#ch: ruse

[gloomforrestrunes]

Chapter 2, Page 75

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hi. this scene is very short but its a lot. sorry ♥

[pockethep]

Of courrrrssssseeee Asa is ending up fighting literal embodiment of the fear of falling when almost all of her traumatic experiences so far have been related to her tripping and falling including falling into despair (Ch.122), falling for Denji, and falling for Yoshida’s ruse…

[the20thangel]

The Dragon and The Raven Ch 4: The Duel

Chapter Summary: Daemon couldn't believe that his daughter was betrothed. As he stared at the Lord of House Blackwood, Daemon decided if Lord Benjicot Blackwood was truly serious about his daughter, he needed to prove it to the Prince.

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Daemon stared at the young lord, watching his facial features, but the boy seemed to know how to mask his emotions. After another beat, Daemon turns to his daughter, smirking tauntly. 

“I think I misunderstood you, my sea dragon -” 

“There is no misunderstanding, Kepa ; I have chosen Lord Benjicot Blackwood as my betrothed.” Aemma clarified schooling her features to be indifferent, knowing that her father would try to get a ruse out of her. 

Daemon’s frown deepened as he looked at his daughter's face. She was serious. “Has your mother given her approval on this boy?” 

Aemma cursed internally, knowing that her betrothal was not officially valid since her mother had not sealed her approval. 

Aemma cleared her throat. “I have sent a letter to let her know of my intentions. She will trust my judgment of Ben—Lord Blackwood. 

Daemon deadpanned at his daughter for using the blackwood boy’s name with such familiarity. Knowing he wasn’t going anywhere with his daughter, he focused on the boy.  

“And you, boy, do you think you are worthy of my daughter? A princess with the blood of Old Vayria?” Questioned Daemon as he stalked towards Benji, who straightened his back, never breaking eye contact with the Rouge Prince. 

“Well…. I think you are just some boy who will piss his pants at the first sight of battle. Do you even know how to fight? Hmmm, boy… where were you when your brother foug-” 

“DAEMON!” shouted Aemma angrily, as she saw Benji grow angrier with each sentence her father said. 

Daemon smirked at seeing the boy break from his poker face, but his smirk fell once he noticed Aemma's anger. She looked just like her mother, returning memories of how he left Dragonstone. Sighing through his nose, Daemon refocused himself. 

“Fine, if you think you are so worthy, I challenge you to show your skills in a duel,” stated Daemon. He noticed his daughter widen her eyes, and the Blackwood boy gave him a crooked smirk. He was either brave or stupid, that boy. 

“I accept your challenge, Prince Daemon,” agreed Benji as he noticed his aunt arriving with his men. “If you excuse me, I need to settle my men, Prince Daemon, Princess Aemma,” said Benji as he bowed and walked away. 

Aemma watched as Benji left her and her father, upset that he once returned to propriety by using her title; she was getting used to being just Aemma to him. Aemma turned to her father giving him the stink eye. 

“What?” Asked Daemon, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he noticed her expression. 

“You could have been nicer or at least given more respect to him, and you trying to ruse him by using his brother, Kepa -” Aemma explained her disappointment but was cut off by her father. 

“I needed to see his worth, and I stopped, didn’t I? Besides, I will know if he is worthy of you from the duel.” Daemon defended himself as he and Aemma started walking towards camp. 

“Are you really going to duel him?” Asked Aemma as she stopped to look at her father in disbelief. 

Daemon paused, looking at her reaction; he chuckled while taking a strand of her hair between his fingers. 

“I will not be the one dueling him… you are.”

Aemma’s eyes widden in shock, “But-” 

“I never told the boy it was me; you and him assumed it would be me. I trained you, and you have bested me a few times. Who else can prove if that boy is worthy of your hand if not yourself?” explained truthfully to his daughter. 

Aemma, understanding her father’s words, agreed and continued walking to the camp. She saw Aly and Benjicot greeting the Wolf of Winterfell. As Aemma joined the group, they bowed to the princess. Lord Cregan Stark gave Aemma a wolfish grin as he took her hand and kissed it. 

“Princess, it's good to see you again. How is Prince Jacaerys? Asked the Winter wolf. 

Unbeknownst to him, Benjicot’s smile turned to a sneer once he saw the Lord of Winterfell kiss her hand. Again, the ugly monster of jealously clawing up his chest. 

“My brother is doing fine at Dragonstone, although I have a feeling he will be joining us soon,” replied Aemma sweetly. Cregan had become a good friend and ally to the siblings. She turned to Benji, and her smile loosened, noticing his sneer. Seeing the princess staring, Benji bowed and turned to walk to his tent. 

“Um, if you excuse me, Cregan, I need to speak with Lord Blackwood. Have you met his aunt, Lady Alysanne Blackwood?” Aemma hurried an excuse as she walked away, leaving them behind. 

Cregan, with his eyes, followed the princess going towards the Blackwood tents before he awkwardly smiled at Alysanne. 

Aemma entered the tent and saw Benji sharpening his sword with hard eyes and a clenched jaw. She walked in to stand beside him, but the young man did not notice as he continued sharpening his sword. Aemma sighed and reached to touch his cheek, which made Benji flinch as he glared up, only to widen his eyes once he realized who it was. Aemma smiled as she lowered herself in front of her betrothed. 

“What’s wrong?” asked Aemma as she held her hand to his cheek, lightly caressing it. 

Benji shook his head and went to turn away from her, “Nothing…” 

Aemma quickly turned his head towards her again, with a frown mirroring her face. “Don’t lie to me, Ben. Let us not start our courtship with lies. What bothers you? Was it my father?” asked Aemma quietly. 

Benjicot sighed deeply before looking at her entirely. She raised her eyebrows and waited for his response.

“I don’t like how familiar he was to you…” Benji finally explained. 

Aemma was confused about who he was talking about when it clicked: he was talking about Cregan. Aemma giggled, which only made Benji’s frown deepen.

“Cregan…Lord Stark is a friend and only a friend, Ben. He and my brother grew close to each other. There is nothing between him and I, and there never will be.”  Aemma explained as she leaned closer to Benji. 

Benjicot wanted to believe his princess, but he just couldn’t; how could Lord Stark not want to court her? She was gorgeous. Aemma sighed, seeing how he didn’t fully believe her words. Feeling daring, she stood up and sat on his knees, her legs on either side, cradling his face. 

“There will never be anything between me and Lord Stark because he does not make me feel the same feelings as when I am with you,” she whispered.  

Instead of replying, Benji reached up, grabbed her face with his hands, and kissed her. His kiss was desperate as if she were telling him she would leave him. Aemma gasped at the sudden kiss, but she leaned more toward him instead of pulling away. She wrapped her arms around his neck as his hands left her face and onto her waist, bringing her body closer to him. The world seemed to melt away as they deepened their kiss, and as much as Aemma was enjoying it, she knew they had to stop before risking it going too far. She slowly pulled away before giving one last peck at the corner of his mouth. 

“We should stop; we can’t risk anything… not until our wedding.” 

Benji smirked before he nuzzled her neck in contentment. Aemma giggled at the sensation, his hair tickling her as she held him in content. Feeling that she could spend hours like that when they heard a slight cough. Both heads turned quickly to see Aly smirking at them at the tent's entrance. Aemma blushed furiously and jumped off Benji’s lap, which made Benji quickly glare at his aunt before standing. 

“ You both are lucky it was just me who found you. Ben, you know better,” Alysanne lightly scolded as she entered the tent. 

“Are you here just to scold me, dear aunt, or did you need something?” asked Benji as he grabbed Aemma’s hand, caressing her knuckles.

Alysanne’s smirk widened, “Prince Daemon is looking for you both; something about our dear Ben proving his worth? What does he mean by that?”  

Aemma stiffened before she released Benji’s hand, “I should go and help him prepare…I will see you there, yes?” 

Benji stared at her but slowly nodded as he watched her leave the tent. He then turned to his aunt, who gave him a questioning stare while waiting for her answer. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In Dragonstone, Queen Rhaenyra was eating her lunch with Jacaerys, Rhaenys, and Baela when Maester Gerardys came in holding two letters. 

“My queen, two ravens came by, one from Princess Aemma and the other from Prince Daemon.” Gerardys held the letters to Rhaenyra before bowing and leaving the room. 

Rhaenrya held both letters before handing Prince Daemon’s letter to Jace, asking him to read it. She was still upset with him and his actions. Then she hurriedly opened her daughter's letter, wanting to know how her time in Raventree Hall was spent. As she read, she was pleased to see that Aemma was accepted, and the people of House Blackwood were grateful. Stopping at the words “I have done my duty…” she was interrupted by Jace asking a question. 

“What does Daemon mean? ‘Our sea dragon has gotten a pet raven.” Jace asked, looking at his mother and grandmother in confusion.

All three women were equally confused regarding the statement.  Rhaenys reached for the letter and re-read the statement, noting that it held no more explanation, just those simple words. Baela, seeing her grandmother’s puzzled look, turned to her stepmother. 

“ Muna, maybe in Aemma’s letter, there will be an explanation of what Kepa wrote. 

Rhaenyra smiled at her and decided to read Aemma’s letter out loud so they could hear it. She started to read from where she left off.

“ Muna , I have done my duty to strengthen our house with allies. If your approval is given, my queen, I have decided to give my hand of marriage to Lord Benjicot Blackwood.” 

Gasps were heard as Jace quickly stood up and took the letter from her, re-reading the letter. Rhaenyra was shocked. She and her daughter haven’t even discussed marriage, yet she stated that she was betrothed in her letter. Baela and Rhaenys were equally shocked but decided to wait before expressing their thoughts. 

“This was not a decision made at the spur of the moment; both houses, Blackwood and Targaryen, can benefit much from our union…I eagerly await your answer at Harrenhall. With Love, Crown Princess Aemma Velayron.” Finished Jace with a sour look on his face. He didn’t know this, Lord Blackwood. Had he forced his sister to make this match? But Daemon would never allow that. 

“ Muna , we must send a letter rejecting the match and telling Aemma to come back home we-” Jace ranted as he reached for a parchment only to have his mother stop him. 

“Jace, we must trust both your sister’s and father’s judgment; if Daemon has not expressed rejection of the betrothal, then we should allow both your sister and her intended the chance.” Soothed Rhaenyra, as she knew her son would not want to agree.

“But..” 

“Jace,” whispered Baela while staring at her betrothed. “We should listen to your mother, sister, and my father. If Kepa likes him, then he must be worthy of Aemma.” 

“How about we allow Jacaerys to meet the lad and get a feel for him? If he approves, we will start making quick preparations for the wedding. We should be quick with the wedding as war is so close. If not, he will return with Aemma to Dragonstone?” proposed Rhaenys, trying to be diplomatic, even though she wanted her granddaughter back in her arms. 

Rhaenyra considered it for a moment before she, too, nodded. 

“Yes, we will do that, Jace; go quickly and swiftly to Harrenhall. Get to know Lord Blackwood and see if he is the best for our sweet Aemma. Baela, go with him in case Aemma becomes difficult for Jace.” 

Both Jace and Baela nodded and left to get ready for the trip. Jace is determined not to give Benjicot Blackwood a chance, as he felt that Cregan would be the perfect husband for his sister. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aemma was finishing her laces when her father came into the tent holding something behind his back. 

“Is everything ready?” asked Aemma as she walked to her father. 

“Yes, the boy is eagerly waiting at the training field, poor fool,” chuckled Daemon. His laugh only grew once he saw his daughter send a glare toward him. 

Daemon grinned widely, “I have a gift for you… rather than using an old sword, you, as a Targaryen princess, should hold a Valyrian steel.” Daemon brought out a shortsword, which took Aemma’s breath away as she took hold of it. 

The sword was light enough for her to swing easily. The handle was a beautiful black, and two dragons were carved on each side, their eyes made from rubies.  

Aemma grinned as she hugged her father, grateful for the gift. Daemon returned the hug and nuzzled her head, whispering, “Do not go easy on him; let all see the true power of the dragon.”

Daemon let go of her, and the two walked to the training grounds, where a huge crowd gathered, waiting for the duel. Benjicot was speaking with two lads, who happened to be heir Kermit and his brother Oscar Tully. Once the Prince and Princess reached the grounds, the crowd turned to them. 

Daemon smirked condescendingly at the Lord of Raventree Hall, “Well, boy, are you ready to prove yourself?” 

Benji returned a rabid grin, his tongue running through his teeth, “More than ready, my Prince; I am eager to duel with you.” 

Daemon laughed, which stopped Benji and brought a frown to his face. 

“Oh, you think you will be fighting me, my mistake, but you won’t be dueling with me.” 

Puzzled, Benjicot looked at the Prince like he grew an extra head, “If not you, then who…” Benji never finished his sentence as he made eye contact with Princess Aemma, who grinned at him, spinning her new sword in her hands. 

“You will be dueling Princess Aemma, one of the best sword fighters in Dragonstone. Beat or catch her in a draw, and you will have my blessing.” explained The Rouge Prince as he sat.

Benjicot’s eyes widened as he stared at his Princess, seeing her getting into position. 

“I wish you luck, Lord Blackwood,” spoke Princess Aemma as she saw him become more confident, giving her a smirk. 

“And to you, my princess,” Benjicot stated before he lunged at her. 

Aemma waited until he nearly reached her to pivot and turn to him while swinging her sword, almost grazing the young Lord, who dropped and tried to kick the legs from under her. Thankful for her quick reflexes from flying, she jumped back, grinning. Benjicot quickly stood, his eyes becoming wilder as he and the princess continued striking and dodging. The crowd stared in awe; it looked like the young lord and princess were dancing instead of dueling, unable to take their eyes off each other. 

Aemma was getting frustrated and bored, thinking the duel should have ended a while ago. Of course, it went to show the skill level Benjicot had with his sword if neither of them could get to the other. In the last strike, Aemma saw Benjicot widen his stance a little too much as he turned to her. Grinning, she pivoted away from him and kicked him on his shin. Causing the young man to buckle, as she pushed him to the floor while kicking his sword away as she swung hers. Benji quickly rolled away and kicked her feet from under her, causing her to lose her grip and drop her sword.  Using this time, Benji promptly reached for his sword, swinging it as he turned to her. Then, everyone inhaled sharply. Aemma and Benji each held their swords to each other's necks, breathing heavily. A pause happened between them as they struggled to catch their breath. 

Cregan smiled, “I believe we have a draw, everyone.” 

This prompted everyone to cheer as they surrounded the lord and princess, who grinned at each other and moved away from each other, allowing them to stand side by side. The cheering then quieted once Prince Daemon walked up to the pair. 

“Not bad, boy. You truly have some skill…  but I have one last question.” 

Benjicot stared at the Prince, making sure never to break eye contact.  

Prince Daemon approached Benji and asked, “Would you give up your life for her if given the chance?” 

Both Aly and Aemma gasped in shock at the question, “ Kepa , what-” 

Daemon raised his hand, pausing her, and continually stared at the Lord of House Blackwood. 

“We are at war and have many enemies who will do everything to hurt her or, worse, kill her, so boy, if you needed to, would you give your life for her to ensure she had the best chance to survive.” 

Benjicot stared at the Rouge Prince as the rest of the crowd stared in tense silence. Finally, Benjicot kneed in front of the prince, who proudly stated. 

“I swear upon the Old Gods of the North and the Fourteen Flames of Valyria that I, Benjicot Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall, will love and cherish Crown Princess Aemma Valeyron with everything in my body and soul. To protect and keep her happy and, if need be, lay down my life for her from now until the day I die.” 

During his pledge, Princess Aemma started smiling, her eyes welling with tears, and she looked at her father with hopeful eyes. Daemon stared at his daughter before he sighed; he could never say no to her. Daemon reached out and held out his hand for Benji to take. As he helped raise the young from the ground, Daemon shook his hand. 

“Very well, you have my blessing to continue courting her until the queen sets the day for your wedding.” 

The crowd again cheered as Prince Daemon walked away, allowing Aly Blackwood to hug the princess and the Tully brothers clapping Benjicot on the back with Cregan smiling in the background. Aemma, feeling giddy from the leftover adrenaline, ran to Benji, jumping into his arms and kissing him. Which made the Blackwood and Northern men start whistling.  After a while, she separated herself from him, blushing, as he ducked his head, suddenly feeling shy with all the attention on him and his princess. 

In the distance, two dragon roars were heard, making everyone turn to the sky widely while Aemma and Daemon looked up. 

“DRAGONS!” yelled a few knights as people ran from the clearing. Moondancer and Vermax came into view. Aemma grinned at seeing her brother and step-sister landing as she quickly walked to greet them, with Daemon, Benjicot, and Cregan following her. Once Jace helped Baela off Moondancer, he barely had enough time to compose himself as his sister jumped him. Laughing, he picks her up and spins her around. He had missed her terribly. After putting her down, he smiled at Cregan and nodded at Daemon before he noticed Benjicot. Jacaerys sobered up, looking at the young lord up and down, analyzing him. 

“Lord Blackwood…”

[slayfics]

Unknown Pleasures Ch. 3

You’ve had a crush on Katsuki Bakugo since joining UA, but will another student change your mind?

1.3k words

Chapter links

The following day after your argument, Katsuki was sitting in the common room of the dorms, eating breakfast before classes. He saw you make your way down from the dorms and walk into the kitchen to grab some food.

Once you had grabbed your food you quickly scanned the room and made your way over to take a seat next to Hitoshi. Katsuki blinked, expecting the sight to disappear. Sure, you two had argued last night, but that wasn't an uncommon occurrence. Usually, these fights were forgotten the next day and you'd go back to prancing by Katsuki's side.

