#oc sibling of sin

[anamelessfool]

𝔓𝔞𝔭𝔞 ℭ𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔬 (1907-1983) and fic!

Reign 1942-1954, Satanic Bishop of New York City (1954-1983)

Everybody needs a mentor, especially delusional people like Young Nihil. So enter Papa Camino, a Papa Emeritus who is heavily influenced by Cab Calloway. (And is wearing an actual Schiaparelli silk tie from the 1950s) Notable Ghouls: Phantom, Dewdrop, Cumulus

The Path (AO3 Link)

GEN Young Nihil & OC Papa, Young Nihil & Family 3K Words

Tags: Mentor Figure, Deal With The Devil, Family Angst, 4 Year Old Primo Is In This One, This is Officially the Most Self Indulgent Fic I've Written and Yes I'm Including the Smut, Alternate History, Ghost Scenes from the Void AU, Ministry Lore and Dramaaaaa

1957, New York City: Bishop Camino always got what he wanted. And he wanted to share what he took from life with everyone he thought hungry enough to work for it. He was also a man who today invited Zero, of all the siblings in his care, to a private meeting in his office.

More Art and the Fic Below the Cut!

1957 New York City

Camino was a man who demanded what he wanted, and created for himself what he was denied. After his wildly successful tour as Papa Emeritus of the Satanic Church of the Void, he brought his expertise, his talent, and his cunning to his new post as the Satanic Bishop of New York City.

After the fourth rejection of his application to join the most prestigious gentlemen’s social club in the city (and it was definitely not because he was a Satanic Anti-Pope) Camino decided to run his own club out of the New York Ministry location. The music was hotter, the skirts were shorter and the booze flowed higher than the runoff in the gutters after a rainstorm.

The New York City chapter of the Satanic Church of the Void soon became less a place of organized worship and more the most chaotic and happening nightclub no one dared talk about in the sunshine. No act was denied, no artistic experiment too bizarre— almost twenty-four hours of the day there would be something to see for everyone. At two PM there could be a poetry reading for moody folks in black turtlenecks. At four PM was a 1920s Big Band Revival stint, six to ten PM Camino himself took command as bandleader. Midnight to two AM was reserved for drag shows. Often at three AM some interpretive dancer could be writhing on stage wrapped in tinfoil wailing about his daddy issues. It was vibrant, sometimes exhausting but never ever boring. Just like the Bishop.

And any high society man caught sneaking in would be promptly hogtied and left out in the alley with the rest of the trash.

Camino always got what he wanted. And he wanted to share what he took from life with everyone he thought hungry enough to work for it. He was also a man who today invited Zero, of all the siblings in his care, to a private meeting in his office.

As Zero sat uneasily in a plush armchair he could pick himself out from the posters and photographs covering the wood-paneled walls of the bishop’s office. He was often in the background— a blur holding a guitar, a trombone, hiding behind a mountain of drums. In six years Zero had become an established character in Camino’s church. He had stopped his rail-hopping life and settled in with a pretty blonde poetess, living just outside earshot of the church turned nightclub with a couple of potted plants and a young son. It surprised him how much he enjoyed the ebb and flow of a domestic existence. But then again, living and working in a place of constant change and noise and life and art is like wandering without ever leaving home.

“Brother Zero, I can hear your knees knocking from over here!” Bishop Camino closed the humidor cabinet and returned to his massive desk with a choice cigar. He winked his eye, his human eye. The Infernal Eye, his gift and his curse from his time as Papa, leered into Zero. It was as icy and silvery as the tools Camino used to delicately trim and light his smoke. “You'd know if you were in trouble! Relax, stay a while! How's junior?”

“Oh, swell, just swell,” said Zero, slowly uncurling himself in his seat.

“I got box seats at the Polo Grounds whenever you two want to see a game,” Camino replied. “Owner of the Giants owes me. Funny how many folks owe me, hm?”

“You're more than generous, all the time.” Zero couldn't help but feel a fondness for the man. “You helped me.”

“Alley cats are hungry, feed ‘em. Keeps the rats away. Now…” Camino noticed the smallest mote of dust on his suit, frowned deeply, and brushed it off. Camino never wore formal vestments outside of Mass, preferring instead a red silk suit with razor-sharp shoulders. Firstly because that was his look during his time as Papa Emeritus, and secondly because there was no one in New York City who would dare tell the bishop otherwise.

“Have you ever thought about the path?” He continued. Bishop Camino leaned back in his leather chair, settling in to a languid taste of his Cuban cigar. “I think you have what it takes to be Papa. Believe me, I know.”

Zero’s eyes widened, his mouth stretching open cartoonishly in shock. “You really think that?”

“Claro. Really. You've played in the house band many a time. You know more instruments than most, and catch on so quick. You're more Ghoul than man sometimes,” Camino chuckled. Zero had indeed performed for a few years in Camino's exclusive club for degenerates, and his saxophone playing was described as “a good start” which was a big compliment coming from the Bishop.

“Times are different. Big bands are out. Five pieces are in. More flexible. Digestible. What with television everywhere now.” Camino nodded. “Jazz clubs are gone, thing of the past. I'm not too proud to admit that.”

“Oh, you got more talent in your little finger than most in their whole body!” Zero piped up. “Don't sell yourself short!”

Camino gave him a wry look. “Hermano, I didn't say anything about that. Of course I'm talented. I'm the most talented motherfucker you ever saw. But times are changing. The Church needs fresh blood. And you'd be perfect for it. You got a face for television!”

