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onzedieuxsouriants · 1 year

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Comment Ysengrin trouva Hersent chez Agrion.

Il advint un jour que le Vicomte Ysengrin alla marcher, en peau de guerre, aux portes du palais aux sept halls où demeurait le Comte Agrion.

Les terres de la Comté de Beauté étaient petites, par dix fois plus petites que les terres du maître du Vicomte Ysengrin, qui étaient les bois de la Comté des Loups. Elles étaient faites de prairies de pavots sauvages et de haies de roses, avec, ça et là, un village blotti sous le soleil. Les blés s’y balançaient de jour et les grillons chantaient. Mais la nuit ! La nuit, lui avait-on dit, tout Vicomte soyez-vous, tout loup soyez-vous, en peau de guerre ou en peau de paix, ne marchez pas dans les prés du Comte de Beauté !

Il était, du reste, facile de traverser d’un seul jour de voyage vigoureux ces terres si petites. Il n’en avait pas toujours été ainsi, et autrefois, paraissait-il, le domaine de Beauté s’était étendu aussi large que ceux de tous les Comtes. Mais son maître était fragile autant que vicieuse et avait juré contre la guerre qu’iel ne savait pas faire. Et iel avait laissé manger ses terres, se tordant les mains auprès de la Reine, qui ne s’en préoccupait guère. Le Comte des Aulnes avait pris cela, la Comtesse Carnasse avait pris ceci, et tout le reste, le Comte Versipelle, le maître d’Ysengrin, l’avait arraché.

Aux portes du palais, donc, s’annonça le Vicomte et toute sa suite. Les portes étaient gardées par deux très belles statues de pétales de rose, l’une blanche, l’autre rouge.

« Qui vient au Domaine de Beauté, qui s’avance au palais de Beauté, qui s’annonce au Comte de Beauté, la Dame Agrion, Maître de la Menée Belle, Premier Consort de la Reine Changeline ? fit la statue blanche.

- Je suis le Vicomte Ysengrin de la Menée Hurlante, et je viens au nom de mon maître, le Comte Leu le Versipelle. Derrière moi est ma menée.

-Et qu’est-ce qui amène le Vicomte Ysengrin de la Menée Hurlante à réclamer, au nom de son maître, le Comte Leu le Versipelle, l’entrée du palais de Beauté, l’accueil du Comte Agrion de Beauté ? » fit la statue rouge.

Ysengrin remonta le col de sa peau de guerre, hérissée de poils collés comme des aiguilles. Ses troupes étaient tout autant hérissées et les deux gardes n’avaient rien en main. Le protocole n’était que cela : protocolaire, car les portes s’ouvraient déjà. Il répondit du bout des crocs :

« Le sort de Dame Hersent m’amène ! »

Et les portes s’ouvrirent sur le premier des halls. La statue blanche allait répondre, et Ysengrin allait sortir les griffes, quand il vit s’avancer Agrion, une main tendue en guise d’apaisement. Le Comte de Beauté portait ce jour là un visage pâle et souriant, aux longs cheveux en cascades de coquelicots, et aurait presque pu passer pour humain. Les manches bouffantes de son habit faisaient de ses deux paires de bras, une seule, et les yeux surnuméraires de son visage étaient modestement clos et cachés sous des points de maquillage – rouge, bien évidemment. Iel était en habit modeste de diamants blancs et de rubis rouges, presqu’humain, humble et, Ysengrin le sentit sur sa langue de guerre, effrayé.

Une main posée sur le cœur, Agrion s’inclina.

« Nous sommes navrés d’apprendre que nos lettres n’ont point atteint les terres versipelles, concernant Dame Hersent. Je vous en prie, Vicomte Ysengrin, entrez, car la nuit tombera bientôt et, si je ne doute pas que vous courriez vite et puissiez sans mal atteindre les frontières de mon domaine avant le crépuscule, il me déplairait de vous laissez repartir sans faire montrer d’hospitalité, puisque vous êtes ici. »

Iel parlait avec une voix rauquement douce, presque éplorée. Ysengrin n’avait doute que tout cela était destiné à l’attendrir et à l’apitoyer. Pauvre Comte Agrion ! Pauvre créature de Beauté dont la plus terrible armée étaient une paire de topiaires ! Pauvre menteuse, manipulatrice, pétasse de consort ! Ses mots mielleux ne l’apaiseraient pas. Ysengrin posa le pied sur la marche de marbre la plus haute et saisit brutalement la main tendue du Comte, pour y déposer le baisemain le plus furieux qui fut.

« Vous êtes trop aimable, Comte. Et nous resterons, en effet, le temps qu’il sera nécessaire pour retrouver la Dame Hersent. »

« Doux Seigneur ! Si j’entends votre mission, je dois vous avertir… non, entrez, avant tout, entrez dans mes halls et défaites-vous de vos peaux de guerres… si, si, j’insiste ! Il n’est guère approprié de porter tels atours au sein du Domaine de Beauté, quoique j’apprécie l’audace et la fraîcheur de me les présenter ainsi… ! »

Ysengrin sourit de toutes ses dents.

« Avez-vous fait laisser sa peau à l’entrée à Dame Hersent, Comte ? Hé bien ? »

« Ciel, non ! J’entends, gentil seigneur, tous vos soupçons, cependant je n’ai pas déparé Dame Hersent, et c’est de sa peau vêtue qu’elle entra ici… néanmoins, le confort ! Vous ne serez guère aise dans ces grandes peaux de guerre, si je dois tous vous recevoir dans le premier de mes halls… et je n’oserais séparer votre menée, de crainte que vous ne me craigniez. »

Le premier hall était grand et d’un bleu frais comme le ciel d’été. Les talons d’Ysengrin et de ses troupes y résonnèrent, Agrion trottant aux côtés de son « invité », les poings serrés sur les pans de sa robe pour s’en dépêtrer et rester à sa hauteur.

Le visiteur fit quelques pas conquérants avant de daigner répondre.

« Fort bien, nous n’avons pas, je le vois, besoin de peaux de guerre. » Le hall était presque vide, et les seuls à s’y attarder n’étaient que des serviteurs de verre filé et de promesses d’enfance, des choses fragiles et belles qui ne leur opposeraient aucune résistance. La plupart des courtisans du Comte semblaient bien timides et effrayés, presque autant que leur maîtresse, à l’arrivée de la menée. Bien, songea-t-il. Bien.

Mais la peur, il le savait aussi, menait au désespoir, et le désespoir n’était pas toujours celui que l’on aime dévorer ; parfois, c’est celui des derniers actes de brillance et de gloire. Le Comte semblait bien lâche et fragile, ellui aussi, mais, et Ysengrin ne risquait pas de l’oublier, c’était en son domaine qu’Hersent avait disparu. Le Vicomte passa ses mains à l’entournure de son visage et entreprit de retourner sa peau. Une servante d’Agrion s’avança pour l’aider, et il gifla violemment sa main écorchée hors de portée. Les versipelles n’étaient pas de précieux courtisans. Ils retiraient leurs propres bottes et retournaient leurs propres peaux. Ysengrin cracha au sol, comme il est de coutume quand on déteste les serviteurs de quelqu’un et rajusta son col de peau tendre. Il portait, ces derniers temps, si peu sa peau de paix que son propre regard le surprit dans le miroir que lui tendit un de ses serviteurs. Il rajusta une oreille velue qui s’était décalée, mira le gris de ses tempes et celui, plus clair de ses yeux, constata quelques rides nouvelles et soupira en son for intérieur. Voilà ce qui arrivait lorsqu’une peau passait sa vie retournée : elle fripait ! Peu lui importait cependant, car il n’était pas un dindon vaniteux, et sa peau de guerre portait tant que cicatrices que sa peau de paix pouvait bien tomber en lambeaux sans risquer de lui faire de l’ombre.

Derrière lui, ses gens aussi s’étaient retournés et s’ajustaient. Il constata avec amusement, et une certaine fierté, qu’il ignorait jusqu’au visage de paix de certains de ses vétérans les plus fidèles.

A côté, les gens de Beauté les avaient observés, l’œil fixe, doux et luisant tout à la fois. Agrion tendit une main fascinée pour passer quelques longs doigts blancs sur l’avant-bras velu d’Ysengrin.

« Pardonnez, Ô Vicomte, car je n’ai jamais vu de près… ! » et le Vicomte saisit ces doigts dans son poing, serrant et repoussant tout à la fois. Il y avait quelque chose de malaisant au contact délicat de la main du Comte de Beauté.

« Et vous pouvez voir sans toucher. »

« Diantre, que vous êtes méchant, mon doux seigneur Ysengrin ! » Iel eut un petit rire. Ysengrin se souvenait de son maître, qui lui avait dit de ne pas plus laisser Agrion le toucher qu’il ne devait traverser son domaine nuitamment. « Ce n’était que la fascination, car, le savez-vous ? Votre menée et la nôtre ne sont pas si différentes sur ce point. Vous retournez vos visages, et nous, gens de beauté, en portons cent. Je n’avais jamais vu un versipelle se changer d’aussi près. »

En de gestes grâcieux, l’hôte ordonnait ses serviteurs, tout en continuant la conversation auprès d’Ysengrin. La peur se sentait moins à présent, et la langue humaine d’Ysengrin ne percevait guère plus que les goûts ténus et fades des parfums du palais. Porter la peau de paix, c’était nager dans un coton sensoriel. La vue, seule, et peut-être un peu le toucher, s’amélioraient de ce côté de la pelisse.

« Ma chère Comte, vous portez des masques pour l’apparat. Nos peaux sont pour la guerre. »

« La beauté est une guerre en soi, mais j’entends que ses champs de bataille ne vous évoquent rien. »

Agrion se retourna vers lui avec un sourire modeste. Derrière cette modestie, la plus grande arrogance du monde. Ysengrin n’était pas courtisan ; c’était, même en peau de paix, un guerrier et un conquérant. Le Versipelle avait arraché son immense domaine des mains des autres Comtes de Fée. Agrion avait gagné le sien dans le lit de la Reine Changeline. Oh, en lui demandant de remettre sa peau de paix, iel avait dû penser ramener Ysengrin dans son domaine, là où les mots faisaient tout, là où iel était la mieux armée. Où iel se pensait la mieux armée, en tout cas. Ysengrin se moquait bien qu’on le dise laid, mais il fallait décrocher le sourire du Comte. Son poing se tendit et attrapa le sautoir d’Agrion, tira violemment jusqu’à voir les rubis rentrer dans la chair du cou, tira jusqu’à ce qu’il n’y ait plus que l’espace d’un soupir entre leurs deux visages. Celui du Comte s’était figé. Très lentement, très délibérément, Ysengrin siffla :

« Ne m’insultez pas. Je suis venu pour une chose, et avec ma peau ou non, je l’obtiendrai de vous. Où est Hersent ? »

L’autre ferma les paupières et souffla doucement. Sa main blanche se glissa sur le poignet du Vicomte, pour tenter de desserrer la prise. Là c’était assez proche pour le sentir de nouveau, ce goût de peur, même avec une langue engourdie. Bien.

« La Dame Hersent vint, il est vrai, porter comme vous les respects et présents du Seigneur Leu, votre maître. Ce que j’espérais vous dire, Ô doux, aimable, gentil, tendre seigneur, autour d’un dîner et non point sur mon paillasson, c’était que la Dame s’en est allée, et que je puis vous assurer, sans menterie aucune, qu’il n’est ici nulle Dame Hersent. Il n’y a que moi, et vous savez que je n’ai pas de vassaux majeurs ou de châteaux secrets où cacher une vicomtesse de la Menée Hurlante. Mon domaine n’est que plaines et ce palais, que je vous invite de mon plein gré à visiter. Vous savez également pour principe, doux seigneur, doux seigneur, que je ne tue point. »

La voix, qui se voulait égale, trembla très légèrement. La main blanche sur son poing s’était faite pressante, sans parvenir à dénouer les doigts d’Ysengrin. Un véritable Comte de Fée était aussi immortel que puissant, mais Agrion… ah, réalisa Ysengrin, la chute est encore plus proche que l’on ne le pense, s’iel ne peut même pas se libérer de l’emprise de ma peau de paix.

Le doute s’insinua en Ysengrin. Le Comte de Beauté était la plus grande des menteuses, c’était indéniable. Mais ce qu’iel disait était tout aussi dur à nier. La Comté n’était pas grande et la menée l’avait écumée en passant. Hersent n’était pas facile à cacher et encore moins à maîtriser ou à tuer.

« Et la nuit ? »

« La Dame n’est point partie de nuit, mais peut-être y est-elle restée. Qui sait ? Je ne sais point. Je vous le répète, il n’y a, ici, que moi. Je vous expliquerai son séjour si cela peut vous apaiser et vous lancer sur la piste de votre épouse. »

Alors, seulement alors, Ysengrin relâcha son emprise sur le collier. Il avait serré si fort que les pierres rouges et blanches avaient percé ses paumes d’humain fragile. Autour de la gorge d’Agrion, des ruisselets de sang formaient des rayures, qui descendaient jusqu’à teinter le col de sa robe blanche. Son visage était doux et impassible, avec, de nouveau, ce petit sourire. Différent de l’odeur de peur qu’iel dégageait. Les illusions ! Les masques illusoires, les glamours, étaient à la Menée Belle ce que les peaux étaient à la Menée Hurlante. Il suffisait maintenant à Ysengrin de savoir que ce petit sourire arrogant n’était pas réel. Un bref instant, l’envie de tâter le visage de son interlocutrice, de ses poings, lui passa. Quelles expressions, voire quelles difformités, se cachaient sous la peau blanche et sous le maquillage rouge ? Iel ne devait pas pouvoir tout cacher.

« Restez cette nuit, Ô bel Ysengrin, dînez avec moi et peut-être comprendrez-vous ce qu’il est advenu de votre Dame. En attendant, voyez mon palais et assurez-vous que nulle Hersent ne s’y trouve. »

Iel s’avança et lui offrit son bras, qu’Ysengrin saisit sans pouvoir s’empêcher de l’écraser, juste un peu. Si iel le sentit, iel ne le montra pas, cette fois.

Sept grand halls furent visités, presque intégralement vides. Les bougies colorées qui y brûlaient illuminaient les pistes de danse et les fosses orchestrales pour bien peu de servants, très peu d’hommes ou de femmes de compagnie. Certains humains, certains fées mais aucun, pourtant, de haut rang. Des portraits en pied ornaient les murs immenses, et, quoiqu’ils représentassent tous des personnages différents, Ysengrin eut rapidement la certitude qu’il n’y avait là que des portraits d’Agrion. Les masques d’Agrion. Les déguisements d’Agrion. Les maquillages d’Agrion. Agrion en jeune humain visitant incognito son domaine, Agrion en musicienne colorée, Agrion insectoïde en amante de la Reine. Les peintures étaient toutes exécutées de main de maître, mais ni le nez, ni les yeux humains d’Ysengrin ne le trompèrent. Elles commençaient toutes à être piquée d’eau et de pourriture. Certaines étaient même lourdement balafrées, maladroitement recousues et repeintes. Comme si un guerrier ne savait pas reconnaître une cicatrice !

Hersent n’était nulle part. Son odeur même avait disparu, semblait-il, quoiqu’il fût difficile pour le Vicomte de se fier au nez de sa peau de paix. Les serviteurs qui laissaient pourrir les portraits avaient dû prendre bien soin d’effacer sa Dame… lorsque, au bout de deux heures, ils achevèrent leur visite du septième hall, Ysengrin sentit de nouveau la colère monter en lui.

Mais tuer le Comte n’était pas possible maintenant. Ces choses là ne se faisaient que par la grâce de la Reine Changeline, et un Comte sans domaine pouvait toujours bien prétendre à son immortalité. Pourtant… tout cela semblait si facile à prendre, si offert ! Ysengrin songea que le Seigneur Leu lui avait bien demandé, si possible, d’humilier un peu sa rivale… non, si possible de l’humilier beaucoup. Mais il n’avait rien mentionné à propos du fait de la dévorer et de prendre le pouvoir. Prendre le pouvoir au Comté de Beauté, cela semblait si simple ! Mais le tenir sans s’attirer les foudres du Comte Leu le Versipelle, cela paraissait dangereux.

« A quoi songez-vous, doux seigneur ?

-Que vous avez une dernière chance de me dire la vérité. Et arrêtez de m’appeler doux seigneur.

-N’en veuillez pas à un artiste de rêver que ses mots finissent par vous toucher. Mais je puis vous appeler rude seigneur s’il vous plaît mieux.

-Comte Ysengrin, ce sera suffisant.

-Oh, Comte ? M’auriez-vous gardé quelque terrible nouvelle de la Comté des Loups ? Comment va le Comte Leu ?

-Je le représente. Je sais que vous vous moquez de moi depuis tout à l’heure. Je sais qu’un VICE-comte doit être appelé Comte. Vous pensez vraiment que le Comte Versipelle ne se ferait représenter que par des brutes, n’est-ce pas ? Vous m’appelez Vicomte depuis tout à l’heure. Vos servants aussi. Mais c’est Comte. Je représente le Comte Versipelle. Je suis le Comte Ysengrin, POUR VOUS.

-Je ne présume rien de ce que peut faire le Comte Versipelle, car je n’ai point l’habitude de traiter avec ses représentants… Comte Ysengrin. »

Ils voltèrent enfin, la dernière tenture rouge atteinte et inspectée, et commencèrent la marche inverse, vers le premier hall où le dîner, et la majorité de la Menée Hurlante, étaient restés.

« Le Comte Versipelle et moi-même, croyez-le ou non, avons habituellement une relation plus proche. Oh, je ne dirais pas complice, et je ne pense rien avoir à apprendre à un fin politicien concernant nos relations parfois violentes… si vaste est son domaine, ces derniers temps, que j’entends fort bien qu’il ne puisse plus en sortir pour rendre visite à ses plus anciennes amies. »

Ysengrin avait toute la peine du monde à imaginer Leu et la méprisante petite Comte proches de quelque manière que ce fût.

« Vous êtes surpris ? Nous sommes tous deux chasseurs, pourtant. Leu est le maître de la chasse carnassière. Je suis la maîtresse de la chasse spirituelle. Quelles que soient par ailleurs ses aspirations vis-à-vis de ma Comté, nous sommes proches et nous échangeons souvent.

-Je ne vous vois pas chasser.

