#sculptor of crimson

[sculptorofcrimson]

Yandere! Valdor

Valdor, the most loyal, the greatest of the Custodes, a Primarch in all but name. Who else can obsess more than him, whose every function besides loyalty was beaten out? A/N: Playing “fucked up obsessive twinks” on easy mode here, aren’t I? I’m sorry, SCP-XXXX who requested this, but you told me Valdor was a twink, and evil twinks are the best kind of men, so therefore this is your fault! Full throttle ahead, let us be damned together! ψ(｀∇´)ψ

Relationships: Valdor/Gn!Reader, mentioned Valdor/Emperor Mentions: @kit-williams would you like some food?

Valdor does not love. 

The Custodes simply can not love. Their love perished beneath treachery and fire, ten thousand years ago, and they simply cannot piece the remnants that was a heart back together again. 

The Emperor took away their ability to love any but Himself, and what else could be left but a hollow void, an immortality without substances, a heart that beats while it lacks its other half? 

There was simply nothing left of him to spare when the Emperor had brought down his claws. His love, his joy, his dreams, all gone, wiped away like sand upon the sea. Leaving behind nothing more than a hollow without sustenance, a phantom vestige of a dream crushed long ago, its corpse entombed within perfected flesh and bone and blood. 

He loves no one, not even himself. When the Emperor died ten thousand years ago, he lost his way. He lost his tether to life itself. And for ten thousand years he wandered for the corpse of his master. There was a poem once, a poem so long ago about the loyal dog that stood guard before his master’s bones, who licked the once-petting hand once, and laid down to die. 

Valdor’s loyalty is no weaker than that dog’s.

He loves no one, not even himself. But he loves the Emperor. He loves Him, so brokenly, so obsessively, so utterly insane in his adoration, the First Custodian would have let Him tear him apart if He wished. 

He loved the Emperor. 

And that is why he loves you. He thinks you to be his Emperor. If not Him, then at least a shard.

He doesn’t care who you were, he doesn’t care whether you were once a captain, a Chapter Master, a Thunder Warrior even. He thinks you to be his master, back from the dead, one of His shards caught in life and flesh. 

He thinks you’re Him. Or, if not Him, at least a fragment of His former glory.

Valdor calls you his Emperor, his shard, his beloved, he ignores any name you had once in favor of calling you his master. A name is only a word, after all, and you are nothing but his Emperor reborn, in his mind. A guardsman, an Astarte, a Thunder Warrior, you are all mortal beneath his eyes. He only smiles that cold, humorless smile of his when you attempt to correct him, when he brushes off your words with the same cold, humorless disinterest. 

Valdor thinks you to be his Emperor. And he doesn't care that you were once someone else, you were not always his beloved, you were not the master he imagined, that you are not the master he built from memories and bones. 

You were nothing before his master, he reasons, you will be nothing after his master, and you were his Emperor once upon a time. It is doubtful if he can even know love, if he had not projected his own delusions of his Emperor upon another. Valdor failed Him once and only now the fates have judged him fit enough to protect a shard of Him, one that is so frail compared to himself, so unspeakably mortal, his atonement for the master he failed so long ago. 

He failed the Emperor once, and watched Him die. He will not do so again.

Protection. You will never walk free again, never without his cold presence by your side, that effortless, confident stride as he accompanies his master. You will never know the taste of sunlight, the easy voice of another conversationalist before their words taper off into uncertainty, and then fear, beneath the jealous glare of your bodyguard. How their sentences trail off, how Valdor looms like some ancient, murderous harpy, his shadow constantly overcasting yours.

He knows nothing of love, of human emotion. But he knows protection. And he knows obsession. 

Valdor is not a passionate man. But he is neither a cruel one either. Of course, Valdor will never raise a spear nor blade against his adoration, to strike his master would certainly mean death, but he will slaughter your loved ones without even horror. He will whisper litanies of loyalty on his knees while his Custodes sink in the knives. He will speak ironclad promises and gilded oaths when they label your soldiers traitors and slaughter them upon the snowfields, when they hail for unity, and hear the blade fall. 

He seems to like walks in wintery fields. It reminds him of what he lost long ago, when the Emperor took him atop Ararat, and he enacted His first vengeance upon the Thunder Warriors. He sometimes brings you there, to altitudes higher than even what a Space Marine can withstand, and gathers you beneath his cloak, whispering memories that were never truly yours, asking for your orders, asking for your forgiveness, asking if you can remember what it felt like ten thousand years ago.

(Sometimes, you can nearly believe him when he says you’re a shard. It’s flattering, almost, to be under the eye of the captain-general.)

He can kill. There is nothing left of him if he could not. Nothing but the Emperor’s spear, a sharpened tool meant to kill and to serve, and to be cast away when its function is complete. You have nothing to fear from him, of course, he would rather end himself than raise a blade against his master. But he loves no other. He does not know how to love. And that makes him dangerous. You know it when you gaze into his eyes, you are sure you could imagine him covered in the blood of your loved ones, guardian spear flashing as he hacks through them without even the shadow of hesitation. He will take no fear, no regret, no relief, barely even satisfaction in the grim act, and yet that is somehow more profane than joy in slaughter. Not even a single hint of joy, wild and unfettered in the sheer cruelty, not even a single hint of an ambition for why he would lay such altars of blood before his master’s feet, only simply because He wanted it to be so, and simply because he loved Him. 

In his eyes, you are his Emperor. But he does not always obey you. He does not kneel as he would’ve knelt before his master. Because he knows, Valdor knows that to protect Him, to serve Him properly, sometimes he must smother Him for His own good. It’s the twisted rationale of a dog who has lost his master, whose death had rocked him so thoroughly he was willing to kill to save Him again. 

Valdor kneels, of course. He’ll kneel before you and speak his words of loyalty, he’ll give you his names one by one if you only ask. Valdor has never considered himself eloquent with words, but he’ll listen to you, he’ll even let you command him as the Emperor would have done. Rank be damned, he cares not if his Emperor had been reborn as a guardsman or an Astartes or even a Thunder Warrior. 

But he does not hide his obsession. To obsess is the only way he knows to love, after all. He’ll smother his beloved with his protection, with his adoration. He’ll hack his way to be their only protector, their only bulwark before the madness, the only man they can trust to defend them. Gaze upon his Emperor once, he’ll tear them apart. Love the Emperor more than him, and he’ll bury their bones beneath the snowfields. 

And be loved by the Emperor more than him….and he’ll betray them as he had betrayed the Thunder Warriors. He’ll sink in golden knives and golden spears in turned backs without even the hint of remorse, Valdor will remind his beloved that it is he who is the servant, it is he who serves to be praised for his duty. Valdor can take you from your family as the Emperor took him from his, he’ll so effortlessly ensure the utter protection of his new Emperor, all for himself. 

No one will protect you more than I, my liege. 

It is he who should be the favored servant.

No one can love you more than I, my Emperor.

He’ll croon those litanies of loyalty to you. He’ll whisper those promises of protection, of ambition, he’ll promise you an eternity while standing atop the frozen ashes of your loved ones. He’ll promise you a throne if you don’t cry, if you’ll love him as his master did. He’ll bring you a crown of gold, he’ll strangle the living storm for you, if only you promise to let him protect you, if you promise if you’ll be his Emperor. 

You died once. I will not let you do so again, my Emperor.

And his obsession would never be checked, and much less ended by the true power behind the Imperium.

You are his Emperor. In that mind He broke so thoroughly long ago, you are the Emperor, reborn. Heavy is the head that bears the laurel, bloodied is the hand that holds this mad dog’s leash.

It is Valdor who should be the favored servant. 

No one will protect you more than I, my liege. 

He will protect you. 

He will protect you, obsess over you, guard you with the hollow that is a heart. He’ll bring you a throne, a crown, an army, an eternity, if only you promise, if only you’ll be his Emperor. 

The Emperor died ten thousand years ago. And in turn, he casted you in His corpse.

[meo-eiru]

Micah is like a potter, he coaxed life from the earth, shaping it as a potter shapes clay, and in return, the garden flourished. A paradise, it was— a glimpse of Eden.

He knelt in the soil, hands deep in the black earth, when he heard the soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel path. Slowly, he rose, wiping his hands on his cassock before turning. And there she was.

Sister Y/N, the newest novice.

The Mother Superior had introduced them formally last week, a brief exchange of pleasantries— a mere formality. She, like so many others, had barely registered in his mind at the time. Another novice, another soul seeking redemption to the Lord.

Unspoiled, and faithful. Her face was soft, framed by the simple habit, her eyes wide and too trusting. Micah had smiled, a smile crafted with the care of a sculptor.

Before he knew it— he wanted to ruin that pure expression to something deliciously defiled.

How sweet indeed, terribly sweet.

Y/N approached him, that same sweetness clung to her like the dew that glistened on the petals at dawn.

“Father Micah,” she says. How she looks at him, it was quite adorable to say the least. The way she seemed to hang on his every word— completely unaware of his unholy thoughts… adorable.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

He turned to her, hands still cradling a delicate white rose, its petals soft like a cloud. “Ah, how thoughtful of you to offer your assistance, fufufu,” he cooed. His fingers brushed the rose almost reverently. "But I fear there is not much to be done in this garden. The flowers here have already been watered and primmed."

“I see…” Y/N looked visibly disappointed, a pout formed on her lips. As she began to turn and move away, she felt a warm hand gently close around her own.

"Before you go, I have something for you."

Grasping the slender stem of the white rose, Micah plucked it carefully. The flower in his hand appeared to match her— pure and delicate in its simplicity.

"I cannot let you leave empty handed, Sister," he extended the rose to her, its pale petals glowing in the light. "Here, a small token of my appreciation for your kind offer."

Her expression brightened like the sun on a clear day. “T-Thank you!”

She reached for it, her smile shy as she accepted the gift. But as her fingers closed around the stem, she winced— so slight, a brief flicker of pain— her finger slipped, catching on one of the rose’s hidden thorns. A single drop of blood welled up from the wound. It was a small thing, a mere prick.

Small tears welled up in her eyes— it set delightful shivers into his spine. He watched, transfixed, as the crimson bead slid down her finger, falling onto the white petals below.

The rose drank in the blood greedily, the purity of its petals stained with red.

Ah, it appears the thorns have claimed their offering. A small price to pay for such a lovely color, his thoughts coo at her, patronizingly.

He reached out without warning, his long, slender fingers encircling her wrist in a firm grip. Y/N's eyes widened in surprise at his sudden grasp. Startled, her gaze met his closed eyes, confused.

"Let me see,” Micah says, there honeyed sweetness in his words. "Such beautiful hands are not meant to bleed.”

Unless he wills it so.

Micah gently brought her finger to his lips, his tongue darting out to taste the blood— sweet as the forbidden fruit. He understood why Eve took the bite of the apple.

He then brought the digit between his own, using his free hand to gently squeeze, coaxing more blood to the surface. He brought his lips to her again, licking the remaining blood away. A tiny gasp escaped her lips, and her cheeks flushed slightly. He could feel her pulse quicken under his fingertips.

She was sweet as he had thought.

"F-Father!”

"Is something wrong?" Micah continued to hold her wrist, feigning innocence.

"It's just that..." Y/N began, stumbling over her words as her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of scarlet.

“Hmmm?”

"N-No, it's nothing..."she replied, her cheeks growing even more flushed.

As he continued to keep hold of her slender wrist, his other hand gently moved to cup her chin, holding her gaze steadfast.

"You seem awfully flushed," he said, his thumb brushing over her rosy cheek. "Are you unwell perchance?"

“No— I-I'm fine,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

"But your face is so red," Micah noted with a slight tilt of his head. "Let me check your temperature.

His hand moved to her forehead, his touch gentle yet firm. He allowed it to linger there longer than necessary.

She closed her eyes as his fingers brushed her forehead, the sensation of his touch sending a shiver down her spine. A shaky breath escaped her lips, and his gaze fixated on them.

"Sister Y/N!"

The voice, coming from further along the garden path, called out. Y/N's attention was instantly snapped away much to his dismay as she recognized the voice of one of her fellow novices calling out to her.

With a small gasp, she swiftly turned, breaking eye contact with Father Micah. "I-I have to go!"

Micah easily masked his irritation with a small smile. He watched as she turned towards the voice of her calling out for her.

"You best run along then. Duty calls, it seems."

She looked at him, and for a moment, he thought he saw something flicker in her gaze— doubt, perhaps. But then it was gone, and she was smiling again that made his blood burn.

He watched her go, his smile still firmly in place. He could wait. He would wait.

He knew he could not rush this. Like the flowers he so carefully tended, he needed to nurture her fall, to ensure it was as inevitable as it was irreversible.

The devil was in the details, and he was very good at details.

GOD THIS WAS SO GOOD

You did such an amazing job writing Micah I loved it so much I need a continuation!!!

[whatlovelybones-if]

ragged breaths pour out of you as you scrub your hands clean of the crimson liquid which stains your hands and your very soul. it was brutal and beautiful—the colour and how the red strands swirled around as it united before falling down the sink pipe.

you blink and clench your hands. the very hands which so effortlessly carved up the heart from inside the man laying on your rough ‘operating table’. you are terrible, yes. there was no other word to describe you. a vigilante, maybe? but did it even matter when there is a part of you which feels the thrill of the killings and torture that you so cunningly come up with no mercy?

no, actually, there are other words to describe you. heartless, being one of them. the irony of that when you quite literally removed someone’s heart recently is not lost on you.

rotten. sadistic. torturous. depraved. murderer.

it was how you revelled in the pain you caused others; how you can’t stop the excitement spreading across your body when you see the utter terror in their eyes; how you sometimes let them have a moment of freedom, just to tear it all away at once and see as hopelessness encompasses every cell of their body. the scalpel that you used in carving the man’s heart probably possessed more sympathy than you did.

you are not the same, the voice taunts you. you are not the same person who cried over the dead raven for night’s on end. you can’t even recognise yourself. you are twisted and depraved and oh-so sick in the head. you are broken in ways you don’t even know.

you try to deny it at first, try to resist with every shaky breath that you do this for the greater good. but you know, deep down, you know that this is what you are: a monster masquerading as a human. you have as much heart as the corpse on your operating table with the empty chest.

you try to find some semblance of yourself on the broken pieces of the vanity mirror scattered around you. but you can truly see your twisted visage on the abnormal reflections. it was as if a sculptor had chipped away at you to add all the cruelty of the world and none of its gentleness.

you were made of jagged edges and sharp thorns. made to admire, not to love.

[brabblesblog]

As if the gods made you to ruin me.

A little love letter for everyone who makes art for this vampire man.

Inspired by the Greek myth of Pygmalion and Galatea. First person POV. A sculptor confronts a piece of marble, and Astarion is their masterpiece. One-shot.

The idea of statues "breaking free" from the marble is taken from Michelangelo. This can be better seen in his Prisoners.

@spacebarbarianweird mentioned Pygmalion today, and this idea came to me.

Read on AO3.

P.S. If my writing is something you're interested in, please consider my masterlist. I highly recommend beginning with the 'Whither' series. Thank you<3

The finest, purest white marble. I stare at it, unsure, trying to parse out the figure trapped in the block for me to release. An elf, I think, my hands reaching out in front of me, imagining where the curves would be. Curls, long and growing over his ears. A sharp jaw, strong and yet delicate.

I pick up my tools, and begin my work.

It’s almost as if I’m not in control of my creation. My hands work of their own accord, carving in features that genuinely surprise me and were probably not what I would have preferred, but the longer I look, the more it seems right.

It has deep, piercing eyes, with crow’s feet. I find myself staring at it at times during breaks. It looks like it’s trying to escape its stony prison, emerging from the formless block. Its expression is poignant, as if it was lost in thought.

Smile lines? I draw backwards and away from the sculpture, frowning myself. It gave the man a look of maturity even though it was youthful. Together with the smile lines and the subtle wrinkles on its face, it seemed as if the man had lived a harrowing life before being trapped in the rock for me to uncover.

And yet, it was beautiful. There was something ethereal in the way it gazed out into space and pondered nothing.

I keep up the work. I feel myself slowly getting absorbed by it. The compulsion to keep going is overwhelming, and unlike any other. I don’t eat other than the bare minimum. I don’t leave my room unless necessary. I don’t think of much else other than what part of him to carve next.

It - no - he consumes my thoughts. In the day I carve and release him from his marble prison. At night I dream of him. Of his face, of his delicate hands, of his lithe body. I dream, I wish, and I long.

He is my finest work, the star amongst my oeuvre. My patrons are forgotten, their commissions delayed. Their ire is nothing to me. There is only him.

Astarion.

The name, his name, comes to me in a fever dream. He reaches out to me, and I ask him what he would want to be called.

A frown crosses those features, and I want more than anything to press my lips to his forehead and smooth the furrows on his brow. I watch him open his mouth, and it surprises me to see fangs.

“Astarion,” he says, and his voice catches me by surprise. There is a slight nasal timbre to it, and a drawl, almost a purr, at the end.

I snap awake, staring at the marble statue. He is looking at a spot about a meter away from where I am right now, the moonlight streaming through the window illuminating his ivory skin.

Ivory. Color. I remember now. His eyes were crimson, his hair white as snow. Features I had never imagined, the medium of my work limiting me from even considering anything regarding complexion. However, the stone was a close match to his skin in my dreams - a white so smooth it was almost pearlescent.

A vampire, I realize, as I remember one more thing: the scars on his neck. I pick up my chisel and walk over to the marble, my hands searching for the spot I remember from my dreams.

I carve, and it is perfect.

I wonder who he is, and what he’s done in his life. I am almost done freeing him, the stone block now only at his knees. I work on his genitals, shaping them as best as I can. I carve out a vein, which I would imagine to be of a bluish tint.

His body is beautiful, and I step back to admire it. Muscular, but not too large. Delicate, long limbs, the marble’s natural veins adding to the illusion of an actual circulatory system. Fingers that would make a pianist weep. Strong legs, with subtle thigh musculature.

He is full of contradictions. Masculine, and yet feminine, his hands on the delicate tilt of his hips. Youthful, and yet his face belies a strange maturity and melancholy. So real to me, and yet here he is, just the work of my hands and my overactive imagination.

I am enthralled.

I do not put him on display once he is done. I don’t sell him. He stays in my room, taking up valuable working space. I do not care.

He is my muse. I talk to him, argue with him, ask him for his thoughts. There is no response, no more dreams.

I weep. I mourn for something that never was. I seek company in lonely taverns, for warm bodies to lose myself in. It is never enough. It is not even close.

I cover him in a sheet. I don’t want to see him, to be reminded of what I so desperately need and can never have.

I try, so damn hard, to forget.

“You ruined my life!” I scream to no one in particular, to him. I am unable to work, my patrons having moved on to more productive artists. I want to throw my chisels at him, to topple him over and ruin him, as he had ruined me. But I cannot.

I rip off the sheets, staring at that face that had burrowed so deeply into my psyche, and I give in and move to press my lips against it. I close my eyes.

The lips that meet mine are cold - but not stone-cold - and soft. I feel hands move to wrap around my waist, tugging me close. I instinctively move my hands up over his head, and feel hair against my fingers - curly, fine strands that flow against my fingers like silk.

A very good illusion from my mind, I gather. As I pull away I force my eyes to open. Crimson ones meet me, and those smile lines crinkle as he grins.

“Hello, darling,” he breathes.

Taglist: @elora-the-slutty-songstress @tragedybunny @spacebarbarianweird @ayselluna @enterthedreams @coltaire@qiific3 @misscrissfemmefatale @vixstarria @eatyourheartoutmylove @linllewellyn @battisonsgf @micropoe10 @thegoodwitchs-blog @akirahime @velcyrptrr @i-cant-get-into-my-other-account @babblebrain-blog @asterordinary @last-but-not-the-least @artist4theworld

[seospicybin]

DON'T THEY KNOW IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD?

PART II

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

Chapters: Part I

Synopsis: Making a contact with an ancient object, you meet a demon who takes form of the man you desired and forces you to commit terrible acts to stop the world from ending. (13,1k words)

Author's note: I recommend listening to this track while you're reading this fic. Happy Haloween!

Based on an episode of Black Mirror. Content warnings: Violence, gore, mentions of abuse, assaults and graphic imagery. Reader’s discretion is advised!

"I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free." Michelangelo

-

Save one or billions?

Minho's number one rule may be to not leave an eyewitness but your number one rule is to not kill innocent people. Clearly, the man is merely there in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and certainly not expecting to meet a sculptor who turns a murderer at night.

You turn around to run away through the front door but Minho stops you.

"No, no, no," he strongly against your plan to flee.

He fiercely looks at you and says, "No witnesses. You have to kill him!"

You shake your head and refuse to do what he told you. All you want to do is run but Minho holds his ground, not allowing you to leave.

"He's seen you. You have to kill him!" He persists and steers your body to come at the man whose face turns pale once he realizes the horror he's about to face.

The man starts throwing you with anything in his reach, a bag of bread, a pack of sliced cheese, a half-empty bottle of soda, a spoon.

"Go away! Get out of my house!" He says while keeps throwing things at you, sending a bag of chips flying around the kitchen.

"Do it! It's him or you!" Minho urges you.

With one hand steadily covering your face from objects being thrown at you, you rummage inside your bag to take out your hammer to use it once more for the night.

Getting a good grip on it, you aim it at him while he keeps maintaining a safe space from you by swaying a chopping board in front of you.

"Get out, please!" He demands.

He then kicks you quite hard on the leg and with the strength a grown man has, it's enough to send you fall onto the ground. You see the hammer is still in your hand but the bad thing is the man is trying to escape through the kitchen door.

You drag yourself and hurriedly stop him from getting to the door by catching him by the legs, sending him crash down onto the floor.

The fight continues on the floor, the two of you struggling to survive. You try to hit him with the hammer while he gently grips your hand by the wrist to not let you hurt him.

You notice that his other hand is groping the floor, reaching for the bread knife lying inches away from his fingertips.

He only needs to get it and there's a big chance that he can easily stab you with it. You decide to drop the hammer and race him to get the bread knife before him.

You can feel the wooden handle of the knife on your fingers and close to gripping it, he flips you over on the floor to get the knife.

Before he can take it from you, you use all of the strength you have left to flip over, sending him farther from the knife and you can get a hold of it.

Relentlessly, he turns over not knowing that you're holding the knife, and stabs himself right onto it. You can feel the knife piercing through the flesh and right into his chest.

With the knife going all the way in, he still manages to crawl to sit and leans his back against the wall. He's groaning as he looks down at the knife impaled his chest.

You can only watch as he holds the knife and tries to take it out of him, despite you knowing that he shouldn't do it, you do nothing to stop him.

"I'm so sorry," you sob as he finally grabs the handle and slowly pulls the knife out.

Blood is gushing from the wound, soaking his sky blue shirt with crimson red color. Painful groans are escaping his parted mouth followed by a blob of thick, sticky blood.

"I'm so–" your choked sob gets in the way.

"Sorry," you finish with a shaky voice.

You get up from the floor and take two steps back, looking at him helplessly trying to stay alive. The man looks at you and you can see in his eyes that life is slowly leaving him.

The silence that takes over is deafening and the hands on your shoulders are putting some senses back into you.

"Come on. Let's go!" Minho whispers, reminding you that it's time to leave, not wanting to risk another person finding you like this.

Taking one last look at the lifeless body sitting against the wall, you gather your senses and eye the bloodied knife, collecting it along with your hammer as you make your way out of the door like you haven't just killed two men.

-

No matter how long you stand under the shower, the blood is still on your hands.

You sit on the end of the bed in your bathrobe, drops of water dripping from the end of your hair as your head looks down and your hands gripping the edge of the bed frame.

You're in complete shock at what you just did. Killing Tim was the plan, there was no remorse in killing him because you know he deserved it.

