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mountainsandmayhem · 4 days ago

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F*ckin’ Forty - Part 2

40 year old reader x young Frankie

18+ || Minors Do Not Interact

Summary: Men your age don’t do the way a twenty five year old future helicopter pilot can.

A/N: once again, all p*orn, no plot. This is written first person and there’s a few minor description of reader. Listen, I don’t know when I turned into a cougar BUT HERE WE FUCKIN’ ARE!!! This is in no way proofread or beta read; much like 40 yr old reader, we don’t care.

T/W: subby Frankie, pet names (baby, sweet boy, etc), I don’t speak Spanish but googled told me Mi Reina means My Queen (just ignore it if that’s not right, there’s bigger problems right now!), teasing, dirty talk, masturbating, Frankie being whiny (but in a good way)

Word Count: 2.5k

I love my job, and that’s not something a lot of people can say. But, as an owner of a small romance bookstore, I am not only living my dream but countless others as well. However, this week, when all I can think about is the weekend and Frankie’s never-ending hard cock? Yeah, I hate my job.

After work on Thursday, I went to buy some sexy lingerie. The last time I put something like this on was for my ex-husband about five years ago. He took one look at me and went, “I think we are a little too old for pyjamas like that”.

Too old? We were fucking thirty-five! And pyjamas? I went back into our bathroom to change and did the worst possible thing I could have - I looked in the mirror. My eyes instantly went to the imperfections of my body and I promptly went on a spiral. Stretch marks from being pregnant three times. Breasts that didn’t sit as high as they used to. Thighs that touch. Bits of cellulite dimpled my ass and hips.

But when I put on this delicate baby blue lace bra, panty, and garter set, I felt powerful and sexy. None of the things, including the few extra pounds I gained in the last five years of my marriage, jumped out at me this time. I don’t know if it was just the way the fabric hugged me just right, or the small “BEG” that was embroidered along the front of the thong (which, yes, is crotchless) but I couldn’t wait for Frankie’s reaction.

While having sushi last Sunday, I told Frankie that I’d prefer to keep all communication to just the weekends since I'm not looking for a relationship or to make this more complicated than just sex and sushi. His response gave me yet another reason to keep fucking younger men, “I’m not looking for anything either, so that is more than okay with me, but if you need me for anything, I’m here.”

Friday had finally arrived. Around noon, I checked my phone and had a text from Frankie.

Frankie: I can’t wait to be buried in that sweet little pussy all fucking weekend

You: now, now, is that any way to talk to a lady? Be nice, or I’ll make you beg for it, sweet boy.

Frankie: I’ll get on my knees and bark like a dog if that’s what you want.

You: that so?

Frankie: woof woof, mi reina

You: see you in a few hours

After an everything shower, I pace in my kitchen nervously while sipping a glass of red wine. I’m in just the baby blue barely there outfit and a short silky black robe that sits mid-thigh when Frankie knocks on my door right at nine o’clock. The soft rapping of his knuckles sends sparks across my skin.

I let him in, his soft brown eyes meeting mine, and the world melts away. No bills, no shitty ex texting me about parents weekend next month, no worrying about the event for local writers coming up at work. Just Francisco “Magic Tongue” Morales.

“Hi, baby,” he says, then brings his lips to mine in a heated kiss. I let him take me, let him close the door and then turn us and press me against the thick white wood that keeps us tucked away from the world.

I kiss him back feverishly as if he’s charging me back up after an entire week without him. I bring my hands to the nape of his neck and scratch gently at his scalp. His grip tightens on my hips. He’s already hard behind his jeans as he grinds into me.

“You look so fucking hot,” he hums between kisses and I remember that I had a plan tonight, so I bring my hands to his chest and push him back just enough so I can see his face.

“Get on your knees and keep your hands to yourself. Then I’ll show you what’s underneath this robe.” I don’t command him or say it harshly. It’s soft and flirty. My words tug a smile at the corner of his cheek, showing off his dimple amongst his patch beard.

“Yes ma’am,” he whispers, his hands giving me one last squeeze before he steps back and lowers himself to his knees.

I run my hands along my thighs, and his eyes track every inch of skin that I expose to him. I lift the sides of my robe, then let it flutter back down around my legs as I reach for the delicate tie around my waist. His breathing speeds up as I play with the fabric.

“What’s the matter, Francisco?”

“N-nothing,” he stammers, watching as my fingers trace the lapels of the silk.

“That so?” I coo, pulling the robe open so he can see part of the light blue bra. I do the same to the other side, showing my cleavage, but not fully letting my breasts out. The fabric is thin enough that you can see my nipples through it, and he hasn’t earned that yet.

His big puppy eyes flick up to my face. He licks his lips before saying, “Please stop teasing me.”

I laugh seductively, shaking my head as my hands pull the tie of the robe. Frankie is nearly panting in anticipation, but I don’t let what’s keeping me covered from him fall open just yet. “I’ve only just started playing with you though.”

“Fuck,” he whimpers when my hands move away from the knot. I use one hand to push his curly hair back. Just as he leans into my touch I grip his soft chocolate brown hair and tug back so he’s looking at me. He hisses, but his eyes are practically onyx with desire when they meet mine.

“That what you want? Me to play with you? Make you work for it?” He looks so goddamn hot on his knees that it takes everything inside of me not to abandon my plan and just let him fuck me senseless.

“Yes, mi reina. Whatever you want. Just please let me see you. Please.”

“You sound so good when you whimper like that,” I bend down and kiss him hard, nipping at his bottom lip as I pull away. “Such a good listener, keeping your hands in your lap like the good boy I know you are.”

He looks wrecked already, whimpering when I stand back up and release his hair. My fingers work the loose knot that’s holding my robe closed. I stop when he looks down.

“No, no, baby. Eyes on mine.” He groans in frustration and then looks back at me. As I continue, I open the robe the rest of the way. “That’s my boy. I’m going to let you look, and touch, but only after you do one tiny little thing for me.”

He nods, his breathing quick and shallow. My eyes flick down to my panties then back to him, he doesn’t break eye contact, so I do it again. “Read them, sweet boy.”

He lowers his chin slowly, his eyes branding my skin as he takes me in. He blinks at the three letters embroidered on the panties just above my clit - BEG. I let the robe slip off my arms and fall to the floor.

“Oh fuuuck,” he breathes. And then, on his knees, his face level with my pussy, he does exactly what I want. “Please, my queen. Let me touch you. Let me make you come so many times you forget your name.”

I step my feet apart so he can see that the lacy blue panties that he’s salivating over are open where the gusset would usually be. His face goes soft, lips parting as his hands ball into tight fists on his lap.

“You can do better than that,” I taunt.

“Fuuuuck me. Your pussy is so damn beautiful. Shining for me already. I’ve been craving your taste, missing how soft you are against my tongue. Please. Let me lick your perfect cunt.” His voice is airy and desperate and I can feel myself getting wetter. He looks up at me and continues, “I’ll stay clothed. I’ll stay on my knees. Fuck, I’ll stay right here all weekend with my tongue out if you want. Just please. Please let me taste you.”

“Open.” That heaven-sent tongue of his wets his lips before he opens his mouth. “Tongue out.”

I place the pads of my pointer and middle finger on the flat of his tongue and a whimper bubbles from his throat. “Here’s what you’re gonna do, baby. You’re going to get my fingers nice and wet, then you’re going to take out that pretty little cock so I can watch it while I touch myself. After I come all over my fingers, assuming you’re my good boy, you can clean them off.”

He hums a sound of agreement, nodding his head as I push on his tongue, watching the saliva pool in his cheeks. I lean down, sponging my lips to his right eyebrow, feeling him gravitate towards my caress.

“What are you waiting for, Francisco?” I whisper, my voice full of love and encouragement. He sucks eagerly, bobbing up and down on my fingers, swirling that perfect tongue along them. For a moment, I wonder if he’s ever sucked a cock before, and for some reason, the thought of that turns me on more than I expected it to.

“Fuck, you’re such a good listener,” I coo, and he preens at the praise. “Okay, that’s enough now, Frankie”

His lips release with a pop. “Please, I need to see you spread out for me.”

“Take off your shirt,” he whips his white t-shirt off so fast and I laugh silently. He’s so fucking cute. “Show me your cock. I haven’t stopped thinking about it all week.”

His hands scramble to his belt. Then he fumbles with the buckle and the button fly of his jeans because he’s wholly focused on my nearly exposed cunt. He tugs his jeans and boxers down just enough so that his cock springs free and I feel myself melt into the door behind me.

“Beautiful,” I murmur and he smiles up at me. “Ready?”

He nods, “Yes yes, I want to watch how you make yourself come, mi reina.”

I press my shoulder blades into the door, lifting my left foot and resting the arch on his shoulder, letting my knee fall open before rolling my hips forward. He’s so close that I can feel the heat of his shaky exhales on my skin. I bring my wet fingers towards my center, stopping just before they make contact with my swollen clit.

“Hold onto your cock for me, sweet boy. Right at the base. But don’t stroke yourself.”

“I - I c-can’t,” he stammers.

“Yes, you can, because you’re my good boy. Right?” I say, my voice equally encouraging and taunting.

“I’ll break. I can’t.” He whines.

“Francisco Morales,” I bark, “Wrap your fist around that pretty cock or I won’t let you cum all fucking weekend.”

He looks up at me through his lashes, eyes dark and pleading, then does as I ask. He squeezes his cock and a bead of pre cum leaks from the tip.

“That’s my boy,” I whisper, then drag my fingers along my cunt. I was never this wet for my ex-husband. I start at my entrance, gathering my arousal and spreading it up towards my clit. I gasp as my fingers touch where I’ve been needing them; swirling a little circle around my most sensitive spot before repeating the motion.

“Fuck, your pussy is so incredibly beautiful. All needy and flushed pink,” Frankie murmurs, the heat of his breath making me a jerk. “Get more of your juices for me. Coat your fingers. Make a mess. Make me clean your entire hand.”

“Oh my god, Frankie,” I’m already right on the edge, white blurs the side of my vision as it gets tighter and tighter behind my navel. I slip my fingers inside myself easily, feeling the way the walls of my pussy grip and pull, desperate for more. “Hnnnng, fuuuck.”

“Yes, my queen. Shit, I’m so hard for you right now.”

I pull my fingers from my cunt, looking down as I spread my arousal up my pussy and then focus on my clit. I rub tight, fast circles along it. My legs start to tremble.

“I’m…oh god…I’m gonna-“

“Show me,” he whispers, then blows cool air along my aching cunt and I fall over the edge. My pussy clenches around nothing again and again, but I don’t stop my ministrations. I let the moans fill my apartment, uncaring that anyone walking past my door would be able to hear me. It’s just him and I, the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

“Keep going, baby. I know that must feel so good.” Frankie’s praise feels like the sun, warming my skin and revitalizing me. I keep teasing myself, my body jerking through the aftershocks.

My wrist goes limp, my eyelids falling shut as I catch my breath. After a few quiet moments, I find it in myself to lift my foot off Frankie’s shoulder. He’s still got his hand wrapped around the base of his cock. I stumble slightly, his free hand coming to my hip.

“Easy, baby. Go slow.”

I both hate and love how soft he’s being right now, but then I look back down at his dick. The tip is red and leaking cum; it looks almost painful.

I lift my hand to his lips. “Clean them,” I croak, my voice already hoarse just from one orgasm; I must have been moaning louder than I thought.

Frankie sucks my fingers into his mouth. His eyes rolled back at the taste of me.

“Does that taste good, my beautiful boy?”

He groans in agreement, his breathing changing to be erratic. His hand releases his cock, and I watch as it twitches before he cums on the floor in front of me without even being touched. He releases my fingers, then falls to his hands.

“I’m sorry. Oh god. I’m sorry,” he says through his panting breaths.

I start to laugh, not in a cruel way and definitely not at him, mostly because I don’t know what else to do. Frankie’s big brown eyes look at me.

“I’m sorry,” I say through my laughter. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m just…I’ve never done something like that before. I don’t know what came over me.”

Frankie gestures towards where his cum is pooled onto the tile of your front entrance. “Well, I clearly liked it.”

“Take me to my room,” my voice is a hum and then Frankie shows me once again why fucking a younger is superior when he hoists me over his shoulder as he stands; strong, no lower back or bad shoulders. I squeal, watching as he shuffle steps to my room, his pants pooling around his feet. “Don’t you dare drop me.”

“Never, baby. Never.”

#frankie catfish morales #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x reader #francisco catfish morales #pedro pascal triple frontier #frankie x reader #francisco morales #frankie morales x you #francisco morales x you #frankie morales smut #frankie morales x f!reader #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier fic #pedro pascal fanfiction

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bad-and-drawn-that-way · 1 year ago

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Omfg I ate that Vox fic up! The one where he hypnotized the reader after a long fight of them nearly being taken from him. Can you do a part 2 please? Like when the reader eventually learns he basically forced them to sign the contract and they find a way to be immune to his hypnosis? He goes absolutely nuts despite literally owning their soul. He's canonically a control freak and seems to even have some yandere traits. I hope I'm not going against your rules! You don't have any posted so I just wanna ask! Thank you for being awesome! :D Don't hesitate to turn down this request. Write what makes you feel comfortable. Just please respond so I and everyone else knows not to make a similar request in the future. Lots of love!

ABSOLUTELY!! I did take this in a slightly different direction, but hope you enjoy it nonetheless! Lowkey thinking of doing a Vox POV of this later and maybe even a part three...

Vox isn't actually in this much, but I feel a loose actual plot coming together and this is what naturally flowed for me.

I hope y'all are ready for more angst... plus a cliff-hanger <3

More Than Anything Part 2 [Vox x Reader]

Part 1

Part 2.5

"You controlling prick!"

Vox ducked as you threw a pillow at him. Even in your righteous anger, you'd never actually truly try to hurt him, but by god were you pissed.

Despite Vox's obvious disdain for the Hazbin Hotel and its association with Alastor, you visited the hotel occasionally to catch up with your friend Angel Dust and give some much-deserved love to his pet pig Fat Nuggets. It was during one of these visits that you ran into Alastor, who immediately looked at you with disgust in his ever-present smile.

"Really now, my dear," he said as he shook his head in disapproval. "It's already enough of a shame that you have such poor taste in a romantic partner, but to give your soul to him as well? I thought you were smarter than that."

The overlord could see the aura of Vox's ever-annoying electric cords locked around your soul like chains. You'd been confused and his eye twitched with annoyance as he realized what Vox had done to you. To say you were livid after he explained that you'd been tricked was an understatement.

"Y/N, I'm sorry," Vox pleaded as you fumed at him in his room. "But you left me no other choice! You weren't listening to me and if I didn't bind your soul, then Satan knows what could have happened to you by now."

"Just because you don't fucking believe in my ability to look out for myself doesn't mean you get to just take my soul!" You screamed with hot, angry tears flowing down your face. You wipe at them, only crying harder at the frustration of the tears you couldn't control in your anger. You felt like they undermined your emotions.

Vox's magic sparked around him as he tried his best not to get angry and start a fight with you. He was terrified and was that much more susceptible to his angry tendencies in moments like these. It took everything in him to try and calm himself, not wanting to push you away further. His heart dropped and his blood ran cold as he saw you pull a large bag out of the closet and start shoving clothes into it.

"W-Where are you going?" Vox panicked as he crossed the room.

"The hotel," you said with quiet fury, as you stepped away from the closet and went to the nightstand with your personal things on it. "I need some space and it's the one fucking place I know you'd rather die again than follow me to."

"Ŷ̸̪͕o̸̢̿̿ū̷̫ ̶̬͂c̶̺̾͂a̴͒͘͜n̴̫̂̔'̶̡̉t̶͙̝̄͒," Vox said, his voice starting to glitch as his panic increased. "You've heard the news, the extermination is in a week and the angels plan on attacking there first. There's no guarantee they'll keep to the date after how much little miss dumbass pissed off heaven. It's not safe there."

You pull your bag over your shoulder and the look you gave him will haunt him for the rest of his afterlife. "It's safer than here."

It breaks him all the more when you shield your eyes from him and storm past him so he can't hypnotize you into staying. Vox is paralyzed with fear like never before. He wanted to scream, to beg, to stop you from leaving him, but he couldn't do anything as his system glitched so hard it forced him into a reboot. When he came to, he was alone. You were gone.

Charlie was more than willing to let you stay at the hotel. The two of you hadn't had the chance to really ever speak before, but she was always friendly when you came to visit Angel, even after you explained to her there was no way you'd be able to become a guest.

In exchange, you were happy to help set up the defenses against the extermination. You got to know all of the other members of the hotel and the work helped you push down the burning ache in your chest.

Vox had been trying to contact you nonstop. You eventually turned off your phone, driven insane by the wall of notifications of him begging you to respond in any way. He knew you were okay for the time being. He was literally connected to your soul. But as the extermination day grew closer, his panic only increased. If it wasn't for Valentino and Velvette holding him back, there were several times he genuinely would have set aside his pride and come to the hotel just to get you.

It was after helping Husk and Cherri put up a particularly tricky barrier with the dwindling supplies that Angel found you taking a break. He passed you a water which you took gratefully as he slid down the wall and joined you on the floor.

