#spare a morsel of subtlety perhaps???

[tiny-steve]

oh the experience of watching my pol*ceman, a movie which clearly thinks i'm so stupid, only to go into the tag afterwards to read some of the most takes of the century

[another-lost-mc]

Can you imagine the om! cast flirting with mc and thinking they're mc's only romantic interest when mc already has a booty call at RAD? There are no feelings involved, just intimacy, but still. I think the cast is too arrogant to ever think mc could be interested in anyone else.

(English is not my native language, so please excuse any possible mistakes)

a/n: that’s fair! I mean, mc has needs too, right? maybe trying to hook up with one of the avatars is daunting, but a hot lower-ranking demon lord who promises a good time every once in a while? that could be fun.

➤ when they find out you have a fwb | the demon brothers

0.9k words | nsfw | suggestive | gn!reader

c/w: jealousy and implied dark themes/sketchy behaviour squints at beel and belphie

read more: the dateables | when solomon is your fwb

Lucifer finds it hard to believe at first. Once he knows the demon’s name, he watches you two interact more closely. He picks up on the shared glances and flirtatious touches he somehow missed before. He’s been stewing in his own desires and feelings for you all this time because he wasn’t sure the best way to declare his intentions. He thought subtlety and patience would be best, but perhaps he can admit just this once that he was mistaken. Learning about your dalliances with someone else finally gives him the push to show you what a real demon lover can offer you. Once you have the Avatar of Pride to warm your bed, you'll be satisfied with no one else but him.

Mammon is one part incredulous, one part jealous, and just a teensy bit turned on. He can’t stop staring at the blurry photo Asmo managed to take of you sneaking out of a utility closet at RAD. His cock twitches when he takes in the image of your rumpled clothes and the way your forehead glistens from a light sheen of sweat. He wants to make you look like that, not some random nobody that doesn't deserve you. His mind races when he imagines his own fingers tugging your clothes aside for better access to your naked body. What did you sound like when you tried to muffle your moans so no one would hear you? Mammon would give anything to take that demon’s place. Y’know, both of you have a spare period after lunch—would you follow him into one of the dark corners of RAD for a little fun if he offered? Maybe it’s time for him to find out.

Levi is seething. Mostly he’s angry and jealous and he wants to tear the building to pieces. He’s also ashamed because the fantasy of you dragging him into an empty room at RAD for a midday fuck is hot as hell. He doesn’t think he deserves you, but he knows that the demon you’re fucking doesn’t either. What do they have that he doesn’t? He’s burning with curiosity about your little affair, but he’s incensed by the idea that he might not be good enough for you. Envy can make him a little desperate. He's tempted to beg you for even a morsel of your love and affection. If he's pathetic enough, maybe you'll even take pity on him and oblige.

Satan is furious because he should’ve realized something was going on. The signs are all there and he missed them somehow. It takes all his willpower not to hunt down your little demon friend for daring to touch you that way. Satan is well-versed in human world literature—maybe declaring his intentions with a romantic gesture would convince you to give him a chance instead? Or maybe sweet and romantic love isn’t what you crave. If fast and rough is more to your tastes, all you need to do is mention your friend’s name—you’ll be too fucked out of your mind to remember it by the time he’s finished with you.

Asmo’s reactions are all over the place: he’s giddy that you’re so daring (fucking at RAD of all places!); he’s devastated that you turned to someone else instead of coming to him; and he’s frustrated that he didn’t realize sooner this was even happening. He pays more attention after he catches you the first time, and it seems so obvious when the current of lust between you and your friend flickers with interest throughout the school day. He finds reasons to keep you two from sneaking off together and pretends he’s not jealous every time he interferes. Perhaps when you’re frustrated enough, he can finally entice you to join him for a little pampering session in his room. You seem so frustrated today! But don’t worry—he knows exactly what you need to loosen up.

Beel is one of the few demons that understands what hunger and starvation feels like. Sometimes you need to do whatever it takes to satisfy those cravings, even on a temporary basis. You’re important to him, and he cherishes your friendship. He’s hidden his true desires from you because he doesn’t want to risk losing control if he’s too hasty, too rough, or too demanding before you're ready to embrace being with someone like him. His love is all-consuming and you're a constant strain on his self-control. If you weren’t turning to someone else for affection, maybe he could be patient and satisfy his urges for you elsewhere. Now that he knows someone else has had a taste of you, he wants you even more. When he finally confesses his desire to be with you, he hopes for both your sakes that you feel the same.