But the man, you don't even know his name to begin with, he got killed just because he saw you. You did that.

You look up and Minho is standing right in front of you, "Who was he?"

He sighs before answering your question, "That would be Tim's brother, Kurt."

"What was he like?" You ask, almost inaudible.

He gets quiet and you glare at him to demand an answer, "You know stuff," you say.

You intensely look into the two orbs in his eyes and ask, "Was he a good or bad person?"

He clasped both hands in front of him, "He was... ordinary."

You feel bile rising inside you, feeling sick of yourself for killing an innocent man. You grip the bed frame tighter until your knuckles turn pale.

"I know it's not what you want to hear but..." Minho says, talking in a soft tone and takes a seat next to you on the bed.

"What's done is done and on the plus side, you scored two tonight," he shares, always has a way of looking at the brighter side of evil things you did.

"I think you've done it, look!" He shows you the talisman.

Those two lines should have disappeared since you killed two men tonight which should release you from the binding contract. You feel a little hopeful that maybe you have done it, you have stopped the world from ending.

Minho is just as confused too. He taps the glass as if that would fix it. His face turns sour, realizing that something is wrong.

He holds a finger, at you. "Wait for one– No, two seconds!"

Minho walks over to the landline phone that you only use to call the concierge or to ask for any services available in the building.

He enters 666 on the dialing numbers and presses the phone close to his ear, "It's me, Minho, yep," he speaks to the phone.

"Yeah, uh... I got a talisman circa 1925 but it failed to register one of the sacrifices," He informs while looking closely at the pocket watch.

"Two kills but only one's been recorded," he turns to look at you and flashes you an uneasy smile.

His face tells that he's receiving bad news, "I mean, yeah, but..."

He puts a hand against the wall, needing to hold on to something, "We can't just, ugh... no, I get it, I get it," he says, defeated.

He slams the phone shut and tilts his head up as he lets out a deep sigh. After a while, he turns around to face you and delivers the news, "Tim didn't count."

You feel all hope has exited your body and feel betrayed, "What? Why?"

"He's a murderer. Makes him ineligible. That's what they're saying," he explains with a strained facial expression.

Isn't that the point? You killed him because he was a murderer, he deserved it.

"But we've been picking people who deserve it," you state the only truth you know.

Minho nervously smiles, "Well, you're not supposed to do it that way. It's just..."

He leans against the wall and continues talking, "I thought you'd find it easier that way."

You drop your head and pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to asses everything. You need to process the fact that you need to kill another man.

"I'm sorry," Minho sincerely apologizes.

He then sits next to you, turning his body to face you as he explains, "Look, basically anyone who's already been directly responsible for the death of another human being, they're off limits."

He gets concerned by how you're so quiet and afraid that you would change your mind by the slight changes in the rules of the game.

"As far as my boss is concerned, they're playing for the home team," he reassures you.

Suddenly, you don't see the point of doing it anymore. Kill an innocent has certainly way out of your boundary and you can't find it in you to do another one.

"We're actually lucky, you know. His brother turned up thus made your effort didn't go to waste," he calmly concludes.

Lucky? You wouldn't call killing an innocent man lucky. Tonight, his words don't quite comfort you like they usually do. You feel played and maybe it is his trick just to make you do his evil deeds.

It's like you finally came to your senses, you don't see how it benefits you because it's going to be a win for him either way.

You shot up from the bed and sharply pointed your index finger at him.

"Fuck you!" You curse him.

"Go fuck yourself!" You curse louder.

Minho just sits there and takes it all in like you didn't just spew your thick, hot rage on his face and it pisses you off more.

"This is all right for you, huh?"

He lightly shakes his head, "No, it isn't."

He has it easy because he doesn't need to do the heavy workload, he just needs to be there and keep tabs on you.

"No blood on your hands. You're just watching," you lay out the facts with rage bubbling inside of you.

Minho seems to decide to let you finish talking, knowing that you need to get it all out.

"This is entertainment for you!"

You're the only one doomed in this contract, not to mention, that you accidentally put your blood on the talisman and he forced you to permit entry. It's one sick game that he likes to play.

"If the Apocalypse does come, you'll have one big, fun finale!"

"That would be upending the whole place—"

"Yeah, you failed your initiation and got told off," you easily resolve because you don't see why it's so frowned upon. Shouldn't they be happy that the evil won?

"If I fail my initiation..."

You cut through his sentence again, "Get kicked out of the demon school? How sad!" You mock him with a sinister laugh.

"More like cast out," Minho corrects.

You shrug his words away, "Whatever."

The silence takes over for a moment until Minho speaks and fills the air with his light, whispery voice.

"Cast out into a boundless cosmic void and doomed to spend eternity in a vacuum of infinite nothingness."

You look at him as he stares at the thing he describes in his words flashes right in front of him.

"Absence of matter, time, space, light, and sound. I would endure a profound, palpable, and ever-present lack of existence..."

Hearing that makes you feel cold inside and the way he speaks as if he's been feeling that emptiness already makes you empathize with him.

"Alone in perpetuity, forever more," he finishes with a blank stare at you.

It's something that you can easily relate to. Your whole life you've been alone, living in your head because no one cares for you except for the art you made. You can see why Minho spoke with so much sorrow in his voice.

All these times, his fear has been hiding behind his indifference.

You swallow air, then say, "That sounds like my life..."

He watches as you approach him and sit next to him. He closes his eyes as if what he's about to say next is too painful.

"To be honest, I'm scared," he honestly says.

You take his hand and let him rest his head on your chest, you caressingly cradle his head, protecting him any way you can.

Minho turns his head and looks at you, letting you see everything in his eyes. In that moment, you can see that he's afraid, lost, and lonely, feelings that are way too familiar to you and you find comfort in knowing that you find yourself in him.

You slowly lean in and kiss him, letting him know that he's not the only one living such a life.

Something flickers inside you the second your lips meet his in a kiss that feels like a long time coming, it's ever-consuming, taking over.

Minho returns the kiss passionately, allowing you to let go of the worries that chained you and hold you down.

For tonight, you let yourself free.

-

FOUR DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD

The sliver of sunlight shines through the cracks of the blinds and hits you right in the eyes, waking you from your deep slumber.

You're lying on your side and feel another body next to you, taking a moment before turning your head in the other direction and seeing Minho there.

Sharing the bed with him feels natural. It's as if you've been sleeping with him for years that he belongs there, lying right next to you.

He reaches for the strand of hair falling over your face and endearingly tucks it behind your ear, then places his hand there, holding the side of your face.

"Morning," he softly says.

For a split second, it feels possible to connect to another human being without feeling afraid that you'll be misjudged. He knows you, he knows the darkest thing you ever done that you don't feel the need to hide yourself anymore.

Then the truth hits.

This is not what normal people have. Normal people don't kill, they're following the rules and stay on the safe side.

You inhale air and close your eyes for a second, "So, one more victim then?"

He drags his hand down to your neck. His thumb tenderly rubs your jaw, "Yeah, the only thing for it," he answers.

There's only one thing crossed your head at that moment, "I can't kill another total innocent," you remark.

Minho takes a breath and slides his hand down to your shoulder, "It's just murderers we have to avoid," he reminds you.

"You mean people like me," you sadly say.

You roll over and lay on your back, staring at the ceiling as the truth once again sinks in: You're a murderer.

"My whole life... I never wished harm on anyone," you sigh with so much remorse and guilt.

When you think Minho would do the look-at-the-brighter-side-of-evil-things, he scoffs at your words. You look at him and he is chuckling at you.

You sit on the bed and turn at him, "I-I didn’t," you persist.

Minho also gets up and puts his hands around his knees, smirking.

"Uh..." he scratches the back of his head.

"You couldn't have summoned me for my trial if you hadn't," he says with the smirk still plastered on his face.

You look away and think it over. Were you thinking of hurting someone that night?

"Well, you had to be corruptible not beyond corruption," he further explains.

He then reaches for your hand and holds it, "You know what? You must have had some dark force inside you when you touched the talisman," he says.

That gets you shooting a death glare at him, feeling offended that he takes you as that kind of person.

"There's no shame in it," he assures you with a squeeze on your hand.

That night, you were indeed feeling so much anger and you remember channeling all of that anger on your work. You know exactly what and who happened.

"No, go on," Minho encourages.

He then leans in, not stopping until his head meets yours. With gleaming eyes and whispery voice, he asks, "Who pissed you off?"

-

"There she is!" Kim exclaims.

"Don't you just stand there!" She gets up from her chair and welcomes you with a hug.

It was supposed to be a celebration dinner that she promised, but you see that she invited the director of the gallery with her.

She hugs you and keeps her hand on your shoulder as she pulls away, "You look..." she pauses as she takes a look up and down at you.

Since she said it would be just her and you, you casually dressed in jeans and a blouse.

Kim leans in and quietly asks, "Did you wash your hair?"

She then peers over at Jeff, the gallery director then looks back at you, "Let's sit!"

The waiter pulls a chair for you and prepares another set of cutlery for you on the table.

"She's nice," Minho appears behind you.

He walks over to Kim's chair and looks down at her, "She's a front runner for the..." he mimics throat slitting with his hand on his neck.

He stands behind her chair and continues talking, "Do you know that she takes a bigger cut on your art sales than the one written on the contract?"

You ignore him by taking the napkin and putting it on your lap, at the same time, Jeff talks to you.

"Kim said you're already working on new sculptures?" He asks.

You nod and take a sip of water before answering. Well, you're busy stopping the apocalypse from coming.

"Yeah, I am," you shortly answer.

"Oh, she loves working. There's no way of stopping her from doing what she loves," Kim says with an extra wide smile and false compliments.

Jeff asks the waiter to refill everyone's glass with more wine even though he can do it himself with the bottle sitting not so far from his grasp.

Minho props a hand against Jeff's chair and points at both Kim and him, "These two just fucked earlier in his office," he shares.

That's not the information you needed to know. You kind of guessed why they're so overly friendly with each other, you just didn't expect that Kim would screw a married man.

You quietly sigh while watching the waiter carefully pour wine into your glass without spilling a drop.

"Thank you," you mutter in gratitude.

"Should we start by making a toast?" Jeff suggests.

Kim enthusiastically agrees to his idea, being the first person to lift her wine glass and you have to follow suit, taking your glass in your hand for the toast.

"To our talented artist," Jeff says as he glances at you, then looks the other way, "And to the hardworking art dealer!"

In which Kim smiles and blushes at his words. The second after everyone clinked the wine glasses together, you take a long gulp of your wine in the hope of washing down the sour taste in your mouth.

Once the food is served on the table, you keep yourself busy by stuffing your mouth with food, not wanting to engage in a conversation with them.

You don't mind that you're now only there as a cover for their affair yet you were wrong to think that's the worst thing that happens tonight.

A waiter comes to your table and pulls the chair next to you for someone else. You turn your head to see who else Kim invited to the dinner.

"I apologize for being late," Nick says, taking off his coat with help from the waiter.

"Oh, please! We're more than pleased to know you're still willing to come and have dinner with us," Kim says with yet another fake, bright smile.

If this is her idea of torturing you, she won big. There's nothing that agonizes you more than sitting with these people at the same table.

"You come just right on time, no worries," Jeff says, also pleased by his presence.

Nick sits on the chair next to yours and looks at you when he says, "Yeah, I came just in time for desserts."

You sip your wine to avoid talking to him but that doesn't stop him from talking to you.

"How are you?"

"Good," you shortly answer.

He nods even though looks dissatisfied by your short answer. He takes a sip of his wine as Jeff starts talking to him.

"Thank you for letting us keep the sculptures until exhibitions end," Jeff says.

He waves him off and puts down his wine glass, "No problem at all."

Kim leans on the table at you, "He's the one who bought all of your sculptures," she informs.

"Really?" You innocently ask.

Kim laughs in response but you sense the scornful in that laugh, "She's still in awe," she puts it politely for everyone to

As an artist, you would love for someone appreciative of your art as the one who bought it, not someone who solely has the power to buy it. You know which one is Nick, worse is, he bought them just to impress you.

"Must be busy campaigning, huh?" Jeff says as he digs into his dessert.

Nick lets out a low chuckle yet not denying it. You've been busy stopping the end of the world from coming and not been keeping up with the news.

"Campaigning for what?" You innocently ask again.

Kim leers at you and places a hand on yours, "Nick is running for congress, honey," she says with a strained smile.

"Ah," you swallow a piece of cake down and your throat feels like closing up.

"Young and smart, oh... anyone would be lucky to be with you, Nick," Kim praises with her eyes oozing with admiration.

She looks at you to seek your agreement, "Amazing, isn't he?"

You don't see what is amazing about that when he uses his family's wealth to back his political campaign but surely, you can't be honest about it.

"Yeah," you half-heartedly answer.

Nick seems to be delighted that you show a tad interest in him a smile rises on his face.

The waiter has taken all the plates away and everyone is draining the wine bottle with more conversation that you're not part of and you don't want to be a part of it anyway.

"Nick's brother and I went to the same private school," Jeff boasts of his connection with Nick's family.

"Oh, really?" Kim asks with her saccharine smile.

"We still play golf together now and then, right Nick?"

"Yes," Nick confirms.

"Fuck me," Minho comments as he sits on the table behind Nick.

Nick thinks that you're looking at him and asks, "I've been meaning to ask you," he says.

You gently put your coffee cup down on the saucer, "yes?"

"Our family has this villa, we're renovating it now and I'm wondering if I can personally request you to make a sculpture or two..."

It's a mystery how you manage to have not puked at this point. These subtle bragging and power moves, they're suffocating you.

"I'm not sure," you vaguely answer.

"She's busy working on her new series," Kim answers for you and you feel thankful that you don't have to reject him.

"But maybe if she manages to finish it sooner, she'll reconsider the offer," she adds, shattering the kind thought you have for her just now.

Jeff pats Nick on the shoulder and says, "I can't wait to hear your big speech at the city hall!"

"Oh, please!" Nick politely smiles and leans back in his seat, "Jeff has been kind enough to lend me his villa as our temporary office."

Jeff laughs while squeezing his shoulder, not sure who they're trying to impress beside Kim.

"Oh, fuck me some more!" Minho groans with a dramatic eye roll.

Even when it's time to leave, Nick and Jeff get into a little argument about who should be paying for dinner tonight and the fight has to happen in front of you and Kim.

You're itching to pull out your credit card just to get it over with but you don't want to make a dent on two grown men's egos.

"Thank you for dinner," Kim says to Nick as the winner of the argument.

You meekly follow suit, "Thank you!"

"It's my pleasure," he says with a smile that showcases his perfect white teeth.

Even Minho has disappeared from the scene, probably fed up with everything.

"Can I give you ladies a ride home?" Nick offers as he fixes the collar of his coat.

"I would love to!" Kim eagerly answers, "But since our homes are on the same way, I'm getting a ride home from Jeff."

She holds her purse by the other hand and pulls you close to her side, "but she'll take the lift home, right babe?"

When Kim says, it has to happen or else it's going to end badly.

-

Despite that he can afford a chauffeur, Nick drives his own car.

You've been meaning to ask if he knows where you live because you don't enjoy spending more time with him but how to do that without initiating a talk with him.

"You live in the Crystal Palace, right?" Nick asks.

Should you be grateful that he knows where you live or spooked? But one thing you know for sure is that Kim tells him about it.

"Yes," you answer.

"Isn't the owner just passed away a few days ago?"

"Yes."

"My grandfather knew him when he was still working as the company's mailman," he says.

That's news to you because what did a mailman do that led him to own one of the most luxurious apartment buildings in the city?

"Oh, I never knew that," you weakly say.

"I know, right? One day he just... turned wealthy," he says, gobsmacked by the simplest of mysteries.

He puts one hand down and places it on the space between you and him, "Guess, we'll never know," he says.

He stops the car right near the entrance of the apartment building and you quickly gather your bag, don't want to waste time to exit his car.

"Thank you for the lift home," you tell him, your hand pushing open the handle of the car door.

Nick grabs your elbow and stops you from stepping out, he catches you off guard to place a kiss on your cheek.

"I had a great night," he says, then lets you go.

You don't wait for another second to get out of his car and wipe his kiss off your cheek until your cheek is raw by the excessive rubbing you do on the elevator ride up to your floor.

"So, have you decided yet?" Minho reappears in your apartment.

You toss your bag and take off your coat, "What?"

"Are you going to kill Kim or do you have your eyes on someone else?"

Going to your bedroom, you open your laptop and type a name on the search engine. The results come in under a second and you scan every article there is about this person.

"Oh?" Minho lowly gasps from behind you.

You lean back on your chair and stare at Nick's photo on the laptop screen, "What's his future?"

Not getting an answer from Minho, you swivel your chair to face him, "Can you show me his future"

He seems to hesitate when he has no problem showing you everyone else's. After a moment of consideration, he finally answers, "Yeah, but let's not."

You lean forward on the chair and press him, "Show me right now!" You demand.

He takes a step back and puts a space in between, refusing to do what you ask.

You get up from your chair and stand in front of him, "Show me or I'll confess to everyone and then it's over," you threaten him.

Not letting him get away, you place a hand on his shoulder before continuing your words, "And then you're fucked," you enunciated the doom lingers on those words.

Minho clicks his tongue to try to diminish the threat in your words but it falls short on itself. He knows that he has to cooperate with you for this to work.

"Show me!" You pressure him with a squeeze on his shoulder.

He takes your hand away and now putting his hands on your shoulders, steers you back to your chair, then sits you down.

"Alright, I'll show you," he says, turning the chair the other way. He covers your eyes with his hand to show you what you want.

It's like a movie playing in the back of your head and each scene is taken from war, apocalyptic movies. Getting a seat at the congress is just the beginning, from there Nick will climb the power ladder and become the worst of evil.

Minho snaps you out of it and you gasp as if you've been pulled out of water.

"He's a fucking satan!" You say out of spite and that is the first thing that crosses your head.

"No, he's not one of us, not literally," Minho denies.

You turn your chair to see as he sees him sitting at the end of the bed, "They do like him, they're fans of his work, you might say."

When you thought Nick couldn't be more vile, the future Nick is far worse than you imagined. From what you saw through Minho's vision, you're assured of your decision.

"He's got to go. He's next," you remark.

You see Minho's face turns dim as if someone flipped the switch off, "Uh-oh, they're not going to like that."

Not accepting that Minho refuses to get behind your decision, you come up with your own defenses. You walk up to him and stand firm on your ground, "The only rule is to avoid murderers. You said that!"

He licks his lips which are as red as his hair and lets out an exasperated sigh, "Right. But he's responsible for an impressive number of juicy deaths—"

You cut him off with the current fact, "Not yet he isn't."

"But he–he... he likes to assault women," he argues.

You tip your head and come up with a reply, "But hasn't killed one, though, has he?"

"I mean, he killed a dog with a rock when he was 11," he shares information that he doesn't really favor him.

"Animals don't count!" You remind him of that, "That was one of the first things you said."

Minho seems to be struggling to come up with another excuse. It's the right opportunity for you to push him to the edge and give in.

"Is he qualified or not?" You corner him with the important question there is.

"Technically, yeah. But..." He meekly answers with a defeated sigh.

"He's the one. That's that," you end the conversation there.

With or without Minho's approval, you're going to kill Nicholas de Ville and stop the end of the world.

-

THREE DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD

"Miss Kim is in a meeting with Director Lane," The assistant says as you're about to push into Kim's office.

You turn around with your hand still lingers on the handle of the door.

"I know," you calmly reply.

"You don't mind if I wait in her office, right?" You ask the assistant.

Knowing Kim's traits, you're not surprised that she changes her assistant every few months. Must be hard to find someone who can handle her.

She seems to hesitate to let you in. You let go of the door and hold your bag in front of you. The occasion calls to use your power.

"You know who I am, right?"

"Y-yes," she stammers.

You walk up to her table and look her right in the eyes, "Are you?"

She nervously swallows air and gets up from her chair, "I don't think Miss Kim would mind letting you wait in her office," she says.

You maintain the gaze with her then smile, "Right."

Before you push inside, you stand in the doorway and request, "And can I have a cup of coffee?"

"Sure," the assistant replies.

"With cream, no sugar," you add.

"Yes," she answers.

"Why are you still standing there?" You ask with a subtle glare.

She fumbles to get out of her desk, "Right away, Miss!"

The coffee is just an excuse to send her assistant away so you can get on Kim's desk and search for something on her computer.

To cut time, you use the search box and type in what you're looking for. It takes a few seconds until the desired result appears on the screen, and you take a picture of it with your phone.

"Playing spies, aren't we?" Minho asks as he plays with a figurine on Kim's desk.

Hearing footsteps outside, you hurriedly sit on the sofa and pretend to play with your phone.

"Your coffee, Miss!" The assistant says, serving the steaming hot coffee on the glass table.

She holds the tray close to her chest and informs, "Miss Kim is on her way back and will be here in a few minutes."

"Thank you," you mutter.

Right after the assistant left, Kim came into the office, looking like she just ran a whole yard in her exquisite, pencil skirt.

"Oh, you're here!" Kim exclaims as she steadies herself with her hand on the handle of the door.

"That's what you called sex hair!" Minho shares as he sits next to you.

It takes no genius to know that the so-called meeting means so much more than that. The tousled hair, the untucked shirt, and the folded collar of her blazer are enough to explain what happened in the meeting. You lift your coffee cup and blow on it before taking a small, careful sip.

"What's up? How's it going?" She nervously asks, putting her notebook and phone on her desk as she quietly fixes her hair.

You swallow your coffee first before answering, "I came here to return the paperwork," you answer.

You take them out of your bag and place them on the table, "And also to taste the coffee your new assistant made," you add with a smile.

You seem so calm and collected that Kim takes it as unusual. She stops fixing her appearance and leans against her desk, her eyes are scanning you.

"Are you okay, babe?"

You smile at her and coyly answer, "Never been better!"

Your words only worry her instead of the opposite, she's nodding yet her eyes remain suspicious.

"I have to go back and work on my sculpture," you get up from your sofa and take your bag with you.

You walk up to her and look at her, looking at her face that would usually make you feel the slightest bit of distress. However, as you keep looking at her, you realize that there's no need for you to fear her. With or without her, you'll manage to live because she needs you more than you need her.

Kim senses that you're analyzing her in your head and you see that her cool exterior starts to crumble.

"Is something wrong?" She stammers

You smile at her and sling the strap of your bag on your shoulder, "I'm sorry for interrupting your meeting."

She rubs her neck and chuckles, "The meeting was close to finish anyway," she says.

"Jeff must be satisfied, huh?"

She rapidly blinks her eyes, "Pardon?"

"Satisfied with your amazing work," you put a context to your words.

She dryly chuckles and flips her hair to the back, "Yeah, I guess?"

"I'll let you get back to work," you say and make your way to the door.

You stop by the doorway and look at her, you point at her lips to tell her, "You might want to fix your smudged lipstick."

Kim's hand flies to her lips, cluelessly wiping the excess lipstick on her lips. You leave the room with a triumphant smile.

"You make good coffee but I suggest you work for someone else," you tell Kim's assistant on your way out.

-

After spending most of the day to prepare the technicalities.

You come back to your apartment to create the perfect plan for tomorrow. You lay out the city map in the living room.

With the address of Jeff's villa you stole from Kim's computer, you can look for the right place to execute your plan.

"After Nick finishes his speech at the city hall, he's got to head for Jeff's villa which is here," you mark the place with a marker.

You look at the distance between city hall and Jeff's villa, guessing which way Nick will likely take with his car.

"So... whichever way he goes, he's heading out of the city," you mutter.

A country road means it's less crowded therefore, it's an advantage for you.

"I'm thinking... I wait outside the city hall, then I follow him from there," you look at Minho.

