#a shade darker than red chapter 2

[butchkaramazov]

A Shade Darker Than Red: Chapter 2

Ten years had passed by in the blink of an eye. Paro and I saw each other often—while coming back from tuitions, we stopped to treat each other to rabri kulfi—other times, our mothers met up and sent us away to Paro’s room to talk about whatever.

That day, ten years ago, Maa had indeed freaked out when she came home. After an hour-long lecture and a peck on the forehead, we walked down the block with a box of rasgullas as I hung onto her elbow, feet barely brushing against the pavement.

Our mothers had a lovely chat while we pretended to organise a court case with our Barbies. It was certainly weird, now that I think of it—but it was a start.

At fifteen, we had grown closer still. Papa appeared in my dreams often, but if I stole Paro’s cologne and wore it myself, he would slowly fade into the background. Sometimes, when I woke up sweating, I felt a warm hand on my shoulder, gently guiding me back to reality. It was Paro—I knew it by the way her fingers splayed across my shoulder, her nails digging into my bones, crushing the marrow open. I want to see, Renu. Let me see the words written inside you. Is it still red?

When I turned, it wasn’t Paro. It was thin air. 

Red air.

But when I held Paro’s hand, swinging it as we sang Kishore Kumar in the wrong key, it was white.

It was normal.

It was nice.

When I held Paro’s hand, Papa seemed as much of a myth as the Gods.

As the day of our board examinations grew nearer, Paro began to come over more often. She was exceptional in the Sciences—whereas I excelled in neither, deciding to rot away in my bedroom, writing things on red paper only to crumple it up and throw it in the red dustbin.

Paro, on the other hand, made chemistry—the demon king of the Sciences—seem like a tiny kitten—a thing to adore, not be frightened of. 

After her daily ‘coaching’, as I liked to tease her, she shut the door to her bedroom and practised bharatanatyam. Sometimes, she allowed me to watch her practice. I always went in with my notebook, in case inspiration struck at the strangest of times. Once she started dancing, however, the pen remained tucked behind my ear.

She had been dancing since she was nine—and yet, she moved like an apsara who had spent her immortal life doing nothing but dancing—she moved like a wild deer, a fierce, glazed look in her eyes; her every step falling on beat, making the ground shake. She was mercy, she was ruthlessness. She was dark, she was light. She was Kaali, she was Parvati.

She was mine, and she was not mine.

One evening, one of the many nights when she allowed me a glimpse into her divinity, I caught sight of things I had refused to acknowledge before—the slight tremor of her fingers when she held a mudra for far too long, how her eyes grew darker when the sunlight clouded her with its divine embrace, a vein throbbing in her temple, a stray strand of hair falling over her face as she held her stance, glaring defiantly at who knows what.

And just like that, the music stopped.

Paro clapped her hands and beamed at me. “So, how was it?” she asked, breathless.

“Great,” I breathed. Divine, on the tip of my tongue.

Even in her slightly frayed shirt and messy bun, she looked like a goddess shrouded in sunlight. And oh, how I wished to be the sunlight. Her sunlight.

“Oh, you,” she chuckled, swatting my shoulder playfully.

“Oh, you,” I repeated under my breath.

@avani-amulya @manujanolavu @nirmohi-premika @lovesickpdf @arachneofthoughts @sonilaalbindi @desi-yearning @alhad-si-simran @thatpagalchokri @trashmeowcan @waitingforthesunrise @vellibandi @thesunandstarss @chanda-chamke-cham-cham if you want to be added or removed from the taglist, please let me know<3

ok this is slightly unhinged. c'mon, we all are :')

[starrysharks]

OK heres zeno coloring tutorial 2.0 !!!! i'm gonna do it kind of in chapters i guess?

chapter 1: choosing base colors

when i'm choosing base colors i always pick everything based on a specific off-white! my 'default' off-white is this kind of very light cyan color but i change it regularly based on character designs/environment/lighting whatever,, examples here!

for callie in this piece, i based everything off of this pinkish color! her skin tone, tentacles, outfit etc are all chosen to harmonise/contrast with the pink color

and with this piece, i used a slightly darker blueish color as they're in space but there's still a lot of light... and the lighter colors in the background (the explosion) make a sense of depth i guess? i used that blue color and chose similar cool colors to harmonise with it!

so i more or less base the tone of the colors in the piece off the off-white! warm off-white = warmer colors (like the nova valentine's day art) and cold off white = cooler colors (like the explosion nova and paro art). but i switch up this formula often !!

chapter 2: coloring specific things

here i'll go over some specific textures and stuff like skin and hair ... skin first !!

for skin, i like to use a variety of tones! there are different ways to draw cooler and warmer skintones that other people have gone over way better than i have but basically for skin i use this part of the color wheel and pick the darker tones of oranges/reds/pinks etc. (for darker skintones, i go to the middle of the color square thingy, and for lighter tones, i usually slide down the upper-right side)

when it comes to shading skintones, it's pretty straightforward, just a darkish-purple and a pinkish color on 100% multiply, and i always add a little shadow on the nose and blush becuz i think it's cute

(also i like to add reflective spots on darker skin tones sometimes because 1. darker skin tones reflect in real life and 2. it's fun)

next up is hair... this is very specific to my artstyle but i like to add 3-6 long oval line thingies to the hair to mimic reflection ! it looks cool, it's a good way to show off different colors in the design and i like to switch it up sometimes based on a character's personality!! (like how the frye pic above has a lighting bolt shaped hair thing, or how my teto design has a wing shaped hair thing to mimic her wings in her chimera form!) (note: it doesn't always need to be lighter than the actually hair color and it usually isn't)

for other materials like metal, screens, etc etc... i just add random X marks lol... and reflections!!!

(also, just a general thing, but adding little saturated lines to shading really adds depth and color imo!!)

i would put more tips with refs but tumbles only allows 10 images per post ;w; so i will simply close off by saying don't be afraid to add overlays and filters to your art!! overlays can really help harmonise colors and filters like brightness and contrast can help colors pop... try not to completely rely on them for color choice tho!!

and that's basically it !!! this is not a definitive 'how to draw/color' post... i am not a color theorist... i just wanted to show people how i choose colors cuz a lot of people say they like my color choices! honestly i don't know much myself but i hope that this and the philosophy of 'do what looks good' will help you all o_ob thank you and goodbye

[eoieopda]

menace (pjm) — pt. ii

“Be careful with that lip,” he warned in a thick voice dropped low, “Pout like that again, and I might bite it.”

Pairing: Park Jimin x Kim!Reader Type: 2/6 (Mini Series) ⇢ Previous Chapter | Masterlist Word Count: 6.5K Content: (General) Seokjin’s younger sister AU; fuck buddies that hate each other; reader is AFAB & queer; surprise cameo by my current dream girl. (SMUT | 18+) this part is written in sort of an omniscient POV; brat-tamer!Jimin & brat!Reader; oral sex (m); manhandling; spanking; slight degradation & spit kink; unprotected sex (p in v); safe word in place (unused). A/N: Absolutely re-worked a shit ton of this part after “Smoke Sprite” dropped because I needed this cameo to happen 😵‍💫 I'm gonna put the tags in the comments this time because Tumblr has been shitty about them lately, lol.

Immediately after Jimin left you in that green room, dangling off a ledge, you did your best to bury that blush on your cheeks in pressed powder. The lip balm he was wearing when he kissed your temple caused that powder to cling where you didn’t want it, and it left you with two options:

You could uproot the flawless base you’d created prior to his unwelcome arrival, spend time you didn’t have destroying evidence. Alternatively, you could pretend not to notice the faint lip print shining in a shade just slightly darker than the rest of your face. Even if it was more or less invisible to the naked eye, it was a flashing, neon sign to you.

And just like that, his unanticipated crumb of affection made sense. So, you grabbed a makeup wipe from the travel-sized package you brought with you and set back to work.

That motherfucker.

When you’d gathered yourself to the best of your ability, you glanced in the mirror. Still a bit flushed, still a bit shaky, but still deadly. Any other loner you'd run into wouldn’t stand a chance; and though your primary goal was paying off the orgasm debt Jimin had defaulted on, it didn’t hurt to consider how far up a wall it would drive him to watch you weigh your options.

You wouldn’t chalk it up to jealousy, the way Jimin reacted when he saw you convert strangers into acolytes. From where you were standing, that telltale clench of his jaw wasn’t precipitated by your habit of looking at anyone but him. More than anything, his problem likely had to do with the fact that it was you people were staring at — not him. The name of the game was desirability, after all; and Jimin seemed to really fucking hate it whenever you pulled ahead — collected more merit badges in the form of phone numbers.

Of course, he might not have hated it as much if you didn’t love rubbing his nose in it to the extent you did.

Upon walking out into the club’s private bar, the first face you caught sight of was that of your brother. Judging by the way he was sputtering, Seokjin was witnessing your weather-inappropriate outfit for the first time — and he was not handling it well. You rolled your eyes, refusing to give him and the burnt-red tips of his ears a second glance. If you did, he’d be launching himself over bar stools to force you into his winter coat.

Worse, knowing how reactionary he was when it came to you, it was safe to assume that he’d enucleate every wandering eye he found fixated on you. That wouldn’t bode well for the stranger seated at the center of the bar, whose whiskey-warm gaze in your direction was an invitation in and of itself.

Coincidence or kismet, it didn’t matter — the only open spot at the bar happened to be right next to her, whoever she was. She grabbed her clutch off the bar top in front of that unoccupied stool as soon as she saw you headed her way. Despite the distance, you could see the smirk working its way across her lips; and the nearly imperceptible dimple she’d unearthed in doing so.

Target acquired.

When you finally reached her, it was difficult to tell whether the slight tremble in your knees was due to the discomfort of your heels, or the sharp cut of her jaw jutting out beyond the razored edge of her hair. Pretending that it was neither, rather than both, you gestured to the open seat with a coquettish smile, “Saving this for someone?”

The stranger’s voice was deeper than you expected from someone as petite; it left your whole hopeless body vibrating.

“My Valentine,” she said with a dreamy sigh, and it sounded like a song. Mirroring the movement of your finger, she pointed nonchalantly to the stool, silently telling you to claim it. “Lucky for me, I think I found them.”

“Lucky for them,” you corrected, sliding into your seat and title simultaneously. Now with your elbow resting against the bar, you propped your chin up on the heel of your hand and narrowed your eyes thoughtfully. “If only they knew your name.”

The same finger that guided you to your spot raised to flag down the bartender. What else can it do? Killing two birds with one stone, she told the bartender which tab to put your drink on: “Hwang Soyoon —”

“Someak, please.”

“— but naekko works, too.”

It might’ve been the cheesiest line you’d ever heard, but goddamn, was it effective. You accepted your drink with a quick bow of your head, then even more quickly, you took a swig to calm the heat threatening to burn through your cheeks. Once the butterflies in your stomach were sufficiently drowned in alcohol, you set your glass back down on a coaster and picked up Soyoon’s hand in its place.

“You this smooth on the dance floor?” you asked as you tilted your head in the direction of your destination.

In lieu of a verbal response, she got to her feet and, with another smirk, she helped you to yours.

Two drinks and no small amount of shameless, wholly observable flirting later, you and your prize stumbled off the dance floor to reclaim your seats at the bar. Soyoon’s arm likely would’ve remained draped around your shoulders whether your heels hurt or not; but you had no qualms about playing it up, playing right into her hands.

Tragically, with you deposited safely on a bar stool, Soyoon’s hands slipped away — but not before her fingertips slid slowly down the length of your spine, leaving you to tingle hopelessly in her wake. Oh, for fuck’s sake, was it really that easy to get to you?

She ducked down and came in close so you could hear her over the music. “I’m headed for the restroom,” she said, “Don’t run away, yeah?”

Eyes wide and twinkling, you nodded obediently — albeit more enthusiastically than you wanted to let on — and you felt a small crack form in your nonchalant façade. Never were much good with a poker face, huh? Unable to cover it, the corners of your mouth automatically curved downward as she turned away. They didn’t stay there for long.

Several meters away, now unobstructed without Soyoon in front of you, stood Park Jimin. To put it mildly, he was incensed, angst radiating off of him like a smoke signal. His stony gaze pinned you where you sat; and those eyes narrowed further, flashing a shade darker when you raised both middle fingers. They were near to black when you used those neatly manicured fingertips to push the corners of your mouth into a shit-eating grin.

“Smile, fucker!” You mouthed.

Jimin, now positively glowering, held up his own middle fingers in response. This time, he didn’t imitate your smug antics. The look on his face was a bullet, hitting you hard in the chest and causing your body to clench on instinct, and your stomach to flip with anticipation. Oh, you were going to get it for this.

So, you figured, why not push that thorn a little further into his side?

Without stopping to think twice, you rose again to your feet. God, these fucking heels. You swallowed down the pain emanating from the balls of your feet and strutted up to him like it didn’t ache to do so. Unfortunately, none of the heads you turned in the process would suffice.

By the time you were halfway to his small, circular table, Jimin had already looked away. Drink held up to his lips, he sipped and stared coolly off into the crowd. Like you weren’t there, like you weren’t worthy of ongoing attention.

Liar.

He continued looking everywhere else when you slipped in beside him — when you flicked your hair over your shoulder and grazed his in the process — when you failed to conceal the pout beginning to form on your face.

This motherfucker.

Even as you glared up at him, Jimin ignored you. With a huff, you crossed your arms over your chest and shifted your weight from one leg to the other.

You played this game with him constantly but in reverse, allowing him to feel like he was invisible, like you couldn’t be bothered to register his presence. With that ego of his, you knew it stung — and you knew exactly how childish it was to hate the taste of your own medicine.

“You know, it’s rude to leer,” you breezed, “Worse, the optics are a bit… predatory, don’t you think? Weird, lone male shooting daggers at a couple of sapphics?”

He took another sip of his drink, set the glass down, and tilted his head to flutter his eyelashes at you. His tone was dripping in feigned innocence when he replied, “Would the optics be better if I left a pretty girl alone at a bar? What if I did it just to throw myself at someone else?”

You didn’t know why you felt the need to defend yourself, but you did; rushing headlong, right into the pitfall, “I didn’t leave anyone — she went to the restroom.”

Jimin smirked and nodded once over your shoulder, “Well, she’s back now.”

You quickly turned your head to see what he did: Soyoon rolling her eyes while you froze and Jimin waved at her with a frighteningly accurate imitation of friendliness. She was gone again in the blink of an eye, slipping off towards the door, before you could even dream of catching up to her.

Shit. Why were you like this?

“Poor baby,” he cooed with the world’s most patronizing frown. “Gonna pout some more?”

Already cutting your losses, you plastered on a saccharine smile, “Of course not.” Your fingertips whispered over his forearm as you leaned into his ear. With a voice that dripped dark and sweet like honey, you quoted him and watched his pupils blow, “I’m going to make you cry.”

Jimin grabbed his glass and tossed back the liquor that remained without flinching. Then, he leaned down, lips damn near touching your ear, and snapped, “Get your shit and meet me outside in ten minutes. If you’re late, you’re walking.”

You exhaled a laugh through your nose and raised an eyebrow, “Who said I wanted to leave with you?”

With how closely he was standing to you, Jimin had completely shielded you from the throng of people standing nearby. Cloaked in low light, his hand ducked under the hem of your dress so he could scrape his thumb nail over the spot he’d marked earlier with your own wetness.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he whispered darkly with eyes fixated on your mouth. He licked his lips, then emphasized each word: “Ten — minutes.”

Jimin disappeared and left you to stand there with a wildfire tearing through your insides. You waited until you knew he was gone to let go of the breath you’d unintentionally been holding, now a shaky gasp that died as soon as it hit the air.

It took you less than three minutes to race off to the green room and gather your coat, purse, and regrettably large makeup bag. Despite that fact, you made a point to stand a few meters from the club’s exit for what remained of your ten minutes. You stared down at your watch, still aflame, and watched the seconds tick by; smirking as you allowed one extra minute to slip away.

Eleven minutes after you’d parted ways, you slipped past Seokjin and out the back door to find Jimin leaning impatiently against his car with his arms crossed.

“Brave of you,” His tone was light, but his eyes were anything but. “You gonna be like this all night?”

You cocked your head to the side the way he’d done earlier. “I’m not sure what you mean, Park,” you said with your blinking eyes sweet enough to cause a cavity. “You gonna stand there, or are you gonna help me with these?”

He watched you raise your encumbered hands like your cosmetics were made of bricks, and let out a long-suffering groan. Jimin knew you were full of shit; you were the last person who ever needed — or wanted — his help. You were just an unmitigated pain in his ass, always. But he clearly had places to be and people to ruin, and your brattish behavior was once again interfering with well-laid plans.

When he crossed over to you, his footsteps kicked up a cloud of dirt that swirled in weak pirouettes around his ankles. In no time at all, he grabbed the bags you pretended to struggle with and carried them just as easily as you could’ve, if you deigned to lift a finger. He shot you a look that broadcasted: I’m only doing this to get your ass moving.

You giggled meanly as he dealt with your burden and sauntered off to the front seat of his SUV. It took a bit of effort to balance yourself on your fucking heels as you slid onto to leather, but you were immediately grateful to be off your feet again. Once you’d settled, you glanced down and realized how far the hem of your dress had shifted in the process.

In any other circumstance, you’d fix it, cover the dangerous expanse of your exposed, upper thigh. Now, though, you opted not to do a damn thing about it. Instead, you did what came naturally: you made it worse.

With a contented sigh, you kicked off your pumps and rested your feet on his dashboard, bare legs stretched out ahead until they crossed at the ankles. If your brother were here, he’d tell you that you were being rude; and in anyone else’s car, Seokjin would be right. Still, you knew it ate at Jimin whenever you did whatever improper thing you wanted.

You knew the way his cock twitched when he watched you not give a fuck; when you suckered him into doing menial tasks, like tucking your belongings into the backseat of his car. He’d never say so and you’d never ask, but there was no other explanation you could think of for why he gave in. Punctuating your thought, he slammed the back door and made his way to the driver’s seat.

Jimin slid into the spot next to you and immediately clocked the way the skirt of your dress had hitched up. He stared for a moment longer than he likely meant to, then his eyes trailed down your legs to find your bare feet resting on his dashboard.

“Were you raised by wolves?” He waved his hand at your legs with annoyance that only grew alongside your smirk. “Seriously, you’re a fucking animal.”

You let your head roll to your shoulder as you leaned over the center console. “Oh, you cut me, Park.” You teased and poked out your bottom lip out in a put-upon pout.

Adding injury to insult, you threw your hand up to your forehead in your best imitation of his usual theatrics — then, you let it drop. The back of your hand collided with his bicep as it fell; and it remained there long enough for him to reach out and grab it. His fingers encircled your wrist easily, doubling over and gripping hard.

“Be careful with that lip,” he warned in a thick voice dropped low, “Pout like that again, and I might bite it.”

You raised an eyebrow, silently daring him to try. To the contrary, Jimin let go of your wrist and pushed your hand off him so he could slide the key into the ignition. The engine sputtered without turning over, leaving you to wonder if it was going to start at all.

He scoffed, “See? Told you that if you weren’t here in ten minutes, you’d be walking.”

To both of your surprise, you exhaled a laugh — a genuine one, no less — at his little joke. It caught him off guard and caused him to chuckle, too, for just a moment before he stopped abruptly and muttered, “Shut up. I’m concentrating.”

“Like I’ve never heard you say that before.”

You rolled your eyes and then your neck to lean your head against the seat rest. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him shoot you an indignant look; but as usual, you ignored it. “Should I just leave then?”

When his exasperation briefly flickered over to confusion, you gestured out the window to a taxi parked nearby. If you ditched him now, you’d be home in five minutes instead of however long this was going to take.

“Patience,” Jimin growled as he wiggled the key and turned it again. “If you could — just once — stop bitching and wait —” The engine roared to life with one last turn of the key. “— you could wipe that miserable look off your face.”

You turned in your seat, genuinely offended, as he pulled out onto the street. “I look miserable?” You laughed hotly, “You look like a kicked puppy every time I see you.”

Jimin’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. “Did you ever think about the timing of that?” He fired back. “You think it’s a coincidence that I look like this whenever I’m confronted with that?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the road, but he did remove one hand to point it right at your face, which featured wild eyes and gritted teeth.

“I swear to God, it’s like you were designed in a lab somewhere for the sole purpose of sapping my will to live. How the fuck else does a person end up being this much of a nightmare?” Jimin was nearly shouting now. As his voice raised, so did your heart rate — so did your chest as you heaved forceful, angry breaths.

Though the heat of your seething bodies was starting to steam up the windows, you could still see the shadow of your tiny house approaching quickly from the middle distance. Throwing your arm out, you pointed to the driveway he was about to rocket past and snarled, “Fucking brake!”

Jimin begrudgingly did as you said. Your bodies both lurched forwards. Your seat belt gripped you the same way his arm had earlier, but when you crashed backwards, your back was flush to your seat instead of his chest. Just as suddenly as he’s braked, he whipped his car into your driveway and came dangerously close to your garage door before throwing the gear shift to park.

“You absolute fucking menace!” You smacked his bicep again, harder now, “Are you trying to forfeit my security deposit? Why don’t you just open my wallet a burn every won you find?”

With a grunt, you threw off your seat belt and let the end of it smack against the plastic molding as it returned to its resting place. He did the same, in the same manner you had, but went ahead to criticize you for your roughness.

“I only give a shit about the dents you’re so dead-set on making in my car,” Jimin spat. Turning abruptly to you, his hand darted out, dipped under your left leg, and prompted you to pull your feet down from his dashboard. “Your rental means dick to me.”

You rolled your eyes for the hundredth time that night as you slipped out of your seat, grabbed your heels, and slammed his passenger door shut behind you. Shoving your clenched fist into your coat pocket, you gripped your keys and pulled them out as if you were wielding a knife. Rage still simmering, you stomped barefoot up to your doorstep just to fumble with the lock on your front door.

As you struggled, the key slipped from your fingers and clattered down against the concrete patch below. That pin dropped from the grenade and exploded through the quiet. As you stared down dejectedly at it, your tiny growl came out like a whine.