Belphie lashes out with barbed insults and backhanded compliments to hide his own hurt and jealousy. You’re not that bad looking for a human, I guess it was only a matter of time before someone wanted to fuck you. Once he learns the truth about that demon you’ve been fooling around with, he’s suddenly glued to your hip like he can’t stand to be parted from you. He’s selfish with your time and clings to you in his bed during naps. He sneaks his way into your dreams because he wants to make sure you’re not dreaming of anyone else. He might even have a private chat with your little friend, but he doesn’t tell you since it’s nothing for you to worry about. It’s a shame that your fuck buddy suddenly decides to call things off between you after that. At least you still have Belphie to comfort you and wipe away your tears. He appreciates you, even if that random asshole doesn’t—the only demon you ever needed has been here for you all along.

[lady-plantagenet]

A Bygone Era- Chapter 5

A fictional account of Isabel Neville’s told through her point of view and those who knew her.

Points of view written so far include Anne Beauchamp 16th Countess of Warwick, Anne Neville, George Duke of Clarence, Richard Neville 16th Earl of Warwick and Isabel Neville herself.

7th July 1469 - Richard Neville the 16th Earl of Warwick

It was in their dingiest castle at St Omer some leagues from Richard’s own Calais residence that the Duke and Duchess of Burgundy chose to hold their repast. The southern summer gleamed duller and heavier here than at Middleham and even at high none, the angry sun would only but greet the earth feebly in orange tawny blazes. The heavy sea clouds that passed swiftly, cast the maroon room in either rich shade or splendid light whenever it seemed to catch their fancies. The interchangeability marked the intervals of time which, here in the presence of the Duke seemed to Richard to grow longer with every uneasy glance exchanged between them.

His recollection of Margaret from one year past were that of a girl curious, impatient and anxious all in equal measure. It was rather Anthony Woodville with whom she passed most of the days leading up to her marriage to the Duke. The kinship he felt with Cecily’s girls always lacked in comparison with that towards her sons. For the better part of the journey he played the nursemaid watching as the queen’s insufferable brother was humouring the impressionable girl with fanciful recitals of Burgundian poetry, what this new generation dubbed humanist.

As much as she without a doubt enjoyed playing at cards with the Woodville boy and picking her trousseau with the witch, she is George’s sister in more than blood and when the hour comes, she will not be spared from partisanship. God knows I had to endure the ugly ordeal, though George appears to have never felt any qualms in this regard.

Margaret of York was presently with his daughters in the grand hall, no doubt dazzling them with her collection of hangings, among which was the latest unicorn tapestry. The needlework pronounced him finally killed and brought to the castle, though Richard doubted it would be the last in this seemingly never ending series, so beloved by Anne and his two girls.

She herself appeared a unicorn when he finally caught sight of her. She bowed under the square doorway when entering as to make space for her headdress, a gesture that his two daughters repeated despite their far slighter heights.

Charles chuckled and added ‘Our Carolingan ancestors doubtless never foresaw such fashions when they built those fortresses. I apologise to my wife for their shortsightedness on their behalf.

His accented English made it difficult for Richard to know if he was being sardonic or if his words were solely meant in jest. If the former, even he himself had to agree, the heights those deformed hats have begun to reach beggared all belief.

Taking her seat beside him she gaily retorted, ‘Now now husband, we need only be glad to be cleansed of the barbarism of that bygone age. Warfare does not advance as much as it regresses’, now turning to face all, she proudly added, ‘That is what my brother Edward and I were always ad idem. He avenged father where necessary, but now am I glad to see our two countries peaceably leading the northern continents into a true prosperous age of beauty and art’.

Anne, wide-eyed, appeared bewitched by the Duchess’ imaginings but Richard saw that Isabel shrunk in her chair, directing him an awkward stare undesiring in subtlety. Thank the Lord she had the good sense not to talk. He glanced at her bare white finger where George’s ring was placed these few days past and was once more reassured that at least one of his blood had inherited more than just nobility.

‘Your grace seems to have taken easily to your new land’ said Isabel politely

‘Why yes indeed! Flemish has proved a challenge, however, I am pleased to report that I have noticed a remarkable sharing of spirit between the English and the Burgundians. For this I find loving my husband’s people an easy task’

‘How so Duchess?’ asked Anne with the customary curiosity of her voice

‘For one, they are not tempestuous like the hot-blooded spaniards and the proud french. There is a determined industriousness in them. They are masters in art as they are in trade’. Richard noticed a twinkle break in the wide-set grey eyes of her father. From the hairline visible beneath the wimple and marengo headdress, he was reminded of her father’s pale yellow hair too. Her height she shared with Edward, but now gregarious as he had never seen her, he saw George plain and clear. A Plantagenet if there ever was one , he had to begrudgingly admit.