Katsuki heard your stunt last night, the way you raised your voice so he could clearly hear you talking to Hitoshi. He knew it was a stunt to try and make him jealous. Why were you still keeping this act up though, he wondered. It's not like he could believe you actually cared for that purple haired freak. The dude looked like a zombie, and he was far behind the rest of your class with hero work. There was nothing admirable about him at all.

Yet, there you sat having breakfast with him. Smiling about something. Katsuki grunted, and decided you'd get over your tantrum eventually and realize your act wasn't working. Katsuki almost felt bad for Hitoshi, who plainly had a crush on you. Didn't you realize it was cruel for you to use him that way?

Katsuki watched as you and Hitoshi finished up eating and made your way out of the dorms together. A sinking feeling hit his stomach when you didn't turn to glance at him even once. Didn't you want to see if your ruse was working? Wouldn't you want to check if Katsuki looked upset by you giving your attention to someone else?

"Hey man you alright?" Eijiro asked, snapping Katsuki out of his thoughts.

Katsuki clicked his tongue, "What the fuck was that about?" he asked, head bobbing in the direction of you and Hitoshi leaving the building.

"Oh, those two? I don't know but they were up late last night hanging out," Eijiro answered.

"Are you serious?" Katsuki snapped. He had heard your comment complimenting Hitoshi's room, but he hadn't heard you stayed to talk to him for any longer than that.

"Yeah, I was going downstairs to get some water when I saw her leave Shinso's room. I know you guys had a fight last night, everything ok?" Eijiro questioned.

"Everything is fine," he grunted.

Eijiro hummed unconvinced, "Ok if you say so, but if you're worried maybe you should talk to her. Apologize," he suggested.

"HAH? For what!?" Katsuki exclaimed.

"I don't know- whatever you two fought about. I’m just saying don’t you want to be on good terms with the person you like?” Eijiro asked.

“I didn’t say I like her!” Katsuki yelled.

“Oh... so you don’t like her?” Eijiro questioned, tilting his head confused. He knew Katsuki well by now and it was obvious to him Katsuki had some type of feelings for you.

“I didn’t say that either!” Katsuki barked, becoming even more frustrated.

“Relax man, but you should probably figure that out though… from what I heard she seemed to be getting along really well with Shinso…” Eijiro stated.

“Tch- whatever,” Katsuki mumbled, then quickly grabbed his bag to head off to class.

The rest of the day didn't go any better. Once he walked into class, he saw you sitting on Hitoshi's desk, idly playing with his lavender locks while you two chatted. Give it up already, Katsuki grunted to himself. Paying no attention to you or Hitoshi, Katsuki took his seat near the front of the class. The problem was, you didn't pay any mind to Katsuki either. Continuing your conversation with Hitoshi without a second thought to Katsuki entering the room.

Katsuki found himself letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding when Aizawa walked in causing you and Hitoshi to finally separate.

What the hell could eye bags even be talking to you about that was so interesting anyway. The useless shit he learned in general studies?

Throughout Aizawa's lecture, Katsuki found his thoughts wandering off.

Did you not care at all about your fight with him? Why hadn’t you said anything to him all day? Are you actually interested in Hitoshi?

Katsuki expected that by lunch time things would have gone back to normal. However, he couldn’t have been more wrong. When Aizawa dismissed the class for lunch, you bounced right over to Hitoshi. A wide grin adorned your face as you two walked to the cafeteria.

What the fuck?

Katsuki's grip on his bag tightened, and his knuckles whitened. Couldn’t you stop playing around and drop the act already?

Completely focused on watching you and Hitoshi disappear into the crowd, he didn’t hear the perky redhead sneak up behind him.

“You look pretty upset man,” Eijiro observed.

“I’M FINE!” Katsuki yelled, alerting some passing students to jump.

But he wasn’t fine. The pit in his stomach only grew as he watched you scoot closer to Hitoshi at lunch. The two of you laughed at something you showed him on your phone.

The way Hitoshi leaned into you to get a better view of your screen made Katsuki want to scream. Did you intend to keep this up until Katsuki gave in and said something? Or worse… was this real? Were you actually enjoying Hitoshi’s company?

As more time passed, Katsuki found it harder and harder to deny that this act was just a show. His ego argued with him that you couldn't actually be interested in another boy. Yet, there you sat laughing and smiling with someone else.

Then it all came to a head during the afternoon training session.

The training was simple sparing matches. A random drawing decided which two students would spar together. Comically so, Katsuki and Hitoshi were paired to spar.

You felt your breath catch in your throat when the match was announced. Why did it have to be Katsuki? Your nerves stood on end, as the two boys made their way to the designated sparring ground.

It's fine, you attempted to soothe yourself. Katsuki obviously didn't care about you or Hitoshi, right? If he did, he would have attempted to reconcile today after the nasty fight you two had last night.

The whole class was on edge as they waited for the spar to begin. As if everyone was wondering the same thing, Katsuki wouldn't go too hard on him right?

But just as Katsuki had underestimated your feelings for Hitoshi, everyone underestimated Katsuki's jealousy.

Within a few minutes of the spar, Katsuki had Hitoshi on the floor. The recent transfer to the hero course was no match for the experienced Katsuki. Attempting to hold his own, Hitoshi wrapped the capture scarf around Katsuki's wrists to no avail. A strong blast still came his way effectively knocking him out cold.

Katsuki's jealousy and rage getting the best of him, he let out another explosion directed at his classmate despite him being already knocked out on the floor. Aizawa quickly stepped in to stop the now one-sided beating.

Once the smoke and rubble had cleared the gruesome scene came into view. Hitoshi was on the floor, unconscious, fresh wounds across his face, dirtied from the soot of Katsuki's explosions.

The sight elicited a frenzy response from you. Your fists clenched, face hot, and ears ringing you trampled over to the sparing ground. Interrupting the lecture Katsuki was receiving from Aizawa, you broke in between and slapped Katsuki across the face.

Everyone froze, even Aizawa was caught off guard by your behavior.

Katsuki looked at you astonished, speechless for one of the first times in his life.

"YOU DIDN'T NEED TO GO THAT HARD!" You yelled.

The stinging on his cheek, the distraught look in your eyes, and the venom laced in your words made the realization finally hit. It wasn't an act.

"You really like him?" Katsuki mused almost to himself.

sinners: @unofficialmuilover @maddietries @fiannee @derangedmango @reneinii @peachsukii @abadbitchblogs @deluluforcarlos55 @that-one-fangirl69 @pinkpurpledreams

[jakescaravel]

A Lovey Promise

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x Reader

Word Count: 4,718

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, being tipsy, friends to lovers, kissing, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dares, teasing, dom Jake, hickeys, praise, very very slight allusions to pain (only briefly), orgasm denial, 18+ MDNI!!!

Summary: Your best friend, dripping with a level of confidence that slightly annoys you, delivers an offer, a bet that you simply can't refuse...

6 empty shot glasses sit on the coffee table in front of you thanks to you and Jake’s ongoing tradition. That being shots and a movie, always picked at random (that part being very important), at least once a month although it usually ends up being more.

You lay on the couch curled into Jake’s side underneath a warm comforter. Your hand softly rests on his chest, feeling the gentle beat of his heart along with the subtle ruse and fall of his chest. His arm wraps around you, cocooning you in your shared world of peace, calming you in a way only capable by Jake. It’s so easy to feel safe with him like this. Sometimes when the two of you hang out, you forget that anyone else exists at all. Just the two of you in his small, old apartment.

The cuddling is entirely platonic of course. Not many people understand you and Jake’s friendship, but to the two of you, it makes perfect sense. Sure you guys cuddle and hang out constantly, and maybe you’ve shared a few makeout sessions after having one too many, but those were just “mistakes”. He’s your best friend. And nothing more.

You’re definitely feeling the alcohol and Jake must be as well due to his slightly slurred speech and uncensored Jake commentary.

“Whaddyou think ‘bout the movie Lovey?”

You can feel his head turn towards yours when he speaks, chin resting atop your head, although you can’t see his face. His use of your nickname warms your heart. Especially because of the way it floats off his adorably inebriated tongue. You had earned that nickname after buying a boyfriend of yours flowers years ago- an act Jake thought to be silly and just plain backwards. (“You’re such a hopeless romantic, you’re so lovey dovey, it's honestly sickening. What, does this guy not buy you flowers? Do I need to have a talk with him? Bet he doesn’t fuck you right either…)

The name stuck ever since, but of course you love it. 

“I don’t really know what's going on to be honest.”

“Yeah… itsnot very good.” He states matter of factly before a yawn passes his lips. “Oh look, they're kissing, finally some action!”

Huffing a laugh at his almost childlike revelation, you sit up a little taller and turn your head back toward the screen. The two characters, nameless due to your lack of attention, sit on a couch, hands chasing after each other. She moans into the kiss, parting her lips for him as he lays her down on the couch. Your thighs clench together on their own accord and you could have sworn it’s subtle, but Jake lets out a giggle.

You decide to ignore him completely with your eyes still glued to the screen. Jake’s remarks have stopped, telling you he’s watching just as intently as you, and all of a sudden you’re very aware of how close you are to him. His breathing, his hair ticking your face, his smell. He always smells so good, fresh and clean, but buried below a layer of sweat and musk. So Jake, so perfect. 

You wonder what he's thinking about. Maybe if he too notices the proximity of your bodies, or the way your breathing has slowly picked up.

The man’s hand drifts down as the girl let’s out another overly dramatic moan. Of course the screen doesn’t really show anything, but it sure leaves a lot to the imagination, letting your mind wander without hopes of stopping. 

Jake shifts on the couch, his hand falling from around your shoulder to land around your hip. He pulls you closer to him and speaks again, but this time the playful quality to his voice is gone, and all that’s left is a low grumble.

“Do you think she’s enjoying it?” His other hand comes to your chin, pulling your face to look at him.

“What?” You try to look away from his eyes, the heated stare overwhelming you in your current flustered state, but his grip tightens forcing you to stare straight into his piercing brown eyes.

“Do you think that girl is having fun?” His lips curl into an alluring smile when he sees your slightly panicked state, releasing his hand from your chin, but not before quickly letting his thumb dart over your cheek.

You force yourself to maintain the contact, his dark gaze pulling you deeper into your thoughts and he offers you a smile that too closely resembles a smirk. You curse the heat growing between your legs at just the sight of that stupid smug look you want so badly to wipe from his face. Taking a grounding breath, you answer as if he hasn’t affected you at all. 

“Yeah I mean she’s moaning like a pornstar so it can’t be that bad.” 

He turns back to the screen nodding slowly, his lips pursed. “Well this guy is clearly not experienced.” 

You look back to the screen, questioning it for yourself. You guess you haven't really been paying attention to the details. It’s funny how anything slightly erotic just shuts off the brain, causing it to act like a horny sex zombie.

“Yeah this guy has no idea what he’s doing.” He states again, an air of confidence in his tone that amuses you. 

“Oh really? And you’ve got it all figured out right?”

“Well yeah.” He quips back.

You can’t help the laugh that trills out. All guys think the same; they all think they’re the best in bed, and they all think they make their girl cum when really… they never have.

“What, you don’t believe me?” A stupid grin paints his face and he pokes your cheek, making them instantly flame.

“No Jake, I don’t think you could please a woman any better than this guy.” You point to the small screen again, rolling your eyes.

“Oh reallyyy.” He drags out the last syllable as he sits up to face you.

You turn to him, cutting your eyes at his sneering face. He reaches for the bottle of vodka on the coffee table, taking a swig straight from the bottle. You force your eyes away from his bobbing adam's apple as the liquid goes down. He doesn’t even wince.

“I could make a girl cum with just my fingers.”

You roll your eyes again, trying to ignore the warmness that has made its way to your cheeks. When you look back to Jake, you can tell that he’s made no joke, no silly remark. He’s being serious.

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“No.”

“I could prove it to you.”

You let out a slow shaky breath after realizing you had been holding it in. You extend your hand to reach for the bottle. Taking a generous swing of the burning liquid, you return your attention to the man in front of you.

“You could prove it to me?”

“I bet I could make you cum with just these.” He holds up his hand, wiggling his fingers in the air.

“Bullshit.”

“You really don’t believe me huh Lovey? You’ve never heard what they say about guitarists?” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

His voice is low, dripping with sex and his tongue comes out licking a slow line along his bottom lip. He smirks when he notices you staring. And god, that little nickname, what used to seem so innocent now having a playful bite.

“I bet I could make you cum three times with just my fingers.” He holds them up again, reaching out to touch your face. You jump back and he laughs at you.

He stares at you, waiting for a response. Your mind is racing along with your heart. There’s no way he’s being serious… but the look on his face tells you otherwise. He raises his eyebrows again in question.

“Is that a bet?”

“Maybe it is… and you know I never lose.”

He’s referring to his competitiveness by nature. It’s true that as long as you've known him, he won’t stand losing. It’s a part of being a Kiszka you’ve figured out by now. They always bend the rules in their favor, making sure they’re on the winning side of whatever bet, whatever contest. 

“I don’t think you’re winning this one Jakey.” You mean for it to come off as condescending but the second you hear the words come out of your mouth you wish to pull them back in. You can tell he’s taken them as an even further challenge as his eyebrows raise in question.

He leans forward on the couch, planting his hands on his knees until you can feel his breath.

“Well I wouldn’t lose, but just to humor you, I’ll bet you whatever you want.”

A low tingle has formed inside your stomach. A familiar feeling - the anxious excitement. The thrill of the flirt, although you still can’t tell just how playful it is, and that thought alone makes you want to hurl or pounce on him, you still haven’t decided. 

“I get whatever I want?” For some reason, confidence is building inside you. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you - so sure of himself that you have no choice but to match the energy. Or maybe it’s because deep down, you know you want whatever he’s thinking of giving to you.

He gives you a slow nod, smiling again at your new slightly eager tone.

“I want you to admit that you’re not some guitar god, you’re just another guy. You need to stop acting so full of yourself, you need to be humbled.”

He laughs again, a genuine laugh that reminds you of your best friend, although it doesn’t seem that’s the person sitting in front of you right now.

“Sure y/n, and if I win, you have to call me ‘The Sex God.’ ”

The nervous laughter bubbles out of you as you cast your eyes to your feet. The worst part of this is that he’s acting like such a douchebag, but you don’t hate it. In fact you find yourself wanting to know what it’s like to sleep with the sex god, as stupid as it sounds.

“Why do you want to so bad Jakey?”

“Well first of all, don’t act like you don’t want to, I can see it written all over your face. You forget I know you better than anyone. And second, don’t act so naive.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, simultaneously nervous and excited for the answer.

“I love you and care about you, so much, you’re my best friend, but don’t act like we’re above all that. We’ve kissed before y/n, you really think we’d never go farther?”

“Well… I’m not really sure. I guess the thought crossed my mind… maybe I thought it would happen eventually.”

Your own confession slightly shocks you, but as soon as you say the words aloud, nothing has ever made more sense. You look back to him and he looks almost proud of you, and it makes you want to jump into his arms and suck the praise right out of him.

“That’s my girl.” He smiles again, flashing you all his teeth, making your heart melt all over again.

“Come on, don’t overthink it.” 

He starts to stand up, making the whole situation seem very, very real. You close your eyes for a moment, just in case this is some sort of dream, but when you open them, you’re even more sure that this is what you want. You want him. You want your best friend, and as wrong as it might be, it's the truth.

He extends his hand, a simple gesture, an invitation, and you take it, letting him lead you into unknown waters.

He pulls you in front of him, letting you lead the way to the room you’ve slept in a million times. His hands meet your hips as you walk, the touch feeling searing hot and trickling down until you can feel the wetness between your legs.

Your mind is simultaneously racing and completely empty. How is it that an act so forbidden could feel so right? So simple?

The curtains are pulled back on the window allowing a sliver of moonlight to poke into the room. Aside from that, the lights are off and you almost ask him to turn them on but then decide it’s probably for the best.

Once he reaches the bed, he turns to face you and his features start to come into view as your eyes adjust to the darkness. He wears a smug grin as he extends his hand for you to grab once more. He sits on the bed, shuffling backwards as you grab his hand, letting him pull you to meet him. 

He rests his body along the headboard and you crawl closer, stilling in front of him on your knees, unsure of your next move. Thankfully he does the thinking for you.

“Turn around.”

Without second guessing it, you turn around so that your back is to him, and impatiently, he pulls your hips back, reminding you of his strength so that you rest, slotted in between his extended legs, back flush against his chest.

Taking a deep breath, you allow yourself to melt into his touch, after all, it is familiar. Your head lays back in the crook of his neck and his lips ghost over your ear.

“Can I take off your shirt?”

His voice is barely above a whisper and sends a shiver down your spine. Without saying a word you lift up your arms and allow him to slide off the thin fabric. Having chosen to skip the bra this morning, your chest springs free to which he hums in approval. 

“Can I touch you?”

“Please.”

Carefully, his fingers slide against your skin, trailing along the top of your breast before kneading into the soft skin. He emits a low growl in your ear as your back arches, chasing his touch.

Before he has the chance to ask, you lift your hips off the bed to slide your pants down, along with the lacey panties you had chosen this morning - such a shame he isn’t able to see them. Upon your eager initiative, Jake grants you a kiss to the exposed flesh of your neck, traveling up to whisper in your ear.

“Good girl.”

The proximity of his voice, the words he speaks, the rush of it all makes you utter a small moan that doesn’t go unnoticed. He seems to suck it in along with the small mark he makes just below your ear. You savor the feeling of his wet mouth on you, hoping it never leaves as his hand starts to slide down your stomach.

Your legs part for him as his hand reaches your mound, stilling there, garnering anticipation that makes you hold your breath, releasing it when he slides an inch further.

Finally, like the first gasp you take upon emerging from water, his fingers slide over your clit to your entrance to gather up the evidence of your arousal. A small moan is muffled through your gritted teeth as his fingers slide through you, he laughs against your ear. 