You expect an opinion or two since you should be working together on this but he's too busy worrying about other things, worrying Nick is more like it.

Instead of solving it for you, he asks you another question, "What if he's not alone?"

You stack your hands on the table and look at him, "Is he going to be alone? You tell me," you ask him back.

He acts like he doesn't have the power to know everything, "Well, yeah but..."

You point at the map with the marker, "All I have to do is follow him and intercept him somewhere along—"

"Didn’t you hear me?" Minho suddenly stops you midsentence.

He waits until you look at him before continuing to talk, "They're not going to like it," he says for the umpteenth time.

You have enough of him reminding you of it but you have decided therefore, you will not back out of your decision just because he told you so.

"It's within the rules so they can suck it," you dare him.

Minho runs out of things to defend himself and this will be the last time you let him try to change your mind.

"It's him or no one," you sternly tell him.

With two days left and a plan you created, you don't see why you should back down now. Nick is the perfect target, he needs to be killed.

You sit face him on the floor and urge him to pick a side with the most important question of all, "Do you want to fail your initiation or not?"

Minho knows that he doesn't have much of options, he either helps you with your plan or lets it blow and obliterate everything.

From his silence, you know what the answer is.

-

TWO DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD

It feels right to kill him.

At this point, you can't tell what's right and wrong anymore. But killing Nick feels like the right decision, you'll not only save the world from ending, but you also save the world from a doomed future.

You've been waiting outside the city hall in the used car you bought yesterday and have your eyes on Nick's car that is parked not far from yours.

Your hands are steadily holding the steering wheel, knowing that Nick is going to come out of the city hall soon.

When he does, you grip the steering wheel and your hand is ready to turn the key in the ignition.

You watch as Nick talks to someone else before getting into his car. You turn your car engine a minute after him and drive, trailing not far behind him.

You look to the side, at Minho who has been so quiet sitting on the passenger's side, and give him the one last chance to say something.

"You've changed," he says and you're not sure if he is disappointed or impressed.

Minho is simply running out of things to say to change your mind. What he can do now is go along with the plan.

You wait until you're entering the quieter country road to pick up the speed, getting closer to Nick's car.

You step on the gas and align your car with his, before hitting the back of his car, almost sending his car out of the road.

Aware of what you're trying to do, Nick drives faster and you catch up to him by not letting go of the gas, pushing the car to its limit.

To get momentum, you slow down your car to give you space to hit his car harder. You brace yourself for impact and crash your car with him.

There's a loud banging sound and you hurriedly step on the brake, not risking your life until you know for sure that he's dead.

Your car swerves before the brake stopping the car from hitting the tree even though you ended up hitting your head on the steering wheel.

You look through your rearview mirror, Nick's car is turning over on the side of the road.

"Let's just go!" Minho says.

You shake your head, "I need to make sure that he's dead."

Ignoring Minho who keeps telling you to flee the scene, you get out of your car and check Nick's car. The car is upside down, you have to kneel to see if he's still showing signs of life.

There's only one way to make sure of that. You walk to your car and open the trunk, you retrieve the gallon of kerosene you bought.

"What are you doing?" Minho asks in a panicked voice.

"I'm making sure that he's dead," you answer.

You pour it all over Nick's car and stand a few meters away as you look for the lighter in your jacket pocket. The bursting flame swaying away with your shaky breath you let out through your parted mouth.

"And he doesn't deserve an easy death," you add.

You toss the lighter and the inflammable catches it fast, setting the car on blazing fire. Your eyes are filled with glowing embers, reflecting the hatred you have for him.

-

The last thing to do is to get rid of the car.

You drive it to the nearest junkyard and have it crushed with the machine by paying the worker there. You fetch a bus from there and throw all of the clothes you're wearing into the bin a block away from your apartment building.

Nothing feels as good as knowing that you've done the worst of things for the greater good of humankind.

You come home to see Minho is already inside, leaning against the back of the sofa with his arms crossed.

"You did it!" He says with disappointment tainted his triumphant smile.

With the adrenaline still pumping, you come up to him and not stopping until your body crashes into him. That's enough of arguing, talking, scheming, plotting, and not enough physical contact.

After everything you've done, you learn that fear is nothing to you but something that's been holding you back. You don't want to let fear dominate you anymore, you want to take back your life into your own hands.

Without hesitating, you grab the front of his shirt and pull him close, close enough that you can land your lips on his.

Something explodes inside of you the second both of your lips collide in a rapturous kiss.

The two of you stayed like that, encased in a moment that slowly set the fuse on your desire.

You gasp as you pull away from the kiss and you look at him, finding comfort in what once was a scary pair of eyes. He looks back at you with his arms locked around you.

Gosh! He's so beautiful, even more beautiful than the one you created in your head. Using your hand, you tenderly touch his face, you run your finger down his sharp nose and remember sculpting it.

And these lips, oh... you remember how hard and cold it felt under your touch but now, it feels warm and soft, like a flower under the sun.

"Just let me—" You let your desire finish your words.

You lean in and kiss him again, tasting his lips that get even sweeter with each kiss and with each kiss, your hand gets curious.

You let them explore his clothed body but that's not enough.

Minho gently pushes you away, breaking the kiss and putting a space between your bodies. For a second you thought he refused to do this and instead of that, he takes all of his clothes off right in front of you, exposing his body that is you eager to explore. It takes you a moment to take everything in.

Minho has to take your hand and put it on his body, letting you know that it's okay to touch him.

"You're beautiful," you breathlessly say, overwhelmed by what you're seeing.

You whimper at how perfect he is, smooth and warm. His muscles are firm yet you touch him with so much tenderness, afraid that you would break him.

"You're ethereal..." you dreamily sigh.

Minho puts his hand around your neck and tilts your head to kiss you. As he puts you in a spell with his kiss, his hands are swiftly removing your clothes and let them fall onto the floor.

Slowly, he draws your body close until your body meets his, skin-to-skin with nothing in between.

-

It's unclear what has gotten into you but you like it.

You like how confident you are, how carefree yet in control you are. Other than that, you like how Minho looks at you as you sit, straddling him on the bed.

Aligning his cock with your entrance, you slowly lower yourself down his length while letting a long, breathless moan out of your parted open mouth.

You mewl feeling his cock filling you to the hilt, keep mewling as you're adjusting yourself to his size.

Minho places his hand on your chest, right on your beating heart then slowly drags it down, then to the side to hold you by the waist.

Then out of the blue, he chuckles at you.

You open your eyes and place a hand on his chest, "What?" You ask as you look down at him.

He places his other hand on your waist, "I haven't permitted your entry yet," he says.

You break into laughter and lean in, stopping him from laughing with a kiss.

"Say yes, say yes, say yes," you say with each you plant on his face.

Minho is smirking under you, not answering your question just to annoy you.

You catch his lips in yours and bite on his lower lip before you let it go, "You're not going to say yes?"

Still not getting an answer, you place both hands on his chest and slowly, roll your hips in circular motions. You're lowly moaning feeling his whole length inside you.

You look down at Minho and he has his eyes closed, his eyelashes fanning out so beautifully along his eyelids, and his mouth is slightly parted open, you hear him lowly whimpering as you keep rolling your hips with his cock inside you.

Now moving your hips back and forth, Minho is grunting, digging his fingers into the flesh of your thighs. You keep your hips moving and keeping a steady pace.

Driven by the desire, your body is taking over and picking up the pace. You plant your foot on the bed, launching him deeper inside you and earning a groan from him.

Minho grabs you by the waist, trying to slow you down but you don't seem to be the one in control of it, you keep chasing for that high.

You throw your head to the back while keep taking his cock, in and out of you at a quick pace, getting you closer and closer...

"Oh..." you let out a broken moan.

You keep moving despite the immense pleasure that clouds your mind and dulls your senses. Your hands are grasping at nothing but clawing at his warm, smooth skin.

Minho catches you as you collapse into his arms, putting his arms around you with your head resting on his chest. He put all of your hair to the side, allowing him to place a kiss on your neck.

"Yes," he whispers into your ear.

You weakly chuckle at his late response. You look at him and say, "Too late."

Yet he tightens his hold around you and begins to buck his hips from under you, making you moan with your head buried in his neck.

Minho presses his mouth close to your ear and whispers, "I said yes nonetheless."

-

ONE DAY TO THE END OF THE WORLD

Today is going to be a good day.

You can just tell from the moment you open your eyes. You have to squint for a moment to adjust to the light and see the bright, beautiful day through the window.

You stay lying on the bed while looking at the morning sky and as you gather your senses, the recollections of last night come into your mind. What you touched, you tasted, you kissed... and without you intending to, your hand is wandering to places where he laid his hand on you.

It reminds you of the company you're with and you turn on the bed to see nothing but a crumpled sheet next to you.

You clutch the duvet close to your chest to shield your naked body from the cool, morning air.

"Minho?"

There's no answer but your call that is echoing in your empty apartment. Wrapping yourself with it, you get up from the bed to look for him.

"Minho?"

Still no answer and the first thought that runs through your head is that he's gone. The contract is finished, therefore, there's no need for him to stay.

Tears pool in your eyes as you keep looking for him from room to room, dragging your duvet across the floor wherever you go. You're getting hopeless the more you search and not finding him there.

Fear is spreading inside you, telling you to give up and stop hoping. You return to the living room and finally find him there, standing in the middle of the room.

You rush to come up to him and break into tears as you bury your head in his chest, "Where have you been? I've been looking for you!"

Minho holds you, putting his arms around you, and tangles his hand in your hair. He places a soft kiss on the top of your head.

"I have to make sure of it," he says.

With teary eyes, you look up at him, "Make sure of what?"

He takes something from the inside pocket of his black coat, it's the pocket watch and he opens it to show that the line hasn't gone yet.

Another kind of fear spreads all over your body and you feel cold all of a sudden. You slowly let go of him and take the pocket watch from him, looking at it in disbelief.

"But I–I killed him..." your voice breaks at the end of the sentence.

Minho turns his head to the side and magically turns on the TV. It's a broadcast of the morning news with the anchor in the middle of reading breaking news.

"...running for congress, Nicholas de Ville of the de Ville family got into a fatal accident on his way to a private residence where his campaign base is located. The car was on fire when the emergency service came and luckily managed to pull him out a moment before it exploded. Nicholas de Ville is now getting intensive medical care at the Unity Hospital. It is announced that he suffers from third-degree burn and a broken—"

You stop listening to the news and look at Minho, "Why—"

A moment ago, everything was so perfect, so right, and now... you're at a loss for words. You should have checked thoroughly, you should have stayed there and made sure he was dead.

"I have to finish it," you remark with your eyes still prickled with both tears and fear.

Minho sighs and puts his hands on your shoulders, "Just let it go," he says.

You take a step back, sending his hands to slide off of you and drop to his sides.

"Nick has to die," you persist.

Before Minho can try to change your mind again. You go back to your room and toss the duvet, you get dressed as quickly as you can.

Minho is trailing behind you as you make your way out of your apartment "We gave today to find someone else—"

You shut the door closed to stop him from talking. You should have taken him out with your own hands and that's what you're going to do today.

This time, you're going to do it right.

-

The studio looks like an abandoned place when you haven't visited it for a few days.

You came here to retrieve something. You make your way to carving tools and you remember throwing away the one you used to kill Tim into the river, along with the bread knife.

You have a selection of hammers but the sight of the sharp end of the chisel catches the light and reflects it to your eyes.

Your hand is reaching for it but before you get a hold of it, the doorbell rings.

No one visited your studio except for Kim but she wouldn't come this early, not on a Friday morning. You check through the window and see a man standing outside your gate.

"He's a police," Minho informs.

The police may catch up to something at this point but to your surprise, you don't feel scared at all. Maybe the scariest thing for you at the moment is letting Nick live and giving him the chance to rule the world to only stir it into its doom.

It's either now or later. You calm yourself down and put on your game face before opening the gate.

"I'm Detective Leon from the police department," he says, showing you his badge, "I'm just making some routine inquiries."

You keep the door open just enough to show yourself that you're unarmed.

"Do you mind if I have a word?" He asks.

"Yeah," you answer.

Then you realize that you're saying the wrong thing, "I mean, no, I don't mind," you correct yourself and put on a courteous smile.

He nods and asks, "Inside?"

You don't want to let him inside, not when he can see that you have all your carving tools on display.

"Invite him and kill him," Minho comments from the back of the door.

Not letting him in would only add suspicion, you open the door wider to let him in, "Yeah. Please, come in!"

With his salt-and-pepper hair and beer belly, Detective Leon looks too old to be a police detective, he should be retired already.

He walks around your studio and now is observing your far-from-finished sculpture.

"Would you like something to drink?" You offer as you make your way to the kitchen.

He is now standing close to the table full of your carving tools, "Oh, no. I won't keep you," he kindly refuses.

"Like I said, it's just a routine," he adds with an unsettling smile.

"Okay."

Yet you proceed to try to make a cup of tea as to seem you're going on about your day like normal people.

"Were you at the bar on the Monday night?" He asks.

You open your drawer and see the knife blinking at you, tempting you to pick it up.

"It'll be an easy kill. He was gonna have a heart attack next year anyway," Minho encourages you to take the chance.

You almost forget the question and retract yourself back, "Yes, I was," you honestly answer.

"Regular, are you?" He asks.

You put your hand inside the drawer and take a spoon instead, turning to face him so as to not be seen as rude.

"Nah. I wouldn't say that," you reply.

"How often are you in there?"

You lean against the kitchen counter with your hand ready at the handle of the drawer

"It's not like he has any family. No one is going to miss him," Minho whispers from behind you.

You close your eyes to remain composed, "To be honest, that night was the first time."

"First time?" He asks in disbelief.

He stands next to a block of stone and lowly chuckles, "Isn't it just around the corner?"

You don't see why it's something unbelievable? It may sound suspicious but you tell him the truth.

"Well, I don't drink. Not usually," you tell him and that is also the truth.

"But you did that night," he points out and the one corner of his mouth curls into a subtle smirk.

You quietly exhale air to maintain your composure, "I was busy working on my sculpture and I'm not meant to drink. I was... having a creative block, you might say," you're eyeing the unfinished sculpture standing close to him.

Detective Leons also looks at it, touching the rough edges of it.

"I don't have alcohol in the studio or anything, but... I needed it that night," you lie. You needed the courage that night and that's why you drank.

Detective Leon walks and stands in the middle of the room "Well, we all need to let off steam every now and then," he says.

He shows sympathy just so he can earn your trust, to allow him to dig deeper until something slips out of your mouth. You catch his eyes and hold his gaze for a moment, not long enough to see the anxiety stirring inside you.

"Thank you," you mutter.

You dare to look at him and casually ask, "What's this about anyway?"

It's been a while yet you only asked about his intention to come here just now.

"Well, you've probably heard about Tim and Kurt Shaw," he answers.

Now that you know which murder he linked you to, you get more cautious with everything you say to him.

"Who?" You play innocent.

He walks up to you and leans against the end of the kitchen counter, "Tim and Kurt Shaw."

It's no use to play dumb, detective Leon probably knows by now that you went to the same school with Tim.

"I know Tim Shaw but Kurt... I don't know him," you lie.

You're well aware he's analyzing every gesture and word you said and he gets quiet after getting an answer from you. After a moment, he talks again, "Tim Shaw was there at the bar that night, did you see him?"

"Yes," you shortly answer, stalling would only make you seem suspicious.

"I wasn't sure it was him at first and when I did, I came to greet him, you know as a friend from art school," you further explain with a thin smile at the end.

"Did you see him after that?" He asks, getting more specific with his questions as if he has decided that you're the one he's looking for.

"No," you coyly answer, "I went back here and continued working on my sculpture.

He gets closer to you yet maintains a respectful space in between, "So you didn't see him after?"

"No," you tell him without showing flinching and blinking your eyes.

This time, he looks right into your eyes and you can't avoid it, or else he knows you're hiding something.

You walk him back to the gate and open the gate for him, "So sorry, I wasn't much of a help," you tell him.

He stands in the doorway and gives you his card, "Well, if you recall anything, please let us know."

You take it from him and smile, "Have a lovely day!"

Detective Leon takes one last look at you and exits the gate, you're more than glad to slam it closed.

"Well, one good liar, aren't you?" Minho comments from the top of the stairs.

"I'm impressed," he adds as you walk past him to get back inside the studio.

"He didn't buy it though," Minho informs.

You make your way to grab a chisel and put it inside your coat pocket, "Better hurry then!"

You hail a taxi the moment you're out of the gate and get into the back while clutching your chest, feeling the cold chisel inside your coat pocket.

"The cop is following us," Minho says.

You can worry about the police later. You have an urgent task and you have to get it done as fast as you can.

You look away from Minho and tell the taxi driver where to go, "Unity Hospital, please!"

-

Taking a look at the map of the hospital, you guide yourself through the hallways of the hospital.

"It's not too late to find someone else," Minho urges you to change your mind.

"Oh, shut up!" You snap at him, it's his fault to talk at such a dire time.

You take a turn to the right that leads you to where you're heading and there it is. It's not hard to find where he is, a rich family like him would be staying in the VIP room.

The hardest part of it is to enter it, you have to sneak your way in.

Seeing that you hit a dead-end, Minho takes this as his last endeavor to turn it all around, "I'm just saying it'd be much easier for me if you found someone else," he explains.

Minho seems to not get it yet that it's not about stopping the end of the world anymore. It would be pointless if Nick is still alive, he has to die no matter what.

You turn your head at him and intensely stare into his eyes, "If you're not going to help, then piss off!"

He looks at you, doubting that you dismiss him.

"I mean it," you tell him, feeling fed up with everything and you don't need him to keep interrupting you.

He sees it now that you want him to go, "Fine!"

With a snap of his fingers, he disappears right in front of you, leaving a cloud of black smoke behind him.

You manage to grab a medical mask from the nurse station and put it on, pretending as a mere relative of a patient.

Looking around the hall and making sure the coast is clear, you let yourself into the room with his name written outside the door.

There he is, lying on the bed with his body wrapped in gauze. You get closer to see his face, the burned skin around his eyes that is now closed, you guess he must be heavily sedated.

You hate to give him the easy way out but this is your chance to end everything for good.

You stand close to his unconscious body and take the chisel out of your coat pocket, pressing the sharp end to his neck.

This is not the good time to hesitate but you can feel your determination shrinks in each passing second, ultimately because Minho isn't here.

You take a deep breath and press the chisel deep into his neck. All it takes is one good stab at it, poke it real hard, and make a hole in his throat.

You lift your chisel and decide to aim it at his heart, taking one long breath, you put all of your strength into—

"Stop!" Someone shouts with the door wide open.

Your head snaps to see Detective Leon aiming his gun at you and taking cautious steps toward you.

The time is closing in and if you get caught now, you won't get another chance. You make another attempt but Detective Leon takes another step toward you, taking a good aim of his gun at you.

"I said stop!" He orders you.

You put away the chisel but keep holding it, gripping it tight until your knuckles turn pale and cold.

"I have to do it," your voice is quivering as your anxiety rises inside you.

"It's not right!" Detective Leon says, taking another careful step to get close to you.

You point your chisel at Nick's body and desperately say, "If I don't do this by midnight..." A choked sob gets in the middle of your sentence.

Standing right across from you, Detective Leon pushes his gun right at your face. He stares straight into your eyes that were filled with suspicion now filled with a slight terror and repulsion.

"Put it down!" He orders you

You quickly wipe away the tears rolling down your cheek with your hand, "There'll be fire... everywhere," you continue your words.

For the umpteenth time, he urges you with his gun steadily pointed at you, "Put it down!"

Giving in means that you've given up on everything and wasted away all of your endeavors but at the same time, you just want it to end.

"I... I can't!" You resist with your heart filled with despair.

As your eyes get blurry with tears, you wipe them away only to get caught off guard. Detective Leon successfully got ahold of you.

You keep crying as you get pushed to the wall and he puts your arms together behind your back, putting you in handcuffs.

"Minho, I'm sorry..." you mutter even though you know he's not there.

-

After hours of being locked in the interrogation room and refusing to talk without the presence of a lawyer like Kim ordered you through the phone, they let you go.

It feels good to let go of the cold of metal handcuffs around your wrists, but it's not yet the time to let out a breath of relief.

Kim sits you down on the dining table while she sits next to the lawyer, drilling you with questions about everything you've done.

You're too busy looking at the clock, seeing that it's getting closer and closer to the end. You turn your head and realize that the lawyer asked you a question, but you're too distracted to hear him.

"Pardon?"

He fixes his sitting position and clears his throat "You have to kill three people?"

You've been holding your glass of water with both hands on the table, watching the droplets of condensation dripping down the back of your hands.

"Yes," you weakly answer.

"You're saying you were only targetting people who have done something wrong?"

"Yes," you answer, "Except for Tim's brother."

You take a moment to recall his name, "Uhm... Kurt?"

The lawyer is fiddling with the stack of papers as he further asks you more questions.

"And each time you sacrificed someone, it got registered on the talisman? Is that right?"

You nod again, "Yes, but they said Tim didn't count."

The lawyer clears his throat again, but this time, he does it while glancing at Kim. He then takes a ziploc bag of your things that got confiscated when you were at the police department.

He takes the pocket watch out of the bag and slides it across the table, "Is this the talisman?"

You let go of the glass of water to take the pocket watch, opening it to find the watch is dead and the glass cracked. It appears to people that it's just an old pocket watch and nothing more.

"Before, it had numbers on it and that sort of changed when you looked at it..." your words are trailing off the second you realize how crazy you sound.

The lawyer stacks his hands on the table, "And the demon who told you to do all this?"

"Yes."

"And what did he look like?"

"A monster at first, then he turned into the man of one of my sculptures," you shortly answer.

"He looked like the man you carved? Like your sculpture you made?"

You nod.

A moment passes in silence as the lawyer exchanges a look with Kim.

"So the demon..."

"His name is Minho," you keep holding the pocket watch, hoping that it'll summon him and assure you that it is all real.

You can hear the lawyer letting out a big sigh before asking the next question, "And if you don't do what he told you..."

He sighs again as he writes something on his note, "It'll be the end of the world?"

Instead of answering it verbally, you nod.

"He didn't just tell me," You say.

You hold the pocket watch inside the palm of your hand and put all of your fingers on it, "He showed me what it would be like."

The vision Minho made you see is still vivid and you can see it replaying in the back of your head, "I felt the flames. I smelled people burning..."

The lawyer seems to have given up trying to get something that would help you avoid getting sentenced to life for what you did.

He turns to Kim and quietly whispers, "Her mind's gone, that's for sure."

It's Kim's turn to draw a big sigh and sits straighter on the chair, "You may leave now. It's late, we can continue this tomorrow," she says to him.

The lawyer collects his papers and pens, putting them into his briefcase, looking impatient to get out of here.

Kim has been eerily quiet. She comes back after sending off the lawyer, she then drinks her glass of water just so she can fill the glass with liquor next.

"I tried to stop it, Kim," you tell her.

She looks at you as she drains her first drink and refills it with more liquor.

"Honest I did," you assure her, feeling like a failure that you let down everyone, billions of them.

"Enough!" Kim snaps, throwing the glass she's holding at the wall and it's breaking into pieces, glimmering under the fluorescent light.

"You have to trust me. You have—"

Kim slams her hands down on the table, "Enough with this nonsense!"

You understand that it's a lot to take in, not to mention that she's upset and tired. You try again even though you know it's going to be another fruitless effort, "I know that you think I'm crazy, Kim, listen to me..."

"No!" She cuts you off with another slam of hands on the table.

"I told you to take your medicine!" She screams at you until her voice is strained.

You admit that you haven't taken your medicine the last few days but that doesn't mean you made everything up. You remember taking them and still seeing Minho which doesn't prove that you made it all up.

