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bunny584 · 7 months ago

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For I Have Sinned ୨୧ Chapter II

“Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave.” Songs of Solomon 8:6-7.

As newly appointed Duchess-To-Be, you have much to learn. Etiquette, conduct and eventual motherhood are the pillars you are expected to live by. Because who cares about your choosing?

The Chapel, tended to by a mercurial Priest, is the perfect refuge.

…right?

Pairing: Geto x female reader

A/N: The is dedicated to the artist ( @captainsalsaa ) I mean look at our fallen Angel. His tears. His frustration. Dear GOD.

To the artist: I stared at your piece, then heard a specific song on my writing playlist then wrote the entire last scene in one sitting. To date, it’s my favorite scene in my author’s portfolio. I hope I did our fallen Angel justice. Thank you for creating this 🤍

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CHAPTER II: Hello, Father.

“Awake early, little dove.”

Warm hands caress your shoulders. A welcome contrast to the chilly nautical dawn. The sun still has a ways to go, but songbirds have begun their wake up call.

“As are you, Arella.”

Your eyes float to your favorite maiden standing above you. No more than a handful of years older, but with a heart for you as if she raised you from birth.

“It’s my duty to tend to you, is it not?”

Soft laughter harmonizes with the nightingales. A quick kiss on your forehead before her warmth disappears off the balcony — undoubtedly to go retrieve a treat of some kind.

She’s not wrong.

Technically it is her duty.

But Arella is your blessing.

Matting and kneading your surroundings to fit your needs. Eager to dampen the growing pains of settling in a new home.

Constant hellos.

Permanent smiles.

Not too wide, like a promiscuous woman. But not too tight, like a cold prude.

Rooms to tour. Hands to shake. Garments to pin and tie and lace around your lungs as if your God-given ribcage was a frivolous extra not needed for life. Not needed to breathe.

Breathe.

Your lids screw shut. Pulling in as much of the balmy, saltwater breeze gliding up the steep rock face along the overhang.

Much like he did.

The Chaplain.

His hair cascading down his back in the same way poets monologue when inspired. His eyes a mural of what the Gods paint when they want to show off.

The way earth acquiesces to his touch as if he is the Creator. The birds choose to perform for him every morning. And the ocean exists to bathe him.

You cannot decide if the sorbet sunsets are created by the Chaplain. Or if the Gods fight over who gets the honor of painting him a new one each evening.

“Sleep still escapes you, precious girl.”

It does, but not for the reason she thinks.

“You worry too much, Arella. I’ll adjust soon.” The tea she brought you is delicious.

The both of you cross back into your quarters. The stagnant, perfumed air suddenly suffocating.

“I would like to go to the chapel garden.”

A quiet declaration that stills your handmaiden in her tracks. Then a small grin blossoms on her beautiful face. Fussing with your bedding. Wiping away evidence of your sleepless night.

“For the flowers that bloom, little dove? Or for the God that tends to them?”

The blood in your veins runs subzero.

“Arella! I am engaged to be marri—“

“Of course you are. But eyesight isn’t a sin.”

Another moment of feigned irritation before you burst into a fit of childish giggles. The both of you no better than school girls, covering your mouths, stifling your laughter.

“I just wanted to see you smile.” Arella gestures to your extravagant dresser across the room.

“In the second drawer you can find a casual garment. Come back with at least one hour to prepare for Mass.”

· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── ·

A hummingbird chaperones your walk to the church estate. Dulcet hums drown out the rattling heartbeat between your ears.

This is harmless.

It is not a sin to take in Earth’s natural candy. To appreciate God’s gift to humanity.

In all of his majestic glory.

Your eyes dart around as if your thoughts are a tangible scroll. Written in ink for the world to see.

Don’t be ridiculous, there’s no one around.

Just you. Your fluttering companions (both heart and bird). The waking sun. God above and his plants swaying in the gentle gusts of wind. You’re safe in your mind.

Until he decimates all logical and reasonable train of thought, that is.

You should be angry. Infuriated. That no one adequately prepared you for seeing the demigod for the first time. Even now, you question whether he’s flesh and blood.

Maybe an illusion?

The Lord playing tricks from his throne?

The mirage before you halts your paces. You can’t help but question your level consciousness.

Because this must be a dream.

“Oh, don’t be cruel.”

Words slip out of your mouth, currently ajar. It’s not your place to chastise the One above, but come on.

Your eyes taste the Chaplain for a second time and this course is even more decadent than the first.

There he stands.