“All this for me?”

His breath tickles you and in an act that makes your head spin, he sucks gingerly on your earlobe while plunging his middle and ring finger deep inside you. The sudden pressure causes your head to push back even further as you arch away from him. His other hand wraps around your waist, pulling you back to meet his chest as his fingers push in even deeper, testing the limits of your tight walls.

Whines and moans surpass your lips as his fingers start to curl inside you, pulling in and out as they tuck in. Have his fingers always been this thick? This heavy? Watching him play guitar they always seemed so nimble but now, now you aren’t so sure. 

The mere stretch of only two of them makes you wonder what it would feel like to have a third, a fourth or perhaps to have his cock instead. How it would feel stretching you out even further.

With his hand picking up a steady rhyme, his lips are back on you, biting and licking their way up to your ear to whisper sweet praises. He moves back to the skin of your shoulder, marking you in a way that may make you feel ashamed tomorrow, but today, all you feel is the pure ecstasy he’s supplying you with.

“How does it feel, baby?”

“Good.” You manage to choke out, hardley comprehending what he’s saying as his fingers jolt inside of you.

“Just keep on feeling, I'll get you there.”

He licks a stripe up to the skin behind your ear, circling it there as you push your head deeper into his touch. Your legs start to tremble, feeling as if the pleasure is too much while being not nearly enough. The slow build starts in your stomach and travels to your chest, tightening while your muscles contract, flowing to your toes as they gently curl and flex. 

“That’s it, just give it up baby.”

Your moans become sporadic and in mere seconds you feel almost there, except he slows his fingers down to which you whine in protest. His low gravely laughter hits the shell of your ear going straight to your core as he picks the pace back up, reminding you of how close you were.

Your hips arch away from him again but this time his hand travels to the flesh of your breast, squeezing and pulling you back to him. It almost hurts as his fingers pinch around your nipple, but at the same time, pain feels like a foreign concept entirely. You scoot back too, feeling his rock solid cock threatening to burst from his pants. You want to see it, want to touch it, taste it. However your thoughts are cut off when it finally explodes inside of you.

You can’t hear the sounds you’re making as your legs thrash against the sheets, head turning and arching as his fingers work away inside of you. It washes you over, seeming like it has no end, making you feel like this was the best decision you’ve ever made. 

However as soon as it starts, it slows, letting you still feel the pleasant buzz as your legs calm down, still twitching and jolting with every slowed movement of his strong fingers.

“Number 1.”

He hums in your ear. He sounds amused, like you're only a toy he gets the pleasure of playing with, however you have no problem with that if it means you get to feel like this.

“Can you give me another?” He poses it as a question, but you know it's really a demand.

His fingers don’t stop inside you, threatening to pull you into overstimulation as they continue to deliciously curl inside. You turn your face to his, whining against his lips which he presses into yours, for just a split second before pulling back - like he regrets the action, however you don’t have enough time to process it.

The fizzling orgasm picks back up, this time coming from deeper within, almost sizzling white hot, making your legs shake even harder. It hasn’t started yet, but it’s coming. Bubbling up slower so that you hope it can be over with, to save you from the burning anticipation. 

“Jake I- I can’t… it’s too much.”

“No it isn’t, just relax, feel it. You’re so close, let me have it, I want it.”

Fuck. The greed he so shamelessly emits. The greed for you, for your cum. It’s enough to make your mind go blank as you force yourself to just feel the feelings he’s giving you. 

He pushes his hand back so that the crook of his thumb rubs against your clit with every drag of his fingers. One of two swipes and you’re rocking your hips into his them, chasing the feeling as it washes you over again.

His name falls from your lips until it’s the only word you know, and in the far distance you can hear his own struggling moans of pleasure, his own ragged breathing as you tremble against him.

When it becomes too much, your legs shut around his hand, but his feet lock over your ankles, pulling your legs apart and overpowering them with his weight until you’re spread even wider while his hand finishes the job. 

Finally, before you would have fallen into the waters of bliss, drowned forever, his hand slows and fingers gently slide out of you. You watch them, glistening with the moonlight as they rest on your heaving stomach. 

Your legs are still open as they jolt and shudder. A single nip is given to your neck before a kiss is placed in its spot. “You did so good for me, so so good.”

A small smile makes its way across your face, although he can’t see it. You want to find the right words to let him know how good he can make you feel, better than anyone else, but your lack of words must do for now. You can’t help yourself as you turn your face to tuck into his neck, breathing in his intoxicating scent.

His other hand pets your hair as you take a few deep breaths, grounding yourself. Before you’ve barely regained your footing, his hand is drifting lower, you can feel the wetness it leaves in its path before a single digit circles your swollen clit. You yelp in surprise as it presses in further. You bite the skin of his neck, listening and reveling in the hiss he makes that flows out of him like a soft whine. It’s delectable and reignites that flame inside you.

“Can you give me number 3?” He whispers to you, like he’s scared to wake you even though you’re far from asleep. You give a slow nod and pick your face up to watch his soaked fingers drag further down your slit until three of them tease at your entrance. 

You bite your bottom lip as they start to slide in, stretching you with every inch, stinging in the perfect way when he pushes them deeper in, relying on a little force to press them all the way in. A chokes out moan struggles out of you, filling the room in a way that should make you feel ashamed, but in this moment, you feel nothing of the sort. 

Once his fingers reach in as far as they'll go, he wastes no time in picking up a merciless pace. It's hard to even register the speed as they pump in and out, filling you up in the most satisfying way you’ve ever experienced.

His mouth is on you again. Hot. Wet. And strong as he licks and sucks with no real purpose, only to satisfy his needs through watching you like this.

“Cum for me Lovey, make me win, I wanna watch it come out of you, soak my hand even more. Come on, let me have it… fuck Lovey…”

It’s something about that stupid nickname falling from his lips so desperately as his dominant demeanor falters, showing you his true need for you. It’s not hard to give it up as it builds faster than before. It feels like it springs out of nowhere until you're screaming into the otherwise quiet room. You’ll surely get strange looks walking from his apartment in the morning, but it doesn't matter, nothing matters. You feel on fire, perfect, fulfilled.

His teeth drag along your skin as your head thrashes in the crook of his neck, legs threatening to break free from his grasp as he struggles to hold you there. His hand works relentlessly as you moan and whine while your hands twist into the sheets, toes curling, eyes rolling back as you lose sense of the world around you.

His other hand snakes down to tease over your sensitive clit as his teeth bite into the flesh of your neck. Your whole body is numb the second he touches you there. The white hot pleasure is enough to make you cease to exist. You’re just a body floating in a colorless void with sounds in the distance you aren’t sure you're making. 

His voice raises in volume until it breaks through your void, allowing you to hear him. He’s choking on his words through a cloud of lust, “Come on Lovey, you can give me one more, give me number 4.” It sounds like he’s never wanted something more in his life. Sounds like he needs it more than you do. His voice is quivering through painted breaths as his hands move even faster, working you with perfect opposition. 

His tongue darts out, licking into your ear before teeth come to bite around your earlobe, enough to make it sting, enough to make you want more. And then it burst out of you. The only sense - touch, the warmness seeping in from under you. Your legs threaten to break the bed as they break free from Jake’s grasp, clenching around his hands that show no sign of stopping. 

You feel it around your legs too, the warmness, the flow, the wetness. His breath is on your neck again, you can hear him moaning into your ear. 

“That’s it Lovey, good girl, good girl baby. Just give it up, come on, that’s it, soak me, yeah just like that…”

A few more seconds and he slows his movements down until your legs fall from around his hands. They lay defeated on the bed as he removes his fingers from you. Your chest is heaving up and down as you come back to earth to find a dark spot sitting on the bed beneath you.

When you realize what it is you cast your eyes away, hiding once more in the crook of his neck, but he sits you up taller to pull your face away.

“What's wrong y/n?”

You don’t answer, don't speak. There's nothing you could possibly say to him, that is until you meet his eyes, once dark with lust now turned sweet, and you can almost see them shine in the moonlight.

For some reason, in this moment, the air of seriousness breaks and your face erupts in laughter. It doesn’t take much for him to join in and soon you’re laughing together, just like old times, but it doesn't feel wrong. Not in the slightest.

“I’ve never done that before.” You finally speak up, looking back to the ruined sheets.

“Well that. Was easily the hottest fucking thing i’ve ever seen.” “Really?”

“Yes. Without a doubt.”

You stare at him for a moment, letting yourself blush and smile as he repeats the action. The sweet moment is short lived however when he turns it back to the bet.

“So if making you cum 3 times makes me the Sex God… then what does 4 times make me?”

“Oh shut the fuck up Jake.”

“Well I won the bet. You better uphold your side of the deal.”

You stare at him angrily before muttering under your breath, but of course that isn’t enough for him. His smile, despite being covered by shadows, lights up the room with his pride, flowing off of him like sex.

“You’re The Sex God.”

“What was that? Couldn’t really hear you.”

“You’re The fucking Sex God Jake, I swear to god if you make me say it one more time.”

“Okay thank you. I’m satisfied. By the way, do you want to put some clothes on?”

You look down, blushing once more at your exposed skin. Before you even have time to have any shred of decency to cover yourself up, he's lifting his shirt up and handing it to you. You thank him and slide it over your body before stealing a quick glance to his smooth chest. You quickly look back up to his smirking face, and roll your eyes once more.

“Oh uh by the way.. I know this isn’t the best timing but uhh I don’t have any extra sheets so we’re gonna have to sleep on the couch…”

.

.

.

.

Part 2

[henriettarhippo-hrh]

Ch.7 Forbidden Fruit 🍎

Title: Forbidden Fruit Rating: Explicit

Chapter 7

Excerpt:

“I take it you don’t actually need my help getting a book down,” Aziraphale said.

Muriel spun around, their eyes gleaming with excitement. "No! It was a ruse to get you alone," they declared triumphantly.

Aziraphale smiled with affection. “And a very good one it was.”

“Thanks!” Muriel chimed, practically vibrating with energy. They took a few quick steps towards Aziraphale, then paused to double-check the door again before closing the distance between them and leaning in conspiratorially. “So, Aziraphale. Guess what?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, playing along. “What?”

Muriel beamed. “I think Anthony likes you!”

Aziraphale struggled to maintain his composure. “I’m sorry?” he squeaked.

Or read from the start

Shout out to the amazing @riverstyx125 for the beta!

@goodomensafterdark

[luvly-writer]

XOXO

Ch. 19 Every corner of this house is hunted

-•-

Author's note: There is just something so satisfying about writing angst while listening to sad music. I'll try to not break your hearts too much. Warnings: ANGST ANGST ANGST Taglist: @w31rdg1rl @mxtokko @loonymoonystuff @grandstrangerphanthom @1lellykins @cangosleepnow @dreamspectrum @its-maemain @tamimemo @nightw-izhu @trasshy-artist @gabriiiiiiii @cassini-among-the-stars Masterlist:

-•-

"What?" Tim was taken a back by what I said, "What do you mean over, Y/n?"

I take a deep breath and exhale, it is a little shuddery. "This entire thing, Tim. Our ruse of being a couple, it is over. We can end it. We aren't tied to each other anymore. We won, right?" you say

Why does it feel like I'm losing then?

"I don't understand," Tim said, "We-"

"We were never a couple, I know, I know, it was just acting jaja! I know that, silly! I..Ok let me clear thing's up. We are done acting of course, you don't owe me anything anymore, you know. You are free too! I mean um, I um, ok give me a break" I panicked. Of course. Y/n don't be dumb. He knows you weren't a couple. He was just acting. He didn't see it the same way I did..

"Do you want to come inside so that we can talk about this better?" He asks concerned.

"No! It's okay, I...uh... have to go, so I..let's.. make this quick. I um, Tim...Thank you, for helping me. You didn't have to, now knowing you better, you could have gotten out of it and found a loophole easily but you still chose to go through with this..with me. Thank you, I have never had so much fun with someone in my entire life the way I did with you and that will always always mean something to me, you will always mean something to me...always, Timmy, and we won, Tim. We won. I am free and OH! So are you! I made sure to delete all the files on you know what and it is all clear, I can bring you my laptop and you can check I have nothing on it. You can finally say it, I am no longer holding something over your head, and we won, Timy, we did a great job, frankly we made a great team and-"

"Wait, wait wait wait, Wait! Y/n Vanderbilt is this you saying goodbye" he said incredulously, "Cause if it is, you are being a real shitty person right now and I know that's not who you are. I know you."

"I don't know," you say dejectedly, "I don't want it to be, Timmy. I appreciate your friendship way too much for me to say goodbye. I lo...I...I care so much about you and want you to be in my life, any way I can have you"

"Anyway?" Tim said, hope in his heart. The last few weeks have been fucking hell if he were to be honest. He missed her. He missed her scent on his clothes, on his sheets, on his apartment. He missed her touch, her caresses. her lips, her hands on his. He missed her so much that he thought he was dying. Dick and Jason like to call him lovesick because of how much he was moping. It's funny how two months can make someone become such a strong part of your routine. He missed talking with her before going to sleep. Whether it was by phone when she was in her apartment, or in person when she stayed at his, the point is he missed her voice. He had come to terms with how much he loved her after Christmas and was so happy to tell her because he thought it was reciprocated. The way she looked at him, their connection, their conversations, their inside jokes, their trips, the movie nights, it was real. He was a little grateful they hadn't had sex yet...he wasn't sure he would be able to recover if he ever felt her body on his and got to explore and adore every single part of her and then have it taken away. He felt it was real. It was real it had to be. All of that for her to be finally here, frankly he thought she was part of his imagination at first. He had been having so many dreams of her that he couldn't believe it was her at first until she started talking and shattering his heart...but she said she'd have him any way she could right. Ask away, Y/n, I am yours, utterly, completely, from head to toe, from heart to soul, mind and body...please ask.

"OH!" Fuck..He is thinking of a relationship and the way he opened his eyes is telling me he does NOT want it... "You know what I meant, Timmy, as friends! I mean if we can't fake date, why not stay friends. I haven't been able to connect with anyone else like this ever and I...well...you are my first friend who has been such you know a friend! Of course" She said nervously. Dig a hole and bury me in it. I don't want to deal with this..

"Of course, yeah, no no, I definitely got you. Cause you know, you are right, of course" He said sending her a tight smile. "It's alright, we are alright. You know we will always be alright." He says as he feels his chest tightened. Of course. Of fucking Course. She wants to be friends. "This won't ruin us, Angel, I'm still here for you"

Y/n smiled, "And I'm still here for you, you know"

Do you hear that? It is the sound of two hearts shattering. Y/n nods, holding her tears back and whatever is left of her dignity. Tim looks up, holding himself together enough to not show her. They both know the other person is not okay. But would they cross the line? She takes a step back and whispers one soft see you later and gets on the elevator. Tim watches the doors close and closes the door. He places his back on it and slides down, breaking down because fuck his heart hurts and he feels like he is suffocating. For once, he is not drowning himself in work, for once he won't turn to cases to numb the pain. For once, he just wants to let the pain out and feel it because God damn it, she is not his, and every fiber of himself is hers.

Y/n walks back to her car and once the door is closed, she just lets it out. All of the pain, all of the yearning. Her heart is entirely his and she will have to settle for just friends. What a time to be alive. The great Y/n Vanderbilt was brought down all because she liked a boy. Her driver had the decency to give her the privacy to mourn the feelings that do nothing but grow. She gets to her apartment, tears still rolling down the apple of her cheeks. Once inside, she drops all of her stuff and preps a hot bath. She soaked in it, crying until she felt numb. Tomorrow she was going to call the girls, she needed their company.

—•—

Week one:

It had been a week since Tim and her broke their agreement. Everyone close to them knew the truth of it already. They had both made a public statement that they had "broken up" but remained best friends. The public had shared their sentiments, after all, the most beloved couple in Gotham was done. There was no bad blood they assured from both parties. Clara and Satine stayed for a few days and let her mope for a little. Classes were starting soon and she needed to get it out of her system. Dick had assigned everyone to do a routine check-up on Tim. They were taking care of the cases, Wayne Enterprises, and patrol. They too were letting him get it out of his system.

Week two:

Classes had begun. Y/n, having something to distract herself began her routing as usual. Wake up early, eat breakfast, go to class, exercise, do homework, meet with contractors for her new gallery, call Mom, call Aurora, call Charlisse, call Grandma, call Dad, play tennis with Clara, have lunch with Satine, dinner with whoever invited that day. Everyone seemed to be on high alert on trying to take care of her, but she insisted she was fine.

Tim had gotten back to Wayne Business, still not cleared for patrol yet. His secretary, and elderly woman who used to work for Bruce, looked at him with sympathy, it was as if almost everyone did these days. He had been back on taking pills to get his sleep schedule checked again. He had moved to the manor for some time per Alfred's and Bruce's request so that they could make sure he was eating and getting better. He insisted he wasn't a child.

Week Three:

The first time, Tim and Y/n saw each other. She was exiting the same coffee place where they had met. They smiled at each other and made small talk. They never did small talk. They knew the most vulnerable points of each other, they never did small talk. Tim swore she gets more radiant every day. Y/n claims she never noticed how intoxicating his perfume was.

Week four:

They crashed into each other whilst Tim was going on a run through Gotham Central City Park. Satine had taken Y/n to do a yoga session in the park. This time the conversation was less small talk, a few jokes were exchanged even. Has her laughter always been such a melody? Have his eyes always been this blue?

Later in the week, he called her by mistake. They went 3 hours talking on the phone about everything and anything.

Week five:

They spent 4 days in a row talking on the phone at least once a day. He knew her schedule by heart and she knew his patrol route as if it was the back of her hand. Why does talking to you feel like a breathing air after being underwater for too long?