Zero looked through the wooden blinds of the window, at the lines of taxis dutifully filing past. A limo turned the corner, its black and silver form sleek amongst the herd of yellow and checkerboard. Zero saw the shining sweep of the Rolls-Royce maiden perched on the hood, bowing low with her steel gossamer cloak frozen forever against the wind. A face for television, Zero thought. He never really had a television, or an actual home to plug any sort of luxury into since leaving Milwaukee, but everyone that did had the potential to see him. To hear his music. To see his face.

“That sounds swell, how would I even start?”

Camino grunted a laugh, his teeth gripping his cigar. From his place behind his massive desk he elegantly poured a finger of amber liquid from a crystal decanter into two equally opulent glasses. “Well, you have to let everyone know your intention. Even when you're not saying a word. Especially then. Your whole body must…vibrate…with that desire.”

Zero took a glass from him, nodding eagerly. “I can do that. I can vibrate with desire!”

“Naturally,” said Camino. “I'll put you in touch with Mother Imperator’s assistant, a em…a Sister Rebecca. She'll help me authorize a transfer and you can move to the heart of the Ministry.”

They clinked glasses, and Zero took a sip. It burned across his throat, tore a hole in his belly. He coughed in surprise, making every attempt to choke as politely as possible. “Move? There's somewhere else?”

“Yes, a few hours drive up north,” Camino replied. His perfectly sculpted thin moustache twitched as he frowned. “And how the hell you choking on that, boy? That's a goddamn forty year.”

Zero mumbled an apology, then felt Camino’s strong hand on his chin, jerking his face upwards for inspection. His hand was surprisingly soft, well manicured. The floral scent of hair oil drifted down from his clothing. The older man smirked, his eyes crinkling as thoughts passed through his mind. The Infernal Eye glared down at Zero from its socket in Camino’s skull, its glow removed from this realm, a separate entity also holding judgement towards him. He could have sworn the steely pinprick of a pupil moved independent from the human eye just across the bridge of the jazz singer’s nose. Zero swallowed. “Face for television,” Camino murmured, and with his other hand took a thoughtful sip of his own glass.

Zero stretched his mouth into a submissive smile. “Maybe.”

Camino gave Zero a rough pat, nearly a slap on the side of his face, and stepped away to pick up his cigar again. “Listen here, I sent my successor up to their headquarters, had them start meeting people, gather friends— boom! They're now Papa Emeritus and gaining traction in the charts every day. The trick…is to be underfoot.” Camino let out a satisfied puff of smoke. “Thing about that place is that running the Ministry is the only thing anyone can do up there in that godforsaken wilderness. So if you want something you're front and center!”

“But…moving?” Zero had just finally put roots down after a youth of wandering. He thought of Nance, of little Primo waiting for him back at their apartment. Nance with the baby on her lap as she sat by the plants on the fire escape, her red lips smiling contentedly out at the symphony of asphalt and blaring car horns.

“Fresh air, sunshine, forests and mountains,” said Camino. “Kids love it out there. At least I'm pretty certain they do.”

Camino was met with an awkward silence, and he settled into his chair, the leather offering a tired wheeze. “Yes, the city is difficult to leave,” Camino continued, steepling his fingers. He grinned. “Which is why I came back.” And promptly at midnight a town car would pick him up and drive him back to his home in Queens. “But, I've done my time, and did the work. I'm here to guide now. And I think you need to take bigger risks.”

“Nance loves it here. She was born here.” Zero smiled slightly into the middle space. “Primo was born here.”

“It's not easy raising a child in the city, believe me. My sisters complain enough. And me…well, I became a jazz singer.” He chuckled. “That tells you everything you need to know about that.”

“Could be good for junior,” Zero mused.

“Would be good for his old man too,” Camino replied with a wink. “You just say the word. I'm serious about you.”

Horns blared from outside on the street, followed by shouts and curses. The chauffeur of the Rolls-Royce rolled up up his sleeves and unbuttoned his vest as his cap fell on the sidewalk. Across from him, an equally irate taxi driver wrenched himself from the crumpled yellow door of his taxi. A woman was trapped in the back of the Rolls, hanging out the window and screeching while the rat-like dog in her arms barked. The taxi driver jumped across the hood of the limo and delivered a heavy-fisted crack to the chauffeur’s mug that Zero could hear all the way from his spot by the window. He winced as he unconsciously massaged the same place on his jaw. Camino clapped his hand across Zero’s shoulder, laughing, his lips peeled back over sharp white teeth in a roar of amusement. The Infernal Eye shone. “Fresh air and sunshine, hermano!”

-------

“Fresh air, sunshine, forests and mountains,” said Zero as he and Sister Nance held hands on a park bench and watched their young son totter around the steel playground. “Would be good for junior, yanno?”

“This sounds rehearsed,” Nance snorted, flashing him one of her elfin grins. “What's the deal? Why all of a sudden you want to move?”

Zero shrugged. “No deal. Just…need a change, maybe.”

“Zero, dear. Don't even try to lie to me.”

“Bishop Camino… thinks I should be Papa Emeritus.”

“You?” Nance made a face. “You haven't held a single job for more than a year. And you…want to run this whole thing? You want to be Papa?”

Zero frowned back, a little wounded but willing to fight. “None of those gigs were ever that interesting.”