A raven waterfall down his broad, muscular back. Half of it tied away from his face. Olive skin so rich the surrounding plants pale in comparison. Russet brown working pants hang loose around his tapered waist, but snug around his thighs. Various tools hooked in the belt loops. Heavy mahogany work boots match the worn leather gardening gloves fitted to his hands.

His hands.

Reaching for thorny vines plaguing his hydrangeas. Even at your distance you could detail each muscle fiber in his arm tense and release with every pull and toss.

Pull and toss.

You would have gotten lost in his rhythmic trance, if it weren’t for the symbol branded in charcoal sprawling his back. The emblem peeks through his thick hair, every now and again.

A spear?

No.

A trident. With waves snaking up its stalk along his spine.

His gravitational pull is overwhelming. Your feet move with more stealth than the King’s Guard.

“Working on the Day of Rest, Father?” Casual, measured.

“Duchess,” Saliva pools in your mouth. His smile teases your ears before he graces you with it.

“I have to start being more careful about my clothing.” A playful glint in his eyes.

“Especially now that I’ve been blessed with a fellow greenskeeper.”

He is a man of God.

And would never insinuate anything impure.

But that doesn’t stop your cunt from clenching around his words steeped in a baritone potent enough to rumble the ground beneath you.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve sent word that I was coming.”

“This palace belongs to you, Duchess. You are welcome here at any hour.” His hand captures a vine and tosses it into the pile without his eyes ever leaving yours.

You are weak.

And greedy.

The way your gaze drops to his arm. Desperately etching its contours into memory. Seconds, maybe minutes pass before you realize you were gawking. And the Chaplain just let you.

Head cocked to the side. Soft smile ghosting his full lips.

“Would you like to finish the tour of your new playground?”

“Y-yes. Of course, please.” Stumbling over the uneven cobblestone in your voice, you turn away to begin the coordinated stroll. The Priest slides his arms into a linen button up. Lazily fastening two center buttons only.

He informs you of the work that has already been done, what’s left. Where the soil is richest, where it is the most acidic. How the sun hits certain flowers at each hour of the day.

Brilliant.

With complete command over God’s bouquet. The sun following him wherever he steps.

“Did you enjoy your swim today, Father?” Both you and the Priest come to a slow stop. One of his angular eyebrows raised.

“I’m dry, Duchess.” He responds with a low, hypnotic chuckle.

Heat floods your cheeks. How could you be so presumptuous?

“What gave me away?”

Your knees nearly betray you. The razor sharp grin on his face could cut glass.

“You were born for the ocean. Or rather, the ocean was born for you.”

Your statement is greeted with blaring silence.

Lava in his gaze. Singeing every part of your face it touches. His expression is like a foreign language.

“I—I’ve overstepped, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. Clearly I have much to learn about social graces.” A meek apology bubbles out of your lips. Desperate to fill the space between your bodies.

The mercurial man shakes his head slightly. Thawed out from your statement, he reaches over and plucks a stray lilac petal resting on your crown.

“My father used to say the same.” He muses, looking away for the first time.

“Your father! Is he—“

“He was called home some time ago.” This smile is soft. Reminiscent. Polite, but his mind clearly elsewhere.

“Oh Father Geto, I’m so sorry.”

A foot in your mouth is not enough punishment for your indecency. Why would you go prodding like this?

“Don’t be, I’ll see him again. Soon enough.”

“Not too soon, I hope.” The statement draws a stunned gaze from the Chaplain. Eyes dancing between yours.

“Time to prepare for mass, little dove!” Arella’s melodic call tethers you back down from outer space.

You flicker over to her with a ruby dusting over your nose and cheeks. Like a child caught with her hand in a cookie jar before supper.

“Happy Sunday, Father!” Arella calls out, cheshire grin on her face deepening your crude blush.

“Indeed, Arella.” He returns the greeting while keeping his eyes on you.

“Send my regards to the Duke.” His voice lowers, for your ears only. With a nearly imperceptible edge to his tone.

“Happy Sunday, Duchess. We have a counseling session scheduled late afternoon, yes?”

A statement of pure black and white fact. And yet it travels down your spine and settles between your legs. Wet heat dampening your thin negligee.

“Yes, Father. Happy Sunday.”

· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── ·

Mass was miserable.

Your corset laced tight enough to meld your two lungs and beating heart into one entity. To say the neckline strangled you is putting it mildly. Cold, uninviting pews dug into your skin at every turn.

Wretched.

But the worst of it wasn’t the thin, oxygen-deficient air. Or the shards of glass that slid down your throat with every swallow. Even the jaw pain from tensing your lips in a well-mannered smile for two hours straight was tolerable.