Is it because my lungs are filled by my love for you?

Week six:

They finally made plans to have lunch. The paparazzi caught them and everyone is speculating and hoping for them to get back together. Someone pointed out that the two of them haven't erased their pictures together. Neither have the guts to delete them, neither want to.

They have been seen together more often. Y/n's mother is convinced it is because they are meant to be. They call each other on the phone more often. Tim called her when she was having dinner with Satine and Clara. They both wiggled their eyebrows at her and teased her. She insists they are just friends and is just happy to have him back as her friend. "Friends, my ass" "SATINE!" "She's not wrong."

Why is is that when something happens, you are the first person I want to tell?

Week seven:

He crashed at her place after one rough patrol. They spent half of the night laughing. He was helping her with some of her homework. The way the light hit her eyes and illuminated her face stole his breath away. Have your lips always looked so soft?

She was so close to kissing him quite a few times. His smirk when was able to help her with something successfully made her dizzy.

I'm yours and I'm fine with that.

She finally visited the manor, everyone was elated to have her back. The entire day, everyone was witnessing how obvious and oblivious they were. When are you both coming to your senses and seeing that the love of your life is right in front of you?

That night, as he was walking her to her car, he mentioned that the Wayne's were having another charity ball. He invited her family. It would be their first official appearance as "exes who are now friends". That night, she said yes and kissed his cheek goodbye.

—•—

extras:

One thing Y/n always wanted for Tim was to take care of himself emotionally and that meant feeling his actual emotions instead of analyzing them and shutting them out. He honors her by doing exactly that

He literally worships the ground she walks on, don’t know if you guys have noticed.

Everyone is trying to get them to realize that they are meant to be but they don’t see it. Bruce and William even started to do business together so that Tim and Y/n would realize that they belong together. They are dumbasses cause they didn’t think it through (Tim is not focused on that and Y/n doesn’t want anything to do with the family business). They are dumb your honor, but they mean well.

Aurora, Charlisse, Grandma Margaret and her mom have been throwing hint after hint on how Tim is the perfect fit for her and there is no one else. Charlie and Aurora even got their husbands on board.

The batfam is trying to make a plan for them to get back together. Damian actually came up with the idea because as much as he denies it, he is a child who cares for his older brother and Tim has not been as witty as he normally is so it bothers Damian because they don’t have their normal banter:

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hello, lovely! Thank you so much for all that you do for fandom. You are amazing!

I thought for sure you already had a list for this request, but if you do, I'm overlooking it... Do you have any recommendations for fics where Sherlock is in a temper, and turns his angry, hurtful deductions on John. Maybe he means to, maybe he doesn't, but John ends up hurt all the same.

Thank you so much for any response, I really do appreciate all that you do! ❤️

Hey Nonny! *HUGS*

Naw, it's all good!! Ah, I think I have been asked in the past a similar question but I'm not finding the ask... Your best bet is to check out my Angry Sherlock lists:

Cranky Sherlock

Cranky Sherlock Pt. 2 | [MOBILE POST]

And this post here has a couple fics of raging Sherlock. OH! And this fic HAS the "nasty deductions" but it's all part of a ruse to trick Moriarty:

Sherlock Holmes Live by emilycare (E, 488,496 w., 73 Ch. || Theatre AU || Immersive Theatre, Romance, Slow Burn, Fake / Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Bisexual John, Demisexual Gay Sherlock, Alternating POV, Falling in Love, Eventual Case Fic, Soft Sherlock, Panic Attacks, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Happy Ending, Pining John) –  Down on his luck John Watson answers an advert for a paid role in an experimental play. Enter William Scott with a most unusual proposition: help him test run a two person immersive experience, oh and by the way there is sex and romance involved.

Does anyone have any fics that they want to suggest for Nonny????

Hope you enjoy those lists, and I hope y'all have a great day!!

[milkypompon]

The Ruse Ch. 1

pairing: Nathan Bateman x CompanyRival!Reader

summary: Nathan wants to buy out your father's business, but the latter is skeptical of closing the deal with the BlueBook owner. The solution? He's going to seduce you.

content: 18+ mdni, thoughts about sex and kinks, enemies to luvrs

wc: 2.4k

a/n: As requested by a wonderful anon!! THANK YOU, I've been on a bald, billionare kick

beta read by the amazing and adorable... @lovable-liar

|| Next >

Ex Machina || Main Masterlist

“Look, you provided tech parts to BlueBook for almost a decade. Then, you up and left to start making phones, tablets, etcetera with my ideas. And I get that it’s a family-run business. It’s adorable, really.” Nathan sighs and clicks his pen, “But I have to say, in a lack of better terms, you’re running an absolute shitshow.”

Your father leans back on the swivel chair, only one of the twelve occupied because Nathan was pacing around the room, and the other board members weren’t privy to the conversation. 

He was fuming, but he knew that Nathan was right. 

The said shitshow was a repeated cycle — inevitable karma, if you will — that Nathan Bateman, a genius and billionaire, and your father, a now sorry excuse of an entrepreneur, experienced it to the highest degree.

But truthfully, the latter was hit the hardest.

In the past year, your father’s employees designed and crafted the high-end electronics at NovaTech. Over time, they used it as a stepping stone to build their own companies from the ground up, evolving into something worthy of praise. 

He couldn’t keep up with the competition, especially now with the brightest minds walking out.

“I’m doing you a favor by buying you out instead of watching you sink into bankruptcy.” Nathan continues, “Call it an act of a good Samaritan. Or, if you’re not into the hippie bullshit, just see it as me taking back what’s mine.”

Your father frowns. “I bet you’ve been bribing my employees to start working for you, eh?” He throws his hands up in frustration, struggling to find the right words. “It’s all part of a stupid, elaborate plan to drive me out of business!”

Nathan drops the pen, it clatters onto the glass table. He says in a low, steady voice, “Do you seriously think I have time to fuck around?”

He grumbles a “no” and swipes the buy-sell agreement from the manila folder.

“Look at you! Finally coming to your senses.” Nathan opens his arms, an agreeable and friendly stance, though it was anything but that.

“I’m just reading over it again, Bateman. Just making sure you’re not ripping me off.”

“God, it feels like I’m trying to get divorce papers signed.” He tucks the document back into the folder. “Think about it, man. You could throw a retirement party with the greens and have more than enough to tan your ass in Bora Bora.”

—

The next night was the BlueBook Ball, Nathan has a way with words, but it’s a glorified event for rubbing elbows, sickening niceties, and serving tooth-achingly sweet mixed drinks for the wives of big names in the tech field.

Nathan could play the nice guy for only so long. 

He’d been breathing down his own neck to get the documents signed. It was a one-way ticket to the clientele who turned him down because of their loyalty to your father.

In hindsight, he should’ve dealt with the meeting the morning after the gathering while your father was hungover and loose-lipped, ready to nod along with his plan for the buyout.

A perfect yesman. 

Nathan was a scientist first and foremost. 

Hypothetically, he knew it could’ve worked.

And he was a businessman second. 

Technically, he knew others played just as dirty.

Nathan ran a hand down his beard and reminded himself, Just one more night of persuading him and I’ll back down from NovaTech.

Can’t keep on wasting my time.

–

You’re accompanying your father tonight. He stated that it was a gateway to understanding the social aspect of running a business. 

Deep down, you knew it was a sloppy attempt to get you out of your studio and away from tinkering at the new prototypes. 

You begrudgingly agreed because at least it was a chance to abuse the open bar and cling to the side as a wallflower after snagging a few drinks.

But there was the issue of the black-tie attire. In other words, slipping on a tight dress paired with red-bottom stilettos could cause a twisted ankle if you took the wrong step. 

Or danced too hard.

Surely, Nathan Bateman wasn’t the type to throw it back and party like that, right? 

You shake your head, not in a professional setting. 

A faint buzz from the intercom beside your bed draws you out of the bathroom. 

“Hey, sweetie! The helicopter’s here to pick us up.” Your father reminds you.

You check the time on your phone and frown slightly, then press the button on the intercom to reply. “Dad, you said we weren’t leaving for another hour.” 

Another buzz.

“I’m sure they can send another one for you when you’re ready.” 

“Alright, fine. I’ll see you there.”

–

The helicopter ride wasn’t your first, given your father’s affinity for buying new and shiny things for you in hopes of proving that his late hours at the office during your childhood were all worth it—a weak compensation for being raised by maids and butlers.  

The green land and the snow-capped mountains stretching on for miles was a distraction from the thought of showing up without the person who was supposed to be your guide for the night. 

Everyone would be nameless for the time being or blurry faces you’d soon forget. 

You pull the aviation headset over your ears, a thought dawning over you. 

You don’t even know what the host looks like. 

He was surely an enigma, sitting on a fat pile of money and keeping his head down to work on god-knows-what in a facility you were headed to located in the middle of buttfuck Alaska.

Photographers rarely shot photos of him due to his constant refusal to participate in panels, and overall, there were few published sightings of him on the mainland. 

Even then, it was like he took down the photos.

Perks of being one of the wealthiest men alive, you suppose—a false sense of privacy.

The landing, as gentle as it could be from a helicopter, didn’t help to settle the churning at the pit of your stomach. 

A voice from the earpiece cracked to life, “Follow the path. You’ll know when you’re there.”

Before you could ask about the lack of people in sight or even the distant sound of music, the pilot answered your question.

You carefully step out, noticing the stupidly rolled-out red carpet on top of plants and fallen branches. The least he could've done for someone with more money than he could spend was pave a sidewalk.

This must be a sick metaphor. Struggling to walk in nature to find a haven built by a human.

Your ears perk up after about fifteen minutes of walking at the muffled sounds of talking. There were finally signs of life apart from trees and birds. 

No way could you keep walking the last stretch without a break, especially with your calves on fire. All you needed was a hard drink, a bench to sit on, and maybe even a bed for a quick nap. 

The tree stump nearby was the best you could do for now. You veer off the velvet path before your right heel sinks into a mud puddle.

“When I see that man…” you mumble under your breath. Then you were quickly reminded that you wouldn’t recognize him even if he were in front of you.  

There was no point in stopping now; you were late, and now, your right shoe was dirty. 

You trudge on for a few minutes. Standing before you was a wooden facility with glass panels reflecting the foliage. If you looked the right way, it almost blended in, but there were far too many edges and faces. 

A little too perfect. 

Squinting your eyes at the windows inside, you find the guests milling about, politely throwing their heads back to unfunny jokes. A few men were clean-shaven, while others had a trimmed beard. They all had their shoulders rolled back with a champagne flute in hand.

Any of them could be Nathan Bateman. 

Maybe he was close to being six feet under, white-haired with a few loose screws in his head. 

How else was it possible to survive in a place like this?

You surely wouldn’t. 

You unclasp your clutch to find your phone and shoot a text.

Dad, where are you?? 

The message flickered green…

No cell service

He was supposed to dumb down the guests for you tonight, teaching you the whosits and whatsits. But that was the least of your problems.

You’re sure that you’re going to be murdered without a witness as the sunset dips below the horizon. The branches cast shadows against the neighboring trees, a disturbing illusion of a dismembered figure.

You could already imagine the headlines. 

Daughter of NovaTech Gone Missing in Buttfuck Nowhere Alaska!

There was a light chuckle behind you, making you flinch. “Are you lost? There should be a map for a place like this, huh?”

You flick your head back quickly, and a stocky man with a piercing gaze set behind a pair of glasses stares back at you. But his eyes weren’t any less pointed, even with the obstruction. It was as if he knew things you didn’t, keeping the cards close to his chest. Or more like he knew something about yourself that you were only beginning to grasp.

For an audience like this one, he was dressed plainly. A crisp white shirt, taut across his chest, paired with black slacks. You had to give it to him for having the guts to throw the required attire out the window.

Maybe you could get along with this guy.

A non-conformist. 

It’s refreshing.

You offer him a smile. “Yeah, this asshole had us walk what felt like a mile to get here.”

Oh my fucking god… She doesn’t know who I am. The corner of Nathan’s lip twitches up by a degree.

“Yeah, tell me about it. I stripped halfway through the walk.” He plays along with a smirk.

“Explains the whole lax look?”

Nathan pauses for a moment. 

“... Sure. And you?” He cocks his head toward your muddy high heel tucked behind your other one in an attempt to hide it, a cute curtsy, almost. “Is that horse shit?”

“God, I hope not.” You grimace and look down.

Nathan could count on one hand the amount of people that didn’t see him as a potential business partner or an escape during nightly escapades. 

He mentally shakes his head. Maybe having contact with an actual human being was getting to him. Besides, he has to set things straight…

He takes a few careful steps near you as if placating you. When your eyes meet his again, and you don’t pull away, he places his hand on the small of your back.

You could feel the heat through your thin, silk dress. 

“C’mon, I’ve been here a handful of times. Let’s find you a bathroom.”

“And a map while you’re at it.”

He grins. “Like little fold-up ones you find at amusement parks?”

“It’s the only thing that would work around here. God forbid there’s cell service here or something.”

“Dude who owns this place must be an asshole to cut it off like that.”

“Right?!” You bob your head alongside him, grateful to have someone who didn’t feed into the billionaire's bullshittery. 

–

You hate to admit it, but the estate was straight out of Architectural Digest. 

Nathan steers you toward another building. It was a simple square, detached from the main facility, but still held the similar reflective panels, this time on all sides. 

“What’s this?” you prod, dodging a patch of dirt, “A fancy portapotty?”

He fishes out a slim silver card from his back pocket. 

“Is that what I think it is?”

How this man you just met knew the way around the place was beyond you, but you’d do anything at this point to remove the cakey, stickiness of the mud clinging to you.

“Yeah, a keycard. Every main guest gets one, and you haven’t?”

“No, I’m just my father’s plus one tonight, so I’m technically not listed.”

You don’t have to tell him.

Nathan knows exactly who you are.

In his defense, he greenlit the guests tonight by running a background check. He even went the extra mile by requiring them to walk through a metal detector. Especially after the experimental happenings of the Turing test, he wasn’t going to cast a blind eye to an android coming in to hack at him again. 

Or worse, a jealous competitor. 

And that’s exactly what you are. 

Well, not you, necessarily. 

But your father, so by extension, you were a part of whatever plan your father was stirring up. Or at least that’s what Nathan garnered. 

Nathan swore to himself that he wouldn’t act like a petty teenager. But he needs a safeguard to protect his company and decrease the chances of his clients or sponsors from pulling out after they found out about one of his androids going rogue. 

His ego was a liability. Sure enough, to be the cause of his death.

But it also brought him this far, along with his craftiness.

He’ll agree with a quip or two about your annoyance with the BlueBook owner, so you’ll lower your guard. Then boom, bam, thank you, ma’am — dial-up his sweet talk and ease in, persuading you that Nathan fucking Bateman is a trustworthy guy. 

You’ll put in a good word for him to your father. 

“You rarely go to these things, huh?” He tilts his head. 

“Is it that obvious? I usually stay in my studio, drafting up concepts.”

“You’re a designer,” he observes. 

“Something like that.” You shake your head. “But if my dad had a hand deeper into my life, I’d call the shots in NovaTech later down the line instead of playing with paint and wires, or at least that’s what he says.”

And there it was.

“A tortured artist and daddy’s girl,” he takes note.

“Well, how about you? I’m sure you got a sob story of the century to give yourself a buzzcut,” you tease back.

“Smartass.” Nathan presses the keycard against a wall. There was no indication of a slot to insert itself in or tap on—a sleek design hidden from plain view. 

The soft click of the door unlocking brings his attention back to you. “Go ahead, I’ll wait out here. Gotta have you looking your best when we get in there.”

A simple ruse from yours truly.

pt. 2 coming soon (lmk if you'd like to be tagged!)

I'd love to hear your thoughts and my inbox is always open for requests or if you want to chat!

[thornswoggled]

in tonights edition of "ch 98 is the best chapter ever," it is not acknowledged enough that elias lets it slip here that the entire mistletoe sidequest in arc 1 was likely a ruse and that the only reason he bothered with it was not for any ritual purpose but rather because. he wanted kith

[gloomforrestrunes]

if i remember correct ruse had eye scars in old design but doesnt now. is there a reason why you removed them? just curious

they're still partially/mostly blind if thats what you're wondering. the ritual was able to remove the scarring around their eyes, but cant make any difference to their eyesight itself.

[autumnmobile12]

So I gotta ask...

The Summer Camp Ambush Simulation Ch. 2, did anybody notice?

“Hey, I don’t do that anymore and I was never convicted.  A person of interest multiple times, arrested twice but the charges were dropped due to lack of evidence, was almost caught but managed to pin it on a rival thief.  Take that, Takami, and thank you, Endeavor, for falling for that ruse——”

“What now?”

“——and if you, Todoroki Touya, can possibly keep that foul mouth of yours shut, it’ll stay that way.”  Sako leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.  “And don’t diminish my previous transgressions by simply calling them petty theft.  I did pull off some pretty significant performances in my heyday.”

...

Hawks won't make an appearance in this fic, so it's a just a little easter egg showcasing that Compress was petty enough to pin a crime on a rival thief and was not sorry about it.

Honor among thieves is dead.

[koffeesfancy]

Sorrel Ch. 1 | Letitia Wright x Reader

Summary: An American in London, you have recently graduated university with no job prospects so you take up a gig at a Guyanese bakery and become enthralled in the world of a regular customer. (shy!reader) (nerdy!reader)

Genre: Romance, fluff, angst

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 618

A/N: I'm going back and cleaning things up. The formatting has changed and of course, chapters progressively increase in length and quality as I get a feel for the story. I don't particulary like this first chapter, but too many people have already read it for me to completely overhaul it or triple its length lol.