"So," he started. "Are we going to ever talk about the reason why you're hiding out here?"

"Do we have to?" You groan, running your fingers through your hair. Despite the smiles and laughter you'd been sharing with your newfound friends as you all prepared for the potential end of it all, the dark circles on your eyes gave away what was lurking underneath.

For as angry as you were at Vox, you missed him. You missed feeling him curl against you in bed. You missed being woken up at unholy hours early in the morning because Vox couldn't start his day without giving you a kiss and telling you how much he loved you. You missed his shitty taste in shows and how he'd collapse into your arms after a long day at work.

Angel sighed, looking at the boarded-up lobby. "Look I may not get it, but you love the guy, right? Are you really content with possibly dying in a couple of days for a cause you're not even a part of, just because you're pissed with him?"

"He stole my soul, Angie" You frown at him.

"And that is fucked up as hell," he agrees. "But I know you and I know there ain't no way in hell you're actually satisfied leaving shit like this."

"I just-," you start before groaning. "How the hell are we supposed to come back from this? I doubt he'd ever void the contract. He's too convinced he's right for that."

Angel sighed, setting his own cup aside. "Honestly toots, you're not gonna like it, but... He kinda has a point."

You whip your head up to look at him and he holds up his hands defensively. "Not saying that stealing your soul was the right call. Believe me, if anyone gets how fucked it is having your soul controlled by a sociopath with a big ego, it's me. But you're not exactly in the safest of places, dollface. Not to mention, you're dating an overlord who's in a trio determined to piss off as many big shots as possible. His mind may not be in the right place, but his heart kinda is."

You take Angel's words to heart and sigh as you bury your face in your arms. "I hate it, but you're right... I just... I don't want to hold him back. I don't want to be the person that needs to be protected. I want to be his equal, not his problem."

"Then tell him that," Angel sighs. His gaze drifts to the bar and smiles fondly. "Someone recently has taught me how important being real with yourself is. It's okay to be flawed. No one got stuck in this shithole cause we were perfect, y'know?"

He nudged you with a grin as he added, "Plus, come on. Can you imagine how many bitches in hell would kill to have a sexy fucker that wants nothing more than to love ya and keep ya safe? I love you toots, but for fucks sake, pick a struggle."

You snort, shaking your head as you lightly swat at his arm. "Fuck you for being right about shit all the time."

"It's one of my best assets," Angel smirked. "Y'know, aside from all the fluff."

You laughed as he puffed up his chest and by the end of the evening, you'd decided to head back. As much as you loved Angel and wanted nothing more than to be by his side as the extermination drew near, he had a point. This wasn't your fight and there was a controlling dumbass that had been blowing up your phone ever since you left that was praying for your return.

After exchanging promises to see each other after the extermination, you left the hotel. You had an idiot to see.

#vox x reader #hazbin hotel #angel dust #the tiniest nudge at huskerdust #i know this wasnt super vox focused but the next part def will be

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qwimblenorrisstan · 9 months ago

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Blizzard | Cassian x Reader

Day 2: Wrapped in a soft, fuzzy blanket w/ Cassian

Summary: During one of the worst storms in Illyria, Cassian, of course, decides to visit you and travel through said storm.

Word Count: ~1.5k

Warnings: sort of mentions of misogynists, just a lotta fluff tho<3

A/N: first cozytober!! took me a while to get around to this one, but hope you enjoy some fluff with our boy cass<3

Requests are open!

The hail fell hard against the house, pelting it with all of its strength, as you lay comfortably inside your home.

The weather had been absolute hell lately, storms blowing in from what could only be Winter Court in its worst months, or when its High Lord was moodiest. Illyria often had cold weather, and you were prepared with your thick leathers and blankets to keep you insulated and warm, but even this was a different level.

The fire crackled in the hearth, sparks not flying far before being caught with a hint of magic that your friend’s brother had woven for you after the first time your wood flooring had gotten burnt from the sparks.

Not to mention the fire it had almost started.

The cup of hot chocolate was warm in your hand as you sipped at it, thick book held open with one hand, and fingers that were beginning to grow sore as you shifted under the blanket pile, not even the insulated walls of your home able to keep the cold completely out.

Not even a fire was keeping it out. You wondered what would work, at this point.

No hanging your clothes out to dry either, since they would be frozen solid by the time you got them back. Or washing them, really, considering that was usually an outside activity that the females of the camp would do together while gossiping or chatting. The more popular activities of the day were watching the males spar during chores, giggling amongst each other, and pointing out who was the most attractive.

None of that today, though, you could only hope your friends were bundled up with their families, waiting the disastrous storm out.

With the way the winds howled past the house to almost a shrieking sound, you doubted most of the camp would be undamaged by now. The homes your people had built were meant to last generations and usually did with their thick walls and ingenious structure, but storms like these could cause a few cracks or holes to pop up, maybe even a few roofs to cave in or be blown away to the mountains.

It only meant more work for the men once this whole thing blew over.

Snapping out of your thoughts, you realized that you hadn’t turned a page in quite a few minutes, and the hot chocolate was beginning to grow colder in your hands. Sighing, you set the bookmark in between the nook of the pages, and closed the book, setting it down on the coffee table in front of the couch you were sitting on.

Right when you went to stand up, a loud knock on your door jolted you, tapping once, twice, thrice impatiently as you walked over, trying to look through the small peephole-like area on the wall, only for the swirling snow to make it impossible to make anything out.

Who would be out in this storm?

Who even could be out in this storm without getting frostbite or worse?

Hesitantly setting your mug down, you laid your palm on the freezing cold doorknob, twisting as it groaned and opening the door.

You were immediately met with wind that seemed to slice into your skin, small drops of ice pelting you, snow blowing into your home and melting into a puddle near the fireplace as the man stepped in, a man you recognized, if not for his stupid grin he wore ear-to-ear.

“Cassian, what are you doing out here in the middle of a-“

You cut yourself off with an exasperated sigh as you placed both hands against the door, trying to push it shut, and failing against the wind. He watched, smirk obvious as the cocky bastard proceeded to use one hand to push the door shut and lock it for you.

You shot him a glare, folding your arms, and he chuckled, pulling you into a hug against his snow-covered form, cold gloves holding you.

“Missed you..”

He murmured, nuzzling up against you even as you squealed from the freezing temperature of his skin.

“Get off, you’re getting me wet!”

You scolded, pushing him off as he gave a pouty look like the dog he was, and you stormed over to the bathroom near your bedroom, grabbing a towel and unfolding it before wrapping it around his shoulders, hoping it would help a bit for now.

“I’ll be fine, just want cuddles.”

He said, trying his best to woo you into agreeing as his wings tried to flare in a way that usually made you melt, only for them to twitch from the cold. He grimaced, and you gave him yet another stern look.

“I’ll go find you clean clothes,”

You grumbled, and after a trip to the bedroom where you found one of his oversized shirts you kept and a pair of boxers and shorts he’d left over during his last visit that looked relatively clean, you helped him out of the stiff clothes that had water pooling at his feet, throwing his gloves onto the coffee table, patting his cold limbs with a towel and helping him into the clean clothes.

Then came the most difficult task—getting his boots off.

The laces were frozen solid to the tough material that was molded around his foot, almost.

You tugged at the strings, pulling with all your might, trying to break them free to unlace them, and failing miserably as he raised a brow, seemingly amused. He sat on the couch, legs stretched out til his feet met the floor.

“Need some help, darlin?”

You shook your head, gritting your teeth as you dug your feet into the ground, pulling harder and harder until finally—the laces came unstuck—and your ass hit the floor too.

The fire must’ve helped thaw the ice a bit faster than you anticipated.

He tried to muffle his laugh, but failed miserably, trying to make up for it by picking you up off the floor with big, now-warm, hands and sitting you right next to him as he hoisted his thick shoes up to where he could reach them, and his calloused fingers roughly tugged, until the string was undone and the boot slipped off. It was followed by a nearly frozen solid sock, then the other boot after more tugging, and you taunting him, then the other sock.

Both of you heaved a sigh of relief when he was finally out of all his storm-worn clothing.

You reached over to grab the mug of hot chocolate you’d set down earlier, only to be met by a completely cold drink of milk, all the chocolate had sunk to the bottom over time. You tried shaking it to mix it back up, but you also really didn’t want to walk all the way to the kitchen to heat it back up over the stove.

Cassian let out a low hum as he watched your predicament, slowly managing to get you to inch closer to him till you were practically on his lap.

“You wanna see a cool party trick I learned?”

He asked with that grin, the one that said he was about to do something incredibly stupid but entertaining. With a sigh, you decided to humor him this time.

“I’d love to, Cass.”

The sarcasm must’ve been apparent in your tone, because he snorted, before reaching over to the coffee table and grabbing up his glove he’d taken off from earlier. The red siphon gleamed as he slipped the material on for a moment, taking the mug gently from your hands and setting it on top of the siphon.

You stared for a moment, confused, and he seemed to realize this and spoke up.

“Just…say something that’ll make me mad. Anything.”

After a few seconds of pause, you grinned, eager for an opportunity to tease your favorite Illyrian.

“Rhys said your long hair looks stupid.”

It was believable enough, really, with how much of a fashion diva the lordling was at times.

He scowled, and surely enough, a flicker of light from the siphon, and the liquid inside began fizzling, almost boiling. Your eyes widened as you looked at the mug, letting out a little noise of surprise, and he grinned broadly as he handed you the now-warm hot chocolate and took the glove off, throwing it back onto the coffee table.

“Told you it was cool.”

He said with a smirk, hands enclosing around your waist as he leaned back against the cushions of your couch, pulling the thick blankets over the both of you. You took a sip of the hot chocolate, giving a hum of thought as you settled down into the warm material, and the warm Illyrian enveloping you. It was only when you lifted the mug to his lips, and he took a long swig of the warm, rich drink that reminded him of Rhys’ mother’s cooking, that you finally relented.

“It was a little cool.”

#cozytober #cozytober2024 #cassian comfort #cassian x y/n #cassian x you #cassian x reader #cassian fluff #cassian acotar #Cassian #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #writers on tumblr #acotar fanfiction #acotar fandom #acotar x reader #acotar fluff

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dreamersworldduh · 2 months ago

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charmed parker caine x male reader

ALWAYS LET ME IN

PARKER CAINE x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — You were born a child of duality, part demon and part witch, with strong magical and demonic abilities. Your blood is tied to the Caines, a noble demon family, making you their legacy. You were brought up alongside Alistair Caine's children—Abigail, Parker, and Hunter.

Abigail was fierce and cunning; Parker was kind and burdened by his lineage; and Hunter was mysterious and captivating.

As tensions rise within the family, your role as a mediator becomes crucial. Alistair's power is diminishing, and rumors of a battle for succession spread. You are the wild card everyone desires, poised on the brink of a vital choice about loyalty and identity.

WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing.

WORDS! 10.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with another request! This was really fun because I was going more for a little royal/demonic lifestyle for Parker and I love how it turns out—I even make a part 2 but after I complete my to-do list. Anyway, enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

YOU WERE born beneath the surface of the world, in a subterranean sanctum carved from volcanic obsidian and scorched basalt. The chamber was alive with old power, the kind that sang through stone and wept fire from its cracks. Runes etched into the walls glowed faintly with eldritch light, pulsing in rhythm with the earth's molten breath. It was not a place meant for innocence, and yet it was the cradle of your life. The moment your newborn wail pierced the charged silence, the coven gathered around knew—this was no ordinary child. You were an omen.

A child of duality. Demon and witch. Your blood carried the infernal legacy of brimstone and darkness, fused with an ancient strain of magic so potent it warped the very air around you. Midwives recoiled at the first sparks of telekinesis that shattered the steel instruments meant to measure your power. By the time you were three, your mind had begun creeping into others'—thoughts unspooling before your eyes like threads waiting to be pulled. By five, your tantrums could fracture enchanted barriers and crack the walls of your stone-formed nursery.

You were raised in fear and reverence—equal parts blessed and cursed. Your telekinesis matured into something surgical and cruel, able to splinter bone with a flick of your wrist or suspend entire battalions midair. Your telepathy grew more refined, more invasive. You didn't just read thoughts; you could twist them, implant fears, shatter psyches.

But it was the demon in you that demanded true caution. Your strength exceeded even the elite warriors of the underworld. You once punched through a tower wall for being denied a spellbook. You learned to "flame" at an age when others were still struggling with basic summoning—ripping through walls of fire and stepping from shadow to shadow like a whisper. Heat lived beneath your skin. When angry, the air around you warped with thermal distortion. And when truly enraged—when that ancient, inherited wrath flared—your touch disintegrated matter, reducing flesh and stone alike to vapor and glowing ash. It didn't just kill. It erased.

Your bloodline bound you to the Caines—demon nobility feared across realms. For generations, your ancestors served Alistair Caine: a demon lord born not of rank but of raw conquest, who clawed his way to power through blood and black magic. Your parents were his closest—his war strategists, his enforcers, his right and left hands in every campaign he led. You were his legacy by association. His investment.

And so you were raised beside his children—not as an equal, not as a rival, but something more dangerous: a tether.

Abigail Caine, the scalding daughter of ambition and cruelty, treated affection like a weapon and loyalty like currency. Her beauty was a wildfire—dangerous, blinding, and born to consume. She trusted no one except perhaps you, and even then only in whispers and half-truths.

Parker Caine, her half-brother, was a contradiction in human form. Half-demon, half-mortal, he bore the curse of compassion and the burden of a lineage he never asked for. His eyes held kindness and ache, and when he looked at you, it was as if he saw not the power, but the boy beneath it. And that... unnerved you.

Then there was Hunter.

Hunter Caine was the ghost in every room—the one who didn't need to speak to command presence. His silver eyes were voids of knowing, his smile curved with secrets you weren't sure you wanted to learn. He was beautiful in that predatory way some nightmares are—sharp lines, cool shadows, the kind of man whose silence made your pulse quicken more than any scream. When he touched your shoulder in passing, it burned. Not from heat. From hunger.

You watched them grow, trained with them, bled beside them. You became their confidant, their counselor, their blade when needed. They stood at the center of a tempest of power and expectation—and you were the still eye of the storm. Never choosing sides. Never needing to. You were what held the family together.

Abigail came to you with whispered plans in the dead of night. Parker came to you when the weight of his bloodline crushed him. They confided in you because you listened. Because you understood. But understanding comes at a cost. You became the mediator of their war, the bridge between hate and heritage. And slowly, dangerously, that power—their reliance on you—became something neither of them could ignore.

And now...

Alistair is fading. Not in strength, but in patience. The mantle of the Source—the living conduit of evil's most potent force—is ready to be passed. Whispers swirl through the demon courts. Blood will be shed. Only one heir can rise.

You are the wild card.

You are the one everyone wants but no one can truly claim. You are power unbound, loyalty uncertain, and desire incarnate. You stand on the edge of prophecy, a creature born of fire and spell, of love and war, with eyes that have seen too much and hands that can destroy worlds.

And soon, you will have to choose who—if anyone—you'll burn for.

THE AIR in the courtyard of the Caine estate churned with a suffocating heaviness, a thick blend of brimstone, magic, and ambition that made your skin prickle beneath your ceremonial armor. Sulfur clung to every breath like ash from a dying fire, and the torchlight burned hot against the carved obsidian pillars that encircled the space like a dark coliseum. Flames flickered wildly atop twisted iron sconces, casting restless shadows across the sea of gathered followers—demons with glistening fangs, warlocks cloaked in charmed bone, creatures older than language with eyes like molten ore.

This was not a gathering. It was a reckoning.

You stood near the front, a breath away from the central dais, where the throne—monstrous and magnificent—rose like a wound in the world. Forged from volcanic glass and blackened bone, it pulsed with residual magic, hungry and sentient, as if aching for its next master. Though no heir had yet claimed the title of Source, the throne already exuded a force that reached into your bones and dared you to kneel.

But you didn't.

At the apex of the platform, Alistair Caine towered like the final word in a spell. His presence bled through the crowd like fire through parchment. Tall and terrifying, he wore ceremonial robes the color of aged blood, their edges embroidered with infernal script that shimmered in tandem with the flickering light. His molten-gold eyes scanned the court with predatory calm, and the weight of his power pressed down on your mind like a grinding vice.

Then he stood. Slowly. Deliberately.

The silence that followed was immediate and absolute—like the entire underworld inhaled and forgot how to exhale.

You stood still, every muscle coiled, every sense sharp. The heat of the torches blurred the edges of your vision. Power, dark and ancient, rippled across the stones like a tide preparing to break.

Then—you felt it.

A shift in the air. A quiet pull.

A gaze.

You scanned the crowd, drawn to it like gravity. And then your eyes met his.

Hunter Caine.

He stood in the shadows, near the eastern archway where the firelight faltered. A few minor demons hovered around him like moths to a blade, but he remained still—statuesque and silent, wrapped in a fitted black coat lined with silver runes. His silver eyes—icy, unblinking—locked on yours with a focus so intense it silenced everything else. There was no smirk, no raised brow, no hint of charm. Just that devastating stillness, that impossible attention.

It was the kind of look that didn't ask a question, but demanded an answer.

And something inside you responded.