Before you could snatch it off the ground, Jimin swooped in. “Give it here, crybaby,” he said while shooting you an exasperated look. With ease, he jammed the key into the lock, turned it, and shoved the door open.

The inner doorknob smashed against the wall of your foyer, and you rounded on him immediately. Jimin raised one finger in your face, and it stopped your shout before it could fly out at him. He stared straight ahead of him, positively seething, “If you mention your security deposit again, I’ll lose my goddamn mind.”

Beyond fed up, you huffed once more and stomped off over the threshold. You didn’t give a shit if he followed you.

As you tore down the hallway to your bedroom, you didn’t bother switching on any of the lights you passed. You were too busy throwing down your shoes and wrestling out of your jacket; leaving a trail of outerwear behind you as you went. Entirely incapable of caring that you’d created an obstacle course for the boy mere steps away.

Jimin staggered along after you, dodging the various items of clothing you’d left scattered across the hardwood. His jacket and shoes clattered to the ground on top of yours, thudding heavy like his pulse in his ears. Twin tornados as usual, you left a path of total destruction in your wake — every single time.

When he finally reached your bedroom, Jimin was panting. You were sitting and seething on the edge of your bed, trying desperately — and failing — to reach the zipper on the back of your dress. True to form, he leaned against the wall and watched you with quiet amusement but offered no aid.

Truthfully, he liked the idea of you wearing that stupid little number while he fucked you; he’d been marinating in that little fantasy all night. Unlike every other person in that club, Jimin didn’t have to imagine the curve of your ass underneath that red satin. He didn’t have to dream about kissing at your thighs the way the edge of that fabric did when you danced, or sunk down onto a bar stool and crossed one leg over the other.

No, Jimin had no quarrel with that dress — he felt equal to it, rather than robbed by it. He’d been everywhere it had and then some, a million times or more.

As he watched your frustration build, he wondered if you’d give up soon. His dick was swelling uncomfortably against his chinos, and he was beginning to lose his already limited patience. So, apparently, were you. Reaching behind your back, you gripped the sides of your dress in both fists and pulled — hard. You gasped as if it’d hurt you, but Jimin knew it would take much more than that.

There was the unmistakable sound of plastic breaking, and then the familiar look of triumph on your face as you stood. Your dress slipped off you like water and dropped dead in a pool of red at your feet. The mangled zipper was somehow still attached, but its teeth had been pried open. Jimin tried not to look impressed — your ever-present ego didn’t need to be bolstered.

You stepped out of the halo around your ankles and kicked it carelessly aside, vowing silently to replace the zipper tomorrow. You lifted your head, breathing hard, and locked eyes with Jimin. The sight of him standing there, doing fuck all, forced an indignant groan out of your parted lips.

“Why —” You hissed, “Are you still dressed?”

Jimin shrugged noncommittally, knowing full well it would enrage you. “Figured you had a knack for zippers,” He murmured innocently, “Was thinking you could handle mine.”

He was goading you, and you knew it, and you still took the bait. He wanted your animalistic hands clawing desperately at him, and to an extent, he’d get them. But he should have been more careful with what he wished for because he wasn’t ready for you.

You closed the distance between you and pushed the center of his chest — not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough for the unexpected force to knock his head back against the wall. You were on one tonight, and for once, he didn’t bite back at you. The look in his eyes admitted that he enjoyed this side of you; that he wanted to see what came of it.

You wasted no time dropping to your knees in front of him and flicking open his belt buckle. Once you had proper access, nimble fingers undid the top button of his slacks, exposing his zipper. You were half-tempted to rip it the way you’d ripped your own — to teach him a lesson — but you didn’t. You inhaled slowly, and exhaled more so.

As sluggishly as you could, you tugged the zipper down. Your knuckle brushed against the side of his cock as it pressed eagerly against the fabric of his trousers and underlying boxer briefs; it twitched at the brief contact. Even more slowly, you slid your fingers through belt loops on either side of his hips and tugged. With the pressure of his pants alleviated, you heard him sigh softly overhead.

It was so stupidly easy to get him hard like this. And on the off chance it wasn’t this easy for everyone, you were an expert at making him like this. You leaned towards the tip, and as you did, you looked up at him from under your lashes. His cock jerked in response, begging for attention you were still refusing to pay it.

You had him, hook, line, and sinker.

Without breaking eye contact, you let your tongue slide out from between your lips. As chastely as a thing like it could be done, you ran it over the tip of his clothed cock, fabric already dampened by pre-cum before your saliva could stain it.

“Fucking touch it already,” Jimin snarled from above you.

You smirked, bumping your chin against the side of him but childishly refusing to put your mouth back on him.

“You begging, Park? Is that what that was?” You pressed up higher on your knees so that his length rested against the center of your throat. If your hypothesis panned out, the vibration of your voice alone might kill him. “If you’re going to beg, you should use your manners.”

He groaned exactly as you predicted he would, letting his eyes screw shut — half blissed, half vexed. With them still closed, his hand reached out and carded gently through the hair at the crown of your head; uncharacteristically soft until he grabbed a handful. The sting at your scalp caused your eyes to water, and your head to tilt back.

Now with half-lidded eyes, Jimin watched the column of your exposed throat bob as he used his free hand to push down the waistband of his briefs — the last barrier between his cock and your mouth. He wanted you full of him if that’s what it took to finally shut you up.

Your index finger traced the vein running along the underside of his length, dragged out another involuntary twitch that burned him up inside. You then switched to your thumb as you went gliding back the way you’d come, and when you finally reached the base of him, your hand teased his balls. Left without words to hurl at you, all Jimin could do was swallow a groan and grip your soft strands tighter.

It was a drag-out fight to keep his eyes open, but he had to if he wanted to watch you kneel in front of him as if you were praying. So perfectly obscene; he’d die a thousand times before you finally took him in your mouth.

You spat in the palm of your hand — unexpectedly crude for a princess like you — and then you began working the length of his dick with alternating pressure. As your small, soft hand pumped him, your mouth surprised him. When you enveloped one of his balls with your mouth, he keened and allowed his eyes to flutter shut again.

As far as Jimin was concerned, there was one use for that bratty mouth, and this was it.

After too few moments massaging his balls with your mouth, you tragically pulled back. The interruption in contact caused him to crack his eyes open and peer desperately back down at you. Under a curtain of dark lashes, your gaze rose to meet his — and then, without warning, you spat directly on his cock. Involuntarily, Jimin’s mouth dropped open and stayed that way as he watched the trail of saliva connect your bottom lip to him.

Oh, fuck you.

Your tongue swirled expertly over his tip while your hand worked over the base of his cock. Try as you might, you’d never fit all of him in your mouth at once — at least, you were sure Jimin assumed so. You hallowed out your cheeks and bobbed your head along as you took more and more of him; earning shuddered moans as you did.

Every now and then, he’d pull at your hair and roll his hips forward, fuck himself a little further into your mouth. You’d feign a whimper as if he was pushing you to your limit, and you let him think so. The sick sound of you pretending to struggle was dragging him close to the edge, but Jimin had no idea what his undoing would truly be:

Smirking to yourself, you wrapped your hands around the back of his thighs to anchor yourself. Undoubtedly confused, you felt him tense in the moment before you pushed further, further, further. Blinking away tears, you noted the way his eyes sparked when his tip slid past your soft palate and touched the back of your throat. They screwed shut as soon you caught him staring and swallowed.

“Ohh, fuck!”

The words sputtered out of Jimin’s mouth the same way his cum shot down the back of your throat. Tensed fingers twisted in your hair as his hips jerked helplessly against the heat of your wide-open mouth. Unable to process any part of what you’d just done to him, he couldn’t seem to get any air in his lungs either — somehow, you’d broken his brain, and his body didn’t know what the fuck to do about it.

You pressed against the front of his thighs as you leaned away from him, eyes still locked. Then, you lifted the back of your hand to your mouth — twisted in some devilish grin — and wiped the spit that had dribbled down your chin.

You little fucking demon.

Jimin hated it when you finished him off during the first round; and you knew it. It infuriated him to no end when you spent him like that — right out of the gate — because he’d have to wait to retaliate. You were well aware of that fact, too. Goddamn menace.

As blissed out as he was with his cock shoved down your throat, he was bubbling over with exasperation in the aftermath. “What the fuck was that?” He panted.

Jimin had so many questions, but he wouldn’t ask you anything further. Who does that? Who planted that idea in your head? Who had you been practicing on, and why hadn’t it been him?

The impish glint in your eyes didn’t dissipate when you shrugged noncommittally — just as he’d done to you, mere minutes before you’d successfully scrambled his brains. Because there was nothing you loved more than weaponizing his own words against him, you sighed with a frown, “Was thinking you could handle me. Nobody busts that fast, though. D’you think you should see a specialist about that?”

Instant gratification came when his arms hooked under your arms and lifted you abruptly from your feet to your knees. So, maybe there was one thing you loved more than firing his bullshit back at him. You tried not to let the excitement show on your face when he spun you around, left you staring down at your bed while you dripped with anticipation.

“Shut your mouth,” Jimin demanded while he took your arms hostage behind you. Evidence of his returning arousal was pressed flush against the small of your back, stoking the fire building in your core. “And lay down on your stomach.”

For once, you did what he said without putting up a fight. Despite the scowl on your face, there was a hurricane inside you that left your mind dizzy, and your panties soaked. Falling into place atop your duvet, you stretched your arms up and under the coolness of your pillows with a sigh. The soft fabric against your cheek and naked chest nearly had you in a trance.

It was a hard slap on your ass that brought you back to the present moment; and ravenous hands tugging down your underwear that kept you there. Your pleasured cries filled every space between his words and his swift smacks, but they went ignored; dead and buried in the fibers of your bedding.

“Why is it —” His warm palm collided with your doughy flesh again and you whimpered, though you tried to swallow it. “— that you look your best — ” He kept his hand still to dull the sting, only to dig blunt fingertips into your ass cheek. “— with your face buried in your pillows?”

You turned to putty in his hands every time he played so roughly with your skin, left little keepsakes behind to remind you where he’d been. If you hadn’t encouraged him to mark you, you suspected he wouldn’t. To his credit, Jimin was much gentler before you stopped letting him be; and as time passed — to your surprise — turning you on seemed to factor heavily into his own arousal.

Not inclined to waste any more time, he leaned over your reddened, stinging backside and grabbed the hands you’d stowed away under your pillows. Though he took care not to ring out your shoulders, he nipped cruelly at one with his teeth as he encircled your wrists with his fingers and jerked them down behind your back. He held them in place with his left hand and brought his right hand expectantly to your mouth.

Jimin didn’t have to say a word for you to hear him, loud and clear. You spit into his hand and, within seconds and without speaking, he pulled away again. In your peripheral vision, you watched in a daze as he pumped his fist back and forth to spread your saliva down his length, rolling his wrist as he worked the tip, bottom lip clenched between his teeth.

Selfishly, albeit predictably, he was more fixated on himself than you – and it drove you mad. You knew better, but you still interjected: “If you’re not going to fuck me, can you get out of my house?”

“Really sealed your fate with that one,” Jimin laughed dryly before smacking his hand down on your ass. As he gripped, he spread your cheeks apart, though his knees on either side of your legs kept you from moving. “Remember to say boksunga when you can no longer handle the consequences of your own actions.”

With that brief reference to your safe word — the one neither of you had used since it was chosen several months ago — he lined himself up at your spit-slicked entrance. The feeling of his tip at your slit caused you to swallow hard; and knowing what was coming next made your stomach flip. Your lips parted in the anticipation of a gasp.

The pressure of him driving himself into you — slowly and conscientiously, but to the hilt, nonetheless — was all but blinding. You needed him to move for you to acclimate to his size, but he stayed torturously still, leaving your shocked walls struggling to adjust. With your legs pinned together the way they were, you felt every vein, every slight curve — but what you still didn’t feel was movement.

“Move, Park,” you hissed through gritted teeth. The stretch brought on by his girth threatened to split you clean in half, no matter how many times he’d entered you before. It was difficult to breathe apart from gasping.

He responded in your own words, mocking the tone you’d taken with him not ten minutes earlier. “Are you begging? If you’re going to beg, you should really use your manners.”

“P-Park, I swear to God —”

He leaned down to your ear and somehow — though you’d have thought it impossible — his cock buried deeper inside of you. One wrong move, and you could kiss your cervix goodbye. In every way that mattered, you were trapped.

“There’s gotta be a please rolling around in that space between your ears,” He teased in a low voice that broke you.

Your swallowed pride burned on its way down. “Please,” you begged, “Please move. I need you to move.”

Satisfied that he’d snuffed out the fight in you, Jimin acquiesced. As he pulled away from your ear, he rolled back — tantalizing but, as you quickly learned, a false front. He pushed back in just as deeply as the first time without ever pulling out completely. The curve of his cock ground against your g-spot; the hands gripping hard at your captured wrists did nothing to stabilize you as you shuddered.

“Is that all it takes to make you go quiet?” His laugh struck harder than his hips did when they snapped forward. “Shit — if that’s the case, then why do I ever stop fucking you?”

Every time his pelvis collided with the flesh of your ass, the sound of skin hitting skin echoed through the electrified air of your bedroom. It was all unholy, but still, you begged God that he’d never stop. He was wrong, though – you were anything but quiet.

To the contrary, you were on the brink of babbling as your cunt gushed around him. With each thrust into your wet heat, Jimin shook another useless thought loose; sent you out of your mind over him.

You’d devolved into a muttering fool by the time your orgasm crept up from the pit of your stomach. When it finally crashed over you, you sensed that it was compensating for the one you’d been denied earlier. Every sensation seemed doubled, and twice as hard to fight.

You screamed as you came — a sound Jimin had never heard from you before — and he was entirely unprepared for it. You came undone around him with a half-sob and forced his release in tandem with yours, cunt squeezing him so tightly that his vision started to blur.

And when the firefight was over, you were both silent. Fucked stupid, neither of you were capable of speech, let alone critical thought.

It was funny, you thought as you re-entered the Earth’s atmosphere, that the only peace you’d ever known with Jimin came immediately after you did.

[justporo]

A Night of Fake Smiles and Hidden Lies

Hi, uhm - I don't really now how to start. I am currently writing a long fic in which Astarion and Tav get invited to a ball. It's been going for a while and I thought (very selfishly and self-indulgently) how about I promote it a little since so many new people have joined. It's a still ongoing story. I'd say it's a very chaotic mix of sweet, fluffy, spicy even sometimes and some darker tones in between. I really pour my heart and soul into this project and try to challenge myself! But maybe it's better to just give you some sneak peeks (from like every other chapter)? I'd be super happy if you were interested to check it out! Thanks to @megschaef98 for suggesting some of your fave parts, ily!

To the chapterlist!

You looked at the invitation in his slender hands. Two golden lines framed the card and under a decorative print stood in elegant cursive writing: “His Lordship Lord De Grodt requests the pleasure of the Company of Lord Astarion Ancunín & Tav to a Ball at Herrenfordt Castle on October 5th, 1493 DR after dusk.” “They really only just wrote ‘Tav��? Should I be insulted?” “You don’t have a last name?”, Astarion asked while looking up from the card. “No, Astarion, I grew up on the streets, because my parents abandoned me – I’m only Tav, always have been”, you answered, only a tad of bitterness in your voice. “Well, my love, you could always just take mine”, the vampire replied smugly and grinned at you. “Weird way to propose”, you muttered under your breath but then immediately said before Astarion could react: “So what do you make of this?”

(Prologue)

So, you finally strode over and took in the garment: It was a striking deep blue that became lighter and a wonderful shade of purple up to lavender further down the skirt – impressively similar to the colours the sky turned when the sun set. It had a high collar that didn’t fully close around the neck in the front, so it allowed for a deep neckline that almost looked like a four-pointed star and long flowy sleeves that from the elbows down became cascading trains of fabric. The bodice was decorated with embroidered bigger four-point stars and smaller sparkles in silver and a few shiny stones. From the slender belt around the waistline down it became a luscious silken skirt that was carefully draped with few more star decorations that became fewer the more the colours lightened. It was quite frankly stunning. Regal and elegant, but not overly flamboyant which would have been something you would have never felt comfortable to wear. And the most important thing: no corset. You wouldn’t have believed it, but you were actually excited to put this garment on.

(Chapter 2)

All around people were standing as couples or smaller groups: chatting, slandering, laughing, drinking the champagne or eating the food being offered by the many servants passing through the crowd with huge silver trays. Some seemed to be well in their cups already, staggering or sloshing their drinks while talking and gesticulating animatedly. Some couples already seemed very handsy as well – hands wandering deeper from backs to more insolent regions, décolletages emphasised with a carefully placed hand or arched back, spines straightened and shoulders rolled back to look taller and more intimidating. Gold, diamonds and pearls seemed to be everywhere you looked. Everything and everyone was sparkling in their finery and giving off the aura of careless excess and frivolous debauchery. Jewels shone from daunting cleavages, signet rings clanked on chalices, flamboyant headpieces swung around during coquettish laughter, deep red lips left stains on crystal glasses and silk shone like liquid in the dim lighting. An impressive display of languid ignorance and luxurious degeneracy. And it was more than impressive even – it was intimidating.

(Chapter 4)

“So sweet, my dear darling, almost as sweet as you”, he whispered hauntingly while you felt drips from the delicious fruit run over your fingers and hand and waves of arousal ran through your body. Then he leaned in again, taking the rest of the strawberry out of your hand, his soft lips closing around your fingers, sucking for a short moment and his tongue flicking over your fingers. Astarion’s sparkling ruby eyes were still on you, patiently observing your reaction, one eyebrow twitching playfully. Your lips parted slightly and your eyes widened as the vampire then lifted your hand up farther and just licked the remaining strawberry juice off the palm of your hand, his fingers steadily around your wrist.

(Chapter 6)

The demon gave a low and rumbly chuckle. “I see”, he had said and with a snap his admirers had returned to roam his body with their hands. “But if you ever change your mind…” He had left the sentence unfinished, his gaze again boring into you until you felt almost stripped naked in front of him and Astarion had protectively placed his hand on your shoulder and quickly led you out of the room. So now you stood in the back of another dimly lit room and listened to this poet theatrically presenting some of his poems: “The moaning and the groaning, The sighing and the sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing.” He enunciated every word carefully, his tone and conduct underlining the meaning of his words – it was quite a thing to watch and listen to. People sat and stood around the artist in a half circle, the performance area marked by some small cold, bright mage lights that were the only light source in this room. The sharp illumination from below then made the performance of the poet even more ghostly. Astarion and you were both leaning against the wall in the back, observing the show in companiable silence.

(Chapter 7)

CHAPTERLIST | READ ON AO3 | MASTERLIST

[bcdrawsandwrites]

[ID: A Team Fortress 2 fic banner showing Pyro standing in front of a fireplace with its back to it, tossing a book backward into the fire. Pyro is in shades of gray, the book is in yellow-white, and only the fire is colored orange, mimicking the style of the Cooking the Books achievement icon. The title is on the left, in yellow-white text on a darker background reading, "CHAPTER THREE: COOKING THE BOOKS" /end ID]

Flickering

Fandom: Team Fortress 2 Rating: K+ Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Friendship Characters: Spy, Pyro, Scout (plus the rest of the mercs, but the others have minor roles in this chapter) Warnings: General references to trauma, TF2-typical violence Fic Description: After the events of the comics, the mercs try to go back to how things were, but it’s never that easy.

Spy can see his teammates going through their own struggles… but something seems to be very, very wrong with Pyro in particular.

And since no one else seems to be doing anything about this, Spy makes it his mission to get to the bottom of what is troubling Pyro. For no particular reason. Beta Readers: @mechmolar, @gonturan0, @junuve

---~~~---

Chapter 3: Cooking the Books Summary: In which Pyro takes notice of Spy.

---~~~---

The bustling atmosphere of the pre-match preparation was tinged with tension, at least for Spy. Sniper kept to himself; Soldier went on a rallying, confusing speech that no one other than Demo listened to; Heavy checked over his guns; Medic prepared his ubercharge; Scout... Engineer talked quietly to Pyro about setting up his buildings.

And Pyro stared directly at Spy.

Spy pretended to check through his disguises, but watched Pyro out of the corner of his eye. The Pyro never looked away, though it did give a tiny nod when the Engineer asked if it heard everything.

"Good to hear," Engineer said, and patted Pyro on the back with his good hand.

That made Pyro finally tear its gaze away from Spy to whirl on the Engineer. But the Administrator’s voice had already called for the match to start, and Engineer was hauling his toolbox out into the fray. When Pyro looked back, however, it gave a start; Spy had taken the opportunity to cloak so he could escape that creature's gaze.

Spy barely suppressed a shudder as he put as much distance between himself and the Pyro as possible. Once he was sure he was far enough away, he de-cloaked and let himself breathe.

Well. This was, indeed, going to make things difficult. If the Engineer hadn't startled Pyro, he wasn't sure what it might have done. But even though he'd gotten away, he couldn't imagine this would be the end of it.

Still, for the time being, he focused on the match. Pyro would likely be spending most of its time in their intelligence room, so he wouldn't get the chance to see it. Probably for the best, this time.

The match went on as it typically did, and Spy managed to sneak in to nab the BLU team's intelligence. As he was bringing the briefcase back, the Administrator's voice cried out that their intelligence had been taken as well.

Interesting—the Pyro had slipped up, it seemed.

Sure enough, Spy entered the intelligence room just in time to see the Engineer's precious gadgets be destroyed by enemy sappers. Sighing, he dropped off the stolen intelligence before charging back out to chase down the thief.

Spy followed the path the enemy had likely taken—through the sewers. Not something he enjoyed doing, but work was work, and the respawn would clean his outfit, provided he actually died. As he was mulling this over, he nearly ran smack into the RED merc standing at the edge of the water. "What are you doing?!" he cried. "They are going to—"

He faltered upon realizing whom he was talking to. Pyro did not acknowledge him, still staring at the water. The last time he recalled Pyro avoiding water was when it was “protecting” something it had set aflame, but it wasn’t holding anything other than its axe at the moment.

Before he could think any further on this, an explosion rang out just outside the sewers, followed by an announcement that the enemy had dropped the intelligence.

"Oh, got some of 'em on me shirt that time!" the Demo shouted with a laugh.