-Mais je chasse ! Je chasse la plus terrible et la plus dangereuse des choses, je chasse la Beauté, je chasse l’Art ! Parfois, au détour d’un chemin, on l’aperçoit, on le poursuit, lèvres écumantes… haletant, on s’arrête pour tirer un trait. Parfois, cela fait mouche, parfois cela manque. Nous l’accrochons au mur ensuite, mais nous savons, n’est-ce pas ? Vous, moi, ce cher Leu également, et assurément votre douce Hersent, que ce qui est grisant dans la chasse, ce n'est pas le trophée, c'est la poursuite. Toujours nous chassons. Et de cette façon, le Comte Leu et moi somme de parfaits rivaux et de parfaits amis. »

Le visage du Comte Agrion s’était illuminé de ferveur. Sa main blanche s’était serrée sur le bras d’Ysengrin, quoique sa poigne fut toujours d’une faiblesse risible. Iel était franche, pour la première fois peut-être. Cela ne dura qu’une fraction de seconde. Iel eut un soupir et posa sa tête contre l’épaule de son interlocuteur. Les dizaines d’ailes de libellule qui lui tenaient lieu de chevelure bruissèrent contre le cuir de l’armure d’Ysengrin.

« Ô gentil seigneur… Ô Comte Ysengrin, je sais que vous devez me haïr pour la disparition de votre épouse, mais restez auprès de moi ce soir. Nous parlerons, et vous verrez qui je suis – et si vous ne désirez pas parler, nous ferons ce que vous désirez. Depuis qu’Hersent est partie, je n’ai plus ici de compagnie. J’espérais une visite du Comte Versipelle, las ! Et ma Reine Changeline a bien peu de temps à accorder, même à son Premier Consort… ce n’est point pour moi la saison des bals, pour que mes gens ici s’amusent et m’amusent de leurs pas… mes halls sont tristes et vides, si, si ! Et à leur image, le Comte de Beauté… »

« Je vais vous frapper. » fit Ysengrin en secouant son épaule pour la libérer du contact (au travers du cuir, délicat et si dérangeant) de la peau d’Agrion. Cellui-ci sourit et se tapota les lèvres de l’index.

« Est-ce une menace ou une proposition ? Les deux peut-être ? Allons dîner avant. »

Et juste ainsi, en un temps incertain, Ysengrin réalisa qu’ils avaient traversé les sept halls, de nouveau, et que le hall bleu, magnifié de musique s’étirait autour d’eux. Il semblait plus grand encore qu’à son arrivée en ce palais absurde. Une immense table, bleue elle aussi, avait été dressée le long du hall, et la menée d’Ysengrin tout comme les courtisans d’Agrion s’y étaient installés. Les serviteurs de filigrane, les statues de choses délicates, avaient tous disparus. A la place, les choses qui erraient le long de la table, armées de cruches de vin et de bols de lupins, étaient d’étranges constructions.

Le regard glissait sur elles comme s’il était dans leur nature que d’être ignorées. Tout au plus pouvait-on percevoir qu’elles avaient un corps, et que ce corps avait certainement des mains, et que ces mains, certainement, tenaient des objets pour les servir aux convives. Au-dessus de ces corps, il y avait des masques, effrayants de beauté et parfaitement inexpressifs. Tous ces masques-là, d’une manière si fine que l’on aurait dit de la chair, étaient taillés aux traits de la maîtresse des lieux. La chevelure d’ailes de libellule, la peau blanche, les deux yeux rouges et les cinq autres points rouges sous lesquels on devinait cinq autres yeux. Les lèvres figées en un petit sourire arrogant.

« Ne dit-on pas que l’on n’est jamais mieux servi que par soi-même ? Si, si ! Cela se dit chez les humains de mon domaine. Maintenant, vous avez amené une certaine troupe avec vous et je serais bien mauvaise hôtesse si je ne les nourrissais point. Ainsi notre table est bien longue, aussi vous proposerai-je de vous installer à ma place, en chef, et je me placerai à la vôtre, à votre gauche ou à votre droite, la main qu’il vous plaira. Réservons l’autre chef de table à Dame Hersent, si elle survient. Oh, vous semblez penser que je me moque ! Mais je ne me moque pas, doux sire, voyez le respect que j’ai pour vous. Prenez ma place. Pour soupe, nous avons de la soupe-miroir : c’est une spécialité locale, c’est très bon avec un peu d’estime râpée. Pour le plat, nous avons désiré faire honneur à vos talents de chasseur. Le dessert vous surprendra peut-être mais c’est une spécialité locale, et c’est très bon à sa manière. Cela n’est guère pesant. »

Ysengrin s’installa. Le hall bleu ciel, bleu d’été, était si vaste et si clair qu’il lui sembla, bien qu’il fasse nuit dehors, que l’on dînait à ciel ouvert. Il avait marché toute la journée, en peau de guerre et en armure. Ce jour illusoire lui donnait le tournis. La musique qui y résonnait était magnifique mais ses accents, ses basses étaient horriblement grinçantes et lui remontaient au bord des lèvres.

« Qu’est-ce que c’est que cette musique, Agrion ?

-Ah ! Vous avez l’oreille et je ne sais pas pourquoi je m’en étonne. Vous êtes un loup, après tout… cela, mon cher, cela illustre la plus chère de mes croyances ! Qu’en chaque chose est son contraire. Voyez et sachez qu’au Comté de Beauté, nous ne nous amusons point des petites vanités princières de nos sœurs et de frères féées des autres domaines. Nos vanités, doux sire, sont énormes et sérieuses. Nous ne faisons pas qu’observer la beauté, nous la cherchons. Et la beauté se meurt quand on la capture, car ainsi se déroule une chasse. Vous comprenez cela.

-Mh-hm.

-Mais une beauté qui meurt, c’est une hideur qui s’embellit. La fadeur d’une fleur coupée, c’est le ravissement de découvrir les formes que ses pétales font en tombant. Ou la beauté de la dance des vers qui la dévorent lorsqu’on la jette en terre.

-Vous êtes complètement folle, Comte.

-Oui ! Merci ! Dans la beauté de nos violons, nous injectons la hideur de mille ongles crissant, parce que c’est là ! Dans son contraire ! Que chaque chose se trouve. Beauté et hideur se nourrissent l’une l’autre et ne meurent jamais. »

La peau de paix d’Ysengrin commençait à sérieusement le déranger. Il aurait voulu la retourner. Mais maintenant ? C’eut été un aveu de faiblesse. Il était las, las et habitué à la guerre, pas à ces mondanités absurdes. La Comte folle et ses explications insensées, sa passion à peine voilée pour l’autodestruction, n’étaient pas une menace.

La soupe-miroir fut servie. Elle était fidèle à son nom et Ysengrin y mira longtemps le gris de ses propres yeux et de ses propres tempes. Il n’aimait vraiment pas ce visage humain si tendre et si fragile. Pourquoi avait-il retourné sa peau ?

Agrion, de son côté, légèrement en contrebas du trône qu’iel lui avait donné, n’avait pas de reflet. Lorsqu’iel nota le regard d’Ysengrin, iel dressa le menton et une expression mutine à son attention.

« Les illusions interfèrent avec ces choses-là. Mais je me suis dit que la spécialité vous amuserait, vous qui avez aussi deux visages. Le bon seigneur Leu aime assez cette soupe.

-A quoi ressemblez-vous sous votre illusion, j’me demande…

-Ah… je me demande aussi.

-Vous ne savez même pas ?

-Je suis très vieil, Ysengrin. Et nous nous ressemblons, mais nous ne sommes pas les mêmes. Vous n’avez que deux visages. Je suis cent visages. Mais vous pourrez me toucher plus tard et deviner si vous le souhaitez. »

Ysengrin essuya d’un revers de manche la soupe qui lui dégoulinait dans la barbe. Il commençait à en avoir assez. Il grogna :

« Je suis venu chercher ma femme et vous passez votre temps à vouloir que je vous touche, hein ?

-Ah, je ne souhaite point vous faire oublier votre quête. Simplement, vous n’appréciez peut-être pas ma compagnie, mais moi, j’apprécie la vôtre, Comte Ysengrin. J’ai rarement l’occasion de parler avec des personnes qui ne sont ni de ma station, ni mes propres gens. J’ai oublié le goût des autres, en vérité. Ma Reine me manque terriblement. Votre maître me manque aussi…

-Je ne suis pas mon maître.

-Mais vous le représentez, Ô Comte Ysengrin ! fit l’hôte avec un sourire amusé. En toute honnêteté, Dame Hersent et vous êtes à lui semblables comme mes serviteurs me sont semblables… ce que j’aime chez Leu, je le hais aussi chez vous.

-Où est Dame Hersent ?

-Ah, voilà notre plat ! » Fit Agrion avec un petit cri de ravissement. Un des serviteurs masqués, titubant sous un plat aussi grand et aussi lourd que lui, s’avança pour poser avec fracas la pièce de venaison du jour devant les deux Comtes, dans une volée de sauce.

Bien sûr, c’était Hersent.

Elle, là, l’œil glauque et ouvert, sa peau de paix ruisselante de sauce, l’épaule craquelée par la chaleur. Evidemment, c’était Hersent.

Ysengrin se dressa avec fracas. La salle était tombée muette. L’était-elle vraiment ? Non, mais tout était assourdi. Il était conscient, quelque part, de la musique, du brouhaha de ses hommes. Mais il sentait le sang bourdonner à ses oreilles, ses foutues oreilles humaines. Ses mains trouvèrent la gorge d’Agrion et serrèrent. Que firent ses hommes ? Il ne pouvait rien leur dire. Rien faire sinon serrer.

Ce visage, ce visage blanc, toujours blanc, toujours impassible. Et il serra. Les mains écorchées d’Agrion tiraient sur ses poignets, avec force mais sans parvenir à les déloger et il serrait toujours. Et toujours Agrion le regardait d’un visage inexpressif, avec un petit sourire mutin. Deux yeux rouges le fixaient de derrière le masque. Il serrait. Et les mains se débattaient, mais il serrait et serrait et elles finirent par glisser de ses poignets. Il continua de serrer.

« Doux Seigneur, Ô doux Seigneur. Ô Comte Ysengrin. » Fit la voix d’Agrion, sans que les lèvres du visage face à lui ne bougent. « Doux Seigneur ! » fit la voix insistante. « Votre repas refroidit. »

Ses oreilles semblèrent soudainement se déboucher et il sentit le corps de la servante lui échapper et retomber, inerte, au sol. Dans une confusion ivre, il tourna la tête. Agrion était à sa place et le rôti avait été tranché. Dans le grand plat, il n’y avait plus qu’une viande noire et sirupeuse.

« Ceci, mon tendre Vicomte, est du rôti d’angoisse. Un sentiment prédateur aussi dur à capturer qu’il est difficile d’en échapper. Ah, ne faites pas attention à cette chose, vous me l’avez abîmée mais j’en ai d’autres. »

Un nouveau serviteur masqué d’avança avec une aiguière de sauce, la posa, et recula en tirant la morte par un pied.

« Je suppose qu’un grand veneur comme vous a peut-être déjà goûté de ceci, mais elle n’est bonne que brûlante ou glacée, c’est pour quoi… vraiment, si vous voulez abîmer des serviteurs, cela peut attendre. Prenez une part d’angoisse.

-Vous vous foutez de moi. Je vais vous tuer, Agrion.

-Si vous voulez, gentil seigneur, mais prenez du rôti. »

Il ne sut pourquoi, mais Ysengrin s’affaissa sur le trône qu’on lui avait attribué. Il se sentait las. Si las. Drogué ? Non, juste las. Les bruits étaient trop forts. La journée avait été trop longue. Il venait de tuer quelqu’un sans raison. Le hall était trop grand. Les doigts des deux mains gauches de l’hôte se posèrent sur son poignet et pianotèrent doucement. Ysengrin les gifla et grogna.

« Dites-moi juste ce que vous avez fait de Dame Hersent. »

« C’est une chose que les mots seuls ne peuvent exprimer. Mais j’essaie de vous le dire, Ysengrin, j’essaie depuis que vous êtes ici. Il advint un jour que la Vicomtesse Hersent alla marcher, en peau de guerre, aux portes du palais aux sept halls où demeurait le Comte Agrion. Elle vint et nous parlâmes, comme nous le faisons à présent, et je lui offris un festin, comme je l’ai fait pour vous. Je ne souhaite que parler, Ô doux seigneur, je n’ai envie que de compagnie. On s’ennuie si vite ici. Ah, Ysengrin ! Ne me prenez pas pour votre ennemi. Vous ne pouvez pas l’être. »

Sa voix était triste. Sous ses tons précieux, sa voix bourdonnait comme des ailes de libellule.

« Demeurez, Vicomte, encore un peu à mes côtés. Je m’ennuie, Vicomte. Enragez-vous. Montrez-moi votre haine, je la trouverai jolie ! Ou l’amour que vous teniez pour Hersent, n’est-ce pas ? Vous aimiez Hersent ! Demeurez ! Demeurez ! Parlez-moi de votre amour ! Ah, tenez au moins jusqu’au dessert, Ô Vicomte.

-Qu’est-ce que… qu’est-ce que la nuit fait en Beauté ?

-Toutes les horreurs du monde. Si, mon gentil, aimable seigneur, et vous pouviez le deviner. La nuit, ce sont toutes les horreurs. Ce sont elles qui préservent notre Comté. Il faut qu’en chaque chose soit son contraire.

-Et moi, déglutit-il, qu’est-ce que vous m’avez fait ?

-Je vous ai touché, Ysengrin. Vous vous portiez avec une telle allure ! Si sûr d’être mon égal, Ô Vicomte, que je vous aurais cru… je voulais croire ! Si sûr de prendre tout ce que j’ai, j’aurais aimé que vous le fassiez, car je ne demande qu’une chose, c’est que l’on me détruise et que j’en refleurisse. Mon palais aurait été vôtre, mon corps, ma vie, tout ce que vous vouliez ! Si vous aviez été aussi fort que vous le pensiez. Vous auriez résisté à ma volonté, si, si ! Je vous aurais aimé ! Mais vous n’êtes pas Leu, ce pourceau, vous n’êtes que son rejet… je voudrais vous haïr comme je puis le haïr, mais vous êtes MORNE, YSENGRIN ! Vous êtes MORNE et TERNE et BANAL ! Je voulais quelque chose de REEL, YSENGRIN ! Quelque chose de BRUT ! Quelque chose de BEAU ! »

Les quatre mains pâles étaient autour de son cou. Les sept yeux rouges étaient ouverts. Il crut un instant qu’Agrion le tuerait. Las, si las. Les doigts blancs étaient rentrés à travers de sa peau, à travers de son esprit, avaient tout massé, tout lassé, tout doucement. Toute la soirée. Tout fouillé, à la recherche d’une étincelle qu’ils avaient eux-mêmes pincée par mégarde. Les doigts passèrent sous son menton et cherchèrent les bords de sa peau. Se glissèrent sous sa pelisse.

« Non. » cracha le Vicomte Ysengrin en décochant un poing vers Agrion. Ses phalanges percutèrent le menton du Comte et il s’entendit hurler. Quelque chose pour sa menée. Aux armes ou fuyez ? Les sept yeux du Comte étaient dans les siens. Un ruisselet rouge coulait entre ses lèvres souriantes. Deux de ses mains encadraient son visage, de nouveau, et les deux autres fouillaient dessous, aux limites de sa peau.

« Vous ne pouvez pas me faire de mal, Ysengrin. Je n’y arrive même pas moi-même, et croyez-moi, j’essaie. »

Il sentit les doigts se refermer sur les bords de sa peau. Et tirer.

Nul ne retourne ou ne retire la peau d’un versipelle pour lui. Hersent seule… Hersent… ! Il sentit le froid, comme il ne l’avait pas senti depuis des siècles. Lorsque la peau passa au-dessus de son visage, une obscurité plus profonde que la nuit vint. Il n’avait plus ni œil de loup, ni œil d’homme. Et bientôt, le monde fut tout aussi sourd. Pourtant, le Comte parlait toujours, et Ysengrin le percevait.

« Hersent ? »

« ll n’y a pas de femme du nom d’Hersent dans ce palais. Il y fut et y demeura et n’y est plus. »

Le froid passa sur ses épaules comme une vague brutale. Sans geste brutal, mais implacablement, Agrion le déganta, et l’homme tendit désespérément ses mains libres et fragiles vers l’avant. Il y avait la peau de sa terrible adversaire, mais il passa à côté de cela. Il saisit la table. La table était en bois. Sans la voir ni l’entendre, la légère ombre du Comte sembla soudain tourner autour de lui, passer dans son dos et il la sentit tirer d’un coup sec pour dépecer ses jambes. Il était nu. Le poids de sa peau n’était plus sien.

Ni homme, ni loup, le versipelle pelé tâta devant lui. Sous ses doigts écorchés, il sentit une forme.

« C’est le dessert, Ysengrin. Vous pouvez le toucher. »

Le dessert était d’une matière si fine que l’on aurait cru de la chair. Comme de la chair, elle était légèrement tiède, et sept boutons humides y étaient répartis. Ses doigts trouvèrent une aspérité et en dessinèrent le contour. Deux fines demi-lunes, imbriquées dans leur arrogance.

« C’est votre visage, c’est ça ? »

« Notre visage, très cher. Mettez. »

#onze dieux souriants #reine changeline #agrion #nouvelle nouvelle

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unproduciblesmackdown · 1 year

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clip of curtain call from summer stock opening night / first preview =)

there's ya boy will in the light grey jacket in the group to our right, immediately next to arianna as gloria in the mottled dress, promisingly for the theory that they keep the glorville (gloriaville?) endgame there lol

and an opening night curtain call photo as well, posted by ensemble castmember erika amato:

"Woohoo! SUMMER STOCK had an incredibly successful first public performance, followed by a lovely reception next door at Gelston's House. We did take group pics, but of course none of them were on my phone. 😂🤷‍♀️ (Credit for the curtain call pic goes to Will's lovely wife, Steph. Pic of the opening drop was copied from Goodspeed's IG.)"

like erika omg get ahold of the group pics!! lolmao

#shoutout to steph's photography & documentation always....coming through w/the ruby manger lore just the other post....#summer stock #will roland #orville wingate #wasn't expecting the lines from (howdy neighbor) happy harvest to be the lil reprise but who doesn't love a surprise #(remember neighbor when you work for mother nature) setup: you get paid by father time (payoff)#applied to the farming part of things lol so wonder how it works in the theatrical realm? mother nature....#well anyways lmao they have said they shake up even who gets which numbers that are kept on from the film; prob go in different places too #i'm curious. i wanna see the stuff. i'm not even speaking it into existence i'm just expressing how i feel lmao #but like everyone feel free to post....turning to some specific virtual locations & ppl naturally for Most Likely Some Material Here #erika's going relatively strong in that realm....keep it up thank you lol #orvia. orvillia. orvilloria. you get it lol lot of fun combinations w/this name. except w/like ''jane'' which is why they gotta break up...#orvphil. joerville. orvgomery; i have to imagine montgomery gets more relevance in this version somehow....