The air between you vibrated, taut with something unspeakable. That familiar flutter stirred in your chest—heat, tension, the ache of wanting something you shouldn't. It had never left you, not since the first time you saw Hunter watching you across the training yard years ago, expression unreadable, eyes burning with everything he refused to say.

Then—

"You're staring," came a low murmur at your ear, thick with amusement.

You turned, startled—but not alarmed.

Parker Caine stood at your side now, as if he had always been there. Loose-limbed and effortlessly magnetic, his dark curls were slightly windblown, a few strands falling over his brow with calculated mess. His ceremonial coat hung open at the neck, collar unfastened like he didn't give a damn about protocol.

"Didn't know he had it in him to hold a stare that long," Parker said, smirking as his eyes flicked toward his brother. "Must be your influence."

You exhaled a dry laugh, trying to mask the heat lingering in your cheeks. "Maybe he's just finally learning to pay attention."

"Or maybe you're just too damn magnetic to ignore," he said, his tone dipping lower, his body leaning closer. The scent of him—cedarwood, musk, and something faintly spiced—brushed against your senses. A slow, warm pull.

You arched a brow, lips twitching. "Flirting? Really? Here?"

Parker's grin widened. "I like to think of it as... strategic reassurance. This war's going to get messy. Figured a little charm might help." He bumped your arm gently, eyes dancing. "Besides, I'm not the only one watching you tonight."

Your gaze flicked instinctively back toward Hunter, only to find his eyes now locked on Alistair. His jaw was clenched, mouth drawn in that perfect line of cold restraint. But the shift in his posture—shoulders squared, spine taut—told you the moment between you hadn't gone unnoticed.

The weight of it lingered.

Just like that, whatever had passed between you and Hunter dissolved into smoke, swallowed by duty, by legacy, by the storm rising around you.

And then Alistair spoke.

His voice rolled across the courtyard like thunder cracking through the bones of the world—ancient, commanding, heavy with finality. The crowd bowed their heads. The flames bowed with them. And beside you, Parker's fingers briefly brushed your forearm, grounding you—whether in comfort or possession, you weren't sure.

The war for the leader of the Caine dynasty had begun.

And you—caught between ambition and desire, loyalty and danger—stood exactly where fate wanted you.

In the eye of the storm.

Parker's voice curled into your ear like a silk ribbon—soft, warm, threaded with that casual mischief that always seemed too effortless to be harmless.

"You've been avoiding me," he murmured, barely above the low rumble of the crowd. His breath ghosted near your cheek as he leaned just close enough for your shoulders to touch, the brush of his coat against yours sending a faint jolt down your arm.

You kept your eyes forward, but your lips tugged sideways. "Maybe I like the silence."

He chuckled, low and easy, a grin teasing the corners of his mouth. "Liar. You miss me. Admit it."

You turned slightly, fixing him with a sidelong glance. "I miss you the way I miss hexing myself in the face."

It was meant to be cold. Flat. But the faint twitch at the corner of your mouth betrayed you, and Parker saw it instantly.

His grin split wider, victorious. "Adorable," he declared, as if he hadn't just been insulted. "You're absolutely adorable when you lie."

He bumped your elbow with his, playfully. That familiar charm rolled off him in waves—dangerous in its ease, in the way it snuck into your bones before you could remember not to let it.

"And the way you were looking at Hunter just now?" Parker continued, voice dipping into something silkier, almost suggestive. "You might need a cold shower. Or..." He leaned in, just a breath away now, his voice a whisper only you could hear. "You could let me help with that heat."

Your pulse stuttered. Just slightly. But enough.

You masked it with a dry scoff, head tilting ever so slightly toward him. "Keep dreaming, Caine."

"I do," he whispered, the words a confession wrapped in flirtation. "Vividly."

But before he could press the moment further, another voice sliced through the charged air like a dagger wrapped in fire.

"Oh, gods. Are you two flirting again?"

You turned to see Abigail Caine striding toward you, her ceremonial robes trailing behind her like liquid flame. The fabric shimmered with layered enchantments, catching the torchlight as she moved with theatrical grace. Her arms were crossed, expression sharp with faux-annoyance, but the glint in her eyes betrayed her amusement.

"Honestly, Parker," she sighed, stopping in front of you both. "Do you ever get tired of hearing your own voice?"

"Never," Parker said without missing a beat. He turned to her with a smirk full of teeth. "It's a gift. Like my face. Or my charm. Or my ability to be heartbreakingly irresistible."

Abigail rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. "Heartbreaking is right. But not for the reasons you think."

Then she turned her gaze to you, and that glint sharpened into something more discerning. "And you. You're supposed to be the sensible one. Don't tell me he's finally managed to drag you down into the muck with him."

You gave her a measured smile. "I'm humoring him."

"You always humor him. That's the problem."

Their bickering resumed like a well-rehearsed play—barbs sharpened by years of rivalry, affection buried beneath sarcasm. You stood between them, the reluctant fulcrum of their fire-forged dynamic, and despite yourself, something warm curled low in your chest. This—this was familiar. This was how you'd survived the chaos of the Caine legacy for so long.

But the moment broke.

The ground beneath your feet trembled, subtly at first, like a heartbeat deep in the stone. The torches flared high along the courtyard walls, their flames crackling with renewed violence.

A hush fell over the crowd like a blanket of ash.

Alistair's voice rang out, the silence became something sacred. Every creature, every demon, every warlock froze as though instinctively recognizing the shift in gravity—the world tilting toward something inevitable.

"My blood. My legacy. My chosen."

His voice thundered through the air like a death knell. Atop the dais, the Sacred Flame flared behind him, bathing his silhouette in a terrible glow. The jagged crown of obsidian and bone on his brow shimmered with runes that pulsed with infernal light.

"Abigail. Parker. Hunter. Step forward."

The words weren't a command. They were a decree.

Your breath hitched.

Beside you, Parker straightened, all playfulness draining from his face. In its place—something harder. Sharper. He no longer looked like the flirt by your side, but the heir to a kingdom of fire and shadows.

Abigail's smirk faded as well. Her chin lifted, eyes burning with ambition, with defiance. She moved first—measured, powerful, no trace of hesitation.

And then Hunter emerged from the darkness like he had been born there. No fanfare. No pretense. Just quiet certainty. He walked past you without a glance, but you felt him. The cold weight of his presence brushed your chest like a whisper that knew too much.

The three of them climbed the obsidian steps together, casting elongated shadows across the platform as they stood at their father's side.

Together—for now.

But you knew the truth.

Only one would remain standing when the flame chose its master.

And down below, with the torchlight flickering against your face and your heartbeat still recovering from Parker's nearness and Hunter's silence, you stood motionless.

"The three of you," Alistair spoke, his voice low and deliberate, heavy enough to vibrate through your ribs, "are bound by blood, by name, and by my legacy."

A current of dread and reverence swept through the crowd. His tone alone had weight—enough to bend weaker minds, enough to silence even the eldest fiends.

"But only one," he continued, stepping forward as the Sacred Flame roared higher behind him, licking upward in tongues of crimson and gold, "will rise to claim the throne of my dominion. When I ascend fully as the Source, I will leave behind a kingdom forged in chaos. That kingdom—my kingdom—demands more than bloodline. It demands dominance."

He stopped at the edge of the dais, the flame casting his shadow over the siblings. The light painted them in firelight—Abigail gleaming like a blade, Parker dark and thoughtful, and Hunter cloaked in flickering shadow.

"This realm was born of treachery. Of blood spilled by kin, and empires won by will alone. I did not inherit. I took. You will not be handed my power. You will seize it. If you can."

His eyes moved from Abigail... to Parker... and then rested, longer than before, on Hunter. The pause was subtle. But the tension it carried was razor-sharp.

Hunter didn't flinch. He didn't move. But you saw it—the faint flicker in his eyes. A ripple, like the first crack in calm water.

The silence in the courtyard stretched, taut as a pulled string.

Then Alistair turned. The shift in his stance was slight, but the power of it rippled outward. He was no longer a father addressing his children. He was the king addressing his court.

"My loyal legion," he declared, his voice rising like a war cry cloaked in velvet. "Bear witness. Tonight, we gather not simply to celebrate my reign, but to mark the beginning of the Trials."

The word landed like a strike.

"The Infernal Atrium will host a gala at dusk," he continued, arms stretching wide. His robes flared, crimson silk and shadow billowing like wings of smoke. "All are welcome—every warlock, every demon, every serpent born of my dominion. Come. Drink. Feast. Wager. Let the walls echo with celebration."

He smiled then—a terrible, knowing thing that did not reach his eyes.

"For when the sun falls... my children will rise—or burn."

The Sacred Flame behind him exploded upward in violent ecstasy, spiraling into the air in a roaring column of heat and light. The inferno swallowed the top of the dais for a moment, casting monstrous shadows across the courtyard.

Gasps. Whispers. A low, restless murmur rippled through the horde.

The Infernal Atrium. You knew it well. A place of opulence steeped in cruelty. Where laughter was laced with poison, and every dance step doubled as a threat. Where alliances were born with kisses and murdered with smiles. Nothing was sacred. Everything was spectacle.

And tonight, it would become a battlefield draped in elegance.

Your eyes returned to the siblings.

Abigail's smile was now sharpened into a predator's grin. She relished the challenge—craved it like blood in her teeth.

Parker stood still, but his jaw was tight. You could see the flicker of conflict in his eyes—strategy forming beneath layers of restraint.

And Hunter...

Hunter was watching you again.

His gaze met yours for only a breath, but in that second, the rest of the world dropped away. No fire. No crowd. Just the two of you, and that unspoken thing that curled between your ribs whenever he looked at you like that. Not desire. Not entirely. Not anymore.

He looked away.

And you knew, with a sick kind of certainty, that this night would be the last before everything changed.

The war hadn't begun in blood yet. But it had begun.

AS THE final echo of Alistair Caine's decree faded into the smoldering quiet, the courtyard held its breath, thick with heat and prophecy. The Sacred Flame continued to roar behind the throne, its light licking the obsidian walls in sharp, rhythmic pulses, but the center of gravity had shifted. The spectacle was over. The shadows lengthened, and now came the aftermath—the part where eyes sharpened, alliances whispered into being, and the siblings of House Caine were quietly weighed like coin.

Demons began to peel away from the edges of the gathering, their cloaks brushing stone, their murmurs low and loaded. You could hear them: speculation, strategy, bets placed like daggers on a game board. The war hadn't started yet—but it had most certainly begun.

You remained still, arms crossed over your chest, standing sentinel near the base of the dais. You didn't chase the crowd. You didn't need to. You were the gravity in this place now. And sure enough, they came to you—one from the left, one from the right.

Parker's steps were slower than usual, his charm thinned at the edges, as if the weight of what was coming dulled his usual sparkle. His dark curls were tousled from the anxious drag of his hand through them, and he wore his sarcasm like a thinning cloak.

"That went well," he muttered, voice dry, almost hollow. He stopped beside you, shoulder brushing lightly against yours, gaze flicking sideways.

From the opposite side, Abigail's heels clicked softly over scorched stone, her stride as smooth and sharp as ever, but tension radiated off her like a simmering flame. Her arms were crossed tight against her chest, posture perfect but brittle, her crimson-lined eyes glinting with the venom of bitter truth.

"'Earn it,'" she echoed, voice low and razor-edged. "As if we haven't been bleeding for this legacy since we could walk. As if we weren't born into fire."

You looked between them—two siblings forged into weapons by the same father, taught to draw lines between loyalty and ambition in blood. They didn't trust each other. Not completely. But right now, they stood within arm's reach of you.

That meant something.

"Don't tell me you two are finally getting along," you said quietly, offering them a sliver of levity. Your voice was low and calm, the kind of tone you'd learned to master when everything around you threatened to break.

Parker scoffed, lips twitching into a tired smile. "Hardly. If she so much as breathes wrong at the gala tonight, I'm spiking her wine."

Abigail turned her head just enough to glare at him, though her expression lacked real bite. "Please. Your drinks are so diluted I'd get more kick from a healing tonic. You've never had the spine for anything stronger."

The exchange was sharp—but the fact that neither of them stepped away from you said more than the words did. You could feel it in the way their presence lingered close—tense, yes, but tethered. Seeking steadiness. Seeking you.

For all their fire, their arrogance, their pride—they were still just people. People raised in a gilded cage that looked like a palace but felt like a battlefield. And right now, behind the polish of their facades, they were fraying.

"You don't have to carry this alone," you said, voice steady as stone. You looked to Abigail first, then to Parker. "Either of you. This throne—this title—it's not just power. It's a crucible. It burns whatever touches it. Don't let it burn you away."

Abigail's eyes met yours, something flickering in their depths—faint, but real. Vulnerability, maybe. Or fear disguised as defiance.

"And what if it already has?" she murmured, her voice a whisper forged in glass.

Parker looked away, jaw tight as he stared toward the horizon. The sky above the cursed ridgelines was beginning to darken, the faint glow of dusk spreading like spilled ink across the brimstone clouds.

"We don't have a choice," he said softly. "The gala tonight... it's not just pageantry. It's a declaration of war dressed in silk and smiles. Everyone will be watching. Waiting for one of us to falter. And we've already been thrown onto the field."

You reached out without ceremony—one hand settling on Parker's shoulder, the other on Abigail's. The gesture was quiet, but it anchored them both. Not with magic. Not with command. Just presence.

The kind they had come to rely on more than they would ever admit aloud.

"You have me," you said, and there was no room for doubt in your voice. "Both of you. No matter how vicious this gets, no matter how many masks you have to wear—I'll be the one thing that doesn't change."

Neither of them spoke at first.

But neither pulled away.

You stood like that for a long moment—shoulder to shoulder, tethered not by peace, but by you. Their brother in everything but blood. Their compass in a world built on shifting ground.

And for one breath in time, before the poison-draped elegance of the gala swallowed them whole, before the betrayals bloomed like thorns beneath laughter and music—they weren't heirs. They weren't rivals.

They were just Parker and Abigail.

Still human, still holding on.

Still standing in your shadow.

Suddenly, your name echoed through the thickened air like a low spell, summoned not with urgency but with authority. You turned, your expression tightening just slightly, muscles coiling beneath your skin as one of Hunter's guards—an armored demon with obsidian-plated limbs and hollow eyes—approached with a beckoning gesture. The creature didn't spare Parker or Abigail so much as a glance. Its sole focus was you.

Without a word, you stepped away.

You didn't look back—but they watched you go.

At the base of the spire, beneath an arch carved from molten rock and stitched with glowing runes, Hunter stood waiting. Still as a statue. Cloaked in black trimmed with faint silver threading that caught the light of the Sacred Flame in strange, fleeting ways. The fire bathed his features in a warm, deceptive glow, but his expression remained untouched by it—his silver eyes locked on you with that unwavering intensity that always made your chest tighten.

There was no smirk. No smoldering charm. Just that quiet, deadly focus. The kind that stripped you bare whether you were ready or not.

Behind you, a breath escaped Abigail—quiet but sharp. Her arms stayed crossed, her gaze narrowed as she followed your retreating form with something that danced between suspicion and concern. Her voice was low when she finally spoke, but it cut through the air like a blade.

"You're wasting time."

Parker, still beside her, barely flinched.

"If you want him," she continued, her tone laced with warning as she turned her head to fix him with a look, "then act. Because if Hunter gets his hands on him..." Her words lingered, unfinished. But her meaning was clear. Hunter doesn't share. Hunter doesn't release.

And when Hunter claims something, it's with claws and fire.

She waited for the reaction. A crack in Parker's carefully constructed smirk. A flash of unease.

Instead, Parker's lips curled—slow, deliberate. That familiar smirk returned, thick with arrogance, yet now edged in something darker. Possessive. Personal.

"Let him try," Parker murmured, voice dipped in satisfaction. "But he's already tasted what's mine."

Abigail's brow arched, skeptical. "So you've—?"

"Oh, I've done more than that," Parker interrupted, his tone turning silken with memory. His gaze drifted, no longer focused on her but on the shadows where you had disappeared. "While you were busy scheming and Hunter was brooding in corners, he was in my bed. Skin flushed, voice breaking. Trembling under me. Moaning my name into the sheets like a curse he couldn't stop chanting."

His voice didn't rise. It didn't boast. It claimed.

He turned toward her fully now, the smirk on his lips deepening—no longer flirtatious, but something far more primal. There was heat behind his eyes. And warning.

"So no, I'm not worried."

Abigail stared at him a moment longer, reading him like only a sister could. She didn't challenge the truth of what he said. Didn't try to unravel it. There was nothing to unravel.

Parker didn't lie about things like that.

Still, a flicker passed behind her eyes—something taut and conflicted. Maybe envy. Maybe fear for you. Maybe both.

Because Parker, for all his charm, had never let anyone in—not like that. And she knew what it meant that he had. And she knew, too, how far Hunter would go to win anything he truly desired.

Her gaze slid once more to the darkened corridor where you'd vanished, swallowed by firelight and stone.

"Be careful," she said quietly, almost to herself. "Hunter doesn't play fair. And he doesn't lose well."

Parker didn't respond right away. His smirk held steady, his posture unbothered.

But for the briefest moment, something behind his eyes shifted.

A flash of memory. Of caution. Of warning unspoken.

He already knew that.