Spy snorted, whipping out his butterfly knife and preparing to leave to defend the intelligence when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye—Pyro had turned around to stare at him. Spy stared back, just for a moment, before cloaking and retreating.

He did not see the Pyro for the rest of the match, much to his relief. It must have gone back to defend the intelligence room again, and Spy avoided the room thereafter, instead opting to aid his own teammates in obtaining the enemy intelligence by taking out the enemy sentries and sniper. The remainder of the match went smoothly, with the RED team scoring yet another pointless victory. Spy rolled his shoulders as he headed back to spawn, only to freeze in his tracks.

Scout sat against the wall, breathing heavily.

Spy's mind plunged into a blank, staticy whirl, his heart threatening to break free of his ribcage. He could smell the smoke from the destroyed robots, the metallic tang of blood, and Scout was so hideously pale. There weren't any respawn machines here, and the Medic—

"What're you lookin' at, chucklenuts?" Scout snapped, tipping back the brim of his baseball cap as he fixed Spy with a look. His face was flushed red and glistening with sweat; he wiped his brow.

Rolling his eyes, Spy forcibly shoved the imagery from his mind. "Only wondering why you are wasting time when we need to return to spawn."

"What, I can't take a breather? I ran straight from the BLU intelligence room to here without stopping, or getting hit." Wincing, he held a hand against the side of his chest. "Mostly, anyway."

So he hadn't been imagining the smell of blood. Though it wasn't as strong as it had been back when... "You can rest after you've seen the Medic. Move."

Scout muttered a few unsavory words before pushing himself up to his feet, trudging back toward spawn, and Spy followed, closely inspecting the walls around them so he could look everywhere but at Scout.

When they arrived, Spy busied himself with tidying up his locker. He could hear Scout chatting with Medic, but tuned it out with the rustle of paper and fabric. His hand found a lint brush, and he used it to gently clean off his jacket and pants. Yes, they had another round in a short while, but it never hurt to look one's best.

As he bent down to clean off the bottoms of his pant legs, the hair stood on the back of his neck. Bristling, he whipped around to see Pyro once again staring at him from the other side of the room. This time, he stared right back, maintaining eye contact (or whatever approximated it with that creature's mask) before slamming his locker door shut and striding off to the bathroom to finish tidying himself up.

When he opened the door to step back out, he almost immediately leaped backwards to find the Pyro staring at him from just outside. He half-expected to see an axe or flamethrower being held at the ready, but Pyro's hands were empty.

...Oh. Perhaps it just needed to use the washroom itself. With a grunt, Spy weaved around it and back into the spawn room. But to his consternation, Pyro followed him.

Finally Spy whirled around to face him. "What?" he snapped.

Pyro said nothing, and turned its head slightly to the side.

Frustration mounting, Spy opened his mouth—

"Mission begins in ten seconds!"

Sniper hurried to the Pyro's side. "Mate, can we have a word? An enemy spy caught me last round, and if you could..."

Spy turned away from the conversation, instead checking over his equipment in preparation for the round.

He wasn't sure what he would've gotten out of talking to that thing, anyway.

—-

The match had gone on as normal, other than Spy doing all he could to avoid Pyro. They'd won another swift victory and returned to their base to cool off.

After hanging behind the others to make sure he wasn't tailed by anyone again, Spy quickly found himself in his smoking room, sitting on his chair and facing the fireplace. He had a fire going—entirely unnecessarily for all but atmosphere—and a book open on his lap, a glass of wine at his side. A few drags from his cigarette and a few sips of wine were quickly taking the edge off of the events of the day's match.

A victory, yes. But with more than a few things that bothered him.

Pyro had, of course, realized that Spy had been... well, spying on it. But what it planned to do with that information, Spy had no clue. It had yet to attack him, and he didn't much enjoy being watched by that creature every second it was around him.

It didn't help that he had no way to actually ask the Pyro anything. It couldn't talk intelligibly to begin with, and now it was refusing to vocalize at all. What was he supposed to do? Give it a pen and paper? He didn't even know if it could read or write, let alone hold a pen in its creepy claws.

Sighing, he tried to turn his focus to the book he'd pulled off his shelf. He could figure this out another time—for now, he only wished to unwind.

Of course, no one else in this stupid base seemed to agree.

THUD. THUD.

Spy's lips pulled back in a grimace. "Who is it? What do you want?" he called out, letting the annoyance edge into his voice. Hopefully whoever it was would pick up on it and decide to leave him alone for once.

He gave a bitter laugh at the thought, and sure enough, the bothersome person was once again knocking.

THUD. THUD.

"You have got to be kidding me," Spy muttered, setting his book aside and rising from his chair. He strode over to the door. "Who is it?" he demanded.

No response.

Frowning, he opened the door a crack and peered through. Upon seeing nothing, he opened the door wider, and to his consternation, found absolutely no one outside.

Ah. Probably another one of Scout's stupid pranks. Rolling his eyes, he turned around.

The Pyro stood beside the fireplace, staring directly at him.

Spy gave a start, his heart jumping into his throat before his fear turned to anger. "You—?!" he sputtered, then stormed closer. "How did you get in here?!"

Pyro lifted its left hand, pointing at the door.

Spy glanced back at the door. "Yes, hilarious. But how—" He stopped himself, realizing that Pyro had probably sneaked into here before he'd arrived. But then why go through the trouble of distracting...

Tap, tap.

Turning back to Pyro, he realized abruptly that it was holding something, which it had tapped against the side of the fireplace. It took him a moment to realize it was the book he'd just been reading. "...Wait."

Pyro's head jerked toward the fireplace, and it held the book out.

Spy gave a start. "Don't you dare."

And Pyro tossed the book into the fire, setting it ablaze, and pointed at the burning book.

"Sacré bleu!" he cried, bolting over to the fireplace. "What have you done?!"

The Pyro's head snapped back in his direction, and it pointed at the fire with more emphasis.

Spy stumbled to a halt beside the Pyro and returned its gaze, staring at the reflection of flames in the creature's dark goggles. For a moment he could see himself in Pyro's room the night prior, the creature staring at him through—or with—those same dark lenses. The memory of it sharply brought him back to reality, and he followed where the Pyro was pointing, staring at the pages of the book as they curled and blackened in the flames. After watching this for a second, he looked back.

Pyro gave a brief nod, and reached for him.

"Mon dieu!" Spy stumbled back. "What are you—?!"

Pyro exhaled a sharp breath through its filter, and took a step toward him. Its suit and mask gleamed in the light of the fire, and it made a grab for him.

With a yelp, Spy stumbled back again, looking from the fire to Pyro and quickly realizing what the thing intended to do. Without another word, he bolted for the door.

Yet Pyro had somehow anticipated his move, and swerved to block him. It held one hand out, palm forward, and its breathing was heavy through its filter.

Spy's heart pounded, but he glared. "Out of my way, you mush-mouthed freak!"

To his fury, the Pyro shook its head, and reached for him again.

Later, Spy would tell himself that it was purely on instinct. Maybe it was. Maybe it was something else. Whatever it was, the next thing he knew he had flipped open his butterfly knife and was swinging his arm in a stab. At the last moment he realized what was happening, and adjusted the stab into an awkward slash, tearing across the Pyro's arm.

Maybe because he was expecting it, he thought he heard a strained noise after the slash. But he was more concerned with rushing to the other side of the room, hoping to find another way to get around that deadly creature. But to his surprise, it was already hurrying out of the room, one hand grasping its injured arm. He watched it leave, and, once he was sure it was gone, hurriedly shut and latched the door behind it.

The room now secured, he stumbled back to his chair, numbly retrieving a cloth from his pocket and cleaning the blade of his knife. As he picked up his wine glass to down it, he happened to glance at the cloth, staring at the mix of blood and soot that was smeared across it.

Why had he ever gotten involved?

[skullhorn59]

Clouded Sensations 2

A/N: my first Hazbin Hotel Fanfic! heres chapter 2, for all of Moth-hungry Tumblr! :3 if you wanna request anything, go for it! Tags are going to get added progressively! this chapter is an introduction to Y/N's life! Some Angst, but no smut yet. :P

Pairings: Valentino x Fem!Reader Legend: ❲☆❳ - flashback, 『♡』 = change of scenes Warnings/Promises: Valentino, Manipulation, Drugs (his smoke/saliva), flirting, alcohol, smoking, Hell being Hell, mentions of traumatic events, self harm/neglect, implied and mentioned self ending

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Minors DNI 🚨🚔

"so, tell me about yourself, amorcito.~ what's got you down here?" The Moth Demon regards you with a curios gaze, and his smile gains a hint of something hungry.

You think back; how did you get here? 

❲☆❳

Your life was rather unspectacular - you never achieved anything great, only ever strifed to find your personal happiness. (greedy, sure, but what else were you supposed to do?) although you tried your best, it always seemed like there was none reserved for you. the night you died wasnt much better - you just couldnt take it anymore. the next time you woke up, you were confused at first. 

where the actual fuck were you?? was this a dream? are you in a coma and this is conjured up by your brain? theres only one way to find out, as much of a cliché as that may be. so you pinched yourself, which followed a quick, sharp pain, making you wince. okay, so this was real. in the clarity of the pain you stood up, first examining yourself. aside from ripped clothes and lots of dirt, not really much seems to have changed.

well - except the claws, and that big ass white tail you had. following a quiet suspicion, your arms shot up, and you felt around your head. and your suspicion proved itself right - your fingers touched sensitive, white ears atop your head. feeling your face next, you find no major changes, except a bit of a pointier, wetter nose. based on that, you could only guess what you represented. a fox? a cat? both? something entirely different?

You shake your head - those thoughts had to wait. so you looked around you, trying to see if you can figure out where you were. from the looks of it - you were in a city. all around you rather tall buildings, the streets were sprinkled with burning cars, burning creatures, fire in general, blood, demons murdering... wait. demons?! you quickly hide in the next best dark alley, keeping yourself hidden as best as you could, while you observed your surroundings. and as your eyes met with the red sky decorated by a huge pentagram, you sighed. this gotta be a joke, right? like, seriously? Hell?

either this was a crazy expensive show, or actual hell. and judging by the creatures all around here, they seemed too casual and too murdery to be anything else than real, since you could literally watch one of them getting brutally murdered right then and there on the open street. you shuddered; yeah, no way you wanted to be part of any of that. this has had to be hell.

first things first, you looked deeper into that dark alley you were hiding in, and considered your options. you could 1, lie in that alley for days and cry your soul out in hopes that anyone might have pity with you and grant you shelter, or 2, get a grip for once and get yourself in a stable situation. undead sinner or not, you didnt want to find out if you could die from starvation or not, so you chose the second option. so, you had to get out of here and somewhere safe.

examining the alley, you found nothing besides blood, trash and muddy puddles. you scrunched your face at the latter, because you knew you couldnt stay as white as you were now. you have had to dye yourself in a darker shade, or be spotted immediately and murdered on the spot. and you were, ironically, dead-set on not dying. so, following the most logical option, you began covering your ears, hair and tail in mud.

logic. yes. it was gonna keep you alive, if everything else failed.

logic, and your instincts. 

『♡』

after what felt like an eternity of hiding, and sneaking around, you found an abandoned apartment, and immediately made it yours. barricading the door, you tidied the thing up as best as you could, shoving and pulling broken furniture into a corner, and wiping the most important surfaces and items clean. you closed the ripped courtains, falling into the bed exhaustedly. "tomorrow," you thought to yourself while drifting off to sleep, "im gonna look for a job."

after you woke up from a dreamless slumber, you went into the bathroom, examining your appearance in the mirror. Fuck, you looked terrible. it was about time you fixed that. so you tidied up your ruffled hair, washing the mud off of where your skin was exposed. although you did keep the mud in your hair, tail and ears. no way you were risking your life just to look good. when you were satisfied with how you looked, you sat back down on the bed, with the sewing set you found, in one of the closets, the previous night. while fixing up your ripped clothing, you thoughts went to the task before you - finding a decent job. assuming it was much more violent down here than up on earth, you defintely wanted a safe job, something similar to shopkeeper, cashier or bartender.

stashing the kit away, you went outside, immediately trying to act as if you were a regular resident and not embarassingly new to Hell, calmly heading down the street while glancing into shops and bars, even stepping into some clubs, just to take a look. none were looking all too comfortable to work in, let alone the staff even friendly enough to even ask them for a job. while a cashier growled at you, a butcher even threw a knife near you, yelling at you to piss off. ears flat to the head, you quickly retreated, continuing your search.

luckily, as you entered one of the more grand looking clubs, it didn't look too bad. sure, it was hell, so of course it was bad, but not bad enough for you to keep looking. and so, you approached the bar, hopeful for success. and, fortunately, the bartender didnt dismiss you right away. he just waved you to the backdoor, redirecting you to his manager. so, with a pounding heart, you carefully slipped through the door.

mentioned manager wasnt very nice, treating you more a whore than a person, but you didnt mind too much. better have a job than pride. only barely able to convince him, you managed to get yourself a job as bartender. polite as you are, you thanked him before leaving, barely able to hold back a giddy smile. stretching yourself as you stood outside the club, you thought about what to do next. time was on your side now - you just had to find a reliable source of food, you mused.

in your head, you made out a plan to cover your white features in mud everytime after showering, and spraying perfume overtop so you wouldnt smell too bad. so you began to stroll along the streets again, until you found the source you needed. returning to your makeshift home, you spent some time showering thoroughly, and went to sleep after.

soon enough, - still not soon enough for your taste - you found into a rythm. nearly every day - if you could even call it "day" with the non-existent day-night cycle in hell- you woke up, got yourself dressed and ready, checked the fridge for any remaining food, headed out while dodging dangerous scenes of arson, murder and/or sex, worked at that okay-paying club, afterwards went scavenging for food, then headed back home, slept, and repeated that cycle the next morning.

you didnt have the time for hobbies, friends, let alone lovers. work and the hunt for food kept you plenty occupied. and you didn't need anything else either, considering the bar was a source of information and entertainment. through listening and looking, you quickly figured out how things worked. someone named Valentino owned this club among many more, and based on the things you heard about him, you were definitely gonna avoid him. at least, that's what you told yourself, until you found yourself in his grasp. 

❲☆❳

Valentino interrupts your thoughts by placing his hand on yours. "Hello? anybody in there?" he sounds a bit annoyed. shit, did you already piss him off? you flash a quick smile at him, before answering. "sorry, got lost in thoughts for a moment. I dont really know what's got me down here. maybe the fact I ended myself? is that even a valid sin?" he raises his eyebrow at that, taking a drag of the cigarette he holds on one of his lower arms, before he leans in, blowing a cloud of red smoke in your direction. "how interesting. tell me, baby doll, are you interested in a better job~? I can make so much more out of you than a simple Barkeeper." you swallow hard, swirling the alcohol around in your glass as you try your best to casually not breathe in the smoke.

is he gonna kill you if you deny?

A/N: i made a doodle of Y/N!! be sure to check it out :D

─❲♡❳▷Hazbin Masterlist ─❲♡❳▷Main List

Taglist: @diffidentphantom @helreyy @alastorthirsty

[pencildragons]

another snippet (from chapter 2 this time lolol) for my foxquinweek sinner sinner (come to dinner) which shall be posted 22/01!! (fair warning, fox is a VERY unreliable narrator here)

The gloves Vos is wearing, Fox notes distantly as his pounding heartbeat echoes in his ears, are a deep red. Not quite the shade he dictates all armour be painted with—that’s all the same colour, the same pattern, eliminating external individuality for every man except himself, eliminating any identifiable target except for him, because what is his duty as a commander if not to be a shield—but close. A little darker, a little more brown in it. Maroon, he thinks it might be called. He heard a natborn say that, once. It had been a Mando trainer on Kamino, or maybe even Prime himself. Mah-rone. Mah-rone. Mah-rone. He heard a senator’s aide call it that too, later on. They say it differently here on Coruscant, drawing out the final syllable into mahrooon instead of dissecting it into even halves. Everything is different here. Conformity is survival, and deviation is certain death. (Shields are hit first. Shields are targets. What is his duty as a commander if not to be exactly that?) (He thinks, if he were to ever utter the word, he would drawl it just like that senator’s aide did. Better to be a nothing than remembered after the fact.) Conformity is survival. Deviation is certain death. He does not know how to conform in this situation, does not know what counts as a deviation. The rules of the game he and Vos play are an unknown, and Fox is all too well aware how dangerous ignorance is. Vos has just trapped Fox with him in a durasteel box halfway between the ninety-first and the ninety-second floor of the Rotunda. Whatever is going to happen, he will not be able to escape it, and he does not know what to do. Vos is silent. Fox wonders if he’s waiting for him to talk, but all the things he desperately wants to say—starting with how did you know I was here? And followed by, why are you so close with my brother’s general? And finishing off with why the everloving fuck are you following me?—are wildly inappropriate, and he is not certain that he wants to know the answers. He is trapped here with Vos, and there is no one else around. Even if he called for backup, it would be too late, and he does not want to risk angering Vos, does not want to risk him taking out any rage on his vod’e. He’s seen it happen before, too many times. He is a commander—the commander. If something is going to happen to him, it will be his to bear, and no one else’s. The silence stretches on. Fox’s skin is itching below the dermis, rotting, rotting, rotting. Everything is different here. Everything is a putrified corruption, and he is no exception. Vos is. The elevator smells of too much metal, and of deathsticks, and of Vos—minty, a hint of the thing that may or may not be woodsmoke. Fox corrodes with this city, with this planet, with this galaxy, but Vos stands apart from it all, whole and hale and untouchable. He leans against the wall, blocking the control panel with his body, and studies Fox, arms crossed against his chest. He’s keeping his distance for now—as much as that’s possible in this tiny, cramped space—but the elevator is small. If Fox were to stretch his arms out, his fingertips would brush its sides. Vos could be on him in a heartbeat if he wanted. The silence stretches on.

reblogs are very appreciated, and tysm to everyone who interacted with my last snippet posting :3

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 39: Take Me to Church (2)

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter ☆ AO3 ☆ Featured song playlist

Summary of chapter: The god of her world is dead and gone. Only Jashin can save her now, the woman who is in too deep over her head, the lover who sings of starlight.

Author's Note:

The song is Take Me to Church by Hozier. Please note that the nature of this chapter is much more NSFW than before and proceed accordingly.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies

I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife

Offer me that deathless death

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

In…

…

Out...

A body. Two bodies. One is laying in front of her, pinkish and red, while the further is staring at them, stance wide as his eyes.

In…

…

Out...

The first body staggers in its attempts to get up as the second draws close. Kakuzu's face is recognized, and for once in this time together...she can tell he doesn’t know what to do.

No. That's not true.

This isn't that far apart from when he cared so much that his hand branded her skin.

In…

…

Out...

The hilt of the knife is sticking out of her thigh. He holds her wrists, palms up. They are hot and sticky.

The sighs of ocean’s tide draw in and fade out once again.

In…

…

Out...

He’s yelling at him. He yells back. Hidan’s face twists in pain as he holds his stomach and tries to keep upright. She sees her fingers twitch up to reach him, to try to help, and the two bodies visibly gasp and flinch towards her.

In…

…

Out...

The view of her thigh, Hidan’s knife slowly...carefully...slipped out by a hand with a rust-toned ring. Another with the color of aged turquoise pinches the open flesh shut, but not before you can see the layers that make up a poor sinner’s flesh. Skin and fat and muscle and bone.

A thin, black, featureless snake crawls from Kakuzu’s leather skin and enters her own. It goes in.

In…

It goes out.

Out...

It goes in.

In…

It goes out.

Out...

Her vision fades with the fragile whims of a shocked mind and the dreams that have haunted her many a night. She hears it, the bubbling, distant laughter underneath the surface of the water that drowned her long ago. Or maybe it’s just the blood in her ears.

Bare arms with circled tattoos frame her view of the wound now, reaching around her. And then her body feels light.

In…

…

Out...

Trees. Passing through them, like flying birds or falling leaves. Air is rushing past her, through a cloth that feels barely wrapped around her cold self. Her head is resting against something. Another rush of liquid, a soothing, slow blink in her reality...and she knows someone is looking at her.

In…

…

…

…

…

Out.

And the tide pulls back, leaving her on the bank of the conscious and living. The shade of light is warm, wrapping around darker features of this space she exists within. A blink of her own eyes...and she can tell she is laid on top of something soft. Flicker, flicker. Her vision passes from one object to the next, different directions and depths away. She doesn’t recognize this place...although…

...It also somehow feels...familiar.

“ACK—!”

She hears her first sound, Hidan grunting despite gritted teeth and bracing for the impact. Kakuzu has no remorse for how harshly he sews the pin cushion man all back together. Damn fool deserves this and so much more.

“What the HELL were you thinking?!”

She tries to answer but she can’t, tongue mute. Fate has decided this is not a conversation for her to partake in.

“Kakuzu, I—FUCK!”

The thread loops into him, though the exclamation may be from the way the named man grips Hidan’s shoulder tight.

“What in your perverted, twisted brain made you THINK-?! No. No. You didn’t think at all!”

“Kakuzu—!”

“Do you know…?!” he leans in close, nice and close so Hidan can see nothing but haunted gemstone eyes, the spirit in them aflame with fury. “Every day...we are one inch away from being THROWN OUT and NEVER seeing her again,” he hisses, deep and low. The reaper’s sneer could be from either his physical suffering or his emotional one. It isn’t enough. Nothing will be enough.

“We started this...with everyone being suspicious,” the rag doll continues. “And we nearly. Lost. It all. When they found that bruise.”

The damn bruise. Maybe that was enough. Maybe they did deserve to never be near her again, if this is what was destined to happen. Maybe then they wouldn't be cowering, recovering where no one can see, in the inn where Hidan tried fish, where Kakuzu began to wonder if he could still find some semblance of a good life. Good fucking riddance to that.

“We were let back in," he seethes, burning and burning with coal of hatred in his chest. "And YOU… You…!”

The grip gets tighter. Hidan hacks again, but no fighting back.

“You may have ruined everything we had.”

Bit by bit, shaky violet eyes unclench, a stutter in the reaper's throat:

“I…” he tries to explain, as best as he can, “I...tried to save her—”

A smack as Kakuzu holds him by the collar and cracks his knuckles into Hidan’s head.