It's not everyday one meets a celebrity, much less an Emmy nominee such as Letitia Wright. When Kerry offered to hook you up at her aunt's roti shop, she briefly mentioned a few of the people who happened to come through on the occasion- mainly Guyanese British influencers and entertainers seeking a taste of home. Letitia's name came up and was quickly forgotten. Your mind was stuck elsewhere in a land of bills and visa issues.

Yet now it seemed unreal. She stood by the entrance, picking up a few caramels and bottles of channa from the shelf. At about 5'5, she was a lot shorter than you'd have thought she was, but she looked effortlessly chic nonetheless.

Kerry's aunt Sharmin bustled out of the back. "Eh eh! Mi nuh see yuh in long long time!" she shouted, making her way from behind the counter to hug Letitia. You watched them embrace behind the lowered frames of your glasses, pretending to tie bags of pine tart. Letitia was beguiling. She wore a black linen button down that teased a glimpse of her clavicle with a matching pair of shorts and white sneakers. A pair of expensive looking shades sat atop her shaved head. The gold jewelry on her neck and hands glimmered in the light.

At some point you must have have given up the ruse of subtlety, because when they hugged again, Letitia looked up from Sharmin's back, across the shop, and straight into your eyes, a cheeky grin across her face.

You gathered your senses in enough time to feel some shame and play it off. As you busied yourself counting napkins, a figure stood in front of the register. "Hmmm, what shall we have today," you heard. Letitia leaned against the counter, her hands and chest inches away from you and her gaze turned upwards to the overhead menu.

You glanced around for help. Sharmin was already headed out the door for her errands and you knew you'd be alone for the next hour until Kerry's cousin clocked in.

"What do you like?" Letitia asked, her voice syrupy with a slight rasp. Her eyes were on you again. There was something so disarming about her presence and it made you a clammy, nervous mess. You stuttered through some vague, everything is good, sort of answer while your hands refused to find a normal resting position.

"Oh, are you American?" she exclaimed at the sound of your accent, her brown eyes lighting up in intrigue. "What're you doing in London?"

"Sch-school," you mutter. You silently prayed to die on the spot or for the ceiling concave to make this embarrassing moment end. Unfortunately for you, no one died and the roof remained intact. What's worse is that Letitia kept asking questions. "What are you studying?"

"Is that program at King's College?"

"Are you doing like a study abroad semester?"

"Where are you from in the U.S?"

"Wow, I was just there for a work thing! Have you seen the art museum downtown?"

The questions didn't stop and by the time she remembered what she came for, you'd already stopped breathing for a long time and filled your shoes with sweat.

"Hmmm, I'll take some tennis rolls and sorrel," she hummed. As you turned around to gather her order, you caught yourself thinking you saw her eyes slide down your body. You shook the thought out of your head and continued working. As if an Emmy-nominated actress would be interested in whatever pudge was hiding underneath your indie band tee.

Before leaving, Letitia stood at the door and asked another question across the room. "Oh, and what's your name, love?" If only the floor could swallow you whole.

Table of contents

Next chapter

[dance-in-the-morning-glow]

I started working on a new thing.

a sailor and a nightingale - ch. 1

“Governor Swann seems preoccupied tonight, wouldn’t you say?” Beckett’s tone was light, almost conversational. “No doubt his thoughts wander to matters of family. A father’s concern can be such a burden... when one’s only child is missing.”

Why did it feel like the temperature had dropped a couple of degrees all of a sudden? James could feel the calculating gaze upon him, watching him like a hawk, ready to pounce at any sign of weakness. His skin itched under the weight of his uniform. He resisted the urge to down the remainder of his wine in one gulp. Instead, he kept perfectly still and raised his chin just a bit.

Beckett continued, “It must be troubling, not knowing where she is... or what trouble she might be finding herself in. Perhaps you could ease his fatherly concerns?”

There it was again, that feeling like ice crawling up his spine. It was almost as if Beckett had read his thoughts. So it hadn’t been a coincidence that James had never found the chance to speak to Swann in private so far. Beckett wanted to witness how he would act in this situation – what he would say, what he would do. If he slipped up in front of his old friend.

***

James Norrington x OFC, fake dating (-courting lol), crack treated seriously, drama, angst

Summary: When James Norrington returns to Port Royal and gets promoted by Lord Beckett, he faces a stark ultimatum – any sign of misplaced loyalties, and he’s out. The natural thing to do in this position is pretending to court someone to keep Beckett convinced he’s in Port Royal to stay. At least, that’s what Beatrice Nightingale, an aspiring composer stifled by the rigid social norms, suggests. And who would be a more suitable candidate than Beatrice herself? Their ruse might not only benefit James in maintaining his post, but also help Beatrice with her own reasons for playing the game. Problem is, James and Bee aren’t the only ones with secrets – and sometimes, things aren’t as they seem.

Or: The author thought it a great idea to combine the fake dating trope and her very own PotC-version of a Hellfire Club. It’s a lot, I know.

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 39

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

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

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

*** This has got to be the longest chapter I have ever written. Proofreading took forever. I think I can hear colors. The art at the end of this chapter is by @sabbathism! ***

Dalah had never held a paring knife before her death.

Back when she still drew breath, she’d never had to prepare her own meals. Her family was relatively minor nobility but that, if anything, was all the more reason for them to keep up appearances. So they had servants for all menial tasks, and she was expected to do few things: learn how to dress and smile, how to bow correctly and to think pretty things. She was taught how to talk and - most importantly - how to keep quiet.

She was taught to sing, to play an instrument, and to dance; she enjoyed playing the lyre more than singing and certainly more than dancing, but she was never particularly good at it. That had been the pattern, from the start. She was a passable musician, but not a talented one; she was pleasant enough to look at, but not beautiful. She could hold a conversation well enough, but few would say she was particularly brilliant in her responses. 

She did not disappoint, but she did not impress either; just about good enough, as her mother had once said. 

Weaving and embroidery had been the only things she’d excelled at, a natural talent. She just let her hands do the work for her, listening to whatever music someone was playing, whatever tales were being told, her mind thousands of miles away. Then she’d be startled out of it, a finished piece in her hands that rarely failed to draw impressed glances.

It was perhaps her one true talent and, when she’d exhaled her last breath to find herself in the Hells, Lady Baalphegor had seen it quickly enough. Over the centuries she’d embroidered more clothing than she could recall, woven more tapestries than anybody else ever did; it was easy work to her, and it kept her confined to the same few rooms, out of harm’s way most of the time.

Most, but not all. Being Baalphegor attendant meant being her eyes and ears in Mephistar, lest one wished to lose her protection entirely. The devils at court hardly looked their way, and let an astounding amount of information slip before indebted souls. So she had to be able to take on other tasks if needed, to blend in, to go unnoticed either cleaning the halls or in a kitchen, cleaning the court’s mess or preparing their food. 

She was not a fast learner, but she did learn. She learned how to butcher all manners of carcasses in minutes, to portion the meat for cooking; she’d learned how to cut through the joints, slice through muscle and sinew. She had never turned the blade to anything living; she had not once thought a knife would serve her against a devil, let alone a duke powerful enough to destroy her with a gesture if he wished.

And Barbas almost had done just that: the only thing keeping his fury in check now was Haarlep’s ruse, and it would not keep him much longer. 

“I saw her flee and followed, of course,” they were saying now, their impression of Bele’s voice just as perfect as the glamor. It could almost distract from the clothing, far simpler than anything the Justiciar of Cania was known to wear… but only almost. “I too saw this mortal summon Zariel, but you should not do anything rash. She might have information. We ought to take her in custody--”

Dalah did not see Barbas scowl, but she heard it in his voice. “I did not see you upstairs. And you look unharmed,” he added. Even his robes were torn, probably by his own hand as he tried to pull some of the cloth over his head and face, to protect himself from the holy light. It left the back of his hooves uncovered, the goat-like arched legs he usually hid with silks.

“I was some distance away, luckily enough, and a column shielded me from the celestial’s light. Terrible business, what has happened. This soul has much to answer for, and I have plenty of questions for her. I shall take her--”

“And I did not see you on the way down,” Barbas cut him off, his voice raspier than usual. He did not notice Dalah shifting slowly, pulling herself up on her elbows. 

Of course not. Devils of his ilk seldom deigned to truly look down - but that served her perfectly well. She ground her teeth, and inched closer. The upper crust of Mephistar loved to watch their servants crawl, so crawl she would. Just a few more inches, just a little more…

If Haarlep saw her moving, they gave no sign of it; their gaze did not shift on her for an instant, and remained trained on the Chamberlain of Mephistar. They shrugged, in a gesture of the utmost elegance. “I watched them go down from a window, and took the stairs.”

“Ah, I see. Is the wing injury still bothering you?” Barbas asked, straightening himself. On the palm of his good hand something began to form - a faint shimmer in the air and then something dark, gathering into the shape of a dagger black as the deepest void. 

A trick question. Bele has no wing injury.

“Only somewhat,” Haarlep replied. “It’s well on its way to heal--”

They were cut off by a scream when Dalah moved, the paring knife slashing through the air in a perfect, precise arc. The knife was a small blade; it was no great weapon, and she was no fighter. She never knew how to wield a dagger or sword, and had never drawn any blood but her own. She did not know how or where to strike to kill someone, let alone a devil such as Barbas - but killing him was not her goal. 

She’d portioned meat before, goat meat as well. She knew exactly where to slice, and then it did not matter how ridiculously small the knife was, how small she was, or how silly her attempt had to seem against Barbas’ power. There was one thing on her mind, a simple truth that no power of the Hells could change: a severed tendon is a severed tendon.

Duke Barbas let out a cry and his leg gave out, causing him to almost collapse; he had to steady himself against a crate with his good arm, and the dagger he’d conjured fell to the ground, disappearing in a burst of swirling darkness. His eyes found Dalah, two pits of pure malevolence, and his burnt features twisted in fury. 

“You--” he seethed, turning, and Dalah scrambled back just as his eyes lit like furnaces, and he began to speak something in Infernal - a spell or a curse, she did not know and in the end it did not matter. A crossbow bolt pierced the back of his neck and stuck out the front, drowning any and all words into the gargling of blood. A swipe of claws sent him stumbling down on the floor not half a pace from her. He fell on his knees, reaching for his throat with his good hand, just as Haarlep - again in the form of a tiefling - held out a hand to help her up. 

“Well, change of plans. We really should get out of here.”

“No argument from me,” Dalah managed, and took that hand, standing on shaky legs. They dashed to the stairs and they were almost, almost out when Barbas lifted a hand, gargling a snarl through the blood. A wall of fire rose up to engulf their only way out. 

“Ah. That is annoying,” Haarlep muttered. 

The heat was so intense it caused Dalah to take a step back, eyes wide, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Trying to go through it would destroy her; she was sure of that. Haarlep, on the other hand, would hardly even feel it. “Go,” she heard herself saying. 

The incubus turned, stared at her a moment, and then laughed. “Ah, don’t be silly now. I cannot leave you here. I promised Raphael I’d--”

“He barely even knows me. He needs you.”

That gave them pause, and they seemed to give it thought, working their jaw for a moment before they shook their head. “No. Get behind me,” they said, and pulled Dalah behind them by the arm without giving her a moment to reply. With a shimmer, they changed form to a familiar one - her son’s. 

Dalah could hear the smile in their voice as they spread their arms, a crossbow in each hand. The wings spread out, too, to shield her. “Hello, Chamberlain,” they sing-sang as Barbas stared, too stunned to move. “I heard you’ve been looking for me.”

***

Raphael held no memory of his first ascension. 

It had been no conscious decision; it was as instinctive, a desperate bid to survive despite all odds, against the hellfire devouring him from the inside. A drowning mortal will reach for the surface and draw in a gasp of air; a dying devil will reach out for souls. He’d done that and he’d awakened in a bed, barely alive, unaware of all that had happened - including his own transformation. 

His second ascension had been on a battlefield; that, too, was a matter of self-preservation. But he held memories at least of what transpired between the moment he’d realized he was about to die and the one when he’d found himself kneeling amidst burning corpses, covered in their gore. Few and confused - screams and blood, fire is his belly and flesh coming apart in his claws - but memories nonetheless. 

To ascend was a terrible thing, but the power it granted could not be denied. So he’d done it again and again; each time it was like exercising an atrophied muscle, gaining more control over it, retaining more memories once back to his own form. Retaining full control for the entire ascension required a will of iron, but that too he’d mastered.

What he never could entirely control was the agony. To ascend was to hurt, something within him screaming and rebelling against it, that thing he forced upon himself. He’d assumed it to be the price to pay for it alongside the souls consumed, until he’d spoken of it with the Hag Countess of Malbolge, not long before she met a gruesome end and Glasya took the layer for herself. She’d given that grating laugh of hers before shaking her head.

“Moloch could ascend, and never once did he say there was pain. Oh, he was a prideful fool, and he may have lied - but I would have known. No, Steward of Avernus, ascension does not hurt a full fiend the way it does you. But what else would you expect? You’re half mortal. Part of you will always flinch away from the rest, and whenever you ascend it attempts to tear itself away. You may hear its shrieks in your very bones, if you listen, but I’d advise you do not. Agony is the price you, and you alone in the Hells, pay for your heritage. Worth paying, if you ask me.”

And pay it he did, time and time again, until that last time in the House of Hope - when even ascension had not saved him.

He did not recall what Mephistopheles had done to him, to his fiendish half, to force him in a state of perpetual ascension. Whatever arcane magic had been used allowed the ascension to continue without consuming a single soul, but it did nothing to take away the agony of it. Even with no humanity in him, the empty nothingness where half his soul had been remained a source of suffering. Every moment, every step, every breath, every instant was pain. 

When he’d faced his human half again, the torture had become excruciating enough that perhaps he’d have attacked it even without Mephisto’s order, anything to make it stop. The agony of it had been unbearable, and he’d remember it to the end of his days. 

But now, it was gone. 

Ever since he’d become whole again ascension had come without pain, as natural as breathing, leaving his mind clear in a way it had rarely ever been while in that form. No shrinking in his bones, no torment to mark his every movement, no part of him trying to shrink away from the rest. There was just him. One. Whole.

And he fully intended to remain whole, thank you kindly, his father’s attempts at tearing him to pieces notwithstanding. So he stepped into the hellfire, ascended, and fought with all the had. 

And it was almost not enough. 

His ascended form had grown taller and more powerful, burned more brightly. Even so Mephistopheles’ own ascension towered over him, his roars shaking the very foundations of the palace, of all of Mephistar, of the entire glacier the citadel stood on. A beat of the wings sent hellfire surging across the throne room, a wall of scorching heat and death; his every cry brought forth a burst of white-hot flames. None of it could harm Raphael - not anymore - but it was beginning to take a toll on his companions, who were not always able to seek refuge behind a wall of infernal ice or beneath one of the globes of invulnerability they had summoned with scrolls. 

Without the resistance Asmodeus had granted them, they’d have all died already. Even with it, they struggled. Halsin was casting healing spell after healing spell, sparing none for himself; only occasionally he’d take a swig from a potion before he went back to the fight. Healing may be his true calling, but he was nonetheless fierce in battle; when he did attack, his spells rarely missed. 

This time was no exception: Mephisto was hit by his blight spell, and then by Raphael’s swipe of claws; he roared, steam rolling off the mouths of both skulls, and slammed against him before Raphael could try to get out of the way. They clashed amidst burning hellfire for what felt like an eternity, all claws and fire and tusks and roars; two beasts out for blood, one another’s blood, the same blood, even though it looked so very different, Mephisto’s own thick and black, rotten through with corrupted arcane magic.

All around them hellfire burned, ice froze over it, the winds howled. The grand window had been shattered when a well-placed blast from Ravengard had thrown Mephistopheles back against it, letting in the howling blizzard. There were more spells, crossbow darts, arrows; in his single-minded focus to destroy his son, Mephistopheles did not attempt to evade any of it. 

Jaws snapped only inches from Raphael’s own skulls, and there was a terrible impact when his back hit a column, cracking it, causing chunks of ice to rain down from the high vaulted ceiling. One struck his shoulder, but Raphael took no notice, straining to keep Mephistopheles’ jaws off him, to push back. 

“I warned you, did I not?” His voice boomed in Raphael’s own mind, yet another roar. “I was never going to hesitate to destroy you, son of mine.” 

Raphael roared, pushing him back. It took all his might, every limb straining; he may have crumpled then if not for something washing over him, a spell of resistance, and he held. With a snarl, he lifted his head to look up - through all four eyes, whole again - at his father’s fangs, at the six dead white eyes.

“You should have killed me the first time you tried,” he replied, his own voice a snarl directly into his sire’s head, and he gave one more mighty shove, the flames that wreathed him burning higher. Mephistopheles slid backward a few paces, then pushed back - but only for a moment. Then they were deadlocked once again, hatred and anger burning hotter than the hellfire they shared. “But perhaps you did not finish me for the same reason why you did not dare use the Crown of Karsus against Asmodeus. You did not have the stones.”

A growl. “Nonsense. The netherstones were always in my--” the thought trailed off, and there was another roar. “YOU INSOLENT LITTLE--”

“RAAAAAGH!”

“Dolor!”

An eldritch blast struck Mephistopheles’ side just one instant before something else entirely was thrown against the side of his head - the Orphic Hammer, seriously? - with enough strength to crack bone, turning at least two eyeballs into so much gore. Mephistopheles roared, his focus faltered a moment, and Raphael shoved him back. This time, he got him exactly where he wanted him - with his legs sunk into a slurry of melted ice. 

Raphael’s rightmost eyes glanced sideways to Durge. They were wounded badly enough that they had to lean on the staff, a hand against their side; but they saw him, understood, and held up the staff . They staggered, only for Astarion to immediately appear by their side, holding them up. The staff shimmered, channeling the Plume, and Mephistopheles let out a cry of fury when the slurry around his legs froze into ice which hellfire would not melt. 