THE CORRIDOR to Hunter's private wing felt like entering another realm entirely—severed from the grandeur and menace of the main Caine estate. There were no towering obsidian arches here. No gilded demonic reliefs leering down from above. This was something colder. Sharper. More intimate in its austerity.

The walls were carved from a dark stone so smooth it nearly reflected the low flicker of the sconces lining either side. Silver-veined and humming faintly with restrained magic, the stone radiated a chill that clung to your skin. The light here wasn't warm—it danced in a cold spectrum, casting warped shadows that crawled across the floor as you walked. The silence was profound, like a breath being held by the walls themselves.

Behind you, the metallic tread of Hunter's guard was the only sound accompanying your own footsteps, until even that ceased. No words were spoken. No gestures made. The demon simply halted and let you continue on alone, as if you had passed some invisible threshold meant only for you.

You stepped through the last door.

It closed behind you with a clang—sharp, decisive, final.

Inside, the chamber felt like the inner sanctum of a war god. Dimly lit, the only source of illumination came from a tall wall of blue flame that licked upward without smoke or heat, casting long, dancing shadows in hues of cobalt and steel. The air smelled of scorched parchment and metal, with an undercurrent of something older—blood, perhaps, or ash from a time long past.

In the center of the room sat a wide table made of blackened stone, the edges cracked and scorched, its surface covered in ancient artifacts. Blades forged in hellfire, scrolls bound in cracked skin, broken relics that buzzed faintly with trapped curses. This was no scholar's workspace. It was the collection of a strategist—a warrior who played in both blood and silence.

And there stood Hunter.

Half turned from you, still as death, framed in blue firelight. Arms crossed. Head slightly bowed. The fall of his coat made him look carved from the night itself. He hadn't acknowledged you with a glance. But you felt him. The weight of his presence was immediate—like walking into the center of a storm where the wind hasn't begun to scream yet.

"You came," he said, his voice low, rough velvet dragged across stone. It wasn't a question. It wasn't even surprise. It was an acknowledgment, laced with something too quiet to name.

"You summoned," you replied evenly, not rising to his bait.

Hunter turned slowly, like a shadow peeling free from the fire. The light touched his features as he moved—sharp cheekbones, a set jaw, silver eyes that burned cold. His face was unreadable, all edges and silence. But not empty. Never empty.

"You looked good standing beside them," he said at last, voice soft but cool. The words weren't a compliment. They were an observation shaped like a blade.

You held his gaze. "They needed me."

He took a step forward. The room felt smaller.

"Do you?"

The question wasn't casual. It hung between you like a suspended spell—fragile and ready to ignite. You felt the meaning beneath it, twisted through with something too intimate to be strategy.

You hesitated. Not because you didn't know the answer, but because with Hunter, every answer was a choice.

"I don't need anyone," you said at last, your voice low and certain.

A flicker passed through his expression. A subtle shift—like recognition. Like agreement.

"Good," he murmured.

And then he moved.

In a single, fluid motion, he crossed the space between you, silent as smoke. One hand braced the wall beside your head, the other hovered just near your waist, close enough to feel the tension, the heat. But he didn't touch. Not yet. His presence was a snare of power and restraint, coiling around your senses until your heart beat in rhythm with the fire.

He leaned in—slowly, dangerously. His breath ghosted across your skin.

"Because anyone who does..." His voice dipped into a near whisper, his silver eyes darkening. "Will lose."

You didn't blink. You didn't step back.

You let the moment consume the air between you. Let the heat build, taut and heady, wrapped in threat and promise both.

"Is that what this is?" you asked, your voice a hushed thread. "A warning?"

For the first time, Hunter's gaze dropped—to your lips. Just for a beat. Then back to your eyes, fiercer now.

"No," he breathed, the word edged in something feral.

"It's a promise."

THE HOUR had deepened into that cursed, molten twilight where even the skies of the Underworld bled. From your balcony, the horizon stretched in bruised shades of crimson and violet, fractured with streaks of scorched gold like veins beneath cracked stone. The Infernal Atrium flickered in the distance—its towering spires aflame with glamoured lanterns, casting halos of light that danced across a tide of arriving figures cloaked in shadow and silk. Music—deep, dark, and sinfully slow—throbbed through the sulfur-laced air, barely reaching your ears, but enough to vibrate in your bones.

Inside your chamber, the walls were painted in a soft, ember-glow from the sconces embedded in blackened rock. The flames licked lazily at the air, steady and subdued, casting shadows that rolled and twisted across the floor. The heat was comforting, almost lulling—until you looked at yourself.

You stood before a full-length mirror of obsidian polished to a flawless sheen. Your tuxedo—cut from infernal silk and stitched with threads of charmed obsidian—hugged your form with immaculate precision. The suit was black, of course, but not dead black—this was the kind that shimmered like liquid shadow, catching the low light and reflecting power in every curve. The lapels were sleek, edged in deep grey runes that pulsed faintly, and the cuffs gleamed with hexed silver buttons etched in demonic script. You looked like a weapon dressed in finery. Regal. Controlled. Untouchable.

But your reflection betrayed you.

Your eyes, dark and unreadable, held the weight of something you hadn't named. Not yet. Your jaw was set. Your chest rose too slow, too steady—as if any shift in rhythm might break the illusion you were wearing along with your suit.

You hadn't moved since fastening the final button.

Then—knock knock.

A double tap on the door. Not hurried. Not timid. Smooth. Confident. The kind of knock that wasn't a request—it was a statement.

You turned, slowly, tension coiling in your spine as the door creaked open.

He didn't wait for permission.

Parker Caine stepped inside like the room belonged to him. Like you belonged to him.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, the sound somehow louder than it should've been in the quiet. His eyes—warm gold veined with the same mischief and madness that had haunted you since you were boys—found you instantly. And stayed there.

He was dressed in midnight blue and black, the jacket tailored within an inch of sin, its satin lining visible only when he moved, like the flick of a blade under moonlight. His shirt collar was open just enough to tease the hollow of his throat, where a delicate gold chain rested—a Caine heirloom you recognized from childhood, once worn by Alistair in his younger days. His cufflinks bore the family sigil in onyx and garnet, catching firelight with every breath he took.

But none of that held your attention for long.

It was the look in his eyes. The kind of look you didn't often get from Parker anymore. Hungry. Soft. Hungry again.

Like he was remembering every inch of you he'd ever touched. And imagining the ones he hadn't.

"Gods," he murmured, the word dragging over his tongue like molasses, thick and slow. "You clean up too damn well."

You arched a brow. "You're late."

Parker smirked, moving toward you with the unhurried, knowing stride of someone who already knew what game he was playing—and how it would end.

"Worth the wait," he said, stopping just close enough for you to feel the heat rolling off his skin. "But I'll admit..." His gaze swept over you again, slower this time. Down your chest. Over the sleek lines of your suit. "This is better than I imagined."

You swallowed once, resisting the urge to shift.

"And what, exactly, did you imagine?"

Parker's grin deepened into something wicked and devastating. "You. In that suit. Flushed. Breathless. Pressed against a wall."

Your heart gave one traitorous thump, loud enough you swore he could hear it.

He didn't touch you. Not yet. But the space between you was heavy now, humming with heat and tension so thick it felt like magic itself. Every breath was a dare. Every flicker of his gaze was a promise.

"You planning to ruin all my hard work before I even show up at the gala?" you asked, voice low and steady—but your throat felt tight. The thrum inside you was growing louder.

Parker tilted his head slightly, his eyes dipping to your lips for the barest second.

"Maybe," he said. "But if I don't, someone else might. And I'd rather the room know whose hands were on you first."

You opened your mouth to reply—but stopped.

Because he moved. Just a little.

His fingers rose, brushing the edge of your lapel. His touch was slow, deliberate—gliding down your chest until it reached your sternum, then pausing there. Right above your heart. The place where your pulse fluttered like something trying not to be caught.

"You look like royalty," he murmured, eyes locked on yours.

Then his voice dropped to a whisper, and the heat behind it was enough to sear.

"But you feel like mine.”

Parker's fingers remained poised just above your heart, the pads of them warm against your skin through the fabric. His gaze was locked on the slight, betraying flutter beneath your shirt, as if he could read the rhythm of your pulse like a coded confession. He didn't press, didn't rush—his touch was steady, knowing, a slow burn instead of a blaze. Every movement told you one thing: he knew you. Knew how your body tensed when he got this close, how your breath always hitched before your walls fell.

Your chest rose with a shallow breath.

"Parker—"

You didn't finish the sentence.

Because in the next heartbeat, his lips were on yours.

It wasn't a collision. It wasn't chaos. It was claiming. A kiss that unfolded with simmering intensity—confident, deep, and intimate in a way that made your lungs forget their purpose. His hand cupped your jaw with practiced care, thumb brushing your cheekbone, while his other arm slipped around your waist and drew you into him, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. The silk of your suit caught against his, sparking friction, heat, want.

And you kissed him back like you'd been waiting all night.

Your hands gripped the front of his jacket, fingers twisting in the lapels like anchors, like if you didn't hold on, you might unravel. He tasted like spice and control and the dangerous edge of something addictive. The low sound he made—half growl, half groan—vibrated into your mouth, down your spine, lighting a fuse under your skin.

He broke the kiss with devastating slowness, lips brushing yours, breath ghosting across your face as he whispered, "You still think I'm worried about Hunter?"

You didn't respond. Couldn't. The words had melted on your tongue, replaced by heat and hunger and something heavier—something you couldn't name without cracking open.

His mouth found your neck next, lips grazing the sensitive curve of your throat before his teeth scraped lightly, just enough to make your breath stutter. Then his tongue soothed the spot, slow and hot. A shiver lanced down your spine as his hands grew bolder—one trailing down your back, the other slipping under your jacket, fingers gliding over the fine line between tailored control and bare skin.

"You wore this for me, didn't you?" he murmured against your throat, his voice almost reverent. "You always do. Even if you'll never admit it."

And gods help you, you didn't stop him. Couldn't. You stood there and let it consume you, mind buzzing, body leaning into every touch.

With a quiet, possessive sound, he turned you—guiding you gently but firmly back until the backs of your thighs met the edge of the velvet chaise near the mirror. The impact was soft, but your breath hitched all the same. His hands moved with familiar grace, pushing the jacket from your shoulders in one fluid motion, letting it slide to the floor like falling shadows.

His gaze stayed locked to yours, never wavering as his fingers found the buttons of your shirt—each one undone slowly, almost ceremonially. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. In your fingertips. In the way your skin tingled beneath his touch.

"I've had you beneath me," Parker whispered, voice low and tight with memory, "trembling... begging. Saying my name like it was the only thing you could remember."

The last button came free. Your shirt parted, revealing flushed skin and the rise and fall of your chest, ragged and uneven.

"Do you really think I'll let him take you?" he asked, almost gently. "You're mine."

The words burned. Not cruel. Not sweet. Just true. And gods, you felt it. In your blood. In your breath. In the heat gathering low in your belly.

Then he moved again.

His mouth traced a line across your collarbone, down the center of your chest. Every kiss left fire in its wake. His hands roamed lower, familiar and sure—one resting lightly on your hip, the other teasing the waistband of your trousers with maddening slowness.

That was when your control finally cracked.

You reached for him, hands sliding into the soft mess of his curls, tugging him up, pulling his mouth back to yours. The kiss this time was rougher—hot and hungry and full of need. You could feel him smile into it, wicked and satisfied, like he'd just won a game he'd always known he would.

And maybe he had.

Because right now, in this moment, you weren't thinking about the gala. Or the Atrium. Or the war waiting in lace and whispers.

You were only thinking of him.

And the way he made you forget the rest of the world.

"We don't have much time," Parker growled against your mouth, his voice low and frayed with urgency. "So we make it count."

Before you could respond, his grip found your hips—firm, commanding—and spun you back toward the velvet chaise. The world tilted with the motion, your heart thudding against your ribs as your knees brushed the edge of the plush seat. You barely had time to catch a breath before he dropped to his knees in front of you, his movements smooth, practiced, yet reverent in a way that made your breath hitch.

His fingers were already at your waistband, working the clasp with deft, impatient precision. A sharp click, a tug—and the tension unraveled. The fabric of your trousers slid down your legs in a fluid rush, followed by the softer brush of your boxers. Cool air ghosted over your now-bared thighs, the sudden exposure drawing a shiver from you—not from chill, but from anticipation. From the weight of his gaze.

Parker's palms slid upward from your calves to your knees, then along your inner thighs, calloused fingers leaving fire in their wake. He rose slowly, inch by inch, like a man savoring the sight of something he hadn't seen in years.

And gods, the way he looked at you...

"Fuck," he murmured, breath catching in his throat. "Look at you..."

His voice wasn't loud—it was broken reverence. The kind of awe that made your stomach twist and heat curl low in your belly.

Then it was his turn.

You watched, barely breathing, as he stood tall and reached for his belt. The sharp snap of the buckle being unfastened made your skin jump. Leather whispered as it slipped through the loops of his pants, his every move slow now, measured, seductive. He held your gaze the entire time, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, just enough to show he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

He tossed the belt aside with a flick of his wrist, then slid his fingers beneath the waistband of both his trousers and boxers. The garments dropped together, exposing the full, aching evidence of his dick—thick, flushed, already hard, and pulsing with the same impatience running through your veins.

The tension between you snapped tight. Hunger. Raw and molten and demanding.

Parker stepped forward again, closing the space between your bodies until you could feel the heat of him everywhere—your skin crackling, your breath tangled. His hand curled around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, firm but careful as he guided your forehead to his.

His eyes were molten gold, pupils blown wide, his breathing uneven as he whispered, "You're mine for the night."

His words coiled through your chest like smoke, thick with possession, rich with promise.

"So let me remind you why."

Then his mouth found yours again, crashing into you with raw need.

It wasn't a kiss—it was a brand.

Hot, consuming, desperate. A mess of teeth and tongue and breath stolen from between your lips. The kind of kiss that stripped away every last pretense and bared the truth: he wasn't just wanting you—he was already burning for you. His chest pressed hard into yours, every line of his body molded to you with perfect, feral alignment. You could feel the heat of his cock against your thigh, thick and flushed and achingly hard, dragging against your skin with every slight movement, leaving fire in its wake.

Then—he pulled back. Just enough to breathe.

His lips brushed against your cheek, trailing the ghost of the kiss in their wake, and in a voice that was more command than request, he murmured, "Turn around."

Your pulse jumped. You obeyed without speaking.

You pivoted slowly, the air thick around you, your hands reaching forward to brace against the cold obsidian wall. The stone bit into your palms, grounding you as your chest rose and fell with anticipation. Your stance shifted naturally, bowing forward slightly, your back curving in offering. Vulnerability made beautiful beneath the flicker of firelight.

You heard him move behind you—heard the faint inhale he took when he saw you like that.

Then his presence was there again, pressing in. The heat of his chest brushed your back, his breath warm against your spine. The air between your bodies disappeared as he leaned in, grounding you with every inch of his proximity.

And then—

Spit.

The crude, wet sound of it filled the air between you like a shot of lightning.

You swallowed hard, your eyes slipping closed as Parker slicked his spit over the full length of his cock. You could hear the slow, rhythmic glide of his hand stroking himself—long, deliberate pulls meant to torment you both. The wet friction was loud in the stillness, syncing with the ragged sound of your own breath, building a tension that crackled like live wire beneath your skin.

His hand slid to your hip, gripping tight—his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave the promise of bruises. And then his mouth was on you again, this time pressing a slow kiss to the back of your neck. A contrast to the roughness of his hands. A vow whispered in heat.

"You feel what you do to me?" he growled, the words rasped against your skin like fire catching silk. "All night... I've been thinking about this. About you. Bent over. Waiting."

You bit your lip as his cock nudged between your cheeks, the swollen tip slick and hot as it teased at your entrance. He held you still—one hand anchoring your hip, the other sliding up your spine like he wanted to memorize the curve of it. His body was coiled, every muscle tensed, his breath fanning hot across your back.

And then he paused. Right there at the brink. Poised. Ready.

His entire body humming with the promise of everything you both were about to become.

Parker's grip on your hips tightened like a vice, fingers sinking into your skin with a possessive force that bordered on desperate. There was no gentleness in it—just intent. He was anchoring himself to you, or maybe anchoring you to this moment, to him. His breath came hot and uneven against your shoulder as the swollen head of his cock pressed against your entrance—slick, throbbing, his heat radiating off him like a furnace.

He didn't move right away. He just held you there, teetering on the edge, the tip of him nudging against your entrance with unbearable patience.

And then—with a low, guttural groan that shivered down your spine—he pushed in.

Your breath left you in a sharp gasp as your body opened around him, stretching slowly to take him in. The burn was immediate—a tight, aching pull that lit your nerves alive and left your fingers scrabbling against the smooth obsidian wall. Inch by inch, he filled you, the stretch near-blinding as pressure gave way to sensation, and sensation to something deeper. Your forehead fell against the stonep, cool and grounding, as you moaned—soft, breathless, wrecked.

He stilled once he was fully seated inside you, the length of him pressed deep, his hips flush to yours, his chest curved over your back. You could feel his heartbeat against your spine, feel his shuddered breath ghost over the side of your neck.