The worst part of it was him.

The Priest mesmerized an entire congregation to an ear-splitting hush.

His first Sunday mass since appointment and nearly everyone in the country and every surrounding province stuffed into the chapel.

So desperate for blessings from Father Geto.

Could you blame them?

His voice danced in and out of the pews listlessly.

Soothing fussy children. Adolescent girls and their mother’s alike — utterly smitten. Adolescent boys experienced their first “I want to be like him” with their fathers sitting right next to them. Husbands glanced feverishly at the women in their lives.

He had to have noticed it. And yet, he floated above it all the entire service.

Above you.

Refusing to gift you those eyes that put Vincent Van Gogh to shame. No matter how much you shifted in your seat and straightened your spine.

The Priest spoke to everyone in the room but you.

Did you read him wrong?

Did you misinterpret your budding friendship?

Does it…should it even matter?

Your irritation is palpable. Innocent bystanders are caught in your friendly fire. Including Arella, who changed you out of that horrid costume. And sweet Noel, who ushered you into the seating area — just outside of the good Father’s office.

You make a mental note to send treats to the tender-hearted alter boy. And to apologize profusely to your handmaiden.

“You are a million miles away, darling.” The sound of your betrothed tows you out of the storm clouds.

You flicker over to the Duke. Emerald green eyes, high cheek bones — handsome in a way that is characteristic of everyone native to your new home.

“I’m right here, Ezra.”

“Are you, sweetheart?” The back of his hand caresses your cheek.

“Mmhm.” You offer your future husband a weak smile and kiss on his cheek. His eyes faltering slightly, undoubtedly hopeful for lips instead.

“Good afternoon, Duke and Duchess Ahriman.”

Father Geto’s velvet greeting encases you both. If Ezra’s arm didn’t guide you to stand you would have been paralyzed in your seat.

“Father Geto, a pleasure. Thank you for seeing us.” Ezra offers a genuine smile and handshake. Buying you a few extra seconds in your mind’s safe haven.

The Chaplain is tight lipped. Professional. He returns the handshake firmly.

“Pleasure is mine.”

Ezra shifts slightly on his feet. Straightening his spine and dropping his shoulders. Your eyes bounce between the Chaplain and your fiancé.

“I must say, Father. You are even more handsome up close. I speak for the men in this country, thank you for taking the vow of celibacy!” The words spill out of the Duke. Unknowingly thinning the air.

The Priest chuckles quietly, dropping his eyes briefly before landing them on you. And it feels like you could double over. Your core temperature skyrockets under his smoldering gaze.

He, the archer. You, the bullseye.

“Let’s get started, shall we?”

Ezra laces his fingers in yours, taking the two seats directly in front of the oak desk. A leather bound notebook and pheasant feather pen are neatly arranged — with your names on the first page.

Blue flame rises from your toes to hairline. You might as well have been sitting naked. With how exposed, how vulnerable you feel already.

“What will we be covering first, Father? Something about how wives should obey their husbands, right?” Ezra is light-hearted. Meant to be said in jest.

But he finds himself being the only party in the room laughing.

The Priest rolls the ink pen between his fingers. Allowing a deafening silence to coat the walls. His expression is neutral, but eyes ablaze.

“If the man in question is worthy of submission.” He starts. A low, ominous rumble.

“Uh, yes. Of course.” Ezra responds, shifting in his seat.

But the Chaplain does not stop. Intent on making a point, he leans in. Pen whirling lightning fast between his long, deft fingers. Enough tailwind to launch across the room, if he desired.

“If the man in question would give his life for his wife.” Volcanic eyes linger on you, then back to your fiancé. Ezra’s palm finds your thigh. You gnaw on your inner cheek to avoid flinching away.

“If he would love her like Christ loves all of his creations unconditionally. Unselfishly. Irrationally.”

“Yes, Father. I understand.”

“Only then, should she submit.” His serrated tone could split chromium with ease.

“Of course, of course.” Ezra wisely accepts defeat.

He presses a short kiss on your cheek as an apology that you didn’t ask for, nor do you want.

“Mmm.” A forced acknowledgment of the Duke’s affection through your pinched lips. Barely able to move under the Father’s microscopic gaze.

“Now then,” Father Geto clears the boulders in his throat.

“Tell me about your love.”

The question stuns both you and the Duke. Looking to each other sheepishly because neither of you chose this.

War is young men dying and old men talking. And your life path is no different. Dictated by conversations between the powers that be.

“We’ve only met a week ago, Father.” Your honesty drives both of his eyebrows upward.