Then it hits you that the reason why she always reminds you to take your meds is not because she cares, it's because she thinks you are crazy.

"You're just like everyone else..." you meekly say.

You didn't know you're crying until you touch your cheeks and they are wet with tears, "You think I'm crazy..."

Kim doesn't say anything but goes to your room and returns with your bottle of pills in her hand. She uncaps the bottle and lets the contents spill onto the table.

"If you had taken all of these pills..." she says, letting the empty bottle roll across the dining table, "All of these wouldn't have happened!"

You take the bottle and see your name written on it, seeing all the pills scattered on the table, you realize how many days you have gone without them.

This is when your reality starts to distort. You don't what's real or not anymore. Did you make it all up? And if it's real then where's Minho?

"I—" You look around for any signs of him, of his figure, or the sight of his red hair.

"I'm not..." you pause to wipe the tears pooling in your eyes, "...not lying."

The only way to prove everything is by showing Kim that you have only a few minutes left until the world is burning and comes to an end.

You look at the clock on the wall and the time shows that you only have less than two minutes to midnight, "Not long now," you mutter.

You look at Kim and tell her, "Know that I tried to stop it."

Kim grips the edge of the table and lets out a long sing, having enough of all of it, "Just... stop," she says through her gritted teeth.

"It's coming..."

You clasp your hands together in front of you and push it close to your mouth, nothing prepares you for what's coming. You close your eyes as you keep listening to the ticking of the clock that intensifies with each passing second.

Tick, tick, tick...

-

THE END OF THE WORLD

It's midnight and you open your eyes to look at the clock to make sure of it.

The needle has ticked past midnight and you look around to see that nothing happens. You hesitate to get up from your chair and look through the window to see that the world looks exactly how it usually looks like.

A single tear escapes the corner of your eyes and rolls down your cheek, you feel faint all of a sudden. Other than that, you feel like questioning everything you know.

Are you crazy just like everyone said you are? You ask yourself.

Your legs are wobbling, you collapse onto the chair as the answer hits you.

Maybe you are crazy.

Kim turns away, possibly holding herself back from screaming at you and telling you how right she was all along.

When she turns around to face you again, she looks frustrated by you and the whole situation, but mostly by you to the point that she can't look at your face anymore.

She walks to the sofa to retrieve her handbag and then stands at the end of the dining table, "I'll... see you tomorrow," she says.

She then heads to the door and the sound of her closing the door echoes in the big space, leaving you to process everything on your own.

A moment later, you get up from your chair and walk over to the window, looking at the world that seems so small to you from up here.

And tonight, the view makes you feel smaller than you already are.

Then you hear sirens blaring in the distance. You turn around and see him there, sitting on the chair you sat on earlier with his hands on the table.

"Hey..." Minho says with an apparent sadness in his eyes.

It doesn't matter anymore whether people think you're crazy or not, now that the world is ending, you're just glad that he's there with you.

"I failed," you can hear your heart breaking inside your chest as you said it.

He inhales air and then lets it out, "Yeah, well... me too so that's that," he says.

He turns the chair to face you and puts his leg over the other, "Just got word that they're casting me out."

Minho doesn't look like he's delivering bad news with a smirk dancing on his face, "so... eternal oblivion it is," he finishes.

To say that you're disappointed with yourself would be an understatement, you are devastated. Not only that you failed the billions of people from raging flames, but also Minho.

"I'm so sorry," you sincerely tell him.

Minho gets quiet. He then gets up from his chair and walks up to you. He looks at your face and stares deeply into your eyes, he seems to have something to say to you.

You look back at him and patiently wait for him to say whatever he wants to say to you.

"Do you want to come with me?" He asks.

"What?" You ask in utter confusion.

"That's where I've been, checking the small print," he says, placing his hands on each side of his waists, "The rules don't cover it."

He takes a step closer toward you and continues speaking, "There's another loophole, apparently."

He looks at the view outside as the world slowly stirs into chaos with the sounds of sirens blaring everywhere, exactly like he showed you that night.

"They don't say anything about a human companion," he explains, then slyly smiles before talking again, "So, I mean... you could come with."

The offer comes so sudden and you remember how he talks about this place that he tried so hard to not fail his initiation.

"To eternal oblivion?" You ask for confirmation.

He scrunches his nose, "It's much worse than that," he says.

The sheer enthusiasm you have fades away with his answer, perhaps it would be bearable when you have him with you, wherever it is.

"It's with me," Minho adds with a playful smirk.

Well, the choice is here or there, but you can't have him here. You look at the world then at him.

"I'll give it a go," you say with a smile.

A smile rises on his face too, a smile that shines brighter than the fire that is about to engulf the whole world. He takes another step, closing in the gap between your bodies.

At the same time, an explosion occurred at the end of the horizon and it's so bright it's blinding you.

Now you know that it's the end of the world from how everything falls into place and in the end, nothing matters anymore. It doesn't matter that they choose not to trust you and think you're crazy.

What matters now is the one that sticks with you to the very end.

Minho takes your hand and intertwines it with yours, "It's going to be alright now."

You look at him and hold his hand back, everywhere it is, you can't wait to spend eternity with him.

Together, you're walking hand-in-hand, leaving the world as it goes up in flames and into the oblivion you go, forever more.

-

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[the-black-manor]

The Little Moments

Summary: You enjoy a good fucking in the tub with your master.

Warnings: Cervix fucking, unprotected sex, cnc.

Kinks: Vampire, oversized cock, excessive cum, cum inflation, breeding, shower/bath, master/pet, dom/sub.

Characters: You and your loving Master.

Words: 2,632

More writing on Patreon.

Soft classical music draws you subconsciously to your master's bedroom, where you pad silently on bare feet across the dark wood floor to the bathroom door. You don't bother knocking before you turn the brass knob and step inside. Within the dimly lit room sits your master in a large, black claw-foot tub, whose golden accents have worn and faded through the many years it's belonged to him. If you didn't know any better, you might think that your master was sleeping. His pale skin seemed almost to glow as the moonlight filtered in through the tall window opposite you to light upon his face. He looked like a statue, chiseled expertly from marble by the deft hands of a master sculptor.

You were suddenly very aware of your own presence in the room and how much of a blemish you seemed to be amidst this picturesque scene. For the briefest moment, you wanted to sneak out of the bathroom without your master knowing you were ever there. But you stayed. He already knew you were there. He always knew when you were there.

"Master?" you called quietly.

He didn't respond, only lifted his hand out of the water and held it out toward you. He liked to wear gloves, your master, and while no one else knew why, you did. His hands bore the sign of his age. They were a roadmap through the many centuries he had been alive. Deep lines crossed his wide palms like canyons, and his fingers were thick and long, tipped with crimson nails. You padded forward and rested your hand in his. His skin was gray, almost translucent here, thin, and pulled too tightly over pronounced tendons and bone, like a corpse. He is a corpse. You knew this, and yet, despite the lack of a heartbeat, the absence of breath in his lungs, and the cool of his skin, he always seemed so very alive to you. Warm, despite no blood to flow through his veins, with bright eyes and a smile that could bring gods to their knees. Alive, dead, undead, it didn't matter. These were just words to you; they held no weight. He was perfect.

His fingers curled around yours, firmly, but not tightly. Pink peonies floated on the surface of the water, and the faint aroma of vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, and other warm spices drifted into the air, carried by the steam. He liked to use oils in his baths to keep his skin from becoming leathery, and this one was one of your favorites. The water was so still, it looked like glass, and didn't obscure any of what your master had to offer. Long legs with strong thighs, a thin waist and stomach with just the barest definition of abs partially hidden by dark hair leading down to his crotch, where his cock rested, always semi-firm, between his legs. His chest was covered in the same dark hair as his belly, strong and toned, and he had muscular arms that he, unfortunately, liked to keep hidden beneath dress shirts made of expensive fabrics.

Your gaze wandered toward his, where he peeked at you through one half-open eye, a smirk on his delicate lips. Your face heat up in embarrassment, and you looked away. He only chuckled, a deep reverberation through the room akin to the first rumbles of thunder that precede a storm.

"Are you going to get in, or not?" he asked, and your heart skipped a beat. His voice was music.

He gave your hand a squeeze and you looked back at him. No matter how many times you had slept together, how many times he had touched you, how many times he had looked at you with those pale green eyes, it always felt like the first time, and you felt how David must have felt when he stood before Goliath. You were so small in comparison to this man, this creature, that stood taller than life.

All the same, you nodded, then lifted a foot over the edge of the tub. Your master took very hot baths, but a dip of your toe confirmed that it had cooled enough for you to enjoy the water comfortably.

"Can I sit on your cock?' you asked sheepishly, like a child asking for a second cookie.

"Of course," he smiled, and sharp teeth glinted in the moonlight.

He knew you would ask. You always do.

He scooted back to make room for you and helped you keep your balance as you stepped into the tub. You settled between his legs. The water reached well past your chest, and you could feel the weight of his manhood on your lower back. You knew he would need a moment to get himself ready, so you sat upright, making sure not to obstruct his access to himself. His fingers brushed against you, sending a chill up your spine, as he curled them around his cock. The stillness of the water was broken as he began to stroke himself, creating little waves, one of which carried a fluffy peony right to you. You cupped the flower gently in your hands, and lifted it to your nose, where you breathed deeply, picking its scent out from the rest. You closed your eyes, enjoying the heat of the water and the soft melody drifting through the air.

Your master groaned behind you, and his legs tensed around yours. It never took him long to get ready. You imagined it wouldn't take you long either, if you were always ready to breed someone like he was. Sometimes you wished you had the ability to have sex for hours on end and still be aroused when the session was over. Other times, you saw the look on his face, and knew that he was only barely winning the fight with his instincts. You saw how he would shift throughout the day to try and get comfortable, how he would squeeze his legs together to try and give his greedy cock some friction. In those times, you pitied him. You wished you could give him more of what he needed. You'd told him that you would never say no to him, that he could do whatever he wanted to you, but still he held back. If he didn't, he would break you, and so he was never truly satisfied.

You felt his cock throb against your back, and your own legs clenched in response.

"You can sit in my lap now," he said.

You set the flower back in the water, then used both sides of the tub to lift yourself up just enough for him to position himself beneath you. His hands found your hips and he pulled you backward. Your arms shook as you held your position, waiting for him to line up. His cockhead found its way between your folds and prodded at your entrance. He wiggled, only ever so slightly, but his knee collided with your leg, and you lost your grip on the tub.

You collapsed onto him with your full weight, and his cock slid inside without warning. You cried out and tried to stand, but his arms snaked around your torso like prison bars. He laid back and pulled you with him, holding you firmly against his chest. Your eyes watered and you clenched around him in pain. He rested his chin on your shoulder, and gently rubbed your stomach.

"Hush, love, hush. Stay still. The pain will pass."

You relaxed as best you could and let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. Almost instantly, the pain began to subside. Your master insisted over and over that whatever magic or powers he had weren't for healing, but you knew that his touch could relieve pain at the very least. You had experienced it more than once.

You whined and turned your head to nuzzle into the crook of his neck. His soft beard, neatly trimmed and shaped, brushed against your forehead.

"There, that's it," he purred.

One of his hands traveled up your body to play with your nipples, pinching and rolling them around between his fingers, while his other hand found its way between your legs and gave your clit the same attention. Just when you began to think that you were getting used to the size of him, you were reminded just how big he really was. His cock alone made you feel full. He stretched you well, and even while his cockhead was pressed hard against your cervix, he wasn't completely inside of you. You could feel the thick vein beneath his girth massaging your g-spot as he adjusted to get comfortable.

You hummed and closed your eyes, allowing yourself to sink into him, to give yourself to him fully. You were limp in his arms, a toy to be played with, nothing more, and he took full advantage of that. His nails were more akin to claws, but he kept them filed down for you, and you were silently grateful for it as he worked your clit. He moved his fingers just right, and the pleasure that traveled up your spine was like lightning, causing your back to arch involuntarily..

You whined as he pulled you back down with a strong arm and a chuckle.

"Already so sensitive to my touch, and I've only just begun."

You knew he was grinning without needing to see it. He liked to tease you, and he was very good at it, and you had come to know exactly how he responded to certain things. In this case, a grin was predictable. You only wished you could see it, see those fangs that he cared so diligently for.

You buried your face further into the crook of his neck, breathing him in as he rubbed your stomach, massaged your clit, and began moving gently in and out of you. Pain came first, as it always did, but quickly gave way to pleasure as his cockhead kissed your cervix with each thrust, and the girth of his cock filled you deliciously. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head and nuzzled against you with a content hum. When you finally managed to contain your squirming to the occasional buck of hips and tensing of abs, he released his hold around you and brought his hand up to card his fingers through your hair. He took a fistful and pulled gently, and you moaned in reply.

He found a comfortable pace for you and settled into it, moving quickly, but gently, providing just the right amount of friction inside of you. Paired with the slow, almost lazy attention to your clit, it took no time at all for the embers of arousal to ignite in your core, burning low, but hot.

You closed your eyes and released a small whine, to which he responded with a groan of pleasure.

“You always feel so good… You hold me just right, pet.”

“Master…” you breathed as your walls clenched around him tightly. “I’m close… Please fill me. Please, Master.”

He pressed his lips to your temple and you felt him smirk as he placed a gentle kiss there. Wordlessly, he picked up the pace, and water splashed over the edge of the tub. Strong waves carried the peonies over as well, until it was just you and your master in the tub, with him thrusting into you hard. Your breathing picked up as the coil in your stomach tightened and tightened ready to spring. Your master groaned again, and his cock was hot inside of you. With each growl he let past his teeth, your climax came closer and closer, with each moan and whine, the spring tightened, until he was panting in your ear as he fucked you and you were milking his cock with your walls. 

“Oh god… Master… I’m gonna cum. Please can I cum?”

“Fuck, yes…” he breathed. “Cum for me sweetheart. Milk me.”

His breath was hot on the shell of your ear, and you cried out as your climax tore through your body. You tried to arch your back, but his arms were wound tightly around you, holding you fast.

“Fuck… fuck,” you swore as you felt him still, pushing hard against your cervix. 

Pleasure clouded your vision as he thrust farther inside, forcing his cockhead to open your cervix and push into your womb. The edges of your vision darkened as his cock throbbed, unloading thick ribbons of hot cum directly into your thirsty uterus. He growled loudly as his climax overtook him, and he held you so tightly you almost couldn’t breathe. Still you came, waves of pleasure washing over you in time with the throbbing of his thick cock. 

You could feel it moving inside of you, pulsing, and the warmth of his cum seemed almost hotter than the water around you. You squeezed your eyes shut to stop the room from spinning and rested a hand over your stomach. It began to grow beneath your palm as your womb filled with his seed, stretching to accommodate as he filled you with more and more, until you were bulging and braindead. All you could think was “Yes, Daddy, yes!” as your stomach swelled like a balloon, spurring your orgasm on.

After what seemed like ages, your master let out a whine and sucked in a deep breath. He relaxed back and you fell, limp, on top of him. Your hand slid from your stomach, which was so large, the top of it sat well above water-level. One of his strong hands replaced your own, and he rubbed soft, comforting circles over your swollen belly, soothing the taut skin there and bringing you down from your orgasm.

You couldn’t move, and as you gasped for air, you became very aware of his cock still nestled firmly inside of your cervix. 

“M-master…” you whined. 

“Hush, darling.”

A moan escaped your lips when he shifted to get more comfortable, and he chuckled.

“I know, darling. Doesn’t it feel nice?”

You nodded. “Mmm… feels nice…”

“Good, we’re going to stay here for a while, okay?”

You nodded again and he kissed your temple once more. 

“My good pet. My sweet little cum-hungry toy,” he purred. “You and I are firmly knotted together, aren’t we?” he mused. “Well, that’s no trouble to me. It looks like we’re just going to have to stay here until I soften enough to pull out of you.”

You whined.

“B-but..”

“But I’m never soft?” he smirked. “Yes, I suppose that could be a problem… for you.”

He settled in, holding you and stroking your big belly with a smile on his red lips as you clenched around him. Each movement he made was a mix of agony and ecstasy, and you couldn’t stop your walls from reacting in kind. It wasn’t long until he was hard again, filling you full with his cock, stretching you wonderfully. He was inside of you fully, every last inch of him, and he used this rare opportunity to his advantage, rutting into you gently.

While your eyes drooped and sleep tugged at the back of your mind, he used your body to pleasure himself. You didn’t complain. He felt amazing, and the spring in your core was tightening again. You would do anything for your master, including remaining thoroughly stuck on him so that he could use and fill you as he pleased. You sighed and relaxed back. There was no fight in you, not that you wanted to fight it anyway. You smiled as he moved inside of you. It was your purpose in life to please him. You were, after all, his good pet.

His sweet little cum-hungry toy.

[pupsmailbox]

ACADEMIC ID PACK

NAMES︰ adeline. agatha. alastair. alex. alexander. alexandria. alisa. amber. ambrose. ambrosia. amorette. andrew. annabel. annabeth. annalise. anya. arden. artemis. arthur. ash. ashford. aspen. athena. atlas. atreus. augustus. avery. beatrix. blair. blake. blythe. bram. bronwyn. caspian. charles. charlotte. christopher. circe. claude. coraline. crimson. damian. damien. damon. daphne. darcy. demeter. diana. dorian. durant. ebony. eden. edgar. eleanor. elenor. elizabeth. elvira. emberl. enid. eris. everett. fantine. felix. fern. genevieve. george. grey. griffin. haven. hazel. hecate. henry. hester. holmes. hyde. inkesse. inkette. inkie. inky. isolde. ivie. ivy. james. jane. journalle. julian. julius. juno. kane. killian. lenore. lilith. lorelei. luna. magnus. malachi. mallory. maude. meredith. naomi. narissa. nicodem. nightesse. nightwing. nimue. noire. noiresse. noirette. odessa. odette. oliver. ophelia. orion. percy. persephone. peyton. phineas. phoebe. quill. quille. quinn. raven. ravenesse. ravenette. ravenne. remus. romero. rory. rosalind. rose. rowan. rowena. rufus. salem. scriptesse. sebastian. stoker. sylvain. tanith. theo. theodore. theodosia. trista. tristan. victor. victoria. vincent. virgil. wilhelmine. willow. wynona. xanthe. zoltan.

PRONOUNS︰ acade/academia. amber/amber. an/antique. arch/architectself. arch/archive. art/art. art/artist. arti/article. arti/fact. artifact/artifact. baro/baroque. bea/beauty. bis/bisque. book/book. bookworm/bookworm. calligraphy/calligraphy. can/vas. candle/candle. cer/ceramic. char/charcoal. chess/chess. clas/classic. clay/clay. clock/clock. co/collect. coco/coco. cocoa/cocoa. cof/coffee. coffee/coffee. col/color. coll/collection. collage/collage. con/cept. crea/cream. crow/crow. cur/curate. dra/drama. dust/dust. essay/essay. fea/feather. feather/feather. fig/figure. fil/film. flicker/flicker. gal/gallery. glaze/glaze. globe/globe. gold/gold. hazel/hazel. his/history. history/history. hon/honey. hue/hue. hypo/hypothesis. illus/illustrate. ink/ink. journal/journal. ki/kiln. knowledge/knowledge. le/letter. learn/learn. letter/letter. li/library. lig/ligature. lit/literature. mar/marble. mur/mural. murder/murder. muse/muse. muse/museum. night/night. no/note. novel/novel. page/page. paint/brush. paint/paint. paint/painting. paper/paper. para/dox. pen/pen. pho/photo. pi/pigment. piano/piano. poe/poet. poem/poem. por/trait. porcel/porcelain. print/print. qui/quill. quill/quill. raven/raven. rea/read. read/read. ren/renaissance. rev/revolution. scrapbook/scrapbook. script/scripts. scroll/scroll. sculp/sculptor. sculp/sculpture. sketch/sketch. speci/specimen. spine/spine. sta/stamp. stai/stain. stamp/stamp. statue/statue. story/story. stu/dy. study/studie. study/study. surreal/surrealism. tea/tea. theo/theory. theory/theory. thes/thesis. time/time. tweed/tweed. violin/violin. wheel/wheel. ⌛/⌛. ⌛︎/⌛︎. ☕/☕. ✒︎/✒︎. ✒️/✒️. 🏛️/🏛️. 🏺/🏺. 📜/📜. 🕯️/🕯️. 🖼️/🖼️.

[ashiristic]

SNIPPET 16:

Warning;: Mentions of blood

The hero and villain challenge each other on who'll last longer in a kiss. Chaos ensues.

It was just a kiss, the hero's final thought before the villain's lips met his. Soft and intoxicating like poisoned red wine. This kiss wasn't filled with passion and hunger but was a fight for dignity and pride.

The hero's eyes remained open, occasionally biting and chewing on the villain's lips, just as his nemesis did. Their hands roamed each other's bodies, searching for something to hold onto in this battle. The hero's fist harshly gripped the villain's hair, pulling it downward, drowning in his nemesis' low grunts.

He always told himself the villain was ethereal beyond recognition. A siren luring him to the sea, making him lose control like a sculptor molding him anew. But he'd never admit it.

They eventually fell onto the mattress, staining the white sheets with congealed blood from their previous battle. Before all of this began, the villain struggled, breathing heavily as his chest lifted up and down. He wished to see the villain's debauched state, but he couldn't lose. Not yet.

It seemed the villain had a different idea. He hissed, feeling the villain's nails dig deeper into his wrist, drawing blood. The hero attempted to pull away, but the villain chased him, biting his reddened lips severely.

"Fuck," the hero muttered under his breath, catching a smirk from the villain.

The villain parted away from the hero, a string of saliva connecting them. He wiped his lips with his white long-sleeves, lolling his head a little on his shoulder. His bangs fell in place to cover his eyes, yet his debauched lips still displayed that irritating smirk.

"Funny," the villain said, taking advantage of the hero's trance state, pushing him away. "Can you even win against me—"

"You're the one who pulled away," the hero suddenly said, huffing a breath, trying to steady his rapid pulse.

The villain paused for a second, blinking his eyes. After a long ponder, he suddenly blushed, a profound crimson color dancing on his cheeks. His grip loosened on the hero's wrist, but an odd smile crept on his face, followed by a chuckle. He was certainly amused. On what? Then, he raised both of his hands in defeat.

"Right, I did," the villain stood up, walking towards the small white lamp in the corner of the room. He grabbed a candy randomly placed on the table, twisting it between his fingers. "And I admit defeat."

Odd. One word to describe it. He knew the villain was a person who would never admit defeat and would try to find a loophole. But today, he didn't do that. The hero wrapped his hand on his wounded lips, trying to wrap his head around the villain's action. Maybe he looked like a monstrous, sexually frustrated guy after he pulled away from him. That must be it (it's not).

"All of a sudden?" the hero leaned against the headboard, running his hand through his sweaty hair. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't confused. So, he asked, "Why?"

The villain halted before the open window. He bathed in silence, turning his head a little to the hero. "Why? What stupid question is that?"

And he continued unbuttoning his shirt with no care regarding the well-being of the person behind him. The sun had already set, but the warm light engraved on the dawn remained, embroidering the villain's skin with gold. Mesmerizing and otherworldly. That is what he is.

"Can't I be curious?"

"You wouldn't like it. You would be embarrassed if I told you," the villain shrugged, shaking his head a little.

The hero rolled his eyes, darting his gaze on the bookshelves, crossing his arms. He sat still for a few minutes, but his impatience lingered as he tapped his fingers against the side of the wooden cabinet beside the bed. And don't add the drowning sense of not knowing what to say to the villain once he finally breaks the silence. He should think of one now, for emergencies.

"It is because I pity you," the villain suddenly said, and smirked, before placing the candy on his tongue, savoring the sweetness. "You are such a bad kisser."