He would break free eventually - that was certain - but not right away, and it was enough. It would buy them just enough time. Raphael dismissed the ascension before Mephistopheles could react, making himself smaller, and was able to slip from his grasp; a swipe of the claws barely grazed him, the armor taking most of the damage.

“The globe, quick!”

The last Globe of Invulnerability left was not far, but Durge was obviously about to collapse and Astarion was not faring much better, staggering under their weight as he tried to help the storm sorcerer walk. He turned to him, wide-eyed and panicked. He did not show fear when he’d let loose an arrow against the flesh of an archdevil but he was terrified now, with Durge’s limp body against him. 

“Raphael--”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Raphael had strength enough to carry Durge to the globe, and so he did; not a moment too soon, because they were unconscious by the time he made it beneath it and lay them on the ground. Halsin immediately set about to heal them while Astarion drank a potion of healing. He offered one to Raphael, who took it with a nod and turned back.

All the while, Mephistopheles had shrieked in fury. Now Raphael could see that his entire form was engulfed in hellfire as he tried - uselessly - to melt the ice trapping him, thrashing to break it. 

Ravengard and Karlach reached the globe next; the warlock turned, breathless, to Durge. He was on his last leg, too, and Astarion promptly shoved a healing potion in his hand. He did not drink, not right away. “Where…?”

“Here.” Durge sat, Halsin’s healing already taking effect, and pulled something out of the bag of holding - the runepowder bomb. They held it up with both hands, and Karlach snatched it. She looked at Raphael, and grinned. She was covered in blood and sweat, and she looked as though she was having the time of her life.

“Mind if I do the honors?”

“By all means. I shall not deny you the pleasure.”

She laughed, and stepped just out of the globe. The bomb was heavy; far from easy to throw a great distance, but she made it look so very easy. She grasped it with both hands, made a half-turn with her entire body, and threw it before leaping back inside the globe and covering her ears. They all did, and closed their eyes for good measure. 

Raphael, on the other hand, did not. He watched the runepowder bomb hurtle through the air in a perfect arc, across the half-demolished throne room, towards the mass of flaming hellfire that was Mephistopheles. And not a moment too soon: Raphael could hear the crack of ice breaking, could see his sire starting to move away from the spot.

But he never got to teleport, or even to take a single step. The runepowder bomb disappeared into the flames and, quite literally, hell broke loose.

***

The explosion shook the entire citadel.

The walls shook, tapestries falling from the walls, furniture tilting over and falling alongside everything they held. Part of the spire above the throne room collapsed, down below onto the denizens who lived in the lower levels of the citadel; no part of it was spared, but that would only become clear later, when someone would actually go survey the damage. 

That someone could not be Duke Hutijin, who found himself quite busy as things were. The explosion caused the ground to tremble and him to fall; he stood quickly, and saw that the mastodon too had fallen, and the celestial had to beat her wings to keep herself upright, looking upwards in clear confusion and concern.

Whatever that was, it came from the throne room. I must get to Mephistopheles. I must.

Of all the pit fiends and guards who’d closed ranks to fight the celestials who’d appeared before them, he alone remained. All others were dead, or as good as dead: those who fled would be dealt with later, he swore it, and painfully. But that would have to wait.

Now, he had one goal and one goal only. 

Duke Hutijin spat out a tooth, lifted his mace, and charged again with a cry before the mastodon could stand. His mace fell and it would have dented the creature’s skull, at least, if not for the sword that came down to meet it. Its steel hummed, painfully bright. “Yield,” Zariel spoke. Some blood marred that angelic face of hers at last, drenching the blindfold. 

Hutijin sneered. “Never.”

“I can respect a warrior. I can respect loyalty. Yield now, and I shall spare you,” she replied, only for Hutijin to laugh. He struck out at her with his tail, forcing her back, and took a step backwards himself. 

“Your kind truly should leave the tempting to us. You’re shit at it,” he replied, and lifted the mace. Flames sprouted from his hand, covering the entire weapon. “You wouldn’t take your own offer, would you? Break your oath to live in shame?”

“... No. Not a second time.”

“Then I have nothing else to say,” Duke Hutijin replied, and let his mace do the talking for him.

***

Barbas had his good hand at Haarlep’s throat when, without warning, the ground shook. 

It was a blessing - a rare thing in the Hells - because Haarlep was truly in trouble, losing blood and with both crossbows on the ground. He’d clawed Barbas’ forearm to ribbons, but the furious chamberlain’s grip did not slacken. 

Burned by radiant light and with an unusable arm, made lame in one leg and with crossbow bolts sticking from his gut and chest, a Duke of the Hells was still a force to be reckoned with; Dalah had known from the start that Haarlep would not be able to hold him back for long, not while also trying to shield her in any way they could.

“How very quaint. An impressive display from a glorified whore,” Barbas had snarled, and tightened his grip around the incubus’ throat. He could have killed them quickly, but of course he relished the act. One could trust a Duke of the Hells with few things but this: they never failed to be cruel if they could. Barbas had laughed at Haarlep’s attempt at kicking away, and held up the injured arm with a hiss. “I’ll take your eyes first, and then--”

The words had turned into a grunt of pain when Dalah had grabbed one of the crossbows and shot, almost blindly in her terror, praying whatever god may still be willing to hear her that she wouldn't hit Haarlep. 

She did not, but she didn’t land much of a blow on Barbas either: the bolt  had grazed his shoulder and buried itself into the side of a crate. Barbas had turned to look at her, eyes aflame, and bared his teeth in a sneer while she fumbled. He turned Haarlep to face her. They were gripping weakly at Barbas’ arm, struggling for breath.

“Ah, yes. Thank you for the reminder,” the chamberlain of Mephistar had laughed. At the fingertips of his wounded hand, sparks began to gather. “Before I take your eyes, you’ll get to watch me crush this insect. You should have ran while you still--”

He never got to finish the sentence. 

There was the sound of an explosion above them, many floors above but still loud enough to dwarf the most powerful thunderstorms she’d witnessed as a child on the Storm Horns. The ground shook, everything did, and it threw all of them off their feet. 

Haarlep took the chance to roll away, back towards her… and not a moment too soon.

There were plenty of things Dalah had never seen coming in her existence, many of which had occurred in the past few months specifically. After summoning and speaking to a celestial that day, she did not think she’d see a more stunning sight for a long time to come. 

But when a pile of precariously stacked crates gave way, spilling their entire contents on Chamberlain Barbas, she had to stand corrected. A resplendent celestial appearing at the court of Mephistopheles alongside a golden mastodon was a sight to behold, but somehow it seemed to pale next to a Duke of Cania disappearing beneath a seemingly endless cascade of potatoes.

If not for the utter confusion as to what had happened, she may even have found it amusing. 

Haarlep stood beside her, or tried to, wounded as they were and trying to walk through a carpet of potatoes. Dalah held down a hand and they took it, letting her pull them up before turning to look at the scene - Barbas groaning on the floor, dazed, surrounded by potatoes.

“... Well. Whatever you did, good job.”

“I didn’t do anything. There was some kind of--” Dalah trailed off when she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, that the wall of flames barring the exit had vanished when Barbas’ focus had been broken. She grasped Haarlep’s wrist. "Come, quick!”

“Ah, that’s usually Raphael’s specialt--”

“Stop talking and move!”

They did, thankfully - and they both were through the door just one instant before a fireball hit the spot where they’d been standing moments earlier, with Barbas’ screams of rage following them up the stairs.

***

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank you, Wulbren Bongle.”

“Ugh.”

“Ew.”

“Don’t say that.”

The general dissent caused Astarion to shrug. “It is what it is. That’s his work right there,” he muttered, and turned to hold down a handh, helping Durge up. Now recovered reasonably well, Durge took that hand and stood before they turned to survey the damage. 

Mephistopheles’ palace was made from magic as well as ice - an extension of its ruler indeed - and even the might of runepowder did not level the entire structure as it might have done with others built by mere mortals. It was that, or Wulbren and Barcus had both rather exaggerated its destructive potential - but that seemed unlikely.

Still, there was extensive damage. The explosion had blown out an entire wall of the throne room, opening it up to Cania’s bitter cold, the shrieking winds and snow. There was a crater on the floor, the ice slowly reforming to close it out of sheer magic, and debris everywhere; several columns had been taken down by the blast, chunks of the ceiling had fallen down onto the ground. The pits at either side of the throne were destroyed, too; only the throne and the steps leading to it still stood, surely protected by more arcane magic. 

And most of all, there was no trace of Mephistopheles. Durge stared a moment, and turned to glance at Raphael. He’d summoned his lyre, and was playing a few notes; there were a few sighs of relief as the benefits of the Song of Rest took hold, and Durge nodded their thanks before they spoke, looking at the devastation all around. A scene from which Mephisto was notably missing. “I don’t suppose…?” they began, only for Raphael to shake his head.

“Of course not,” he muttered, something like outrage in his voice, as though personally offended by the suggestion. “Surely you don’t think my sire is this easy to kill.”

“Easy is not precisely the word I’d have chosen,” Halsin muttered, while Wyll lifted his rapier.

“He is right. I don’t believe he’s gone for a sec--”

Before he could finish the word, three things happened in quick succession: the globe of invulnerability petered out and faded, its duration over; Raphael turned suddenly, eyes wide, and opened his mouth to cry out a warning; and a cloud of ash came together in a burst of flames a few steps from them. From those flames a three-pronged ranseur shot forward, swift and lethal, aimed directly at Halsin.

Thinking back later, they would think that it was not a surprising move. It was advice everyone had heard at least once, and for good reason; advice which Mephistopheles had ignored in his fury, but which he clearly intended to follow now - kill the healer first.

Mephistopheles’ ranseur was a formidable thing; it would have pierced easily through Halsin’s armor, had it met its target, but it did not. Karlach was quicker than any of them; quick enough to shove Halsin out of the way. Not, however, quick enough to avoid the blow. 

The favored weapon of the Lord of the Eighth went through her like a knife through butter, running her through from one side to the other. She gargled, her blood steaming hot as it rushed forth, and her knees folded.

“KARLACH! NO!”

Wyll’s scream as he caught her before she fell was covered by Mephisto’s laugh. He now stood before the once again in his habitual form. Of course the runepowder bomb had not killed him… but he was wounded, far more obviously than before, if still a long way from going down. He lifted a hand, and the ranseur piercing Karlach disappeared in a burst of flames to reappear in his closed fist. 

“Your tricks won’t save you,” he seethed. His eyes were blazing fire and icy cold at the same time, but he didn’t ascend again yet. “She was the first to die. Who will be next, I wonder?”

“No. No. She is not dead, she is not--”

But she was; for all of Wyll’s desperate pleas, the wound was such that it had killed her instantly or almost. It had left her no time for a last cry, a last word, a last touch. Her body was limp in his arms, her eyes glassy, jaw slack. Halsin knelt by her, whispering something to Wyll that Durge could not catch but could certainly guess.

Durge and Astarion turned as one back to the Lord of the Eighth, fury burning hot as a furnace, grip tightening on their weapons. As for Raphael, he had never looked away. He said nothing to his sire before he spoke, still sneering. 

“Thus dies Zariel’s old guard dog. But do not worry, you shall join her soon. Unless you decide to hand over my spawn, in which case I shall grant you a quick--”

His next words were covered by a scream of blackest fury, by a blast of cold wind. Not just any cone of cold - Wyll was using the Plume, and fury seemed to give him the edge he needed to wield it with something close to mastery himself. Mephisto’s laugh was cut short. He stepped back, hissing, when the attack found its mark. Had they had half a mind left for it, Durge may have wondered what that felt like to suffer cold for the first time in eons. 

But they did not: all they could think of was Karlach’s blank gaze, Wyll’s cry of anguish when he threw himself, alone, against the Lord of Cania. So they ground their fangs just as Astarion let loose an arrow, and stepped forward. 

Raphael grabbed their wrist. “Don’t let him reel you in,” he hissed. “Protect Halsin. There is hope for Karlach yet - but if he dies, it’s all over.”

“Raise a wall,” Halsin spoke. He was focusing on Karlach’s body, hands held over her and trembling with the effort to cast such a powerful spell. “It will protect me well enough as long as you keep him away. Go help Wyll.”

There was much that could go wrong, but at that point there was hardly a choice. Wyll was going head to head with Mephisto like he’d done against Zariel, both out of fury and to give Halsin enough time to bring Karlach back, and for all his power he could not last long without their help. So the wall of hellish ice was raised with a gesture of Raphael’s hand, and back into the fray they went. 

What followed would forever be a blur in Durge’s memory, and not solely because of the brain damage they’d suffered well over a year past. Everything was ablaze with magic - spells and counterspells, crackling electricity and arrows bringing forth bolts of celestial light, unforgiving ice and burning hellfire; their spells missed more often than they struck, but they had no choice other than to keep going. 

Even so, some moments would remain seared in their mind; Wyll’s scream when he reached the very limit of his powers to open a blade into reality itself was one such moment. He sent the planar rift hurtling against Mephistopheles, and the archdevil’s scream of rage and surprise when the blade-shaped rift cut deep into his side was one Durge would never forget. The Lord of Cania staggered back, stunned and outraged in equal measure, and lifted an arm to cast - only for the planar blade to strike again at Wyll’s gesture, cutting one of his horns clean in two.

For a moment, Mephistopheles stilled to watch the detached horn fall to the ground, as though stunned by the sheer audacity of that mortal, daring to disfigure him in such a way.

“Someone pick that up!” Astarion yelled from his cover behind a fallen chunk of the ceiling. “I bet it’s valuable!”

“Does it seem like the moment--!”

Mephistopheles looked up and snarled, unfolding his wings. Durge cursed under their breath and reached for a scroll as the air around the Lord of Cania began to heat up, ready to unleash the full force of a hellfire blast that Wyll could not possibly survive. They saw Raphael cry out a warning and lift his hands to cast - but he was hurt and he was far, too far--

Something crashed against Mephistopheles’ face, a vial of acid that shattered on impact. A howl of pain and he was clawing at his face, the shimmering heat around him dissipating. Behind Durge, there was a hoarse cry. 

“About fucking time one of those hit!”

“Karlach!” Giving one’s back to any enemy was unwise, let alone an archduke of the Hells; but blinded as Mephistopheles was for at least a moment, Wyll easily ducked under his swipe and ran back to her. “Oh, thank the gods!”

Standing before them, entirely healed and rested as though she’d only now entered battle, Karlach grinned. “Thank Halsin, that took a lot out of him. I don’t think he has enough juice left to do this again, though, so--” she trailed off when Wyll grasped her by the shoulders and pulled her down in a kiss. Karlach hummed, reaching to cup his cheek before breaking the kiss and resting her forehead on his. She grinned. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

A smile, bright as the sun. “I wouldn’t have it any other wa--”

“HEY! How about you get a room once the Archduke of Cania is down?” Astarion called out, and shot another arrow towards Mephistopheles.

It hit him almost the same instant as Raphael’s dagger of Plume, and the archdevil staggered backwards a moment. When he turned, the right side of his face was sizzling and his teeth were bared in a snarl, eyes filled with hatred. Durge didn’t wait to find out what they might do. It was time to find out if the scroll they had found in Sorcerous Sundries was truly as powerful as Gale said it was. They just held it up, and cried out the incantation. 

“Pario!” 

There were six blasts - each of them looking unnervingly like a ghostly skull - as the scroll disintegrated between their fingers. Each of them found its mark, knocking Mephistopheles back several feet with their sheer force - right within Raphael’s striking range… but he never did get to strike. 

A gesture of Mephistopheles’ hand countered the spell he tried to cast, and then the Lord of Cania moved almost too quickly for the eye to follow. He was the archmage of the Lower Planes, a wizard with few rivals in recorded history; magic was where his true might lay, and there were no tales of martial prowess about him. 

Yet, he held a ranseur and he could use it. Three swift strikes were all it took. 

One aimed at Raphael’s head only hit his invisible helm, knocking it off his head; another was blocked by Raphael’s armored forearm. But the hit was powerful enough to stagger him, and Mephistopheles struck again, snake-quick, when Raphael instinctively held out his arms to grab onto anything to avoid falling - burying all three prongs of the ranseur into his son’s throat.

There was a gurgling noise, and nothing else. Raphael crumpled on the ice, uselessly trying to stem the flow of steaming blood that fell down his armor, and Mephistopheles laughed. He stepped back a few paces as though to better admire his handiwork, the blood spreading across the ground. 

“I told you, son of mine, that overreaching would be your end. All this is on your head.”

There were cries, and a barrage of attacks aimed at Mephistopheles - but the archdevil was still sneering at his dying son as though feeling little to none of it. Raphael tried to speak, but he only brought forth more blood, limp on the ground. His head turned to the side, away from the sight of his sneering sire, and his eyes found Durge, wide and terrified. He tried to speak again, and only spat out more blood.

No, Durge thought, desperation cutting through the icy cold that had stilled them for a moment, and which had nothing to do with the winds blowing snow into the throne room. For a moment they thought back to their own blood leaving their body, spreading across the stone floor of his father’s temple. It should have been their end… and then it was not.

No, this is not how it ends.

There was no Withers now, but they were there and it would have to be enough. So they lifted their staff and cast a spell they had only learned in theory, and never got to truly try before. It was time to find out if it worked as intended. 

“Tempus interiectum!” Durge cried out, and just like that, within that throne room, time itself stood still.

***

When it came to most of the upper crust of Mephistar, Haarlep truly had no strong feelings one way or the other.