"Fuck..." he breathed, hoarse and reverent. His lips brushed against your skin as he spoke. "So tight... you feel perfect."

You whimpered, your body quivering from the fullness, from the way you could feel every vein, every throb. The sheer presence of him inside you left you trembling.

Then he moved.

He pulled back just slightly—barely enough to break contact—then rolled his hips forward in a slow, fluid thrust that drove into you like a wave. You gasped, your mouth falling open as he sank back in, deep and deliberate, stealing your breath all over again. There was no urgency in him. Not yet. Just a focused rhythm, relentless and devastating.

He was making you feel every inch.

"That's it," he murmured, voice gravel-thick and laced with heat. "Take me... just like that."

His hips rocked into yours again, deeper this time, his rhythm steady, agonizing in its restraint. Each movement sent a pulse of heat through your core, building tension with unbearable slowness. His hand slid from your hip to the front of your body, palm flat against your lower abdomen, grounding you as he held you still. The other trailed upward, over your chest, your clavicle, fingertips tracing the ridge of your collarbone—light enough to make you shiver, hard enough to remind you of his control.

You moaned again—louder this time, the sound breaking in your throat and echoing against the dark stone walls. The pressure was mounting, the heat pooling, and Parker... he knew. He thrust again, angling his hips slightly, and hit that spot inside you with surgical precision. Your knees nearly buckled.

"Yeah," he growled, his voice deeper now, raw and edged with hunger. "Right there. You feel me, don't you?"

You could only nod—barely—biting down on your lip as your back arched into him, wordless and shaking. Your hands fisted against the wall. Your body opened for him, needing more. Demanding it.

Parker pulled you tighter against him, his pace just beginning to quicken. The heat between you swelled—feral, sacred, consuming.

And still, he made you feel everything.

"Hold on," he growled, voice rough and dark with promise.

And then he moved.

Gone was the slow, teasing rhythm. Now, his pace was brutal—deep and unrelenting. He pulled back and slammed into you with purpose, the sharp crack of skin on skin echoing off the stone walls, raw and obscene. Your body jolted with each thrust, the force of it pressing you forward against the obsidian wall until your palms flattened, your breath fogging the polished surface in frantic, broken gasps.

"Fuck—" you moaned, the word ripped from your throat as his hips snapped into you again, harder, faster. Your knees buckled from the sheer force of his rhythm, but Parker was already there—one arm banded tight around your waist, the other snaking across your chest, dragging you upright and slamming into you again.

"That's right," he hissed into your ear, his breath hot and filthy. "Let me feel you. Let them hear you."

And gods, they would. Anyone outside the chamber could hear this—the sound of Parker fucking you mercilessly, the helpless cries spilling from your lips, the wet, pounding rhythm of bodies colliding with desperate hunger.

He shifted his angle just slightly, and that was all it took—his cock driving into the exact spot that sent sparks through your entire body. You cried out, head falling back against his shoulder, the pleasure so sharp it left you shaking, overwhelmed, undone.

His thrusts came faster now, hips snapping into yours in a savage rhythm, relentless and claiming. His cock dragged against that spot again and again, deeper, harder, until your moans became breathless sobs of pleasure.

And then his hand slid lower.

You gasped as his fingers curled around your cock, already flushed and leaking. His grip was firm, confident—stroking you in time with the brutal rhythm of his hips. Each movement was perfectly synced, designed to unravel you. He knew your body too well—where to touch, how to touch, how to ruin.

"So perfect," Parker growled against your skin. "So fucking perfect like this—taking me like you're meant to."

You clenched around him involuntarily, your body trembling, and he groaned, low and ragged, his thrusts faltering for a split second before he gritted his teeth and drove in harder.

The heat in your gut was climbing—tightening. Every drag of his cock, every stroke of his hand was pushing you closer, closer, until it was too much. The tension coiled in your belly, pressure building to a breaking point as your moans turned frantic, your thighs shaking with the effort to stay upright.

"Come for me," he snarled, breath coming fast now. "Let go."

Parker's hand didn't falter—not once. His palm stroked you in relentless rhythm with the savage thrusts of his hips, pushing you to the edge and beyond. Your breath shattered into pieces, your body seizing up as pleasure exploded inside you like fire through your veins.

You came with a strangled, broken cry—your release spilling hot across his hand, your hips jerking helplessly as your vision blurred at the edges. You collapsed forward against the wall, only Parker's grip around your waist keeping you from falling apart entirely.

But he wasn't done.

He groaned behind you—raw, wrecked—as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt. His cock throbbed violently, pulsing deep inside you as he spilled with a growl that trembled against your spine. He moaned your name like it was a prayer and a curse, hands gripping your hips so tightly it was all you could do to breathe.

Then, silence.

Only the sound of your harsh, panting breaths, the quiet hiss of fire from the sconces, and the ragged beat of two hearts pounding in sync. Parker rested against you, his forehead pressed to the back of your neck, sweat slicking his skin. His breath ghosted against your shoulder as he whispered, almost dazed, "Fuck... I needed that."

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, still clinging to the wall, your legs barely steady beneath you. "We're going to be late."

Behind you, Parker gave a lazy, satisfied hum. He slowly slipped out of you with a soft groan, one hand trailing down your side before squeezing your hip. "Let them wait," he murmured with a crooked smirk. "You're worth it."

For a long, breathless moment, the room held still.

The only sound was the low crackle of the sconces on the walls, their flames casting soft flickers over sweat-slicked skin and scattered clothes. Then, quietly, you heard him shift. Fabric whispered against skin as Parker bent down, retrieving your shirt from where it had fallen, and gently shook it out. Instead of tossing it to you or cracking a joke, he brought it up behind you—delicately dragging the silk across your lower back, wiping away the evidence of what had just taken place.

His touch was slow. Gentle. Reverent.

No teasing quip. No triumphant smirk. Just silence.

That, more than anything, made your brows knit.

You turned slowly, letting the wall support your weight, watching him as he stood and stepped back into his trousers with a kind of quiet efficiency. He moved fluidly, like he'd done it a hundred times before, but something was off. His head stayed slightly bowed, and the sharp line of his jaw tensed as he refastened his belt. He was chewing on something. Not food. Not words. A feeling, maybe. One he hadn't quite decided how to face.

You reached for the shirt he'd just used and slipped it on, the fabric cool against your flushed skin. But your eyes never left him.

"You're quiet," you murmured—not accusing, just noticing. Like stating a shift in the wind before the storm finally broke.

Parker looked up at that, and there it was: the flicker. Barely noticeable, but there. A tightness around his eyes, a weight behind them. The mask—the smirk, the flirt, the devil-may-care sparkle—was still there, but it didn't reach as far tonight.

"That wasn't a complaint, was it?" he asked with a forced grin, voice coated in the usual charm—but it landed like a sigh, not a tease.

You stepped toward him, the stone warm beneath your bare feet. Your voice stayed even. "No. But you didn't come in here just to fuck me against a wall either."

He didn't argue. Just sat down heavily on the edge of the velvet chaise, elbows on his knees, his fingers laced loosely in front of him. His shoulders—normally cocky, open, unapologetically confident—were sloped with a weight that didn't belong to physical strain.

He looked like someone expecting a blow he couldn't dodge.

"It's starting to feel real," he said softly, almost to himself. "All of it. The trials. The politics. The games. And the weight that comes after the crown."

You didn't interrupt. You just stood close, quietly buttoning your shirt, letting your presence speak louder than words.

"I've always played the fool," he continued, his voice steadier now, but not by much. "The charming heir, the distraction. The joke between Abigail's fire and Hunter's silence. No one expected anything of me. That was the point."

He glanced up at you, eyes searching.

"But now... tonight, they'll be watching. Measuring. Like I might actually win this. Like I might actually become the next leader of my father’s dynasty."

You didn't let him spiral further. You moved—dropped to one knee in front of him, your palm resting against his thigh, grounding him.

"Because you might," you said simply. Truthfully.

His eyes met yours, unguarded this time, stripped of the armor and wit he always wrapped himself in. "And what if I'm not ready?"

The words landed heavy. Honest.

You studied him—really studied him. Not the heir. Not the flirt. Not the performer. Just Parker. A man shaped by pressure and pain and shadow, suddenly teetering on the edge of something so much bigger than himself.

You tightened your grip slightly on his leg, voice low and certain. "Then we get ready together. You don't have to face this alone."

Something shifted between you—deep, quiet. Not lust. Not rivalry. Something older. Something rooted.

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Alright," he said softly. A promise, not just a word.

Then—finally—a hint of the old Parker crept in, the corners of his mouth curling with the ghost of a smirk. "But next time I fuck you..." he murmured, rising to his feet and brushing his fingers against yours as he passed, "I'm taking my time."

You snorted, rising after him. "You're lucky I let you in this time."

He looked over his shoulder, that smirk turning just a bit warmer. "Please," he murmured, with a familiar glint. "You always let me in."

#x male reader #gay #charmed #parker caine x male reader #parker caine #hunter caine #abigail caine

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reixona · 3 months ago

Text

Yuu's Daily Life: A Mishap with the 2 of Spades

Third and last update to the series for the Week!!!!

It's tiring, but also fun!!

Hope you guys are liking it, if you do, feel free to follow the tag #Yuu's Daily Life

Happy Reading!!! or not

============

In the Night Raven College's potion classroom, the air was thick with the scent of herbs and simmering liquid in the cauldrons.

Shelves lined the walls, stocked with jars of dried ingredients, murky liquids, and suspicious-looking powders.

The atmosphere was tense because potion classes were never easy, and with Crewel watching over them, mistakes were not tolerated.

Yuu adjusted their gloves and let out a sigh, glancing at Deuce, who was carefully measuring out powdered moonstone. His brow was furrowed in concentration, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Alright, Deuce, let's try not to make anything explode today, yeah?" Yuu teased.

Deuce shot them an indignant look. "I don’t always make things explode!"

Yuu raised an eyebrow. "What about last week when you accidentally added too much salamander tail and nearly set the cauldron on fire?"

Deuce's face turned red. "That was…a minor miscalculation. I’ve been practicing, okay?"

Before Yuu could respond, Professor Crewel’s sharp voice cut through the murmurs of the class. "Puppies, today we will be brewing a Mist Draught. It is a delicate potion that requires precision, not brute force. I expect nothing less than perfection."

A collective groan rippled through the class. The Mist Draught was notoriously tricky, requiring the exact timing of ingredient additions and precise temperature control. One mistake, and it could turn into a noxious gas or, worse, an explosive mist.

Crewel snapped his fingers. "Get to work!"

Yuu and Deuce exchanged glances before turning to their cauldron. The recipe on the blackboard listed the steps:

Heat the water to exactly 70°C.

Add three pinches of powdered moonstone, stirring counterclockwise.

Crush and add a single porcupine quill.

Simmer for exactly four minutes, then add 3 drops of hellebore syrup.

Stir twice clockwise, then twice counterclockwise. (this ingredients came from that famous Wizard and Witches Books, iykyk)

Simple enough,

if they didn’t mess up.

Deuce grabbed a thermometer and dipped it into the cauldron. "Seventy degrees celcius, got it!"

"Okay, adding the powdered moonstone now." Yuu said as they added three pinches of a silvery powder to the bubbling water, and then a thin purple mist rose from the potion's surface as it hissed.

Deuce mumbled, "Looks right so far," as he reached for the porcupine quill. "I’ll crush it."

Yuu observed him using a mortar and pestle to carefully grind the quill. Deuce's hands were stable because he was adamant about getting better. A bluish-green glow shimmered in the potion as he dropped the powder into it.

"Nice!" smiled Yuu. "Now we just have to simmer for four minutes—"

They were drawn to a startling noise coming from the nearby table. Together with Grim, Ace had somehow produced a viscous, black muck that was bubbling menacingly.

"Oi, Ace! What did you do?" Deuce called.

Ace held up his hands in mock innocence. "Nothing! I just followed the recipe!"

Grim waved his paws, coughing. "It smells awful! Maybe we added too much porcupine quill??"

Crewel was on them in an instant, pinching the bridge of his nose."This is why I tell you to pay attention. If this explodes, you’re scrubbing cauldrons for the rest of the week."

Yuu and Deuce quickly returned their attention to their own potion as the lecturer reprimanded them. The clock was nearly up.

"Alright, stirring time," Yuu said, gripping the ladle.

Deuce nodded. "Two clockwise, then two counterclockwise, right?"

"Yup. Easy."

Or at least, it should have been.

Just as Yuu began to stir, a stray spark of magic from Ace’s bubbling disaster flew across the room and hit their cauldron and a ray of turquoise light flashed from their cauldron.

"Oh no—"

Deuce took Yuu by the arm. "Wait—!"

However, it was too late. With a gentle snap, the potion burst, and then a heavy fog surrounded them both as a thick mist burst from the cauldron.

"Ack! I can’t see anything!!" Yuu coughed.

"Neither can I!" Deuce sputtered. "Is this supposed to happen?!"

Crewel’s voice rang out. "Who was responsible for that mist?!"

Ace immediately pointed at their table. "Them! Definitely them!"

"ACE!" Yuu and Deuce shouted in unison.

Crewel sighed, waving his wand to clear the fog. As the mist dissipated, the classroom came back into view—except something was…off.

Deuce blinked. "Why do you look taller?"

Yuu stared at him. "Why do you look shorter?"

A horrifying realization hit them both at the same time. They scrambled to the nearest reflective surface—Yuu’s polished potion ladle—and gasped.

They had swapped bodies.

Deuce—now in Yuu’s body—stared at his reflection in disbelief. "No way. No. Way."

Yuu—now in Deuce’s body—groaned, rubbing their temples. "I swear, if this is because of Ace’s magic backfire, I am throwing him into a cauldron."

Ace was doubled over laughing. "Oh man, this is gold! Deuce, you look hilarious with Yuu’s scowl!"

Deuce (Yuu?) growled, clenching their fists. "This is not funny, Trappola!"

Crewel massaged his temples, looking utterly done. "You two. Stay behind after class. We need to fix this disaster."

Deuce (Yuu?) sighed. "Great. Just great."

Yuu (Deuce?) groaned. "I knew PE class was the lesser evil…"

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst yuu #twisted wonderland reader insert #twisted wonderland deuce spade #deuce spade #twst deuce spade #twst deuce #twst deuce x reader #deuce spade x reader #deuce spade x yuu #Yuu's Daily Life

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extremedelusions17 · 1 year ago

Text

The 4 times Jessie realized she loved you, and the 1 time she did something about it

j.fleming x reader

w/c: 1400

a/n: really fluffy, hope you enjoy xx

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

1.) Innocent touches

In the quaint town where you and Jessie Fleming spent your formative years, movie nights were a cherished tradition. The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the living room bathed in the soft glow of lamplight. The air was filled with the familiar scent of buttered popcorn, and laughter echoed as the both of you settled onto the plush couch, your eyes fixed on the flickering screen.

As you reached over to grab the popcorn bowl, your fingers brushed in a seemingly innocent gesture. "Oops, sorry," you chuckled, not noticing the subtle change in Jessie's demeanor. For Jessie, time seemed to pause in that fleeting moment. A gentle spark ignited within her chest, a sensation she struggled to comprehend. Lost in the movie, you remained blissfully unaware of the subtle shift

Jessie stole glances at her best friend, trying to decipher the warmth lingering in her chest. It was a momentary touch, but in that instance, Jessie felt the boundaries of your friendship expanding into uncharted territory. As the characters on the screen continued their antics, Jessie's mind was elsewhere, grappling with the newfound awareness. Could a simple touch hold the potential to redefine a relationship? She pondered the question, her thoughts a whirlwind of uncertainty and curiosity.

The characters on the screen continued your antics, but Jessie's mind was elsewhere, grappling with the newfound awareness. Could a simple touch hold the potential to redefine a relationship? She pondered the question, her thoughts a whirlwind of uncertainty and curiosity.

As the credits rolled, signaling the end of the movie, Jessie found herself lost in contemplation. The room, once filled with laughter and shared moments, now seemed to pulse with unspoken tension. It was a tension that Jessie wasn't sure she was ready to unravel, yet it lingered like a delicate thread, connecting her to a reality she hadn't fully explored.

2. The Shared Secret:

Under the watchful gaze of the moon, Jessie and you often found themselves immersed in late-night conversations. The symphony of crickets serenaded them as you confided a hidden passion. Jessie listened intently, not just to the secret itself but to the vulnerability in you's voice.

"That's amazing, you," Jessie responded with genuine enthusiasm. "I had no idea you felt that way."

you chuckled, a hint of self-consciousness coloring her cheeks. "Yeah, it's something I've kept to myself for a while."

As Jessie absorbed the weight of you's revelation, she realized the depth of the connection they shared. The trust and vulnerability exchanged under the moonlight created a bridge between them, revealing layers of each other's souls that went beyond the ordinary. It was in that moment that Jessie recognized her feelings for you were evolving into something deeper.

your conversation meandered into the late hours, topics shifting seamlessly between dreams, aspirations, and shared confidences. The night air held a certain magic, and Jessie couldn't help but wonder if this newfound intimacy was a prelude to a deeper connection.

As dawn approached, painting the sky in hues of pink and orange, Jessie felt a mixture of exhilaration and trepidation. The shared secret had opened a door to unexplored territories, and she found herself standing at the threshold, contemplating the path that lay ahead.