“FUCK!!! Asshole, that HURTS!”

“HOW DO YOU THINK SHE FEELS?!”

And just like that, he’s awake and coherent, at the spur of a woman’s autonomy on the line. “THAT SHE HURTS! THAT’S WHY! That is WHY—!”

His punctured, mutilated chest heaves up and down, a still weary set of lungs catching breath now that it’s been injected with righteous fury. Mask over Kakuzu’s face, all you can see on him is his green, red, glittering anger. Hidan spits, blood in the saliva from somewhere in his impaled guts.

“Kakuzu…!” He needs to understand; Hidan HAS to make him understand. There HAS to be a way—! “She...she’s sick. She’s sick real bad, Kakuzu…”

Kakuzu barely has enough tact to keep the thought of “of course she is” held back from his lips. Through Hidan’s quivering, determination, as ever, overtakes his being, even when he’s bloody and cut and beat up and at the mercy of the world’s most fucked up surgeon, literally holding him together by a single thread. Through the shake eyes have in their sockets...there lies something the old man has never seen before— not in him.

A secret can't be kept any longer.

“I ask her to hurt me to stop her from hurtin’...herself.”

And something in Kakuzu clicks. Little...by little...his iron hold laxes. More...and more...until Hidan is let go. Wide-eyed for a new reason, the masked man now grips onto his own head and falls back against the wall. Hidan’s brow curls as he watches this happen, a long pause of silence until the priest's partner manages to speak again. The rage, perhaps, is gone...or at least redirected.

“...How long?” he asks.

And Hidan knows what he means, though he hesitates to tell. “...Since we got back from the desert," the answer is mumbled. Days and months and full seasons away. And he knows— he knows before Kakuzu beats him to the punch:

“Why?" And then, more urgently, confused. "Why? Why didn’t you...—?”

But he can’t finish the thought, wretched as this all is, barely under wraps like a bedsheet trying to hide a corpse. It’s the reaper’s damn responsibility. His gaze casts down in shame.

“Never felt like the right time.”

Ironic how Kakuzu heard her say the same thing just some hours ago. Finally, finally, the man pulls off his mask lest he suffocate any more, raises his gaze in search for connections and answers. “Hidan…” he mutters. Unsure what to ask next, he simply states thoughts as they come. “There’s no way she asked for this.”

Blood rusting against the stitches on his neck, his chin tilts diagonally away. “...That’s right,” he admits. “I just...told her. I told her she could. I...showed her...she can.”

“And you thought this would make her better.”

...Hidan knows an accusation when he hears one. A magenta stare flickers up to meet the challenge, though head stays meekly down; the man is contradictions, the very thing the woman admired him for. “Better,” he repeats. “...Not perfect. But...”

Kakuzu sighs. “...Better.” Against his better judgment, he understands. He understands much more, now. His skull rests against the planks of wood that make up the inn room’s wall. Heavy lungs exhale. How naive. How stupid of him. The woman he named Takara told him so clearly how her story finished. But Hidan...Hidan…

...He looks at Hidan now, cloak open and barely draped around him, hastily thrown on pants with red seeped into its cloth. On the few missions they shared...since they started to live in that house...Kakuzu had noticed the marks. They always healed so fast. But they were still there. New and fresh and already fading. It had been noted but information not made use of. What did it matter what the guy did in his own spare time? A lot, evidently.

And that is how Hidan got to see how the woman tumbled her way towards the end.

And the rag doll presses his fingertips to his forehead, the sliced headband that eternally reminds his own betrayal and loss, and closes his eyes. Now that the girl is stable and the priest has explained...the exhaustion in him begins to overtake. He needs a second...he needs a moment lest something in him break when his strength is needed most. In this break it provides, Hidan’s spirit too searches for respite; it only makes sense he looks to the thing that’s always calmed him down.

He looks to the side.

There she is.

Laid up on the bed. Kakuzu’s cloak underneath, opened up so you can see the way her chest goes up and down when she breathes. In...out... Like a zombie, he staggers forward mindlessly, without realizing he is until he's already there.

She’s just in her underwear. Used to be something clean and pale, so it wouldn’t show under her dress. It’s a shade of pink now, splotched in different depths of it, based on how long and deep the blood got to soak. He’s standing over her now, and his stare traces all the way down, top of her head...her half open eyes...and lips...neck and breasts...stomach, cunt...thigh. The skin there is angry and reddening. Normal bodies resist the healing process so much more than Hidan’s does; he can already feel the insufferable itch that comes as cells reattach, layers close back in on their own. Hers, though...it isn’t going to be so fast.

Even with Kakuzu’s mending, it’s going to hurt for a while.

Hidan takes a deep breath and feels himself bob side to side, still struggling to focus. His grasp reflexively goes for his neck, but not finding the intended target, instead combs up into his hair, providing a sensation to try and help him concentrate, stay awake. “My necklace…” he murmurs, “My damn necklace…” To pray over her. To ask for forgiveness. Lids crack open...and something is different.

She is looking back at him.

And the whole world stops.

...And he feels like the luckiest man alive.

“Look at her…” he whispers. Because he certainly does. He’s helpless but to lean in, put his hands forward in her space until, as before, they figure out what they want to do. “That’s my angel…!”

Gentle, his palm cups her cheek and Hidan begins to sink closer down. He can feel Kakuzu watching. And it isn’t that he doesn’t care, no...

He’s asking him to see.

“Look at our girl…” And for the first time, this whole time...somehow...someway...Hidan begins to smile. His knees get onto the bed and he looms over her, closing in..and in...and in...until his forehead is pressed so reverently onto hers.

“Isn’t she something…?” he asks, a tremble in his voice. All this time, he's never forgotten the first day he met, how he felt his lord Jashin place a hand on his shoulder and behold...behold the one who will change your whole life. His eyes screw back shut, and she can feel his sharp inhale, both in pain and in marvel. “Isn’t she beautiful…?!”

And she wonders if she’s dreaming, as tears fall on top of her face. Is he...? Is he really...?

“She did such a damn good job…!” a pious soul struggles, gritting his teeth, sneering his lips with effort and overwhelming, holy emotion. And Kakuzu can only watch, no idea what to make of this, no idea what— if anything— he can do. The reaper's lone confidant is begged for once again:

“Kakuzu…”

And the man's breath hitches, a witness in the corner. The Jashinist is all but a puddle, barely held up by his own scratched arms.

“It’s our girl, Kakuzu…!”

The named man remains where he stands, entirely dumbfounded. The most selfish person in the whole world is praying over her, to her, and asks him to do the same. Stitched lips part but can’t find words to speak. He watches her...as she watches him. Even half closed, the big starry eyes are so soft, so knowing. She looks then at Hidan, and Kakuzu can already tell there’s no anger in that heart at all.

She manages...her first words.

“I’m...s-...s-..." Though inevitable, they let her finish. "Sorry.”

And quivering, trembling with adoration, Hidan tells her through sobs, “...Shut up.”

The stars begin to well at the bottom of her eyes, and the ocean, drip by drip, escapes in the saltwater that falls down her face and stains onto the pillow.

He’s only being like this because he feels bad...right? Right? She remembers what he said. “I’m not...beautiful…” she corrects, barely audible at all. “You...don’t..have to…”

And with only Kakuzu and Jashin as his witness, Hidan can't take this anymore shuts her up himself. Overtop of her, in this dingy little inn, he does what he should have done from the very start. His palms hold her face...and with all the gentleness in the world…

He kisses her.

He kisses her.

He kisses her.

In…

…

Out...

The sigh of breath as he pulls back, just enough to look her in the eyes, push stray locks off of her forehead. “I don’t care anymore,” he says, only now that they’ve reached the brink, the edge of universes and fate and faith and chance. “I don’t care about that fucking book. I love you. I love you! Jashin, damn me, I—!”

He.

Kisses.

Her.

And this time as he pulls back, she finally knows how to speak. It takes a moment of furrowing her brow and thinking past both bliss and throbbing pain. “...Book…?” she repeats, dizzy with the taste of him on her lips, blood and all. His eyes narrow but his grin widens, both adoringly and spitefully.

“So you didn’t read it. That’s it.”

A gasp. Her mouth opens.

Despite himself, Kakuzu can only watch. These idiots will figure it out, after all, despite everything and themselves in their way.

“I...I don’t…” Finally, finally. “I don’t...know...how to read.”

…

A stutter.

A twitch.

And a laugh.

Hidan laughs, slamming his fist into the pillow, bitter and relieved all at once. Before she can apologize again, he sits up, winding in an inhale of air and rolling his shoulders, finally feeling like a free man.

“Babydoll…! After all this time...!”

And she can feel every inch of him shake with the next rough, roar of a laugh, as Hidan kneels over a woman who hardly believes this is happening at all.

“Angel, baby…” The word takes on a new meaning now, next to these others. She thought it was just a nickname, an extension of sorts of their relationship...and well...it was. But it was a lot more than that, too.

But it’s hard to outright call someone your love, your light, your everything when you aren’t sure what they feel back. Finally, his eyes roll back down, and he looks more like his usual, coy self...maybe even then some.

“...You could have saved us a lot of trouble.”

Us.

...Wait.

Hidan flinches, visibly shifts. His smile drops. “Wait,” he realizes. And all of a sudden, he feels so wrong. Shit...shit...! She didn't even SAY! “I— do you—?”

A woman's too stunned, stuck within dreams of the beach and heavenly touches come to life, to fill in the blanks for him. He has to ask. He has to be the one to stop assuming, and to save them some trouble. And so he swallows his pride and he begs, one word at a time:

“Do...you...love me...too?”

In the way that he loves her. Because he never figured out what she meant when she said "love" before.

And weight of his shadow on top of her, heat of his body, the sweat on his stomach...the kindness of his face…

Silly. Silly things, they are.

“Yes,” she tells him. And she swallows the ‘but’. “Yes,” she promises him, no backing down. “Yes,” she exclaims, in spite of everything in her telling a woman that she doesn’t deserve it.

And, savoring every inch of it, Hidan comes down and kisses her yet again. Her eyes close, and it still doesn't seem real.

She does not see as Hidan turns his head to look at Kakuzu...not only acknowledge him but beckon him here. The stitched man’s jaw drops; he had thought his fun, the little bit of delight, was all over. Even if Takara was willing to share, Hidan wouldn’t.

Oh how wrong he was.

“Look at our girl,” Hidan tells him again, a cock of his head used to gesture, soon as Kakuzu stands at the foot of the bed. “Isn’t she somethin’?”

And she is. Kakuzu feels himself losing his breath, the twitch in his hands and the blood rushing in his veins. He sees what is happening—

“Hidan,” he mutters. “Be careful.” No, indeed, no rage at all, not even a bit. “She’s still hurt. She’s still scared.” The reaper snorts, giving a lopsided smirk.

“But you fixed us up so nice…!” the silver-haired demon coos, and as he combs into her locks again, the woman’s eyes open. He smiles at her, so very devilishly, longingly. There's no stopping him and Kakuzu can tell. Another secret has to be told:

“She’s never kissed before.”

...

...

Hidan rolls his shoulders and looks back; the lust in his eyes is not reserved just for one, and Kakuzu wears a target on his forehead. Fuck. “...And how do you know that, you old bastard?”

That shuts Kakuzu up right quick.

“You make it to her before me?" the younger man retorts, relentless. "Kakuzu...I’m hurt!” And before she can mumble a sincere apology, Hidan presses a thumb onto the lips of this conversation's subject. “Well...baby,” he turns to ask her now...and all of a sudden she's noticing him stripping off a cloak of black and red clouds. “You ever fucked?”

And of course she hasn’t.

He knows she hasn’t.

Couldn’t have if he was the first person she saw nude. And he’s looking right. At. Her.

"Then I get to be the first at something else."

All of a sudden she remembers how naked she is. That and the glimmer in her eyes makes Hidan so very, very excited.

“I’ll be the first to make you cum, baby.”

A gasp and her heart pounds so heard it hurts. Hidan continues, pinning her down with hooded purple irises as he talks it out to Kakuzu, lest he ruin the moment, make her even more scared.

“I promise...I promise I’ll be gentle... We'll talk it out and nothin' happens she doesn't want..." The tongue that sips blood comes out, swirling slowly over his lips. "And ain’t gonna touch that cute little garter you put on her pretty leg...no matter how much I wanna.”

She looks down. The stitches of her wound do look like a garter. Pulsating pain or not...it…— Oh shit. It took all this for her to realize what is about to happen.

...Just as Hidan places one knee...over the other side of her pelvis...and begins to straddle. That's what it takes.

“Lost your tongue, eh angel…?” he leans in close. His nose rests into her neck. “Then do what you do best…” he instructs her. “Sing to me instead. The first one. The one you said in the woods about prayin’. I wanna make you feel that way...”

So even since back then, not even a full day. That’s all it took for lonely Hidan to change his mind about whether or not she’s pretty. She swallows, and worries try to resurface and explain.

“I...I’ve never…”

“She’s scared.” Kakuzu repeats himself in interruption, and suddenly he’s so much closer, too. Hidan opens one eye and glances up to his partner, daring.

“Then help me show her,” he says. “Help me show her she doesn’t need to be.”

And then the rag doll and his duckling lock eyes. Her lips part with nothing to say but disbelief, sighs and grunts and gasps. She looks so innocent...is so innocent...but as Kakuzu sees the bob in her throat to swallow again...as she sighs...as she begs with eyes alone…

...He just needs to be sure and actually ask. No more assuming. Not this time, especially not when they're her first.

“Do you want me? Us…?”

The line between reality and fantasy blurring is the only thing that holds her back. She looks at them, two men as different as night and day… She went from having the worst day of her life to...to...this…! She’s dreaming. She has to be dreaming.

...And if that’s the case...

Then...

Then there will be no regrets.

Then she can say...yes.

The permission is mouthed and that’s all it takes. The world's most hellish want a bite of heaven. Hidan dips in first.

The man eases into it, trying to keep advice in mind, trying to go slow, starting at her forehead...then her mouth...over the length of her neck, down to her breast. She stutters...and that's when the woman catches as Kakuzu gets onto the bed, easily residing the little free space left. That gorgeous brown hair of his is free, dreadfully long and brushes the top of his muscular bust. A glance of admiration— or perhaps, rather, amusement— and a big hand tenderly takes one much smaller. The man at first just holds it, noting how soft, how selfish he is to know it at all, then raises it next to her head, pinning it by the wrist as he begins to bend down.

“You can say stop at any time,” he reminds, behind her ear in the low voice that sends tingles down her spine. But why on earth would she do that, she thinks, when she's longed for so long? “You’re in control here.”

But is she? How can she be when she is being touched, caressed, held by two men she’s wanted so desperately all this time? She’s going to lose control entirely...but she can appreciate what he means by that.

“Just...don’t...touch my leg…” She’s already whimpering; they’re going to have to draw this out, lest it end so soon. Kakuzu nods, his silky hair bobbing with the motion. He picks her hand back up and traces it onto his stitches...over his chest...down his stomach.

“Do you like this?” half sincere, half teasing. “Don’t flatter me for its own sake.” Of course she nods. And on her own, to answer that question, her hand moves further down.

For someone who hasn’t handled a man’s cock before, she’s damn good at it.

The stiffness already forming firms even more, Kakuzu so hard underneath his attire, coddled in her touch. How many times has he touched himself, imagining something like this? In the bath, getting undressed...one hand balancing himself against the wall while the other pulls?

Maybe as much as Hidan has. Maybe as much as she has.

As Kakuzu moans, so does Hidan. “Angel…” he praises, a palm over her other tit with his mouth takes a break from the first. Not even sex can keep this bastard from talking, though she doesn't mind, not at all. His words just make it all the more incredible. “Look at us, angel. Two of the biggest and baddest and you’re gonna make us cum in our pants like it’s nothing… What a good girl, eh…?”

And he raises up, if only to watch the cute expression she makes as he squeezes, sees the give of flesh between his fingers. The bra just gets in the way.

“Let’s get that nonsense off…”

A flick from his pocket and she’s set free. Kakuzu hums in satisfaction. “Damn kunai...good for something after all…” All the same, he watches the woman for a reaction, just in case it’s too much, being reminded of the weapon. A bit of a glint in her eye, a vocalization of startle—

Hidan catches on first. It’s thrown to the side, far away from where the blade can touch her again. Doesn't need it anymore. “Rest I’m gonna do myself," he says. "Gonna make the old man watch. Can you do that, girlie? Come on...show us how wet we make ya... I'm sure you are...!”

The strap of her underwear is pulled down, and it confirms how right he is. A big, big grin stretches in satisfaction. With that, there's only one question left:

“How do you want it, angel?”

…

It takes a moment for her to realize what that means.

“Face up? Face down? Me? Him? Both of us?” So quick he goes back on his word, his desire to tease the partner he wants so much to beat. Just the sight of the mounds of Venus and all a man wants is to get her off. Choices given, they both give her time to collect, to coherently choose. With some reluctance, Kakuzu takes her hand off his crotch, and Hidan lifts himself up by the palms to get a good read on her face. Sweet little thing...already so hot and bothered. She really hasn’t fucked before. If there was any doubt before, certainly isn’t now…

The woman looks at them both, two men radiant with adoration and lust after holding it in for so long, no outlet for it until everything fell into place. A perfect storm. Surely they want to get inside her...and she nearly asks for this—

...But.

But.

She is still afraid. Even if a little. Even if only because she does not yet know her own body quite so well as they may. And so, despite how much she wants to give, it has to be okay if she takes, instead. Surely they won't mind.

“T-t-touch me,” she pleads under her lost breath, words she’s held back for so long. “P-p-please…!”

And she’ll be touched with hands and mouths as hungry as they are vicious.

Darker lips hold onto hers, matching palms taking their turn massaging nipples and feeling her moan into his mouth, letting her feel the moan from it, too. Her legs are spread open as a man tastes the sweetest thing he’s ever had the pleasure of tracing his tongue around. In between kisses, she sings as requested, even if soft, even if broken up, even if hardly said at all. Even if it feels a little bit silly. It's all that they asked for, so it's what she's got to give. She begs of them:

Take me to church

Waves of her are ridden, unintentional bucking of hips. Her breath quickens...and raises...and loudens... Until she’s begging, until the sound of her crying and screaming in pain is far, far away. Now, it is ecstasy.

Kakuzu holds her hand as she grips tight, and he pulls away just enough to see the look on her face for what comes next.

A moan.

A clench.

...And with her lovely, lovely voice...a release.

Hidan looks up at her, magenta eyes hooded and something thicker than saliva dripping from his lips. A drop of blood is staining into the rest of the liquid. Just as the story started, the girl gets her finish with a reminder of Jashin, of the blessings he bestows. He laps it up, long and slow to savor the taste. To show her how good it is to be in his position.

But a good girl still needs a break before it’s the old man’s turn.

She gets to soak in the hot spring and watch as Hidan decides to finish, next, what she had started, holding his partner's dick like that, getting him nice and hard with nowhere to go. She holds around Kakuzu as he pulsates and moans, and he stretches one arm and pulls her in to brace himself. She whispers to him that it's okay, she likes him holding her tight. The rag doll, with that permission leans his full weight, cheek pressed against her head as he uses his other hand to grip Hidan by the hair as he so wonderfully sucks him dry. Kakuzu worships no god, but he can see the appeal in having a goddess. A goddess and her dutiful priest with a big mouth to shut up.

He can at least understand now...what makes someone worship something outside of themselves.

An exhale and the woman is there to feel his entire body relax. Silver locks drip as they emerge from the surface, a lingering kiss on Kakuzu's jaw and Hidan inhales deep, catching his breath, and wraps around him and his angel, legs and arms and all. His nose finds home in the other side of her, so she is so warmly, snugly flanked by two S-rank missing-nins who will never let her go.

Three of the undead, three who by fate...or luck...or whatever the hell makes life work...ending up like this, together. Fucked up, fucking, and fucked. Sensations unending at least until it’s time to go, lest the others wonder where they ran off to.

But not just yet.

If anyone asks, though? They have two zombies to get through. That assurance alone...helps their treasure feel safe.

 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Oh, good God, let me give you my life

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[amorest-viesse]

[You And I In This World Adrift] - Chloe SSR Card Story Translation

Ft. Akira

A Reassuring Presence - Chapter 1

[Manor Living Room]

Akira: (Whoa! What’s with all this fabric!?)

Having finished lunch, I was making my way to the living room for a break only to find it covered in fabrics of all different colors and materials. At the center of the chaos was of course, none other than…

Chloe: Should I use… red here? No wait, the blue might be nice…

Akira: (Chloe seems to be working really hard on something. I wonder what he’s making… Although, maybe I shouldn’t interrupt.)

Just as I was turning around, Chloe suddenly looked up from his project, and we made eye contact.

Chloe: Oh, Master Sage!

Akira: Good afternoon, Chloe. I wasn’t bothering you, was I?

Chloe: Not at all! In fact, I’d say you’re right on time. Come on over!

At Chloe’s invitation, I made my way to him.

Chloe: Could you do me a favor and hold still for a sec?

Akira: Oh, uh, sure.

Upon my agreement, Chloe began to drape several fabrics on my shoulder.

Chloe: Oh, I just can’t decide which one is better! The lighter blue or the darker one? …Ooh wait, what about something right in the middle?

As he swapped colors in and out, Chloe would occasionally turn and look at a sheet of paper.

Akira: Is that a new design? I’m sure it’ll turn out amazing.

Chloe: You really think so? That’s great! It’s supposed to be for you, so I’m really giving it my all.

Chloe: You’re always doing so much for us that I wanted to thank you somehow, and this was the first thing that came to mind.

Akira: Chloe… That’s so sweet of you.

Even without the gift, his words alone made my heart swell with joy.

Chloe: …Alright, this shade of blue has gotta be it! Although it looks like I’m a little short on fabric, so I’ll have to get more.

Chloe: Oh, do you wanna come with me? I gotta figure out what to do for the ribbon too, so I’d love to hear your opinion.

Akira: If it helps, then of course I’ll come!

♡♥♡

[City of Affluence - Day]

Akira: I’m glad we were able to get that fabric you wanted, Chloe. It’s lucky we came just in time to grab what was left.