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yanderestevenuniverse · 3 years

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Hey! Always a scary thought in the Yandere Steven Universe verse is being a half gem hybrid. Your yandere would be so tempted to fuse/permafuse with their darling. Garnet is a good example for this as in that space where you go when fused has the three of them there(Garnet, Ruby, and Sapphire) So now being their darling and stuck in that forever space with the three of them forever would be...well it's a fun thought at the very least. No idea what I'm requesting here other then sharing thoughts!

Yeahh those are some pretty cool thoughts

Aged up of course

Yeah I can imagine maybe you try and escape or get into a big fight with Steven and then because we know that he’s super delusional his darling fighting back against him with their gem powers screaming things like I hate you and. Stuff which shatteres his reality and after he beats you he just completely panics because he can’t deal with all that he’s done and he figures that theirs only one way to keep you safe and with. Him forever so he forcefully fuses with you of course it would be very unstable and probably look like a horrifying amalgamation but through his powers of self delusion he tricks himself into believing everything is fine and due to the fact that he’s way more exasperienced at fusing then you are he mangers to repress you so all you can do is watch as he controls your body and makes everybody think that everything is fine

End

#yandere ask #yandere #yandere steven #yandere steve universe future #yandere steven universe x reader #yandere steven universe #Steven universe #su #yandere su #yandere imagine

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cafes-et-friandises · 2 years

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┃ Happy Birthday

「 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚂 」 ▹ Yun Jin, Fischl VON LUFTSCHLOSS NARFIDORT, Itto ARATAKI & Lisa MINCI

─ 𝚃𝚈𝙿𝙴 ▹ Scénario

─ 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙴𝚁 ▹ ♀ Féminin

─ 𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚁𝙴 ▹ ♥ En relation amoureuse | ☆ Happy Ending | ♥ Romance | ♥ Tendresse

─ 𝚃𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙶𝙴𝚁 & 𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 ▹ R.A.S

Note ▹ Coucou ! Joyeux anniversaire en retard à tout ce beau monde ! C'est les périodes d'examen d'où le très peu de postes ! En espérant que ces drabbles vous plaises et comme à chaque fois, je vous souhaites une : "Bonne Lecture" ! ❤️

{ Après ma performance aujourd'hui, je ne peux m'empêcher de ressentir que quelque chose me manque. J'aimerais voir mes amis Si tu as du temps, pourquoi pas nous retrouver sur la Falaise Chihu ? Nous pourrons nous promener ensemble le soir en ville pour manger de bonnes choses, qu'en dis-tu ? A ces heures tardives, j'adore manger des brochettes accompagnées d'une bonne boisson. C'est vrai que ce n'est peut-être pas très sain, mais c'est mon anniversaire. Les aînés n'auront rien à y redire. Profiter une fois par an de ce petit plaisir me rend très heureuse. J'aimerais t'inviter à goûter du thé typique de Liyue. Si tu le trouve trop fort et amer, ne te force pas. Au moins, tu auras goûté quelque chose de nouveau. A très vite. }

─ « Est-ce ce thé ? »

Assise en tailleur sur l'un des toits terrasse du port de Liyue, tu portas avec élégance la petite tasse en porcelaine à tes lèvres. C'était la première fois que tu mettais les pieds dans ce genre d'endroit et la première fois que tu te sentais aussi tendue. Yun Jin était comme toujours magnifique dans ses habits d'opéra, la signification même de l'élégance et du raffinement, dégustant son thé avec grâce. Ses yeux rubis quittèrent le magnifique paysage du port de Liyue bercé par le soleil couchant et la brise saisonnière pour se tourner vers ta silhouette peu assuré prête à goûter ce thé amer.

─ « Tu n'as pas à te forcer (T/P). » Déclara avec bienveillance la jeune femme, se retenant de sourire devant ta mine remplit d'appréhension. « N'aurais-je pas dû mentionner son goût amer ? »

Avant même que tu ne puisses y tremper tes lèvres, tu lui adressas un regard interrogateur, surprise qu'elle vienne à te parler de ça. Avais-tu fait une tête étrange ? Sûrement au vu du sourire enjoué qui peinait à disparaître de son visage pâle. Prise sur le fait, tu lui adressas un sourire gêné avant de tourner une nouvelle fois ton regard vers la tasse à demi en te maudissant. Ne savais-tu pas contrôler tes expressions ? Visiblement non. Soupirant intérieurement, tu t'y repris une deuxième fois, approchant la tasse de tes lèvres pour goûter son contenu. Cependant, cette fois-ci, une main te barra la route se posant sur le haut de ta tasse, attirant ton regard vers la possesseuse de cette dernière.

─ « C'est de ma faute n'est-ce pas ? » Soupira la chanteuse déposant sa propre tasse sur la table basse en bois noir, se rapprochant de toi pour retirer le morceau de porcelaine d'entre tes mains. « Tu es si tendue... Aurais-tu rencontré les aînés ? »

Ton regard se détourna d'elle. Comment aurais-tu pu les rater ? Comment auraient-ils pu te rater ? À croire qu'ils savaient tout sur leur précieuse chanteuse, jusqu'à ses fréquentations et ce qui était "bon" pour elle. Tu faisais de ton mieux, tu t'efforçais d'être à la hauteur pour pouvoir te tenir à ses côtés, mais ils avaient toujours trouvé quelque chose à y redire. Yun Jin se contenta de soupirer intérieurement en voyant ta mine fuyante. D'un geste souple, ses doigts caressèrent ta joue avec tendresse alors qu''elle posait ses lèvres sur les tiennes, vous offrant un doux baiser rempli d'affection. Son regard rubis aussi doux qu'une fleur de soie et ses lèvres s'étirant avec amour, elle se contenta de caresser du pouce ta joue.

─ « Ignore-les (T/P). Ils sont à ma charge. Ils te voient comme ma faiblesse, mais un jour, ils comprendront que tu es ma force et mon inspiration. » Soupira la chanteuse, l'aplomb de ses yeux rubis courant dans ton regard. « Goûtons ce thé ensemble, (T/P). »

Yun Jin porta une des tasses à ses lèvres pour y prendre une mince gorgée, t'emmenant l'instant d'après dans un doux baiser. Le liquide glissa entre les lèvres ouvertes, liant vos langues avec cette amertume qui coula le long de ton menton, de ta gorge, à l'abri des regards indiscrets. Sur ce toit terrasse, vous dégustiez un thé âcre qui, étrangement, avait un goût sucré et doux entre vos lèvres. Si ce matin même en recevant cette lettre, tu ne te serais jamais imaginé de telles choses, en réalité, ce n'était pas si mal que vous mangiez de temps à autre ensemble, rien que toutes deux.

{ Le jour où l'étoile sacrée est descendue des profondeurs de la nuit dans le monde des hommes, j'ai ordonné à Oz de braver les océans pour me ramener un trésor d'un pays lointain. Observez donc ! Ces pétales d'un rouge léger, ce parfum enivrant, cet éclat semblable à la lumière ardente qui se dégage des cendres du dernier jour. Une telle chose est rare en ce monde mortel ! Mais j'ai traversé de nombreux mondes et possède par conséquent quantité de trésors. Je vous fais ainsi cadeau de ces fleurs. Continuez de faire l'éloge de ma grandeur ! }

─ « Merci Blanche. » Sifflotas-tu en lisant les mots inscrits sur le papier à lettre d'un sourire agréable à la jeune femme. « Fischl devrait réellement écrire des romans, surtout avec tout ce qu'elle a vécu. Ils seraient passionnants. J'aime beaucoup sa manière d'écrire. »

L'épicière eut un sourire gêné, visiblement pour la jeune femme les histoires de Fischl sortaient tout droit de son imagination, celle-ci se garda bien de t'en toucher un mot. Ce n'était pas le moment de débattre sur les potentiels mensonges de la jeune fille. La blonde ayant oublié son paquet sur le rebord de son comptoir, ignorant que ces affaires avaient appartenus à l'aventurière, Blanche avait jugé bon de donner la lettre et la boite à la personne dont le nom était inscrit en lettres majuscules sur l'enveloppe. Dès qu'elle t'avait alpagué, tu t'étais empressée d'ouvrir le courrier, curieuse de savoir ce que pouvait contenir l'enveloppe. Tes yeux (C/Y) passant sur les lignes écrites d'un manuscrit parfait, tu n'avais pu empêcher un sourire attendrit de venir fleurir les lèvres de ton visage.

─ « Madame Blanche, auriez-vous aperçu mon trésor accompagné d'un papier blanc ? »

La jeune femme accompagnée de son fidèle corbeau sortit du raccourci accroché à la boutique et se figea presque instantanément en voyant son précieux présent entres tes doigts. Son visage se fit aussi blanc que de la porcelaine, tandis que la commerçante ne savait plus où se mettre ayant visiblement fait une erreur. Oz quant à lui laissa un regard passer de sa maîtresse à ton sourire conquis, préférant se taire que de parler pour le moment. L'aventurière se métamorphosa en un automate arrachant la feuille de tes mains, le visage désormais entièrement couvert de rouge prêtre à prendre ses jambes à son cou. Le papier pressé contre sa poitrine d'un bras, elle fit demi-tour pour s'enfuir, mais son poignet fut retenu par ta prise délicate. Ton bras entoura sa taille, plongeant ta tête contre son cou, son dos pressé contre ta poitrine, tu eus un petit rire accentuant sa gêne.

─ « Ne vous enfuyiez pas princesse. » Murmuras-tu par habitude le surnom qu'appréciait plus que tout la blonde, surtout venant d'entre les lèvres de sa petite-amie, soit toi. « Merci pour les fleurs de cerisiers. Pourquoi ne pas aller les voir ensemble à Inazuma cette année ? Qu'en pensez-vous comme cadeau d'anniversaire ? »

Son regard tenta un coup d'œil dans ta direction. Il était risqué, mais son cœur battait au creux de ses oreilles, sa respiration se faisait chancelante et sa curiosité était piquée à son paroxysme. Quel visage faisais-tu ? La lettre t'avait fait plaisir ? Elle avait longuement réfléchi à chacun des mots, allant même jusqu'à demander conseil à Mona qui n'était pas plus avancée qu'elle dans l'exercice qu'est : " d'exprimer ses sentiments avec honnêteté ". Son regard s'agrandit légèrement, sa poigne se resserrant sur la lettre pressée contre son cœur tandis qu'enfin, elle pouvait voir tes yeux (C/Y) et la douceur de tes traits. Sérieuse, calme et si douce, c'est ce qu'elle voyait en toi, ce qui l'agitât bien plus. Déglutissant avec force, ou machinalement, Fischl te répondit dans un murmure.

─ « Si c'est là ton souhait, mon illustre grandeur t'accorde le droit de l'accompagner dans ce valeureux périple. »

─ « La princesse serait contente que vous alliez voir les fleurs de cerisier ensemble. »

─ « Merci Oz. » Raillas-tu légèrement d'un regard vers le corbeau, déposant ensuite une délicate embrassade sur le haut de la tempe de ton amante. « Je serai contente d'y aller avec toi. Rentrons d'accord ? »

─ « Evidemment. »

D'un rire volage, tu saluas Blanche, qui ne savait plus où se mettre suite à toute cette démonstration d'affection, d'un signe de main continuant ton chemin à bavarder avec Fischl, dont Oz continuait les traductions. L'aventurière avait sûrement raison, aujourd'hui était peut-être bien : " Le jour du destin... ".

Le tonnerre grondait avec force sur tout Inazuma, pas un seul rayon du soleil n'avait la force de traverser la couche épaisse couvrant le ciel d'originaire bleu. La pluie chutait sur le sol, les prairies, les chiens, les chats, les toits des maisons et sur les quelques Inazumiens ayant eu une once de courage de mettre le nez dehors sous ce temps tout sauf joyeux. Une journée morose s'annonçait pour bon nombre d'habitants, mais pas pour le gang Arataki. Aussi peu étaient-ils, les membres dans ce dit gang et leur chef trouvait toujours un moyen de positivé, de faire quelque chose, aussi peu soit productive la dite chose. Pourtant, aujourd'hui, la bâtisse les accueillant était calme, un silence religieux régnait, seul le tintement des tasses de tête de Mamie Oni et de Shinobu changeait la mélodie de l'endroit.

Bien silencieux, les membres du gang étaient assis en tailleur sur les tatamis du salon alors que leur regard concentré fixait le dos puissant de leur chef. Itto était calme, posé et ne parlait pas. Personne n'osait dire un mot, mais tout le monde pensait la même chose : « Qu'est-ce qu'il se passe avec notre chef ? Ferait-il une indigestion ou quelque chose dans le genre ? » Les shojis ouverts pour laisser une vue imprenable sur l'engawa de la bâtisse, plus semblable à une terrasse qu'autre chose, l'oni écrivait à même le sol en silence. Couvert par le toit de la maison, Itto ne se souciait même pas de voir son papier à lettre, fourni par Shinobu, se gorger d'eau tandis qu'avec passion, il écrivait sa lettre. Celle-ci ressemblait bien plus à une page de journal intime clamant ses espoirs pour ce jour si spécial et ses exploits de la semaine.

─ « Shinobu-san ? Est-ce que le chef est tellement déçu qu'il pleuve à son anniversaire qu'il est devenu... »

─ « Morose. » Termina en murmure à son tour un autre membre du gang, visiblement pâle à cette pensée ne pensant jamais pouvoir voir un jour son chef dans cet état. « Qu'allons-nous faire ? Que devons-nous faire ? »

─ « Il n'est pas morose, il écrit une lettre. » Soupira la grand-mère chérie du gang en posant sa tasse le chabudai traditionnel de la maison. « Qui sait ce qui peut bien se passer dans sa tête d'oni... »

─ « En voyant la pluie ce matin, en prévention, j'ai suggéré au patron d'écrire une lettre à (T/P). » Déclara la jeune femme, posant à son tour sa tasse sur la petite table basse leur servant de table de repas. « D'ailleurs, elle ne devrait plus tarder. »

Shinobu leva son regard vers l'horloge présente sur le meuble en bois semblable à une commode dans l'angle de la pièce, vérifiant ainsi l'heure. Un sourire satisfait prit place sur ses lèvres en voyant les aiguilles s'approcher de votre rendez-vous, tu n'allais plus tarder à arriver. Elle se sentait un peu coupable de te faire sortir sous cette pluie battante, mais c'était nécessaire pour la survit du gang, n'ayant échappé que de peu à la prison la dernière fois. Connaissant Itto, la pluie ne l'aurait pas arrêté et il aurait proposé toutes sortes d'idées, toute plus absurdes et dangereuses les unes que les autres. La vieille femme à ses côtés ne put que rire en prenant une nouvelle gorgée de son infusion, une pensée amusée trottant dans son esprit : « Cette petite l'a décidément bien cerné. ». Les membres du gang, quant à eux, avaient les yeux pétillants d'admiration. Ils se seraient presque inclinés devant elle avec à l'esprit : « Shinobu-san est une déesse ! ».

─ « Ore-sama a fini ! »

Le grand aux cheveux blancs leva les bras en l'air tout fier, tournant un regard remplit de satisfaction vers son bras droit. Celle-ci hocha la tête ravie pour son chef tandis que les trois abrutis sautèrent de joie en entendant cette nouvelle, soulager de voir leur patron de nouveau plein d'énergie. Entre ses doigts se trouvait la lettre rédigée à l'encre noire, à l'écriture plus que bancale et loin d'être soigné, mais c'était lisible, le principal était là. De là où elle se trouvait, Shinobu pouvait clairement lire le contenu du papier, mais ne fit aucune remarque devant les mots simplistes et couverts d'innocence de son patron.

─ « Ore-sama n'a plus qu'à la donner à (T/P) ! » Railla très fortement l'oni, à deux doigts de fendre en deux la feuille sous sa force naturelle alors qu'il essayait d'être délicat avec le papier. « (T/P) doit-être chez elle, pas vrai Shinobu ? »

─ « Chez moi ? »

Le grand Inazumien se retourna rapidement vers ta voix, tout sourire, ne cachant pas sa joie de te voir. Shinobu t'adressa un signe de tête en remerciement, soulagé que tu sois là. Rien de grave ne devrait arriver maintenant que tu étais arrivé. Des rougeurs montèrent aux joues de l'oni alors qu'un tendre petit baiser décora ses lèvres qu'il accepta avec fierté, sous le regard médusé de trois idiots et attendrit de mamie Oni. Tes mains subtilisèrent la petite lettre écrite par ton amant avant même que celui-ci ne puisse s'en rendre compte, t'éloignant le long de l'engawa. Tu le connaissais, Itto aurait sûrement voulu te l'offrir en suivant ses attentes et ses envies. L'oni se contenta de râler en te poursuivant loin de regard indiscret du gang à deux doigts de bouder.

─ « Tu ne dois pas la lire maintenant ! »

Sa voix était semblable à une plainte enfantine. Ses bras s'enroulèrent autour de ta taille avec douceur, sa tête se posa dans le creux de ton cou alors qu'une montagne à la chevelure blanche s'affalait sur toi de presque tout son poids, manquant de vous faire chuter en avant. Il boudait légèrement, mais ne fit rien pour t'empêcher de lire le contenu du papier attendant patiemment que tu finisses. Patiemment à sa façon, t'ennuyant légèrement en soufflant contre ton cou pour te chatouiller ou encore en le mordillant affectueusement pour te tirer des frissons et te déconcentrer.

{ Hahahahaha ! J'ai trouvé un coin de paradis : une petite île déserte et recluse où j'ai passé quelques jours. Cette année, je ne passe pas mon anniversaire en prison ! Par contre, c'est pas la joie les bras de fer contre des crabes avec une branche... Bref, célébrons mon anniversaire ! Et en grand ! Il faut d'abord choisir le lieu ! Pourquoi pas le sommet du Tenshukaku ? C'est en hauteur avec une vue splendide, ce serait génial ! Et ouais, un vrai gars fête son anniversaire dans ce genre d'endroit ! Les activités... Pas besoin de casser trois pattes à un canard, mais il faudrait que ça en jette quand même, non ? Un feu d'artifice ? Non, pas pratique. Des combats de scarabées et des parties de jeu de cartes ? C'est moi qui gagnerai... Et je ne veux aucun perdant aujourd'hui ! Sinon... des grillades de melons lavandes ? Bonne ambiance, et peu de chances que ça rate. Pour que ce soit spectaculaire, on va en griller dix et bim ! Ha ! Moi, Arataki Itto vivrai aussi longtemps que le Mont Yougou ! }

Un gloussement d'amusement s'échappa d'entre tes lèvres par moment, récoltant un pincement boudeur d'Itto à chaque fois. Terminant ta lecture, tu soupiras légèrement de dépit à cause des envies et de la météo allant à leurs encontres. Te dégrafant de son étreinte sous son regard interrogatif, tu le regardas droit dans les yeux, te retenant de sourire devant sa mine perdue. À deux doigts de poser tes poings sur tes hanches, le grand oni ne sut pas quoi faire, complètement largué sous ton regard faussement vexé.