“And you can't just up and walk away from this one,” Nance said. “No session musician or delivery boy or taxi driver ever had to commit his soul.” She tapped the place under her left eye. “Camino and the others…got a piece of their immortal soul committed to the Void. A chunk of it is just…it's just gone.”

That whitened eye of Camino burned in Zero’s brain once more. The sharp-toothed wicked grin, the bone-chilling tension of that pinprick pupil sliding across him and passing judgement. Zero had a face for television, sure— but Camino…Camino’s visage came from someplace else.

Like any blow he's ever taken, Zero shrugged it all off. “Wasn't using my immortal soul much anyway,” he chuckled.

“Goddamit Zero.” Nance crumpled into a fussy search of her coat for her silver cigarette case. He felt the cold air return to the palm of his now abandoned hand as it rested on the park bench.

Primo zoomed over from across the playground, falling into his mother’s arms. Irving Robert, really, but Primo was a better nickname for him than Uno.

“Push me on the swings?” asked their son, grinning under the hat Nance had knitted for him last week.

Nance cupped his face in her hands, smiling sweetly. “In a few minutes, Primo, your father and I are talking. But I bet you know how to do it yourself. We want to watch.”

“Oh, I can!”

“Good, now run! We're watching!” And Primo spun around and raced over to the swings across the park, leaving them for a few precious moments. Nance lit the cigarette in her mouth and took a drag, sighing on the exhale.

“Feels like the only thing that sticks in your brain are bad ideas, Zero,” Nance muttered. “I'm saying that affectionately.”

“You're one of ‘em,” he teased back, and she shoved him with a little laugh.

“Fine. You want to move to the Ministry Headquarters. Work right under Mother Imperator and Papa Emeritus and their whole shitty retinue.”

“And bring you along, of course,” Zero added in an attempt to reassure her. He was glad that she was even considering his idea now.

“I've been up there,” Nance continued. “Not much to do, so siblings get obsessive. I didn't want to stay long.”

“Obsessive?”

“Mother Imperator…” Nance stifled a laugh. “Absolute bag. A good hundred years old, easy. Refuses to speak anything but Italian. There's two siblings waiting for her to drop dead. Any day now, it feels.”

“Oh really now?” Zero mused, half listening.

“Sister Rebecca, for one. She went right to the top as the Dark Mother's Personal Assistant. Fluent in six languages, Italian especially. Comes from a bloodline of senators and government officials. Family's got mob money. She's next in line, for sure. And then there's…” Nance winced, as if an icy wind passed through her. “Maestra Eunice.”

“Oh, she's important?” Zero had seen her from time to time, conversing with Camino. Her hooded eyes, her deep scowl. He remembered her because he thought it a shame when blondes scowled like that. And Camino always looked queasy after their meetings.

“Leader of the Conclave,” Nance explained. “Old, old Ministry family. She's been shuffled around. She doesn't make too many friends.” Nance smiled crookedly. “And Rebecca would easily cut her throat in her sleep if Eunice doesn't get to Rebecca first. It's no good out there. Too heavy while those two wait for old Imperator to croak. You really want to live in the middle of that?”

“Two broads in a spat,” stated Zero. He figured early on that if there were two women left on the entirety of this Earth they still would think the other was talking behind their back.

“One has the keys to the entire global network of our Church, the other the deepest understanding of the magic that comes from the Void,” said Nance. “These are the two broads no one wants to stand in between.”

“Who says I have to stand between ‘em? I can make my music. And that's all I got to do.”

“There's no budging you, is there.”

“Camino…believes in me.” It was the first sincere thing Zero had said in a long while, and it left his heart with a wrenching whine that was carried through into his voice. It held such a sad little timbre that Nance shifted in her seat to look at him. “He believes in what I do.”

Zero knew few people in his life ever put their faith in him. Teachers thought him stupid. Fellow tramps on the road thought he was easy pickings. Not even his own father had much to do with him; his father, who's only belief was in his own ability to pick winning dogs at the track.

“You got to take risks on what you believe,” Zero added as she continued to contemplate his expression.

“But…moving…”

“Six years is the longest I've been in a single place,” announced Zero. He wanted to add “and loved someone”, but the thought felt intrusive and not at all something Nance wanted to hear. She knew his feet got restless if he sat for too long. She had been good to him, good for him, and he owed her his affection.

Nance grabbed his hand, turning his attention to look into her soft brown eyes. “Robert,” she began quietly, and she only used his real name when she wanted him to really listen. “What about your son? Robert…what about me?”

“I want to live my dream,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. “And my dream includes you. And Primo. I…I promise I'll do right. You know I always try to do right.”

Nance smiled faintly back. “You always try,” she said quietly. “I can't argue with that. I'm happy…you found someone else who believes in you.”

“Mo-om!” Primo called to them both from his place on the swings, his arms and legs dangling as his body lay across the steel seat.

Nance got up and dropped her smoke to the ground, crushing it underfoot. “Just…give me a few days to think about it."

Zero gave her a thin smile as he watched her cross the playground. He felt he had moved the pieces in the way he wanted them, needed them to move. And he was pretty sure of the rules of the game, so how hard would all of this be? Except he felt a queasiness now instead of relief. The feeling of his words being more of a wager than a sign of honesty hung about his shoulders. He had the faint memory of being on the other side of that conversation. And in those moments what he thought was a promise, was really only a way to buy time.