Chloe: Yeah, me too! It could’ve been bad if we’d just been a little later.

With the goods safely in hand, Chloe sighed in relief although his face was full of determination.

Chloe: Just you wait, Master Sage! I’m gonna make you the perfect outfit with this!

Akira: I’m looking forward to it.

Chloe: Yep yep! …Oh!

Chloe: That golden braid is gorgeous. I didn’t think to include one when I first came up with the design, but I bet it’d look great with this color.

As Chloe zeroed in on the stall’s goods, his eyes sparkled like a child discovering a new toy. Watching him brought a smile to my face as well.

Akira: (There he goes again. Ah well, while I’m here, I might as well take a look around too.)

Hooded Old Man: You there. Youngster.

A Reassuring Presence - Chapter 2

Akira: Huh? Are you talking to me?

Hooded Old Man: Yes. You. If ain’t too much of a bother, could ya help an old man with his wares?

I quickly scanned the crowd for Chloe and spotted him chatting away with the stall owner. Noting his presence, I felt a sense of reassurance.

Akira: (I’ll probably be back before Chloe’s done shopping, so it should be fine…)

Akira: Sure I can. What do you need?

♡♥♡

Chloe: Master Sage! What do you think of this color? It would look so good on you, but—

Chloe: …Huh? Where’d they go…?

Chloe: (Maybe they saw something interesting and went to check it out…?)

Chloe: (If so, then I should probably wait here. It’d be bad if we both wandered off.)

Chloe: (Although… this isn’t exactly the safest city. What if they were kidnapped or something like I was…?)

Chloe: (I could never forgive myself if something happened…)

Chloe: I was the one who invited the Master Sage here, so it’s my job to make sure they’re safe!

♡♥♡

Akira: (We’ve gotten pretty far from that street stall… I wonder where we’re going.)

As the distance between us and the noise of the city increased, the sounds of our individual footsteps grew louder, and with it, my anxiety.

Akira: Um… Could I ask where these wares are?

Hooded Old Man: It’s just a little further.

Below his hood, the man’s lips curved into a smile. In contrast with the soft tone of his voice, it sent a chill down my spine.

Akira: (I didn’t say anything because I thought this would be quick, but I really should’ve told Chloe where I was going…)

Hooded Old Man: What’s wrong? We’re almost there.

Akira: Umm…

I had no idea where we were. Stuck in an unfamiliar place, my legs froze out of fear.

Akira: (Now that I think about it, didn’t Chloe mention something about being kidnapped before…?)

He had said it happened because of his naivety. Now it seemed I was learning the hard way what he meant.

Akira: (I fell for the same trap. Since I had Chloe here today, I thought everything was going to be fine and let my guard down…)

It was a huge mistake to leave without a word. If anything happened to me, Chloe would definitely blame himself.

Akira: (I can’t make Chloe sad because of my stupid mistake. I have to find a way to get back no matter what.)

I hardened my resolution and spoke up.

Akira: My deepest apologies, but I need to head back. My friend will be worried if I’m gone for too long.

Hooded Old Man: Is that so…

Akira: Apologies once again, but if you really need help then my friend and I can return together…

As I turned around to leave, the old man suddenly grabbed my hand with a growl.

Hooded Old Man: You’re not goin’ anywhere!!

A Reassuring Presence - Chapter 3

Akira: (Agh, he has a tight grip!)

Chloe: <<Suispicibo Voitingoc>>

[Smack!]

Hooded Old Man: Ack! Was that… a button?

The man cried out, grabbing the back of his hand. At our feet, a single button rolled to a stop.

Chloe: What do you think you’re doing?

Akira: Chloe!

Chloe: You’ve got a pretty important person to me there, so you better watch yourself or you’ll regret it.

Hooded Old Man: Hngh…

[Running Steps]

Pressured by Chloe’s fierce conviction, the old man quickly turned tail and darted down a back alley.

Chloe: Eh!? He’s already gone…!

Chloe: I guess he was just pretending to be an old man. His voice did seem young for his age…

Akira: …

Chloe: That aside, are you alright, Master Sage? I’m sorry I didn’t show up sooner…

Doing a complete 180 from before, Chloe looked at me with worry in his face. 

Akira: Yes, I’m completely fine. Thank you so much for saving me, Chloe!

Chloe: I’m so glad you’re okay. I shouldn’t have gotten so swept up in shopping and left you alone like that…

Akira: Oh no, you’re fine! I was the one who followed a stranger without saying anything.

Akira: I guess I thought everything would be fine since I was with you today.

Chloe: What do you mean…?

Akira: I know you told me about the kidnapping incidents in this city before, but I didn’t remember until it was too late.

Chloe: …Well, I know how that feels.

Chloe: During my travels with Rustica, the dangers of the world always felt so far away. With him by my side, it felt like nothing could touch me.

Chloe: Which is why I’m happy to hear you say that.

Akira: Say what?

Chloe: You felt safe because I was here and that everything would be fine.

Chloe: I guess that makes me a little like your “Rustica”.

Chloe sheepishly gave me a smile—one that’s been supporting me all this time without me even realizing it.

Chloe: Ah, but we’re getting off track! I’ll do my best to keep you safe from now on!

Chloe: I know I was the one that asked you here, but if you’d ever like to go somewhere, I’d be happy to accompany you too!

Akira: I’ll definitely keep that in my mind for the future.

Chloe: Alright! Anyways, let’s head back now. I have everything I need, so your outfit will be done in no time!

Akira: I’m looking forward to it.

Chloe vigorously nodded his head as if to say “leave it to me!” With smiles on both of our faces, we set off for the manor.

Chloe and the Bygone Gate - Card Episode

[Chloe’s Room]

Akira: It seems like a gate that shows the past has appeared on Borda Isle’s beach.

Akira: It reminds me of when I had just arrived in this world. I often thought about the past as a way of calming myself down.

Chloe: I totally get what you mean! It’s nice to think about happy or comforting times!

Chloe: What kind of stuff did you think about?

Akira: I’d go back to when I was a kid being read a story by someone I trusted.

Chloe: Whoa! That sounds just like you! I bet you were a real cute kid.

Akira: Ehehe, thank you.

Akira: Do you have any comforting memories like that? Something you hold onto when the going gets rough…?

Chloe: Oh! I wonder… I feel like there’s a lot I could talk about.

Chloe: Of course, most of them have to do with Rustica… Hmm…

Akira: It sounds like you have too many to even choose from.

Chloe: Well, that is true, but it’s also that I just haven’t had many bad experiences since meeting Rustica…

Akira: Whoa! That’s pretty incredible.

Chloe: I know right? I’ve been so lucky that I can barely believe it myself.

Chloe: It’s not that I haven’t experienced any hardships.

Chloe: But whenever I do, I can always find comfort in those memories…

Chloe: It’s all thanks to Rustica’s kindness and the new sights he’s shown me in our time together.

Akira: Knowing him, you two are always making happy memories together, aren't you?

Chloe: Ehehe… We really are.

Akira: Rustica’s pretty cool.

Chloe: Ehehe… Isn’t he? That’s my teacher for you.

Chloe: Even if time rewound to before I met Rustica…

Chloe: I don’t think I’d be the weepy mess I used to be. I don’t think I’d hate myself like before.

Chloe: No matter what terrible things people say to me, I’ll continue to love myself. That’s what Rustica taught me.

Chloe: Even if I have to relive my childhood once again, face my family and their relentless bullying, the way they singled me out, their sudden anger…

Chloe: If I had my memories of Rustica, I think I’d be able to protect myself this time.

Chloe: Haha… It’s just like how you dealt with coming to this world.

Akira: Chloe…

Chloe: Hey, Master Sage. Let’s make a lot more of those memories together.

Chloe: That way, when the hard times hit, we can always go back to them.

Chloe: I love you so much, Master Sage! Spending time with you makes me so super happy! I really, really mean it!

Chloe: Don’t you ever forget that! Remember it!

Home Screen Voice Line

“Surely we’ll experience both sad and happy times in the future, but no matter what happens, let’s enjoy ourselves! After all, we’re wizards who revel in all the world has to offer!”

[butchkaramazov]

A Shade Darker Than Red: Chapter 3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Six months passed by. The results of our board examinations were out. I had scored around 95.6%, surprising even myself. Paro had scored 97%.

“Always two steps ahead of you, Renu,” Maa said playfully. 

“Mediocre coaching,” I laughed, pointing at Paro.

She smiled back. Her lips were pressed into a thin line as she tried to cover her teeth with her hand. On wild impulse, I leaned forward and gently pulled her hands apart. “Not happening,” I said.

Paro looked at me like I had punted her puppy into the sun. 

I rolled my eyes. “Stop looking at me like that, idiot. Have a sandesh.”

That day, I was once again invited to watch her practice. I sat on the edge of her bed, swinging my legs and trying my hardest not to glance at her heaving blouse. 

She was dancing to her favourite Hindi song, which was, rather unnervingly, starting to grow on me as well. 

I watched her as I scribbled incoherent lines of poetry—poetry, or desperation? I do not know. Everything was red, anyway. The only poetry I could think of right then, was Paro.

A swat of black hair sent me tumbling back onto the bed—did she just slap me with her hair? Paro quickly paused her playlist and climbed onto the bed, leaning her elbow on the headrest. She still looked at me like I was the stupidest thing she’d ever seen.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, not looking sorry at all.

“Doofus,” I muttered, grabbing her elbow and pulling her down with me. “If I go down, you go down with me.”

Laughter echoed throughout the room as she fell on top of me and roamed her fingers along my sides, trying to find my ticklish spots. I let out a strangled laugh, rolling over on my side. 

“I’ll—I’ll tell Mumma,” Paro gasped between laughs.

“I’ll tell Mumma,” I mocked her, making her laugh. I could drink up that sound, smear it over my wounds like it was ambrosia. 

A comfortable silence ensued, broken only by her fading chuckles and the creaking of the bed as I sat up. “Wanna go out for ice cream?”

Paro raised an eyebrow, arched perfectly over her almond eyes. “At three in the afternoon?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Paro leaned her elbow against my knee, using my leg as a lever to push herself up. “Sure, okay.”

I climbed off the bed, holding up a finger gun. “I’m not letting you go today, Topper-ji.”

Paro rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Miss Head Girl. Text me when you get home.”

@avani-amulya @manujanolavu @nirmohi-premika @lovesickpdf @arachneofthoughts @sonilaalbindi @desi-yearning @alhad-si-simran @thatpagalchokri @trashmeowcan @waitingforthesunrise @vellibandi @thesunandstarss @chanda-chamke-cham-cham @damnn-dorothea @the-unhinged-fanwinggg if you wanted to be added or removed from the taglist, please let me know<3

(we're in the denial phaseee guys and gays) this was pretty short, but we have smth intense coming up next sooo :p (LISTEN I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT BOARDS OK PLS DONT COME AT ME)

[brandstifter-sys]

The Great Bitchin Bake-Off

Chapter 2: You Close? (Ao3)

Word Count: 3215

Rating: T+

Characters: Roman, Remus

Warnings: Innuendo, blood, gore, food, intrusive thoughts, Remus has OCD

Roman and Remus have no internet, no cookbooks, and they have to make breakfast for everyone in the mindscape. Rather than work together, the creativitwins just have to make it a competition, if only so there's something edible in the end.

--

Roman returned to the kitchen before Remus, and checked his dough. There was still some time before it should have been ready. It had risen somewhat, even with that stupid towel covering it. He was not looking forward to making the filling or glaze for his cinnamon rolls now that he was clean and wearing his Mickey Mouse pajama pants and an old American Eagle t-shirt. His pajamas were not meant to get dirty, so he also borrowed one of Patton's aprons. 

At least he could get started on his filling in peace. He went to the fridge and grabbed a block of cream cheese, thinking that it would suit his needs. He placed it in the clean mixing bowl and turned the mixer on to the highest setting. Whipping the cream cheese seemed like the right thing to do. He also needed to add some cinnamon, so he went to the cabinet for the spice.

“Aw! You started before I got back!”

Roman glanced over his shoulder and pouted at Remus. The duke was pouting back at him, leaning against the oven he turned on, and holding an electric hand mixer. Good. Roman was not about to give up his edge. 

“Last I checked, it’s not a race,” Roman scoffed and casually dumped some cinnamon in his cream cheese. It was just enough to give it some color. That's what he told himself. 

“It’s not!” Remus laughed and bounced to the counter where his butter was waiting for him. He immediately grabbed a bowl and put the butter into it. 

“Then why are you complaining?” 

“Because I want to spend time bonding with my pissy little brother!” he laughed and grabbed his blood jug. He needed to add some more holding power to his filling. 

Roman scowled and turned to his mixer. Would he need to add anything more? He hoped so, if only so he could pretend that he couldn't hear Remus. Unfortunately he couldn't think of anything. 

“Of course I would rather not have to fight or compete every time we get to hang out! But you think I'm evil for some reason,” Remus continued and turned on his mixer. 

As soon as the beaters met his cursed concoction, a crazed laugh leapt from his throat. The rapid spinning was spraying the blood all over the bowl. Some of it even splashed onto the counter top. 

Roman turned off his mixer and guarded it from any potential splash damage. He was horrified by Remus' deranged, wicked cackling and his unnaturally wide eyes, locked onto his bowl. 

Did he really have to wonder why Roman was convinced he was evil? That laugh could freeze the fires of hell! 

And then he stopped. Remus turned off his mixer and grinned at Roman as if he hadn't unleashed an inner demon or two. 

“It matches your face!” Remus giggled and held up the beater. Roman would have been more offended if the whipped butter was a darker shade of red, but it was a rather light pink that matched his favorite blush. 

“You didn't add any cinnamon,” Roman commented dumbly. Granted, he still had the powdery spice next to him. 

“Of course not! That goes on separately! Don't tell me you didn't know!” Remus jeered and grabbed a rubber spatula to clean the beaters. 

Roman fumed and tried to ignore the smugness hidden in that chipper tone. The least Remus could do was acknowledge his budding ire! 

But nope! Remus was happily cleaning up his mixer and gathering yet another bowl and a measuring cup. He didn't even look Roman's way when he pushed his butter mixture aside and pulled out the sugar. 

“What are you doing?” Roman huffed.

“Making cinnamon sugar for the filling!” Remus responded and carefully measured out the sugar he would need. He had a feeling Roman would want to copy him somewhat. 

He was right! Roman snatched the bag of sugar from him like a greedy little goblin and grabbed a bowl. The rude little prince could keep it, as long as he shared the cinnamon. 

Remus knew better than to expect that much from Roman. He stole the cinnamon while Roman poured some indeterminate amount of sugar into his bowl. Hopefully it wouldn’t bite him in the ass later! 

Of course, being a nosy little bitch sure would! Roman just had to see what Remus was doing. He had to fight back the urge to laugh, Remus added so little cinnamon to his sugar, surely no one would be able to taste it! 

He swiped the bottle from Remus with a scoff and dumped half of it into his sugar. Remus mixed his sugar and bit his tongue. He wasn’t going to ruin Roman’s “perfect” cinnamon rolls with any decent advice! 

“And now to pull a Frankie!” Remus cheered and grabbed his resting dough. He tore the towel away with a flourish and grinned. It was so puffy and red, like his lips after using them on someone's—

He cleared the counter and pulled out two baking dishes, mainly so Roman wouldn’t get in his way later. This was the second most fun part, right after kneading the fresh dough. Then he sprayed both pans with cooking spray and broke out the flour again. 

Roman set his fillings aside and checked his dough. It rose somewhat, but it looked dense. Surely it would become fluffier after baking. He watched Remus coat the countertop with a dusting of flour and then let his dough slowly drop onto it from his bowl. It was disgusting. 

Remus laughed and set the bowl in the sink. He was far too pleased with his creation for Roman’s comfort. He was so pleased that he slapped the red mass with a giggle. 

“It’s even softer and jigglier than Virgil’s butt!” the duke cheered and grabbed a rolling pin.

“What?” Roman gasped, affronted that Remus would dare talk about his best friend in such a lewd manner.

“Yeah! He’s got a booty to die for! That’s the one spider trait he can’t hide!” Remus jeered and coated his rolling pin with flour, “Remember this, Ro hoe bro, spiders have the fattest asses in the animal kingdom!” 

Roman sputtered indignantly and stole the flour. He had to finish this task so he could get away from this twisted disaster! 

The so-called twisted disaster was absolutely killing it, rolling out his dough and humming to himself. Roman immediately floured his counter and grabbed a rolling pin, not one to be out done. But when he turned his dough out, it landed with a thud that caused flour to puff up in a cloud and cover his shirt and apron.

“I’m looking down the hole, you’re looking up at me,” Remus sang to his bloody mass of gluten, “You’re cold and tired, that is easy to see.” 

Roman forced himself to ignore that off-key screeching and focus on rolling out his thick dough.  

“Lower the rope to you, a bucket and a light,” Remus kept going, “Your membrane will be soft and smooth, and your heart will be mine! It rubs the lotion on its skin! Or else it gets the hose again!” 

Roman gripped his rolling pin tightly, enough that his knuckles turned white. He was not hearing this. He was not hearing this while this imbecile made the kitchen look like a murder scene.

“The look inside your eyes drives me from control,” Remus kept singing as he carefully flattened and spread his dough, “Evoking visions of my favorite casserole! And if I eat your heart—”

“Will you stop that?!” Roman snapped.

Remus stared at him with wide eyes and an unnerving grin. He cracked his neck and waited for Roman to continue. He didn’t. 

“I look like an organ harvester, the least I can do is have fun with it!” Remus said through his teeth. The horrible thoughts flooding his mind about harvesting actual organs were getting too loud. The singing was helping him. Not that Princey ever considered that. 

“And whose fault is that?”

“Yours.” 

Roman frowned. He hated that Remus was right. But he could not concentrate when Remus was singing about Hannibal Lecter! 

“Could you find a different song, one that isn’t laced with questionable queer representation,” Roman sighed. He would have to make some sacrifices if he wanted to get this over with. At least Remus seemed to relax at that request. 

He set his rolling pin aside and grabbed his butter and spatula, dancing to the beat in his head. 

“Just a steel town girl on a Saturday night, lookin' for the fight of her life. In the real-time world no one sees her at all. They all say she's crazy!” he sang as he spread the butter on the flat dough, making sure to leave a thick coat. He was jogging in place and having fun with his little baking mess. 

Roman was not having nearly as much fun. His dough kept tearing and he couldn’t get it flat enough for his liking. This was not a task meant for a prince, but he would do it, and he would surpass Remus. He was sure of it. 

By the time he was satisfied with his dough and spreading his cream cheese on top of it, Roman saw Remus was finished adding his cinnamon sugar mixture. Instead of continuing to the next step, he just had to have a little dance break. 

It was impressive, watching him run in place on the balls of his feet, switching into fast pirouettes and flailing with timed precision. Roman was half convinced he could hear “Maniac” playing as his boastful brother went full on Flashdance. 

“He's a maniac! He just moved in next door! He will kill your cat and nail it to your door!” Remus sang, surprisingly well for how much he was moving. 

That's when Roman noticed that Remus switched from his Dread Pirate get-up to a black, strapless leotard and dark red leg warmers. Dark. Red. 

“You thieving wretch!” Roman snarled and abandoned his baking to throttle Remus. That bastard had the gall to steal his—wait. 

Roman didn't own a pair of leg warmers. 

Remus was too lost in his performance to pay him any mind. There wasn't enough room for any cool flips or sudden dips, which put a damper on things, but he was Remus, he could make it work! 

It was only when the duke arched back, stretching his torso over the island counter by the stove, that Roman realized what absolute hell could break loose. 

Remus reached up and grabbed a pull chain out of thin air. Knowing him, the fluid that was supposed to crash over him would not be water, like the movie. It could be urine or diarrhea or something else from that area. Or it could be blood. That was the most likely considering the course of the evening. 

Roman immediately tried to will the coming cascade into water. Or juice. Or anything that wasn't a bodily fluid. Just not blood. Not blood. 

Not blood 

Remus pulled the chain and opened his mouth wide. He was thirsty and he was looking forward to a mouthful of Gatorade. 

Blood rained down all over him, coating the counter top and splattering all over the floor. Fortunately it didn't reach the cinnamon rolls. 

Remus jolted upright and raced to the sink. He spit out the offending fluid and coughed like he was dying. 

“What the fuck?! Why did you make it blood?!” Remus whined and washed his face. 

“What were you expecting?” 

“A tasty beverage! Why did you change it on me? It's my job to be gruesome!” 

“I was trying to change it to not blood!” Roman huffed. He would not be blamed for Remus' mess. 

“‘Not blood?’” Remus laughed and magically changed out of his dance get-up, “You know you can't conjure a ‘not’ anything!” 

Roman shrank back and tried not to pout like a kid.  

“At least it was human blood! Can you imagine how much thicker it would have been if it was dragon blood!” Remus giggled and skipped to the fridge. He was still thirsty and he knew Virgil had some pomegranate iced tea in there. And if he didn't want to share, well Remus was a glutton for punishment! 

Roman shook off any embarrassment and got back to his cinnamon rolls. He sprinkled the cinnamon sugar on top of the cream cheese and realized he didn't have enough. So he grabbed the cinnamon and coated the whole thing so he couldn't see any cream cheese. 

Remus watched him amusedly as he drank a glass of iced tea. Oh, he was excited to see the end results of that! 

He put the empty glass in the sink and washed his hands again. It was time to finish the beast! 

He carefully rolled up his dough, making sure it was just tight enough. Roman blatantly copied him, but that wasn't a problem for Remus. He was fine with giving Roman some help. 

Roman was quite pleased with how well he rolled his dough and pulled out a knife to slice it into perfect rolls. This was something he knew he could do! He was careful not to create any sort of tear with each slice. When he had ten rolls to bake, he was satisfied. 

And then the countertop shook violently. 

Roman glanced over at Remus and cringed. The duke was suspended in mid air, doing a split, with his hands around the handle of an oversized, double headed battle axe. The axe was jammed in the counter and covered in off-red gunk. 

“Are you trying to wake everyone?!” Roman snapped as Remus' feet met the floor. 