─ « On ne peut pas faire ça aujourd'hui... » Commenças-tu et avant qu'il ne puisse répliquer une de tes mains se posa sur ses lèvres. « Pourquoi ne pas le passer ensemble cette année ? Nous pourrons faire frire des melons lavandes ce soir. »

Le grand à la chevelure blanche ouvrir grand les yeux. Ses joues saupoudrèrent d'un rouge caractéristique en rencontrant ton regard (C/Y). Il ne pouvait pas dire un mot, comme soufflé par une prise de conscience énorme. Tu étais sa petite-amie. Ça le frappait de plein fouet. Il était comme tout le monde, à quelques exceptions près, et désormais ses plans avaient changés, il te voulait toi. Les paroles de Thomas tournant dans son esprit, elles l'avaient grandi. Et en ce moment, Itto avait une terrible envie d'embrasser tes lèvres et de te monopoliser pour lui seul aujourd'hui. Que tu ne vois que lui aujourd'hui. Avide ou enchanté par cette réalisation, le grand oni enroula une nouvelle fois ses bras autour de ta taille pour t'attirer contre lui et contre son torse. Ses yeux brillaient d'enchantement tandis qu'il volait tes lèvres, t'embrassant avec appétit. Sa bouche libérée de ta main à cause de la surprise, sa langue serpenta contre tes lèvres, alors qu'une chaleur sans nom remontait le long de son échine. Tes bras s'enroulèrent tes bras autour de son cou alors qu'affectueusement, vos langues se mêlèrent maladroitement ensemble. Le grand enfant te garda un long moment contre lui, picorant tes lèvres des siennes. Un anniversaire en dehors de ses plans, mais pas pour lui déplaire.

─ « Moi qui pensait que c'était une nouvelle fois ton flirt habituel, je ne m'attendais à devoir le prendre au premier degré. »

Une gorgée de jus de pomme ingéré une nouvelle fois, ton visage se trouvait être aussi rouge que la chaire d'une tomate. De nombreux sursauts tendaient ton corps, le gardant bien éveillé alors qu'un fin courant électrique le parcourait depuis que tu avais mangé une bouchée de spaghettis. Le poing serré sur la table de la bibliothèque, te dandinant sur ta chaise, les jambes serrées l'une contre l'autre, une sensation familière se réveillait au creux de ton estomac, comme des petits papillons s'agitant dans ton bas-ventre. Les mots de la lettre qu'elle t'avait envoyée résonnaient encore platement dans ton esprit.

{ Coucou mon petit chou. Notre dernière rencontre commence à dater. Ton voyage t'accapare, mais tu ne m'oublies pas, j'espère ? Je serais très triste sinon. Les fleurs dans le vase sont en pleine floraison. Pourquoi ne pas me rendre visite par ce beau temps ? Je voudrais re parler de mes études à l'Académie. Ainsi, tu pourras m'informer de ses changements récents lorsque tu seras à Sumeru. Psst... Tu sais quel jour nous sommes aujourd'hui ? Ce n'est pas tous les jours que je cuisine. D'ailleurs, je pense que tu t'es déjà sûrement demandé d'où provenait le violet de ces pâtes à la bolognaise que je cuisine, non ? Eh bien, tu ne tarderas pas à le savoir. Haha, j'attends avec impatience de voir si ma « magie » fera de nouveau des étincelles entre nous. }

Sa main froide passa dans tes cheveux, mêlant ses doigts à tes fins fils (C/C), te provoquant une nouvelle décharge le long de ta colonne vertébrale. Voulait-elle ta mort ? Tes yeux presque larmoyants et embués se relevèrent vers ta compagne assise sur la table en bois, les jambes croisées l'une sur l'autre, comme une institutrice sexy aux pensées peu catholique pour son élève sans défense. Elle était majestueuse et dominatrice, ses yeux prédateurs te fixant avec une certaine satisfaction accompagnée d'un sourire charmé et content. Il ne lui manquait qu'une baguette en bois, et elle serait parfaite dans ce rôle. C'était encore plus beau que dans son imagination. Tu étais magnifique avec ce regard larmoyant, ce corps dandinant et tressautant à chacune des décharges électro, ses joues rougies et ses cheveux (C/C) en bataille à force de passer tes mains dedans pour essayant de garder contenance et de calmer l'émoi de ton être. Un chef d'œuvre qu'elle avait créé là.

─ « Je ne comprend pas ce qui t'arrive mon petit chou... » Murmura-t-elle dans ce recoin de la bibliothèque, à deux pas de simples Monstadtois cherchant le prochain ouvrage qu'il dévorait. « Moi qui essayait te faire plaisir en te cuisinant un bon plat après tout ce temps loin l'une de l'autre... Ara ara, je suis déçue. »

Déglutissant tant bien que mal, ton regard n'osait pas quitter le sien. Elle était ravie de la tête aux pieds, mais aussi reconnaissante que tu lui fasses confiance les yeux fermés pour manger ce qu'elle te donnait sans poser de questions. Quelle chance avait-elle que tu l'aimes. Bien qu'un peu coupable de t'avoir tendu un tel piège, Lisa n'en restait pas moins satisfaite. Ses doigts soulevèrent ton menton alors qu'une nouvelle fois son énergie électro prenait d'assaut ton corps, amenant un gémissement, étouffé par tes lèvres scellées entre elles, et un tressaillement à tout ton corps.

─ « Essayes-tu de te venger, Lisa ? »

─ « Quelle raison aurais-je pour me venger ? » Ronronna la brune, son doigs passant sur ta lèvre basse, te dominant de toute sa hauteur en te regardant droit dans les yeux. « A par ton absence d'un mois et demi sans me donner ne serait-ce qu'une seule nouvelle ? Je ne vois pas ce qui donnerait lieu à une vengeance. »

─ « Je dirais bien que la - » Commenças-tu vite interrompu par un autre sursaut assise sur ta chaise, la faisant grincer sur le sol. « La vengeance ne te va pas... »

─ « Mais ? »

─ « J'aime cette expression sur ton visage. Tu fais très dom- »

Ses lèvres se posèrent sur les tiennes sans plus d'explication t'entraînant dans un baiser sauvage à deux doigts de te faire gémir contre elle. Tes mains se mirent sur ses cuisses, tandis que tu te redressas de ta chaise pour profiter plus amplement de ses lèvres et pour approfondir son baiser. Ton souffle irrégulier répondit au sien alors qu'à peine ta respiration de retour, tu lui volas un baiser passionné à ton tour. Peut-être qu'une absence n'était pas une si mauvaise chose, surtout si après tout ça, les retrouvailles étaient toujours ainsi.

Masterlist

#fem!reader #genshin impact fr #genshin impact scenarios #genshin impact x reader #Yunjin x reader #fischl x reader #itto x reader #lisa x reader #Yun jin #Fischl #Arataki Itto #Lisa Minci

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histoires-par-hisha · 3 years

Text

Le Masque du Dragon, chapitre 8

[Chapitre 1 dispo ici!]

[Version audio sera ajoutée dans le futur] [ko-fi]

Texte :

Toujours un an plus tôt...

Les média de Gemma et des pays alentours tournaient en boucle sur l'attentat et l'histoire d'un frère ayant essayé de tuer sa propre sœur pour prendre le pouvoir.

Diamant, étant un traître à sa famille et au trône, ne reçu aucun des rites funéraires royaux. Il fut enterré sans cérémonie ni vêtement dans la fosse commune la plus proche, où bientôt personne ne pourra plus distinguer ses restes de ceux des autres. Lui qui, dans la vie, voulait tellement être roi, n'était maintenant plus personne.

Le public ignorait complètement la partie de l'histoire concernant le Masque du dragon, bien sûr. Iris avait veillé à cela. Attirer la convoitise de tous les chasseurs de trésors du continent n'était vraiment pas ce dont le royaume avait besoin. Ni ce dont Iris et la mystérieuse entité résidant dans le corps de Rubis avaient besoin, d'ailleurs.

Iris l'avait allongée sur le lit de Rubis. Cela faisait deux jours depuis l'incident et l'autre n'avait pas encore prononcé le moindre mot.

La conseillère lui donnait tout de même à boire et à manger. S'il y avait la moindre chance que la vraie Rubis soit encore là, elle ne pouvait pas laisser son corps dépérir.

Assise sur une chaise près du lit pour surveiller l'autre, Iris sentait la fatigue peser sur elle. Elle avait passé les deux derniers jours à éloigner toute personne voulant s'approcher de la souveraine, déclarant que sa majesté ne faisait plus confiance à personne après la trahison qu'elle avait subie. Personne ne devait voir le mithril couvert d'écritures elfiques qui enserrait maintenant le corps de la reine Rubis et l'empêchait de se lever toute seule.

Iris commençait à piquer du nez lorsqu'elle entendit une voix faible la remercier.

La conseillère se frotta les yeux et fixa l'autre en se demandant si elle n'avait pas imaginé celà.

L'autre, le visage tourné vers elle, murmura avec hésitation comme si parler n'était pas naturel pour elle et lui demandait donc un effort considérable :

« J'avais... peur que tu... me tues aussi... comme les autres humains... Mais tu t'occupes de moi...

- ...Tu n'es pas Rubis, n'est-ce pas ? demanda Iris.

- C'est... le nom de cette humaine, n'est-ce pas ?

Le ton de l'autre se faisait moins hésitant mais restait étrangement monotone. Sa cadence était si différente qu'Iris arrivait à peine à reconnaître la voix de Rubis.

- Qui es-tu ?

- Je suis le Masque. Je suis celle qui le portait. Je... dois protéger les miens... mais des humains m'ont tuée. Et maintenant me voilà... ici.

- Attends une seconde, dit Iris. Tu es la dragonne à qui on a pris le Masque ?

- Oui.

La conseillère royale se leva de sa chaise et fit quelques pas autour du lit.

- Est-ce que tu sais comment tu t'es retrouvée dans le corps de Rubis ? Et pourquoi le Masque a... fait ça ?

- J'ai... une idée, déclara la dragonne.

L'humaine l'encouragea à en dire plus. L'autre fixa le plafond.

- Le Masque est... transféré de dragon en dragon. Il doit toujours y avoir un gardien. Mais j'ai été tuée avant de transférer.

- Et donc quand j'ai mis Rubis contre le Masque il s'est transféré à elle et maintenant te voilà, continua Iris.

Cette dernière s'arrêta derrière la chaise et posa ses deux mains sur le dossier.

- Il n'y a jamais eut de transfert vers un humain avant, expliqua l'autre. Le Masque s'adapte à chaque dragon mais... ne savait pas quoi faire avec ce corps-là.

- Et Rubis dans tout ça ? Est-elle... est-elle morte ? Est-elle encore là quelque part ?

- Je n'en sais rien, admit la dragonne en tournant à nouveau son regard vers son interlocutrice. Ce n'est jamais arrivé avant...

- ...Je vois.

- Iris, c'est ça ? Peux-tu m'aider ? Ceux qui m'ont tuée doivent être... détruits. Ces humains ne doivent plus jamais nuire.

- Noté, Iris acquiesça.

- Ensuite je pourrais faire le transfert et... mourir. Un autre dragon prendra ma place.

- Et que deviendra Rubis ?

- Je n'en sais pas plus que toi. Je suis désolée.

« Et pourquoi pas ? demanda Iris.

- Il est trop jeune, répondit la reine. Il n'est pas prêt. Mais j'ai une autre enfant, plus âgée. Nous devons la trouver. Mon fils peut nous aider. »

Iris donna sa corde à la reine, qui appuya doucement sur le museau de son fils pour le faire se baisser, laissant l'humaine grimper sur son dos. La dragonne attacha ensuite un mousqueton à sa ceinture et, avec beaucoup de gestes et un peu de patience, parvint à faire comprendre à son fils qu'il devait tenir l'autre mousqueton dans sa gueule.

La reine ne pouvant pas s’asseoir sans que le Masque n'entaille les cuisses du corps humain qu'elle habitait, chevaucher le jeune dragon n'était pas une option pour elle. Il devra la porter avec sa gueule grâce à la corde et espérer qu'elle ne sera pas trop secouée.

Quelques instants plus tard, le dragon sortit de sa cachette, portant les autres et cherchant un bon endroit pour décoller. Il sauta sur un perchoir au-dessus de l'entrée de la caverne, puis sur un grand rocher plat encore plus haut, et se jeta dans le vide. Il déploya ses ailes de cuir et d'écailles et suivit les directions que sa mère lui donnait en tapotant son cou du côté où elle voulait qu'il aille. Iris s'accrocha de toutes ses forces et ferma les yeux en répétant à elle-même de ne pas regarder en bas. Elle pouvait sentir le vent froid fouetter son corps. Le dragon, jusque là dénué de chaleur corporelle comme les autres reptiles, activa sa magie pour maintenir sa passagère et lui-même au chaud à cette altitude.

L'humaine ne rouvrit les yeux que lorsqu'elle sentit son « chauffeur » ralentir. Il atterrit au sommet d'un pic surmonté d'un peu de neige. Ce n'était pas de la neige éternelle, pas à cette altitude ; elle allait sûrement fondre bientôt quand le fort de l'été sera là.

Iris descendit du dragon et alla voir la reine en tremblant et frottant ses bras pour les réchauffer.

« Est-ce que ça va ? s'inquiéta la dragonne qui faisait de son mieux pour paraître comme si elle n'avait pas la tête qui tournait après ce trajet au bout d'une corde. Je peux t'aider si tu as froid.

- M-merci, ce serait- ce serait très apprécié. »

L'instant d'après, l'air juste autour de la conseillère commença à se réchauffer graduellement.

Quelques instants plus tard, une ombre obscurcit le ciel ; le trio leva les yeux et vit une autre dragonne plongeant en piqué vers elleux.

La reine défit l'avant de sa chemise rembourrée, exposant en partie le Masque fusionné à elle. L'autre dragonne (qui devait bien faire deux fois la taille de son frère) le vit et ralentit. Elle atterrit devant sa mère et la renifla, penchant la tête d'un côté. La reine posa la paume de sa main entre les yeux de sa fille. Elle la retira et défit le reste de ses boutons. Iris l'aida à enlever la chemise complètement. Maintenant, seule la pointe du Masque était encore cachée par des vêtements. Elle remercia l'humaine encore une fois ; celle-ci se tourna vers la direction opposée en serrant la chemise dans ses bras.

« Respecter ta dernière volonté est la moindre des choses, dit Iris. Fais ce que tu as à faire, je vais juste... aller par là.

- Iris ?

- Je... je peux pas voir Rubis mourir encore une fois, expliqua-t-elle sans se retourner. C'est juste... c'est au-dessus de mes forces. Et je veux pas te voir mourir toi non plus, pour être honnête.

- Ce transfert n'est pas comme les autres. Je ne sais pas s'il va se dérouler de la même façon.

- J'ai toujours pensé que tu disais ça juste pour me donner une lueur d'espoir.

- Nous verrons bien si j'avais raison, déclara la reine.

- Au revoir, répondit Iris, fermant les yeux et serrant la chemise plus fort.

- Merci pour tout. Grâce à toi, le cadeau des elfes sera à nouveau à sa place. Ma fille veillera à ce que tu sois toujours la bienvenue dans les Monts Draconiques. »

La jeune dragonne pressa sa tête contre sa mère pour recevoir le Masque.

Iris n'entendait que le vent qui sifflait, mais le retour soudain de l'air froid sur sa peau était à lui seul un bon indicateur de ce qu'il venait de se passer. Elle enfila la chemise.

Puis elle sentit le museau de la jeune dragonne se presser contre son dos. Elle hésita, puis se retourna enfin. Le corps de Rubis reposait dans la neige, mais à travers le flou des larmes il ne ressemblait plus qu'à une forme rouge sur le sol blanc. Iris le ramassa.

Elle respirait encore.

Le cœur d'Iris battait tous les records de vitesse alors que l'espoir qu'elle pensait avoir abandonné refaisait surface dans la partie consciente de son esprit.

« Rubis ? demanda-t-elle.

L'autre femme cligna des yeux plusieurs fois et tourna la tête vers elle.

- I...Iris...

Sa voix était si faible, presque complètement masquée par le vent.

- Rubis ! C'est- c'est bien toi ! Je pensais jamais te revoir !

Iris la serra fort dans ses bras, des larmes de joie coulant de son propre visage jusque sur l'autre. L'air se réchauffait autour d'elles, sans doute l'effort de l'un des dragons.

- Où... ? demanda Rubis.

- Monts Draconiques. C'est une longue histoire.

Iris se tourna vers les dragons et demanda :

- Est-ce que l'un de vous veux bien nous ramener à la voiture ?

- Iris, le Masque-

- Il devra rester là où il est, Rubis. Quand je l'ai utilisé sur toi tu as été possédée par l'âme d'une dragonne pendant un an.

- Quoi ?!

- Je t’expliquerai en chemin.

Iris rendit sa chemise à Rubis et l'aida à monter sur le jeune dragon. Même sans le Masque gênant ses mouvements, la reine de Gemma était encore faible après avoir passé la majeure partie d'une année allongée.

La conseillère revint vers la dragonne pour lui dire au revoir. Lentement, elle approcha sa main de la tête couverte de métal ; la créature la laissa faire. Iris effleura le Masque du bout des doigts.

- Ta mère doit être partie pour de bon maintenant, dit-elle, mais... au revoir à vous deux. Et... merci. »

#Histoires par Hisha #Le Masque du dragon #français #French #littérature #upthestylo #modern fantasy

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snipehuntpotatosack · 4 years

Text

DIORAMA

Museum of the Folk, the sign it said. I stumbled in and, staggered, stopped, stunned.

Tables upon tables after tables. Magically, impossibly alone, made deaf by noiseless voices as of billions. There are so many, dizzy, must look down…

The first I saw was Feast Day in the Plaza there are so many people, all so busy, they were all made of clay, or was it wood but every people had their special thing a guayabera, donkey’s leash, mantilla, a Monsignor’s biretta, tiny baby, a basket of sevilles, a sash, a snare drum, gigantic crockpot in a purple pushcart, there must have been two hundred there or more and yet I had to look, to see each one, bending, grunting, peering, get each detail, I felt afraid that if I stopped my seeing before it was complete their life would…

I don’t know what I thought. And then it was my eyes came up and saw the next one, and the next and…which?...that’s when the vertigo set in for real. I don’t know how many hours I reeled from scene to scene, I only knew I couldn’t miss a single thing they bore!