‘Dear wife, surely you do not speak so kindly of the bourgeoisie?’, Charles finally spoke. It was unclear whether he meant to ask her or tell her. ‘It is they, that seek to undo all that I and father had fought for and devolve the power back unto their petty provinces’

‘Ah the tis only the inevitable, I admire them but I never said I do not secretly ill-wish them. For you, wise as you are do too. Brother Edward was as much spurred by his desire to placate the English traders as he did to protect England from the French and allegedly now-‘ Margaret suddenly stopped and beneath the composure Richard could see her dig her thumbnail into her palm in self-chastisement. If only her face had matched her gesture. To protect England from the Kingmaker you meant .

‘Forgive me my Lord of Warwick, I meant no-‘ Yes you did. Your brothers did tell me how clever you were.

‘...no offence was given by your grace’ Richard said gingerly and a little too loudly. ‘I pray only that the king find’s his new mercenary alliances fruitful come warfare’.

Silence tumbled through the room, its gusts robbing the room of its rich hotness leaving it bony and stale with the passing of a stormcloud. Isabel attempted to relieve the room of its tautness by pointing out the intricacy of the wood-panelling to Anne, the floral brocades on her primrose sleeve straightening with each movement. Richard simply repositioned his legs in silence before pinching another morsel of munster from the trencher.

‘Something can indeed be said against a man who purchases a product at one price and sells it at another at greater cost but no greater value’ Charles once again mercifully interjected ‘It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God’, he quoted with a flourish.

‘If bare wealth be a sin than all our souls are damned’ retorted Richard ‘At least the old kind follows the commandments and treats their tenants fairly and cares for them as God would. Greed is as unnatural to descendants of Gaunt as selflessness is to the likes of the traders and the Woodvilles though they fancy themselves gentry.

‘If you say so my lord’ huffed Margaret disaffected by the course her well-meaning remarks did take.

Sensing the room grow darker with the sun’s ending journey Isabel asked ‘your grace was exceedingly kind to have recieved us here. Despite passing much of my girlhood in Calais, a tinge of saudade never eludes me when England is out of sight. Do you never miss home?’

Isabel’s roses and honey did much to sweeten Margaret in her dour humour. ‘Home is felt with the company one keeps, not the place and insofar as I have been fortunate in this regard...’ Margaret confided as she gazed at the Duke with gentle kindness ‘... I reminisce and when my lord husband was away quelling the revolts in Liége I felt my brother George’s absence keenly. When we were children Edward, Edmund and Richard would band together and play at war in the hills of Fortheringhay, while George and I would visit the markets and put on plays for our mother with the trinkets we had bought. Mine and mother’s darling but now I shall never know when I may see him again. Our agents in Rome do tell us a dispensation has been granted for him to wed though sadly not to our Petite Marie ’

Richard arched an eyebrow in retiscence at that. ‘Then to whom Duchess?’

‘Oh but wouldn’t you know, my lord of Warwick?’ flatly retorted Margaret.

11th July 1469 - Isabel Neville Duchess of Clarence

Damp air was rising from the sea, obscuring the lines of the Calais city streets to a mosaic-like delirium. The bride’s verdigris silk clung to her like moss to castle-stone casting off her jasmine scent even more strongly, the blue of purity and green of young love mingling with each movement but constrained under a wide golden belt. The heavy train trailing behind the svelte figure made many an onlooker recollect the legends of Mélusine risen from the Lusignan waters, pure and phantasmagoric in equal measure.

‘Oh Izzy, how beautiful you are!’ cooed Anne as she matched her granular steps to her sister’s long-strides. The Nevilles did not expect their prized flower to be lead to her wedding in a sorry procession made up of minor retainers and servants up a cobbled church street. They would have her carried in a gilded litter, surrounded by praises sung in English of queenly grace, not French silence and murmurs. Her father promised her grandeur but she felt like a village darling off to marry a apple-cheeked lad with two cows as her dowry more than anything else. ‘George will be besotted with you’

‘Of course he will Anne. He already is’ she wryly boasted as the modest journeyers came into the presence of L’Église Notre-Dame. A need for prayer precipitated over her, but she knew not for what. For father or for George perhaps? For them to not return defeated and spiteful at each other? Or for myself, and for George, for his destiny not to fail us? For this wedding night and pleasures not got with pain?