“Nope!” Remus laughed and swung his axe again, jumping up to deliver a comical amount of force. Roman had to wonder if his trembling on impact was just for show. Considering he repeated the process until he had twelve buns, and he was giggling, Roman assumed that it was an act. 

Remus banished his axe and dusted off his hands. And then the oven beeped, signaling that it was ready. Perfect! 

“Pick your pan, Princey!” Remus cooed and motioned to the baking dishes he prepared. Roman would suspect he sabotaged one, especially if he handed it over, so he had to give Roman the first pick. 

Roman swiped one with a pompous air and brought it to his rolls. He arranged them delicately as if he were arranging a bouquet and sighed once he was done. 

Remus was not so delicate, plopping them on his dish in three rows of four. He didn't take a deep breath to relax, but instead went for the cabinets again. 

“Can you put mine in?” Remus asked as he pulled a jar from the cabinets. Powdered sugar. 

“Why on earth would I help you?” Roman scoffed incredulously and brought his tray to the oven. 

“Why would you want to pass up the opportunity to ruin my dish?” Remus laughed and grabbed his mixer. He needed to clean those beaters for the final piece. He summoned his rubber gloves again and turned on the sink. 

“Am I nothing more than a scoundrel to you?!” 

“Nope! But don't heroic princes want to keep things fair? It's fair if they bake at the same time!” Remus countered and washed his beaters, “Plus my gloves would melt in the oven!” 

Roman relented and took both dishes to the oven. He set them inside on the same rack and closed the door before setting the timer. 

“Thanks Pissy!” Remus said and dried his beaters, “I'll get started on the rest of the dishes after I make my glaze.” 

Roman glanced at the stand mixer and pouted. He would have to wash the paddle and bowl before he could make his own glaze. He was not Cinder-Elias for Pete's sake! Baking was more than enough for him, cleaning was absolute agony! 

“Gimme your bowl and paddle while I still have my gloves,” Remus said, cutting into his spiraling, “I’ll make a double batch of glaze while you run to your side to get some eggs.” 

“Why didn't you ask me to do that before you used blood?” Roman gawked. 

“Because you told me to figure my own shit out before I could ask! And now I'm not asking because I need help, so you won't immediately say no!” 

“And why would you think that?” 

“Because you wouldn't be helping me! We still have to make eggs and sausage for everyone!” 

“‘We?’ You have already bastardized this breakfast enough!” the prince huffed and crossed his arms, “I shouldn't even let you make my glaze, seeing as how you'll ruin it with your demented ideas!” 

“Butter, powdered sugar, milk. That's all I'm putting in there. Nothing else. Even despite your cowardly sabotage, I haven't used anything you can't find in this kitchen,” Remus pouted. 

“The blood!” 

“It's still here, in the jug on the countertop, and then there's some on the floor and cabinets, and there's plenty rushing to your face, Pissy!” he jeered. 

Roman fumed as he gathered his bowl and paddle and put them in the sink for Remus. It should have been a red flag considering how the duke lived, but Roman couldn't be bothered. He was too frustrated with this menace. 

Remus shrugged and washed the dishes, perfectly content with the job as long as he didn't touch any dish soap. 

“Why are you so calm about cleaning?” Roman asked. He knew Remus was always raving about his filth and squalor.

“It calms me,” Remus shrugged and rinsed the paddle, “Don't tell me you haven't noticed!” 

“Why would I?” 

“Because you secretly care about your stinky big brother and his mental health. Or maybe you don't, but you need to know your enemy's weaknesses!” Remus teased. He had long come to terms with the fact that Roman didn't like him, possibly that he hated him. Remus didn't need Roman to like him, as long as he didn't live up to his namesake. 

“Do you honestly think you're worth my attention?” Roman scoffed. So what if he didn't pay attention to the duke? It's not like Remus was paying him any mind! 

“Yes, but I can be wrong,” Remus said as he set the paddle aside and washed the bowl. Roman was unnervingly silent. Remus decided that he struck a nerve. 

He most certainly did! Roman was a noble prince and he knew exactly where his attention was needed. Not some fiendish evil twin! Why would Remus even think he deserved Roman's attention? Because they were brothers? 

They were brothers. Maybe Remus was right, that he should care, or admit that he cared. 

“And now I'm ready to churn up some cinnamon roll cummies!” Remus chirped and set the clean dishes aside.

No, Roman did not have to give him any attention. 

He huffed and sank out to gather the ingredients for the rest of breakfast. If he were smart he would do all that cooking in his part of the Imagination. And he was feeling rather intelligent.

Remus mentally patted himself on the back. This was not the right time to get into deep stuff and get all emotional. He had work to do!

--

(1)(3)

[pyrrhia-times]

Chapter 2 - Scorched Face

The sound of waves rolling into the rocks of the beach steadily grew louder as the morning’s wind grew. A forceful gust of the wind made its way through the doorway of croaks house, and stirred the scroll now laying on the floor. The scrapping sound of the paper brought Croak back to the present, he had been adrift in his daydreams.

He picked up the noisy scroll and brought it back to where it belonged on his bookshelf. Croak noticed that he had gone stiff from sitting for so long, and stretched out his limbs one by one, and shook himself to shake away his fatigue. He needed his full attention to be able to capture the little squids. They always seemed to guess his next move before he’d even made it, zipping away into a crevice he couldn’t reach his talons into, or disappearing behind some corals, never to be seen again.

Shaking his head, he quickly left his house and took off, knowing that he would continue to procrastinate or get caught up in his daydreams again if he didn’t leave straightaway. The sun was hovering just above the horizon, making the sky glow red-hot. The clouds hanging in the air were a deep orange. He always loved the peaceful morning skies.

Croak flew above the water, which now had some sizable waves, their white caps tumbling over and disappearing under the water only to rise again. He headed for a large coral garden that was near a small island just a few kilometres south of his home. The squids could always be found at the shallow reef, feeding off the other small fish and critters who lived there.

In the distance he spotted a murky green blob. Looks like Barb coming back from some early morning fishing. Barb was his nearest neighbour who often went fishing before the sun rose, so that she could spend the rest of the day sunning herself on the dark rocks of the shoreline. She was a sweet dragon, getting up there in age, who often invited Croak over for dinners. When he had first settled on the island, she’d taught him how to keep pests out of his seaweed garden.

As they got closer to each other she flashed her scales in greeting. “Good day for fishing, the cuttlefish were especially active.” Her bioluminescent scales glowed a bright green.

“Looks like you got quite the haul!” Croak flashed back as they passed each other. She was carrying a net bursting with colourful flopping fish in her brown talons.

Like many SeaWings who lived outside the Palace, Barb had brown scales speckling along her body and gathering on her arms and feet like muddy boots. SeaWings who lived in the Sea Palace were often bright shades of greens and blues, with the occasional deep indigo, while farmers and hunters living near the border with the Mud Kingdom tended to be darker, and less vibrant than their wealthier neighbours. Croak himself was almost completely covered in brown scales, with nearly no blue scales on his body, except for his bioluminescent scales, which were a deep blue. Many royal SeaWings even held the belief that at one point villages near the border had hybridized with MudWings.

Whether he or Barb had any distant MudWing relatives had never actually been proven, and Croak believed it was simply genetics at play. After all, he had never heard of a farmer marrying into the Royal SeaWing family.

Croak twisted his head back to watch as Barb plunged her net into the water, helping keep the fish alive on the journey back to her home. He was about halfway to the reef now, and decided to swim the rest of the way, avoiding scaring off the squid with a loud splash. The cold water pressed around him, chasing away the very last of his morning weariness.

The water here was much deeper, the bottom of the ocean covered in dead corals and large bumpy stones. Swimming along the bottom, he pushed himself off of the large stones that rose up off the seafloor. Just as he was about to push himself off of the next rock, he saw a familiar shape darting around in the corner of his vision. He grabbed hold of the rock, stopping his momentum, and turned to properly identify the squid.

I’ve never spotted one this far from the reef before.The cuttlefish was darting to a black rock and back. Barb did say they were extra active today.

He slowly wriggled through the water to get closer. The easiest way to catch the slimy creatures was to sneak up close to them, and flare all of his bioluminescent scales at once in a blinding flash, stunning the squid long enough for him to grab it. He was nearly upon the squid now. Come on, just a bit closer. He moved as slowly as his muscles would allow him. When the squid was nearly in talon-length he shot forward, flinging his wings open, and flashed his scales to life.

The squid flinched, and Croak’s mouth opened in an inaudible scream, bubbles flying from his mouth, as the illuminated face of a charred-black SeaWing stared back at him.

Croak sat trembling on a sandy beach. He felt hot and cold at the same time. The moments after discovering the corpse and now a total blur. Barb sat beside him, rubbing small circles in his back, trying to calm herself just as much as she was trying to calm Croak. Two soldiers blatantly argued further down the beach, where the body had been dragged to shore. They had tried to question him, but he just stared numbly at his talons, pressing them in and out of the soft sand. He couldn’t bring himself to lift his head, scared to see the dragon’s face again, petrified forever in a lifeless scream.

Barb’s hand stiffened on his back, and she let out a small gasp. Croak managed to tare his gaze from his talons, to glance up and see what had caused Barb’s reaction. His eyes widened as he saw a group of deep blue and green SeaWings rushing to the Island. The huge blue dragon at the head of the group was Queen Coral, unmistakable with her strands of pearls gleaming in the sunlight.

She landed on the beach clumsily, and ran towards the body, dropping down and wrapping her arms around the charred corpse. She let out a scream as she looked at his face, “CERULEAN!”

Croak felt the blood drain from his body, and Barb let out another gasp. Cerulean? The SeaWing Prince?!

<|>

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[foundtherightwords]

The Firebird - Chapter 14

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warning: violence, fire, gore

Chapter word count: 3.8k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13

Chapter 14 - Deathless

After everything he'd heard of Zhara's brother, after witnessing every act of cruelty Illarion was capable of, Paul was expecting a villain, someone who exuded power and wickedness. What he saw instead was a boy, looking no older than sixteen, of the same tall, slender build as Zhara, with the same red hair, though it was a shade darker, almost auburn, and the same freckles. There was even something of Zhara's impishness in the turn of his mouth as well. Only the eyes were different. When Paul looked into those eyes, his heart sank, and all his doubt about the boy's true nature vanished. They were the same glittering green as the medallions, hard and cold. Zhara's eyes were always human even when she was transformed into a bird. This boy's eyes didn't even seem alive; the only hint of life in them was a glare of hate.

But Paul didn't spend too long contemplating those lifeless eyes. His attention was riveted on a large mesh cage at the window. Zhara was fluttering in it, while the setting sun cast its light on her plumage, turning her into a fireball, just like the first time Paul had seen her in the forest of Tsarskoye Selo.

Underneath the cage, laid out on the table, were an array of strange items and instruments—a gold chest, a hare, a duck, and an egg. The animals each had an angry red slash on its chest. It seemed Illarion had everything he needed for the Deathless ritual, except for the most important one—the needle containing his death. This the boy was twirling between his thin fingers while he leaned casually against the throne, watching Paul with a curious, almost fascinated expression. Under the disconcerting gaze of those flat green eyes, Paul became too aware that he was no knight in shining armor, with his torn and bloody shirt and mismatched weapons. He could only hope that appearances may be misleading.

"For a mere mortal from Rus', he did quite well, did he not, Zharissa?" Illarion said conversationally. "Much better than those bumbling bogatyrs of yours. I wonder what other surprise he may have in store."

To Paul's shock, Zhara spoke. "Paul," she said. "You shouldn't be here. Go! Save yourself!" He stared at the bird. It was Zhara's voice, desperate and full of tears, coming out of her beak. What trick was this?

"Oh, now she talks," Illarion said, sounding annoyed. "I gave you the power of speech so we could have a chat and make the waiting a little less tedious, and you refused to talk to me, but the moment he showed up, you started chattering away?"

"If you don't want to wait until I'm human again to perform the ritual," Zhara said, "why not undo the curse and just kill me now?"

"I would if I could!" Illarion shouted. "Do you think I want to wait? But they are very imprecise, curses. I never meant to curse you, you know. This avian form greatly diminishes your power. If you would only agree to wear that medallion—"

Why, he doesn't know how to undo the curse, Paul realized. He's nothing but a boy, in over his head. He wondered if Zhara had realized this as well and was stalling for time.

"You didn't have to control me," Zhara said to Illarion, spreading her wings in an imploring gesture. "I would've gladly let you rule—"

"What, so you could go behind my back and gather the support of the boyars?" Illarion hissed, baring his teeth in anger. "So you could play the victim and undermine my rule? I know you too well, sister."

They sounded like siblings bickering over a game rather than discussing matters of life and death. Paul took a tentative step forward, reaching for the skull in his knapsack, the only weapon that might stand a chance against Illarion's magic. "Let her go," he said. At least his voice was steady.

"Or what?" Illarion snickered. "Are you going to throw that skull at me?"

In reply, Paul raised the skull. Fire shot out of its eye socket. He meant to aim it at Illarion, but the flame hit a corner of the velvet curtain instead, setting it ablaze. Illarion shrugged, looking almost bored. "I never like those curtains anyway," he said. "You're going to have to do better than that."

"How's this for better?" Paul aimed the skull at Illarion's robe. There was a flash, and the robe caught fire. Illarion didn't even flinch. He beat out the fire with his bare hand, as casually as blowing out a candle. Refusing to be intimidated, Paul advanced upon the boy, the skull held in front of him like a musket. He shot another bolt of fire; Illarion dodged it, and the flame hit the corner of the throne in a shower of sparks.

"Enough of this," Illarion growled. He pinned the needle to the shoulder of his robe before slipping something out of his belt and throwing it at Paul.

Belatedly, Paul saw that it was a medallion.

He threw up his arms, but the medallion hit his chest, burned through his shirt like a cattle brand, and adhered itself to his skin.

The pain was unbearable. He'd thought being pinned under an iron-and-copper dragon was bad, but it was nothing compared to this, this red-hot agony, this hellfire that seared his very bone, that reached all the way to his heart, that spread through his blood. Was this how it had been for Afron when he foolishly cast in his lot with Illarion? Was this how it had been for poor Alyosha Popovich?

Paul collapsed, clutching at his chest. The last thing he heard was Zhara's panicked voice, calling out his name, as the white-and-gold room around him faded to black.

***

When the darkness cleared from his eyes, Paul found himself on a bed, a large bed, with the silk cover of a pillow under his cheek. There were blue velvet drapes with gold fringes around the bed. The room around him was blue and gold as well, and strangely familiar. It took him a moment to realize this was his bed. His room, the one at the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg. An untrimmed candle still flickered on the bedside table, but the morning sun was pouring in through the curtains being swept back by a servant. The door opened, and his mother walked in.

"What, still abed at this hour?" she said, though she didn't sound quite as harsh as usual. "And on such a big day?"

Paul sat up, blinking stupidly. His hand flew up to his chest. The pain was gone. Had there been a pain there at all, or had he dreamed it?

"A big day?" he repeated.

"Your coronation, of course!" his mother said, laughing and clapping her hands together.

Paul stared at her, too stunned to speak. His mother seemed almost giddy, quite unlike herself. "Are you—are you abdicating?" finally he asked.

"That was always the plan, wasn't it?" She briskly walked over to an array of frock coats and robes being laid out by the servants, pointing to several. "That one, that one... no, that one. Yes." Turning back to Paul, she said, "It was agreed that I would only rule until you reached your majority. Now that you have, it is time for me to step down."

Something was not right, but Paul couldn't quite put his finger on it. He felt dazed, half-asleep, as though he'd just come out of a nightmare and was not quite awake. Yet he vaguely remembered that it was true, the council had finally convinced his mother to pass the throne to him. He let himself be dragged out of bed, washed and dressed in full ceremonial regalia, and before he knew it, he was standing in the cathedral in front of a crowd, while priests chanted over him and the crown, the crown he'd seen on his mother's head hundreds of times and coveted each time he saw it, glittered on a velvet cushion before him.

Could it be? Could it be that he had finally achieved what he desired the most?

He looked at the crowd, at their adoring faces all turned toward him. Yes, this was what he wanted, to be seen and respected and appreciated. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else he wanted, something missing. He noticed a young lady standing by his mother, doll-like with her porcelain face and tiny rosebud mouth, eyes cast down demurely. Paul didn't remember having seen her before.

"Panin," he said to his old governor, who was standing by his side, "who is that young woman?"

"Why, that is your betrothed, Your Excellency."

Startled, Paul wracked his brain. Again, he had some vague recollection of having chosen one of the princesses from all the miniatures given to him, but try as he might, he couldn't remember her name. Why couldn't he remember her name? It would be terribly embarrassing to ask Panin her name, wouldn't it?

The young lady lifted her eyes to look at him, and Paul suddenly found himself expecting her eyes to be a warm, golden color, honey held up to sunlight. How strange. Her eyes were blue, perfectly pretty, but for some reason, he kept thinking of those amber eyes. Where had he seen such eyes?

And then, to his shock, the young lady's face began to change. Her eyes turned golden just as he'd imagined; her powdered wigs became a long, red braid, and freckles splattered across her skin. If he looked closely, he could see seven freckles curve around the corner of her mouth... he remembered kissing them... he remembered running his hand over that hair, having those eyes look into his in the moonlight...

"Your Excellency," Panin said in his ears, but it wasn't Panin's voice, it was a strange voice, oily and cold, a voice he'd heard once before in a dark forest. "This is what you want, isn't it?" the voice continued. "You can have all that, and more. As long as you obey me."

Paul turned to his old governor in horror. Panin was looking at him with eyes the color of malachite.

"If you want her," Panin said, still in that spine-chilling voice, "well, I cannot give you the real thing, you understand, but I can give you something very similar." And he nodded at the young lady who looked like someone Paul both did and didn't know.

There was a weight on his chest. He couldn't breathe.

The young lady opened her mouth. She was standing not five feet from him, yet her voice seemed to be coming to him from far, far away. "Fight it, Paul!" she was screaming. He knew that voice. He knew her.

The crowd around him faded, leaving only her eyes and her voice. Holding on to them as an anchor, he clasped a hand to the base of his throat. His fingers closed around a hard disc, something like a pendant or a medallion that was stuck to his skin. It burned. He pulled it out, screaming as it took some of his skin and flesh along with it, and flung it as far away as he could.

The cathedral vanished. Paul found himself on the floor of the throne room, the marble cool under his cheek. The burning sensation on his chest had gone, but the pain lingered, weakening his limbs. Lifting his head with difficulty, he saw that Illarion stood over him, nostrils flared in fury, while the cage stood empty, with a gaping hole in its side—fragments of the medallion scattered nearby told Paul that he must have hit the cage with the medallion by accident and broken it open. Where was Zhara?

The thought of Zhara finally cleared the cloud in his head. She had saved him. She had pulled him out of that—that vision or hallucination or whatever it was that Illarion had used to tempt him, and brought him back to reality.

This, this was real. Not his mother's palace, not his coronation, not his nameless betrothed. This was real. Zhara was real. And he must save her.

And there she was, a spot of red circling close to the ceiling, out of Illarion's reach. Illarion was flinging his hand at her with his fingers outstretched, launching all sorts of things at her—lightning bolts, stones, even sharp icicles—anything he could conjure out of thin air, it seemed. Strike after magical strike hit the ceiling and the walls, and bits of marble rained down. Zhara flew on agile wings, narrowly avoiding the missiles and the debris that flew off the ceiling and the walls. But she could not hold out for long, not when the sun was getting lower and lower by the minute. Why wasn't she fighting back? Her power may be weaker, but she could still throw a few fireballs, surely? Or did she hesitate because she still thought of this crazed boy as her little brother? Well, if she refused to fight him, then Paul would.

As Illarion twisted and turned like he was battling a particularly pesky fly, Paul struggled to his feet and pulled out his broken sword, holding it ready. At one point, Illarion turned fully toward Paul, arms wide open as he tried to hit Zhara with a whirlwind. This was Paul's chance. He ran at the boy at full tilt and stabbed the sword through Illarion's chest.

Staggering back, Illarion stared at the sword's handle sticking out of his chest in astonishment.

Then he started to laugh.

"You fool!" he said, still laughing. He pulled the sword out and threw it to the floor. There wasn't even any blood on it. If it wasn't for the torn patch on his robe, nobody would know he'd been stabbed.

He truly was Deathless.

With a flick of his hand, Illarion threw an invisible force at Paul, sending him sprawling.

Paul's eyes caught a glint on Illarion's robe. It was the needle, reflecting the red rays of the sun.

The needle! Of course! To defeat Koschei, one had to destroy the needle. Paul picked himself up on trembling limbs and aimed the skull at it. If he could at least damage it somehow, that would distract Illarion long enough to give them a chance...

Illarion spun around. Another unseen hand slammed into Paul. This time the force knocked the air out of his lungs and hurled him across the room. The back of his head hit the wall. Stars burst in front of his eyes. Golden ropes sprung out of the floor like tree roots, binding his wrists and ankles. He strained against them, but they only tightened, threatening to slice off his hands and foot. The skull clattered away, rolling to the foot of the throne. Illarion's boot came down, smashing it into bits.

Paul was still staring at the smashed skull, his last hope, when Illarion came to stand in front of him.

"Stupid mortal!" he spat at Paul. "How dare you defy me! Now you shall pay!"

He pointed his hand at Paul and curled his fingers into a fist. Paul gasped. It felt as though there was a claw inside him, squeezing his heart, cutting off the flow of blood in his veins. Incredible, indescribable pain radiated from his heart to his ribs, his neck, his arms and shoulders, and the rest of his body, choking him, paralyzing him. He could feel his life force draining away, but he was helpless to stop it.

From the ceiling, Zhara came barreling down like a golden arrow. She dashed past Illarion, who made a grab for her but missed her by just a hair's breadth. The pressure around Paul's heart loosened, and he collapsed to the floor, coughing. Zhara shot back to the ceiling, and Illarion clasped a hand to his shoulder, the first hint of fear creeping to his face—the needle was gone.

"Please, Lariosha, stop this," Zhara said, the needle tightly grasped between her talons.

"Do not call me that!"