The jutting point yon mercenary’s halberd thrusts is sure to catch that beggar’s skullcap just under the ear and fling it askew atop this plaster bust of Brahms that’s borne along by hussar in plumed shako on a charger to honking discords of a dropped accordion, glittering gold the same as Escamillo’s Suit of Lights before the ox which snuffles the humble manger stuffed with straw approached by mincing goatherds, Caliphs in their ruby- red regalia tended by babushkas in aproned calico skirts and advertising sandwich boards – excursions to Japan and 1910’s striped lady’s bathing costumes dustproof canvas motor-traveling habits consigned for fast delivery on steamers, on the iron horse, on paper triplanes breasting fog in time to waving thyrsi spotlights radar lasers tractor beams here come the monorails the whirlybeaters the Terrisphere, the Pylon, oh the Towers, and lo my gaze is fractionating through an agate fob, a Waterford decanter, a funhouse mirror, zoetrope, I’m mad but at just that moment –

My eye fell on one people, man nor woman; his face not strong nor weak just looking up, her clothes not special carrying no thing; not tall nor short, not fat nor thin, but live, somehow the one real living one among ten thousand artifactual mannikins alone at every center place I looked; and as my viewpoint drifted to the ceiling, assuring me that I was dead or dreaming, that people’s eye shot up and wed with mine, as Indra met Purusa at one time, and outward sprang the quantum kept from death.

At that point I knew I had found my place at that this busy nonsense finds an end a song starts somewhere on another page.

#poets on tumblr

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lokidiabolus · 4 years

Text

The Deal - Chapter 1

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel (web series)

Pairing: Alastor / Angel Dust

Warnings: human!Angel Dust (Anthony), Deal with a devil AU

Summary: Sometimes you had nobody to spend the Christmas with. Sometimes you didn’t want to. Sometimes you took a chalk and drew a pentagram on the floor fully ready to deal with anything that would come out as an alternative to self-pity occurring otherwise.

The time when Anthony thought if he can't get anybody to love him properly, he can just make a deal with a devil and find out what affection feels like. Alastor thinks this mortal is pitiful beyond belief and concede. Cuddles happen.

Can be found on Ao3.

Notes: I'm absolutely new to Hazbin Hotel, watched Addict first (thanks youtube) and was like holy hell, is there more of it somewhere? What is this?! And then found the Pilot and here I am. This is just me indulging in what my mind threw out one day, and while it's not very canon compliant, it's just my tribute for this intriguing universe and sort of a comfort fic, I guess (although there is one darker bit, but yeah). I read several fics before even writing this and kind of got stuck with the "deal with a devil" one as a starting point, even though I much more prefer settings in canon version. Yet somehow this was basically writing itself, so maybe next time :')

Also, English is not my first language. This is not betad and there is this thing with Alastor's proper speech I basically just winged by not shortening anything lmao. Therefore apologies if it's not very accurate - the same thing with Angel and his accent. I plan to add more to this and even a bit of a "in hell" part, but so far I'm just winging it.

Unbetad!

***

2019, 24th

Christmas was a day full of magic. Day majority spent with their loved ones, with their family, their spouses, in peace and joy. TV promoted Christmas as if it was the only day that ever mattered in the whole year way back to October, where people were still wondering what costume to wear for Halloween, yet already seeing Christmas ornaments and ideas of presents that were overpriced but pretended to be on sale. It was a day of good food, relaxing atmosphere and snow falling from the heavy clouds while flames were crackling in the fireplace, warming homes of the blessed.

The blessed were not as numerous as the TV would give out, obviously. Rarely anybody had a fireplace at home. Rarely anybody considered Christmas as the best day in the year because it stressed them with tons of preparations and last-minute calls to distant family members not attending the scarcely enjoyable Christmas dinner. There were quarrels, there were misunderstandings, there were old grudges coming to life and sometimes it ended in tears instead of happy evening it advertised.

Sometimes you had nobody to spend the Christmas with. Sometimes you didn’t want to. Sometimes you took a chalk and drew a pentagram on the floor fully ready to deal with anything that would come out as an alternative to self-pity occurring otherwise.

Anthony finished the outer circle of the pentagram with a light tap and peered once more into the book he drew it from – a leather bound journal he got on his 21st birthday from an acquaintance that thought satanism is the right answer to his plight – ironically he only knew a sliver of it back then. Maybe if he heard the whole story, he would give him the whole devil with a big knife to help, who knew. Anthony forgot about the book for 10 years while it rested stashed in the topmost drawer in the bedroom, waiting for life to get hard enough to pop back into Anthony’s conscience.

Well, now it did. When Anthony went through the yellowed pages, it felt surreal somehow, like a forbidden knowledge taking place in the back of his mind. There were no incantations, no summoning words that would specify or make this feel like from a bad movie – it was just the pentagram, two circles, and five symbols at the peaks done neatly on the wooden floor. The only huh, this may be a real deal addition was the blood Anthony had to provide for the summoning to complete, as the journal stated.

The blood of the desperate soul will seal the deal with the answering.

Anthony thought it was good enough, he was desperate plenty. And if it didn’t work, he would just have to do some cleaning, because who knew how badly the blood would stain the wood. He put down the chalk and the journal on the sofa and stood up, admiring his work from above. The living room sure did look more interesting with the pentagram gracing majority of the floor now, with armchair and the table pushed away to make space.

Anthony reached for the knife he prepared for the occasion, a small sharp thing he normally used for cooking rather than himself (unless it was an accident while cutting veggies) and peered again at the pentagram. The TV buzzed behind him with Christmas songs and snow was falling heavily outside, padding the streets with fake diamonds.

God rest ye merry gentlemen Let nothing you dismay Remember Christ our Saviour Was born on Christmas Day

He took a deep breath and gently touched his palm with the edge of the knife, adding pressure and then easing it back down, his heart slowly picking up the pace. Sure, nobody knew what would happen. Maybe nothing. Probably nothing. But maybe something, right?

To save us all from Satan's power When we were gone astray Oh tidings of comfort and joy Comfort and joy Oh tidings of comfort and joy

He tried again and the sharp edge bit into his skin almost unexpected, leaving behind a cut quickly filling with dark red, flowing Anthony’s palm like a well. He closed his hand with a sigh and turned it down above the circle, staring at the red streaks forming at the peak and then dropping down into the middle of the pentagram, splattering against the wooden boards like rubies.

In Bethlehem, in Israel This blessed Babe was born And laid within a manger Upon this blessed morn The which His Mother Mary Did nothing take in scorn

Anthony watched the red forming a small puddle, his eyes taking in the shape and the colour and counted his breaths in wait. He took a note of every odd noise and every change of air, but nothing came but the song from the TV, buzzing at the edge of his mind.

Oh tidings of comfort and joy Comfort and joy Oh tidings of comfort and joy

He gulped down the disappointment and turned his palm back up, ending the blood flow like a tap on the water with a tissue. What was he expecting anyway? There was no higher power to end the misery or to lift it, only bitter life until the heart stopped beating and the flesh rotted away.

Fear not then, said the Angel Let nothing you affright This day is born a Saviour Of a pure Virgin bright To free all those who trust in Him From Satan's power and might Oh tidings of comfort and joy Comfort and joy Oh tidings of comfort and joy

What a mess, Anthony thought, looking down on the floor. The buzz of the TV twitched slightly, and he reached for the remote control with a sigh, turning it off. He felt tired despite not doing anything, but the thought of leaving the blood behind until morning and then dealing with it would definitely work against him.

The TV buzzed again, the song filling the room once more and Anthony froze, turning towards it in a glacier pace when he heard the chorus picking up too many voices. The room grew dim all of sudden as if shadows where climbing the walls all the way to the ceiling, swallowing up any light in the process.

Ğ̸̤̳o̶̪̪̿̽d̵̨̢͛ ̵͕̜̔̐r̵̖͘e̶̜͎͛s̶͓̫͂̿ť̸͎͘ ̵̻͇̈y̴̺̆̒e̷̫̤̍̒ ̶̫͔̾̎m̷̝̠͆e̷̲̊̓r̴͈̅r̷̛͜ẙ̷̥ ̵̙̜̀g̴̯̀e̴̳̫͝ň̷͕̑t̵̮̞̓̿ľ̶͎̑ē̸̙͔̿m̴͔͊e̸̦̳͐͘n̶̢̠̈́,̸̻̗̾ ̸̢͋̒ľ̵͙ͅe̶͈̻̕͝ṱ̶̛̗̽ ̶̺̒̚ň̵͎͗o̴̧͛ţ̷̗̾̚h̵̛͚i̶̭̅̇n̷̞̋g̵̢̹̿͂ ̴̱͉̑ÿ̸̜̳́o̸͙͖͐û̴͇ ̷̧͊͘d̴̨͐i̶̛̤͙s̷͕͔̚m̷̗̯͆̎a̵̞̒̓y̴͍͚̏͘.̸̜̏͝ ̴̢̤̅R̷̘̚ͅē̶̗̆ḿ̸̖̲é̴̯͖͠m̴͉͓̈́̃b̵͈̺́e̶̠͒͊r̷͔̠͌̌ ̴̺̻̒̽C̷̡͘h̷̥͆r̵̜̳̓ḯ̷̞͍̀ș̸̐̀t̶̜̑́ ̵̨̈́͠o̵͙̪͐͠ṵ̶̇̋ŕ̴̟̌ ̸̡̜̑͋S̷̜͐ͅå̵͇̳v̴̛̙̒i̷͚̊̌ơ̸̬u̶̠̎r̵͈̬̔̓ ̷̯͓͊̌w̵͕̄̚ḁ̶̐s̶͙̏̇ ̷̥̱̄̍b̵̛͖̔o̷͉̠̅̏r̸̠͈͌̅n̷̤͊ ̷͇̐ͅo̵̠͐n̷̹͗ ̷̺̙͒͋C̸̫͝h̵͎̮͒r̷͎̝̈́i̶̡̒̿s̴̠̣̚t̴̰̍m̸̨̟̑a̶̼̒s̶̭̝̔͝ ̸͉͌D̵̂ͅa̷̾̆͜ÿ̶̢̠́̚ ̶̱̈́ţ̵̫̽̿o̴͕̘͆ ̴͖̔̂s̴͕͂͊a̶̞͑v̸̙͑̈́e̵̛͈͙ ̷̝̲̄͐ȕ̶̪̠̐s̶̠̃ ̴͉̱͋̅ã̵͈̀l̵͉̮͑l̷̥̔̀ ̶̯̆̕f̷͓͚͑̕r̵̼̽ȍ̴̹͉̑m̸̡͔̒ ̸͚̔̚Ș̶͍̂a̴̝͆t̶̮͑ͅȁ̸̯̅ņ̵̿͊'̶̟̚͝s̵͌͠ͅ ̶͕̍̓p̴͙͝õ̴̢̐ẇ̴͓e̶͈͘r̷̝͍̅̽ ̵̼̈͑w̴͙͒͝h̸̜́e̸̠̫̚n̷̮͊ ̷̝̺̕w̸̛̗̣̓ę̶͂͌ ̸̣̃̑w̶̱̓̈́ͅè̸̪̈́r̴̓́ͅe̶͓͌ ̵̮̙̃g̴̩̻̉͝o̷̠̜̿n̷͕̭͋̿e̶̜͔͋ ̶̮́̔å̴̹͂��ṡ̵̲ṫ̵̬r̷̝̅̌a̶̖̬͊͘y̸̨͋̄.̷̡͖̈͊ ̷͇̇̉Ò̸͖̏h̴̥͎͝͝ ̷̲͚́͝t̷̘́̔ȋ̵͈d̴̳̬̃i̵̝̹͗̀n̷̺̋g̵̗̒̔s̸̘̰̾ ̵̻̘͛̄ő̶̅͜f̷̗̍̔ ̵̺̲̀c̵̼̒͌o̷̮͝m̶͍̕f̶͍̱͐o̵͇͆̏ṟ̸̏͜ṯ̴̓ ̴͈͒ạ̷̈́͆ṇ̴̛͙d̷̼͋͝ ̴̰͎̚̕j̶̼͉̔̽ŏ̸͎͐y̵̦͖̋,̶̦̓ ̶̖͐̕c̶̙͝͝o̸̫͇̓͌m̸̧͗̃f̶̞̎ọ̸͗r̷̃̇ͅẗ̵̛̳̱́ ̵̥̐͂͜a̴̫͛ṅ̶̤͠d̷͎̔̏ ̶͐ͅj̵͕͇̎ò̵̳̪̇y̶̩̓͜.̴̪̜̇̚ ̸̘̣͑Ō̷̫̓h̸̥̄͘ ̵̩̖̆t̷̻̏ï̷̙ḑ̴̋i̶͈͂n̶͓͎̿̇g̵̳̓ͅs̶̭͎̕ ̵͚̖̌̚ȍ̸̤̬̚f̵̦̭̈́ ̶̙͕͝c̷̺̒ô̸̩m̴̝̠̐ḟ̴̲̠̃ò̷̤͔́r̶̛̞̳̀t̴͈͚͛ ̶͓̅̿ả̸̠̣̔n̴͔͔͑d̷̬͍̊ ̴̧̯̉̈́j̷͓̫͒̈o̵͎͎͊y̵̛̫̾.̷̠̿̔

The TV gave another set of buzzes and then died out, the room falling into creepy silence.

“What a lovely song,” a staticky voice rang through the stillness and Anthony forgot how to breathe for several seconds. A voice meant somebody was in the room. In the room where he summoned a devil. So that meant a devil was in the pentagram right now, right? A real deal. Expecting anything, from a winged abomination to a devilish imp, Anthony turned back towards the pentagram and… found it empty.

“What?” he breathed out, confused. Was it just a broadcast? It sounded like an old radio or something.

“Sixteenth century, I believe,” the staticky voice rang again and Anthony realized it was on his left instead and when he looked that way, he sure did find a body it belonged to – a man sitting on his couch, legs crossed primly, crimson eyes locked to Anthony’s frozen form in the middle of the room. He was fully dressed in pinstriped red suit with black accents, his gloves looked like they had claws at the end, tapping against a cane he was holding with light clink clink clink against the metal. Anthony couldn’t decide what to make of his face – was it handsome or scary? The red, unblinking eyes were staring right into his soul and his mouth was split in a grin he couldn’t place as happy or pleasant, more like unnerving. The red hair framing his face were trimmed right at his chin with black ends that continued shorter to the back, probably giving him an undercut, though Anthony couldn’t see that from the angle he was sitting. Despite all that he didn’t look that… devilish as Anthony would think he would.

“This version is much nicer, I have to admit,” the man spoke again and then the TV buzzed once more with crackling static, filling the room with old recording of the same song, but definitely not as clean and enjoyable as the version playing before. “1917 Edison records recording. Very Christian.”

“Oh,” Aidan realized. Of course Christmas songs were Christian and he had them playing while summoning a devil – he could have sprayed everything with holy water and it would be the same welcoming sight. “Sorry.”

“You are forgiven,” the man remained seated on the sofa and Anthony glanced back towards the pentagram. The blood was gone from the centre.

“Shouldn’t you be in there?” he pointed towards the sign and the man tilted his head, his smile widening.

“No, this spot is much more comfortable,” he responded in kind and there was a laughing track afterwards. Did he have a radio with him? His voice sounded like was talking from one, but here he was, sitting in person in the room with no radio in sight. “But thank you for the treat nevertheless.”

Which was probably the blood. Anthony decided not to question it.

“Now tell me what you desire.” The question fell between them like a lead and Anthony felt the despair he managed to contain until now grow. He played it in his head several times – how he would word it, how to ask, what tone to use. Several scenarios playing the moment he decided to summon this being, but now, standing here with the opportunity, he couldn’t find his voice. He didn’t expect a normal looking person sitting on his couch like a therapist ready to take notes on his condition, despite all the red and radio going on with him. Were it an unholy picture of a demon with wings or horns or more (or less) eyes than was considered normal, it wouldn’t be so difficult.

“How about you sit down first, then?” the devil-incarnate gestured towards the armchair on his left and Anthony heeded the advice and dragged himself towards it, sitting down heavily. Now being on the eyelevel with the creature made it even more surreal. Were those antlers on his head? It didn’t look like horns he normally saw devils depicted with. They were almost hidden between the tufts of hair sticking up, but definitely present. Actually, his whole hairstyle was impressive, denying gravity like that.

“There, much more comfortable, is it not,” the devil crooned a let the cane touch the floor, resting his hand atop of it. Or, wait, was it a microphone? “Yours a troubled soul indeed. It is quite a heavy burden you are carrying.”

Anthony looked away, his throat tight. No, this definitely didn’t help, he felt like there was a hell file of him now, like the devil read the dossier and thought oh boy, this boy is fucked up beyond help and came to deliver a judgement worth hell and beyond.

“Maybe you would like to dispose of him?” Came a question. Anthony looked back at the man with wide eyes. “Or maybe torture him instead. He hurt you quite a lot. A simple death might not be enough satisfaction.”

A searing pain, blood, the stench of sweat and come, a chain and never-ending humiliation, a caress on his cheek, smearing the tears, suffocating, suffocating, suffocating-

“No,” he choked out, curling to himself.

“Would you like to do it yourself then?” the man in red gestured with his clawed hand and Anthony shook his head.

“No death,” he mumbled, his body shaking. “I don’t… I don’t wanna think about him. Or anything ’bout that. It’s gone now, it’s in the past.”

“If that pleases you,” his guest conceded.

It definitely didn’t please him but nothing about it would do any good anyway.

“Is there other wish then?” An inquiry. His voice was rather soothing, despite the static background, like a radio host.

“I just want…” Anthony started, his chest tight. “Love.”

“Love?” the man repeated, the confusion apparent in the tone.

“Love and affection and… home with someone, I… don’t wanna be alone,” Anthony let the words fall out while hugging his knees tighter to his body. “To have somebody to be with me. To love me. To care?”

There was no response and Anthony gulped down the tears that threatened to spill out. When nothing came out for a whole minute, he risked a glance towards the man and found him staring back with a raised eyebrow.

“Love and affection,” he finally repeated after Anthony, tone bewildered. “You do realize you summoned a demon, not a fairy god mother, yes?”

Anthony nodded.

“Love and affection cannot be wished upon anybody,” the demon tilted his head to the side. “Ironically by nobody, even fairies. They can make somebody infatuated, like a fever that hazes their brains, but that also disappears after a while, and usually does not have much to do with… affection.”

“Oh,” Anthony let out in disappointment. “Then… can ya kill me?”

The demon stared even harder now.

“Kill you,” he repeated.

“Painlessly?” Anthony added quietly. “Like… put me to sleep I wouldn’t wake up from?”