It would be well worth it in the end, he assured himself. Good ideas always are, and Camino had said himself how much of a good idea Zero was. Zero got to his feet, brushing off his knees as his good-natured smile returned to his face. There was nothing to worry about. He always came out on top. He always pulled through, and folks always leant him a helping hand. And of course he'd always support Nance, and Primo. He promised her and so he owed her. What more is a promise than an IOU to someone else?

Funny how many folks owe me, said Camino as his dead eye flashed. Great men are owed. And Zero was ready to be a lender.

My Fic List | My AO3 | More Domestic Fics

Papa Camino & Dewdrop, Phantom Fic

[snotface-ing]

🦇🩸🐇 to be devoured is to be truly loved. indulgence is god's greatest gift

made this for halloween! shout out dracopia... he's truly a beautiful old man that i want to eat me and stuff or whatever

closeup under the cut

[nekronyancer]

Take a walk with Secondo

Self insertable Sibling of Sin for your viewing pleasure. Don't be shy imagine your own OCs there instead >:)

Bonus:

Very confuzzled mini Secondo

And the TikTok with the original audio:

(I'm sorry I've been gone, life is.....well, life-ing. But I will try to return to a somewhat regular schedule, I have in fact a whole another type of surprise for you >:) Those who also follow me on Twitter, shhh)

[thelampisaflashlight]

Copia, holding a meeting with Mountain in his office: "Now, Mountain, my brilliant, beautiful boy..." -taking out a stack of papers- "The groundskeeper has filed an incident report involving you and some rose bushes..." Mountain: "I swear on my horns I was framed." Copia, holding up a picture of Mountain eating Bea's rose bushes taken from a night vision camera: "I suppose we could frame it, if you like." Mountain: "Shit-" Bea, crossing her arms: "So about that moose fencing-"

[revelisms]

sillies

[statecfdreaming]

i feel your hands are cold

[citrus-wall-paint]

this Cirice art from the Meliora vinyl made me INSANE i love The Kiss.

[dewsgremlin]

Dewdrop, dragging a scared brother of sin into the ghouls common room: "Guys, that's my favourite brother of sin. His name is Tony. Or as I prefer to say - Toneigh!"

Rain: ...

Mountain: ...

Aether: "Just let this poor man go, Dew."

Phantom, coming into the room, seeing Tony: "Oh, hey hello, toe knee!"

- desperated crying of Tony -

Rain: "I guess, Tony thinks you're really annoying tonyight."

- absolute mental breakdown of Tony -

[ghulah]

Papa Emeritus III and Sibling Nephtys [she/he/they], inspired by the Art Deco movement (and German Expressionism).

Referenced from Metropolis (dir. Fritz Lang, art of Heinz Schulz-Neudamm), the works of Tamara de Lempicka, Kiyoshi Kobayakawa and the Cigarette Couple Cover of the 1919 Vanity Fair Issue. From the Pinnacle to the Pit artwork and the Wiltern Ghost Poster (David. M Brinely.) Close up under the cut.

[ridley-emeritus]

Oops? (Ghoul Ridley AU)

This boy can't seem to keep himself out of trouble

Ridley reads out loud, which can cause issue when you're studying for Latin (he accidentally read out a spell)

Will this be temporary? Will his dads (+ Estelle) find him like this? Who knows. For now, he's going to hide out until this hopefully wears off...

[maryiritza]

‼️NOT MY ART‼️

Amazing, gorgeous, beautiful gift that I received as a Secret Santa from Miss_Carnival_Peach of Primo and my Oc Albino 🥹💖✨💖✨ They look just perfect

[anamelessfool]

Had my daylist on shuffle while driving and the version of He Is with Alison Mosshart came on. First thing I thought of was Jocasta and Primo.

Omg this is amazing! I actually have never heard that version and I just listened to it. So good ����

This is why I make playlists or have theme songs. It helps me get back into the zone of writing specific works.

I'm glad I'm taking a little break from that fic because it's reaching its conclusion soon and I want to make sure I carry through strong to the end. Thanks so much.

Primo and Jocasta art commish by @kabukiaku

[saradrewitt]

I miss old Saturnia before I turned her into a mafia horse gorl but at the same time I still love her. I know I don’t share much about her besides the fact that she’s a horse girl but idk both versions are still good.

[viniche]

Pray for the delivery guy on his way to get me chips

[thelampisaflashlight]

Bea, in Sister Imperator's office: "Honestly, when you first hired me, I assumed you were going to lure me to a remote location in order to murder me and sell my body parts on the black market, but we've both seen my medical records, so I know you wouldn't waste your time with the latter at this point. Murder though, I could see you doing that, especially when you find out what happened to the riding mower." Sister Imperator, who hired Bea because she seemed like a capable worker and wouldn't take shit from anyone: "...What happened to the riding mower?" Bea: "...I let Copia drive it." Sister Imperator, going to her window: "...Is that..." Bea: "A ramp by the lake and a distinct lack of a mower? Yes." Sister Imperator: "Why-" Bea: "Ran over his tricycle with the van." Sister Imperator: "...Is he dead?" Bea, shaking her head: "He swam away. It was kind of pathetic. The splash and then him awkwardly doggy paddling back to shore..."