They’d known many carnally, but that had been about it; a brief interaction, or a business transaction followed by a few minutes or hours or days of bliss, depending on how much they were willing to pay. Some were particularly unpleasant - Bele paid well, but hurt almost more than it was worth when they wore Raphael’s likeness; clearly there was some history there that their little brat had never told them about. Most were just… forgettable. 

Haarlep had never had much reason to be particularly pleased or displeased to see any of them, in any setting. But this time they were very, very happy indeed to see Adonides almost as soon as they burst out of the door leading to the pantry, and ran into the empty kitchen. 

Adonides did not seem equally glad to see them: all Haarlep saw on his face was confusion, then annoyance. “You were supposed to stay in the--”

“Come back here!”

The bellow caused Adonides to blink, and turn towards the pantry. He blinked, quite obviously recognizing the voice.

“... Barbas?”

“He followed us,” Dalah managed, her voice still shaking, and Adonides frowned. He seemed about to say something when Barbas burst into the room, dragging his wounded leg and looking, quite frankly, like he’d just been through the digestive system of one of Maladomini’s giant centipedes. Haarlep supposed they could take some pride in that. 

“You! You cannot escape-- Adonides?” The chamberlain of Mephistar stilled, staring at the steward of Cania with a wild, confused look on his face. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Duke Adonides raised an eyebrow. “I could ask you the same. What are you doing here? What has happened to you?”

“That’s the incubus! The one who belonged to Raphael!” Barbas snapped, and lifted a bloodied arm to point at Dalah. “And that mortal summoned the celestial!”

“An indebted soul, summoning a celestial? Are you out of your mind, chamberlain? Victim of a confusion spell, perha--”

“I KNOW WHAT I SAW! DETAIN THEM!”

Adonides sighed. “Very well,” he said, and snapped his fingers. Something appeared on the ground around Haarlep and Dalah, a circle glowing red with a script Haarlep didn’t bother to read. They felt Dalah tense and they put a hand on her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze to try to convey the instruction to wait. 

“There,” Adonides was saying. “They are going nowhere.”

That seemed to calm Barbas a great deal, for he breathed out and limped closer. “Good,” he rasped. “Our lord will be very pleased--”

In retrospect he should have seen that coming, he truly should have. Dukes of the Hells made stabbing one another in the back one of the most common pastimes in the Hells. Of course, this time the stab in the back was only figurative. In the more literal sense, Adonides stabbed him in the chest with a blade of ice he conjured by just flicking his wrist. 

Barbas tried to scream, but his wounded throat turned his cry into a rough gargle. His hands gripped Adonides’ robes as he looked up at him, eyes wide, features frozen in pain and dawning horror. Adonides smiled. 

“I’ve wanted to do this for a very, very long time,” he said, and twisted the knife. One last gargle, and that was it - Barbas, Duke of Cania and chamberlain of Mephistar, fell to the ground and never rose again. Adonides made the knife disappear with a flick of the wrist, and snapped his fingers. 

The circle around Haarlep and Dalah disappeared. Adonides turned back to them, and to Dalah specifically. He crossed his arms. “A celestial, really?”

“I had a--”

“You summoned Zariel in Mephistar.”

“You told me to create a diversion. I did.”

“I most certainly did not tell you to summon a celestial and her war mount--”

“You did not tell me not to.”

A groan. “By the Pits, it’s like talking to him. How did you even…?”

“Isra-- Raphael gave Haarlep the means to summon her, and they let me have it.”

“And neither of you thought to mention to me that you had the means to summon Zariel?”

Dalah blinked. “I assumed he did--”

“Raphael wouldn’t tell me if my robes were on fire,” Adonides cut her off with a groan, rubbing his forehead. He breathed out. “Well. It did work to our advantage. Now, we can only wait.”

“That explosion before,” Haarlep asked. “What was it?”

A hum. “I am not certain, but it did come from the throne room. It seems your brat is putting up quite the fight indeed,” Adonides conceded, looking all the world like he’d swallowed a lemon. 

Haarlep grinned. “Of course he is,” they said. They couldn’t hold back some pride - and a hopeful feeling that perhaps Raphael would come out of battle victorious after all.

***

Raphael was dying.

Durge was no healer, but they had seen - and given - death too many times not to recognize the signs of its coming, not to tell at a glance that someone was just barely clinging to life. Once they restarted time, Raphael would die within moments; a simple health potion or the few healing spells still available to Halsin would not be enough. 

Kneeling next to Raphael’s still body, Durge looked away from the horrified expression frozen on his face and glanced across the rest of the room, where everyone else - Mephistopheles still sneering, Wyll with a hand lifted to cast, Karlach mid-throw of a pike, Astarion about to loose an arrow, and Halsin already running towards Raphael - stood motionless. 

Time would restart, whether they willed it or not, the instant they did anything that affected any of them. Still, they knew what they had to do. It was the only thing they could do: create a globe of invulnerability to protect Raphael and give him their potion of Angelic Slumber, giving him a chance to heal completely and have his powers restored before rejoining the battle.

And yet…

He can call down a meteor swarm. We need a globe of invulnerability, Raphael had warned, but the meteor swarm had not been summoned yet and it had taken all their scrolls, he suspected, to even just survive to that point. It was terrifying to think of - they were barely holding up despite a Song of Rest and several globes of invulnerability, while Mephisto had not yet been hurt quite enough to resort to his most powerful spells. 

Durge still had enough magic in them to cast one more globe, and then that would be it. If Mephistopheles used that spell after the globe faded, they’d have no protection from it unless they used Asmodeus’ amulet to counterspell it - which would in turn leave them entirely unprotected against the Wish spell. 

That would mean their doom either way… but without Raphael to fight by their side, Durge suspected they wouldn’t even last long enough for Mephisto to need those spells. 

And, of course, they had no intention to let him die. So Durge lifted a hand, summoned their last globe of invulnerability around them, and reached into their bag for the potion. They lifted Raphael’s head, poured it into his mouth, and the spell was instantly broken - the eerie silence shattered by screams and clashes and the crackle of magic again.

Within the globe, Durge didn’t so much look up; they just made sure Raphael swallowed the potion, even if it had to be alongside his own blood, and leaned his head down. 

“Rest. We need you,” they said, and could have sworn Raphael’s gaze held some understanding for a moment before his eyes slipped shut and he fell into a deep sleep, safe in the midst of chaos, as the potion began to take effect. Durge picked up their staff, stood and, still within the globe - they could not lose concentration now, everything depended on it - they lifted it to call down more lighting on the Lord of the Eighth.

***

By the time Zariel’s summoning came to an end, Hutijin was barely standing. 

The grand hallway they’d fought in was only a field of dead bodies and debris; the mastodon was still alive but exhausted, back to its smaller form to recuperate behind Zariel; and the solar herself too seemed to have tired, her movements less precise and fierce, more sluggish.  

When she brought down her sword after causing him to fall backwards, Hutijin barely had the strength to hold up his mace with both hands. He groaned through his fangs, arms trembling with the effort to keep that blade away from his flesh; above him, Zariel seemed to shine less brightly. “You have fought bravely, and you have fought well. But it was your last fight, Duke Hutijin,” she spoke, gaining herself a glare that would have made most devils of the Hells fall on their knees and beg for forgiveness he would not give. 

“Fuck off,” Hutijin snarled, and tried to kick her back - but his foot never made contact. There was a burst of light - two bursts of light - and both Zariel and her damned pet were gone, back in Celestia or wherever it was they lived those days. 

He did not know, and did not care; all he knew was that the way was clear; he had to reach the throne room, and his master. Duke Hutijin stood, painfully, and began to limp towards the stairs without even waiting for his regeneration to kick in.

***

The battle was still raging when Raphael awoke, fully rested and all his wounds healed. 

It was no slow awakening, with the potion of angelic slumber; one would be asleep one moment and perfectly awake the next, ready to stand and fight. And by the looks of it, his companions desperately needed him to do just that. 

Only Karlach, recently revived to full health, was fighting Mephistopheles at close range; it was clear that what protection against hellfire Asmodeus had granted her had been put to the test, because the burns and damage her armor bore left little doubt on the nature of the attacks she had withstood. 

Still, she did not retreat an inch - and that was the best possible strategy, all things considered. A melee fighter at close range is the bane of any spellcaster.

Inside the globe with him, Durge was casting another Plume-based spell against Mephistopheles, and Astarion was firing arrow after arrow from his bow imbued with celestial light, to nullify his regeneration powers; right by them, Halsin was pushing through his obvious exhaustion to cast one more regeneration spell and restore Ravengard’s left leg; it had been severed above the knee by what must have been a vicious blow. 

Ravengard’s face was ashen, but he ground his teeth and did not make a single pained sound. If anything, he managed a smile through clenched teeth when Raphael stood. “Welcome… back. Hope you don’t mind if we had some fun in your absence.”

Raphael smiled back. “Not at all. But I am keen to make up for the lost time,” he replied, and Durge gave a barking laugh.

“By all means, be my guest. But keep in mind, this is our last globe of invulnerability.”

… Well. That was important information indeed. “Did he call down the--”

“No.”

Raphael pressed his lips together, and turned back to his sire. He watched him parry a blow from Karlach and turn, his lips curling in disgust when he saw Raphael was once again standing on his own two legs. Oh, not just disgust: it was anger. His sire was furious to see he still drew breath, and was in full health to boot 

You make mistakes when you’re angry, Durge had told him once, and Raphael supposed it was time to see if he had indeed fallen that close to the tree. 

“Your tricks won’t save you. This shall be your tomb,” Mephistophele was growling. “None lives who dared to cross me.”

Raphael sneered, and with a few beats of his wings he left the globe to land to the far end of the room - right by his father’s throne, which was somehow unscathed through magic or luck. He leaned against it before he spoke. “Magadon Kest begs to differ, I believe,” he replied, his voice rotten honey. “What did it feel like, holding godhood for a moment before it was ripped from you?”

“Like you are the one to talk, whelp --”

“Oh, I never went as far as to hold the Crown. But you? You had the fraction of Mask’s divinity you sought. It was yours, Lord of the Eighth, and it still was not enough.” He smiled, and slowly, deliberately, sat on the throne. “All that work, all those schemes, such power you boast - and you are no god. You’re not even the Lord of the Nine. How come?”

The entire palace seemed to tremble at Mephisto’s fury. “SILENCE!”

“How come you keep failing, time and time again, where Asmodeus succeeded?”

“ENOUGH!”

He never called down his next blow; with his rage so great and his power so vast, his will alone sufficed. The white skies of Cania, visible through the blown out wall and the holes in the roof, lit up a faint orange, growing more vibrant by the second; every falling snowflake, every hurtling particle of ice, seemed to light aflame. 

Raphael stood, and took flight at once.

“In the Globe! Now!”

Karlach may have not made it on time, if not for the haste spell that Durge cast on her; she immediately dashed to the left and jumped into the protective globe just as Raphael dove down, hitting the ground a little harder than he’d have liked in his rush - but still avoiding annihilation by a mere seconds.

A Meteor Swarm was a massive display of raw power, and it would have without a doubt spelled their end if cast once the globe was gone. In his blind fury, Mephisto had foregone all thought, all strategy. 

Mephisto and yourself are more alike than either of you would perhaps like to admit, Asmodeus had said. How annoying, he mused, to concede both him and Durge had been entirely correct. 

Raphael turned to tell Durge they were forbidden from bringing that up, but the words never left his lips. In the blinding orange glow, in the last few instants before the spell struck, he saw the debris before the broken doors to the throne room were blasted away and someone was stumbling in - limping, bleeding, but holding onto his mace still.

Duke Hutijin had survived the onslaught of a former archdevil, only to die at the hands of his own master. Raphael may have laughed, if he’d had the time to find it amusing. 

Then the swarm struck, and for a time he could see and hear nothing but all the fury in the world crashing down around him.

***

Duke Hutijin did not see his death coming right away. 

For a few moments after he finally, finally made it into what remained of the throne room, all he felt was relief. Lord Mephistopheles was there, wounded but far from beaten; of course not, Hutijin had never truly thought that might happen. He stood against the backdrop of Cania, hair whipping in the freezing winds, eyes alight and arms lifted to cast. The Lord of the Eighth, about to crush his enemies as was his right. 

Good, Hutijin thought, stepping closer. And if any was left standing, he would do his duty and-- 

A distant roar like thunder halted Hutijin’s thoughts, and he finally saw it - the unusual hue lighting up the skies outside, the skies above. His relief turned to concern, to alarm, to realization. He knew what was about to happen, that he had no escape, that it was his end.

“My Lord,” he called, directly into his mind. Not to plead for salvation, there could be none with the spell already cast, but so that the Lord of Cania would look his way first, so that he’d know that he had tried. He’d been loyal to the end. He was there.

And Mephistopheles did turn. With meteors hurtling down, casting their light on his features, he saw his expression turn from fury to surprise, and then stunned realization.

“Hutijin--” he called out, and held out a hand too, as though to try and cast again, to give him protection, to undo what he’d done. He could do none of those things, but he tried. He tried. And sometimes that’s the most even great lords can do.

The meteors fell and Duke Hutijin, Shield of Mephisto, knew now more.

***

For a time, they could not hear nor see a thing. 

Beyond the globe they were huddled in there was nothing but fire, the crashes of meteors destroying what was left of the roof and crashing down around them, tearing holes even in the magically protected floor and hitting the globe of invulnerability with deafening bangs. 

Durge ground their teeth, squeezing their eyes shut and covering their ear holes; it did little, and they suspected that the ringing sound in their ear canals was not going away anytime soon. 

But as long as they were alive to hear it, they’d bear it gladly. 

By the time the swarm passed, everything around them was a ruin - craters several feet across opening up in the floor of blackened ice that even the arcane magic the citadel was imbued in struggled to repair; the roof was entirely gone, columns collapsed, debris everywhere. 

Amidst all that devastation there was Mephistopheles, still shrieking in fury, flames rising around him… but he was not looking at them. Some distance away, amidst the rubble, lay the unmoving corpse of a huge pit fiend. 

“Duke Hutijin. He will truly hold nothing back now,” Durge heard Raphael mutter, and suddenly he was summoning something in his hands - his mother’s lyre. 

“Really? You just have to play a little song, now,” Astarion asked, voice a couple of octaves higher than usual, but Raphael did not listen. It was a rare thing to find a lull in a battle which would allow for a Song of Rest, as long as the globe held it seemed the best thing to do. 

Karlach was holding up well after her resurrection, Raphael was as good as new, but the rest of them desperately needed even what little help a short rest could give them. 

When the notes rang out, there were several sighs of relief - the worst of their wounds healed, some of their power restored. Halsin downed a potion of healing just as Karlach helped Wyll stand on his newly regenerated leg. 

Raphael let the lyre disappear in another burst of flames, and turned to Durge. “Be ready,” was all he said, and he didn’t need to add anything more. 

“YOU!” 

Mephistopheles' cry shook the entire layer; it was all the howling winds of Cania, the roar of hellfire beneath the surface of collapsing glaciers, the arcane magic singing through every stone. He turned back to them just as the globe of invulnerability shimmered once, and faded away. There would be no more protection, from now on. Only one last clash, their last chance to bring the archmage of the Hells low enough to kill. 

The Lord of the Eighth’s features twisted once more; they blurred, letting that truest nature of his show through for only a moment before he opened his mouth to speak - and the amulet around Durge’s neck hummed.

A Wish spell was unlike most other spells; the most terrifying, perhaps, allowing its caster to rewrite reality. The caster could wish them all dead, and die they would; he could undo what had happened, change the outcome of that battle entirely. Durge could feel it, the sheer wave of pure malevolence coming off him in the split instant as he prepared to speak. It was a split instant only, but it felt like so much more; once again time seemed to slow, the air seemed to thicken, a hum of anticipation in the air…

… And the hum of the amulet at their neck, singing in their veins and in every nerve ending as Durge lifted their hands, and spoke the words to counter the spell. The surge of power that followed was their own and yet it was not, something unmistakably infernal to it - the very power of Nessus, the evil of it, the malice, the inexorability. All of it surged within them and then was cast at Mephistopheles in one single beam of dark light. 

And the Wish spell combusted into Mephistopheles’ mouth in a burst of even darker flames. 

The words turned to a scream of outrage as the Lord of the Eighth staggered back, choking on the thick black smoke which rose from his mouth. He seemed to gag on it, hand reaching for his throat, and Raphael brought up a wall of Plume ice only a moment before Mephistopheles howled his wrath. 

A surge of hellfire roared across what remained of the  throne room, forcing them to dive beneath the wall just as Mephistopheles’ voice rang out, again, across all of the Eighth. It was recognition and unbridled fury. It was an outraged accusation, it was hurt beyond comprehension, a threat and a plea. Most of all, it was horror and utter disbelief - disbelief that it was happening, disbelief that he had not seen it coming .

“ASMODEUS!” 

There was no response to that cry which shook the sky itself. The Lord Below had heard; of that Durge was certain. But he did not respond; he was not there. The Lord Below had sent his own blood to kill him, and did not even deign to be present. One’s most powerful servant is, after all, still only a servant. 

And the master needs not be present when a servant is replaced.

The hellfire surrounding Mephistopheles engulfed him, and the scream turned into a roar when he ascended once more; Durge felt the heat of Raphael’s own ascension a few paces away. They turned to see him looking back at them with their leftmost eye; his voice rang in their head, as clear as if he’d been talking. 

“Hold fast. We’re almost there,” he said, and with a deep, guttural roar he charged at the ascended archdevil one more time.

***

Raphael would never quite know how long the battle had lasted, in the end. 

Entirely too much, he’d think, almost beyond the limits of what any of them could endure; and yet entirely too little to be a fitting ending to a reign which had lasted for so many millennia that memory of a time before then was all but lost. Eons upon eons coming down to this: two beasts clashing before a melting throne, up close and personal, all claws and teeth and magic.