“A week ago?”

“But we are hoping you can teach us.” The Duke, overeager and excitable.

“Teach you…?” Father Geto muses. You can’t quite interpret his tone, or minimal response. But your heart flutters all the same.

He is thinking something. And what you would give to get a glance. To be let in.

“Perhaps guide us?” Ezra gives an unintentionally painful squeeze on your thigh. You fail to muffle the tiny whimper.

The Priest’s eyes laser down to where your fiancé’s hand lays. Chest rising and falling dangerously slow.

“Right.”

Your eyes trail upwards as he stands. Closer to God than to you from this point of view.

“Duke, Duchess. You’ll have to accept my sincerest apologies.”

His fingers dip the unused pen back into the ink cup. The edges of his leather bound notebook coming together. Seemingly without any notes, but an entire script from this session swirling in his mind.

“My schedule is incorrect. I have another commitment. We will reschedule, yes?” Said with a finality that sends chills crawling down your spine.

The two of you stand. Another handshake between the men. A restrained nod for you.

Just as quickly as you were let in, Father Geto shuts you out of his office and his mind.

· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── ·

Suguru presses his forehead against the shower tile. Warm water raining down his loose mane. Soothing his sore, overworked limbs.

Today was maddening.

He nearly destroyed his vestment the minute that God-forsaken counseling session ended. Seeking refuge, he took to the coast.

And the sea provided anything but peace.

She was angry with him, tonight.

Curt. With unpredictable currents. Rip tides at nearly every turn. She tested his adaptation without mercy.

Just like that night.

“I’m going to stay on board, brother!”

Suguru flickered over to the silver-haired deckhand. An unfamiliar reservation opacifying his nearly translucent, iridescent eyes.

Brother in name, technically.

Their bloodlines were oil and water. He was a high born. Suguru was born unworthy of a beggar’s pity.

But, bloodlines were inconsequential when their souls were instep as one. Both handed to humanity on the same night. During a thunderstorm already inscribed in history books.

‘The Tide of Eternal Requiem.’

It brought complete devastation. Crops destroyed. Families torn apart by tragic accidents inland and at sea.

Then fate struck.

Within the same hour, a voltaic boy, with a halo that put the clouds to shame and diamond eyes that could draw truth from murderers was born into the loving embrace of his parents.

And Suguru was born with a crown so dark that the raging midnight appeared bright.

With eyes as ominous as the sky above.

Gunmetal grey, accented by an eerie violet swarm. Dormant volcanoes, threatening eruption. His birth mother abandoned him in an alley. Driven by fear that he was a bad omen from the Gods.

“Ahhh, Satoru come on. Since when do you shy away from a few waves?”

Suguru teased. Already well into the process of shedding his work gear.

“Zeus is the one rumored to be my father.” His counterpart flashed a knowing smile.

“Poseidon doesn’t watch over me like he does you, Suguru.”

A tsunami couldn’t keep Suguru from his home. Much less a little rain.

They were 3 miles away from the shoreline. Using his God-given ability, Suguru regularly acted as their scout. Performing his own reconnaissance then alerting the incoming ship of safe or turbulent terrain.

“Almost ready to go, son?”

His chosen father came up behind him. Suguru knew there were tears lining his meek eyes before turning to face him.

“Dad.” Suguru sighed, fully disrobed now. Just his muscular frame and a compression suit.

He met his father’s concerned gaze. Always like this during sea storms. Quiet prayers written all over his gentle features.

Despite the worry, he never once attempted to convince his oceanic boy to stay on board. It would have been too cruel.

“I’ll be fine, I’ve traversed angrier swells.”

“Suguru, take care of yourself when I’m gone.”

Elder, worn hands landed on his shoulders. Nearly too high for his reach. Suguru cocked his head to the side.

This goodbye was different.

“Stay on this path. For me. Albeit straight and narrow, there is a wonderful view. This is all for you, son.”

Both men glanced to the Persian gulf. She thrashed against their vessel. Swaying their catch left and right with the intention of taking her creatures back.

“Where is this coming from?” A genuine question from his younger self. Unable to read between the lines.

“Can’t a man just speak from the heart?”

The melancholy smile didn’t meet the wrinkles of time decorating his eyes, but they shared a laugh anyway. Suguru turned away but was promptly drawn back.

“My beautiful boy.”

The fisherman cradled his son’s face. Swimming in the eyes that Suguru once hated. The eyes that convinced his birth mother to abandon him.

“Make it to shore, son.” Suguru rested his head against his father’s neck. Taking a slow, sweet drag of his scent.