The audacity.

"Ten out of ten. Bravo joke."

"Oh, thank you," he placed his finger on his lips, laughing to himself. It was red with a fine line of deep rose on the middle of his bottom lip.

The hero watched the villain caressing his own lips before he froze and stopped, slapping his cheeks a little. What was wrong with him? And the villain veered towards the hero, fixing the collar of his shirt.

The villain grinned, "I have to go now—"

"We should do this again," he interrupted, blankly staring at the villain as he spoke. "You liked it, didn't you?"

The hero would lie to himself if he said that he didn't love it. Plus he was willing to sacrifice a few of his dignity to admit it. But the villain only smiled, his eyes not revealing anything on what he was thinking. The hero's heart plummeted in his chest, its hope bursting out of his chest cavity as he covered it with a smile.

"If you say so,"

Then he left. And the hero never felt happier.

[redrandomposts]

tgcf crack au where there are three (two clones) hua chengs in the world

the flame master, wrapped in black clothes with bright red embroidery. eye covered with an eyepatch, reclusive, and when seen out of his palace is harsh. yet, somehow, the flame master became one of the most worshipped gods in heaven, his "flame" expanding to ghost fires and love. why?

an immortal priest, who wanders the lands. a sculptor, painter, devout worshipper. wearing red and white clothes, looking youthful and mischievous. he has a hand in the most breathtaking idols of the flame master, as well as a companion always by the flame master in his art pieces—a figure clad in white, sword and flower in hand.

a calamity in crimson and silver and black, lighting temples to flames and drawing blood with silver butterflies. in an ominous, crescent-smile mask, constructed a city for ghosts and became the bane of heaven. fell thirty-three gods with his martial arts and intellegence, until worshippers turned to him.

what do they have in common?

they are the same person. hua cheng; san lang; wu ming.

===

notes:

hua cheng imparts some "self" into the clones so they are basically apart of him

when hua cheng creates the ghost clone, he wants to remedy all mistakes wu ming made. he despises wu ming for being powerless. he also uses it as a lure, incase his highness did remember him.

san lang is actually a priest for dianxia, but he also wants to grow power as a god. so. even if he were ugly, he's willing to paint his highness next to him for the power to protect his highness.

with every passing day, wu ming grows more and more self-conscious, because his highness still isnt here, did his highness truly hate him? should he change, become unrecognizable, because his highness wouldn't come if he were there?

...anyways i think san lang should suffer a bit

while passing through yong'an, he witnesses the whole shebakle. in a panic, he shapeshifts into xie lian, effectively diverting all the punishment that should come. unfortunately, even if he were a clone, he still felt all the pain and isolation, and the talismans prevented him from escaping. later, after a few decades when he's finally tracked down, he has to he absorbed back into hua cheng because of the mental damage. hua cheng has to isolate himself after to calm his spirit (the only reason lang qianqiu isnt dead).

its just that i think xie lian should not be in the coffin. hes been through enough

anyways imagine if there were fanfiction about the priest and the god—oh wait.

yeah hua cheng discovers self-cest made by enthusiastic believers. idk would be rlly funny though

hey is there any active hua cheng clones in the books?? asking because i kind of am too lazy to reread it

[suguwu]

your face is not your own.

you've spent years wearing other people's faces, a way to ease the commotion that comes after a kill. no one ever catches up to you.

until diamond.

luckily, he likes you. or at least he likes your skill set. it isn't long before you're an ipc asset, their finest blade, whetted sharp and cruel.

it's a dangerous position to be in, being favored by him. it means work that dirties your hands more than an average kill, smears crimson across your palms in streaks that never wash away.

it's fine, though. each new face comes with a clean slate. a new chance to be better. you could run—no one can pin you down as you shed your skin, born anew from a bloodied cocoon.

except diamond.

he knows you through every disguise, through every face you mold your features into. some days you think that maybe he's the one shaping the clay of your face. a sculptor always knows their own work.

and then suddenly, there's aventurine.

he's young, with keen eyes and a charming smile that sits like a mask. you're assigned to him early on, when he's still finding his feet among the stonehearts, still slipping into the role of the master he killed.

aventurine sees through you.

it aches, being seen. he pins you in place by the wings, a collector's specimen. opens you under the scalpel of his gaze. he finds you in a crowd every time, no matter whose face you wear.

finally, one day, you have to ask.

"it's a secret," he says, a smile curling on his pretty lips. he drops you a little wink when you bristle.

"tell me," you demand.

"tell you what," he says. "i'll give you a chance to win the answer from me."

you roll your eyes. "i don't take losing bets."

he grins again. "then i guess you'll never know."

diamond calls you back a system month later. you say goodbye to aventurine in port, his golden hair gleaming under the flashing lights. his vivid eyes sink into you like a knife. opens you up one final time.

you're halfway down the gangway when you hear his voice again, floating to you like a melody you've always known.

you turn back to look at him. he's smiling still, but you think he looks sad.

"it's your eyes," he calls. "they never change."

you incline your head to him; he walks away.

you change your face in the bathroom of the ship, arranging yourself into the features you know that diamond likes best. for a moment, you stare at your own face and wonder if you even know it anymore.

you think aventurine would.

it aches to be known, but you want more.

[sculptorofcrimson]