[revelisms]

Throwing down possibly the tenderest, goofiest, and most feral smut I've written to date...and of course it's with these two. Features: The mortifying ordeal of being Known, gratuitous banter, laughing during sex, Terzo being filthy, and all-around spicy sweetness ;-)

a taste of honey

WC: 4k | Rating: E, 🔞 | Terzo x Alessio (Sibling of Sin OC) | CWs: Established relationship, self-esteem issues, oral sex, switching, dirty talk Also on AO3

The heavens decided to piss a storm the day the European tour was due to start.

It was a putrid sign, according to Nihil. During the 1970 tour, torrential rains had stranded them outside Vienne, tarnished a quarter of their equipment, and left them to scavenge for spare cables hours before their first show.

Terzo, a stack of entry permits pinned between his teeth, had been too late to care. The bus had already given him a honk of warning. His ghouls, always dutiful, had been more than on time.

Huddled in the shelter of the Ministry's front steps stood his impatient-footed sendoff: the All-Father, slippered and spluttering; the retired Monsignor Emeritus, half-smiled; the recently retired Archbishop Emeritus, perpetually-scowled; Cardinal Copia, relegated to packing the final cases of clothes into the bus's undercarriage, standing now like a drowned rat beside them; and the lead financial advisor to the church, who had intentionally placed themself a few paces from the bickering cavalry.

"They've been waiting on you," Ale hushed, throwing Terzo a look.

"I know, I know—Sa'nts."

He'd cycled through his goodbyes like a stack of swiped signatures. Ale's own had been too quick for them to savor. He'd squeezed them into his neck, a black-nailed hand warm at their shoulder. There'd been frankincense and citrus on his clothes, and a trace of cigarette smoke on his hair.

"See you, little bird," he'd mumbled into their cheek.  

Ale kissed his own. "Break a leg."

"You say that to a clumsy man? Lucifer forbid, you will jinx it, darling—they'll wheel me back in a cast!"

"You know what I mean."

A grin glittered in his eyes. His hand clapped softly over their nape. "I know, I know."

Then, like a spirit, he was gone.

It'd been the last they'd seen of him in two months—and the color and chaos had been stripped away, with him.

No chainsawed bantering over popped corks of wine. No wet footprints all over the floor, from him sauntering half-dried from his bath. No sweltering limbs crowding into their dormitory bed, no half-finished songs hummed over chipped piano keys and black-glossed guitars, no chocolate foils twisted into bizarre sculptures on their desk.

The noise was a given; the mess, a creative byproduct. In the face of their own manicured routines, it may as well have come from a separate dimension. Countless summers with their grandfather had given them an appreciation for a quiet home, and turned them tidy as a soldier: qualities no living soul could seem to train into him.

They'd given up the battle, eventually, opting for daily walks far, far away from pit he called a living space. For their own sanity, they'd learned not to question the last time he'd had his cushions steam-cleaned.

But now, in some cruel twist of irony, they find themself nosing into his rooms more nights than not, scavenging for any crumbs of normalcy they can find.

His papal suite is a cavern of deep reds and violets. Dark walls, dark floors, dark velvet on every surface—if one can find the surfaces, at all, given the dimness of his lamps. Opening his windows helps, on the days he allows it, but then one sees the wreckage: clothes slopped over the backs of chairs and doors, like shedded snakeskins; villages of espresso cups and dessert plates cluttering his tables; trashbins piled high with discarded sheets of music; strange little trinkets littered across his shelves, sporting a healthy layer of dust.

Through all of it, though, he'd be there.

His crooked smiles and crinkling eyes, wrapped in shades of black. His musings about art and poetry and literature. His spitballed song titles between half-finished lyrics, and stories about Barcelona, and Berlin—

"—and Brussels." A set of wine glasses clink across the room. "Only had two days to admire the damned place, of course—but the architecture? Satan, it was gorgeous. And don't get me started on the gardens—would put the old bat to shame, those things. The roses."

He's a week earlier than they'd expected him. In the mad rush to tidy everything, it'd left them numb as a plank in his arms.

He'd reeked of engine exhaust and stale cigarettes, their cheek smushed against the satchel slung over his shoulder: devoured by the heat of his body, his breath, his lips on their hair. Not a single text or call could come close to it.

The greeting hadn't lasted long, though. He'd beelined to his ensuite, desperate to wash the stink of the bus off him.

In retrospect, they should have followed him into that damned bath—but they'd slumped back into a world of lines and numbers, instead, trying fruitlessly to maintain appearances.

Still—

Gardens, roses. 

"Sounds beautiful," Ale says.

They can hear the smile in his purr. "The stars could hardly compare, darling."

Over the rims of their readers, they take him in again—their second attempt to confirm that he's here, flesh and blood, and not just some jabbering figment of their imagination.

His footsteps are weaving unhurriedly through the arm chairs and cocktail tables and haphazard book piles that make up his main room. His hair is still damp, slicked back into a sea of untamed waves. There's nothing but a dressing gown on him. In his hands: two glasses of Casavecchia. 

Weariness mangles with the smirk he tosses them, hangs off his bones like a corpse. This tour is moving at breakneck speed—partly by Sister's doing, and partly by his own—and any urgings to take a sabbatical has seemed to fall on deaf ears.

But he's here.

Their thumb skims over their sheet of expenses, creases it. "You're back," they say eloquently.

His dimples are quick to deepen. A chuckle hisses through his teeth. "I am," he murls, and leans down: trades their glass for a kiss. Bath salt and amber ebbs off him, baked into his skin like ambrosia. His voice melts like satin against their mouth. "Hi."