"The magic is killing you! If you go through with the ritual, you'll be dead! Baba Yaga told me—the same thing happened to Koschei—"

So Baba Yaga had told Zhara the truth after all. Was that why she wasn't fighting Illarion? Was she still trying to save him?

"See, that's where you're wrong, sister," Illarion said, though he indeed did not look well. The boy's face was pale, as pale as the marble walls around them, his hands shook, and he was breathing hard, spittle spraying from his lips. Only his green eyes burned feverishly. "Koschei was an old fool. He put his death into an ordinary needle. But I am cleverer than that. This needle will be indestructible once I temper it in your fire. Don't try anything stupid. Whatever you do to it will only make it stronger."

"I'm sorry," Zhara said. "I can't let you go through with this." Turning to Paul, she said, "Hold on to Baba Yaga's handkerchief. It will protect you."

"Protect me—from what?" Paul gasped. He still hadn't quite regained his breath after Illarion's attack.

"From me."

With that, she pointed the needle at herself and plunged it into her chest.

"No!" Paul and Illarion both screamed.

Blood spurted from Zhara's breast, dying her red feathers a darker shade. Blood dripped to the floor below her, and wherever the blood fell, fire sprang up and spread around the room as though the floor was made of the oldest, driest wood and not cold, hard marble. Flames surrounded Zhara, turning her whole body into a fireball, burning the needle white-hot. Flames swallowed up the table with its instruments of magic. Flames licked around Paul, but he strained his bound hand to find Baba Yaga's handkerchief in his knapsack, and the fire never touched him, though he felt its heat on his skin.

"You think you can stop me by killing yourself?!" Illarion hissed. "No, no, dear sister, you will live—at least long enough to serve me!"

He raised his hand. Zhara was pulled toward him on an invisible string, her wings flailing uselessly against his force.

"I have taken Koschei's powers," Illarion said, "and now I'm going to take yours!"

Just as he had done to Paul, Illarion curled his fingers into a fist. Paul knew now that the gesture meant Illarion was draining his victim's life force. And there was Zhara's life force—flames rolled along the string of air between them, flowing from sister into brother, until they were connected by a rope of fire. Paul could only watch, powerless, while Zhara's eyes rolled to the back of her head, and she made a strangled sound. Her plumage started losing its color and luster. The paler she got, the stronger Illarion seemed to be—his face was no longer deathly white, his hair became redder than the fire itself, and his eyes burned more brightly.

The fire was almost gone from around Zhara's body now, her feathers a dim, dark shade of purplish brown, like old blood. She was limp, only held up in midair by the force of Illarion's magic. The needle was lifted from her chest by that same force and flew into Illarion's hand. He caught it, laughing, paying no heed to the incandescent metal.

"Yes, yes!" he shouted. "Why didn't I think to do this sooner? This is so much better! Now I can temper the needle with my own fire! I shall be truly invinci—"

He didn't finish the sentence. The smug smile vanished from his face. The fire continued to blaze around his body as it blazed around the room, sucking out all the air, turning the whole place into an inferno. Despite the protection of Baba Yaga's handkerchief, Paul could still feel the heat blasting him in the face and scorching his lungs.

"No, this is enough—" Illarion was saying. "The tempering is done—I want it to stop—Zhara! How do I get the fire to stop? Help! Help me, please! "

Zhara, who was suspended lifeless in the air with her head lolling back and her wings drooping, gave no answer.

"It burns—oh gods, it burns!" Illarion moaned. He tried to throw the needle away, but it had melted into a puddle of liquid metal in his palm. Still the fire raged on. "You witch!" Illarion screamed at Zhara, his face twisted with rage. "You've tricked me! But you won't get away with it! If I die, you shall die too!"

He clenched his fist again, and some of the fire flowed back to Zhara, searing her feathers. She remained unconscious. Soon, the fire would consume both brother and sister...

Paul took his hand out of the knapsack and dropped the handkerchief to the floor. The moment it left his fingers, flames roared up around him. He angled his body toward it, letting the fire burn the ropes around his wrists and ankles to ashes, biting back a scream as it scorched his skin. As soon as he was free of the ropes, he got to his feet.

Illarion saw the handkerchief, and his eyes went wide. They both dove for it. Paul—perhaps by sheer luck—was a fraction of a second quicker. He scooped the handkerchief up, jumped at Zhara, and snatched her out of the air, wrapping her in the square of fabric.

"No!!!" Illarion, now nothing more than a pillar of fire with a vaguely human shape in its middle, charged at Paul. Paul leaped aside, and Illarion crashed through the window, plummeting down the sheer cliff, burning like a falling star.

A long while later, a blast from the sea below told Paul that the boy had met his end.

The flames rose all the way to the ceiling in one last furious eruption, and then, with a rushing sound of air being sucked inward, they vanished, leaving behind only a few scorched patches and an acrid smell.

Paul looked down, not quite believing what he was seeing. Zhara was lying there, in his arms—Zhara, as he'd seen her that first night in the woods of Lukomorye, freckles standing out on her skin, her hair covering her body like a cape, her eyes closed, the wound on her chest still bleeding. Outside the broken window, the sun was taking its plunge into the sea, turning the water into molten gold for a moment before winking out, and darkness descended on everything.

Chapter 15

Taglist: @ali-r3n

[demonicdames]

Second Vol in The Assistant series: Rated: E F/M Cardinal Copia x F!Reader Papa Emeritus IV x F!Reader The results of the poll!!! you can also read it on my Ao3 Here Previous Vol. : The Assistant Part 1

Chapter 2: Unplanned get away

You awoke to the sounds of birds tweeting and the wind blowing gently through the now open windows of Copia's Buick. You both were laying in the back seat snuggled together under the blanket that you had used for your little makeshift picnic.

Looking up at Copia's sleeping form, he looked so peaceful a smile on his lips rather than wake him up you snuggled down against him once more closing your eyes as sleep took you again. The next time you opened your eyes you felt fingers brush over your hair. "Mmnn.. that's nice," you mumbled as your eyes opened glancing up at your mismatched-eyed Cardinal. "Morning Bella." he greeted

"Morning handsome." you greeted him as he dipped down for a kiss, you could taste the faint remains of you on his lips especially when his tongue dipped into your mouth. "Mmph- Easy Copia we don't have any condoms and I don't know if I could hold myself back again" You winked at him watching his cheeks gain a soft hue of red.

"Sorella you have no idea how much I was holding myself back last night." "I did see a drug store a few ways back," you muttered trying to implant the thought in his head. "And a hotel." You gave your most innocent look as he stared down at you his face a darker shade of red, that is all it took in minutes he had everything packed back up then again there wasn't much, he had you tucked under his arm as you both left the little alcove, which you'd have to remember it for later. Copia looked like a man on a mission as he walked into the drug store his head held high. It only took a couple of minutes before your Cardinal exited the store and headed back to the car slipping into the driver's side and greeting you with a kiss while he held up the bag. "Condoms of destiny." that got a snort from you. "You dork!." You laughed watching as he dug around in the bag and passed you your favorite candies which he had picked up. "Aww thank you! now let's blow this pop stand." the Cardinal laughed as he started the car. "Okie Dokie bellezza." Taking off out of the driveway his hand searched for yours taking hold of it, bringing it up to his lips for a tender kiss against your knuckles making you giggle as his mustache tickled them, Copia then laced your fingers together, you stayed like that the entire ride to the hotel you had seen the night before.

When you got there both of you stepped out of the car the Cardinal holding the bag in one hand and your hand in the other, stopping at the front desk he got a one-night stay. Once you got your key cards you headed to the elevators, as soon as those doors closed Copia had you pressed against the wall kissing you as if your kisses were as necessary as the life-giving air he breathed. You could feel his clothed erection press against you. He smothered his face into your neck. "I could fuck you right here against the wall tesoro." Just to add fuel to the fire you moaned into his ear. "Fuck me Copi-aaaaaa." Your voice made his cock twitch in his pants. "You damn gorgeous she-devil." he panted against your neck he was desperate and his cock weeping with need. He was about to yank down his pants and do just that thankfully he was quite literally saved by the bell as the doors opened to your floor.

Walking hand in hand you headed to your room with the key card being slid through unlocking the door. Walking in Copia set the bag onto the shelf that housed a television and a small fridge just under it as you walked to the large comfy bed throwing yourself down onto it your arms above your head with a sigh. "Oh, this feels so comfortable." Soon you were even more comfortable as you felt the bed shift from Copia's weight as he crawled over you, laying on you his head resting on your breast. Your legs wrapping around him it was weird how right this felt, how right he felt as the Cardinal pressed his lips to yours letting it linger there for a few moments. "I want you so fucking bad tesoro." You could feel his hands going for the edge of your skirt pulling it up while he moved down along your body. Your legs instantly fell open for him giving him a good view of his prize, for Copia he was trying hard not to pinch himself fearing that this was all a pleasant dream and he'd wake up in bed alone dick in hand. Moving slowly wasn't an option after the heavy play the night before which was nice but it only relieved you both for so long, grabbing the box of condoms Copia opened it pulling the strip of foil wrappers free, pulling one free the man opened the foil square with shakey hands. Pushing his pants down below the swell of his ass allowing his cock to spring free, the condom was slipped down over himself making sure that it was on correctly before leaning over you once again.

Your lips connected in a sweet kiss as Copia took hold of the base of his cock lining up and guiding himself inside of you, as soon as you felt him spread your folds and rub along your slick walls your head fell back from the kiss with a moan. "O-Oh fuck C-Cardinal."

His face smothered into your neck showering it with kisses as he moved within you. one of your hands dug nails into his back while the other weaved itself into the hair on the back of his head while he fucked you down into the bed. Back at the ministry, the ghoul had pulled up to the building flinching as Secondo slammed the door hard enough to cause a small crack in the window, he wanted to say something to lighten the man's mood but for his safety, the ghoul remained silent while driving the car around the back of the huge building to park it. Secondo stormed into his room grabbing the clear bottle of whiskey the top being flicked off, with his head thrown back the burning liquid drained down his throat. Pulling it away a drop fell down the corner of his mouth the man panting to get a breath in when he finished it the glass bottle was thrown across the room shattering against the wall as he fell back onto his couch. Why did he have to open up to you? why did he have to tell you the truth all the damn time? why did he fall for you? Having stormed in Secondo had forgotten to close the door so the crash of the glass was heard in the hall, Emilia had heard it and came running.

"Papa Secondo?!." She yelled out as she jogged into the room stopping in front of him with a delicate hand reaching out to gently pat at his cheek. "Secondo?." "Em, leave me be." He spoke sounding lower than the dirt in the courtyard. "Papa- I can't leave you like this-." "WHAT PART OF LEAVE ME BE DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND BITCH?!." He shouted making the Latin student jump back her lip wobbling, Secondo stared at her for a moment when she took off his arm and stretched out his hand missing her. Taking his sunglasses off they were the next thing to be thrown, great now she probably wouldn't come back either he was going to end up alone, an old bitter man that couldn't control his temper. Secondo flopped his face into his hands giving a long-winded sigh. The Emeritus looked up as he swore he felt a hand on his shoulder, he did. "Emilia you came back-." The broken man spoke sounding shocked, She didn't say anything before hugging him his mismatched eyes wide. "It's gonna be okay Secondo." 'It's gonna be okay' Those are words that he liked to hear and rarely did he hear them, rather than pull away Secondo wrapped his arms around her hips his face buried against her as she stroked the back of his head. "I'm guessing you came for your lessons?." "No remember today is an off day Papa, I heard a crash and rushed to see if you were okay." "Grazie sorella." Emilia watched her Papa for a good few minutes before leaning him back against the couch. "I'm going to go make us some tea with honey okay?." Getting a nod from him she went to the kitchen to prepare two warm cups for the both of them, Secondo eased back into his place on the couch eyes closed for a few moments before getting up from his spot and moving to grab a few heavy books from the shelf that sat nearby along with some empty sheets of paper.

Emilia came back into the room holding the two steaming cups seeing Secondo set on the couch again, however, the coffee table had several books on it opened. "Papa?." She asked making her way over to the couch and taking a seat beside the man the cups set down. "Well, I figure if you are here there is no harm in a little extra credit eh?." A soft chuckle passed her plump painted lips as she nodded. "A little extra credit sounds good Papa." Perhaps she was taking advantage of the man while in this extremely rare 'low mood' but as long as she got a smile from him she was content with doing so especially if that meant she could scooch closer to his side.

Meanwhile, back at the hotel you and Copia had ordered takeout, Chinese. You were shocked at how good the Cardinal was with chopsticks then again, you knew he was good with his fingers. While he handled them like a pro you were struggling and trying to hide it. "Cara, do you need help? or would you like a fork instead?" "No, no I got it don't you wor-." As if to add insult to injury when you attempted to pick up a shrimp you somehow magically flicked it across the room and splattered it into the television where it stuck for a few seconds before slowly slipping down the screen, both your and Copia's eyes watched it slide down until it hit the floor with a small wet plop.

You looked at him, defeat written all over your face as he offered you a fork which you finally accepted. You both ate in silence for a few minutes giggling when Copia fought with a noodle before slurping it up the thing smacking him on the nose. "Cazzo-." He cursed as you grabbed a napkin and wiped the tip of his nose clean. "Dinner fighting back, huh?." You managed to say through the laugh. "Si sorella and I think it is winning." You both shared a laugh before you continued with your meal together as silence fell between you again, you could tell there was something on his mind, you were about to ask him if everything was alright but he spoke up before you could. "Why did you choose me?." "Excuse me?." "Eh… ah.. let me rephrase, you chose me over Secondo." "Yeah so?." "It, well it surprises me not that I'm complaining no no no I am eh.. like that cow from the storia per bambini." You arched a brow at him as he panicked for a moment setting his food down his hand moving with his words now. "You know the the the, that story the cow over the moon Si?…. I am over the moon that you chose me" He spoke his face flushed with embarrassment which only got redder as you laughed. "You are so fucking adorable." You managed to say through the laugh which got a lopsided grin from your Cardinal.

Wiping a tear that managed to escape from the laugh, with a sigh and a few giggles the laughter ended.

"Well, you were always so sweet and kind to me we've never fought, you always make me laugh and you tell me how you feel I'm not left in the dark trying to figure out if I should bring something up to you or not, you were there for me even at that late hour" Your words brought that red back to his face. "It is just hard to believe, between me and the others… I've… I've never been anyone's choice before." You watched as the Cardinal's eyes looked down at his gloved hands as he slowly rubbed them together you could see the pained look as memories crawled back to him.

"Each time I thought a sorella or fratello loved me, wanted to be with me they always chose Terzo or Secondo, and when that didn't work out they just…" He shrugged his shoulders. "Or they would as you say… eat the cake and have it too." Copia sighed looking deflated. "Copia…" You watched him for a few moments you never knew just how much pain was behind that cheerful smile when you met him in the halls of the Abbey. "So when you came back to me… I was all happy, scared, and shocked." You scooted over to sit beside him your head resting on his shoulder your hand taking his gloved one holding it tight.

The gesture put a smile on his face, a kiss on his cheek put that rosy red back on them. "You know dolcezza we are going to have to return home soon." "Yeah I know, but we do have all day and night so let's have fun before heading back, I mean they have a pool downstairs and a hot tub we should go and swim." "Un problema cara." He spoke holding up an index finger. "And that is?." "No swimwear." "Ah, damn you're right." Copia frowned seeing the disappointment in your face. "Unless we go to the store and buy some for this little ehh.. unplanned trip si?." Your face lit up not only because you were gonna be able to swim but you were going to swim with him and go shopping, it was almost hilarious how two mundane things brought such happiness to the both of you.

Finishing your food you both hopped up and headed out down to his car, both giddy with excitement Copia maybe even more than you. He was so excited, not only to be out of the Abbey for a little while but with his girlfriend… you were his girlfriend now, right? maybe? perhaps he'd ask you later the last thing he wanted to hear was 'no' so he'd stay quiet and just pretend that you were for now as you headed off to the store together. --To be continued--

Tag list: Remember if you wish to be tagged for the next chapter let me know! @thesoundresoundsecho, @xpapaemeritus

[mantis-dea]

When a Good Deed Causes a Series of Unexpected Events - Chapter 7: Wayward

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6

You park your car right across from where the incident happened. Both you and Giorno step out of the car and head towards the scene of the kidnapping, ready to investigate.

The narrow alleyway stretches out before you, nestling between two neighboring restaurants, Trattoria Trussardi and Shing Market. This is where it happened. Where Matteo’s sister went missing.

Just as you were about to take your first step into the alley, Giorno’s hand unexpectedly reaches out, enveloping your own.

“Let me take the charge. Stay close,” he states.

You concede, realizing that stepping in by yourself with no means of protection is a foolish choice. With Giorno by your side, you both venture into the alley, your senses on high alert.

The only sources of lighting in this dimly lit alleyway are two feeble lightbulbs hanging above the backdoors of the adjacent restaurants. Further down the alley, you see a few flickering streetlamps, casting a faint glow over the small parking lot reserved for only the restaurant workers’ cars.

As you approach the backdoor of Trattoria Trussardi, your eyes catch sight of the flashlight Matteo dropped. You bend down and retrieve the flashlight with your free hand.

You recall what he told you, “Matteo said that he wasn’t sure why his sister was taking so long to take out the trash. He took his flashlight with him since the alleyway was dark.”

You glance towards the small parking lot and notice a portion of a large green trash bin to the left, being poorly lit up by another flickering streetlamp. “When he walked out, he saw his sister, yelling in the distance. She was only ten feet away from the trash can when a bright light suddenly overtook her whole form. He became blinded, dropping his flashlight. He went back into his family’s restaurant, panicking because he couldn’t see. The police nor his family could not locate Belladonna.”

You look up at Giorno and exchange a glance with him, both of you silently acknowledging the need for caution. You both enter the parking lot area and stand where the incident most likely occurred – ten feet from the trash can, possibly facing to the right.

You attempt to release your hand from Giorno’s, but to no avail.

“No. We stay together. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

You shrug, unaffected by his overtly protective stance. It makes sense, you propose. Afterall, he is the Stand User here, and he knows more about this stuff than you.

You begin to inspect the area. The parking lot is relatively clean, minus the few syringes in the corners and tiny potholes scattered about. The yellow lines indicating the space for a car are faded and need to be worked on. You don’t see anything out of the ordinary; it looks like a basic back-alley parking lot.

However, as Giorno crouches down to surveil the ground, you notice something peculiar about the wall right next to you. You point Matteo’s flashlight towards the wall and turn it on.

With the flashlight’s assistance, you can see the red brick wall sharply transition from a very light shade of red to a darker shade.

“Giorno, do you see this?” you ask.

“Yes,” he responds, “it seems the ground is also this way.”

You point your flashlight towards the ground to see what he is inspecting. The pavement also follows the same suit – from a light grey color to the familiar black pavement.

“The walls and pavement are two separate colors…” you think out loud, letting the gears turn in your head.

There is no reason why they should be different colors. The sun doesn’t even reach this place, it doesn’t look like there is an oil spill, and there are no signs of the walls being painted on.

 “Whatever was here,” Giorno begins, “must’ve acted as a sunblock. The darker shade is the original. This is the only spot that has this lighter color.”

You shine your flashlight around the parking lot. He’s right; this spot is the only one in the facility.

You recall a documentary you’ve watched about the Hiroshima bombing. When the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, people close to the bomb instantly vaporized due to the amount of UV radiation, leaving shadows of people behind. These shadows happened because their bodies acted like a sunblock when the radiation bleached out everything around them, permanently marking what their last action was before they inevitably perished.

“She didn’t get kidnapped, she evaporated…” you say, stunned at the revelation.

“It’s the work of a Stand,” Giorno says with scrunched eyebrows. He stands up, “You were told there were multiple people disappearing, correct?”

You nod, “In fact, just across the street, the owner of the candy shop disappeared.”

The two of you head towards the front of the candy shop. Unlike the alley, the sidewalk is understandably well lit with there being a streetlamp brightly shining down upon the sidewalk every few feet.

As Giorno bends down to examine another bleached spot, you feel a deep sense of sorrow wash over you. The sign on the glass entrance door, 'Closed temporarily until my father is found,' carries the weight of a family's despair. You can't imagine the pain and uncertainty they must be going through. They’re hopeful he will come back, that his sudden disappearance is a misunderstanding, not knowing that he has passed.

You and Giorno look around, finding no immediate clues. Deciding it would be unsafe for you to stay in what’s now considered enemy territory, Giorno proposes to head back.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

“I do not want to risk the two of us being in enemy territory.”

“Who the hell kills three people in the span on two days?” you ask, trying to wrap your head around this situation.

“A member of Superare.”

You tilt your head, “Superare? Is that the mafia in Foggia?”

“Yes, the reason why my boss wanted to talk business was because of territory issues-“

His words fade into the background as you catch a suspicious shimmer beneath a distant streetlamp. A gut feeling intensifies tenfold, signaling impending danger. Something is amiss; something is about to unfold. Without a moment to spare, you shove Giorno out of the way.

A deafening bang echoes.

Instead of the anticipated sharp sting, you buckle and awkwardly collapse to the ground like a rag doll.

You try to squirm.

You try to talk.

You try to move all parts of your body; all attempts prove futile.

Giorno acts with urgency, swiftly lifting you up off the ground and sprinting towards cover behind the candy shop. As he gently sets you down, your condition becomes his immediate concern. Leaning you against the brick building, he observes your inability to sit properly;’ you slump back down to the ground. Picking up your arm and releasing it, he notices how it immediately falls limp. It becomes evident that even the simplest movements, such as blinking, are out of your capabilities.

“You can’t move.” He comments, “What do the Americans say? It’s like a deer caught in the headlights…”

A figure emerges from the corner of your stilled vision. In response, Giorno takes his brooch and summons a vine to envelop the two of you. You hear two pairs of footsteps, circling the barrier Giorno created.

“Don Giovanna,” the man starts, “My, what a pleasure it is.”

Another deafening bang pierces through the air, but the expected silence does not follow. Instead, a whizzing sound reverberates outside the barrier, echoing as if bouncing off unseen surfaces, until you feel a sharp sting in your left arm,

You’ve been shot.

Astonishingly, a bullet found its way through a miniscule gap in Giorno’s vines.

Another bang, another whizz, and Giorno stumbles, a grunt escaping him.