Even with his newfound energy and spells restored, even with his sire as gravely wounded as he was, suffering from the drawbacks of a failed Wish spell - even as some of the most powerful mortals he’d ever known rained blows and spells on him - Raphael was almost overwhelmed. Almost.

“The spear alone - the venom in it - will allow you to end your sire for good,” Asmodeus had told him that day on Gelineth. “But only once he’s been brought low enough.”

“How will I know when that will be?”

A quiet, long look. “You will know.”

And he did. In the midst of carnage, locked in a vicious struggle, he felt something within his sire falter. When Wyll Ravengard screamed the power word to inflict pain , his sire cried out rather than brushing it off - and his next spell failed.

It is time.

Raphael may have faltered, if he’d had time to think, but he did not. As Mephistopheles turned to try to counter the barrage of attacks coming at him with renewed vigor thanks to Halsin’s very last mass healing, Raphael dismissed his ascension and held up a hand. Something hurt in his side despite the armor and he could not move his left arm above his shoulder, but it did not matter. When the spear materialized in his grip, the deadly venomous fang at its tip, he could only focus on one thing: striking. So he brought back his arm, and did just that.

He tried, at least. Mephistopheles turned suddenly, snake-quick, and lashed out with a clawed hand. It struck the spear’s shaft, and even the might of infernal iron could not withstand it. The spear snapped, and the tip was thrown amidst flaming debris several paces away; Raphael stumbled back and could swear he’d seen the skeletal jaws of his father’s ascended form curl in a smile before he lifted another claw to strike. 

“DOLOR!”

A well-placed blast hit the side of Mephistopheles’ head first, followed an arrow and a pike that pierced his arm; it caused the ascended archedil to rear back, just as a moonbeam was called down on him, tearing another hoarse cry from his throat. 

Raphael had barely enough time to roll out of striking distance and stand when they felt Durge grasping his shoulder. 

“Come.”

They cast a Dimension Door, and took him through it - right where the tip of the spear had fallen. It was not difficult to find; something about it called to him, and Raphael had it within moments - more shortsword than spear, but it did not matter.

As long as Asmodeus’ fang was on it, it would do what it had to do. 

I don’t wish him dead, he thought, but it’s much too late for that.

What came next was as easy as breathing. Raphael looked up to see Mephistopheles had been backed up towards the throne, which against all odds still stood, and was rearing up to strike down, or to summon yet more hellfire.

Raphael gave him no chance to do either. 

Teleportation took no more than an instant and he was before his sire, beneath him, in a burst of fire. Flames danced between the exposed ribs of bone, but he knew there was flesh there too - and that was where, with a cry, he sank Asmodeus’ fang.

Mephistopheles roared again, a cry that seemed to shake the world, and pulled away - but it was too little, too late. Raphael watched, his mind oddly blank, as the flames around and within his sire petered out; as the ascended fiend took two shaky steps before collapsing against the stars leading up to a throne he’d occupied since time immemorial. He convulsed once before going still, and thick black smoke rose, the venom consuming what power he had left.

Outside, the winds fell and the ice storm stopped; everything became so very still, and so very silent - a layer of the Hells holding its breath as something so unfathomably ancient came to an end. 

The smoke rose up and then it was gone, leaving behind no flames. Only a bloodied, crumpled form in torn robes upon the steps leading to his throne, breathing in gasps and with the fang still buried in his chest, long black hair spilling onto the ice. The veins in his neck bulged, black with venom.

Raphael could barely believe he was truly looking at his sire. He recalled him as he was the first time he’d seen him, atop the throne in whose shadow he lay dying now. It had been so long ago. He had seemed so much more powerful, and so much taller. He had not worn the likeness which resembled him most, then… but he did now, at the end of everything.

Father, Raphael wanted to call, but his mouth was dry and his tongue did not obey him, not right away. So he swallowed and just took a step towards his fallen sire.

Then another.

***

The first thought on Durge’s mind when they saw Mephistophele was that, beneath the blood, the resemblance with Raphael was unnerving. They had begun their fight against the Cold Lord, with the dark blue skin and the pale eyes; now dying before them was the Lord of Hellfire, with the same crimson skin as his son and unnerving, dead white eyes. Those eyes were now struggling to stay open, looking up at the skies through a ceiling that was no more. 

His left hand opened and closed by the broken shaft of the spear still embedded in his flesh, but he made no attempt at pulling it out. The venom was in, and that was it. He knew it as well as they did. Through Raphael’s hand, Asmodeus had dealt a fatal blow.

Standing above him, Raphael seemed to hesitate a moment before he scowled and changed forms, standing at the heart of Cania in his human form for what was perhaps the very first time. He crouched over his sire as though to make sure he’d see that face of his - his mother’s face - before he died.

“Down came the claw,” he rasped. “And what, love, was tha--”

Mephistopheles made a choking noise that could barely be recognized as a laugh and, in a last burst of strength, he reached up - grasping the nape of Raphael’s head and pulling him closer. 

Somehow, that forced Raphael to revert into his cambion form with a sharp gasp. He stared down at the dying archdevil, eyes wide, and Mephistopheles bared his teeth. It almost looked like a smile. 

“It is true,” he whispered. “We do share a face.”

“What…?” Raphael fell silent for a moment, staring as though not quite comprehending the words he’d just heard. Then something terrible twisted his features; his moment of triumph taken, like a rug pulled away to reveal a dark chasm beneath that no corpse could fill - not even one as grand as Mephistopheles’. He shook his head, still in his father’s grip. 

“No,” he choked out. “No, no, no. You can’t--”

He didn’t get to say anything more. Mephistopheles was an archdevil, the second most powerful being in Baator, but his end was not marked by shaking ground, collapsing glaciers, or columns of roaring hellfire. There was only that surreal silence, the winds no longer blowing as he died the way most creatures do: with an exhale, his eyes falling shut even as he kept them fixed on his son. 

His grip slackened, and the hand grasping the nape of Raphael’s head slipped off. It dragged across the side of his face, almost a caress, before it fell limply to the ground - and Mephistopheles, Archduke of Cania, Lord of Hellfire and Archmage of the Lower Planes, did not move anymore. 

Durge swallowed and turned to look at the frigid wasteland outside, waiting for the blizzard to resume. It never did. In the silence,  there was only Raphael’s voice, on the verge of breaking up. “... No,” he choked. Durge turned back to see he was shaking, eyes wide and face wet, still staring at his fallen sire. They swallowed. 

“Raphael--” they began, but never got to say more before Raphael screamed.

“No. NO! You cannot do this! YOU DON’T GET TO SAY THIS NOW!” He fell on his knees and grasped his father’s torn and bloodied robes, as though he could shake him back to life, make him open those eyes and look at him again. “Look at me! Face me, damn you, and tell me-- come back and face me! Come back! Come back, come back, come back --!”

But that was not to be. The body remained limp; the Lord of the Eighth’s eyes remained closed. Raphael shook the corpse one last time before he gave the long, wordless scream of someone who just felt something within them shatter. It caused Durge to instinctively step forward, but they paused when Astarion rested a hand on their forearm. 

“Give him a moment,” he murmured, and Durge nodded, looking away once more.

There would be time to talk. There would be time for many things - for whatever had to happen when someone took over a layer, for official announcements, for Raphael to sit on that throne. There would be time for Archduke Raphael - but later. 

For now, they just let a son scream and cry and curse his father’s name, still holding onto him as one would to an anchor in a world suddenly adrift.

***

[Back to Chapter 38]

[Back to Start

[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

CS Winter Bingo--Square 5 (receiving a terrible gift): A Match Faked for Christmas, ch. 4

Hi there and happy holiday season!  In an attempt to continue procrastinating my season 4 rewatch drabbles–and to not feel guilty about it–I decided to participate in the CS Winter Bingo event.  I received nine winter/holiday related prompts arranged in a square like a bingo card.  My mission is to make a bingo by writing at least three of my prompts before winter is over, but I’m hoping to do better than that!  I’m hoping to finish all nine!  Given the nature of the event, you can expect a lot of fluff (but then what else would you expect from me, after all?)  I’m hoping to keep them short as well, but I’m usually not nearly as successful at that.  And without further ado, let’s play CS Winter Bingo!

Rating: G

Word count: 1933

Today’s prompt: Fake Dating: Holiday Edition

Other chapters: (1) (2) (3) (4) (6)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Killian adjusted his tie and then glanced in the mirror as he artfully mussed his hair.  Giving himself one last glance, he nodded and then headed out the door.  They’d made it to Christmas Eve, and it was time to pick Swan up for the Nolans’ annual Christmas party.  

A pang went through him at the thought.  They’d nearly reached Christmas, which means it was nearly time to end the ruse.  Oh, they’d never made firm plans about when they would “break up”, but it seemed to be understood that their dalliance wouldn’t last into the new year.

They’d laughed together as they’d strategized exactly how the break up would happen, each proposing more outlandish suggestions for the cause and manner of their relationship’s demise.  It had seemed funny a week ago as they’d trimmed the tree or gone out for coffee or watched a cheesy Christmas movie.

Now, with the reality of it looming so soon, the humor was gone and all that was left was the depressing reality:  Despite his better judgement, he’d fallen in love with Emma Swan.

Oh, he’d been attracted to her from the first–even before this sham relationship started–but this past week, getting to know her, getting glimpses of the real her behind the wall she built, spending time with her, had shown that he didn’t merely fancy her.  He loved her.  He could envision long years ahead with her as his lover and best friend, and it was a future bright with promise.

Instead, within a few days time, it would all be over.  Their break up may be no more genuine than their relationship itself, but the pain….well, that would be real.

He shook his head, letting out a long, slow breath as he knocked on Emma’s door.  Those were sorrows for another day.  Tonight, he had to convince Mary Margaret and David that he and Emma were blissfully happy together.  No difficulty there!  He wouldn’t even have to act.  In fact–

All thought left his head the moment she opened the door.  Emma Swan dressed casually in her jeans and leather jacket was beautiful.  Emma Swan dressed up for a Christmas party was positively dazzling.  After several moments he literally had to force himself to breathe again.

“Swan,” he finally croaked, “you look–”

She smirked.  “I know.”

She wore a sleeveless red satin dress embroidered with sparkly snowflakes.  Her hair was up in a high ponytail, and candy cane earrings hung from her ears.

“So you ready for our big performance as ‘couple in love’?” she asked, as she reached for a white lacy shawl and matching handbag.

He blinked, forcing himself to snap out of it and (hopefully) avoid making a complete idiot of himself.  “I think I’m up to the task.  Where’s your gift?”

She looked at him blankly.

“Swan, don’t tell me you forgot!” he said. “Mary Margaret mentioned a Dirty Santa exchange in the invitation.  We’re all supposed to bring a gift.”

She groaned, slapping a palm to her forehead.  “I can’t believe I forgot.  Now I need to find something…”

She looked around, rummaging through a bit of the organized chaos on her end table, and then landed on a large, rectangular brick of what looked like it was once fruitcake.

“You think this will do?” she asked holding it out to him.

He took the thoroughly unappetizing confection into his hand and grimaced at its weight. “As what, a holiday delicacy or as a festive paper weight?”

She laughed, taking the fruitcake back and tossing it haphazardly into a gift bag. “Giftee’s choice, I suppose.”

He laughed with her this time.  “Well, I suppose half the fun of a Dirty Santa exchange are the…less than ideal….gift options.  Where did you even get that monstrosity?”

“Cleo handed them out with our Christmas bonuses this year,” Emma said, referring to her boss at the bail bonds company.  “I’m pretty sure they’re regifts from last year–or before, given how hard and stale this thing is.”

“Well, let’s hope the proud new owner of said fruitcake chooses to go with the paperweight option rather than attempting to ingest it.  So Swan, are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she said, putting on a large winter parka.  Killian helped her on with her second arm, and then gently pulled her hair free from the coat.  It was so soft, so silky, he longed to bury his fingers in it as he pulled her close and kissed her until they were both breathless.

He pulled his hand away and curled it into a fist.  Best not let his thoughts head in that direction. He opened her door and gestured her to precede him, before closing it behind them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Nolans’ Christmas party had been fun.  It had been a relatively small affair.  Aside from Emma and Killian, they’d invited Ruby and Graham, along with Granny, who was doing the catering, Leroy and his brothers, Astrid and Blue, and a handful of others Killian didn’t yet know.

It had been a night of good food, good company, and lots and lots of laughter.  There had been only one awkward moment when Astrid had asked how they’d met.  He and Emma had answered in unison.

“In the produce aisle at the store, over a grapefruit.”

“I brought him a plant when he first moved in.”

Killian saw David give them a confused look, but he managed to play it off by putting an arm around Emma’s waist, pulling her close, and saying “Well whenever it was we officially met, it was the most fortunate moment of my life.”

She’d smiled up at him then, and if he didn’t know better, he’d say the look in her eyes approached affection, maybe even adoration.

The Dirty Santa game had been a raucous affair replete with all manner of holiday larceny.  In the end, Leroy had received Emma’s epicly bad gift.  He’d scowled at his misfortune, and then shrugged.  “Well, sister, at least now I have something to use to bash people over the head when they annoy me.”

But it wasn’t until the end of the evening when things really took a turn.

“Well look at that!” Ruby drawled, pointing one well manicured finger above the spot where Emma and Killian were standing together.  “It seems someone has found the mistletoe. Pucker up!”

Killian shot a startled glance above his head as his heart started pounding.  Sure enough, there it was, a big, bountiful sprig of mistletoe.  He heard Emma gasp beside him, and he looked down into her eyes, which had suddenly widened almost comically.

“I…uh…um, well, we–” she began babbling a bit inanely.

“I think what the lass is trying to say is that we’re not big on public displays of affection,” Killian answered, his voice not quite steady.

She shot him a grateful look, but if he’d thought that statement would mollify Ruby, he was sadly mistaken.

“Sorry,” she said, sounding anything but. “You get caught under the mistletoe, you plant one on each other.  Them’s the rules.”

Killian glanced at Emma’s red lips, his breath catching and his heart beating so quickly it couldn’t be healthy.  Kiss Emma Swan? He’d do so in a heartbeat. He’d kiss her over and over and never stop if he had his wish.  But above all, he was a gentleman, and mistletoe or no mistletoe, he wouldn’t push her for more than she was willing to give.

He moved his glance from her lips to her eyes, wordlessly asking her permission.  She was still for a long moment, merely looking into his eyes, and then she almost imperceptibly shrugged.

It was all the urging he needed, he touched his lips to hers, so lightly and gently the kiss was barely there at all. He pulled away almost immediately.

Only to have her surge forward and capture his lips with her own.  He groaned, his arms coming around her, hers burying themselves in his hair as she pulled him closer, closer.  The rest of the world fell away as her lips parted and he eagerly accepted her invitation to pillage and plunder.

It was only long moments later when the cheers and catcalls all around them brought Killian back to his senses.  He pulled away, chest heaving and, no doubt, cheeks flaming.  He brought two fingers up to his lips in awe, as he looked into Emma’s startled eyes.

“That was…” he whispered.

“Not anything I expected to happen,” she answered, voice breathless and far from steady.

It took Killian several moments to compose himself, but finally he turned back to Ruby.  “Well, did we satisfy the laws of mistletoe?”

She grinned saucily.  “Anymore, and you’d have needed to get a room.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

David Nolan put an arm around his wife as they sat together on the sofa before their Christmas tree several hours later.

“Congratulations on another successful Christmas party, honey.” he said, turning his head to kiss the top of her head.

“It did go well, didn’t it?” she asked.  “And my other project–setting up Emma and Killian.  It couldn’t possibly be going better!”

David gave her a curious, slightly uncomfortable look.  “Mary Margaret, I hate to point this out; I really do, but surely you realized the two of them are no more actually dating than Leroy and Granny are.  The way they didn’t know basic facts about their relationship.  The deer in the headlights look they both had at the prospect of kissing under the mistletoe…”

Mary Margaret waved a dismissive hand. “Well of course they’re not actually dating. Yet.  That was never the plan.”

“What?” he asked, pulling away and looking at her in surprise.  “It wasn’t?”

She laughed.  “Of course not!  I knew they wouldn’t actually fall for my little Christmas card ruse.”

“So you…don’t….want them together?” he asked in utter bewilderment.

“Of course I do, you silly man,” she said.  “I just knew I needed to play a little 4-D chess to accomplish my goal. They needed a shared purpose, a reason to be in each other’s company.  What better way than to team up to defeat the over-eager matchmaker?”

David shook his head and laughed.  “Let me guess.  You figured they’d fake date, but the time spent together would make them realize their feelings were real.”

She snapped her fingers.  “Exactly.  And did you see that kiss?  That was not the action of a couple of people who are indifferent to each other.  I’d say we have somewhere between a few hours and a few days of denial, and then voila.  The fake relationship turns thoroughly and beautifully real.”

David leaned over and kissed her, laughter still in his eyes.  “Mary Margaret, I love you like crazy, but I’ve got to admit.  Sometimes you scare me.”

She grinned cheekily.  “It’s a gift.  Now the only question is where to turn my matchmaking attentions once Emma and Killian are settled and happy?  You know, I thought Leroy and Astrid looked pretty cozy at the party tonight…”

Notes: We are approaching the end!  Only one more chapter to go!  Up next: Emma and Killian have to confront the truth of what that kiss exposed.  Is Mary Margaret right?  Will their sham relationship turn real, or will they have their planned public breakup?  (If you don’t know the answer to that, I might have to question your intelligence, hehe.)

–Bingo note:  And with this one, I’ve officially gotten a bingo!  I’ve covered all three squares on the right side!  Let’s see if I can get another one before this fic is over!

NEXT CHAPTER->