Thread/Soulmate Warhammer AU

Not really a soulmate AU, but more of "threads of fate" au.

~~~~

Ra’s thread is a thin, fragile thing. The Emperor had been loath to break it, had hesitated, His claws hovering over the delicate braid. He had held it, as delicate as the umbilical cord of a newborn, and grieved as He felt what He had to do. In the end He had wrapped it in gossamer like the finest of silk, and woven it, with infinite care, into His own. 

When Drach'nyen thrust itself in, it had severed both threads.

~

Valdor’s thread is crimson. The Emperor had cut off at his wrist, with the only remnants wrapped around his forearm like a chain. The ends still twitch and tangle, as if waiting for a man he had lost before they even met. The Emperor took the frayed threads of the severed rope, and bound it to Him. 

Now it wraps around Valdor’s throat like a leash. (Or a noose.)

Valdor does not mind. 

(Once, only once, in mere moments before Constantin lowered the blade, he had seen the flash of recognition. The sudden unknotting of a thread of fate both had assumed severed so long ago. 

And then the mercy blow. A horrible moment of terrible pity etched across his victim’s pain-stricken face, and the sadness in those tormented eyes not for himself but for Valdor. 

And, finally, oblivion. )

~

Sanguinius’ thread is black. He can see it, twisting there, stretching onwards, inked across the sands of time. When he had met Horus, the Angel had stalled, a smile still stretched across his face, noting down the way his thread had wrapped itself lazily around Horus’ arms. Their threads had tumbled and tangled over one another, so deeply intertwined it was impossible to remove without severing one. 

Horus did not seem to see a thing amiss. 

~

Lorgar, his thread brilliant red, wrapped around the Emperor’s chest. The way he had screamed at the fury in His eyes when He had reached up and tore the thread out of His breast, snapping the thin thing in half beneath His claws. The way he had cursed Him, the remnants of the thread pooling around him like shed snakeskin, the scent of Monarchia’s ashes curdling upon his tongue.

~

Alpharius and Omegon’s threads, a single, thick cord that split in half, bobbing and weaving until neither could tell who was whose. It just seems to love knots, looping around itself, around others, dragging others together without abandon. 

~

Vulkan’s thread, thick and dark and braided, glowing softly with a gentle warmth. It trails itself around his chest, wrapping itself around all near and wide, spreading like a kind coat of flame. It is tender, such a lovely thing. It has chipped, and knotted, and frayed over the eons, but it braids on, thick and resolute. Ashes are embedded in its strings now, but their warmth is still there, just buried under the charcoal. 

~

Fulgrim’s thread was made of silk. A beautiful, perfect, fragile thing. It had bound itself around his hands, around Ferrus’ silver hands and his neck. The delicate silk, so pale against the silver. And how pitifully it had shattered, without a cry, without a song, only with the slithering of sick silk as he had snapped it when the Laerblade took Ferrus’ head. 

~

Ferrus’ thread was a chain. It wrapped around his neck and hands. It had pooled itself slowly around Fulgrim, like a lazy snake, braiding itself together into intricate knots with his silk. When Fulgrim took his head from his shoulders, the links had shattered. 

~

Horus’ thread, white and black. It tied itself so languishly over one of his forearms. If only he had known. If only he had seen. If only he had felt the thread tightening, tugging, unraveling as he had sped his way down a path, and never glanced back upon the road he had trodden. When it finally spun itself out of silk, it tied together in one, final blasphemy of angel feathers. Both tips of their threads had been charred together, one longer than the other.

It was Horus that undid the knot. 

He did not even see it unravel when he cut the life out of his brother. 

~

Malcador’s thread. Grey, seemingly thin, but with an impossible, resolute strength. There it was, underpinning the Emperor's thread like a shadow, together even in death. How brightly it had burned, like candlewick, as he sat upon the Throne, eyes bulging, nerves burning, feeling the cells in his body die one by one. It had charred itself to cinders, and then to ash, and finally dust, before his lord made it back home.

~

And finally, the Emperor's thread. It wrapped around Himself, and only Himself, but it branched off like the leaves of Yggdrasil. It curled itself into the veins of His Custodes, it dragged together the binds of His Primarchs, it curled together like one with Malcador. Some branches were frayed, their ends charred, some had curled up into a solitary knot that no longer held another, some burnt like living, writhing sunlight caught in flesh, but some were warm. Some still dreamt, lazily winding through the fog, one out of thousands. They would bind themselves not to men, or to women, but to entire worlds, to every last beating heart upon the land. It was not a leash, or a noose, or a chain this time, it was merely a bridge, the last heart of a dead god who had once gazed upon His people. And smiled.

[rowaelinsdaughter]

𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖜𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖎 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙 (𝖗𝖍𝖞𝖘 𝖝 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗)

Rhys fanfic is here!!!! ENJOY IT!!!! WARNINGS: FLUFF

15 minutes after arriving at your room, you were still locked in the bathroom. The reason? Rhysand, your secret love. The best athlete in the entire University, the best student, the most handsome, charismatic and kind to everyone. And he was on the other side of the door waiting for you to go to sleep, or so you think.

After 2 hours of traveling on the bus, your class had arrived at the town where you were going to spend the week. The rooms were chosen by lottery... to your bad (or good) luck you and Rhys got the only one-bed room. At that moment you didn't know if you wanted to die of shame or happiness at being with Rhys.

You splash water on your face and finish putting on your pajamas. You open the door and stand in place. Rhys sleeps without a shirt. Even though it was winter and 3 degrees, apparently his body gave off too much heat to be wearing a shirt.Shit, shit, shit.Lying on the bed, you look at his tattooed pecs and arms. Glasses make his already attractive face look like it was sculpted by the best sculptor. Rhys looks up from the book he's reading and watches you with a small smile.

“You're not thinking about sleeping standing up there, are you?”

You come out of your stupor, a crimson coloring your cheeks. You roll your eyes and with a courage that you don't know where you got it from, you smile back.

"Of course not"

You go to the bed and lie down at a respectable distance so as not to bother him... or so as not to die of a heart attack if you touch him. Already under the covers, you turn so that your back is turned to him and you look at the moon through the window.

“You can come closer to me, I'm not going to bite you.”

“I'm fine, don't worry”

"Sure?"

“Yes, good night Rhys.”

But you couldn't sleep. It was 3 in the morning and you were still awake. After tossing and turning, you finally decide to lie on your back, staring at the ceiling. You notice the bed move next to you and you hear Rhys's voice, nothing more than a whisper in the darkness.

"You can not sleep?"

You sigh and rub your eyes with your hands and then rest them on your stomach. “No, I can't sleep.”

"Me neither"

“I thought you fell asleep after reading.”

“No, the truth is that it has left me thinking”

“How deep was the book?”

A low laugh escapes his lips. “It was rather romantic.”

You turn to look at him and find his violet eyes already looking at you.

“I didn't take you for a romantic, Rhysand.”

He turns to face you.

“No, I wasn't romantic, but a girl made me change. A beautiful and smart girl, kind to everyone, and almost always has a dreamy look that makes her more magnificent. She has the most perfect laugh there can be, delicate hands like the wings of a swan, and her body drives me crazy every time I see it.” He reaches out and caresses your cheek. “She's perfect.”

Your heart stops. It can't be happening, he can't be talking about you. But that caress...

“She seems to be a good girl, doesn't she?” You swallow.

He moves closer to you, his thumb caressing your lower lip and your stomach explodes into thousands of butterflies. So many, that you think they will come out of your mouth if you open it. When only millimeters separate you, he whispers: “Yes it is. And I have it right where I want.”

His mouth caresses yours gently, not wanting to scare you. You slowly close your eyes and follow the kiss. With a hand trembling with nerves, you stroke the hair on his neck and marvel at the softness of his black hair. His hand pulls you around your waist and your arms hug his shoulders. The kiss is perfect, soft and delicate, unhurried, savoring the moment.

You separate and hide your face in his neck out of embarrassment, you hear his laughter and his hand caresses your hair gently while he places a kiss on your hair.

“You're adorable, I can't believe I have you all to myself.”

tags: @danikamariewrites @throneofsapphics @shadowdaddies

all rights reserved to ©rowaelinsdaughter. no tranlations allowed. no copy theme. don not copy my work.

[brabblesblog]

Astarion (Spawn/Pre-Cazador Mission) x Tav

As if the gods made you to ruin me. - Inspired by the Greek myth of Pygmalion and Galatea. First person POV. A sculptor confronts a piece of marble, and Astarion is their masterpiece.

To be loved - Fix-it fic for the scene with Halsin and the twins in Sharess' Caress. Smut.

Sounds like a plan - Angst with a happy ending. What if Tav wasn't exactly happy about being manipulated at the start of the romance?

In time - Fluff with smut. Astarion catches you during some solo time. Set in act II after his confession scene.

They will never be you - Angst with a happy ending. Astarion's not the only insecure one in the relationship. Set in act III after the end of Astarion's personal quest

A reason to beat again - Fluff, could be canon-compliant or not. What if vampire hearts beat again when they fall in love?

Worth it. - Fluff. A small drabble about that line in the epilogue with Spawn!Astarion.

I hope you die screaming - Angst with a happy ending. After you refuse to help Astarion ascend, he leaves you with a venomous goodbye. Unfortunately the vampire has to come back to get his things.

Goodnight Moon Series

Series about the events that happened within the time span of the game. Canon-compliant, angst with a happy ending. No smut.

This series was my first foray into writing fanfic, so this might be a little rough on the edges.

1. Goodnight Moon

2. Jealousy

3. A Gift

4. Crimson Eyes

5. Fear

6. Safety

7. Hope

8. Feeding

9. Even with all these complications

10. Content

11. Yes.

[ashleyfableblack]

Queen Chrysalis Sparkle reclined on her satin perch, lifting a jewel-encrusted goblet in her magic. Once more Twilight had requested her bughorse wife to privately model for her latest attempt at artistry. Chrysalis was only too happy to comply. She took well to the job of a model, her wife's muse. Being the Queen-mother of her entire species she was quite accustomed to being the center of attention. As she desired no creatures attention on Equus more than her little pony wife's this was truly the perfect way to spend a quiet afternoon for the queen.

She slowly lifted a long chitinous hind-leg, widening her lap in a seductive and inviting manner. very unladylike yet very fitting for the couple. A soft purr rumbled in her long neck as she tucked a hoof to her barrel, adding a hint of coquettish playfulness to her posture.

She almost lost her balance as Twilight smacked an angry hoof against the sculptor's stage and barked out a shrill squawk. Chrysalis stifled a chuckle behind her pitted hoof. She was unaware that Twilight had learned how to swear in Griffonese. Twilight muttered in frustration at the uncooperative wet grey lump, grumbling out whispered threats and slander to its place as a mineral resource. Thus far her adversary resisted her every attempt to ply her fledgling techniques. To be fair her work-in-progress might be mistaken for Chrysalis, that is assuming it was viewed in passing by a near-sighted mole through several mugs of quality cider and perhaps the changeling queen had taken the form of a wad of chewed bubblegum.

Chrysalis touched the goblet to her lips. The dark crimson liquid sipped smoothly through her sabre-like fangs, cool and robust. The changeling queen considered the scene in loving silence. "Why do you struggle so with this new obsession, beloved? You've tried grasping my form with several mediums- charcoal, graphite, paint and now clay. To what end? To capture my likeness? To release your hidden tensions? Perhaps to gift me with your creation of love?" She narrowed her eyes. "Am I to believe you'd go to such lengths simply to try your hoof at new hobbies?" She pursed her lips, dismissing the notion. "No, surely not." Her wings softly buzzed as her forked tongue flickered at the air, tasting her wife's passion. "All artists have their need to create, my love. It consumes them. Why do you...?"

[emmg]

I beg of thee Raphael nonconning virgin tav as dominance because normal sex isn't going to put them in their place...........

(if you do this, please don't do anal or blowjobs, nonnie is a wimp with icks they/them for said nonnie too!! ) -🍄⭐

Aw shit I'm sorry Anon, I got lik 5 or 6 asks for the same thing so I forgot about the them/they, though I did edit this version specifically for you. Big sorry!

Everyone else, I'm gonna be posting the link to the unabridged ao3 version in another ask.

Mind euh the tags: non-con, rough sex, just overall dead dove behavior

"You contemptuous creature."  

At first, the words draw laughter from her. It’s impossible not to find some twisted humor in watching Raphael—normally so poised and in control—lose his composure. Throw a bitch fit over trash talk. His nose wrinkles, his hands twitch involuntarily, fingers all but convulsing, the mask of benevolence slipping just enough for her to glimpse the arrogance beneath. All because she dared to strike at his most fragile point—his virility, or the lack thereof, if Haarlep’s scathing whispers were to be believed.  

But when he repeats those words a second time, after the carnage has taken its toll—after she’s been shattered and broken, her companions tossed from the House of Hope like discarded dolls—everything changes. She's wiped the floor with him, he's done the same to her, and now it’s just her and Raphael, both battered and bloodied. The echo of those words fills the suffocating silence between them, and suddenly, the laughter dies in her throat.  

The dread that follows is cold and visceral, sinking into her like a slow-acting poison, curdling in her stomach. Every instinct screams at her that something is deeply, horribly wrong. Laughter feels obscene now, swallowed by the growing horror that tightens like a vice around her chest.  

Raphael loves words. He worships them. He uses them like a sculptor uses clay, crafting elaborate threats, intricate insults, always searching for a new way to twist the knife. He doesn’t repeat himself.  

But now, with his face slashed and eyes wide, those same three words fall from his lips again, unchanged, unembellished. They land with the weight of something inevitable, something final.  

You. Contemptuous. Creature.

That’s when she knows. There are no other words left. No florid insults or twisted poetry. Only these, spat with venom, because they are all that remain. He’s beyond anger now.  

He catches her by the scruff of her neck, like someone handling a disobedient dog, but curses under his breath when his fingers slip against her skin. Frustrated, he switches to her shirt collar, yanking her through the halls with such force that the fabric tears. Her hair tangles in the cloth, pulling painfully at her scalp. By the time they reach the boudoir, he hurls her to the ground with such violent strength that her chin smashes against the floor, the impact echoing through her skull.  

Haarlep, lounging languidly on the bed, arches a single eyebrow in response.  

"Feast," Raphael hisses. "Ruin her. Fuck her senseless, devour her soul, keep her as your twisted plaything—I don’t care. I want her hollowed out, destroyed from the inside."  

She can barely breathe through the pain, through the burning humiliation, but she watches him with half-lidded eyes, sees him wipe a smear of blood from his lips with the back of his sleeve before spitting a thick, crimson glob onto the carpet.  

He turns on his heel, leaving without another glance, as Haarlep slowly slithers off the bed, moving toward her like a serpent closing in on its prey.  

She glances down at her left leg, wondering why it feels so numb, spotting a wound, high on her thigh, peeking out through shredded cloth. A jagged tear, deep and vicious, splits the skin open. Ah, well, this isn't ideal... She presses her hand against it instinctively, feeling the viscous flow slip between her fingers. It's more than a simple cut. This is bad, dangerously so. An artery, maybe, nicked and bleeding out fast. Her head feels light, the edges of her vision wavering, as each heartbeat sends another rush of red gushing from the wound.

She wonders if she can ask her heart to take it easy for a little while lest she leaks out entirely.

"Little thief," she hears a murmur, the voice a soft purr in her ear. "You didn’t want to play before, but now... now we can have some fun." Haarlep's breath is hot against her skin, followed by the slow, sinful drag of his tongue along her cheek, leaving her shuddering. He sighs, a heavy, almost disappointed sound. "But I do not like bedraggled things. No, I do not like them at all..."  

He carries her to the restoration pool, cradling her as though she were something fragile, something broken but fixable. The water is hot, healing, immediately soothing the raw pain seared into her body. She sighs, her head rolling back, slipping in and out of consciousness. The agony begins to blur into something distant, almost abstract. She feels Haarlep’s claws gently tearing through her clothes, cutting away the blood-soaked fabric, disposing of it. He washes her, erasing the bruises, the cuts, the aches from her skin with every pass of his hands.  

Then, something shifts inside her, a sudden, sharp realignment. The sound is loud, wet, and jarring, startling her awake with a yelp. Her ribcage snaps painfully back into place, the broken bones knitting themselves together in an instant.  

"Much, much better," Haarlep croons. His hand slides beneath her back, and she lets him guide her deeper into the water, submerging her until her hair is fully wet, the tension from where it had been yanked from her scalp melting away. The pounding headache that had been beating at her skull vanishes, leaving only a strange, heavy calm.  

"You're wonderful," she tells him. She doesn't know why. It just feels right.

She sighs again, feeling as if she’s on the edge of sleep. Everything feels so distant, so unreal, as if she’s drifting between worlds. Maybe it’s the blood loss, or maybe it’s the aftershock, the body’s surrender after the adrenaline burns out. She feels soft, weightless, like she could slip away at any moment. The only thing anchoring her is him. Maybe that’s just what incubi do, she thinks. Maybe this is their power.  

Her arms fall loosely around Haarlep, not quite an embrace, but enough to steady herself. His hands roam her back, exploring her skin, and though she’s dimly aware that both of them are naked, it hardly seems to matter. She’s too tired, too numb to care. Every time her eyelids flutter shut, it feels like centuries pass in the darkness.  

She blinks, and Haarlep’s lips are on her throat.  

She blinks again, and his mouth is on hers, soft but hungry. She kisses him back, caresses his face, sighs into his mouth.  

Another blink, and his hands are moving, trailing down her waist, her hips, slowly rising higher.  

Blink. Blink. Blink. And suddenly she’s no longer in the bath. The water, the heat—it’s all gone, replaced by the too-big bed beneath her, soft and engulfing. Haarlep is above her now, murmuring something low and indistinct, his words blurring into the haze of her mind. She doesn’t try to understand. It doesn’t matter. Reaching out, she cups his cheek, marveling at how lovely he is, how perfect his skin feels under her palm. He’s warm—so very warm—and the weight of him on top of her is comforting, almost intoxicating. His tongue flicks at her lips, glides down her throat, then traces a path lower, dipping into her navel. She sighs softly, her body heavy with a strange, dreamlike contentment.  

When he parts her thighs, there’s no fear, no hesitation. Just more warmth. His tongue teases at her knees, tracing slow lines upward. Higher. Higher. Higher. But just when she expects him to reach the spot where her body craves his touch, he stops. He doesn’t kiss her there, doesn’t satisfy that illogical, sleepy longing she feels despite her exhaustion. Instead, he hums softly, the sound vibrating through her.  

Another blink. When she looks down, she sees him resting his head on her stomach, hands folded beneath his chin like a bored child. His sigh is deep, drawn out.  

"Oh, little thief," he deplores, voice coated in mock lament. "Perhaps I shall feast later." His hand lazily pets her side. "No, no… this he’ll want to know." Another heavy sigh. "Well, let's keep you warm for now."  

He disappears for only a heartbeat, returning with a nightgown in hand. "Up, up," he says playfully, and she sluggishly lifts her arms, just enough for him to slip the gown over her head. The soft fabric slides down her skin as he tugs it into place before gently pushing her back onto the bed and pulling the covers over her.  

"Don't leave," she mumbles, her thoughts scattering like a half-remembered dream.  

"I suppose I can stay until you fall asleep," he purrs, slipping in behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her tight against his chest. His warmth seeps into her, enveloping her in a cocoon of safety. "It’s not the same, but... it is something."  

His voice fades as she drifts, barely registering the quiet words he whispers into her hair. All she knows is how warm, how soft, how utterly good he feels beside her. She sighs, utterly content, lacing her fingers with his as she falls into the deepest, dreamless sleep, sinking into the darkness as if she belongs there.  

When she wakes, she blinks up at the ceiling, utterly bewildered, staring blankly as her mind pieces itself back together. She lies there for what feels like an eternity, her thoughts floating in fragments, trying to remember where she is, why she’s here, and—oh, right. What happened.  

Then, she catches a whiff of coffee. And food. She rolls over to find a silver tray perched on a table in the center of the room, piled high with pastries, fruit, and other delicacies. She shuffles off the bed, fingers brushing over the nightgown she now wears—right, Haarlep must have put it on her. She lifts the coffee to her lips, expecting bitterness, but lets out a surprised sound as warmth spreads through her. It’s not simple coffee. It’s sweet, strong, with an unexpected aftertaste of lavender. It jolts her mind awake, yet oddly soothes her frazzled nerves.

Cup in hand, she takes a lazy lap around the room, finally stopping before a mirror. She’s paler than she’s ever seen herself, her skin nearly ashen, a shade of grey close to her hair. She lifts the nightgown, glancing down at her thigh—there’s a scar, raised but fully healed. She hums to herself, covers the scar again, and polishes off the coffee.  

What follows is a solid hour of her fiddling with the locked door, yanking at the handle, trying to shoulder it open—until frustration boils over, and she finally hurls the silver tray at it with a loud clang that does precisely nothing.  

Eventually, the door opens without a whisper of sound, nearly colliding with her nose. She jerks back, barely managing to avoid falling flat on her face. And in walks Raphael, gliding right past her without so much as a glance, settling himself into the plush armchair in the center of the room. He reclines, crossing his legs as if he hasn’t left her stewing for hours, and she just stares, somewhere between apprehension and disbelief.  

She sits on the bed, legs crossed underneath her, watching him.

She notices it immediately: he’s wearing a robe. Just a robe. And she hates it. She doesn't know why, but something about the sight gnaws at her, sets her teeth on edge. She wants him back in his usual finery, draped in layer upon layer of silk and brocade, in ruffles and velvets that bury him beneath his own pretensions. Not this casual, almost informal display, where she can see far too much of his chest, tan and exposed under the loose folds of cloth.  

Maybe he’s getting ready for bed. Maybe it’s not morning at all, and she’s slept through to the next night. Or the one after that.  

The thought makes her nervous, a creeping sense of time slipping sideways.

He makes wine appear and serves himself, offering her none of it.

"Haarlep shared the most fascinating insight with me," Raphael begins, his voice a slow, silken drawl. He swirls the wine in his glass, watching it spin, letting the scent rise before drawing it in deeply, savoring the moment. His nose lingers near the rim as he speaks again. "It appears, you see," he continues, "that the little mouse is all bluster, nothing but air, whispering baseless barbs into the dark."  

Her heart stammers, skipping a beat, and she can’t tear her eyes away from his robe—the dark silk, intricate golden arabesques snaking across the fabric, too beautiful and too rich at once.  

Raphael takes a single, languid sip. When he sets the glass down, it is with a soft, almost poetic clink.

"That one who dares to weave such lurid taunts," he muses, "could not possibly know what it is to be taken, to be undone by another’s touch."  

So, Haarlep’s a bloodhound now? Of the particularly unhinged variety, apparently, sniffing out virginity instead of anything remotely useful.  

She shakes her head, though she knows not why. Maybe from sheer incredulity. At least it explains why Haarlep had suddenly decided to leave her alone.

"Ah, but," Raphael sighs, his tone shifting, now lilting with a mockery that is almost whimsical, "despite it all, I find myself graced with a peculiar mercy." His teeth flash behind his lips. "Yes, even where you are concerned."  

She narrows her eyes, resisting the temptation to tell him to go take a long walk off a short pier. Or to go fuck himself, preferably somewhere far, far away from her.  

"Why not enlighten this brazen rodent?" he carries on, the words rolling from his tongue like a threat, each one drawing her deeper into the quiet terror of his intent. "Why not teach her the true meaning of being speared apart, to feel the depth of what she mocks so thoughtlessly?"  

Raphael raises his glass in a half-hearted toast. "What it is to be fucked, little thief," he whispers. "So that she might finally understand, and learn the wisdom not to speak of that which she has never known."  

Oh, so he's still angry.

There’s a glass of water waiting on the nightstand. She picks it up, wishing it were something stronger. A brief, delirious urge flickers—maybe she could ask him for liquor, just to see if he’d indulge her. But before the thought solidifies, she sets the glass back down, noticing how her hand trembles too much to trust it.  

Raphael, in contrast, drains his wine with a single gulp, tipping the glass back high enough for the liquid to rush down his throat. There's nothing refined about the way he drinks, she notices, a strange detachment creeping in as her mind scrambles to find any distraction. His throat works, swallowing the last of the alcohol, and for a fleeting moment, he looks more beast than noble.  

"So," Raphael begins, his voice songlike, his lips still glistening with the wine he’s just swallowed. "Why don’t you be a very, very good little mouse and lie down for me? Spread your legs nice and wide."  

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees as he watches her, waiting.

She changes her mind. Takes the glass again. Drinks until it is empty, but still her throat feels parched, her tongue heavy.

"Oh, make no mistake," he continues, his tone dropping lower, "it will not be good for you, no... the first time is never good, I hear. But why let it be a scream when it can be a soft gasp? A quiet ruin instead of a brutal one. It’s your choice, really, but I must admit... I do prefer to break things slowly."  

He can't be serious.

Raphael shifts and she tenses immediately, almost scurrying back on the bed, but somehow remaining prone.

"Hold on," she says. "I have something for you."

She’s feeling suicidal.

Raphael arches an eyebrow.

With an exaggerated sigh, she makes a show of rummaging through the sheets, her hand shuffling to-and-fro before pulling free, her middle finger raised high and proud. She flips him off, her expression utterly deadpan.  

Raphael makes a pensive sound. "For your sake," he says, "I will pretend I did not see that. But tempt fate again and I will take that wrist of yours and, with my own teeth, carve it down to the bone.”

Point taken.

Sure, she’d love to skewer him like a devilish kebab, but she’s also got a strong preference for survival, and the chance of limping back to Gale, Karlach, and Shadowheart to lick their wounds together, preferably with all limbs still attached. Maybe she won’t even have to tell them what it cost to walk out with the Orphic Hammer, if he still lets her keep it after all of this. Just a simple transaction: a little charm, a little sacrifice. No one ever needs to know she had to play the whore to buy herself a ticket back to camp.  

She rises, slipping into the oversized robe Haarlep left behind. It’s much too big, but that feels like a comfort. Wrapping it tightly around herself, she picks up her glass and walks across the room to sit in the chair opposite Raphael, silently thankful for the little table acting as a barrier between them.  

"May I?" she asks, gesturing toward the wine.  

There’s a brief pause before he cocks his head and smiles. "Partake," he grants.  

She pours the glass to the brim, taking slow sips until it’s halfway gone, letting the silence linger. Raphael doesn’t rush to fill it either, simply sitting back with his legs crossed, watching her idly.  

"Can we negotiate, perhaps?" she offers, her voice tinged with hope.  

"Which part?"  

She hesitates, then swallows her nerves. "All of it," she blurts out. "You caught us. In the end, we didn’t take anything. No real harm was done."  

"No harm done?" he repeats, dragging out each word. "You believe attempted theft, rummaging through my possessions, damaging my property, and desecrating my secrets amounts to no harm done?"  

"How about an act of service?" she proposes. "Whatever you wish."

"So glad we’re on the same page," he replies, his tone dry and mocking. "Go lie down on the bed."  

"Aside from that."

Raphael props his head on a closed fist, looking at her in a manner so mockingly playful it’s almost insulting. "Did you know," he says, "that I was planning to court you, little mouse? Don’t look so surprised—yes, even I can be swayed by softness on occasion, though those moments are rare indeed." He shifts, reaching across the table to trace a finger along the rim of her glass, circling it slowly, never stopping.  

"Oh, we would have made such a fetching pair, indulging one another until the excitement faded." He punctuates this with a loud, theatrical sigh that might have rivaled a tragedy actor’s. “But alas, you’ve chosen to squander my generous inclinations. You rob me, you insult me...” He clicks his tongue in disapproval, the act so exaggerated it’s almost a parody of itself.  

"Yet call it fate," he says, suddenly clapping his hands together with a sharp sound that makes her jump. "I have decided to let you walk away."  

"Amazing," she says. "I'll be on my way then."

Raphael, predictably, pretends not to hear her.  

“Now, here’s how this will unfold,” he continues, rising gracefully and swiping her glass, taking a greedy sip. “You’ll strip out of those clothes—they were never yours to keep—and for the second time tonight, though I despise redundancy, you’ll climb onto that bed, spread yourself open, and lie still, like the obedient little mouse you were always meant to be.” He mimics the motion of holding a brush, his hand floating in the air as if he’s painting some delicate masterpiece. "One way or another, you will bleed on my cock tonight, dearest dear."  

She lets him carry on, watching as he moves through his little soliloquy, complete with sweeping arm gestures and fingers dancing through the air. Even his hands, it seems, cannot shut up, punctuating each of his words with dramatic flourishes.  

Whatever beauty she once saw in him, whatever thrill she felt at his thespian mannerisms—the polite, practiced excess, the smug smiles, the honeyed words, and rhymes tailored just for her—all of it now festers, turning sour and crude in her mind. The girlish infatuation is gone, withered in an instant. Now, all she sees are too-long claws, too-sharp teeth, and a too-fragile ego.  

Raphael stands before her, head tilted, smile stretched wide. He clearly means to shock her. But she’s still a little dizzy from the blood loss, and besides, she’s heard far worse. Growing up near the docks, you learn early that promises of every kind, coarse and lewd, will be thrown at you the moment you start looking less like a child and more like a whisper of a woman.  

Careful, girlie, or the rats’ll drag you off and make a wife of you.

Come over here, pretty—I’ll give you coin to scrub more than my floors, eh?

Just say the word, darling, I’ll teach you why sailors call it the dockyard grind.

The memories are both unsettling and, oddly enough, almost comical now. Raphael’s polished menace is nothing compared to the raw filth of dockhands and street scum.  

After a while, she just sort of... nods. Shakes her head. "And you care about this... why?" She waves a hand around aimlessly. Moving it just to move it. "Haarlep’s probably far more fun in bed anyway."  

"But I cannot exactly corrupt Haarlep, can I?" he replies, one finger rising in emphasis. "There’s a particular charm in setting... let’s say, a precedent. To be the first brushstroke on a blank canvas. To set the bar against which all future experiences will be measured. Corruption," he concludes with a slow smile, "is delectable."  

