oh, that I do not buy for a second.”

More laughter, but Dalah was not truly listening, her gaze fixed on the door which had closed behind Barbas’ back, trying not to think how the chamberlain planned to bring Israfel back under his control. Worried as she was, she failed to notice another servant who was no servant at all leaning towards the only guest at the table who’d not laughed, and whispering something.

She could not, however, not notice the consequences of that quick, whispered sentence. Dalah turned just on time to see Adonides, steward of Cania, standing from his seat and saying something about work to be done as he took his leave. She went to move out of his way as he headed to the door, still clutching the pitcher, but a look from him was enough to make her still. He looked at her rather than through her, those pitch black eyes terrible to behold against the dark blue of his skin which so set him apart amidst pit fiends. Out of place, even, he who was native to Cania.

“You,” he said, his voice somewhat bored. “I’ll require your services.”

Dalah found herself staring, terrified as always when directly addressed by a devil who could destroy her with a gesture and hardly a thought. She bowed her head. “Duke Adonides, I am to serve here until further--”

“This is your further notice. It is an order, and I shan’t be questioned. Come,” he added, and went to step past her. Only then did he speak again, his voice only a whisper, meant for her ears alone. “Come, and you may yet help your son.”

He knows.

The realization sank in her stomach like a stone, and part of her wondered if it was a trap, but she forced herself to ignore it. You may yet help your son, he had said, and it was that sentence which got her to follow Adonides out of the room, her fingers still clenched on the pitcher. Behind her, the servant who was not a servant at all kept staring, quietly, before fading back into the coming and goings of servants and then disappearing entirely without anybody taking notice. Months since her banishment from Cania, not one fiend in court had taken notice of her presence but those she chose to turn to.

Lady Baalphegor had always known how to go unnoticed, when she had to.

***

Looking back later, Karlach would have to admit that thinking they could really make it all the way to the topmost floor of the Flying Fortress unchallenged had been maybe a touch optimistic on their part. Sometimes you’ve just got to hope something is going to go your way, even in the Hells - especially in the Hells - so that you don’t go completely insane.

And to be fair, they made it remarkably close to that top floor before it all went wrong.

Soul refills were always a busy time in the fortress. Actually, all times were busy times in the fortress, but refills would be busier. That meant that any devil they came across - some new faces, some fuckers Karlach remembered well - could do little more than spare a passing glance and a sneer when they saw her walking by, hands held behind her back by manacles which were actually not locked shut, with Wyll holding the end of the chain as he walked by Mizora’s side. “Got her in the end, Mizora?” some asked, gaining themselves a sharp smile.

“One of my warlocks turned out to be useful, for once.”

They laughed, then, half satisfied to see Karlach brought to heel - who did she think she was, thinking she could escape what they could not? - and mostly envious that they were not the ones to succeed in the task and earn Zariel’s favor… as if her favor was ever anything but bad news. The sneers did tend to die down when they noticed what came after them - a hollyphant, that hollyphant, seemingly back from the dead, with a manacle around each limb.

They plainly did not recognize the others - Raphael’s human form was not so widely known in the Hells, he’d assured them, and it seemed he’d been right - but they could very easily guess they were headed to Zariel. A few words from Mizora sent anybody in the mood to ask more questions scurrying away.

Soon enough they were as far up as the mechanical elevator allowed, not quite to the top but almost; close enough that Karlach could almost sense the dread that came with Zariel’s mere presence, overpowering, worse than the smell of iron and the constant, constant humming noise in the background. That noise had almost driven her insane several times, to the point she’d even been relieved to hear it drowned out by the thunderous bangs of infernal weaponry a few decks below or above, by the roar as engines were pushed to their limit.

Even being ordered to go on the ground and fight had been a relief, sometimes. Better than being in the fortress, which felt so much like a gigantic coffin waiting to claim her for good, all stone and infernal iron, glowing runes spelling some bullshit she could never read on the walls. And now there she was again, by her own choice.

“How big is this place?” Astarion whispered when they stepped out the elevator, when he realized there were yet more flights of stairs to go up before they reached the top.

“Fucking big, but we’re almost there,” Karlach whispered back, and looked over at Mizora. “You sure Zariel is going to be alone? Flo was always around her, like a very ugly lap dog.”

A light scoff. “Of course I made sure that wouldn't happen. I ensured she took her barking somewhere else.”

“Good. That's a face I'd rather never see again,” Karlach muttered, and of course - of fucking course - she didn't get her wish. Speak of the devil and all that.

“We only have one chance to talk her into reverting to her old self,” Raphael said, and glanced sideways at Lulu. “I certainly hope that speech of yours--”

Whatever he was about to say next, they never got to hear it. The ring at Raphael's finger glowed suddenly - stupid stupid they should have all taken them off - and before any of them had the time to react, there was a burst of light. It was bright enough to force Karlach to close her eyes against it but even, so knew precisely who she'd see standing in Raphael's place before she even opened them. The laugh alone was a dead giveaway, loud and obnoxious and almost like she meant it. Somewhere on her left, she heard Mizora mutter a curse that had something to do with Graz'zt cock for some reason.

“Hey, Karlach,” Florenta the Garroter spoke with a wide grin, the ring still glowing at her finger. “Long time no see.”

***

“Obey, damn you! I command you , obey!”

It was rare for a devil of the chamberlain’s ilk to give away what they were truly feeling, but even Dalah could sense the not-too-subtle panic beneath Barbas’ imperious orders. He was standing several paces away from Israfel, one hand lifted, struggling to gain a hold of him through… whatever magic he’d been granted to do so, she supposed.