Yesterday, her mother’s natural prejudice led her to believe that Margaret bastardly-born, as she was, had already exposed her virtuous daughter to the salacious facts of what passed between man and wife. Availed of the unpleasant duty, she instead set on instructing her on childbearing matters, about which, (because, as life’s poetic ironic would have it) she was exceedingly knowledgeable in. Little did she know that Margaret was innocent entirely and the real transgressor was none but George. Isabel felt a shameful blush creeping over her cheeks for allowing such thoughts to permeate her attempt of prayer, but before she could communicate her penitence to god, she caught side of the two Georges, Plotting as ever.

‘Why Isabel, to think to find you already in prayer’, George gested at her clasped hands.

‘Why with only god to sanctify our marriage, how else?’ She smiled, drawing closer to the great door. ‘Why, how drôle that our wedding bans be posted in French’, her fingers traced the haggard letters of the parchment. ‘Have they been changed thrice?’

‘What difference would it make, niece?’ asked her bearded uncle the Archbishop of York ‘Here in Calais, your father’s just as a king, and as for those dissenting in England, well why trouble oneself?’

George nodded, ‘Why indeed?’. He offered Isabel his hand as a King would assist a queen in ascending the perilous stairs of a throne and the fabrics of their dress, so alike, mingled in one pluvious river. She now stood at his left as the rib that made Eve placed in Adam.

Five knights of the garter, among them John Tiptoft Earl of Worcester, assembled. French and English nobility united and her uncle George rattled off the customary inquiries - Were they of age? Did their parents consent? Is this union consanguineous? The latter to which her father had to respond by presenting the papal dispensation.

George presented her with a gold purse, pressing its weight confidently in her palm before the sermon was performed. Isabel deflected her gaze to the pleasant greenery of the tufts of grass. For such an old proud church, there were mounds of soil where burrowing rabbits tread, the brightest coloured pigments she had ever seen flashed beneath her eyes as the spiced breeze from the herber whisked the butterflies up in perfect frenzy. Every part of the tableaux that moved, even the clouds, appeared to conjure a whistful tune that more than made up for the absence of song. Many, her mother among them, would declare such a moment of beauty as a revelation of god in nature. But this day it seemed that the beauty of such providence took root in her heart before her perception admitted it in the surrounding nature, for she knew that such joy would never again be felt nor seen. Mayhaps George was right and god elevates such a marriage as this that would seek to establish his natural order. No love in any romance may rival this.

When it turned to her to make the vow, she freely expressed much of what she had just thought and to both her relief and anxious expectation, she saw George gold-tinged and affected.

Following a quick sermon and the perfunctionary exchanging of rings, Isabel knelt distributing the coins to the poor folk who accepted them graciously with whispery french prayers said behind wind-blown linen whimples. A particularly brave girl presented her a dozen poppies plucked off the opal coasts. With that they forsook the romantic for the angular confinement of the chapel.

The mass that ensued presented the giddy Isabel with another opportunity to beseech god to guide her through all the concerns, which earlier clouded her thoughts. Having all come apart like the seams of an unkept book, she chose to give thanks instead. The canopy George and her were under, obscured what little coloured strained light there was such that they could recognise none but one other as if in a catacomb. They were now Duke and Duchess of Clarence.

Far more eagerly than when receiving the kiss of peace from her uncle, George it his upon his bride. Cheers could be heard from all around her, they bent off curved walls in echoes so fierce that they resonated as strongly as if the guests numbered in the hundreds. Anne’s unusually trebled voice could be singled out and before the party hastened back to her father’s castle, Isabel slid off her ruby studded gold bangle from her wrist and showed it to her sister.

She held it in her small hands, confusion showing in her large brown eyes. ‘I would that you have it Annie. I know we have not been the closest of sisters at late, do forgive me’.

‘There is nothing to forgive Issy, you and father were occupied, I have learned to know my place’ replied a voice tinged a little too sadly for Isabel’s comfort.

‘Your place will be with me for the coming weeks’ Isabel smiled gently offering a hand. The girls’ arms were now linked and they were once again the bestest of friends, ‘So you see, I am not stolen from you just yet!’ joked Isabel. She saw questions taking root as Anne’s thin lips began to tremble and laughed ‘Oh yes’ I heard what you uttered to Richard when George came to Middleham that year. Oh Annie, your have a voice like father, no matter how quiet, it is always heard’

At their castle, news reached her father th at his dear friend King Louis and his brother Le Duc de Berry, were detained at court and would offer them their well-wishes tommorow. This was clearly to be what father planned would bring the requisite grandeur to this royal celebration. She fingered the strands of the braided gold belt and held up an opal rose pendant set in tiny sapphires, delighting in it like a satisfied magpie. I see George and Father shall revel with kings, hunt, make merry to their heart’s content to carry them through the fortnights of inescapable blood stench and I shall play at being Queen once the spider king arrives.