Oak.

He always smelled like oak. It was one of Suguru’s favorite things about him.

“If Poseidon calls—“

“I’ll tell him to fuck off.” Mischievous grin plastered on Suguru’s face. His father planted a kiss on his cheek, pushing him towards the end of the boat. As he always did.

Then the Gulf wrapped him in her hostile embrace.

She was irate.

Vicious tidal waves. Rapidly shifting currents. Even her creatures knew to settle below their usual depth. Suguru cursed the fact that he was born with useless, human lungs. Unable to withstand the pressure of the Midnight Zone.

Within minutes his long, lean frame was riding her whims without a shred of control. Tossed around like a rag doll. At her complete mercy — or lack thereof.

This was the first time he struggled to tame his element. A muffled groan bubbled around him. Serrated edges of long coral stalks dug into his back. Stark white foam whirled around him.

Aerated waters.

Suguru could barely maneuver against the waves pummeling his core. Searing heat traveling up his spine. His lungs demanded oxygen.

The boat.

The boat would never make it to shore.

Desperate, furious strokes of his arms meant nothing against her unrelenting grasp. Effectively pinning Suguru to his underwater cross.

A piece of chewed plank wood whizzed by his face.

Followed by another.

Then another.

And Suguru watched his nightmare materialize before his eyes. Mustering his last oxygen reserve, he bellowed against his closed lips.

As if she hadn’t already ignored the cries of his fellow fisherman.

Even still, he screamed so loud his ribcage should have vaporized. But ushering him to a watery grave at that time would have been too merciful.

Suguru blinks out of the harrowing memory. The steeping tea takes at least two layers of epithelium off his esophagus.

Fucking, hell.

He can’t seem to escape pain today.

The swim was excruciating.

Mass was dreadful.

Watching that boy’s hand lay on your lap was grating.

Suguru’s mind drifts back to you. Your thought washes over him like baptizing waters purifying that which is impure.

The gleam in your eyes when you asked about his morning plunge. Barely a week and your pulse on him is already this precise.

Do not covet, Suguru.

He scoffs to himself. Shaking free of your tempting spiral.

This ‘straight and narrow’ path is proving to be more challenging than he let on.

“Would you be proud, Father?”

A whisper of accusation at the end of his inquiry. Suguru would give his arms, his eyes…his life to hear his father’s voice on the other end of his questions, once again.

“Did He tell you?”

Roaring silence. Of course. He knows that. He expects it.

But it angers him all the same.

“Did He come to you in a dream??” Suguru echos louder. More frantic. Punched out in a way he can barely recognize.

“Was the reaper at His left, my heart on the right?!” A weak sob slips through the crack in his baritone.

Yet another pain. But this one is tart and blurring his vision.

“Did you KNOW? D—did you know that day was your last?!” He hisses through a salty stream. Storming out to the garden to escape the walls collapsing in on him.

Suguru’s eyes laser to the remaining thorny vines along his bed of hydrangeas. Without a second thought he wraps them around his bare arms. Staining the plant and his freshly bathed skin with crystalline tears. Once its thorns sufficiently bury into his skin he rips it away from the soil with all his might.

“Bastard. I’m your SON.”

Warm metallic drips down the hills and ridges of his arms. Collecting in the flower bed.

Is he cursing his earthly father?

His Heavenly One?

Or the Deity that brought this grief on him in the first place?

It hurts.

An unforgiving pain.

Much like the thorns in those rapids. Much like the inconceivable burn from his lungs begging for expanse. The time limit, even for him, ran lethally low.

Well exceeding his father’s time limit.

Poseidon stole from him that day.

A callous trade for Suguru’s continued existence.

“Why didn’t you…I—I should’ve been there.”

Guilt eviscerates Suguru’s remaining resolve. Tilting his head up, he lets the salty crystals rain down his cheeks freely.

The full moon cradles his face with the same warmth, the same adoration his father’s hands used to.

Suguru accepts its celestial kisses for a moment before burying his face into his bloodied palms. His damp locks curtain his flushed face. Protecting the world from his unruly sobs.

“I’m here.” Barely audible words escape through desperate grabs for air.

“I made it to shore, Dad.”

E/N: Oh hello, don’t mind me just sobbing. Also, guest appearance by our glorious Blue Eyed Babygirl King™️ If you need me, I will be in witness protection before Gege finds this since it’s a crime to be a S*toru lover.

taglist: @blkkizzat @rotteneyess

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a-dauntless-daffodil · 5 months ago

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duties of the local hotel manager lesbian, plus one very desperate snake man

Sir Pentious: "PLEAAASSSSSE!!!"