The demon sighed and uncrossed his legs so he could lean closer towards Anthony, his face frowning a little.

“Let us put death aside for now,” he said afterwards. “I came to an understanding this day and age opens unlimited possibilities for people to meet and have… affection spark. You are flattering to an eye, my effeminate fellow, surely finding a partner is not an obstacle in this day?”

“A man,” Anthony uttered in a response and the demon made a vague gesture.

“Does not change a thing, my dear,” he continued, the echo of the static buzzing. “Internet, was it? Open possibilities with establishments and support. This century is welcoming.”

“You mean dating apps?” Anthony scoffed, unhappy and the demon actually looked curious when he nodded. “All ya get from there is sex.”

“And?”

“And that’s it.”

“Not what you are after?” the question seemed peculiar and Anthony decided not to take it in a bad way.

“I don’t mind sex, but after all that…” he tried to explain quietly, but words were failing him. It was a part of how fucked up he was anyway. Normal person would never ever touch or let others touch them after all the abuse he went through, yet he was still pretty much open for anything sexual. It was something he was good at, even. It just felt… so empty. Like staring into an aquarium without a single fish in it.

“Understandable,” the demon leaned back to rest against the sofa, the invisible audience aaahed. “Surely not impossible to find somebody of the similar mindset though?”

“I’m…” Anthony took a breath. “Filthy.”

It took the demon back by the look of it.

“Beg your pardon?” He looked him over. “Filthy?”

Anthony nodded, hugging his sides again to stop the tremors.

“Having the baggage I have… it makes me undesirable. It’d come out sooner or later. Anybody learning about it would leave. Left. Will leave.”

The demon seemed to ponder that a bit, his expression thoughtful.

“Rather than put an effort into the search, you wish to make somebody fall in love with you instead?” It sounded accusing, but not wrong. Anthony couldn’t really deny it. It wasn’t like he wanted somebody concrete. He just wanted to experience it at least a little, without the endless worry about the truth coming out and the spell disappearing.

“And since it cannot be done, you wish to die,” the demon concluded, and Anthony hummed in defeat. His life was a series of failures, pains and loneliness. This kind of life… it was not worth living. Depressions, anxieties, states of utter self-hatred, drug hazes that ended with more self-loathing, he didn’t want this. If it made him weak, so be it. He deserved being looked down upon. He was like this since he was a child.

“What a silly, pitiful mortal,” the demon finally stood up. “But at least you made my job easy.”

And with that, everything faded to black.

***

Anthony woke up with a start, like a cold water roused him from depths of unconsciousness just to threaten him to plunge him back in with a heart-attack. He sat up straight like a bolt, chest heaving and cold sweat drenching his clothes before he took in the surroundings and realized it was just his bedroom drowned in darkness of the night, his own bed and nothing more.

Was it all just a dream? Or was this afterlife? A punishment for trying to escape the bitterness of living by plunging him into the same misery, but never ending? He felt cold but at the same time thirsty and that in the end pushed him out of the bed, despite risking a limb or two if this was some kind of purgatory and monsters were hiding under his bed.

He met with no surprises when he stepped into the living room, the floor was clean with no sign of blood or chalk, with furniture in the right places and cold night from the snow falling outside seeping through windows.

“Oh…” he let out quietly, gazing across the peaceful living room like nothing transpired there just a moment ago. Or was it an hour? A day? A lifetime? Or just a figment of his imagination? He shook his head and padded quietly to the kitchen. The knife he used to cut his hand with was resting peacefully in the knife holder and when Anthony opened his palm, there was no wound in sight. In a sense, it was rather disappointing. It’s not like he wanted to die and then endlessly suffer in hell for his crimes, but it wasn’t like he wanted to live either, like he was stuck in a limbo, waiting for something bigger to crush him under its heel.

He shook his head and filled the glass with water to drink it on the spot. Maybe it was just a strange, real like dream that would disappear in the morning without a trace, along with the red-clothed demon talking to him in a surprisingly soothing voice about killing a man that made his childhood and most of his teenage years a living nightmare. He kind of hoped to remember him though – for a demon he was rather nice.

He walked back to his bedroom with a sad sigh and almost screamed when he realized somebody was sitting on his bed, legs crossed and holding a book.

“You do seem rather unhappy with the fact you are still alive, dear,” sounded the staticky voice of the demon and Anthony cleared his throat, not daring to take another step. He was reading the leather-bound journal Anthony used to summon him and apparently didn’t mind the fact Anthony was gaping at him like a fish out of water.

“Well,” the human shuffled on his feet nervously. “I certainly didn’t expect to wake up, I suppose.”

“Terribly sorry to disappoint,” the man responded, obviously not sorry at all. “I just put you to sleep to have some time to think about your wish.”

“The death wish?” Anthony asked while trying to suppress the cold seeping into his bones. Well, he did stand there just in the shorts and a tank top with bare feet on the floor, so there was no wonder, but seeing the demon sitting on his bed, he didn’t want to risk going closer, even though so far he probably didn’t really have a reason to fear him.

“The affection wish,” the demon closed the journal with a quick snap and regarded Anthony with an evened stare. “While it is virtually impossible to grant it, there are roundabouts that could eventually lead to the outcome you seek.”

Anthony blinked, not sure what to say.

“Didn’t ya say killing me made your job easier?” he settled on a simple question and the demon stood up and gestured for him to come closer. Anthony hesitated, but the cold was starting to annoy him, so he left the spot at the door and walked towards the bed, where he promptly sat down.

“And it is not wrong,” the demon finally spoke when Anthony hid his feet under the covers. “It definitely would make this go fast and easy. But then you would be completely useless to me, and that kind of defeats the purpose.”

“What do you mean useless?” Anthony raised an eyebrow. “I’d be dead.”

“And in Hell,” the demon reminded him rather sweetly and Anthony paled. “You did not think summoning a demon would grant you a passage to Heaven, did you?”

Quite frankly Anthony didn’t give it much thought. The pressing matters were now, when he was alive, and what was after his death was a problem for dead Anthony. Sure, he didn’t expect to be welcomed in heaven anyway, since duh, gay, drugs and attempted murder, but he didn’t care as much, until the demon told him.

“Didn’t think I’d go to heaven anyway…” he mumbled more to himself than the demon, but the man chuckled anyway.

“Good, good,” he nodded in agreement. “Honestly… a weak-willed person makes a weak-willed demon. The more his psyche is disturbed, the less of a form and power he manifests in the purgatory. Those lesser shades are at the end of a food chain, useless even for a simple pawn. I have no use for these.”

Anthony tilted his head to the side, not quite grasping the concept. It didn’t look like the demon cared though.

“Therefore, granting you a quick death while you feel blue would not benefit me at all,” he continued while starting to pace through the bedroom. He looked rather excited, honestly, wildly gesturing as if he was telling his grandiose plans. “Which led me to your first wish, and as I said, while I am unable to grant it for you in its entirety as you would probably imagine it would go, I can make a deal with you instead.”

“Alright?” Anthony raised his knees under his chin and the demon finally stopped, looking right at him.

“I would be your partner,” he stated victoriously while the invisible audience behind a secret radio cheered, and Anthony blinked.

“Uh…”

“While I refuse to participate in anything sexual or intimate,” the man in red continued, “which apparently is not that big of a deal for you, I can provide, as you mortals call it, a human warmth. Which is a form of affection, yes?”

A human warmth, Anthony repeated in his mind. Was that a formal word for something or…

“Oh. You mean cuddling,” it dawned on him suddenly.

“Cuddling,” the demon repeated like he was tasting the word. Then nodded. “Yes, I assume that is the word.”

That… didn’t sound bad, really. Sleeping with a person without fear of needing to open his legs at the end of the night to be able to stay was something Anthony could get behind.

“Alright,” he agreed, making the demon smile widely again. “But.” The smile fell a little. “This is for the cost of my soul, right?”

“Why, yes, indeed,” the man in red didn’t sugar-coat it. “Or more precisely, your soul would belong to Hell, but your heart would belong to me.”

“Which means?” Anthony re-seated and crossed his arms on his chest. His guest watched him for several seconds from under black eyelashes, and then leaned closer, smiling wickedly.

“That you would be mine for eternity,” he purred sweetly, and Anthony felt rather conflicted on how to feel, because somehow it scared him, but at the same time it sounded kind of reassuring? “It is like an unbreakable contract. You would have to do my bidding.”

“Forever,” Anthony added.

“Oh yes. Forever or until you get eradicated.”

“Eradicated?”

“The dangers of Hell are numerous,” the demon retreated again, standing straight. “Which is probably not coming off as a surprise. But yes, your soul can be destroyed completely, which prevents you from being reborn. Or something like that, details are useless. Being reborn from Hell is more like a myth anyway.”

“Let’s leave it at… my heart will be yours sort of thing, alright,” Anthony nodded, which apparently pleased the demon, since he smiled again. “So, cuddling. But that’s not enough, the price is quite high.”

“Indeedy,” the demon fiddled with his microphone, twirling it between his fingers, and the audience clapped again. “Glad to see you are not a complete pushover, at least.”

Anthony rolled his eyes but didn’t comment on it.

“I want to eat dinners together, at least three times a week,” he lay down his first request and the demon seemed to ponder that. “And every second weekend I’d like to spend it together somehow too. Like… going out somewhere, or… even staying home, I mean, just… with the company. Watching a movie or ya know.”

It made the demon bark out a soft laugh, which quite frankly suited him. He was rather tall and intimidating from the get-go but laughing with sincerity softened it marginally. Anthony liked that kind of setup.

“This is the most bizarre wish I have ever granted,” the demon commented in amusement, but didn’t refuse, so Anthony considered it a green light. “But alright. Three days for dinners and then every second weekend. Does the three days count into the weekend or do they have to be separate days?”

“Separate,” Anthony immediately shot out, earning a thoughtful nod. “Also, rainy days.”

“Rainy days?” the red-haired man repeated. “Are those special somehow?”

“Somehow,” Anthony mumbled, “depressing.”

He earned a hum, which probably meant alright, and was glad when he wasn’t pushed to elaborate.

“Is that all then?” the demon prompted when Anthony kept quiet for too long, and the human hesitantly nodded. It wasn’t like he wanted much, honestly. Pretty sure any kind of relationship with a normal person would crash and burn in days anyway with all the insecurities he packed. But this man… he knew – if not all of it, then at least the worst of it – and he didn’t want anything from Anthony, except of his heart and not in a romantic sense. A deal like that… it sounded fair. Just having somebody to spend evenings with, easy and domestic.

“Actually…” he tried, and the demon gave him a questioning look. “What’s your name?”

“Call me Alastor.” The reply indicated the name was not real. “How uncouth of me, not introducing myself during all this time. Pleasure to meet you, Anthony.”

He offered his hand, clawed, with gloves red and black like the rest of him, and Anthony reached for it without hesitation.

“Anthony,” Alastor’s voice stopped him just a mere inch from touching. “Do we have a deal, then? If you take my hand, you cannot back out. Ever.”

A green sheen of light filled the room, menacingly reminding him Alastor was not a human and the deal wasn’t money or goods, but the cost of his soul and afterlife. There would be no backing out.

But was there ever?

Anthony smiled and closed the gap, tightly gripping the gloved hand in his.

“It’s a deal.”

Alastor’s smile widened and the green shine disappeared, leaving Anthony somehow exhausted. The demon seemed to take a note of that – or maybe it was normal when closing a deal with him – and pushed him back to the bed, which Anthony happily obliged with a tired sigh. He saw in the corner of his eye how his guest took down his red coat, folding it neatly on the back of the sofa near the bed, then slowly took off his shoes (Anthony couldn’t even be mad he had shoes on in his flat, it was far above his energy levels) and socks (red), unfurled the bowtie and opened first three buttons of the red shirt and then finally turned towards the bed, scanning it thoughtfully. Anthony rolled on his side, looking at him with half lidded eyes.

“Comin’?” he breathed out with a chuckle and Alastor nodded but remained on the spot, as if he were doing some advanced math on sleeping in one bed with another dude. Which he actually might have.

“Al..stor?” Anthony yawned and the demon finally stepped closer.

“I would like to sleep at the wall,” he requested simply, pointing at the steep angle of the partition that probably made the corner of the bed look like a safe spot. Little he knew any sudden movement up was going to meet his forehead, but Anthony didn’t feel like warning him for now.

“Sure thing,” he shuffled closer towards the open edge of the bed and that finally made Alastor move in, gracefully stepping over Anthony’s legs and then sliding into the vacant spot on the mattress, under the covers and towards his companion. A hand snaked around Anthony’s waist, pulling him back against Alastor’s front, and yeah, okay, the guy was quite warm indeed, that was nice.

“Comfy?” Anthony asked after few moments when the shuffling stopped and Alastor made a humming noise. Then: “No.”

Before Anthony could ask why, Alastor was pulling him back and turning him towards himself like a sack of potatoes, then grabbing him by the waist and almost suffocating him when he pushed Anthony’s head against his chest.

“Gee, warn a guy next time,” the human groaned into the red shirt. “Or is this an elaborate plan on how to kill me immediately after striking a deal, by suffocating?”

“Hmm,” Alastor hummed again. “Not really. This is not comfortable either.”

This time he only flipped himself on his back, wiggling up and down, completely ignoring Anthony’s bewilderment at the actions, until he finally stilled and grabbed the human by the back of his neck and pushed him again against his chest, where Anthony landed with a quiet oof.

“Ah, yes,” Alastor finally stated. “This is just right.”

“Fuckin’ finally,” Anthony huffed and dragged his body higher, draping his legs over Alastors’ while resting his head on the demon’s shoulder. Then finally let out a breath and melted into the warmth like ice cream.

“I am a hard man to please, you will find,” Alastor pitched in. “But I am sure we can find a compromise.”

“Your compromising seems rather one-sided so far,” Anthony jabbed, and it made Alastor chuckle.

“Not wrong.”

There was a clawed hand on the back of Anthony’s neck that moved towards his hair, combing through them slightly. The movement was pretty nice and if Anthony was a cat, he’d have purred for sure.

Speaking of hands… “You healed my wound?”

“Why, yes, I sure did,” Alastor answered easily. “No reason for it when it filled its purpose.”

“Thank you,” the human whispered into the red shirt and the hand in his hair patted him. “Sleeping now.”

“Please do,” the demon responded rudely, but there was not enough consciousness for Anthony to get back at him somehow. The waves of sleep claimed him like a spell casted by a demon in red, sealing a deal for eternity.

***

Anthony woke up to a warm but empty spot in his bed, smell of coffee waffling through air and sun peeking between clouds to his bedroom. The snow stopped falling but the ice drew crystals on the window, signalling the temperature outside was rather low, despite the sunny lie.

He sat up groggily but surprisingly well rested and his head had to take a five to catch up with everything that transpired at night, which quite frankly still felt like a dream. But then the dream was standing in his kitchen again fully dressed, sipping a cup of coffee (Anthony’s favourite cup, a black wide and low beauty with golden accents and a handle, even though he never used it for coffee) while reading a newspaper. Where he got one was a mystery, since Anthony definitely didn’t have any at home, but then again – a demon. He could probably snap one from thin air.

“Ah, Anthony,” he immediately spotted the human standing in between the doors, “my good fellow, good morning. I took the liberty of using your coffee machine, thought you could do with wider variety of blends.”

“I don’t even know I have a coffee machine,” Anthony yawned and shuffled into the kitchen while absentmindedly scratching his belly under the tank top. “Or blends on that matter. Where did ya even find it?”

Alastor pointed at the cabinet that was obviously fiddled with and it only assured Anthony that he had no idea of its contents. Somebody must have left the coffee here, he mused, while reaching into the cabinet himself and pulling out a tea box.

“Not having a knack for coffee?” Alastor asked while watching the human pouring water into a kettle and then filling another cup with four spoons of sugar.

“Don’t like bitter stuff,” Anthony mumbled while hanging the tea bag inside.

“I can see that,” Alastor commented, pointedly looking at the cup with enough sugar to sustain Anthony through morning and cause anybody else a cardiac arrest. He obviously wanted to nag him for it, but was nice enough to keep his mouth shut, which was a smart move.

“I have to leave for now,” the demon announced after the water finished boiling and Anthony looked at him wordlessly. “Busy as ever, I am afraid. But,” he snapped his fingers and there was a retro-looking radio standing on the counter, just appearing out of thin air, “I will leave this here. Consider it… a Christmas gift.”

“A radio?” Anthony stared at the contraption in confusion and Alastor patted the radio gently.

“Yes, indeed!” he happily announced and tuned it so that smooth jazz started to play. “It is more of a… communication device for you and me though. Not saying it can always reach me in Hell, but it usually can. And I can reach you here as well if the need arises. Sounds fair?”

“Sure,” Anthony eyed the radio suspiciously. “So, what’s with ya and the radios anyway?”

“No time, we can talk later!” Alastor pushed his empty cup into Anthony’s hands and with another snap of his fingers his microphone appeared, and he spun it in his hand. “I am not able to make it today for sure, but let us start the dinner routine tomorrow, how about that?”

“It’s fine, but Al-,”

“I will see you later then, my dear fellow!” And with that, Alaster poofed out of thin air like a goddamn David Copperfield on a good day, leaving Anthony gaping like a fish once again.

***

2019, 25th

The Boxing day was quiet and mostly for kids anyway. The joyous squeals of children when obtaining their dream toy filling households only lasted for a while until kids went out to play. Anthony saw the lot of them outside in the snow, throwing snowballs around and letting their parents take a breather or two.

Anthony never wanted kids. Hell, he couldn’t even have one when the only woman he ever loved was his mom, and she was probably in heaven, unless she fucked up somewhere on the road and the elevator went down. He wondered if Alastor would know of her, if she ended up in hell. Or anybody, really, if Anthony asked.

Hey, you met my pops in there? The old fucking homophobic bastard? Hope he’s squealing like a pig on a roaster.

Yeah, no. Maybe Alastor would know and would tell him and Anthony wouldn’t like the answer. Not to mention it wasn’t in their deal anyway, exchanging information from Hell and beyond. But he still wondered, now when he knew hell really existed and everybody who did bad things ended up as a demon in there. If they never struck a contract with a demon while alive, did they just arrive there free to roam about until somebody eradicated them? Or picked them up? Was it all about deals in hell? Dog eat dog? It would make sense, probably. But he still thought it’s purgatory with everybody being tortured by having their organs ripped out and eaten and then growing them back out just to do it again the next day, that sort of vileness. Maybe having a pineapple stuck in their ass too, just as a good measure of their sins.