A smile pricks at the corners of their mouth, and blooms. "Hi."

"Missed me, eh?"

They'd elbow him, if the sight of him wet and half-dressed wasn't enough to have them nearly dragging him off his feet. They settle for nuzzling rather self-indulgently into his chest hair. "Just a little."

He scoffs. "Just a little! You wound me, sweetness."

"Sit down."

"I am in the process of it, no?" He clicks his tongue. "Although...it seems I have a little cuddle spider here blocking my way."

They glare through their glasses, crooked now on their face. It's one of the pet names he favors, knowing they despise arachnids more than anything alive. "Will you sit."

A playful growl sings by their cheek. "Oh, no no no. Now, I have you right here, mh?"

"Terzo." 

His mouth skims over their start of their neck. "Right where I want you."

"Sit. Down."

He plants a kiss on their jaw and snickers. "My grumpy little cuddle spider," he chuffs, slumping beside them, "who is still working." Without warning, their readers are plucked from their nose, finding a home upon the end-table. "And who has cleaned for me," he mumbles on, sinking back into the cushions. "You did not have to do all this for me, sweetheart."

Ale folds up their receipts, slides them back into their notebook. "I wanted to."

His tone skews from playful to petulant. "But you did not have to."

There's a strange thing under his smile. A marker of his tiredness, perhaps—or his inclination to squirm at any tenderness he receives.

He's used to being desired. Not to being cared for.

Some nights, denial still rears its head.

Their stare turns silent; his own, twitchy. "I know," he says quietly, before they can beat him to it. His thumb fidgets over his nails, picking at varnish already chipped. "It's just..."

The words struggle to form, swallowed down, as they often are. So Ale waits for his discomfort to soften. His thumb skims the underside of their palm.

"I love you, you know," they remind him.

His tips them a half-smile, sly and lovely. It almost reaches his eyes. "First, they bandage my weak heart—now they try to woo me, eh?"

Ale lifts their brows. "It's almost like...I like doing things for you," they tease.

His ears perk, in an instant. "Oh—do you, now?" 

"Sometimes."

The grin turns impish. "I see," he hushes, nosing into their cheek. "Well." His voice sinks, then: smooth as butter and burning as a flame, a cavernous thing that never fails to leave them shivering. "Is...now one of those times?"

Ale hums. Their fingers wander, trace a slow pilgrimage down the veins in his arm. "Maybe." Beneath their hand, his blood beats, beats— "Can I...do anything for you?"

He's gone for another drink, but the glass stills. 

Sometimes, Lilith willing, he knows when to shut up. To let their heartbeat begin to rattle in their ears. Their eyes linger, loiter, ache.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, ticks it. His fingertips clink at his glass. "Looking for an invitation?"

Ale swallows. "Maybe," they say again.

He tries and fails not to grin. "Che—maybe, maybe, always maybes, with you—"

They kiss him.

It's fast, and starved, and sloppy—and he melts within it. A sea of warmth, beaded bathwater on his jaw, on that dark freckle on his neck: his chest puffed against theirs, and his head rolling to the side.

Their hands are dragging through his hair to pull him closer. His nose nuzzling beneath their ear, nipping a growl into their skin.

When they got lost in his robe, they don't know, don't care.

"Seems like someone is, ah—on a mission, huh—?"

Their knees stretch, slump to the floor. Their fingers follow the dark hem of his neckline like a tether in a storm.

He watches them go down with eyes bloomed with black.

"You've been gone," Ale finds themself saying, as though that's answer enough. Their hands slide farther, find the silken knot at his waist. "I need to taste you." Slowly, slowly pull it free: a dozy hiss. Their breath jitters. His own stills. "If you—"

He presses his knee into their shoulder. It wrenches their eyes up, and their mouth closed.

For a suffocating moment, there's only green and white, new moons eclipsed, shadowed like the barrel of the gun.

If he was any more a demon than his blood has already leant him to be, that stare alone would have their soul devoured and their bones heaped where they sit.

Terzo's lashes flutter like a royal. Idly, he tips his glass into another sip. Ale watches his throat like a hound.

"Well, then," he rumbles, smirking over his wine, before he unfolds his legs. His robe slithers apart, with them: dark hair and warm skin, soft curves and muscle, baring the damp slopes of his thighs, the pink-kissed flush of his cock between them. "Get on with it."

No banter, to that—nothing they can dream of saying, now.

His glass turns clumsily forgotten, abandoned. His lashes heavy on eyes a touch from rolling closed.

In the quiet chaos of their own artistry, he is the muse; their tongue, the brush glossing down the canvas of his body. Every crease, every curve, every salt-sweetened vein. Satin warmth and silkened musk, blooming on their tongue like nectar.

He fists a hand through their hair. Chokes out a breath.

"Al—ah—"

And they swallow him whole.

His head slumps back into the cushions. 

Tenderness and need mangles beneath his nails. Between it, a primal mindlessness—to take, to fuck, to command. It hangs in the way his palm squeezes on their neck: the way the warmth of his skin shudders down their spine: the way his hips bow off the sofa, aching to drive them down more, more—

But they lay a hand on his thigh. Catch his eyes, hazed with hunger. 

And he eases. Shivers.

Lets them play him like a string.