Vaggie: "Ugh.” (reading clipboard) “Not now."

Sir Pentious: "PLEASSSE HELP ME!"

Vaggie: "I'm busy."

Sir Pentious: "PLEASSSSe? I will do anything! I, ah, I will do ALL the THINGSSS!!"

Vaggie: "I'm not giving you dance lessons! Do you know what my job here is?"

Sir Pentious: "YES! You are the expert in the loving of women!!"

Vaggie: "I'm hotel manager, and it's one woman singular-"

Vaggie: "Hostia! Let go!"

Sir Pentious: (clinging to her ankles) "I AM BEGGING YOU!"

Vaggie: "And what did I just say? No!"

Sir Pentious: "Help me, purple female! You're my only hope!!"

Vaggie: "Stop calling me that." (starts walks)

Sir Pentious: (still clinging) (getting dragging) "Forgive me! I will call you anything you want, anything you desssire!"

Vaggie: (glaring) (dragging him) "How 'bout my name."

Sir Pentious: "Your... name??"

Vaggie: "That thing I have that no one other than Charlie ever bothers to use-"

Vaggie: -just like the fucking hotel doormat."

Vaggie: "Alright WHO TRACKED BLOOD AND GUTS IN HERE AGAIN!?"

Charlie: (distant) "Not it!"

Sir Pentious: "I'm alssso innocssssent!"

Vaggie: (at charlie)"I know it wasn't you, sweetie! You like the brushy sound the mat makes too much NOT to use it." (at pentious) "And no shit it wasn't you, Pentious. You don't have legs."

Sir Pentious: "And I alwaysss wipe my tail!"

Charlie: "Speaking of wiping, can we add some more disinfectant to the shopping list? I think I'm about to use all ours up..."

Vaggie: "Sure thing. Use it up on what though?"

Charlie: "We-lll..."

Angel Dust: "Hey don't look at me like that, Cheery'O! Not my fault ya walked in without knocking first!"

Charlie: "Angel." (deep breath) "The library is a common area..."

Angel Dust: "Any common area can be a CUMming area if ya jerk at it hard enough~"

Charlie: "VAGGIEEEE! Disinfectant?!"

Vaggie: "On it." (scribbling on clipboard) "No problem."

Sir Pentious: "SSORDID SSSALASCIOUSS SPIDER! Sssee? Aren't I a better guessst than he isss? Perhapss dessserving of one, ssssmall favor?? I do not befoul the hotel with my bedroom bodily fluidsss!"

Vaggie: "No, you just keep blowing holes in it."

Angel Dust: "Ohhhh! Blowing!"

Sir Pentious: "Aha! Not thiss week I haven't!!!"

Charlie: "Angel, not that I don't appreciate the help but, could you maybe not lounge right on the shelf I'm trying to look through-?"

Vaggie: "Really? No major property damage in seven whole days?"

Angel Dust: "I'm finding the perfect book for ya, Charlie chip. Here, look!"

Sir Pentious: "Oh ah, welll, there might be a sssmall hole sssomewhere.."

Charlie: "...you know Moby Dick is about a whale, right?"

Vaggie: "I guess it's still improvement."

Angel Dust: "And gaaaaaay shit yeah."

Charlie: "I'm kinda looking for a bedtime story..."

Sir Pentious: "Improvement yes exsssactly! Jussst has my DANSSCING could be improved!"

Angel Dust: "Two dudes share a bed an' everything in this and ya share one with Vaggity Fair. Perfect fit, I tell ya."

Vaggie: (groaning) "Not this again...."

Charlie: "...I guess.. she does like nautical things like ships..."

Charlie: ".. hey why are some pages stuck together OH ANGEL DUST EW!"

Angel Dust: "That's a five star review right there ain't it?"

Charlie: "I mean I GUESS so but UGH!"

Vaggie: "Charlie? Content warning for the book- the whale kills Ahab at the end."

Charlie: "He WHAT!? No!"

(thump)

Charlie: "BUT- but they're FRIENDS! BESTIES!"

Vaggie: "Not when your dad isn't reading the story sweetie, sorry."

Charlie: "Nooooooo...!"

Angel Dust: "Eh, nothin' some porn without plot fic can't fix. You can be the whale mermaid, V Gal can be the broody crazy ship captain, an' by the third paragraph someone's getting harpooned reeeeeal good and deeep-"

Charlie: "Stop helping me, please."

Angel Dust: "Nah. I'm too booored. Ya place is booooring, Charlie chip."