He glanced towards the kitchen, the radio perfectly visible from his spot on the couch, just sitting on the kitchen desk like it was no demonic contraption that could call his owner in hell. It was like those old dandy radios before TV was invented, vintage and possibly kind of nice looking, yet completely out of place in Anthony’s flat. Was it Alastor’s checking on my investment sort of thing? A spyware but old fashioned? All about Alastor was a bit old timey, the way he talked, the way the never-ending static around him buzzed and played all kind of reaction tracks, even the way he dressed. Though Anthony had to admit that kind of fashion was more timeless if anything else. The static noise that surrounded him and even coloured his voice was strange, and Anthony didn’t know what to exactly think about it. He never stopped emitting the sound, even when they were sleeping, the static was still there. Anthony didn’t mind, it was a white noise sort of background he fell asleep to even normally, but the question still stood.

“Maybe I should write the questions down,” he mumbled to himself. Alastor was not coming tonight and Anthony was prone to forgetting things fast. If he wanted to know, it was easier to make a list.

***

2019, 26th

“You made a list?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Anthony batted Alastor’s hand away when he tried to grab the paper. He was primly seated at the table, legs crossed, and his grin ever present. “You’re the first demon I’ve met. Of course I have questions and there’s lots of them, so I wrote it down.”

It was seven in the evening, Thursday, 26th. Alastor appeared out of nowhere in the living room approximately at 18:30 and scared the shit out of Anthony who was attempting to do some yoga after half a year, which obviously caught him in an embarrassing position with his butt sticking in the air and a not very manly shriek following when he heard Alastor ask about the occasion.

They decided to make spaghetti. Or better Anthony decided and Alastor didn’t argue. And then it came to the questions and Anthony remembered the list and that obviously piqued Alastor’s curiosity.

“Fair enough,” the demon conceded and folded his hands back on the table. “I suppose I can indulge you.” He didn’t look any different from the last day Anthony saw him – the same suit, the same hair, and it probably made sense, being in hell and all. Dead didn’t have many people to impress with wide variety of clothes, unless sinners had keen fashion sense down there. The time also may flow differently in hell, right? Was the time even a thing in there?

Anthony peeked into his list, then returned to the kitchen counter where he was cutting tomatoes.

“Do you know Lucifer?”

It was the first thing that occurred to him when he tried to think back to Christianity. Lucifer the Morning star, he was supposed to rule hell, right? Or was he a fairy tale?

“Yes,” Alastor responded easily. “Everybody knows the King of Hell. Or at least know of him.”

“I mean… personally?” Anthony peered at the demon over his shoulder and Alastor nodded.

“We have met. He quite enjoys the polka music.”

“Lucifer the Morning star enjoys the polka music,” Anthony repeated with a snort while scraping tomatoes into a pan. “Sure thing.”

“He can play variety of instruments as well. Very proficient,” Alastor added and Anthony seriously couldn’t say if he was fucking with him or if the King of hell played harmonica at dinner. He shook his head and let it go – if Alastor wanted to make fun of him, nobody would be able to stop him anyway.

“Are you summoned by humans often?” he continued with another question while moving around the kitchen and by the corner of the eye saw Alastor leaning against his palm.

“Not exactly,” the demon admitted. “Rarely anybody knows how. Of course, there are attempts to summon something, but simple mortals lack imagination when it comes to it. They just think it is oh so fun to try and ruin the party with powers that should not be trifled with. Unless they use right signs, they usually cannot summon anything. When they are at least partially right, they may get a vengeful lesser shade which may cause enough trouble for them to get hurt. Or die.”

“Oh,” Anthony blinked in surprise, then got back to tasting the sauce. “I was lucky to get ya, huh.”

“Why, yes, lucky indeed!” the cheering background made Anthony snort.

“Making deals with humans is not really a norm for you then. Or do you venture here by yourself?” he asked another question and heard Alastor behind him shuffle. When he glanced towards him, the man was standing already, reading the list Anthony left on the table. “Hey!”

“Merely curious what kind of thoughts you had in my absence,” the demon masterfully avoided Anthony’s snatching hand and circled the table with two long steps, putting a barrier between them. “Oh dear, those are quite intrusive questions you have. Half of them are unanswerable.”

“Yeah? Why?” Anthony gave up chasing him and crossed his arms on his chest. “Is it some kind of hell code?”

“More like I do not feel like telling you, is all,” Alastor responded sweetly and sheesh, his nice and understanding personality from yesterday must have been just a fluke, since he was rude. “Personal information is dangerous to give. Especially to an underling.”

“Not your underling yet, big boy,” Anthony sent him a wink which seemed to take Alastor by the surprise, judging from his wide eyes.

“Alright. Underling eventually,” the demon huffed and twirled the list in his hand. “Ah, this one I can answer. Is hell only about torturing sinners – no and yes.”

“Very eloquent, thank you for enlightening me,” Anthony rolled his eyes and returned to the stove where he pulled the sauce off the flame. “You just want to keep me in suspense, huh. Wait till you get there, my good fellow!”

The laughing track was a bit insulting, but alright. Maybe it was a rather presumptuous question anyway.

“Every sinner is different, therefore every sinner’s experience in Hell is their own,” Alastor walked to the radio he left the there the other day and patted it. Jazz started to play in the background and Anthony gave out a huff before walking to the living room and turning off the TV that played until now. Guess it was Alastor’s way of saying he liked music better.

“For lesser shades… I imagine hell must be quite a purgatory. But honestly? It is but another life in another city where good intentions do not exist,” Alastor looked out of the window at the snowy New York, his eyes half lidded. Seeing him standing there like that made him look almost normal. “Nobody will help an old lady to cross the street. Most likely will try to hit her by the car if anything else. Nobody will do you a favour if you are in a pitch, simply because good favours are not repaid. Unless you have power… you are nothing in Hell.”

“So, like in a real life,” the human mumbled and Alastor made an agreeing noise in the back of his throat. “No chains or anything? No eternal suffering by having your organs eaten and then regrown to have them eaten again?”

“How colourful!” Alastor laughed from his spot. “I assume there are places like that too. Business where chains are used, and organs eaten… everything is possible in Hell. Maybe you can start that by yourself once you are there. It’s quite a way to make a living!”

Anthony refused to get unnerved and instead commanded his guest to sit down so he could serve the food to him. He didn’t miss the gleam in Alastor’s eyes at his refusal to comment on the topic.

***

“Are you usually busy in hell?”

“Of course I am,” Alastor answered the question like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Maintaining status in Hell is a full-time job.”

They were seated in the living room, the sofa dipping under their weight. Alastor was good at his word and had Anthony sitting next to him while having an arm around his shoulders in a cuddle. If felt a little stiff but he tried, and Anthony didn’t complain. The TV remained off, Alastor seemed to have an aversion to it for some reason, but the radio still played music from the kitchen. He was glad Alastor seemed to like his cooking at least, since he ate everything Anthony gave him and even praised him for a splendid Italian experience, even though it wasn’t exactly anything special.

“But now ya gotta be here for three to five days a week. Doesn’t that cause problems?” Anthony folded his legs under him and cuddled a little closer to Alastor’s warmth which made the demon stiffen even more for several seconds before he eventually relaxed again. Definitely not used to touching, this one. Striking a deal like that must have taken quite a big deal of self-control. Anthony was wondering how far he could push him before he’d show it.

“I have ways to secure my constant vigil,” came a vague reply. Probably his underlings as Alastor had put it – who knows how many of them he had, how may deals he made. What did they want in exchange for their souls?

“What’s the most wanted thing in your deals?” he inquired next while sneaking a hand on Alastor’s knee. The demon’s whole body became rigid and Anthony bit back the laugh.

“Not affection, I assure you,” the demon pried Anthony’s hand off, then apparently realized what he had done, so he awkwardly held it in his gloved hand like a baby on fire until Anthony took a pity on him and wiggled out of the hold. “Most of the time they want money or fame. Sometimes revenge.”

“Did you make somebody super famous? Like a singer or an actor?” Anthony continued like nothing happened and for a while it seemed like Alastor was back to his relaxed self. “Like Brad Pitt or somebody?”

“Well-,” Alastor stopped immediately once Anthony put the hand back on his knee. Then glared. “You are doing this on purpose.”

“A little.”

Another glare, surprisingly not very scary because it was ridiculous – the man was manhandling him yesterday in bed without ounce of shame with the cuddling and suddenly couldn’t relax into a normal side-to-side couch snuggle, and a simple knee touch almost sent him out of the room? Talk about overreaction out of nowhere.

“Ya hate being touched,” Anthony sat straight, putting a distance between them, looking at Alastor pointedly. “Yer stiff like a board, holy shit. Is this some kind of hell practice? Like ya gotta torture yourself at least once per month somehow?”

“Do not be ridiculous, Anthony,” Alastor rolled his eyes and the invisible audience booed. “The deal is perfectly fine in all standards and does not cause any torture on my part.”

“Uh huh,” the human voiced and slapped his hand back on Alastor’s knee with a loud smack. The rigidness immediately followed. “I can see that right ‘ere.” Alastor did nothing against it with stubbornness of an oaf, but then Anthony dragged the hand higher up the leg and at that point his wrist was caught in a vice grip and pulled away again.

“The deal said nothing intimate or sexual,” the static got a little louder around his voice. “Is that right, my dear?”

“Touching your knee is hardly sexual,” Anthony gave him an unimpressed look. “Dear.”

The grip got tighter and the static almost deafening and he would have sworn he saw shadows getting taller and darker. That was an obvious cue for Anthony to concede unless he wanted to be evaporated, probably. With a sigh he raised his free hand in defeat and the static returned to normal and music resumed from the radio in the kitchen like nothing creepy just transpired. Alastor let go of his hand and leaned back against the backrest and raised his arm for Anthony to come back closer, without a single comment.

“You’re really somethin’,” the human shook his head and returned to his position next to the demon. This time Alastor relaxed marginally, but Anthony would swear the claws on his shoulder bit down more than they should have.

***

He woke up alone again the next morning but this time to an empty flat. There was no trace of Alastor making coffee in the kitchen either, the cup safely stashed in the cupboard and no lingering smell of coffee beans remained. Anthony leaned against the counter with a deep sigh, wondering if the deal they made wasn’t another catastrophe waiting to happen, like any other relationship he had in his life, romantic or not. Sure, this thing was more of a… body pillow status than anything else, but then there were still dinners and weekends spent in the same vicinity and if the demon came to dislike him enough, wouldn’t those be a complete disaster?

“New year can’t come soon enough,” Anthony mumbled to himself while reaching for the kettle to fill it with water and sighed. He was at work the whole night on New year and it usually worked well enough to get nasty thoughts out of his head for the time being. It wasn’t like he totally loved his job, but he didn’t mind it as much either – it gave him money and the money gave him the rest. Even when he had to fend off drunkards and touchy-feely customers, especially on a costume day. The pub he worked in wasn’t the fanciest joint but sometimes they had fun events where all waiters wore the same costume, no matter the gender, and if they looked cute enough, the customers weren’t shy to put some bank notes in the clothes with patronizing smiles. Some thought it bought them few touches too, but unless they went straight for the crotch or wanted more, Anthony didn’t really mind. The girls on the other hand were a bit less inclined to be groped at work, which made some patrons grumpy. Served them right to be slapped across the face though.

He stopped in front of the radio, eyeing it unhappily, and then fiddled with one of the black buttons until it started playing a tune. Swing, probably, judging from the tempo, and he wondered if Alastor had it only tuned for an old-time music he liked and nothing else or if it was the only music available in hell. He left it be and waited for the water to boil until the radio buzzed oddly and swing stopped.

“Ah, Antho-y-are up,” Alastor’s voice leaked out of the demonic contraption and Anthony froze, staring at the radio with wide eyes. No matter the demon told him they could communicate through it, it still came as a surprise to hear Alastor from the speaker.

“Mornin’,” he responded a little dumbly, not even sure if the radio went both ways, since normal one definitely did not.

“Apo-gies for le-ing ea-ly,” Alastor’s voice said with enough interference it almost made it impossible to tell what he was saying. “Duty ca-d.”

“It’s fine,” Anthony assured him with a small frown. “Can’t hear fuck though, hell has pretty bad signal.”

“No mat-r!” Alastor sounded cheery enough though, even with all those interruptions. “-ll try to c-e to-ght, but--pro-ses!”

“Whatever you say, Smiles,” Anthony sighed, patting the radio as if it could help the signal to correct itself and the buzzing intensified until it smoothed out and only the lyrics of Peeping Tom slithered out of the speaker.

“Fitting,” Anthony snorted and got back to his breakfast.

***

2019, 30st

Alastor didn’t show up for four days apart from some staticky messages through the radio, through which Anthony only caught about half of what had been said. Something about a war – which was probably bad? War in hell. Or maybe pretty normal? And then something about a lord, which maybe was Lucifer. Alastor attempted to ask normal questions, Anthony thought, but very often the conversation, if not hardly understood through the interference, was interrupted by screams that sounded like somebody was being torn apart, and that usually made Alastor shut up, then sigh, and then say in a cheery voice: “I’ll be right back, dear.” And then another talk happened the next day the earliest.

Anthony didn’t really blame him. Lord wars or whatever was happening down there didn’t sound like a picnic, and Alastor was probably in one of the higher places in the hierarchy, so maybe it was like his job to get all the sinners under the control – like with a whip and high heels… or something. That image actually got Anthony through the day because he laughed every time he imagined Alastor in red latex.

It was in the evening of Monday 30th when Anthony was going through the shifts roster his boss sent him on e-mail, sitting on the couch in the living room with TV on, and heard the radio in the kitchen spur to life once more.

“Al?” Anthony dragged himself off the couch towards the kitchen and then let out a scream he didn’t know he was capable of. Slithering out of the radio was a black shadow with evil blue eyes and wide raggedy smile, filling the room like an imposing nightmare and Anthony hit the table with his back when trying to back out.

Was this also a gateway? Could another demon use it to get here? For whatever reason it might have? Was this how Anthony was going to die – eaten by some shade-like monster? In a complete fear stupor Anthony couldn’t even turn around to flee, he just stared at the abomination and the abomination stared back at him for about twenty seconds, then it tilted its head to the side and fucking bowed to him.

“What the…” the human wheezed, his heart thumping wildly, and then it hit him. This thing. It had huge antlers on its head, not like those small things Alastor normally had, but fully grown antlers of an imposing width – actually its entirety of a head looked like the red-clothed demon, like his fucking shadow just slithered out of the radio by itself to say hi.

“Are you Al…?” he asked a little dumbly and the shadow made a vague hand gesture that could only mean half and half. Fucking half and half, was his shadow acting by itself normally? Was it a demon thing?

“He still can’t make it?” he tried to make a conversation and his heart was finally slowing down again to a normal pace. The shade nodded and on the wall behind him a shadowy show appeared, explosions and flying body parts and then also miniature Alastor standing on a tower or something? Silently laughing at the mayhem.

Ah, so it was probably a fun war then, Anthony mused. Or maybe Alastor just liked chaos and blood. Which was possibly normal – for a demon. When the scene disappeared, the Shadow Alastor turned back to Anthony and the big smile widened even more.

“I suppose you’re not really here for dinner though…” the human trailed off when he saw the Shadow pick up a frying pan from the hanger and put it on the stove. “Holy shit, you can actually touch things too?”

In a blink of an eye the shadow disappeared and reappeared right behind Anthony where he lifted the human with ease and then moved him towards the stove like a damn figurine in a clothes’ shop. That thing didn’t really feel warm or cold, it was like being held by a paper bag. Just there. At the job well done it grinned at the human like it wanted a praise and all Anthony could do was to stare.

“Well fuck me, this is even weirder than the whole deal thing,” he finally stammered out. “Can you eat too or…?”

The Shadow shook its head.

“So, you just want me to cook for myself?”

The Shadow nodded.

“Alright then,” Anthony glanced at the frying pan. He wasn’t really thinking of what to cook even if Alastor actually arrived, but since now he sort of had to and it was only for him, he decided to settle on an egg omelette with mushrooms he had in a fridge and hoped they were still edible and not covered with mould. It happened to him too many times to count, since he rarely had an appetite to eat unless Alastor would grace him with his company. He looked back at the Shadow, which was expectantly hovering on his left and cleared his throat. “How about you get me eggs and mushrooms from the fridge?”

He couldn’t say if it really wanted to do something or had been acting on orders, but the shade actually slithered to the fridge and grabbed the pack of mushrooms, brought them to the kitchen counter and then got back for the eggs, turned around and tilted its head.

“Three of them,” Anthony understood the silent question, at least hopefully it was what it meant, and the Shadow opened the package and took three eggs out – then started to juggle them around.

“Oh, so ya a fun guy, huh,” Anthony watched him with amusement. “Not like your owner.”

“Depends on what you expect of fun,” the Shadow spoke in low voice that made Anthony shiver involuntarily, and it gently put the eggs on the counter while grinning wildly.

“Can also talk,” Anthony commented with a hitch of a breath.

“When I feel like it,” the Shadow changed locations again, this time he hovered on the right side of Anthony, like he was playing with him.

“Wait, so are ya a separate being from Al? Like… yer supposed to be his shadow, right?” It was a weird question to ask, probably, but Anthony couldn’t wrap his head around a shadow being its own thinking entity without some sort of setback.

The Shadow tilted its head, not answering.

“Don’t feel like talking often, I see,” Anthony huffed. “Fine. Keep ye secrets. I know Al doesn’t like to talk about himself cuz he’s scared I’d stab him in his back in hell once I die.”

The Shadow remained silent but dramatically manifested a knife in his back and then dissolved into a dark puddle on the floor before materialized on the other side of Anthony again. Obviously a theatrical animal, the human thought with surprising calm, and just left him be.

The cooking took him only half an hour and since the Shadow seemed to hold his tongue for the rest of the evening, he took the plate to the living room to watch something on TV while eating. The Shadow followed him like an obedient dog and once Anthony seated himself on the couch and dragged a fluffy pink blanket over his legs, it appeared right next to him, peering at him expectantly again from a way too close.

“Hi,” Anthony said into its grinning face and the smile widened. Probably liked being acknowledged. “Ya here to cuddle me instead of Al too?”

That seems to perk it up and Anthony barely managed to save his plate before the Shadow threw itself on Anthony’s lap, seating itself right on top of his legs while completely blocking not only the view at the TV but the access to the plate and the rest of barely functioning brain cells Anthony had. Then it looked down at him expectantly, his huge antlers by some miracle so far didn’t destroy anything.

“Alright…” Anthony took a deep breath and put away the plate with food for later somewhere near him on the couch, since he couldn’t reach anything else over the black mass of the shade sitting on his lap like this. “Not what I had in mind, but sure, whatever… floats your boat, I suppose?”