She can’t help it; she snorts, even laughs a little. "What corruption?" she scoffs, her mouth twisting into a smirk. "It’s just a physical reality, like eating a plum. Either you’ve done it or you haven’t. You’re not corrupting"—she throws in air quotes—"an Aasimar, luring them away from their godly parent. Just sticking your prick in someone."

"Why deny yourself, dear one?" He doesn't circle her, not exactly, but he does walk once around her chair before stilling, hands resting lightly on the backrest. Tap, tap, tap they go against the wood before jumping to her shoulders. "If it is but the equivalent of biting into a fruit."

She considers, just for a split second, letting a barb fly. Something about whether he even lasted long enough to count his first time, or if it was as pitiful as whatever performance Haarlep has to suffer through whenever he gets the itch. Or, better yet, if he just bent over and let whatever fiendish partner he had at the time, ahem, take the reins. Odds are that such a question would end with all her teeth on the floor, painstakingly knocked out, one by one, knowing him.

It’s tempting, though. Her tongue almost tingles to let loose the quip, but she's been called a contemptuous creature twice already and this is where it landed her. If he says it a third time… well, she’s not exactly eager to find out what fresh hell he might unleash.  

"I was waiting for you, O Raphael,” she says instead, rolling her eyes.

"How providential, then, that I am all too willing to fulfill that desire."  

His hands drifts lower, fingers pressing into her upper arms as he urges her to stand, walks back around, and returns his touch to her waist.  

"Perhaps," he suggests, leaning close, "your acting talents might shine here as they never have before. Better to use your gifts in this intimate stage than waste them on tavern fools and poker-faced games, wouldn’t you agree?"  

"There's nothing here worth winning."

Raphael tuts softly. "Oh, but there is. Scratch my back, and I shall scratch yours—is that not how the saying goes? Be a delight and I will be generous in return."

She stares him down. Haarlep did warn that he was more bark than bite, and truly, what difference does it make if it’s him or another? After all, she did once fantasize about him, didn’t she? Those late nights at camp, when he was still more enigma than letdown, before he dangled the hammer, before he demanded the crown.  

How could she not? He’s a devil, a godsdamned devil, draped in silks and brocade, spewing prose so sweet it's sticky, all poise and grandeur, acting as if she were a rare treasure, his favorite client. That was, of course, before she went and tore her way into his House.

She gives him a curt, acquiescing nod, quick and distant.  

"Marvelous," he murmurs. But then, just as she’s bracing for what’s next, he draws back, snaps his fingers, and a contract materializes in the air, unfurling like a smug declaration of bureaucratic triumph. "But first— formalities."  

"Seriously?" she says.  

"I am a man of principles," Raphael replies, arms parting. "Consider it a force of habit. A legal contingency. You have, after all, proven yourself somewhat unreliable. I must ensure that what I am so generously offering is appropriately compensated."  

"And what exactly are you giving up here?" she asks, barely containing an eye twitch. He’s the one getting his cock wet; what could he possibly be sacrificing?

Raphael places a hand on his chest with a small, clearly rehearsed nod. "My time," he says, like he’s imparting some profound revelation. "It is infinitely more valuable than you can comprehend—unlike your fleeting hours, which you squander on petty distractions."  

Unbelievable.

Resigned, she reaches for the contract and he immediately produces a quill, offering it with far too much glee.  

"May I read it first?" she asks, lifting an eyebrow.  

"Naturally," he concedes.  

It’s in Infernal, of course. She stares him down in silence until he relents, a chuckle leaving his lips as he waves a hand, and the letters bleed into Common. She sighs, her eyes scanning the lines, feeling the absurdity of it all settle in once more.  

As soon as she starts reading, she thinks she will have an aneurysm.

INFERNAL CONTRACT OF BODILY RECOMPENSE AND SERVICES RENDERED IN FAVOR OF RAPHAEL, MASTER OF THE HOUSE OF HOPE

WHEREAS the undersigned mortal, hereinafter referred to as "The Mortal," having knowingly and with ill intent, trespassed upon the domicile, personal chambers, and associated property of His Eminence Raphael, herein referred to as "The Master"; and...

...in his boundless beneficence, has resolved to defer immediate damnation, punishment, or otherworldly torture, contingent upon receipt of fair and equal recompense in the form hereinafter detailed...

"The Mortal's Body": Defined as the entirety of the Mortal’s physical form, inclusive of but not limited to flesh, bone, sinew, spirit, voice, and all sensory faculties...

"Night of Compensatory Access": A single period from the hour of dusk until the subsequent hour of dawn in the realm of Avernus, whereby The Master is granted uninterrupted, unhindered, and unequivocal access to The Mortal’s Body...

...by affixing her signature below, The Mortal concedes to offer herself wholly, without protest, evasion, or mental reservation, to The Master for the duration of the Night of Compensatory Access...

Exclusivity Clause: The Mortal shall refrain from, resist, or otherwise prevent any attempt to evade, diminish, or reduce The Master's designated rights and privileges as defined herein...

Her head spins. She swears this would be hilarious if it weren’t so harrowingly detailed. She presses on.  

ARTICLE III: CONDITIONS OF REPRIEVE

Forgiveness of Transgressions: In consideration of the services to be rendered by The Mortal, The Master shall, upon satisfactory completion of the Night of Compensatory Access, forgive, expunge, and render void all actions pertaining to the trespass...

...renounces all claims, pleas, or requests for mercy, leniency, or cessation of services during the duration of the Night of Compensatory Access....

ARTICLE IV: LIABILITY WAIVER

The Mortal indemnifies and holds harmless The Master from any and all claims, damages, injuries, or torts resultant from the execution of the contract...

...acknowledges that the nature of the acts herein may include, but are not limited to, discomfort, pain, debilitation, or mystical exhaustion...

“This all seems… rather extreme for…” She trails off, not quite able to say it aloud.“Well, you know. Is this really worth my soul if I don’t…” She pauses, frustrated with herself.  

“Perish the thought,” Raphael exclaims, clutching his chest in mock offense. “That would be far too dramatic. No, dear, only your ability to wander.”  

“My what now?”  

“Oh, you’ll still be able to walk around,” he clarifies. “But stray from your promise, and let’s just say you won’t be getting much farther than the hallway that led you here. A bit of an elegant leash, if you will.”  

The first pang of fear sinks in. She hadn’t even bothered reading the initial contract—the one he so pompously presented back at Sharess’ Caress—because she never intended to sign it, much less honor it. But this one... this one is personal, intimate, implicating her and only her, like he’d siphoned her very blood to craft it.  

She feels Raphael’s fingers at her throat, walking along her skin until they reach the ties of her nightgown, just barely peeking out from beneath her robe. He tugs at them, exposing more of her throat but luckily nothing else.  

“From dusk until dawn,” she reads, her gaze fixed on the parchment as all other words blur away. Those are the only ones that matter.  

"And only that."

Before she can talk herself out of it, she signs, feeling a searing heat at her fingertips as the contract vanishes in a flurry of embers.  

His hands immediately move to clasp her face, pulling her gaze up to meet his. He watches her, never blinking—how are his eyes not dried out?— his mouth stretched into that too-wide, lopsided smile, looking so pleased with himself, practically soaked in smarm.  

"Now that that’s settled…” he drawls, his thumbs carving circular paths into her cheeks. “We have the entire night stretched out before us and I intend to savor it. No need to rush through." The way he lingers over night unnerves her, stoking a wild urge to claw at his throat, to demand what makes him so damn giddy, but she stays quiet. "I could start with a simple indulgence… come on that pretty face of yours, paint you just the way I like, or…" He tilts his head, smiling as he watches her reaction. “Perhaps you would prefer to kneel, lips parted, tongue out, waiting like a good girl to taste every bit of me. Ready to earn your keep, so to say.”

Her stomach twists, a hot flush creeping up her neck as each filthy word drips from his mouth, every one lewder than the last, practically daring her to bolt. Great. Just fantastic. Maybe hanging herself would be faster. Or maybe she should just waltz out and take her chances with whatever Avernus has to offer in the way of “not Raphael.” Better still, she could track down Yurgir, sweet-talk him into offing himself again right in the middle of the room. She’d pay good coin to see Raphael’s face as he’s left scrubbing entrails off his floors. Anything—anything—to spare her one more second of his insufferable gloating, let alone his plans for the evening.

"Oh, don’t tell me you’re nervous now," he admonishes, punctuating it with an obnoxious little tsk-tsk-tsk. She watches, horrified, as his tongue clicks against his teeth. "I would have thought you’d be a bit more ardent. After all, debts do demand their due."

“What is wrong with you?” she blurts out, fully aware this could very well get her voice box ripped out on the spot. “Who talks like that?”  

Raphael doesn’t answer; instead, he steps closer, well within her space, until she’s enveloped by his scent, a potent mix of cherries, smoke, and musk, so thick she can practically taste it. There’s even a faint note of soap somewhere, though she suspects it might be from her, from whatever Haarlep scrubbed into her hair while washing away the blood and bruises. Not that it matters much now, with Raphael in her face, clearly reveling in her discomfort.  

For a moment, she thinks he’ll kiss her—he’s close enough—but instead, he presses his nose to her cheek, trailing up her skin like a hound catching a scent. Then, just as animalistic, he follows with his tongue, dragging it slowly along the same path. He breathes against her ear, tracing its curve, then moves to her neck, his mouth seeking out the web of veins as though drawing the salt from her skin. She winces, brow furrowing, and he feels it, gripping her hair and yanking her head back.  

"Be good," comes the reminder. "Be lovely." He angles her head back further.  

She parts her lips for him, and his tongue slips inside, invasive. It doesn't feel like a kiss; it likely isn't. He traces the inside of her cheek, pressing firmly, as though tasting her from the inside out. She lets her hands rest on his shoulders, fisting the material of his robe because she needs to hold something, even if that something is Raphael.  

He licks along her teeth, the wet drag of his tongue sending an unpleasant thrill down her spine. Then he slides lower, running along the thin strip of flesh beneath her tongue, a place she barely even thinks about, until now. He explores it thoroughly, pressing against it, making her jaw ache under the intensity. His tongue flicks up to her palate, crawling over the ribbed ridges in slow strokes, feeling each bump, each rise and fall of texture as if cataloguing the shape of her, how she feels on the inside, on the outside, where the two connect.  

He pulls back, and a thin strand of saliva clings between their mouths, stretching before it snaps, leaving a cold, wet trace along her lips. He undoes the tie holding her robe, humming a light tune while doing so, before pushing it off her shoulders.  

His fingers spread over her breasts, pressing them, molding them beneath his hands before moving down, taking his time as he gathers the nightgown between his fingers, dragging it upward. She feels it slide along her skin, brushing over her thighs, creeping higher with each tug until it sits just high enough for him to slip a hand underneath. His fingers find her, cupping her intimately, the heat of his hand burning through her. She tenses, the urge to recoil flickering back to life.  

In response, his arm winds around her waist, confining, not comforting.  

"Do you even know," he murmurs, his tone conversational, almost amused, as though discussing something mundane, as though he isn't trying to fuck her with his fingers, "what I will become once the Crown of Karsus rests upon my brow?"  

She feels his hand slip away only for him to turn her around, pressing her back against his chest. She hears the parting of his lips, the wet slide of his tongue as he licks his fingers with a lewd thoroughness before they return, slick, insistent, pressing between her legs. One pushes into her without warning, making her grimace, her body clenching involuntarily around the intrusion, her heart racing, breaths coming in stilted, uneven bursts.  

"No, of course you don’t," he whispers, voice heavy with mock pity. "You are far too bound by mortal limitations, too small of mind and soul to truly grasp it."  

She feels the press of his cock against her lower back, a hardness she hadn’t noticed before, his hips beginning a slow roll that matches the rhythm of his finger thrusting inside her. The friction against her skin, the firm grind of him behind her, sends a jolt of anxiety through her, her pulse pounding in her ears as he speaks.  

"The Hells themselves will bend to my will, like clockwork, finely tuned, all gears and wheels whirring for me alone. I will make them anew, forged in my vision—a perfect, boundless empire." His tone thickens, growing feverish. She can feel the heat radiating from him, the way he savors the vision of his own ascension. She wonders if it’s his vision of power, of domination, that excites him more than the act itself. "And you..." he trails off, "you will have the distinct privilege of saying you were taken to bed by the Archdevil Supreme."  

Yippity-fucking-yay. What joy.

Briefly, she wonders if all Archdevils, supreme or not, are windbags or if it’s just Raphael who inherited the verbose gene.

She honestly hopes that if he ever manages to get his greedy paws on the crown, he’ll shrink it down, lube it up nice and slick, and fuck it to high heaven. Frankly, nobody loves Raphael like Raphael does, but if she were a betting woman—and she certainly is—she’d put her money on the Crown of Karsus giving him a pretty decent orgasm.  

He interrupts her thoughts with the sudden press of a second finger, sliding inside with an erratic kind of slowness that makes her wince. His only response is a soft, indulgent sigh, his mouth lowering to her neck as he breathes hot, damp breaths that leave her skin prickling. His hips roll against her with more force, uncontrolled, irregular, now forceful, then barely a graze, only to be followed by an almost shove, an awkward rhythm that nearly unbalances her, only for his hand to tighten around her waist and pull her back.  

Soon it's deserting, however, and she feels it snake around her, fingers searching for hers, guiding her arm behind until her palm rests over the growing hardness of his cock. He presses against her hand, grinding into her, a low, satisfied hum escaping him as he urges her to feel him, to hold him there. The angle is awkward—her wrist twisted, his height towering over her—and she can’t quite stroke him properly, the stiffness in her limbs robbing her of fluidity.  

But every hesitant motion, every slight shift of her hand against him seems to draw an eager response. He groans, rocking harder into her palm, and his fingers inside her thrust deeper, their tips dragging against her sensitive walls, the scrape of his nails almost making her rise on her toes to avoid it.  

At last, she feels him exhale, his hand retreating from inside her, and her eyes flutter shut in exhausted relief.  

"On the bed," he orders, punctuating it with a shove to the small of her back, coping a feel of her ass in the process.  

She doesn’t wait. She pulls the nightgown off over her head, tossing it carelessly aside before sitting down, gaze fixed ahead as she braces herself. Raphael’s expression shifts, a glint of displeasure crossing his features—not anger, exactly, but an unmistakable dissatisfaction.  

"Well?" she says dryly. "Get it over with."  

His face hardens. "I told you to be pleasant," he snaps.  

"Find me one person who can manage that when they're about to be raped."  

His eyes narrow, a frown of distaste tugging at his mouth. "Such an ugly word," he mutters dismissively as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Rape is the behavior of beasts, of creatures without refinement or restraint. This is an exchange—a consenting, fair exchange. I provided the parchment, the ink, and the clauses. You, my little mouse, provided the signature." He looks her over. “Among other things that are to follow.”  

He doesn't join her on the bed. Instead, he cups her face, tilting it up so she has no choice but to look at him. His thumb drags slowly over her bottom lip, pressing until it parts, then tracing the same path with the other.

She realizes that, though she’s not exactly crying, her eyes feel just a bit too heavy, a bit too wet. 

His nails sweep along the cracked skin of her lips, grazing the split corners, drawing a wince from her that only seems to encourage his smile. She feels the flush that’s crept over her cheeks, wishing she could wipe it away. And then his eyes meet hers. Instinctively, she shuts them, the feeling of those sharp nails—just a little too long, almost claw-like—sends a quiver of apprehension through her. It’s as though his infernal side has slipped out without him fully shifting. Feeling them like that, without seeing, she thinks it has.  

He traces the line of her left eye, pressing lightly against the delicate space where her lashes meet. She freezes entirely as the claw moves, pulling at the tears that have gathered there, dragging them out. She sniffles, a fresh surge of tears welling up, unbidden, caught between panic and dread.  

Suddenly, Raphael presses her down into the bed, and she freezes, expecting pain. But instead, the claw is replaced by the heat of his mouth, his lips pressing along the trail of tears, his tongue gliding along her closed eye, hot and damp. It laps up the moisture, running so close to her lashes that it’s almost unbearable. For a second, she feels it along the lash line, a hairbreadth from her eyeball, before the tip touches it, seeking the salt at its source. Her breath falters, her hands twitch in the air, fingers furling and unfurling. The heat from his tongue is so intense she wonders, half-delirious, if it could melt the surface of her eye, or if he’ll sink his teeth into her next.  

He licks the length of her closed eyes, chasing the tears as they stream down. The sensation is almost too much; she can't stop imagining his teeth ripping through the eyelids, sinking into the eyeballs, turning them into mush, blinding her, and then slurping up the bloody pulp. She stays like that, almost hyperventilating beneath him, until finally, the tears dry up and she wills herself into stillness.  

"I expect a little more enthusiasm from here on out," Raphael says, brushing her hair away from her face before his hands go to her waist, flipping her.

She finds herself face-down, her body sprawled out beneath him as he presses his knee between her legs, forcing them open. His fingers move over her back, following the curve and contours, cataloguing every tremor that runs through her.  

His hand slides lower, fingers crawling between her thighs before plunging into her without warning. A sharp gasp escapes her, twisting into a curse she barely registers, something raw and furious that spills out as her body reacts, trying to wriggle free from his grip. But his other hand comes down hard against the small of her back, almost enough to make her spine bow under the pressure.  

"Now, you can carry on as you have, useless and limp, like nothing more than an insentient sack of flesh," Raphael drawls, his tone maddeningly casual, even as he forces a third digit inside her, stretching her painfully. His fingers thrust in and out, curling and scraping, and she feels the burn of it, the relentless stretch drawing a whimper out of her, muffled into the pillow as she mindlessly tries to squirm away. But it only seems to spur him on, his fingers sinking even deeper.  

"If that’s your choice," he continues, "then I’ll simply treat you like one. Like a bitch, if you will—hold you down, fuck you until you’re raw and weeping, until you can’t even stand." The hand pressing into her back finally relents, only to creep upward, fingers tangling in her hair, winding it around his palm. "I will break in that cunt of yours, make you lick the blood from my cock, and then take the exploration further still"—a punctuating tug follows—"to make sure no part of you remains untouched. I am nothing if not thorough." He yanks her up, pulling her flush against his chest, her back arched, her scalp burning, like every strand is trying to individually break away. His fingers pick up speed, pumping in and out with wet, slick sounds, not from pleasure but from how deep he drives them, dragging every bit of wetness out of her.  

"Or," he whispers, his voice dropping to a taunting murmur, "put in the slightest effort, impale yourself on me with a smile, and perhaps—just perhaps—you’ll find something in this for yourself." His tongue flicks against her ear, running along the curve before slipping inside. "I shall enjoy myself either way, make no mistake. How you experience this... well, that is entirely up to you."  

Dignity falls to the wayside, overruled by self-preservation slithering its way to the forefront of her mind. She’s certain that there are countless ways she could be torn apart in the days to come—and frankly, she’d rather face ceremorphosis with tentacles bursting out of her chest than suffer that fate at the mercy of Raphael’s cock.  

“Yes, yes,” she gasps, arching back against him because, at this point, it’s all she can manage. She hopes it’s enough, that this small gesture of compliance will satisfy him, even if only temporarily.  

He hums and his fingers inside her slow to a less painful pace. “Yes, what?” he asks, his tongue darting out to taste the sweat gathering behind her ear.  

“I’ll… I’ll be good,” she whines, forcing the words out, barely keeping her composure.  

“Wonderful,” he breathes, sounding pleased. “That is all I wished to hear. After all, such endeavors are always far more enjoyable when both parties are in agreement, wouldn’t you say?” Self-satisfaction all but drips from him. “Ah, but my apologies—you wouldn’t know.”  

When his fingers finally pull out, relief floods through her so heavily that it nearly takes her breath away. She chooses to ignore the wet sound of him licking each finger clean, the way his tongue swirls around them. A little push from him sends her forward, collapsing onto the bed once more, her face pressed into the sheets. But it doesn’t last. She feels his weight shift off the bed, and when she brushes her hair back to look, she sees him adjusting his robe, his cock still hot and hard, as if she's never sucked him off, flashing briefly before he ties it closed and steps away.  

He returns to the armchair, pulling it closer to the bed, and sits with an air of casual indifference.  

"I suppose you’ve earned a small reward,” he says, eyes crinkling in a way that’s almost affectionate, as if he’s actually capable of generosity.  

“A... reward?” she repeats, her throat dry, disbelief settling in. Raphael doesn’t do rewards. Raphael barely registers the concept of fairness. Despite her earlier promises to play along, a healthy dose of wariness prickles through her, but he just waves a dismissive hand, chuckling at her suspicion.

She doesn't believe him.

He's a con. She knows he's a con.

No, no, more than that. He’s the walking embodiment of a con. If a con could strut up uninvited, spout a pompous monologue no one wants to hear, and poof out of nowhere just as she’s elbow-deep in dirt prying a chest loose, declaring himself her savior... If a con could drench itself in cologne so thick it practically slaps you, with an incubus ready to drop to its knees at a whistle to suck him off, well—that con would be Raphael. That con is Raphael.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he chides, conjuring a glass of wine in one hand and raising it in a toast. “Trust me—you will enjoy this.”  

Then, he lazily snaps his fingers. She stares, waiting for something to happen, the anticipation thickening in the air. But the room remains silent, still, until he gives a subtle nod, signaling her to turn around.  

“Oh,” is all she manages, a single word tumbling out as she takes in the sight.  

Haarlep sits on the edge of the bed, a smile stretched wide across his face, all sharp teeth and, as always, very little clothing. Waiting. Watching. She hadn’t even felt the bed dip beneath him, but there he is, perched like he’s always been there, lounging like a spoiled cat.  

Her head snaps back to Raphael as he resumes talking.

“What sounds do mice make?” he poners, pausing to take another leisurely sip of wine. “They squeak, don’t they? But that is not quite what I’m in the mood for today.” He lifts a finger, pointing it directly at her. “Let us give you some metaphorical whiskers for a change.”  

And then, almost casually, he gestures to Haarlep. “Make her mewl.”  

Haarlep comes alive as if clockwork, arms winding around her waist as he pulls her into his lap, the sudden strength of his grip taking her by surprise. She lets out a small yelp, startled at the sheer intensity radiating from him. He’s like Raphael but… more. Larger, warmer, every part of him thrumming with a raw energy that feels almost feral. The familiar warmth starts pooling low in her belly, the same heat she felt when he’d fondled her in the bath, setting off that slow burn inside her that fogs up every logical thought.  

Before she even realizes, her legs have wrapped around his hips, arms loosely circling his neck as she settles against him.  

Fuck it. Just… fuck it. She doesn’t actually want Haarlep—not really, incubus magic or no, no matter how pleasantly dizzy he’s making her feel. But she wants Raphael even less. If this whole mess of a situation forces her to pick one, she’ll take the incubus. Better him, whose very nature feeds off pleasure, than Raphael and his… well, whatever that is. And if it pleases Raphael to see her comply, well, maybe she can live with that.

“Little thief,” Haarlep coos, his voice so soft, so sweet. His tongue darts out, long and pointed, flicking over her lips. She exhales in anticipation, wanting to drink the air he breathes out, draw it as deep into her lungs as possible, drown in it. The most delicious of suffocations. He presses his tongue to hers, a brief, electrifying touch that makes her stutter a moan.  

She frowns, the sensation almost too much, but she fights against the lightheadedness, tearing her gaze away to glance back at Raphael.  

“Indulge,” Raphael intones, his voice smooth but hollow, his face devoid of expression. Yet his fingers tap impatiently against his thigh.  

That’s all she needs to hear. Given the choice between Haarlep and Raphael, she knows where her inclination lies. Turning back to Haarlep, she lets her hands wander up to his face, feeling the curve of his smile form under her fingertips, his grin widening as she presses closer. A soft, breathy giggle slips from her as she feels his teeth, sharp and pearly-white. She traces one of his canines, feeling its fine point, laughing again as his tongue swirls around her fingertip, teasing, playful, yet also predatory.  

Her fingers trail up further, brushing aside his hair, feeling along his horns, exploring each ridge and groove, mapping the texture with a mix of fascination and reverence. It's hard, reminding her of thicker nails, but also polished, as if he took a file to it. “Thank you for washing me,” she murmurs, lifting herself just a little to reach the sharp ends, pressing her fingertip to the edge, letting it prick her skin lightly.  

Haarlep tilts his head up, studying her. He leans in, pressing a brief, lingering kiss to the spot between her breasts. "I will lick you clean before the night is over, sweetling," he promises.  

Her breath catches, jaw slack, and before her mind has fully caught up, his mouth finds her breast, lips closing over her nipple with a fierce, greedy hunger. He sucks, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak, lapping and teasing, only to pull back and blow warm air, waiting just long enough for her skin to prickle before diving back in. His hand kneads her other breast, fingers splayed wide as he cups her fully, and in that moment, she wishes there were simply more of her—more for him to take, to devour, to savor.  

Her head tips back, a sigh slipping from her as she pulls him closer, pressing his mouth to her. He lets her nipple go with a wet pop, leaving a glistening trail of saliva as he drags his tongue over to the other breast, his mouth resuming its ministrations, tongue and teeth teasing as he works her slowly.  

Then, his other hand begins to drift lower, sliding down her stomach, fingers tracing an idle path until they sneak between her thighs. Her body tenses, still tender, her mind flashing back to the earlier painful stretch. But Haarlep murmurs soft, indecipherable words against her, his breath warm and soothing, his tone coaxing. His touch is feather-light, a gentle stroke up and down, not pressing too deeply, not forcing. Just the barest graze of his fingers as they move in time with his mouth.  

She hums, lulled into the haze, as she feels herself growing wet. He notices, and his fingers move with purpose now, gathering that slickness, using it to circle her clit in slow circles, just enough pressure to make her tremble, to make her body arch against him.  

Her hands clutch at his shoulders, fingers digging in as she steadies herself, barely able to breathe beneath the sheer intensity of him. Incubi are supposed to be the ones devouring, draining, but right now, she feels like she might just consume him entirely, every last part of him, until there's nothing left but that raw, pulsing need. And even then it won't be enough.  

Without warning, he pushes her back, and she falls, laughter spilling out of her, head spinning with a strange, weightless sensation. Her vision blurs at the edges, the world fading away until only he remains—his face so close, achingly lovely, all wicked smiles and piercing eyes that seem to pull her deeper with every look. The scent of him fills her senses, thick and heady, intoxicating in a way that makes her dizzy, lightheaded, and if she could dissolve from it, melt away entirely, she would almost welcome it.  

Haarlep braces himself on his forearms, grinning down at her, and before she can even catch her breath, he leans in, his mouth crashing against hers. His teeth graze her lips, a quick bite, and she reacts immediately, her nails raking down his back, pulling him closer as if she could meld into him, as if her body wants to fuse with his. She clings to him, her whole being drawn toward him, desperate for every touch, every taste he offers.  

The kiss leaves her gasping, her thighs instinctively pressing together, a throbbing need building deep inside her, making her body come alive in a way it never has. Every taste of him is potent, unbelievable, more satisfying than anything she's ever known, more intense than any pleasure she’s ever tried to give herself. Her hands drift down, gripping him as if she can’t bear to let go, as if every nerve is open, raw, and starved for more of him.  

Haarlep pulls back, and she watches the way his lips shine. "Not a thought in that head," he croons, petting her sides. The words aren't meant for her, she knows that, knows she should be frowning, should be offended.  

It should sting, the way he speaks about her, should spark some hint of defiance, make her want to hit him. It’s as though he’s reaching into her, pulling free every ounce of strength she has, every bit of herself, leaving her hollow but strangely content. The thought crosses her mind, dimly, that he might be feeding on her, whittling her down to nothing, and yet, fading into him feels inevitable, and she can’t bring herself to actually care.  

Maybe it's better this way.

"Come here, little thief."

She lets Haarlep move her, his hands gripping her ankles as he drags her down, positioning her so her legs dangle off the edge, making sure they are parted wide. She feels him draw back, the absence of his touch stark against her skin, and almost protests—until his mouth presses against her, and every thought vanishes, every half-formed complaint dissolving into a needy whine.  

Her hands move to his head, fingers threading through his hair, wrapping around his horns as she steadies herself. His long tongue traces a slow line up her slit, taking his time, savoring every inch before flattening against her clit. A sharp, intoxicating shock rolls through her, and just as quickly, he pulls back, letting the heat simmer, only to circle her sensitive spot and then plunge his tongue deep inside her.  

A choked sound, ugly and short, leaves her as she presses herself against his mouth, feeling his nose nudge against her clit, his fingers finding it as well, massaging in rhythm. His tongue twists, flicks, pressing further, devouring her as he sucks and licks with a singular, consuming focus that leaves her mind blank. He sucks her clit between his teeth, the brief graze of sharpness making her body arch before he laughs and eases up, his breath hot against her as he continues.  

Her grip tightens around his horns, hands trembling as she ruts shamelessly against his face, chasing each wave of pleasure he draws out of her. The tightness low in her belly builds, her thighs quivering, anticipation coiling with each flick of his tongue.  

An idle thought flits through her mind: all those dire warnings about devils… really, they missed the mark. Should have focused more on demons. Surely a king or two—maybe even a whole council of dukes—gave up fortunes just for the dubious honor of being fucked silly by an incubus with more charm than scruples.  

All those bleak winters she'd spent at the temple of Ilmater as a child, because her mother was too sad, too tired, and honestly, asleep for so long she practically fused with the bed... The priests, ever eager, handed out bread along with endless sermons on “righteous living” and the “virtues of a humble life.” A life of penitence, they’d said. A life of humility…  