Sir Pentious: "I disssagreee! WHOLEHEARTEDLY!"

Charlie: "Thanks, Pen!"

Sir Pentious: "YOU ARE MOSSST WELCOME!"

Sir Pentious: (stares up at vaggie hopefully) (tail wagging)

Vaggie: "Pentious...." (sigh)

Vaggie: "Look. How the fuck do you even expect me to teach you dancing stuff when all you have is a tail? Do I look like I know how to do tail dances?"

Sir Pentious: "I DO NOT KNOW! I have no expertissssse in dancssssing! That issss why I sssso dessssperately require your help, oh wissssse and fearful hotel manager!!"

Vaggie: "Still not my name."

Sir Pentious: "PLEEEEEEEEESE-"

Vaggie: "Hold that thought. TO THE OTHER NON-CHARLIE IDIOTS LIVING HERE! Why won't you use the fucking doormat? What the fuck kind of first impression are you trying to make the hotel have!?"

Husk: (slumped over bar) "If we were aiming for a fucking honest impression, we'd need more blood and shit in this place."

Niffty: "Ooooh~" (puts two bugs and some ice in cocktail shaker and shakes) "Blooood."

Husk: "Case in fucking point you little creep."

Niffty: (GIGGLES)

Sir Pentious: "I! I think thisss isss a fine and upssstanding essstablissshment!!"

Husk: "Then you're a dumbass."

Sir Pentious: (HISS) "Ssslander! I DO NOT EVEN HAVE AN ASSSS!"

Vaggie: "Ignore him. Go back to sleeping off the hangover, Husk. You're still shit company right now."

Husk: (grumbles) (curls up under wing)

Niffty: (drapes washcloth over him and pulls out needle) "Blooood..?"

Vaggie: "No Niffty, whoever did this should deal with it this time. You go, uhhh- go catch and juice some more cockroaches or something-"

Angel Dust: "DID YA SAY JUICY COCK-"

Vaggie: "ROACHES YOU MORON! Bugs! Small unsexy creepy crawlies! And so help me you'd BETTER be unsexily helping Charlie decontaminate the library or I sWEAR-!"

Vaggie: "Wait I know those stupid dancing shoe tracks- maldita sea-!"

Vaggie: "ALASTOR!"

Alastor: (oozing from shadows) "Yeeees~?"

Vaggie: "These your shoe marks?"

Alastor: "Indeed they are! And I am TOUCHED you know me so well!"

Vaggie: "Wipe your feet next time. Or do I need to grab you by the scruff of your neck and rub your face in the mess you've made?"

Alastor: "Oh that won't be necessary my dear, even if you WERE capable of it!"

Vaggie: "So you know how to use a doormat?"

Alastor: "Of course~ I am QUITE skilled-"

Vaggie: "Great. Then wipe your feet."

Alastor: "..Now?"

Vaggie: "Now."

Alastor: "......"

Sir Pentious: (tugging at his pants leg) "Do asss sssshe ssasys, pleasse! I need her in a good mood!"

Alastor: "Hm..."

Alastor: (steps out of each and onto the mat) (whips shoes)

Alastor: "Satisfied?"

Vaggie: "Getting there. Now clean up your mess before Niffty has to."

Alastor: "Oh I wouldn't want to DEPRIVE her! All that fresh blood and viscera? You know how much she adores-"

Vaggie: "Then she can go out and clean the streets of hell in her free time for all I care but in this hotel she is not gonna waste her time picking up after you just because you can't be bothered to show her, or the HOTEL, a little fucking respect. You clean this up. Got it?"

Alastor: "You know, my dear." (shadows looming) "I'm not entirely certain you yourself 'get' wHo you ArE tALkINg TO....."

Sir Pentious: "AHHH!" (cowers behind vaggie) "SSSAVE ME MOTH WOMAN!"

Vaggie: (at alastor) "Ohh. Terrifying."

Vaggie: (at pentious) "Also not my name."

Vaggie: (at charlie) "Charlie!"

Charlie: (distracted) "Listen to Vaggie, Alastor! She's hotel manager for a reason- Oh EW what oh shit-"

(cRASH)

Vaggie: "Babe?"

Charlie: "I'm okay, I'm fine!!! We didn't need that glass cabinet anyway, not after what Angel Dust did all over it yesterday!"

Angel Dust: "SIX TIMES bab-y!"

Vaggie: "I don't want to know." (points at alastor) "You heard her."

Alastor: "I.. did."

Vaggie: "Then get cleaning."