“Merda. I suoi proiettili sono simili ai Sex Pistols.”

You’re both ensnared, backs to the wall struggling to find a solution. Giorno, formidable as he is, struggles to shield you; you’ve unwittingly become an impediment to his victory. Your heart pulls at knowing this.

You want to support him.

You want to protect him.

However, you find yourself unable to move, drifting in and out of consciousness. You feel utterly useless, unable to provide the support you desperately wish to offer. Yet, this hopeless feeling sparks a newfound sense of determination sparks within your core.

I will support him, and I will protect him.

A yellow hue envelops you, and something surges within you. Your attention is drawn to a gleam racing towards Giorno just before succumbing to the weight of your eyelids. One of the Stands is inspired by a fic I read a while ago. I don't remember who wrote it, but when I find it, I will credit it.

[raisoramizu]

Chapter 7: The Radio and the Apple

Here is the seventh chapter of my fan fiction "Heaven is not Forever," Radioapple/Guitarspear.

You can find the other chapters on my blog, and I'll leave the links here for you. Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6

Everything around them kept moving—the world kept spinning, time kept flowing—but not in that room. At least, not for Lucifer, who knelt beside Alastor in an instant. How had Lilith managed to wound him like that? He hadn't seen her strike, yet he'd heard her singing. The demon had already been injured, probably from the wound Adam had inflicted; Lucifer had witnessed the whole battle, waiting to intervene only when things turned dire for Charlie—when the First Man broke the pact and attacked the Hellborn.

Alastor struggled to maintain his dignity. He lifted his shoulders, bracing himself on one forearm while clutching his wound with the other hand. He was trembling. It wasn't just the physical pain—it was the mental strain of being so vulnerable in front of Lucifer. He wasn't looking into Lucifer's eyes, but he could feel their weight, heavy with concern that only made him furious. He felt pathetic. He wasn't someone to be protected, nor pitied.

Suddenly, he felt the angel's hands press down on his shoulders, trying to turn him onto his back. < Stay calm, let me handle this. > Alastor's eyes widened in shock. With a sharp, irritated radio effect, he slapped Lucifer's hand away. < Don't touch me! > Lucifer froze, blood-stained hands hanging in mid-air. His expression shifted into frustration, and with a quick snarl, he grabbed Alastor again, flipping him over like a sheet of paper, drawing a pained gasp from the radio demon as his shoulders hit the ground.

Alastor found himself sprawled on the floor, legs bent awkwardly under the desk, while Lucifer, his shirt still unbuttoned and his pants unfastened, knelt above him. The anger on Lucifer's face, tinged with a sadness that came close to tears—though he wasn't crying—left Alastor stunned. Why that expression?

< Stupid demons, > the Seraph grumbled, fumbling with Alastor's clothes. He yanked open the red jacket, impatiently unhooked the braces that held Alastor's shirt in place, and then began undoing the buttons. When the fabric parted, he found Alastor's chest—a darker shade of skin than his own—marked by a deep gash running from the right side of his torso to the left. Placing his palms over the wound, Lucifer channeled a warm, red light, crackling like a laser.

< ... > Alastor felt a wave of relief as the wound healed enough to stop bleeding and aching, leaving behind a fresh, reddish scar. He exhaled a distorted sigh, sharpening his gaze on Lucifer, who now leaned forward, panting, exhausted. Through his monocle, Alastor watched a bead of sweat roll down Lucifer's cheek like a tear, igniting an unexplainable tension in his stomach. He dug all eight claws into the floor, causing a loud screech that made Lucifer's eyes snap up in surprise.

< ...Are you feeling better? This is all I can do. > Alastor slipped into the shadows, his form visibly darkening as he traveled just a meter before reemerging, standing with his back turned, one hand braced against the corner of the desk. Still slightly hunched, exhausted, he inspected the scar under his half-open shirt. The wound was red and sore but closed. He looked down at his claws, sticky with blood, and wiped the mess from his chin with the back of his hand. < I suppose I should thank you... > he muttered, lifting his head without looking at Lucifer, who was also getting up from the floor. < ...for healing me, or for the show you put on for me? > The question was meant to sound sarcastic, playful even, but his voice didn't cooperate.

Lucifer's golden eyes widened for a moment before they darted away, embarrassed. He shrugged, looking guilty. < She wouldn't have left. She was furious... but not just because of you. > < So, that's the reason? > < What are you getting at? > Alastor summoned his microphone-topped cane from the shadows, gripping it protectively. He turned to face the angel again, buttoning his shirt with his free hand, trying to cover his skin and the scar, but there was no hiding the blood-streaked mess he had become. Lucifer wasn't much better off—dressed in white, his pale skin stained with blood, he looked like some unsettling celestial creature.

< You don't answer my questions, yet you expect me to answer yours~? > The Radio Demon was back, at least for now, his voice crackling as his sharp grin returned. He raised his eyebrows in curiosity, but also mischief.

Lucifer tensed. His lips pulled into a frown, and he exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath. He sighed in frustration, his gaze dropping once more. < Adam blackmailed me. He threatened to tell Charlie about Lilith's plans unless I helped him contact his... Luna? His second-in-command? I don't even know... > He groaned. < And... I'm sure there's something else going on that I don't know about because— >

Alastor's sudden, overly amused laughter cut him off. < Ahahah~ You're afraid Charlie will figure out her mother's just a selfish bitch? > < Hey, hey! > Lucifer snapped. < She's old enough to leave her fairy tale and realize she's in Hell and... > Alastor's voice softened as he finished, his grin sharp as he gazed directly at Lucifer. < ...you should realize it too. You have faith in your wife... she doesn't have faith in you. > He pointed at Lucifer's left hand, where his wedding ring glinted. Lucifer stared at it in confused curiosity. < She doesn't. Have you noticed..? But oh, I'm sure it's just a detail~ > Alastor waved a dismissive hand, mocking him. < Not that it's the reason she clearly doesn't care about you—she's just using you... > < I KNOW! > Lucifer exploded—literally—causing Alastor to flinch. His hands clenched into fists, and small flames puffed from his nostrils. Trembling, he grabbed his head in disbelief. < You think—I don't know my wife after ten thousand years...? > < Lilith is... she's... > he continued in desperation, < ...she's free. She doesn't answer to anyone, no one can control her, and now... now I'm okay with that. >

< If this hotel can redeem sinners, then the goal remains the same, right? Redemption is possible, even if the extermination has been canceled. > What did he mean by that? The last part sharpened Alastor's crimson gaze, but he didn't get the chance to ask. Lucifer had taken a step too close, forcing Alastor to look up to compensate for the difference in height. Lucifer was short. < What's in your Pact? Did you give her your soul...? >

< ...! > Grinding his teeth, Alastor tried to walk away nonchalantly, lowering his eyelids and raising his chin in defiance. < Oh, even if a contract seems unequal, it's not necessarily bound by the soul~ > He turned his back on Lucifer, ready to summon the shadows with a tap of his cane.

< If she doesn't have your soul, I can break your pact without either of you having to die. > Lucifer's words froze him, wiping the smile off his face.

< Is... is that why you said you were interested in me? Is that why you tied me to you with that blackmail? > Lucifer continued, sounding unsure and regretful. He was nervous, uncomfortable. Embarrassed? Crossing his arms, he hugged himself, anxiously rubbing his biceps and wrinkling his shirt with fidgeting fingers. < You don't have to pretend anymore... I just saw you cowering under my desk... Alastor. > He sighed out his name.

The Radio Demon, still rigid, slowly turned back toward Lucifer. The room darkened, bathed in the sickly green hue of his magic. His eyes widened, with glowing pupils shaped like radio dials, and a bright green 'X' appeared on his forehead. < How? > < You have to give it to me. >

< If you give me your soul, you can break any pact you no longer find essential or fair. > Alastor's first response was an irritated radio crackle. Then, he fully turned to face Lucifer.

< ... > Lucifer's gaze dropped again, avoiding Alastor's as he nervously rubbed his arms, clearly uncomfortable.

< ...? >

With his lips trembling slightly, he filled his lungs with air, but it wasn't as fresh as he had hoped. The room was now thick with the scent of blood—Lilith's and that of that cursed, inscrutable Sinner.

< I don't want you to break our pact. >

His words further disoriented the demon, who simply tilted his head to one side, the dark tips of his hair swaying.

< ... >

At that reaction, the Seraph exploded.

< Oh, fuck you, Alastor! >

He lunged at him, grabbing the demon by the collar of his jacket with both hands and yanking him violently toward him. Alastor, caught off guard, bent forward just in time to see golden liquid spilling from the angel's mouth. He froze. Lucifer had bitten his tongue deeply.

That blood-soaked tongue was suddenly shoved down his throat in the blink of an eye... was this a kiss? Alastor was motionless, mouth slightly ajar, while Lucifer clung to him, still gripping his shirt. He was so hunched forward that the Seraph's back was arching, their chests pressed together so tightly that Alastor could feel Lucifer's heart pounding wildly. Lucifer's eyes were half-closed, vacant, his body burning hot—damn near feverish—as he kept pushing more of that blood into Alastor's mouth, already overflowing from the corners of their lips.

Alastor had no choice but to start swallowing, gulping it all down—it was so sweet. Delicious, even. The taste... that feeling again, that need.

He reached a hand back, placing his cane on the edge of the desk, and took control, stepping forward to push Lucifer back. He began entwining his ravenous tongue with the angel's, searching for the wounded spot until he found the pulsing, open flesh, sinking his own tongue into it. That's when he bit down, hard.

Lucifer moaned at the bite, tears welling in his eyes as he started to thrash. His agitation was quickly silenced by the demon's grip on his hair, and before he could even catch his breath, Alastor's claws dug into the side Lilith had previously wounded.

Lucifer's new, hoarse cry sent a shiver down Alastor's spine. He tightened his fingers against Lucifer's skull, smearing his golden blood through the blond hair. The blood was dripping from their chins, and Alastor could feel it soaking his shirt. Lucifer... was aroused again.

He had one hand gripping the waistband of Alastor's pants, grinding his pelvis against his thigh. Alastor could feel the angel's erection straining and rubbing against the bone of his leg, while Lucifer's other hand yanked at his shirt, pulling him closer at the abdomen.

Damn, he wanted to devour him. He had to. The need gnawed at Alastor's chest like a beast, burning him from the inside out. His body temperature rose, sweat sliding down his spine, gluing his red hair to his forehead, but it was that boiling blood—he was drenched in it.

Lucifer whimpered, grinding against his pants, yanking him as violently as Alastor was feeding on his blood, twisting the wounded flesh in his side, the pain inflaming him, keeping him alive. It was magnificent. Alastor wanted to see him squirm more, to beg to be destroyed by his hands, beneath his body. He wanted to crush him and feed on him until there was nothing left. Alastor had no real power over the angel, but Lucifer wanted him to, to the point of erasure.

The room's electrical system started to sizzle and spark, flickering with acid-green lightning. Voodoo symbols swirled around them in infernal sorcery, illuminated by sinister silver eyes—Lucifer's magic.

The Seraph felt himself lifted off the ground by tentacles that emerged from the black abyss that had become the floor, wrapping around his knees. Suspended in the air, his legs spread, with Alastor between them, pressing his pelvis against Lucifer's dripping sex, which peeked out from his barely opened, pale pants. Alastor's claws dug deep between his shoulder blades as he braced Lucifer by the neck with one arm, while fumbling desperately with the other hand, trying to open Alastor's pants.

With antlers now sprawling at least half a meter wide, Alastor's wild eyes locked onto the Seraph's. He seized Lucifer's wrist with a tentacle, yanking his arm back, making him arch in the air and letting out a gurgling groan of pleasure.

KABOOM

The sound of an explosion violently shook the glass windows lining the entire outer wall of the room. A strange pink smoke filtered through the cracks.

Both of them froze. Alastor glanced up toward the windows, his mouth dripping with golden blood. Lucifer, still gripping the demon's neck with one arm, threw his head back, pushing his blond hair away from his face as he peered at the windows upside-down.

< Vaggie! Vaggie, wait, don't do it! Vaggie!! >

< ... >

< Charlie! > Lucifer's voice boomed in fear before he crashed to the ground with a thud.

< Ow! >

The Stag stared down at him in confusion, realizing that all the tentacles had suddenly disappeared, returning both the room—and his figure—to normal. But outside, something was happening. A battle? The muffled sounds of others reached them.

Lucifer scrambled to his feet, stumbling over the rubber ducks scattered across the room, and in the blink of an eye, dashed to the window, throwing aside a curtain. There was too much red smoke. Cherri Bomb was on the ground, Vaggie was armed with her spear, and Charlie was running toward her while...

< Lute! Lute's here! >

... Lute was charging at her.

< Who..?"> Alastor's voice crackled with his usual radio distortion. But Lucifer didn't answer. He rushed around the room, kicking the ducks aside, yanking off his shirt, wiping the blood from his mouth as best as he could, and ripping his jacket off a chair—all under the watchful eye of Alastor, whose smile never faltered as his head tilted to follow the Seraph's frantic movements.

< You're not seriously going down there like that, are you? >

At those words, Lucifer froze as if a lightbulb had gone off.

< Heheh, no, of course not! >

Between a wheezing cough, he snapped his fingers, magically fixing his disheveled clothes. He now stood with a vest over his shirt, no longer stained with blood, but his appearance still looked a little rumpled.

< It's Adam's girlfriend. They're fighting! >

He rushed to the window, climbing onto the ledge. Alastor, annoyed by the distortion in his voice, moved to follow him, but it was too late. The Seraph had already leaped, wings spread, flying into the fray below.

Angel Dust rushed to help Cherri Bomb, who was lying on her back with a wound on her shoulder. As he lifted her up, his attention was drawn to the battle unfolding in front of them.

Lute had disarmed Vaggie and was straddling her torso, choking her with one hand. Meanwhile, Charlie had already half-transformed: her blonde hair whipped in the wind, her eyes flared red, and her horns curved sharply.

< Stop! >

Charlie's voice echoed just as Lucifer shot behind Lute, grabbing her by the waist and dragging her into the air with him.

< Dad! > Charlie called from below, watching as Lucifer flew in a wide arc before diving down rapidly.

Lute, confused and trapped in the Devil's grip, cast him a terrified glance. His response was a furious glare, his eyes bloodshot.

< Adam is here, > Lucifer warned her, just before landing and setting her down in front of the Hotel.

Lute staggered back, trying to distance herself both from the Seraph and from Charlie, who had come closer, supporting an enraged Vaggie. Cherri Bomb, with Angel Dust's help, had also managed to stand.

< I was told he wasn't here, > Lute hissed.

< What do you mean, he's not here?! > Lucifer jolted in surprise.

< I said he's not at the Hotel anymore, not that he's not in Hell! Yes, your fucking hijo de puta is a sinner! Where did you think he'd end up after death?! > Vaggie screamed at Lute, digging her nails deeper into Charlie's arm. Lute growled and took a step forward, but Lucifer quickly positioned himself between them, holding out his hands to stop her.

< Hey, hey, if you're here, it's because I had you summoned... you know that, right? Now calm down or are you here to... > He flared his eyes, horns, and mouth in a burst of fire. < BREAK OUR BALLS AGAIN?! >

< Ooh, Short King looks so sexy when he's mad, > Angel Dust teased with a sly grin.

Charlie, however, hadn't taken her eyes off her father since he arrived. He looked worse than he had earlier that day when they'd spoken in the common room about redemption.

< .. >

Furrowing her brows, Charlie glanced around, raising her golden eyes toward the window of her room—the same window Lucifer had descended from—and...

< A—... > She began to say the Radio Demon's name but immediately covered her mouth with both hands.

Alastor was there, standing at the window, disheveled, stained with both red and... golden blood. He glanced at her for just a brief, sharp moment, his eyes filled with a hint of fear.

< Charlie, are you okay? > Vaggie asked with worried curiosity, following her gaze up to the window, though she saw nothing but the curtains swaying gently.

< Y-yeah! I'm fine! > Charlie snapped back, forcing a wide, nervous grin, her sharp fangs visible. She waved her hands frantically. < I thought I saw something, but everything's fine, Vaggie! >

< Uhuhu, the bad boy's gone, flew away! > Niffty suddenly chimed in, clinging to Husk's ears as he approached the group. < I was uuuh cleaning the guts off the welcome mat ehehe, and I saw him... > She pointed energetically toward the West side of Pentagram City. Even though it was the middle of the night, the skyline was clearly visible from the hill where the Hazbin Hotel stood. < ...He went toward that circular skyscraper over there! >

Angel Dust went pale. < ...The VoxTek building? > He murmured, then shouted, < What the hell is he doing with the Vees?! >

Lute, locking her eyes on the bright neon sign of the skyscraper, crouched and spread her wings, taking off in that direction.

< Hey, hey, wait, you bitch! > Cherri Bomb yelled, grabbing a bomb with her good hand, as her other was still wounded. But Lucifer quickly intervened.

< Stop, > he ordered. < Let her go. > He was visibly sweating from the stress, under the astonished gazes of everyone around him. < I'll take care of your wound. Let's head inside. > He sighed in exhaustion, retracting his wings and leading them back into the Hotel. But when he passed Charlie, she glared at him with concern and suspicion.

< Is there something you need to tell me, Dad? >

Lucifer flinched at her question, his head sinking into his shoulders in guilty silence.

Meanwhile, in the control room of Vox's headquarters, every screen, big and small, broadcast the scene of the others entering the Hotel. The TV Demon was in full-blown panic.

He stood stiff, legs slightly apart, furiously tapping his blue claws on various buttons. He was sweating. His sweat streamed down the front of his screen face and dripped along the back of his head, where several USB cables were plugged into sockets.

< Shit, shit, shit! > he muttered, baring his sharp teeth, saliva dripping as he darted his large red eyes from the keyboards to the rapidly shifting screens, displaying every corner of the city.

< The sky, the sky! > he stammered. Suddenly, every monitor filled with the image of the night sky, where the silhouette of Lute was flying. < ... > His mouth stretched downward in despair as he realized, < She's... she's coming here. >

Just as he raised his hands to clutch his head, he noticed one of the smaller screens was showing an incoming call to Valentino.

The moth demon answered in a puff of smoky red mist. < What's up..? > Valentino's expression turned to confused concern as he saw Vox's frantic face.

< Grab Velvette and head to the underground levels, Lute—the Exorcist—is coming here! >

< What do you mean she's coming here, and why?! I thought you had everything under control! > Valentino shouted, instantly alarmed.

< I didn't expect Lucifer to act so quickly! I'll handle it, just do as I said. NOW! > Vox growled, causing Valentino to hang up quickly.

Pressing a large yellow button, Vox's secretary's voice chimed in, < Mr. Vox? >

< Evacuate all remaining employees immediately. Full night off. No one can be in the building. Got it? >

< Y-y-yes, right away, Mr. Vox! >

Vox slumped heavily into his swivel chair, eyes wide with dread as the screens continued to track Lute's flight. She had a clear direction, a purpose. Of course she did—how many times had she descended to Hell to obliterate this damn city?

With a weary press of another button, a new image appeared: a disturbingly psychedelic isolation room, bathed in shifting hues of red, the walls swirling endlessly with his electric eye.

Adam stood in the center, his back to a lone black leather couch. He was catatonic, his neck slightly bent forward, arms limp at his sides, the long sleeves of his spiked black sweater half-covering his hands. His horns were fully extended, black and curled backward. He trembled, drooling as he ground his teeth, soaking the collar of his sweater. His eyes flickered in and out of the hypnotic pattern that covered even the ceiling and floor.

< I... > Vox's voice cracked. < I can't... control him. >

...

Lute was almost at VoxTek. The city's lights stretched out beneath her like a sea of tiny, colorful sparks in the dark. Above, the sky glowed red, dominated by a massive pentagram, illuminated by the infernal moon and the distant Heaven.

She knew this city—she had been here, literally, ten thousand times. She had seen the sign, she knew the name of the building: an oval-shaped skyscraper towering over everything except Heaven's Embassy at the very center, glowing like a beacon in the abyss.

The sulfuric stench was unbearable, the wind whipping it into her silver hair, as her wings beat the air, causing the dark fabric draped over the stump of her right arm to flutter. Her military uniform was the same as ever, except for the skirt that left her legs bare down to the knee-high white boots. It was the heels of those boots that clicked softly against the red carpet as she landed inside the skyscraper.

She had slipped in through an open window halfway up the building; descending all the way to the entrance would take too long. And what if someone had seen her? They would have recognized her as an angel from the black halo hovering above her head. They could see it now, too, but... there was no one around? Her lips parted in shallow breaths, not from exhaustion—despite the fight she had just endured with the Hotel's crew—but from panic. She was confused, disoriented. What the hell was she doing? And what if Adam wasn't even here?

Why had she descended without Heaven's permission? She knew she'd pay for this.

With a sharp crack, every light on the floor suddenly shut off, plunging the offices and rooms into darkness, except for the corridor she stood in. Pale blue lights flickered on, as if guiding her, leading her to one path.

"< Adam is here. Take the stairs at the end of the hall. Go down two floors, second door on the right... >"

Vox's electric voice echoed through the corridor speakers, startling her. She whipped her head around, fear rising. What should she do? She should leave. It was a trap. She needed to get back to Heaven and pretend none of this had happened. But before she realized it, her legs were already moving, sprinting toward the stairs. Her footsteps echoed impatiently through the deserted building, and when she reached the door, she threw herself against it, opening it with a violent shove.

< ... >

The door cracked open into a room lined with darkened screens—every one of them was black. And there he was, standing before her. Was it really him? She froze, panting, eyes wide. A demon.

The swirling in Adam's eyes ceased. Though his black sclera returned with red pupils, they remained glazed, absent. What was he thinking? Was he thinking at all? There was a strange calmness, a detachment, a distance. Was he truly at peace? He felt unbearably hot, something clawing inside his chest, but it was trapped in a muffled frustration.

< ...am >

Lute's voice echoed in his mind as his gaze shifted downward.

< Adam! >

The shakes jolted him back to consciousness, and he found her pressed against his chest, tugging desperately at his right arm with her only hand... and she was crying. Her face was contorted in a red, twisted expression of despair.

< Lute..? >