Well, so much for that. Apparently, all that virtue-training went flying right out the window the moment Haarlep decided to get creative with his tongue, because she can’t think of a single reason why she should care anymore.  

The tension in her belly coils tighter and tighter, her muscles wound with a fierce, electric energy as each pass of his tongue, each press of his fingers, pushes her closer to the edge. She gasps, breathless, feeling sweat bead on her skin, slicking her brow and the small of her back.  

Her fingers tangle in his hair, drawing his head closer, and she arches toward him. She can feel her own slickness pooling, mixing with the damp heat of his mouth, her skin flushed and trembling as her release hits. It crashes over her in pulsing waves, making her thighs quiver, her legs tightening as she presses herself against him, letting out a shuddering moan as he doesn’t relent, all but licking her orgasm out of her.  

She pants, then laughs, a soft, breathless sound that bubbles up as giddiness fills her, a heady lightness leaving her almost dizzy. Her body feels weightless, her vision dotted with stars, colors swirling at the edges, vivid and strange. As she stares at the ceiling, tasting sensations she can’t explain, the faint awareness creeps back in—he hasn’t moved away. Haarlep still kneels at her feet, his hands roaming up her legs, fingers tracing the sensitive skin beneath her knees, slowly spreading her open again.  

She props herself up, just a little, resting on her elbows, a lazy smile animating her lips, her hair plastered to her forehead. Her muscles still feel loose, relaxed, the aftershocks of pleasure lingering in every inch of her.  

“Loud enough?” she hears Haarlep ask as he drags a finger along the slickness pooling from her, tracing the line of her thigh, pushing her knee open a bit wider, exposing just how thoroughly he’s worked her. He tilts her leg, angling her just so, to better display the wet sheen of her cunt to Raphael.  

The rush of realization hits hard, snapping her back as her body stiffens, her hands flying to pull her legs together, shuffling herself back on the bed as a deep, burning shame blooms in her chest. Haarlep laughs, high and mocking, and the sound grates through her.

She's no longer drunk on him, no longer under his influence, and she is going to kill the fucker.

Fucking fiend. No, fucking fiends. Both of them. She should have driven a butter knife straight through his skull the moment she saw him lounging in Raphael's stupid boudoir. Or better yet, one of his infernal "accessories." She distinctly remembers spotting a few fiendish dildos tucked around the room during their little chat. Yes, that’s the move—a truly monstrous, comically oversized, and inexplicably barbed devil’s dong, jammed right through his eye socket and deep into that smug brain of his. Scramble his skull with a novelty-sized hellish dick.

What a shame she missed the opportunity.  

"Begone," Raphael’s voice cuts through, followed by a flourish of his hand. Haarlep barely manages a scoff before vanishing into thin air. When she looks up again, he’s gone, leaving only Raphael’s gaze pressing down on her.  

Good.

Fucking good.

For once, she’s grateful for Raphael’s over-the-top theatrics. Another second of Haarlep smirking up at her, and she’d have gladly spat in his face.  

He finishes his wine, and she wonders—absurdly—if he’s drunk, if somehow that would make this whole situation easier. Can he even get drunk, with that Infernal constitution of his? She doubts it. But then he moves to join her, and she finds herself reaching out thoughtlessly, her fingers moving to his shoulder, then his chest, trailing lower to undo the tie of his robe. This is what he wants, isn’t it? Raphael demands to be worshipped, to be desired, even as he savors the bruises he leaves behind, the tears he causes. And she’s still lightheaded, still dizzy from Haarlep, enough to follow along without questioning it too deeply.  

“Good girl,” he praises, as she finishes baring him.  

There are details she likes about him; things she can appreciate without attaching them to the creature he is. It’s why she flirted with him in that carefree way before all of this, isn't it? She likes the way his hair curls just so behind his ears, how unassumingly brown it is, his lips that are a touch too thin, the sharpness of his nose, though she can’t explain why, the extravagance of his clothes—even his unbearable smugness had its charm once. 

He’s a caricature of an aristocrat, the kind who’d trick you out of your last coin and enjoy every second of it, yet also the type straight out of a cheap romance novel: the noble who buys a girl for a night, only to bring her into a life of wealth and comfort when he inexplicably grows fond of her.  

But she knows better now. Beneath all that elegance lies the tormentor of Hope, the schemer who’d prey on children like Mol without a flicker of remorse. He’s lived lifetimes, long enough to have seen the scurrying about of so many like her, long enough that some semblance of mercy should have crept in by now. One would think that even Raphael, having watched enough fragile lives flail and fail, might one day feel the faintest pity, like gently ushering a trapped fly out a window instead of crushing it beneath his heel.  

But Raphael? He steps on that fly, over and over, century after century, just because he can.  

And suddenly, she is afraid, and not even the aftertaste of Haarlep is enough to dull that.  

Raphael presses on her shoulder, and she sinks down onto the bed without protest. He hovers above her, watching in that way of his—intense, calculating, oddly detached—before taking her hand with almost ceremonious politeness. “Now, if you would be so kind,” he murmurs, guiding it to wrap around his cock, shaping her fingers to his liking as he coaxes her into a rhythm.  

Her hand shakes, struggling to follow the pace he sets, each stroke clumsy, uneven, her breath hitching as the weight of his flesh under her fingers sharpens the reality of the moment. His grip tightens, keeping her hand in place, urging it faster, forcing her into a tempo she can’t seem to match. The thickness of him feels unsettling, wrong, the shape foreign beneath her touch, and panic churns in her chest, turning her breaths into shallow, stifled puffs.  

She’s done worse tonight—had him at her lips, tangled with his incubus, even lay still as he tasted her tears, and yet somehow, this is what unravels her. How utterly stupid. Everything suddenly feels far too real, too stark.

"Whatever is the matter, little mouse?" His voice drips with counterfeit sweetness. He leans in, his tongue dragging a slow, wet trail up her cheek, the sensation making her shudder in disgust. "Do you not want to feel what you do to me? It’s a compliment, really."  

Despite herself, her hand goes still, but Raphael hardly seems to mind. He disentangles himself from her, reclining back to watch her as he takes over. He pumps himself with a rhythm he couldn't get her to follow, alternating between squeezing and dragging, and her gaze unwillingly falls to the veins she’d traced earlier with her tongue, now standing out, bulging under the pressure of his hand. A bead of moisture forms at the tip, catching the light before he drags it down his shaft. She turns her head, forcing her focus elsewhere, her eyes tracing the intricate patterns of the golden wallpaper. She counts each delicate swirl, following every looping detail, willing herself to find fascination in the ornate designs and drown out the scene unfolding before her.  

But she can’t shut out the sounds—the wet, obscene rhythm of his hand on his cock, the heavy breaths, the occasional groan as he takes his pleasure from the mere sight of her. The tension coils tighter and tighter in her chest, suffocating her.  

Then he’s on top of her again, his teeth grazing her throat, biting down with just enough pressure to make her gasp. His cock presses hot and hard against her thigh.  

"Don’t," she says, surprised by how steady her voice is, how calm it sounds despite the anxiety inside her.  

Raphael heaves a great, melodramatic sigh. "But how else will you learn your lesson, little mouse?" His hand moves lower, taking hold of himself, pressing the blunt, too-hard tip of his cock against her entrance.  

She stiffens, her hands flying to his shoulders, pushing weakly at him, but the motion only makes things worse. His cock slips lower, finding the right angle, and before she can even prepare herself, he thrusts forward, forcing himself inside of her.  

The pain is sharp and tearing, a searing agony that makes her bite down hard on her lip, her teeth sinking into the flesh to stifle the cry that wants to flee. She hears herself mumbling something, but the words don’t make sense. He sheathes himself fully inside her, and it isn’t the dramatic scream she expected to tear from her throat—no, it’s a hollow, soundless exhale, her body too shocked to react the way she imagined it would in the stupid, smutty, sordid stories she’d once read. Her eyes sting, open too wide for too long, and her lower belly cramps violently.  

Instinct drives her to push deeper into the mattress, as if she could somehow melt through it, but Raphael’s hands clamp down on her hips, holding her in place. He pulls out just enough to make her wince, his cock scraping against her raw insides, before he slams back into her, harder this time.  

Feeling a little deranged, she reaches up to touch his face, an impulse she’d buried before... well, before all of this. And he is beautiful, isn’t he? She can admit to it, even if a very insistent part of her would gladly stab him through the eye if she could get away with it. Her fingers trace his cheekbones, his jaw, his temples, the waves of his hair, and she’s oddly relieved that he looks like this, that he’s chosen this form and not the other, no horns, no towering, imposing fiendish presence. Just this face—human, sharp, and eerily simple.  

She’s had plenty of faces in her fantasies over the years, ever since she was old enough to understand the appeal; his just happened to be the latest one to drift behind her closed eyes as she rutted against a pillow or came on her fingers. But unlike all those harmless daydreams, now, he is real, tangible, and she hates him in every way imaginable. She knows, almost certainly, that he’s already made her bleed, and with each rough movement, that stickiness between her thighs grows, a physical reminder that unlike her idiotic fantasies, this one comes with bruises and a contract attached.  

He begins to fuck her, his hips snapping forward with each thrust, his breath coming in ragged bursts. She can feel him, deep inside, deeper than she ever thought possible, and each thrust feels like a fresh tear, splitting her open. For a brief moment, he pauses, and she dares to hope that it’s over, that maybe, somehow, this is it.  

He holds himself above her, his face tense with concentration, a thin sheen of sweat beading along his brow. His mouth goes to her jaw, undecided, alternating between a firm press, a sharp nip of his teeth, and the hot, damp glide of his tongue.  

And, predictably, he starts to talk. Raphael always needs to talk. He simply can't seem to shut up, his words half-muffled against her skin. "I would have taken you to Calimport," he laments, moving in a slow rhythm, never quite bottoming out. "There is a... venue there... The House of Desires, they call it." She wraps her arms around him, more to keep them from flailing than anything else, but he seems pleased, sighing contentedly. "A foolish name," he sneers, "but an intriguing place… A theater and pleasure palace combined. We could have watched The Tragedy of the Mad Mage while you writhed in my lap… or simply listened to the monologues as I took you on the floor of the box… But no, you had to go and ruin our partnership...”

What is even going on?

She knows he likes the sound of his own voice—yapping like some pedigreed lapdog who’s learned to wax poetic. But she didn’t expect him to keep it up now, right in the middle of this, while taking something from her she hadn’t even cared about that much, but still feels downright wrong to hand over to him of all people.

She stares at the ceiling, bewildered, but something else is stirring inside her. It’s that lingering warmth, that hint of something left behind by Haarlep—carried in his breath, his saliva, his touch. The scraping discomfort remains, but Raphael’s slow, labored movements, the unhurried thrusts, almost feel good. Like the teasing tension when she clenches her thighs without touching herself.  

His body presses so tightly against hers that every shift brushes against her clit, his chest dragging over her nipples, the scratch of his pubic hair rubbing between her legs and slightly up her stomach. She finds herself breathing harder, mouth opening just a bit, the low, lazy drag of his cock against her drawing out a shy, unintentional moan. Even her toes curl a little.  

Raphael reacts immediately, tilting her head back, scrambling for her mouth. It’s hardly a kiss; it feels more like he’s greedily scavenging for scraps, but even that has its own strange pull.  

"I knew you would like this," he speaks straight into her mouth and she physically feels his lips stretch, the smirk forming, even as he strains to breathe properly. She must utter something, some kind of protest, though she doesn't really register it, because her head turns and his hand clamps on her jaw, dragging her back, all while insisting, "No, you do, you do... such vulgar words…” He emphasizes it with a sluggish thrust. “So much posturing…” Two more thrusts, and her eyes squeeze shut. “And for what…” Another thrust, and she shivers, feeling a new rush of wetness between her legs.  

A tremor travels down his spine, something she can almost trace, snapping him out of whatever trance he was in. He’s no longer slow, and she feels every jarring push as he resumes pounding into her, his cock bruising her from the inside.  

When he pulls out, a small gasp of pain escapes her. It somehow hurts more to feel him leave than it did to take each thrust. His hand presses firmly on her hip, pushing or pulling, she can’t quite tell, before he sighs, exasperated.  

"On all fours," Raphael demands, turning her around.  

Her chin hits the mattress, neck twisted at an awkward angle, but she quickly braces herself, pushing up, determined not to let him grind her face into the sheets, even if he intends to take her like an animal.  

He presses up behind her, his hand slipping between them as he aligns himself, slicking the head of his cock between her folds before he drives forward. She yelps before she can stop herself, making her feel every inch the bitch he’d called her. Each noise she lets out only seems to reinforce it, her own voice betraying her, ringing out like the helpless whine of an animal forced to submit.  

The echo of Haarlep is still there, however, just like before, and she thinks that under different circumstances, she might actually find pleasure in this. There's a spark of it, sometimes igniting, sometimes being snuffed out, and sometimes threatening to grow into a blaze. When his hips stutter, when he presses in deep and moves shallowly, his cock twitching within her, she almost feels it—almost leans back to meet his rhythm. She almost feels herself clench around him, hating that she's craving the warmth, that flicker of desire, the urge to reach down and rub her clit until she shudders around him.  

“You are,” she hears Raphael’s voice, hoarse above her, “not a complete disappointment, little mouse.” He barely finishes the words before he’s slamming into her again. Air whistles through her gritted teeth as he hits something deep, almost unbearably intense—a spot that sends an aching, twisting cramp pulsing through her core. She cries out and watches her hand grip the sheets, fingers digging in so hard her knuckles turn white.  

She hears every wet, filthy slide of his cock, each stroke accompanied by the slap of his flesh against hers. His sweat drips onto her skin, mingling with hers, salty on her lips as he presses her down, pinning her flat against the bed, his chest flush against her back. She can barely breathe, whimpering as his teeth sink into the spot between her neck and shoulder. Raphael shushes her, his hands roaming down her ribs, even as he keeps moving inside her, his ragged exhales wafting against her ear.  

“Tonight,” he grits out, “tonight isn’t about you… but if you behave…” His thrusts are wild now, lacking control, as if he’s barely holding onto himself, each movement sharp, utterly graceless. He tries to stay punishing, driving deep, but his cadence fails, and his cock slips free, leaving him cursing, frustrated. She lets out a shuddering sigh of relief, and he swears again, his knee parting her legs wider, forcing himself back inside her. “If you’re good,” he mutters, “I’ll let you ride me, take your pleasure... like the needy little thing you are…”  

She finally feels his orgasm when he pushes three more times into her, harder than before, so hard she thinks he spine will snap, before resting his weight atop her.

She feels drunk, though she’s barely touched the wine. It’s that bone-deep weariness that sets in after a burst of misplaced excitement, when every limb feels leaden, her mouth parched, her eyes strained. She listens to Raphael's breathing, his chest pressing into her back, his heartbeat thundering and then gradually slowing. The sweat between them begins to cool, skin sticking together uncomfortably. Almost absentmindedly, he runs his nose along her cheek; not a tender gesture, just an unconscious brush, a reflex without thought.  

She feels him soften inside her, his grip shifting as he braces himself, then finally pulls out, a rush of warmth spilling between her thighs. A part of her wants to reach down, stuff something between her legs, stop the flow, wipe it all away—anything to avoid the reminder of what just happened. But another part of her simply doesn’t care anymore. She just wants sleep. Turning over, she settles onto her back, eyes half-closed, only to find Raphael sitting up, watching her with an expression she can’t quite read.  

"This suits you," he remarks, his fingers brushing over the reddened skin between her breasts, trailing up her throat and across her stomach where the sheets have rubbed her raw. His touch follows each mark, each flush with the kind of attention one might reserve for a prized possession. His fingers dip lower, tracing a path through the mess between her legs, but she feels too exhausted to react.  

She glances at the door, vaguely hopeful the night might be ending soon, though, of course, there’s no window here, no way to know.  

“I’m going to sleep for a bit,” she murmurs, barely registering her own voice. “Then I’ll go. That was the deal, right?” Because with him, she’s learned, there’s always a twist, and she wouldn’t put it past him to drag things out until the very last second.  

He only hums, now absentmindedly drawing circles along her knee. She notices his robe is back in place, immaculate as always. When had he managed that?  

“From dusk till dawn,” he replies, sounding far away.  

She nods, relieved.  

He continues, voice softer, “At first, when I handed you over to Haarlep, I thought, ‘Why not let her vanish? Let him devour her whole, and be done with it.’” His fingers trail to her other knee, as though lost in the rhythm of his own touch. “Your companions are, after all, quite capable. They don’t really need you, do they? The githyanki, for instance—so eager to free her darling prince. I imagine I could command her to scrub my dungeons with her tongue, and she’d do it without question."  

Raphael laughs to himself. “Although… you do seem to inspire a peculiar resilience in them, though for the life of me, I can’t fathom why. It’s not as if you possess a shred of righteousness.” Another low chuckle, his gaze holding hers. “So, yes,” he finishes, “you shall go.”  

“Perfect,” she mutters, the sarcasm slipping out unbidden. She doesn't know why he's monologuing—again—but won't interrupt him further.  

“Trouble is, little mouse,” he murmurs, leaning in until his hand rests firmly against her stomach, “Avernus has no true dawn, no natural end to night.” Shit-eating, smug delight flickers in his eyes as he watches her face fall. “So, it would seem you’re here to stay—until I am satisfied. Until I, and I alone, decide this night is over.” His smirk sharpens, his palm pressing slightly harder as if to make a point. “And only then will you return to your merry little band, hammer in hand. Yes, I will give it to you; it’s in the contract, after all. Just as the clause which specifies that you will bring me the crown in exchange for it.”  

He pauses, an exaggerated look of innocence crossing his face. “Oh, what, did that little detail slip past you?” He shrugs, thoroughly enjoying himself. “No matter. Until then…” His fingers trail up her body, resting lightly at her throat. “Consider yourself my guest.”  

It takes her a moment to comprehend, a slow horror crawling over her as she watches him stand, brushing the fabric of his robe back into place. He adjusts his sleeves with a lazy stretch, his gaze half-lidded, catlike, savoring her realization.  

“Raphael,” she whispers, her voice barely there. As he turns toward the door, still smiling, she repeats, louder, “Raphael,” scrambling upright, nearly stumbling over herself to follow him.  

“Perhaps we’ll make it to the theater after all,” he muses, voice drifting into a dreamy lilt. “Picture it—a night at the House of Desires, you displayed in something far more fitting than those ragged leathers.” His hands move in the air, drawing patterns as if sculpting an attire she cannot see, an outfit that exists only in his mind and one he fully intends to see her in.  

“No, no,” he sighs, eyes squinting thoughtfully. “We’ll have to make you presentable first, won’t we? A creature worthy of the occasion.” His lips curve into a small, satisfied smile, as though he’s already dressing her in each imagined layer, savoring the thought of his vision realized.  

“Raphael,” she tries again. She reaches out, but he’s already turning away, still speaking as though she were little more than an afterthought.  

“Really,” he sighs, pressing his fingers to his temples, massaging, as though dealing with an unruly and particularly loud child. “Must you make such a show of things? Gather your wits; get some rest.”  

“You—” Her voice chokes as rage, horror, and helplessness knot inside her, words tangling on her tongue. The room spins, colors swimming as her pulse races. She almost doubles over, the urge to retch nearly overtaking her. “You bastard, you absolute piece of shit, you—”  

“Oh,” he continues casually, glancing at his fingernails as though oblivious to her rage, “Haarlep is surprisingly skilled at lanceboard, if you ever fancy a game to kill the time. An underrated talent, I must admit.” He reaches out to tap her chin, casting her a final, mocking smile. “Well, ta-ta for now. As much as I adore your company, you are far from my only client.”  

Her hands slap to her face, nails digging into her skin as her thoughts tumble, spiraling faster than she can hold them. She’s going to kill him. No—she’s going to rip her own face off first, claw her way out of her own skull if that’s what it takes. She’ll tear out his vocal cords, braid them into a rope, and hang him from his own goddamn chandelier. Then maybe she’ll bash her head against the floor until there’s nothing left inside. That bastard. That perfume-slicked, smug, over-dressed rat.

She’ll drink his tears, gouge his eyes out, chew them up, and spit them back in his face—see if he enjoys the sensation. She’ll dig her way out of this golden trap he calls a boudoir, storm outside, and throw both middle fingers high at the burning skies of Avernus. She’ll curse at them until the flames twist into stars, mortal stars, ones she can reach, ones she can latch onto, anything to get out. She'll force the night that doesn't exist to end.

And when she does, she’ll double back. Ransack his fucking home one last time, maybe haul Haarlep out with her for good measure—knock him out cold and drag him along if she has to, just to make sure Raphael’s left to stew alone and has no choice but to romance his own hand next time he feels a stirring.  

Her breaths come too fast, panic clamping her chest, her body aching, bruises flaring with every heartbeat. The walls press in on her, the gaudy wallpaper spinning, her skin too tight, everything stifling. She’s going to scream, she’s going to combust, she’s going to pass out right here, naked, furious, wanting nothing more than to scrape every memory of him from her mind, to tear every inch of this night away until there’s nothing left but silence—  

Her frustration boils over, and she seizes the nearest object—a heavy candelabra—hurling it with all her strength. But the door slams shut just as it crashes into the wall, leaving her alone.  

Haarlep saunters in after a while, casting a casual, bemused glance around at the aftermath of her fury.  

“I am, in fact, quite skilled,” he says, surveying the chaos. “And you, evidently, are not, because this little scene? Hardly a queen’s gambit.” He shakes his head with faux disappointment, then perks up, tail swishing like an overexcited cat. “But don’t worry, dear. If you’re interested, I could teach you a few strategies. Ooooh, just think of all the fun we’ll have together!”  

With a gleeful grin, he starts ticking off ideas on his clawed fingers, ethusiasm brimming over. “We could attend one of Zariel’s insufferable banquets together. Raphael won’t mind, trust me; he's an absolute bore.” He rolls his eyes, leaning in as if sharing a treasured secret. “Or we could burn your dreadful little clothes, make a nice bonfire, and find you something prettier to wear. Velvet, perhaps? And have you seen the dungeons? Admittedly lacking in scenic charm, but for those who enjoy a touch of pain with their pleasure, the ambiance is, mmm, well, perfect." His voice drops to a purr. “Cherry tarts or strawberry, darling? Important to know for, you know, aftercare. Just curious—what’s your stance on flaying? Only the teensiest bit, of course. Adds a little flair, don’t you think?”

Haarlep clasps his hands together, practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes wide and gleaming. She lets out a long, silent sigh, picks up the second candelabra—because everything in this ostentatious hellhole is symmetrically placed—and proceeds to whack him with it.  

[flamestv]

the   sun   cast   its   golden   rays   over   king's   landing,   warming   the   red   roofs   and   bustling   streets,   light   spilling   over   the   grand   tourney   grounds   just   outside   the   city   walls.   all   roads   to   the   capital   brimmed   with   nobles   and   knights   arriving   from   across   the   realm,   answering   the   king's   invitation   to   the   tourney   of   the   heir.   the   people   of   the   city   buzz   with   excitement   as   targaryen   banners   unfurled   high   above   the   royal   pavilions.

in   the   heart   of   the   king's   city,   the   gates   of   the   royal   apartments   swung   open,   allowing   lords   and   ladies   to   descend   to   the   tourney   grounds.   beneath   brightly   colored   tents   set   in   rows,   the   nobility   gathered   in   splendid   attire,   their   silks   and   brocades   in   hues   of   crimson,   sapphire,   and   emerald.   the   smell   of   roast   meats   and   fresh   bread   wafted   from   feast   tables   laid   out   under   the   open   sky,   while   musicians   played   lively   tunes   that   mingled   with   the   laughter   of   guests   and   the   neighing   of   horses.

king   daeron   stands   atop   a   royal   dais,   dressed   in   the   black   and   red   of   house   targaryen,   silver   hair   gleaming   in   the   sunlight   and   surrounded   by   his   beloved   children.   he   surveyed   the   crowd   with   a   quiet   pride,   gaze   coming   to   linger   on   his   grandson.   as   he   raised   his   hand,   the   crowd   stilled   and   his   voice   rang   out,   strong   and   sure:   “in   honor   of   prince   aenys,   the   future   of   house   targaryen,   and   the   unity   of   our   great   realm,   let   the   tourney   of   the   heir   commence!"    cheers   erupted   and   nobles   hurried   to   sign   their   names   to   the   lists   of   events.

in   the   melee,   those   of   every   rank   and   renown   would   clash   in   a   chaotic,   thrilling   battle.   groups   of   nobles,   sworn   brothers   in   arms   or   rivals   from   distant   lands,   would   fight   side   by   side   and   against   each   other   in   a   contest   of   strength,   agility,   and   cunning.   the   dust   would   rise   and   swirl   as   swords   clanged   and   shields   splintered,   each   warrior   striving   to   be   the   last   left   standing   amidst   the   roars   of   the   crowd. for   those   skilled   with   a   bow,   the   archery   contest   would   test   their   precision   and   focus.   marksmen   of   unparalleled   skill,   some   of   whom   had   traveled   leagues   to   attend,   take   aim   at   targets   placed   further   and   further   away.   in   the   still   silence   of   each   shot,   the   crowd   holds   its   collective   breath,   waiting   to   see   which   archers   would   claim   the   title   of   the   finest   bowman   in   the   realm. the   nearby   kingswood   would   host   the   hunting   challenge,   where   nobles   and   hunters   of   skill   would   race   through   the   trees,   tracking   game   and   bringing   it   back   to   the   tourney   grounds.   with   the   sounds   of   hounds   and   the   thrill   of   the   chase,   those   hunters   strive   to   capture   the   rarest   and   most   impressive   prey   to   present   to   the   heir. on   the   fields,   overlooking   blackwater   bay,   footraces   awaited   those   swift   and   nimble.   nobles   young   and   old   had   signed   up,   some   seeking   the   honor   of   victory,   others   simply   the   thrill   of   competition. the   artisan's   showcase   awaits,   a   gallery   of   the   finest   creations   in   westeros.   armorers,   weavers,   jewelers,   sculptors,   and   painters,   would   display   their   craft   for   the   nobles,   hoping   to   impress   with   their   skill.   they   who   create   the   king's   pick   of   the   showcase   will   have   their   art   proudly   displayed   in   the   red   keep   for   all   to   see,   as��  well   as   a   pricey   commission   from   king   daeron   as   a   gift   to   his   daughter   upon   time   of   her   reign. on   the   final   day,   the   jousting   tournament   occurs   at   the   lists.   it   was   set   to   be   the   grandest   display   of   the   tourney,   where   armored   knights   would   ride   into   the   lists,   lances   lowered,   hearts   steeled.   brave   lieges   from   across   the   realm   had   arrived   to   test   their   mettle,   all   hoping   to   the   claim   the   title   of   champion   of   the   heir   ...   and   the   500   gold   dragons   king   daeron   has   promised   to   the   winner.

as   the   trumpets   signal   the   end   of   each   day's   contests,   the   air   in   king's   landing   shifts   from   the   roar   of   the   tourney   grounds   to   the   warm   anticipation   of   the   evening's   feast.   with   nightfall,   nobles   and   common   folk   alive   made   their   way   to   the   great   hall   of   the   red   keep.   under   the   flickering   glow   of   torchlight,   the   hall   transforms   into   a   realm   of   feasting   and   revelry,   every   table   brimming   with   delicacies   fit   for   a   king.   long   tables   overflow   with   roasted   boar,   baked   breads,   platters   of   fish,   and   fruits   glistening   like   jewels.   at   the   head   table,   king   daeron   is   joined   by   his   beloved   wife,   the   prince   and   princess   of   dragonstone,   and   the   prince   of   pyke   and   his   lady   wife;   stark   divide   in   the   targaryens   of   the   crownlands   and   those   of   the   iron   islands.   but   in   these   nights,   the   red   keep   becomes   a   place   of   shared   celebration   where   titles   are   briefly   forgotten   and   laughter   and   stories   flows   as   freely   as   the   wine. 

nobles   are   invited   to   peruse   the   tourney   events   at   their   leisure,   and   those   who   sign   up   will   be   made   a   spectacle   at   each   night's   feast.   following   the   joust   on   the   final   day,   king   daeron   intends   to   gather   the   nobility   of   westeros   within   the   great   hall   for   closing   remarks   before   allowing   them   to   return   to   their   homes   from   whence   they   came.   this   event   is   sure   to   go   down   in   the   history   books   as   the   most   glorious   occasion   within   king   daeron's   reign   —   a   show   of   pride   for   his   children   and   the   families   they   are   creating.

EVENT    ONE  :  THE    TOURNEY    OF    THE    HEIR.

over   the   course   of   the   next   two   weeks,   the   dash   will   host   the   tourney   of   the   heir.   guests   are   welcome   to   attend   the   event   but   may   refrain   and   explore   the   grounds   to   their   heart's   desire.   please   feel   free   to   choose   from   which   day   you   would   like   to   highlight   in   your   writing.   there   will   be   threads   within   the   discord   to   sign   your   character(s)   up   for   these   events.   the   schedule   can   be   found   below.

day   one:   the   melee

day   two:   the   archery   contest

day   three:   the   hunt

day   four:   the   footraces

day   five:   the   artisan's   showcase

day   six   &   seven:   the   joust

as   we   are   still   newly   open,   starter   requirements   will   be   waived   for   one   week.   please   tag   all   open   starters   as   #ftv.start.

seeing   as   this   event   will   be   pivotal   in   our   time   of   king's   landing,   please   use   #ftv.tourney   for   all   posts   related   to   this   event.

while   in   game,   this   event   will   occur   over   the   length   of   one   week,   it   will   occur   over   two   weeks   out   of   character,   concluding   on   saturday,   november   9.   throughout   the   course   of   the   event,   results   for   tourney   happenings   will   be   posted   as   well   as   some   other   fun   things   that   have   happened.   any   and   all   information   related   to   this   event   will   be   tagged   on   the   main   under   #ftv.tourney!