A slick twist of their mouth; gravel in his throat. "Oh." A lingering stroke of their fist; a river in his lungs. "Hh—" Their lips kissed over every velvet seam; heat jolting on their tongue. "Sl-oh—fuck." His nails paint tremors over their nape. "Slower, sweetheart," he huffs, "that's...mmh, that's..."

They can't resist lifting their eyes. Lost on the marbled arch of his body, that damned freckle on his neck. The flush in his chest, ebbing like a tide—his robe off his shoulder, fine-brushed ink splayed down down down: warm on his thigh, trembling against their cheek.

His voice is pinched, breathless. "Oh, that's g-hh—fuck, that's good—" 

Their hand slithers over his belly, catches at his waist: holds him like a serpent writhing from a kill, a beast fighting free from the confines of its own pleasure. The warmth of his palm anchors on the back of their head. The other scrapes at the cushions. 

"Fuck," he bites out, his face scrunched. "Don't st-ah—oh, fuck, don't stop—don't—oh—oh—"

Ale weighs him down. Devours him. Licks him up like sugar: bittersweet and molten, sweat and spice, the broken whine of his breath delectable.

A symphony to their ears.

When he comes down, he comes down slowly: lungs heaving, hummed. They could stay there for hours, waiting for any final taste he'll give them; for the first slow-thumbed stroke of praise. The lazy grin that peeks through his fringe is more than enough.

"You," Terzo purrs, deliciously low. They swallow around him: watch his lashes flicker, his teeth pit into his lip. "Mh." He smooths the start of tears from their lashes. "My tempter," he hushes on, "my marvel." Their jaw aches when they pull away, cradled in his palm. They wouldn't trade it for the world. "Saints, you're good to me—always so good to me, sweetheart. Come here."

Their legs try. He draws them up the rest of the way, a warm tangle of hands and kisses, his heart beating like a drum at their back. 

Ale tips into his neck, sighing. "Was that—was that all you needed?"

His mouth plants another string of pecks under their jaw. "All I needed?" Clever fingertips at their shirt: squeezing slow and molten over their chest. Ale flinches, arching like a crescent. "You seem...quite strung up, yourself, little one." 

If that's his thigh nudging between theirs—and Hell, it is—he's not all that far off. Not that he usually is. 

He teethes at their ear, a smile playing at his lips. His hand finds the bare slope of their waist: thumbs harder at their back, urging them to grind down again, grind firmer, and—

"Oh—"

There's wonder edging darkly in his voice: prideful as much as adoring. "All this just from tasting me, mh...?"

Ale's fingertips dimple deep on his thigh. Beneath it, muscle firm as marble. "Not just—tasting you," they huff. His fingertips curl beneath the waistband of their slacks. "Watching how you—hearing you—"

The words slither into a gasp. Their nails knit through his hair.

They babble. One of his hands palms lazily against their briefs, matching the rhythm their hips seem intent on setting. The other smooths over their throat, squeezes under their chin.

"Easy, darling," he gravels in their ear. His thumb hushes along their jaw. "You can tell me. Go on."

The words tangle on their tongue. They could manage, maybe, if his hand wasn't doing that—

"I—I—"

The heel of his palm circles hard against their clit, softens to a lazy squeeze. Beneath it, his fingers: sliding lower, and lower still.

"Oh—I want your mouth," Ale blurts. "I want your tongue—I need to you fuck me, fuck—please—"

His breath snuffs to a groan. "Shit."

It all moves too fast: their bones too electric. 

The sofa whuffs beneath their back. Their slacks rustle off their legs, shucked unceremoniously to the floor. A wine glass might have toppled over, or one of the book stacks, or both. A pillow Ale kicks joins them.

"Lilith—you're making a mess, already." He doesn't mean the state of his floor.

Their skin burns. "Terzo," they hiss.

Their briefs snap on their knee, glide quick past their ankle. "What?" He tosses them a toothy smile, nuzzling into their hip. "It is true." He draws in a quiet breath, savoringly slow; rasps it out, on a growl. "Oh...fuck, you smell good." 

Ale drags their thigh against his shoulder. Their fingers pinch through his hair: steer him down. And he plants a kiss to their inner thigh. Lifts his eyes, again. 

Silence bubbles. Their nails cave. His breath is too close—not close enough.

Then, he bows to lay homage to them. 

Worships. Feasts.

His mouth is molten, the slick-skimmed glide of his lips like a hit from a drug. Euphoria buzzes down their bones, and wrenches to a livewire: leaves them whimpering like a dog, already.

Saints beneath, it's good.

Their legs clamp around his head. Their fingers scrape through the waves at his nape. A purr of encouragement sears against them.

"Oh—oh, just like that," Ale gasps. The cushions are drinking them down, another pillow kicked to the floor, his hair slipping between their knuckles. His fingers kiss, curl, glide in. "That feels so—oh...right there, right there...yes, baby, that—"

His tongue laps, licks; paths a burning current over their clit, straight up to their stomach, and trades for a bite.

Their gasp flutters to a giggle. His own joins it, low as a beast's.

His fingers are crooking higher, curling sweet and slow inside them, sliding out to a simmering stroke. Their teeth ache on their wrist. Still, their body sings back with a mind of its own. 

They can feel his breath scattering over their skin, his eyes on them, mapping out the pleasure in their body—every tremble and yelp and panted praise, every twist of their arms and legs. They won't last long, not at this rate: not with his nose teasing through the sweat beaded on their skin, his cheek skimming the glitter his fingers have spread, his mouth sucking over them.