3. The Comfort in Silence:

By the riverbank, where the flowing water created a gentle melody, Jessie and you found solace in each other's company. A lazy afternoon unfolded as they lay side by side, the sun casting a warm glow on your surroundings. The rhythmic sound of the river seemed to synchronize with the beating of your hearts.

"You know," you broke the silence, "these moments with you are some of my favorites."

Jessie smiled, her heart echoing the sentiment. "Mine too, you. It's like we have our own little world here."

In the tranquil intimacy of that moment, Jessie acknowledged the emotions she had been harboring. The unspoken language of your companionship revealed a longing that hinted at something more profound than mere friendship.

As you continued to bask in the serene atmosphere, Jessie couldn't help but feel a gentle tug at the strings of her heart. The shared silence spoke volumes, and she wondered if you sensed the same undercurrents that were reshaping your connection.

The rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds became the soundtrack to your contemplation. Jessie's mind, now a canvas of introspection, painted scenarios of shared futures and unexplored emotions.

4. The Unspoken Jealousy:

An unexpected wave of jealousy crashed over Jessie one day as she observed you engrossed in conversation with a new teamate. Trying to conceal her emotions, Jessie walked home with you, a subtle turmoil stirring within her. you, ever perceptive, noticed the change in her demeanor.

"Jess, is everything okay?" you asked, concern etched on her face.

Jessie hesitated before responding, "Yeah, just had a weird day."

you studied her for a moment, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

The unspoken words lingered in the air, and Jessie, with a heavy heart, nodded in response. It was a moment of acknowledgment, a recognition that your relationship was evolving, and Jessie was beginning to grapple with emotions she had yet to fully understand.

As days turned into weeks, Jessie found herself navigating the intricacies of her own emotions. The unfamiliar pang of jealousy had unveiled a side of her feelings she hadn't anticipated. She questioned whether this emotional turbulence was merely a passing storm or a harbinger of deeper revelations.

The town, with its familiar streets and comforting routines, seemed different to Jessie now. Every interaction with you carried an undercurrent of unspoken tension, an uncharted territory that both fascinated and frightened her.

5. The Subtle Glances:

Subtle glances had woven an intricate language between Jessie and you. Across the bustling school courtyard or during family gatherings, your eyes would meet, linger, and then avert. Each stolen glance became a silent confession that spoke volumes.

One afternoon, as you sat on the porch, Jessie couldn't help but catch your eye. "What?" you teased, a playful grin on your face.

"Nothing," Jessie replied, her cheeks flushing. "Just... I don't know. Us, I guess."

you raised an eyebrow, a curious smile playing on her lips. "What about us?"

Jessie hesitated before admitting, "There's something about the way we look at each other. It's different, i just don't know why."

Your expression softened, and for a moment, your eyes locked in a silent understanding. It was a realization that they were navigating uncharted waters, and the unspoken language of stolen glances was steering them toward something profound.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the porch, Jessie and you remained in your silent reverie. The weight of unspoken words hung in the air, an invisible bridge that connected your hearts in ways words couldn't express.

You leaned in closer and kissed Jessie's lips, embracing the feeling of her body pressed against you as the tension between you both heightened. Her breath came in quick and shallow breaths as you held her close, your hands caressing her skin and your fingers digging into her arms as your lips embraced. You felt her heart race against yours as the heat of your passion overtook you both. With the sun setting below the horizon, you remained in a silent reverie together as the unspoken words hung heavy in the air, connecting your hearts.

With the unspoken words finally broken and the tension finally let loose, you found yourself carried away in a flood of feeling. Jessie's body pressed up against you as your lips embraced in a heated kiss. Her breath came in quick and shallow breaths, her fingers digging into your arms as she embraced you. You could feel her heart racing against yours, the heat of your passion overtaking you both.

As your lips parted and your bodies separated, you both breathed a shaky breath, trying to catch your breath as you processed the wild moments that had just passed. and as you locked eyes, a shared smile broke across both your faces. It was a moment of realization, a turning point in the silent dance that had been unfolding for so long. With the weight of unspoken feelings finally acknowledged, you both leaned into each other, foreheads touching in a silent promise of more moments yet to be shared.

#woso #woso community #woso fanfics #woso blurbs #woso fluff #woso one shot #jessie fleming x reader #woso x reader #jessie fleming #chelsea women #jessie fleming imagine

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linkemon · 2 years ago

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Confession headcanons

Friendly reminder that English is not my first language. You can check my Masterlists both in English and Polish here.

Consider supporting me on Ko-fi. You can also check out my commissions if you're interested.

Other headcanons from this series can be found here.

Part 2 | Part 3 of the confession headcanons.

This part contains: Malleus Draconia, Idia Shroud and Kalim Al-Asim.

Malleus Draconia

• Malleus' confession of feelings involved a number of obstacles and misunderstandings, although happily resolved.

• He wrote about you many times in letters to his grandmother. And although it made him realize the fragility of relationships with humans, grandma was also very happy knowing that her grandson had experienced such deep love. She really wanted to meet you, even though you didn't know it at the time.

• Draconia's biggest fear and block from telling you how he felt was the fear of loss. In various aspects of it. He was aware that he would certainly outlive you, and from time to time the thought of you returning to the world you came from floated in the back of his mind. In addition, you were his first real friend, not counting the people who were with him every day. Rejection could cost him the entire relationship.

One most ordinary night, he simply realized that the risk was worth trying to tell you how he felt.

• Malleus sprang into action with eager vigour. Unfortunately, these efforts were somewhat misdirected. It took Lilia to clearly explain to him that the customs adopted among fae do not necessarily translate to humans. He was forced to do this, as it were, because after you threw away his family generational necklace, the clouds over Diasomnia were darkening day by day and a disastrous downpour with lightning was brewing.

Meanwhile, you were simply afraid that Grim would destroy such a valuable and expensive gift. You had absolutely no idea of the additional meaning it carried.

• The second attempt was definitely more successful. Malleus gave you the rose seeds he grew in Briar Valley. Planted in Ramshackle, with his magic they turned into a field of red flowers. Combined with the moonlight and the fireflies dancing around you, it created a wonderful atmosphere that you will remember for a long time.

It was then that the fae confessed to you that he had been smitten with you from the very beginning but it was your friendship, so precious to him, that turned into something more. The fact that he knelt down in front of you and promised to give you everything you wanted made you think for a moment that he was going to propose to you. Initially, that's what he planned, but Lilia talked him out of it...

Idia Shroud

• It's not that Idia didn't know what love was. He had played so many otome games that while he wasn't an expert, he certainly wasn't a noob. However, without Ortho's help, he would not have correctly recognized its signs in real life.

• He started by avoiding you. The rapid heartbeat and red tips of his hair were becoming more and more frequent and it was difficult for him to control them. So he found the best solution he could come up with, which was to lock himself in his room. He avoided you as much as he could all over campus.

• His brother, although he quickly understood through data analysis what was happening to him, did not think it was good to raise the topic too early. Initially, he wanted to give Idia time. Time was clearly running out because the robot, seeing you once again look sadly at the tablet and gave it a wide berth, decided to act. He prepared a series of tests to convince your older brother that you reciprocate his feelings. Of course, Shroud hid under the blanket, mumbled to be left alone. Although he pretended to be uninterested, the speech actually sparked hope in him.

Maybe this time he wasn't a total knight nerd and side hero? Maybe he could play the lead role for once?

• He did what he does best. He designed a program that allowed him to send a request if you wanted to be his girlfriend. At worst, he was going to pretend it was a mistake.

When he saw that instead of checking the tick box, you had come to Ignihyde, he immediately paled. You had to knock on the door, telling him that you wouldn't leave until he explained to you what was actually going on and how this confession related to his constant avoidance of you.

Idia just stuck his head out of the crack, stammered and said that he was like the worst NPC you've ever seen but if you let him have some time, maybe he'll become a main character worthy of you.

Kalim Al-Asim

• Friendzone should be his middle name. From the beginning of your relationship, he sent you signals that you considered romantic. Until you started spending more time with him around others and you found out that Kalim treated them the same way he treated you. That's when everything started to get confusing for you.

• When you tried to tell him that you liked him very much, he replied that he liked you too. When you said more, he said more, more. And when you said he was more than a friend, he said you were his best friend. He did all this with such a wide smile on his face that you didn't have the heart to explain to him the true meaning of your statements. You knew the sincerity of his words. Few people in the NRC matched him in truthfulness. But it was incredibly frustrating for you.

• Grim knew exactly what was happening, seeing your hearty eyes every time you left the desert dormitory. He calculated in his head how many cans of tuna he would get if you got together with the prefect of Scarabia. This prompted him to not-so-subtly blurt out to Kalim that you were romantically interested in him. In return, he received a promise of a container of fish delicacies.

• The boy was in great shock but in a positive way. He didn't know what to do with all his joy, so he grabbed the first flowers in a vase he had at hand and ran towards the flying carpet. You weren't expecting him at all in the evening, dressed in your pajamas and ready to go to bed. He hugged you so tightly that he almost knocked you over and that was before he even remembered that he hadn't told you why he actually came...

#twisted wonderland x reader #malleus x reader #kalim x reader #idia x reader #malleus draconia #kalim al asim #idia shroud #headcanons

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antrea · 3 months ago

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There's Only One You 2025 - Philadelphia Flyers Edition

Wanted to make a compilation for the Flyers! Thank you @theresonly1u !

to1u is a short-format fan creation fest where creators fill one-word prompts and there is a hard limit on word count (2000 words), duration (2 hrs of effort on fanart and zines), etc. Creators will be revealed on March 26!

Connor Bedard/Matvei Michkov

Difference Maker - *also Connor Bedard/Spencer Knight* / E / 1988 words / please

Vocabulary Lesson - G / 400 words / study

Erik Johnson/Matvei Michkov

Just pick the one you want (I’ve got my hopes up) - NR / 1655 words / girlfriend

Jamie Drysdale/Trevor Zegras

Dreaming of You - G / 100 words / bodyswap

happiness - T / 2000 words / home

Hiding Away - G / 1811 words / hiding

never be enough - T / 1978 words / rooftop

Recalculating - G / 300 words / roadtrip

These Walls (They Crumble and Fall) - NR / 1936 words / home

Yoga Class - G / 1959 words / yoga

Joel Farabee/Morgan Frost (most are directly Flyers-related or mention Flyers)

learning to fly - G / 1711 words / baking

show them to me - T / 2000 words / Toronto

Spark a Change - G / 200 words / magic

we drive a truck now - E / 2001 words / carpool

Joel Farabee/Morgan Frost/Owen Tippett

all roads home - G / 1711 words / drive

John Tortorella & Matvei Michkov

philosophy of boots - G / poetry + digital art / imbalance

Morgan Frost/Owen Tippett

moose - T / 931 words / big

Nick Seeler/Jamie Drysdale

ain’t nothin’ but a nasty dog - E / 1838 words / fight

Travis Konecny/Brad Marchand (Four Nations Face-Off 2025)

Ride him like a horse - M / 1009 words / ride

the ones that entertain - E / 1988 words / trophy

2 Rats 1 Trophy - NR / 942 words / trophy

Travis Konecny/Bryson Stott (Phillies)

good odds - E / 1497 words / bet

Travis Konecny & Ivan Fedotov

What We Talk About When We Talk About TK & Feddy - G / zine / big

Travis Konecny/Nolan Patrick

maybe the truth is in here - T / 1233 words / ufo

under moonlight and night vision - M / 1413 words / midnight

right there beside you - T / 982 words / afraid

while in this world - T / 2000 words / promise

wild long lie - G / 2000 words / ufo

Tyson Foerster/Morgan Frost

honey on me - E / 1969 words / honey

Flyers misc. to peruse

Erik Johnson (as a Flyer)/Gabriel Landeskog, save the date - T / 9:53 podfic / podfic

Greg Cronin/Trevor Zegras w/ minor Jamie Drysdale/Trevor Zegras, efficient, and haunting me - E / 2000 words / discipline

Mason McTavish/Trevor Zegras feat. Jamie Drysdale, same old - E / 2000 words / replacement

#philadelphia flyers #flyers #sports rpf #hockey rpf #please let me know if i missed any...#fic fest #fic rec #to1u #hrpf #jdtz #tknp #frostbee #frosted tips #frostbeetipp #team round up post

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jadoue1999 · 5 months ago

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Kaleidoscope

Next parts: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21, Chapter 22, Chapter 23

Summary:

What might have happened if Agatha had succeeded in draining the coven? What was her plan with Billy after?

This is this story.

Chapter 1: Power

“Are there any real witches here? Because all I see are have been and could have been.”

Alice’s magic hits her first and it feels like a full breath after years of panting. She hears someone scream in protest before another wave of magic hits her. Lilia’s. She had been scared that her earlier warning would foil her plans but it seems like the old crone was too caught up in emotions to be rational. She’s surprised when a third beam joins the rest. Of course, she knew that a coven’s power intensified when reunited, but she didn’t think it would be strong enough to override Jen’s binding. And it isn’t, not completely, but the sparks she gets are strong and only fuel her more. She can feel their lives slowly slipping away as their powers are drained and it’s the best she’s felt in 3 years.

While she wishes she could stay in this moment forever, all good things must come to an end. Agatha feels their magick dwindling and stops, so she cuts the binds and vaguely hears their bodies hit the ground. She opens her eyes to see a terrified Mrs Hart trying to escape. She doesn’t have the energy to deal with her, so with a quick mind wiping spell she removes the memories of what happened and sends her back home to her flowers. She can hear commotions upstairs which she assumes is the kid with the Salem Seven so she decides to intervene.

That’s when she notices a glowing door on the ground.

At first, she doesn’t know what to do, there’s never been a door after singing the ballad. With a flick of her hand, the heavy wooden doors open to show steps leading down into the earth. The path is lit with blue roots and emanates powerful magick. She can’t understand what she’s seeing. It’s always been a con, a way to lure gullible witches to steal their powers. She’s always set the rules and the reasons why it would never open if she weren’t there. She’s always made sure that witches would come to her. And in all that time, not once had a door actually appeared. What has changed now?

“Agathaaaaaaaa,” says an approaching voice and that’s when it hits her.

It’s him.

That child who is protected by a sigil, that child who somehow broke her out of Wanda’s spell. The child that she can’t learn anything about. The child that was so desperate to embark on the Witches Road that quite literally manifested it, in the same way that his mother had lost herself to her grief and conjured up her own sitcom life.

This is Wanda’s child.

She has seconds to react as he’s barreling down the stairs and she decides to quickly cast an illusion to hide the door. She doubts the kid knows what he’s done and she wants to crack him open herself. She closes the doors with a wave of her hand while she’s at it so no one falls into the unseen hole.

“We have to hurry, they’re coming!” The kid exclaims. His running comes to an abrupt stop when his eyes land on Jen, Lilia, and Alice’s corpse. He looks up at her, eyes full of fear and horror. “W— what happened?”

She has a choice, she can fool him into thinking that she was the victim or she could confront him about who he is. She has to weigh the plus sides and the downsides. The Maximoffs can be… reactive if her encounter with Wanda taught her anything so Agatha has to tread lightly with a scared teenager.

She goes for the victim act.

Her eyes water and she shrinks onto herself. “The door didn’t open and— and I suppose that they got mad. They blamed me and attacked me.”

Teen looks at the corpses, unconvinced. “And they’re dead?”

She gulps exaggeratingly. “I have the ability to siphon a witch’s powers, and I can usually control it but… but I haven’t had powers for three years, and I don’t know what happened. It was like finally taking a full breath after being underwater for years, I couldn't stop myself.”

Agatha’s been doing this for long enough that she knows exactly how to present herself when she wants to look vulnerable. She can see the teen… Billy, if she remembers right, hesitates, he’s trying to see if she’s being truthful or not. There’s no time though, because the door bursts open, and the first of the Salem Seven crawls down the stairs.

Okay, yeah, even she can admit that it’s creepy as fuck.

“Agatha!” Shouts Teen as he moves behind her. “What do we do?!”

She blasts the witch before she can reach them. She hits the wall with a crunch and Agatha hopes that it’s enough. Two more barrels down the stairs and she does her best to deal with them. Her magick is a trickle of what it once was and doesn’t hit as strongly as it did. She’s getting frustrated, she can feel Teen’s power and yet he’s not doing anything. He’s panicking, trying to find something to hit the witches with but he’s just wasting time. As the last four witches join them, she can’t take it anymore.

“Billy!” Agatha shouts.

The kid immediately freezes as she says his name. “How do you—”

“There’s no time!” She yells, blasting the fox looking witch. “You have to help me over here!”

“How?! I can’t blast, or shield! I can’t do anything!”

He’s panicking, and apparently clueless about his powers. Just her luck. “You have power, you just have to release it.”

“I don’t!”

“Billy!” She screeches just as the raven witch manages to hit her.

She hears the teenager whimper and Agatha looks over to see him being surrounded by two witches. She briefly wonders if they can feel who he is. The air around them starts vibrating just as he curls onto himself and she knows just what it means. The Salem Seven don’t, obviously, because they barge right at the threat the moment they sense the power radiating off Billy. Are they seriously expecting to win against a freshly realized son of the Scarlet Witch?