It kept the burning ascended fiend at bay, but that was it; Israfel still stood over the charred remains of what may have been either guards or servants. Rather than retreating, he roared.

“Duke Barbas, perhaps we should--”

“Be quiet, is what you should do, while I bring it to heel!”

Barbas’ fist clenched, lifted up in the air, some sort of dark magic shimmering around his fingers; it made Israel’s roar turn into a strangled noise of pain and he staggered back, making clicking noises in the back of his skulls. He was hurting, and still he raged.

“Whatever it is you do that calms him, do it,” Adonides had hissed when he brought her to the vault, putting her in place of another soul cowering by the door and taking her away to serve at the banquet hall instead, to her utter relief. “Bring him under control before Barbas is forced to turn to Mephisto, and he decides his volatile new guardian is too much hassle to keep alive. He is not in a merciful mood as of late.”

Is he ever, Dalah had wanted to ask, but she had enough sense to keep quiet and pushed her way through the cowering servants, to the doorway from which the roars came. There was nothing Dalah ever did to calm him; not the way the High Cantor could soothe him with her voice. She did nothing, other than being there… and she could only hope it would be enough now, too, that he wasn’t too far gone.

Heart hammering somewhere in her throat - how curious that she’d still feel such sensations when she truly was nothing but soul and ether, her actual heart dust somewhere on another plane - Dalah pushed her way to the front of the cowering mass, as close as she could get without angering one of the guards, and tried to catch Israfel’s eyes. If she could no longer calm him-- she didn’t even want to think of it.

“We need all of him to be safe,” Haarlep had said. “I’d rather find you both still here when I return.”

To her relief, it only took moments for Israel to see her. Those unnatural yellow eyes paused on her, and he went very still, the roar that had been building in his chest toned down to a growl, more questioning than furious.

Unaware of the fact it was not him the creature was looking at, Baras let out an unpleasant, barking laugh.

“Yes! Know your place, you wretched thing, and obey me, in Lord Mephistopheles’ name!”

Oh gods, please shut up, Dalah thought. If the way one of Israfel’s eyes shifted to him and he growl in the back of his throats ratcheting up were of any indication, her son-- what is left of him -- was thinking precisely the same thing. If probably without the ‘please’, and with a ‘or else’ tacked at the end.

Dalah shook her head, as subtle as she could, and to her relief all eyes shifted back to her. Obey, she mouthed, and Israfel let out a huffing sound… but the fury was gone, and he was no longer beyond reason. To her utter relief, he finally backed down with a shake of his heads. She let out a long breath and glanced around to make sure no one had noticed her, but it seemed no one had.

Hard to pay attention to a measly human soul, she supposed, with an ascended fiend and the chamberlain of Mephistar facing off just a few paces away.

“... Mph. See, it can be brought under control. You only need to be assertive, you imbeciles,” Barbas spoke, as though his voice hadn't almost cracked when Israfel had roared. He said more, the usual mix of bragging and assurances that now the creature would certainly behave, no need to bother the Lord of the Eighth over it.

Orders were given to clear the corpses and call in more guards, more souls to resume the work. Dalah kept her gaze low, lest she be recognized as someone who was serving him wine in the banquet hall not half an hour ago, but it was a useless precaution. No one bothered to remember a debtor's face, and the chamberlain made no exception.

It was a relief when he left, a relief to be once again in the vaults. The other souls and the guards were on edge, moving slowly and as far from Israfel as they could, but she felt lighter than she'd had in days. As long as she was there, he'd behave. As long as she was there, he was safe… just as she'd promised Haarlep, before they left to try and assist her son’s other half, all the way up to the first layer of the Hells.

“Be careful up there. I’d rather see both come back.”

As she took on her usual work, acutely aware of the fact her presence alone made all the difference when it came to Israfel's survival, she wondered how the other half of him - that human half she barely had a chance to look at, the one which looked like her but whom she could only think of as Raphael, the name Mephistopheles had chosen - was faring all the way up in Avernus.

***

Raphael was not easily surprised.

Part of the reason why he'd lived as long as he did was that he could always predict several outcomes for his every move, and made contingency plans for each. In most cases, he had contingency plans for the contingency plans. Granted, it was not infallible - for example, he had not accounted for the sheer insanity of a gang of mortals choosing to infiltrate his House of Hope and steal for him. He was not impossible to surprise but still, it was no easy feat.

When he was transported back outside the Fortress in the blink of an eye, finding himself back under the red sky of Avernus and surrounded by a couple dozen armed barbazus as well as a few hamatulas, he would have had to admit he was very surprised indeed, if anyone bothered to ask him. However, none of the devils around him was in a conversational mood.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” a broken, bleeding thing that may have once been a tiefling was choking out, curled up on the ground. It didn't take a lot of guesswork to tell she had to be the prisoner Mizora had swapped for Raphael… and there were no rings at any of her fingers now.

Of course. Seven prisoners swapped for seven intruders, and the one to get caught simply had to be my replacement.

“They caught me while I tried to get away, they made me tell them, she made me tell her--”

With a guttural roar, one of the barbazus brought down his glaive into the tiefling’s throat, silencing her for good. As she gargled, drowning in her own blood, every guard's eyes turned back to Raphael. Lips were pulled back on gleaming fangs, weapons were raised, and they growled. It was clear that there would be battle, and a very unbalanced one to boot. His companions were nowhere to be seen; they were still in the Fortress, dealing with whomever had taken his place there. He was on his own.

Raphael closed his eyes, drew in a long breath, and muttered a single word that, however crude, summed up his predicament quite accurately. Concisely, too.

“Shit.”

***

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