Alastor: (sweeping bow as shadows start cleaning) "My pleasure my dear! Anything to stave off the inevitable FAILURE of this quaint little venture and so prolong your DAILY SUFFERING~"

Vaggie: (checking clipboard) "Uh-huh whatever."

Vaggie: (heads for door) (stops)

Vaggie: "Pentious. Let. GO."

Sir Pentious: "But-! Danssscing???"

Vaggie: "No."

Sir Pentious: (wailing) "Mercy, spear wielder! Take pity on meeeee!!!!!"

Vaggie: "Spear wielder? Seriously? Are you allergic to my name?"

Sir Pentious: "H-how could anyone be have an adverssse reaction to ssssomething sssso marvelousss ass-"

Vaggie: (crosses arms) "Then say it."

Sir Pentious: "Errr..... it???"

Vaggie: "My name."

Sir Pentious: "Oh! OH YESSS your NAME of coursssse!! Which issss lovely, but ah. Ah- that would be too- it would be too INFORMAL! Yesss! I am not worthy!"

Vaggie: "You don't know what my name is do you."

Sir Pentious: "I DO!!! Obviousssly!!"

Vaggie: "Then say it."

Sir Pentious: "Um..."

Vaggie: "Say my name, one time, and I'll pencil you in later for dancing tips."

Sir Pentious: "......that'ssss very.. generoussss... yesss, thank you...."

Sir Pentious: "...Erm...."

Sir Pentious: "....Miss... Morningsstar'ssss mate?"

Husk: (SNORTS)

Alastor: "Well I DO suppose that one COULD say~"

Vaggie: "I'm leaving." (pries pentious off) "Don't follow me."

Sir Pentious: "AH NO! NO I KNOW IT!!! Your name isss- VAGELISS!"

Vaggie: "Charlie? I'm heading out now, okay babe?"

Sir Pentious: "V- VIGILANTY???"

Charlie: "Okay! Love you, kissing you, missing you already! Be safe!!"

Sir Pentious: "VIRGINA! No ah, no wait-"

Vaggie: (blows kiss in charlie's direction) "Love you too sweetie~"

Sir Pentious: "You are VIRGINITY!!!!"

Husk: "HA."

Angel Dust: "Is she?!"

Charlie: "Noooope!"

Vaggie: "My name's a lot less ironic than that. Life didn't shit on me that hard." (heading out the door)

Sir Pentious: "NooooOOOOO!" (wiggling after her)

Sir Pentious: "Sssweet lesssbian, ssspare me! I would be on my kneesss if I had any! SSCION OF SSSSSAPPHO I IMPORE YOU- APHRODITE HASSS SSSTRIKEN ME WITH LONGING FOR A PYROTECHNIC HAZZZARD!!!!"

Vaggie: (stops)

A bug: (scurries by frantically) (pursued by cackling niffy)

Vaggie: "...you know Sappho's stuff?"

Sir Pentious: "Yesss? Ssshe isss, one of the greatessst loversss of women in hissstory! Asss a fellow lover of women, I admire her greatly!!"

Charlie: "Oh my dad- my dad and mom did to!!! Neat!"

Vaggie: "Hmm. I... guess..."

Sir Pentious: (eyes huge) "You, guesssss..?"

Vaggie: "Fine. I'll trade help with the shopping bags for a couple of dance lessons tonight. Fair?"

Sir Pentious: "Yess? YESSS! Mossst fair!" (claps hands) "MINIONS-!"

Vaggie: "No minions. You want the lessons you carry the bags."

Sir Pentious: "Ma'am!" (salutes) "My noodlessssque armsss are at your sssservissce!"

Vaggie: "I guess they're also gonna be what we mainly focus on in dancing."

Sir Pentious: "Oh- isss the bag carrying, for practicess then??"

Vaggie: (flexing shoulders) (wincing) "Uh, sure."

Sir Pentious: "P-practicesss for dipping my dansssce partner, or for getting dipped???"

Vaggie: "Whatever floats your boat. Ship. Whatever."

Sir Pentious: "Then I sssshall do my besst! Anything for HER!!"

Vaggie: "That's the woman-loving spirit."

Sir Pentious: "Ssssweet victory ssshall be mine at lassst! By the way, what ISSS your name?"

Vaggie: "You were close. It's very gay."

Sir Pentious: "You are miss Very Gay???"

Vaggie: "These days? Yeah. I sure am."

#hazbin hotel #vaggie #sir pentious #chaggie #angel dust hazbin hotel #charlie morningstar #alastor the radio demon #husk hazbin hotel #niffty hazbin hotel #incorrect quotes #daily survival at the hazbin hotel of gay hazards

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