Nonetheless, lilies and white roses in their hundreds were strewn across the floor obscuring the rushes below, their fragrances filling the air as they were trod on by guests.

Fifty Anjou pigeons, 4 boar heads and five hundred manchet loaves were arranged on the longtable with a large cockentrice as the centrepiece. Astride it, a helmeted dwarf-like rooster bore the bear and the ragged staff spliced with the sunne in splendour.

When sliced into by her father, the whiff of saffron, powdered ginger and garlic mingled with that of the rushes in such an assault of the senses that Isabel brushed her veil over her shoulder as if to guard it from the smell. The white silk was so fine that while not concealing, it obfuscated the raven strands making her hair take on the form of a thin dark tower shrouded in fog.

By the time the minstrels had arrived, the night had itself become a murky pot of emotions, senses and wine. Isabel herself revelled in the Carola, where she joined hands with her father and husband and led the merry-makers in song jubilantly fancying herself Enide, and George the knightly Eric in the tale of sir Percival. More Enide the queen crowned at Nantes than Enide the pauper, of course.

Love within marriage, tests not conjured by it but borne through its strength, woman’s forbidden word offering salvation not peril. This shall be my life’s verse.

The night was advancing and Isabel shot a pleading glance towards her father, but to no avail. Her mother, in spite of her own experiences stared down at her goblet averting her eyes from the suppliant. It became clear to Isabel that the bedding ceremony was to happen.

A string of the minstrel’s lute was plucked, its twinge heralding a change in tune and bawdier lyrics. The wine loosened its grip over her senses and Isabel determined to retain her composure throughout. Her veil was clawed off by a ruddy laughing girl and her companions, freeing her hair from its confines, which to her dismay had developed kinks and irregular curls throughout the day. George was far more pliable and when his cape was snagged off his back he feigned falling back, which elicited a roses of laughter. By the time the party made it to the stairs, none placed as much interest in George’s blue garter as much as in claiming her matching one. After enough displays of modesty she surrendered it to a young gentleman who appeared to be the beau of the girl who snatched her veil. After much hullabaloo, tousled hairs and slipping clothes they were placed in bed. It was a mercy that after the sanctification of the marriage bed, all departed.

George’s cheeks were flushed and when he kissed her she found that wine dwelled in him still and let out a shiver. ‘Now Isabel, as good Christian people we may not have enacted tonight but I do know you do not come here a tight-lipped cold-blooded maiden’, to her relief there was focus in his large eyes and exactitude in his enunciation. ‘I do know you are eager, you have shown me as much’

‘Now husband’ she said in an imitating tone ‘I am not seasoned as you in this deed, I do not feign shyness as I do hide my anxiousness’. Not that I know of any women, not that he would tell me. But with a brother like Edward one could only infer.

He did not confirm nor refute and after she pulled her chemise over her head, he remarked the tightness of her waist and smoothness of her skin, for complements were never accepted as gladly by any as she. Feeling her curious and eager nature take over she wrapped her hand around his member and easily aroused as customary of a maiden and a young boy, it took not time before she willingly found herself ready and beneath him. Romantic notions, stolen kisses or caresses of times passed, however, did not prepare her for the unusual pain that followed. She whimpered holding her tears within for as long as she could. An odd assortment of thoughts on the prospective pains of childbirth clashed with what were forming to be unprecedented pleasant sensations. To her relief, she soon abandoned all notions of thought and pushing back against him, he willingly lau back enjoying her as she straddled him.

After they were both spent, Isabel headed her mother’s advice and slid a cushion under her hips. She then took to incessantly dabbing wet linen on the stains of the sheet, it was a futile task for hands that have never known greater strained than turning the pages of an illuminated manuscript.

George’s hands stopped hers, ‘Your prudishness will not bode well with queenship I dare say’ laughing at her dismayed face, ‘Edward’s wife gives birth surrounded by an audience of women’

‘Then it is a blessing that our son shall be born at one of my father’s castles in dignified privacy’ she said relieved and letting go of the cloth, letting him hold her in an embrace and indulge her in kisses. As the hours passed she let him pour her a goblet of the malmsey wine left for them and they joked and told stories of future kings with the naïve certainty that could only afflict thus, young newly-weds on their wedding night.

You may find the rest of the chapters on here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22268239/chapters/53175664