Obviously, it did float the Shadow’s boat since it didn’t move away and instead of that hugged Anthony closer to its chest and its shadow-y claws started raking through his hair. Which was quite nice, honestly, if the situation wasn’t so bizarre. The true Alastor would probably bristle like a cat at this though, judging from the knee incident, so Anthony kept his hands to himself. The Shadow itself wasn’t heavy – Anthony felt him, sure, but like… with almost nothing to weight him down, even though it felt very palpable, very here, yet somehow not as real. He let his eyes close, only concentrating on the movement of the claws on his scalp and felt sleep tugging at his consciousness.

“Hey,” he piped, and the claws stopped for a fraction of second before resuming their movement. “Tell Al I’m at work whole night tomorrow… okay? In case the lord war or whatever you guys do down there would miraculously end itself.”

“Yes, Anthony,” the Shadow purred above him and then in several next minutes Anthony’s consciousness faded away.

***

2019, 31st

It was only lightly snowing in New Year and the temperature didn’t really drop as low as Anthony expected. He arrived to work at 17:00 on dot and the girls greeted him with wide smiles and winks, which meant the costume for today was going to be something lewd – but not completely or they’d riot. Maybe a maid uniform, he mused while walking to the changing room and greeting other waiters on the way.

Then it made sense – a Honeybee themed outfit with fishnets was about to end his whole career, he was sure of it. Several girls in the locker room were already dressed up and applying makeup, and the moment he entered the room they all had that gleam in their eye which meant the only thing: They wanted to see him in the costume and do his makeup like a hive minded coven.

“I suppose boss didn’t have mercy on me, huh,” he commented when there was a carefully wrapped costume hanged on his locker. Girls around him shook their heads with a giggle. “I have no ass. This is going to be a disaster.”

“You have no tits either and still walk away with most of the tip on busy nights,” one of the girls smirked at him. “Quit whining and get it on. I’ll do your hair.”

“Yes m’am,” he kept the sigh for himself. It was going to be a long night for sure.

New Year’s nights were always busy in the pub. Hell, in probably all pubs around the world, people were so willing to drunk themselves into the stupor it felt like it was the only joy they had that year. Anthony didn’t know how many times he already said Welcome to the honeybee inn, sweetie during the night but it definitely kept any other thoughts at bay when he had to remember orders, faces, and keep his smile on all the time. It didn’t stop him from thinking about Alastor though, just wondering if New Year’s had any effect on Hell or not. Maybe they all had a day off from hellish suffering?

It was very close to midnight already when he twirled around tables with another set of shots, putting them in front of a group of middle aged men and one of them took a hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and waved it in front of Anthony like a bait.

“How about you sit on daddy’s lap for a while, honey?” he asked him in a slightly drunk tone and Anthony eyed the bill for a second before gracefully sitting on the men’s knees, snatching it from his hand and putting it behind the cleavage.

“Of course, daddy,” he wounded an arm around the man’s shoulders. “Are ya enjoying your time with us?”

“Now I definitely do,” the man responded, his hands immediately went to the groping mode as expected. Anthony let him do whatever he liked – for a hundred he bought it as long as he avoided his dick. His equally drunk friends were laughing and then stopped other waitress and ordered more shots for Anthony to drink with them, passing him around their laps like a groping doll.

Well… it’s fine. It’s the only thing I’m good for anyway.

One of them was a sloppy kisser and other one had a thing for his thighs. At least he heeded his warnings of not to rip his fishnets, which was a small miracle. Anthony wasn’t sure how many shots he was made to drink, but he clearly recalled being called pretty and a slut.

He blacked out eventually, but he heard the countdown and New Year fireworks in the back alley behind the pub.

There was nothing happy about it though.

***

The tiles in his bathroom were cold as ice. Anthony heaved one more time and there was already nothing but disgusting bile coming out. He felt sick, dirty, and miserable, and the rumpled money that fell out of his costume at home were so not worth it, even though it was almost 1k. Filthy, disgusting money, the same like him.

It was a miracle he was strong enough to take a shower, even though he sat in there for twenty minutes while ugly sobbing, and then passed out in his bed still in a towel and with wet hair and smudged mascara.

Why didn’t he insist on Alastor killing him when he had a chance? This was the lowest of low for him, the fucking rock bottom of his pride shattering.

Pride? What pride. Did he even have any? Doubtful.

He woke up at 3 in the morning, his stomach was hurting, and his head was splitting. He wobbled out of the bed on unsure legs, holding the towel barely up, and rummaged the cabinet for Tylenol he by some miracle still had. The water from the tap in the kitchen was cold as fuck and it woke him up a little when he was gulping the pill down and praying it would stay there.

He leaned against the counter to take a deep breath and then his eyes fell on the radio quietly sitting on his left. His hand absentmindedly fiddled with one of its buttons and it cracked several times, but no music came out.

“Figures,” he mumbled, defeated. “Hey Al. Ya there?”

Nothing but crackling static.

“Al,” Anthony repeated. “I dunno if ye can hear me. Just wanted to talk maybe. Or see ya. Or Al Junior maybe? I don’t mind that one either, haha… both of ye are… fine.”

Crackling buzzed through the kitchen with no words. Anthony slid down against the counter and remained seated on the wooden floor, fighting against tears that were coming up all of sudden.

“You know,” he sobbed quietly. “This night was fucked up, huh. Was it fucked up for ya too? How’s hell during new years anyway? Do demons drink alcohol even? Hey Al…”

He sniffled and rubbed the back of his hand against his face. It came out blackened from the mascara.

“Oh man. Al, I fucked up again,” he let his head fall back with a thud against the drawers. “I wonder if there’s a way to even get better? Like this… I’d be so fuckin’ useless to ya down there. I kinda wanna die already, but I know ya wouldn’t like me being this way so...”

A sigh. He was babbling. His stomach hurt like a bitch. Some of the drinks must have been spiked, he knew this withdrawal feeling.

“Hey Al. Are drugs down there? In hell?” It sounded more like a whine. “I guess it’s the best way how to destroy a person, ya know. Just make him an addict. Fun times for a while, then pit of snakes.”

He quieted down, hot tears streaming down his face. Would Alastor be angry if he just took a knife and slit his wrists? Probably. Would he just double kill him once he’d land in hell for being such a pathetic weakling? He sure wouldn’t want to be reborn with the same shit soul again anyway.

“I…” he raised his voice, then sobbed again. “Hope it’s fine. Down there. With ya.”

“There, there, Anthony,” the radio suddenly cracked to life and the human bolted up and almost lost his footing before catching the edge of the counter. It was Alastor’s voice, no doubt. “You sound like you are in very low spirits for such joyous occasion.”

“Ha, yeah… sort of…” Anthony smudged the mascara even more, judging from the state of his hands, and reached for a tissue with a frown. “It’s been a shitshow here, but what else is new.”

“That much it ended in tears for you?” the demon asked from the other side, for once the transmission clear and easily understood, and Anthony forced down the sob that was trying to get out of his throat.

“Kinda…” he admitted quietly. “I thought maybe… you’d have time. Tonight. It’s been a rough day.”

“Today-,”

“Or your shadow pal,” Anthony quickly interrupted what sounded like a refusal. “He’s pretty nice the other day. Not that chatty but still nice. Would be fine if you can’t. Unless he can’t either.”

There was silence on the other side for a while and Anthony feared the transmission was interrupted again. But then the static sound filled the kitchen once more.

“…my shadow pal?” Alastor repeated incredulously, apparently not liking the nickname. “I see.”

“I know it’s whiny,” Anthony couldn’t deny that simple truth, but he refused to back down now. “But I really could use a body pillow right now.”

“A what now?”

“A cuddle,” the human wiped his face to the tissue, and it came dirty as hell. Damn, his face must have been a mess. He wiped it some more until nothing black remained and threw the dirty tissues to the bin with a fed-up sigh.

Silence again and Anthony braced for an inevitable refusal.

“You sure are a handful, Anthony,” sounded behind him suddenly and he almost dropped the towel he was holding around him, and that definitely wouldn’t help the situation. Alastor was standing several steps away from him and looked exhausted. There was no other word for it, his shoulders were slouched, he had huge dark circles under his eyes and his coat was rather tattered on the edges – although if there was a war it was still in a pretty good shape, considering.

“And you look like shit,” the human commented, even though he really didn’t mean to. There was a saying that beggars can’t be choosers for a reason.

“Oh, that is rich coming from you, dear,” Alastor tilted his head to the side, taking in Anthony’s state. “How about you dress yourself first. Then we can talk business.”

“Smart,” the human admitted and wobbled back to his bedroom to change into pyjamas. The night was cold and fluffy clothes sounded like a great idea; he was already half a popsicle from the time on the floor.

When he got back, Alastor was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, and crimson eyes fixated on Anthony the moment he appeared. It looked like both of them had a rough night, so maybe a good night sleep wasn’t that bad of an idea even for the demon. Although maybe he preferred sleeping in a coffin or something, Anthony didn’t know.

“Much better,” Alastor said pointedly and stood up. “Now we can sleep. Or talk, whichever you prefer.”

“Looking at ya, I think sleep would be the better option,” Anthony shrugged, and he didn’t miss the displeasure that showed on Alastor’s face for a second. Probably didn’t like when people saw him weak, although Antony doubted it made him any less dangerous. He let the demon lose the coat and the shoes first before Alastor climbed to bed and once he was lying on his back, Anthony sneaked in next and remained resting on his side, not touching him anyhow. For some reason he looked like a timed bomb and any touch could set him off, unless he would initiate it.

“Ya could’ve just send the shadow again,” he mumbled quietly. “If this is not a good time.”

Crimson eyes switched to him, searching.

“Busy now,” he said simply. “No matter. We had a deal and I neglected it, which is not going to happen again.”

He was lying there almost motionless, stiff like a board. Anthony wondered if the war ended badly. Alastor looked like in a bad mood.

“I said it’s fine,” he assured the demon. “Whatever lord war was going on, I’m sure it needed all your attention.”

“Lord war?” One eyebrow went up and Anthony shrugged.

“Or something,” he uttered. “The transmission was so bad; I heard every third word. Or scream.”

“Ah. The interference must have been displeasing,” Alastor sighed. “My apologies.”

“No biggie.” He wanted to ask what kind of war it was or how it ended, but somehow couldn’t bring himself to. Alastor didn’t like talking about himself and this seemed to fall under the same category. So, he just lay there, breathing in and out and sometimes a bit more deeply when the pain shot through him again.

“You are in pain,” Alastor noticed immediately and turned towards him on his side. “Are you hurt?”

“Just my pride,” Anthony gave him a weak smile. “Or what’s left of it.”

Red eyes seemed to take more of him in, as if he was searching for any kind of a visible wound. When he found nothing, his shoulder seemed to finally relax.

“Are you hurt?” Anthony repeated the question and Alastor shook his head.

“Just my pride,” he repeated Anthony’s answer as well, smiling a little bitterly. The war ended badly then. “The end of the year is… unpleasant. More for some, less for others. Never good though.”

“Oh,” the human let out. “More than usual bad hell things?”

“Much more.”

“So better not dying on New Year’s, huh,” he joked and Alastor actually chuckled at it.

“Unless you want to get immediately eradicated, not really,” he concluded with a sigh. Then he raised his hand and gently swiped Anthony’s hair off his forehead, like he didn’t make a scene few days ago about a knee touch. Complicated guy. “You were crying in the transmission.”

“I have my moments sometimes,” Anthony responded meekly. It was probably a little embarrassing. “Thanks for coming to my rescue though. Nice of ya.”

“I would hardly call dis a rescue,” the demon took his hand back, much to Anthony’s disappointment. His eyes seemed to be extra tired now and his voice slipping. “We talked about dis. You were right I wouldn’t like it if you died like dis.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’m glad you didn’t do it.” The static of his voice was flickering in an out, like he was forgetting about it. Anthony didn’t comment on it, Alastor just must have been so tired. It made him feel a little bad for dragging him all the way here.

“Yeah well. Me too, now,” the human said softly, and it made Alastor’s face relax. His hand reached out again, this time latching onto Anthony’s biceps and tugging slightly. Anthony could only imagine it meant it was time to cuddle, so he slowly inched closer until the hand reached for the back of his head and gently pushed him against Alastor’s chest again.

“Ça c’est bon,” he heard the demon say, no static, no interference, just human voice slipping out while his eyes closed slowly, and Anthony held his breath for a while to not break this ambience. Alastor’s breathing evened and the room got swallowed by untypical silence, free of any static whatsoever.

***

2020, 1st

Anthony wasn’t sure what woke him up. When he opened his eyes, there was nothing pressing that wanted his attention. The phone was silent, nobody screamed outside, his neighbours were probably still away or passed out in the bathroom, so it was only normal silence and evened breathing.

It took him about a minute before he realized the breathing wasn’t just his, but Alastor’s, who had his face buried in Anthony’s chest, arms locked possessively around Anthony’s waist like a body pillow, sleeping deeply. Normally it would be the demon who was up first, but the New Year’s toll must have drained him enough for the morning not having any power over it.

It made Anthony smile though – for a guy who seemed to be not that big on touching he was pretty cuddly when it was his initiative. He risked his luck and gently raked his fingers through the red hair and damn, it was fluffy as fuck, what the hell? It could have a been a great example of a pet therapy, just pet this damn guy’s hair and all worries were out of the window. Not to mention it didn’t even stir the demon out of the slumber so Anthony could touch it even longer until he got to the tuffs on top of Alastor’s head. He gently touched the tips and his eyes widened – those weren’t fucking hair. Those were his ears.

“What the…?” he whispered, quickly letting go. But when Alastor still didn’t wake up, his curiosity got best of him and he touched the ears again, gently, until it suddenly flicked and Alastor hummed something and then breathed out again.

So, this guy… this guy had antlers, okay. And then he had those ears too. Like a deer? Was he a deer demon or something? Did he… did he have a deer tail too? Anthony gulped down and checked Alastor’s still sleeping face. No change.

The blanked was draped around them both, but got dragged almost as low as Alastor’s waist, so if he could just lift it… to peek… But then again, he did see him without the coat right. Wouldn’t he notice if there was a tail? Did he even ever saw him from the back? Or dared to actually look at his butt?

No, definitely not. Self-preservation won, probably.

He took a deep breath, then another. Then gently raised the blanket from above Alastor’s behind, straining his neck to see… a fucking tail, holy shit, he had the tail, alright. He let the blanket fall to squash down the urge to touch it and probably lose a hand in the process and just silently whined to himself. Damn scary and bloodthirsty demon having a cute Bambi tail and ears, how was this even fair? What was he supposed to do with that knowledge now anyway? Just stare at it longingly when Al is around?

He risked one more head pat and that made Alastor stir, if the fucking mmrrrp he did was any indication.

Holy shit. Too cute, illegal, deadly. Anthony wanted to cry.

“Mornin’,” he tried to somehow mask his exciting discovery and Alastor wiggled a little before breathing out again, apparently comfortable on top of Anthony.

“Coffee,” came out staticky-less and sleepy.

“Sure, will make ya some,” Anthony grinned, liking this clingy Alastor a ton. “Black, right?”

“Mmm.”

“Okie,” he tried to sit down but Alastor didn’t move an inch. If anything, he just clamped on his waist harder. “Al... if ya wanna coffee, ya gotta lemme go.”

“No leave, just coffee,” came a muffled reply and Anthony had to bite on his fist to stop himself from making an embarrassing squeal. This KO move was too powerful, so he remained lying on his back for a while longer that seemed to be enough for Alastor to fall asleep again.

It was a sin, to dislodge from that kind of hold and leave Alastor alone in the bed, but he was going to hell anyway, and thankfully the sleep made the hold lax and Anthony was free in a second. He looked the scene over once more, gulped down another squeal and tiptoed to the bathroom to clean himself up a little, then to kitchen to make the requested coffee. Maybe if Al was still asleep by the time he’d get back, he could still sneak back to the bed and act like he didn’t leave at all?

***

He couldn’t sneak back. The absence of warmth was what probably woke Alastor up eventually before Anthony was even done boiling water, and he felt a little guilty for it, since Alastor obviously needed the rest and could have slept much longer if Anthony didn’t crawl out (maybe, it wasn’t one hundred percent adamant theory).

But he appeared in the kitchen already in his coat and looking surprisingly prim and tidy and not dishevelled at all, even though he should have because Anthony might have messed up his hair a lot more than he thought.

“Aw, you woke up,” Anthony greeted him with a smile. “Didn’t even managed to finish the coffee.”

“It is the thought that counts, dear!” Alastor replied cheerily and aw, the static was back and the prim voice too. Guess he only slipped when really tired, but it was adorable anyway.

“Slept well?” he turned around, watching Alastor fiddling with the radio to get some tunes out and then sitting at the table properly. He looked composed, the dark circles under his eyes much less prominent, his posture straight again.

“Quite well indeed,” the demon nodded, and it actually sounded sincere. “I see you are also feeling better?”

“Yeah, feelin’ great, thanks.” Anthony didn’t even lie. Yesterday was a whack, one of the really bad days and his psyche was on verge of breaking, but Alastor’s presence literally turned his frown into a smile and that counted for something. Sure, maybe it was just endorphins talking, but it was legit.

“Now, I have a question for you,” Alastor thrummed his claws against the table and Anthony froze a little. Was he going to get scolded for touching the ears? Or seeing the tail? Was he awake after all?

“Sure, shoot,” he gulped down the nervousness while fiddling with the black cup Alastor used before, waiting for the verdict.

“Yesterday, you mentioned my shadow,” thankfully nothing about touching the untouchables, “that it came here instead of me one night.”

“Yeah, through the radio,” the human pointed at the device on top of the counter. “Made me cook dinner for myself, then refused to let me eat it.”

By sitting on his damn lap, by the way, but it wasn’t something Alastor wanted to hear. He probably knew anyway but better letting sleeping dogs lie.

“How uncouth of him,” Alastor commented and the tapping got faster. “But other than that. No problems?”

“None whatsoever, except of scaring the shit out of me at first,” Anthony shrugged, and the water finally boiled. “It’s fine if ya wanna send him over instead though, on busy days or something. I mean obviously I prefer the real thing, but ya know. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

The tapping stopped.

“Noted,” Alastor finally said. “Then if you find it amendable, it may sometimes happen. Not often, but as we both know by now, Hell is unpredictable.”

“So is life,” Anthony reminded him and suppressed the shiver running down his spine when he recalled last night. No, not thinking about that now. Happy thoughts. Deer ears and tails. Fluffy, fluffy ears and a tail.

“Very true,” Alastor agreed and thanked him when Anthony put the cup of coffee on the table right in front of him.

If somebody asked what his favourite start of a New year was, he would definitely say 2020 with Alastor drinking his coffee and the knowledge that under that well-tailored coat was a cute furry Bambi tail.

#hazbin hotel #radiodust #alastor x angel dust #AU #The Deal series #human!Angel Dust

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