"Terzo—Terz-oh—fuck—!"

They yank on his hair. Feel a grin lavish against them. 

The press of his teeth does them in.

In one go, they lose control of their limbs and their mouth: a half-mooned contortion of stunted shrieks, drowned in bliss that fizzles like a firecracker and bursts like a damn. Where he had come down slowly, they shatter like glass—some overheated sculpture crushed to powder, and smelted, somehow, back to something functional between his hands.

On their stomach: mothwing blooms of warm lips.

"Still with me, sweetness?" Terzo husks, eventually.

They can't feel their fingers. The cushions puff to a crater beneath their hand.

"Yeah?" He tilts his chin over their hip. "Feeling good?"

Another hum, hazy with satisfaction.

"Good. Very good." Terzo pauses, teething a soft smile against their belly. They can hear the smugness in his voice. "I, eh...heh...may need another bath, after that."

They stuff a groan into their arm. "Baby."

"What? As I said—it is the truth!" 

He makes a show of wiping off his cheek, with all the grace of a burlesque artist. And, Satan, he's beautiful. His hair wrecked, his eyes twelve shades of admiring, kissing the sheen off his thumb. 

"In fact," he rumbles on, shimmying closer, "I may just need to have you cum like that, again. Hell beneath."

Their hands slide up to cover their face.

A snicker spills over their belly. "Darling, you are so shy—come on, now." He smooths his hands over their waist. "You do not have to be shy about it."

"I didn't...think I'd get so loud," they mumble, mortified.

"I love when you get loud," he counters.

"I made a mess."

"I love when you make a mess."

"I already cleaned everything."

"And I told you: you did not have to do this, for me."

They groan again.

"Al," Terzo chuckles, speckled still with exasperation. For a moment, he just traces the hair over their knee, turning his mouth into it. His words soften. "Why are you so ashamed, eh?"

"I'm not ashamed."

"You are," he crows. His nose finds its way back to their stomach, smushed into a low burr. "My love, my heart—do you have any idea how much I want you...? How it's been, with all these weeks in between?" They settle their hand gingerly over his ear, stroking the tangle of black from his cheek. He sighs, curling his fingers against their back. "Torturous," he hushes.

Ale bites their lip. Feels their heart fuzz to cotton beneath their ribs.

More honestly melts out of them than they can help.

"I...I don't know what to do with myself," they admit. "I've never felt this...need to just..."

Any straws they grasp for come up short. 

It's another cruel irony, perhaps the cruelest of them all: they, who never needed anything; had been adamant about it, for so many years—

And yet.

They shrug, flushed, voice small. "I want you, so much," they admit, at last—like it's something no part of them should dream of exposing. "I want you all the time."

Terzo's eyes are on them, again. They feel his throat shift. His thumbs stroke down their hips.

"Look at me."

Their breath catches in their throat. Velvet crumples beneath their fingers.

"No thought of you—no memory of you is enough to replace this. Not your heat, your sound, your everything." His lips ghost over their skin, again. "And I..."

Ale swallows, watching as an animal stirs beneath his skin: lust-blind, and raw, and ravenous.

"I want you wet." He sighs a kiss against their stomach. "I want you writhing." Another, beneath their ribs. His palms glide up, splaying along the wings of them, squeezing. "I want you under my nails," he gravels against their sternum. "I want to smell you on my rings." His lips catch beneath their chin. "I want you stained so deep into this fucking chaise, they can't clean you out."

Their pulse batters like a rabbit's, aches into a mew.

"I want you soaked so far into my skin, I can't wash you off," he purrs into their neck. "I want you on my teeth, in my lungs—I want you always."

In four different ways, their body hunts for more of him: hips, hands, chest, mouth. His fingertips dimple at their jaw, before they can steal a kiss—the mingling of his breath slow, sweltering. They can taste themself on it.

"I don't care how much of a mess you make," he hushes on, "because I'll take as much of it as you can give me." A touch catches on the crook of their knee, and tugs: the seams of their bodies melded deliciously to one. Ale loses themself to the heat, the firelight, the shadow. To the trace of his lips on theirs. "And I'm not done making a mess of you, yet."

Their noses bump. Ale's lashes flutter; their nails creased at his shoulders.

No more fingers on their jaw, now—nestled in their hair, in their heart, their tunnel-visioned need to kiss him stupid.

"Fucking Hell," they snarl, entangled with him as close as they can manage.

Terzo preens, breathless. "Good?"

"You keep talking like that, I'll have you buttoned up to your ears for weeks."

They can feel him stir against their hip in the same beat that his bones liquify. "Oh." Their lips trail down the soft cut of his jaw. "I have m-nh—makeup, darling."

"Then you'll need to use it." Ale pulls him back into a kiss, sliding their fingers along his neck. He can't get his hands around them, fast enough. "Take me to bed."

A grin stretches against their lips. "Is that all?" he mumbles between another kiss, and another.

"Take me to bed, and don't trip."

His laughter wheezes like a kettle. "Hell's sake, Alessio." Their own snort mingles with it.

Peppered between their pecks, they slip him a smile. "Please," they add gently. 

He nearly does trip, once he's finally found his footing: his robe tangled up, and his vision clouded by them, hoisted boneless and giddy into his arms. 

"Watch the table—"

"I know, I know—"

But he manages, somehow.

They both always do.