Agatha watches eagerly as sparks light up his fingers and his eyes briefly glow a bright blue before he closes them in fear. Survival is often the reason that witches unlock their powers; it seems that Billy will be no different. Billy screams and power quite literally explodes from him. It’s fascinating. Agatha might be cruel and a killer but she recognizes potential. She’s always loved to see powerful magick in action and the teenager is certainly fulfilling that criteria. She watches as the Salem Seven realizes just how doomed they are as the blue magick hits them. The feral minded coven doesn’t just die, they quite literally disintegrate at what looks like a molecular level. As the witches fall apart, Billy’s magick, exploding as it is, passes through her. Her body reacts to the involuntary attack, grabbing onto the magick and siphoning it. It takes her a few seconds to realize what’s happening but she doesn’t want to stop it when she does.

Billy’s magick is delicious.

It’s somehow even more exquisite than Wanda’s, and any other witch she’s ever consumed. If Lilia’s, Jen’s, and Alice’s magicks were like a cold glass of water after a drought, Billy’s is a tsunami. It’s endless and powerful and unrestrained. She hadn’t known what she wanted to do with him before, but she knows now.

She wants to drain him until the very last drop.

Billy soon notices what’s happening, and his eyes fill with fear. His teeth are clenched tight as he tries to stop the flow of magick, but Agatha knows that unless she breaks the link, she will be feeding until the end.

“Stop, stop!” He pleads in a voice that might have made her reconsider if she didn’t know who he was. She can see the panic growing in his eyes, and his magick tries to defend him but all it does is give her his powers faster. “Stop, please. Please stop!”

She cackles at that if the boy really thinks that she’s going to—

“STOP!”

The link is cut, and Billy falls bonelessly to the ground. Agatha looks at her hands and then at the teen loudly catching his breath, trying to understand what happened. He’s full of the wrinkles that show how much she’s taken but they smooth out in seconds. No one has ever made her stop, no matter how much they had pleaded. But then again, she hadn’t stopped out of her own volition, had she? He had compelled her to stop.

Just how powerful is the son of the Scarlet Witch?

She can’t wait to find out.

***

Notes: I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! This fic is born out of me wondering what the hell was Agatha's plan ever since we saw that she wanted to kill everyone for their powers and yet kept Billy away. This story is pre-written and I'll be updating every Sunday and Tuesday. Strap yourself in, this is going to be a wild ride!

Tag list: @trampledore @hannah-0730 @fyregrl @lanfear-is-my-darkmistress @lover12345abcde @astronglywordeddm @tiredwitchmachine @lesbiifem

Comment if you want to be added!

#agatha all along #agatha harkness #billy maximoff #marvel #marvel fanfiction #kathryn hahn #billy kaplan #agatha all along fanfiction #joe locke

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hazbininlove · 1 year ago

Text

Hopelessly Devoted - Chapter 4

-about 7.2k (these chapters are slowly getting longer omg) now with music! You’ll know when to play the song, I promise.

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

A week passes quickly before Lucifer even realizes it. Esther visited a few days after, though it was more so to speak to Charlie about Sir Pentious and deliver some letters between them. Lucifer had been busy at the time, in his manor.

Apparently Sir Pentious was asking mostly about his egg bois and wanting to find a way to bring his minions to Heaven with him. Lucifer doesn’t think it’s possible for artificial demons to make it to Heaven, so his best bet would be to make some new ones.

It bothers him a bit that Esther didn’t visit him. Charlie says that she asked about him, but when Charlie had offered to call, Esther had turned the offer down.

He wasn’t sure if he said something wrong the last time, or if it was something else. As emotional as the conversation had been, he thinks they’d ended on a good note. That note being a kiss on the cheek from Esther that had left him flustered for days.

He felt like a freshly created angel. He was far too old to be acting like this.

Lucifer groans when his phone rings, hoping it’s not one of the other sins. He’s not in the mood to deal with Mammon’s whining or Bee’s party invites that she knows he’ll never attend.

He lists his phone to his face and nearly topples over in his chair when he sees it’s Charlie calling him.

“Charlie! Hey! How’s it going?”

“Heeeeey dad,” she says nervously. “You have to promise not to freak out.”

“Char char, apple pie, that’s a terrible way to start a conversation,” he says, leg already shaking anxiously. “What’s going on over there?”

“You have to promise,” she replies quickly.

He sighs and rubs his temple with his empty hand. “Charlie, I’m not going to promise anything if you’re potentially in danger.”

“Nooo! No! Nope! No danger here! Just Uncle Azrael visiting again and wanting to speak with you! With Uncle Gabriel and Aunt Uriel?” Charlie’s voice lowers in tone so much in the end that Lucifer nearly doesn’t catch her mumbling.

He feels his whole body vibrate with rage and feels his horns and tail whip out from him. “What did you say?” He can hear his voice layer as his eyes shift to red, glowing bright as his irises disappear.

“Okay, so we’re freaking out! How about some breathing exercises to help us relax and then we can sit down and talk,” Charlie says through the phone.

Lucifer barely hears her as his phone is crushed in his hadn’t and he lets his magic swirl around him ribbons or red smoke and golden sparks. One moment he’s staring down at his desk and the next he’s in the hotel lobby, standing in front of his daughter with wings spread nearly wall to wall.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing here unannounced?”

Azrael steps forward, hands help up in a reassuring manner as Uriel and Gabriel remain in their place. Lucifer barely spares them a glance as Azrael moves closer to him.

“Lucifer please, let us talk peacefully. We had a good time during my last visit, did we not?”

“I tolerated you here because of Esther, and because I know you wouldn’t start a fight. I never said I wanted to see them too,” Lucifer snaps back, tail whipping harshly behind him in anger.

“Well we’re here, so are you going to settle down and talk like the adult you’re supposed to be or are going to keep up this tantrum?” Uriel asks bluntly, lilac eyes dead set on him. She tucks a strand of her short white hair behind her ear as she speaks.

He growls at her in response but makes his wings smaller, at the very least.

“Forgive me if I’m not keen on three Virtues barging into my place and approaching my daughter while I’m not present,” Lucifer responds through grit teeth. Azrael takes another step towards him.

“Ignore Uriel, you know she can be brash. I understand what this may look like but we weren’t aware that you weren’t here. That is why I had Charlie give you a call,” Azrael replies. Lucifer calms his tail and allows his golden irises to return as he turns to his daughter.

Charlie nods in confirmation to Azrael’s words and places a hand on his shoulder. Lucifer closes his eyes and sighs, feeling his horns and tail recede and his eyes shift back to their usual red irises. He rolls his shoulders and retracts his wings as well before looking back up at his siblings.

“Thank you,” Azrael says. Uriel and Gabriel step closer to him as he continues. “Now, I came down because I wanted to get the chance to speak more with you, as I spent most of my time with Charlie during my last visit. Gabriel is here because he wanted to personally deliver a message to you, and Uriel… well I hope you remember how she is?”

Uriel pushes past Azrael at that, moving herself into Lucifer’s personal space throwing her arms around his shoulders in a bear hug. She squeezes him tightly, and he feels his bones ache at her strength.

“I can’t finally visit my little brother? Thousands of years and I’m finally getting the chance to come here, you bet your ass I’ll be here,” she says as she continues to squeeze him. Lucifer isn’t really sure how to respond, arms stuck at his sides due to Uriel’s tight hold and eyes blown wide.

“Uriel, I think you might break him if you continue,” Gabriel speaks up behind her. She scoffs but gives him one last squeeze and let’s go, her hands resting on her shoulders.

“Haven’t grown much in all these years I see, and your eyes are red now. I like it, they match your marks now,” Uriel says, one hand patting at his face.

Lucifer just stares at her incredulously. He wants to say a lot of things, but he knows Charlie would be disappointed and Azrael has already calmed him. He doesn’t want to test his brother’s seemingly endless patience. He knows better than most that every virtue has a vice, and Azrael is the eldest of his brothers. While he’s never fully fallen to his wrath, even during Lucifer’s time in Heaven there were vague rumors of Azrael’s anger, and one whisper of thousands of wings was enough to ensure he never wanted to be on the receiving end of it.

“Don’t give me that look,” Uriel says as she stares back at him. She uses the hand that was holding his cheek to flick his forehead. He winces away from her and rubs the spot. “Just as you aren’t allowed back up there, we weren’t allowed down here. But, since those idiots Adam and Sera decided to break that rule for their little power play, and Father allowed Esther down here, we figured we’d come down for an overdue visit too!”

“So I’m allowed back up there?” He asks.

“Absolutely not,” she replies, her smile still wide but her tone sharp. “I love you, little brother, truly, but don’t forget that Hell is a punishment of your own making. You are a Sin now, not a Virtue. If you are ever to enter the first gates, you’ll need permission from Father, and you know how he is.”

“So forgiving,” Lucifer replies sarcastically, rolling his eyes at her.

“Cheer up! Your soul’s redemption may not be possible but at least sinners can be redeemed! And your love life apparently,” she teases.

Lucifer gives her a glare but doesn’t move away from her or the next hug she gives him.

He hates to admit how much he missed them all. Uriel isn’t the first of his sisters he expected to see again, he’d actually expected Ramiel, but he won’t complain too much.

“Yeah about that, that’s why I’m here,” Gabriel spoke up, stepping forward.

He removes Uriel from on top of him and takes her place. Gabriel’s hug is much quicker than her’s, though still just as tight.

“Hey Sammy,” Gabriel says, patting his back as he does.

Lucifer wants to protest the usage of that name, but hearing it from Gabriel doesn’t sound as patronizing as if it were Michael saying it.

“Hey Gabriel,” Lucifer replies. Gabriel gives him one last squeeze before letting him go.

“Well, I came down because I did want to see you, but also because I have a message for you from Michael.”

And just like that, Lucifer’s mood sours again. He hears Azrael laugh a bit at the frown that has overtaken his features once more.

“Don’t give me that look. You’re lucky Michael had the sense to ask me to deliver it and didn’t come personally himself,” Gabriel says, seeing the look on his face.

Lucifer looks away with him, knowing he’s right but not wanting to admit it.

“Yeah, whatever. What does he want? And why couldn’t Esther just tell me this? Where is she?” Lucifer asks.

Gabriel winces a bit and Lucifer’s eyes narrow. “About that, it’s sort of related to the message. Michael has been worried about her. She said something to him and I guess after her last visit, he wanted to be sure she wasn’t rushing anything. So he has her doing some other tasks at the moment to keep her busy.”

Lucifer feels his eye twitch and the admission, has to make an effort to keep his horns and tail from coming out in anger again.

“So he’s keeping her from me,” he replies. Gabriel laughs a bit nervously at that.

“Not necessarily! He’s respecting her wishes for the most part. He just wants to make sure she’s thinking clearly.”

“He wants to keep her from seeing me.”

Gabriel says and rubs at his temples. “Sammy, you know it’s not that simple. Her being with you means she would fall, and as much as we want to see her happy, you have to remember that Michael is Heaven’s protector. It’s his job to keep all angels safe. And I don’t know what she said to him but it’s had him stressing out. He hasn’t stopped her from coming here, but he is trying to limit how often she comes.”

“He wants her to keep a level head,” Uriel speaks up again, joining Gabriel in front of him. He vaguely sees Azrael move closer to Charlie. “Your little love told Michael she’d fall for you, and he’s not too happy about it. The only reason he hasn’t locked her up again is because her coming down here is an order from Father.”

His heart shouldn’t flutter like this, but it does, knowing that she wants to be with him. It must show on his face because Uriel’s eyes narrow at him.

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself,” she says to him, flicking his forehead again. “Believe it or not, I’m with Michael on this one. I’m not too keen on seeing her fall after the things you’ve pulled. But ultimately it’ll be her choice! I just want to make sure she makes that choice when she’s completely sure of herself.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Lucifer replies, tone dark as he narrows his eyes at her. He grits his teeth and she smirks at him.

“Maybe not, but you sure may need to explain yourself to Michael,” she responds. She leans closer to him and whispers so the others don’t hear the next part. “She may forgive your actions but I do not, and forcing her to be around the product of your infidelity seems a bit cruel, even for you, little devil. Lust may not have been your sin but you sure embraced it when you had the chance.”

“You leave Charlie out of this,” he growls.

Uriel smiles down at him. “I don’t blame the Little Star for your failures. In fact, I’d like to get to know her, since Azrael already got the chance. From what I hear, the little star is quite the big dreamer! I like it!”

Uriel skips away from him and Gabriel steps in before he can stop her from getting closer to Charlie.

“She won’t hurt your daughter,” Gabriel says quickly, blocking him from going towards them. “Now I’m going to make this quick because I have other things to do. I wish I could catch up but unfortunately duty calls. Michael wants to caution you. He’s aware that Esther’s choice will ultimately be her own, but he will judge for himself when the time comes whether or not he feels it’s the right choice.”

“You know he won’t approve if she chooses to stay,” Lucifer replies.

“He won’t,” Gabriel agrees, knowing their older brother well. “But at the end of the day, even Michael has to obey father, and he seems to be leaving the choice open to Esther. Honestly, I think he’s more concerned about you hurting her again.”

“He says that like I chose to fall.”

“Actions have consequences,” Gabriel warns. “Choose your actions carefully this time, and Michael shouldn’t give you any trouble.”

Gabriel sighs as he turns away, heading towards the door.

“Why can I never win?” Lucifer asks him, though he knows the question isn’t really for Gabriel. “I’m created to temp sin, but also destroy it, and in the end I became it and was punished for it. Now it’s either Esther falls and I face Michael’s wrath for it, or I remain without my other half forever but I have my peace from Michael. Were the thousands of years we spent apart not enough?”

“Believe it or not, Michael does love you, little brother,” Gabriel says instead. “Everything he does, he does because he wants to protect us, even if it’s from ourselves.”

Lucifer watches as Gabriel opens a portal to Heaven and walks through without another word. As it closes, he feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up to see Azrael smiling at him. He sees Charlie sitting on the couch with Uriel, talking animatedly no doubt about the hotel as Uriel nods along.

“Come along. I’d like to catch up with you, and Uriel means no harm. You know her bark is far worse than her bite,” Azrael says, pulling him along the lobby and towards the elevator.

Lucifer does know that, but it doesn’t make her words hurt any less.

Uriel has always been blunt. She’s never one to mince her words and though she never means to be hurtful, she also doesn’t shy away from causing pain.

Her words are never meant to hurt, but if they do, it just means there’s truth behind it.

He knows Esther said she has no issues with Charlie, and he believes her because Esther wouldn’t lie to him, she never has, but she never said it didn’t hurt her. And as always, his thoughts turn to their relationship.

It had never been put in words before his fall. They weren’t married, they weren’t engaged, they weren’t dating, they were just together. They were in love and they were together. There were no other words back then to really describe it.

And though he understood as time went on what their relationship truly was, it hadn’t stopped the stupid decision he and Lilith made.

He forces himself to stop talking about it as he and Azrael walk together. His eldest brother mentions things about Earth, about how society has progressed, new animals have been created, and anything else he’s come across during his visits. It doesn’t surprise Lucifer too much, since sinners here typically bring the knowledge of their time alive down with them. Hell changes whenever Earth does. Lucifer recalls the days when everything was just small wooden homes, but everything was hand washed, food was found and caught just for that day, and it repeated. When technology started apparently on Earth, it didn’t take long for it to appear in Hell as well.

Hell mirrored Earth, it just only reflected back the worst aspects.

“I have missed you,” Azrael says to them as they sit in his workshop. He thankfully didn’t comment on the rubber ducks, but Lucifer can see some amusement in his eyes. “I know it doesn’t change what happened. Saying that we were only following orders doesn’t make it right to you, and though I’m sure you understand, that doesn’t mean you don’t wish it could’ve been different, or forgive us for it.”

“Yeah, well, we can’t all be a rebel. What’s a family without drama?” Lucifer says as he shrugs. Azrael chuckles a bit at his antics.

“I know why you didn’t, but I wish you’d have spoken to one of us before agreeing to Sera’s ideas. Even if it wasn’t Michael you spoke to, I wished you’d have at least spoken to me.”

“It’s not that simple,” Lucifer starts. “Just because I don’t think you’d start a fight doesn’t mean I don’t think you’d do anything else.”

“What else I would do, I’m unsure of. But the more I learn of Sera’s reasoning, the more I question why you agreed. Hell is not capable of an uprising, and I don’t say this because I think sinners or hellborn are weak, I say it because no one besides you and possibly the Ars Goetia would have a way to access Heaven.”

Lucifer doesn’t meet his eyes, but he feels Azrael already knows the answer he��s looking for. Esther seemed to have already caught on as well.

“Allowing the death of sinners won’t change the past,” Azrael says to him, a knowing look in his eyes. Lucifer hates it.

“Maybe not but it’s what they get for being stupid enough to choose evil,” Lucifer replies.

Azrael scoffs at him and moves closer. “Hell is their punishment. Anything further is just sadistic. I know you don’t enjoy death like this.”

He doesn’t. He hates the exterminations. He just hated sinners more, at least at the time. He was bitter and hurt and he thought that maybe if he allowed this, he’d one day be able to make up for his mistakes and go home.

Clearly it wasn’t the case. Ten thousand years and he’s still stuck here, and all the exterminations did was ruin the one friendship he had and drive a wedge between him and his daughter.

Charlie really was too good for this cesspool of madness.

“And if you want to cause problems for Heaven, you would’ve done so. You’re more than capable. You may not be allowed to enter but that wouldn’t have stopped you from forcing your way through.”

“Yeah, except I didn’t want to repeat the beating I got last time. I never wanted war with Heaven, I never wanted to see it fall. I just wanted a chance to prove I wasn’t evil. Barging in would kind of go against that,” Lucifer says.

Azrael nods along. “We are still debating Sera’s punishment, by the way.”

Lucifer looks at him incredulously. It’s been almost two months now since the extermination and they still haven’t figured out what to do? He thought they’d be quicker about it, but then again, in a place still so stuck in their old ways, he isn’t entirely surprised.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Azrael says, narrowing his eyes a bit. “There is much to discuss. While she should fall for her treason, we aren’t sure that dropping another powerful seraphim here won’t just cause more problems for you. While she knows what she did is wrong, she doesn’t seem very remorseful for anything other than the fact that she was found out. I fear she may try to bring harm to you or Charlie should she fall.”

“So should she continue to enjoy paradise in a cell, or should fall? She probably wouldn’t stay in the cell long. She’d probably be put on probation rather quickly and then back to her usual activities in no time! But if you drop her here, I can’t guarantee she'll remain alive.”

“Lucifer,” Azrael warns.

“Don’t start,” Lucifer snaps back. “After everything she did, if the sinners don’t get to her first, if she so much as looks in Charlie’s direction the wrong way, I can’t promise I won’t do something.”

“That is precisely why we’ve been debating her punishment for so long. Is the loss of more souls truly the goal here?”

“After the millions she’s killed? I don’t think anyone down here would cry over her death. Actually, there might be a parade! There were a lot of parties down here when Adam died,” Lucifer says, snickering to himself.

Azrael rolls his eyes at him, unamused by his lack of care. Though he never liked Adam, reveling in someone’s death was never something he enjoyed.

Well… he can admit there are some deaths he didn’t feel too bad about. But he didn’t enjoy it either.

There was a bit of amusement seeing their faces when they were denied access to Heaven but he’d keep that to himself. He never understood the self righteous people who thought committing atrocities under the guise of his Father’s name would grant them access to paradise.

“Enough of this. I wanted to also speak to you about Esther,” Azrael says. Lucifer’s eyes narrow at him again.

“What about her?”

“Don’t worry about Michael,” Azrael says to him. Lucifer’s eyes widen. It’s certainly not what he’d expected. “Father has already given Esther the choice. He knows he can’t keep you apart. The only reason she hadn’t fallen sooner is a combination of your misunderstanding and Michael’s interference. Should she choose to fall now, Michael will have to accept it. I’ll see to it.”

“Why? Why help me? Michael won’t be happy with you about this.”

“Michael can whine all he likes. At the end of the day, what Father has already made his choice. There is nothing to protect her from. Maybe protect her heart, should anything go wrong, but I trust that you’ve learned from your mistakes and will do better this time around.”

“I did,” Lucifer says, voice filled with conviction. “I won’t lose her again.”

“See you to it that you don’t,” is all Azrael says about it.

They continue to chat and catch up with each other about miscellaneous things. Azrael makes a few jokes about their time working together, and Lucifer can admit that he misses it. Michael may have been the brother he looked up to most, but Azrael was definitely the one he’d been closest to besides Uriel and Cassiel.

Ramiel spent a lot of time with Michael, and Gabriel was always busy. The other Seraphim were cool, but besides Sera who’s sphere was so close to his, he’d never spent much time with them. There were other angels with the title of Archangel as well, like Raphael who’d taken his place as the Virtue of Humility, but he never was around often, and even now from the sound of it, he spends most of his time on Earth instead of Heaven.

There was also Jophiel, the archangel of art and beauty, but she was usually with Metatron, guarded by Seraphiel. Lucifer was always in some kind of trouble, he wasn’t going to risk going anywhere near the highest of angels, the Chief of the Seraphim.

Michael may be the leader of Heaven’s army and above even some of the Seraphim due to his status as Father’s right hand, but Seraphiel was beyond a doubt the one to truly fear.

Back then, Lucifer feared going near him. Now, he’s pretty sure he’d burn even if he so much as glanced in Seraphiel’s direction.

The more he thinks about it, the worse it gets. If Seraphiel was ever ordered to, his power could probably wipe all of hell from existence.

Which really makes you wonder, if Father had wanted to get rid of evil, why hadn’t he used Seraphiel’s power of purification. It likely would’ve eradicated the evil that found its way onto Earth. He might’ve still fallen for his actions but at least there likely wouldn’t have been as many sinners, if any at all.

But no, apparently because Lucifer fucked up, Earth had to suffer with him Hell wouldn’t truly be a punishment if he wasn’t surrounded by his own unwilling creation.

Sinners really were the worst. Just because he supports his daughter’s ideas doesn’t mean he agrees with everything she says.

Once Azrael leaves, thankfully dragging Uriel with him, he spends the rest of the day in the lobby listening to Charlie and Vaggie brainstorm new redemption ideas.

It’s become clear that it’s likely Sir Pentious’s willingness to sacrifice himself for others he cared for that lead to his redemption, but they couldn’t clearly recreate that scenario.

Azrael had mentioned the possibility of a retrial, though they’d have to find a way to do that without making them die a second time.

Cassiel would likely be in charge of that. He was always the best judge of character between all of them. Which just reminded him that he’d have to face more of his siblings.

Thousands of years and he still didn’t feel ready for this. It felt like he’d inevitably have to face Michael eventually and he really didn’t want to.

Once Charlie and Vaggie retire to their room, Lucifer moves to the bar. Husk looks nervous in his presence but doesn’t say much but ask what he wants to drink.

Lucifer doesn’t even know. He asks for a glass of red wine and ignores Husk’s look of contempt for the drink. It gets placed in front of him anyway in a nice glass.

He swirls the liquid around a bit, unsure if he even wants to drink it, and looks up at Husk.

“If you had the chance to be with someone you love, but at the risk of getting the shit beat out of you, would you do it?” He finally asks. Husk looks confused that he’s even being spoken to, looks around a bit, before sighing and pointing at him.

“First of all, I don’t know why you’re saying it like we don’t all know who this is about. Second of all, if you really love her, getting the shit beat out of you by your brother should be worth it,” Husk says to him. Lucifer laughs a bit at his words and takes a sip of his wine.

“If a beating is what it takes, I’ll take the beating, even though I could take Michael in a fight. Bastard just had a whole army with him last time. No, my problem is that it’s Michael.”

“Daddy issues. Brother issues. Mo- wait do you have a mother?” Husk asks curiously.

Lucifer shakes his head. “Nope. Dad created us all, though he used different things to do it, which is why not all of us are related. We all just kind of woke up into existence. We never really had a childhood the way mortals or Hellborns do. The Seven Virtues and a few other Archangels and I were all created from the same material, which is why we all consider each other siblings, even if we aren’t all the same type of angel. Esther was created from a different material,” he answers. He adds the last part because he knows Husk still wonders about Lucifer and Esther’s connection, seeing as so many of the older angels are related. It’s a valid question, though still one that makes his stomach recoil at the thought.

“Makes sense I guess. So it took a whole army to take you down, huh?”

“I mean, I had some people to help me, who do you think the other sins are? They weren’t virtues or seraphs, but they were angels,” Lucifer answers.

Husk chokes on the bottle of whiskey he’d started drinking from and coughs as he pounds on the bar top for air.

“The fucking Deadly Sins are angels too?!”

“Why do you think they’re so much stronger than everyone else?” Lucifer asks incredulously. “They’re angels who agreed with my ideas, were tried, found guilty, and followed me down here. Lilith and I were the first ones down, and I’m without a doubt the unfortunate creator of this shithole, but they were the next beings to inhabit Hell. Satan in particular was the first to join. The order of the rings is the order they arrived in. Creating the imps was his idea, which I obviously helped with since I’m the only one with the power of creation. It’s why they all worship him.”

“How come they don’t look like angels?”

“Because they gave up their angelic forms,” Lucifer answers him. “I didn’t always look like this, you know. I mean, close but not quite like this. My eyes were gold, my feathers were mostly white with a bit of gold too. And obviously I didn’t have the horns, or tail, or snake. Well, I was always able to turn into a snake but my halo changed from gold bands along my hat to the snake and apple after my fall as a reminder of what I did and what I’ve become as the first demon.”

“What the fuck?” Husk asks.

“Yeah it’s a lot,” Lucifer agrees.

Husk stares at him incredulously for a solid minute before chugging his bottle again. Lucifer laughs and drinks more of his wine. He doesn’t have to ask Husk to refill it, the man is already opening the wine as he sets the glass down.

“I thought my life was a shitshow, and I lost my soul to a sadistic sociopath,” Husk says as he finishes pouring Lucifer’s new glass.

“Yeah well, billions of years alive leaves room for a lot of shit to happen.”

Husk taps his bottle to Lucifer’s glass and raises it in a mock toast before drinking. Lucifer lifts his as well before taking another sip.

“So, a whole army?”

Lucifer laughs again. “Yeah, it didn’t go well. Some Seraphim had to get involved eventually. I’m not the King of Hell for nothing,” he says smugly, giving Husk a prideful smirk. “I wasn’t God’s favorite for nothing. I wasn’t the strongest of the angels, I’m pretty sure if Azrael wanted to he could end me, but I was up there. I was a Prince, I was in line to take over Heaven should Father ever step down, I was the one given the power of creation, even if everyone thought the power should’ve been Michael’s.”

“Then why did you never use all that power here? I mean, you’re the king, by no offense, you rarely do shit.”

“Because Hell is as much a punishment for me as it is for you. I never wanted to create this place, and quite honestly, I still couldn’t give less of a shit about the sinners down here. Lilith cared, she loved sinners, but she’s also technically the first sinner so I’m not surprised. It’s why I let her run things. I’m more than content to let the rest of them destroy themselves with their own made up problems. If I stepped in, I wouldn’t be a king, I’d be a dictator. Hell might end up being a bit more peaceful but only because everyone would live in fear of stepping out of line. No, it’s much better to let you all live your lives as you see fit. At least then you’d have your freedom.”

Husk looks like he wants to ask more, even though he looks a bit more wary of Lucifer’s presence in front of him. Lucifer doesn’t blame him. If he had his way, Hell really would be much different. Overlords like Alastor would have no real power. But Lucifer gave humanity the gift of free will for a reason. If he led the way he wanted to, for his own peace of mind, there would be no point in that free will. He’d take it away from them as quickly as he gave it. Maybe it’s a bit sadistic, maybe becoming a demon truly did change him, but his hatred for humanity hasn’t changed in years. It isn’t about the change now just because he’s grown a soft spot for the ones in this hotel.

A knock at the door is what stops their conversation. They look between each other and the door before Lucifer stands to answer it.

He doesn’t expect to see Esther on the other side, but his eyes widen and his cheeks flush at her appearance. She smiles down at him, as beautiful as ever even in the lowlights of Hell’s reddish nights.

“May I come in?” She asks. Lucifer nods wordlessly and steps away to let her in. She nods in thanks and does so, waiting until he’s closed the door to continue. “Azrael told me of his, Uriel’s, and Gabriel’s visit, as well as Gabriel’s message. I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”

He shakes his head. “Not your fault that Michael’s an ass. But uh- not that I’m not happy to see you, but what are you doing here? I thought he gave you some annoying tasks or whatever to keep you from coming.”

“Oh, that,” she says, rolling her eyes and making a shoo-ing gesture with her hand. “I finished that. Michael underestimates my work ethic. And I’m quite tired of his games. I’m here to stay for a few days, if that’s alright. I want to work a bit more with Charlie on her plans for redemption.”

Lucifer’s heart warms at her words. He isn’t sure what makes him happier; the fact that she’s willing to go against Michael or the fact that she wants to spend time with Charlie.

He thinks back to Uriel’s words, about it being cruel to make Esther be around Charlie. It’s been on his mind all day, despite Azrael telling him not to worry about it. Hearing Esther say now that she wants to spend time with his daughter fills him with a warmth he wasn’t prepared for.

She truly is perfect for him in every way.

“Just here for Charlie?” He asks coyly, smirking up at her. She laughs at his antics.

“Perhaps I can be convinced to spend time with others,” she teases back.

“Should I expect a certain someone to come down here looking for you?”

She knows he’s talking about Michael, and shakes her head. “I left a nice little note for him, and told the others where I was going so he should have no reason to. Now, it’s been a long day for the both of us, I’m sure. Could I trouble you for a room for the night?”

“My room?” He asks, despite knowing what her answer will be. As he predicts, she gives him a blank stare, no longer as amused.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I still haven’t gotten my dance.”

He grabs her hand, looking over to the bar where Husk is still watching, and nods to him before leading her to the elevator.

He takes her over to his side of the hotel, up to his tower. He doesn’t take her to his room, but to the closest room to his. Lucifer leads her in, shows her the amenities, and stands there as she moves around the room.

He should leave, he knows he should, but his feet feel stuck to the ground.

“Did you need anything? Do you have enough pillows? Or blankets? I can get some more for you, if you need? Or some books maybe? I know you liked to read before bed and-“

“Lucifer,” she says, cutting him off. “Something tells me that’s not really why you’re still here.”

She moves closer to him and holds his hands in hers. It steadies his thoughts, but not enough.

“I don’t know if I have the words for what I want to say,” he replies.

She smiles softly at him. “So don’t speak,” she says.

Had it been anyone else, he’d take it as being told to shut up. Be he knows her, and she knows him, and he smiles gratefully and snaps his fingers.

The lights dim and a clone of his own appears with a guitar. She looks between him and the clone with a skeptical look, though amused all the same. He moves on hand to her hip, the other still held tightly in hers as he lifts them. Her other hand that isn’t in his moves to his shoulder without needing to be told.

“When I look into your eyes, it’s like watching the night sky, or a beautiful sunrise, well there’s so much they hold,” he sings, leading her into a waltz. She follows his lead effortlessly as they move, his clone singing lightly with him in the background.

“And just like them old stars, I see that you’ve come so far, to be right where you are; how old is your soul?”

She chuckles at his last line, knowing he’s even older than her. Not by much, granted, but still. Seeing the smile on her face makes him happy.

“Well, I won’t give up on us, even if the skies get rough. I’m giving you all my love, I’m still looking up.”

He twirls her away from him, watching as her other hand stretches out and she pulls against his hold, trusting that he’ll keep her steady and pull her back in. He does just that, bringing them closer again, this time with his hand resting on her shoulder blade.

“And when you’re needing your space, to do some navigating. I’ll be here patiently waiting, to see what you find,” he sings to her. He moves them to dance side by side, his arm around her waist and letting her lean her weight on his, before he moves in front of her again to list her by her waist and twirl her.

“‘Cause even the stars, they burn. Some even fall to the earth. We’ve got a lot to learn, God knows we’re worth it! No, I won’t give up.”

They move back into a standard waltz as he continues, hoping he’s conveying everything he can, as well as he can, for her sake. It almost pains him to mention his Father, doesn’t want to give his Father any credit in this, but she wouldn’t exist without him and if he’s allowing her down here to be with him, then it must mean something. He doesn’t want to think of the possibility of his Father not hating him anymore, not now, not with her in his arms, but he’ll allow this, if only so she understands how fully committed he is.

“I don't wanna be someone who walks away so easily, I'm here to stay and make the difference that I can make! Our differences, they do a lot to teach us how to use the tools and gifts we got, yeah, we got a lot at stake! And in the end, you're still my friend, at least we did intend for us to work, we didn't break, we didn't burn! We had to learn how to bend without the world caving in. I had to learn what I got, and what I'm not and who I am!”

He twirls her again as he sings the last note, staring into her beautiful dark blue eyes that shine back at him with an intensity as strong as fireworks.

He pushes her away as she spins, moving forward to hold both her hands again as they move around each other, arms coming over their hands and around each other's shoulders. He moves her so her back is to his chest as they sway a bit together.

“I won’t give up on us, even if the skies get rough. I’m giving you all my love, I’m still looking up. I’m still looking up!”

He dips her a bit, staring down at her before raising her again to lift her by her waist once more. She holds his shoulders as he does so before he lowers her back to the floor and spins her under his arm once more.

“Well I won’t give up on us! God knows I’m tough, he knows! We got a lot to learn! God knows we’re worth it!”

He presses closer to him, moving them back to the end of their waltz, hand resting on her hip again as he leads them gently around the room.

“I won’t give up on us, even if the skies get rough. I’m giving you all my love, I’m still looking up.”

He lets both hands fall to her hips before moving them around her waist. Esther’s own move to his shoulders, clasped behind his neck. His clone has disappeared and the music has faded as they continue to sway, foreheads pressed together and eyes closed.

Lucifer doesn’t want to let go, and Esther doesn’t seem ready to let him go either.

“Music has always been one of your better talents,” she says, breaking the peace and quiet. He groans a bit and pinches her side. She squeals a bit but laughs.

“Don’t act like you can’t sing. You just choose not to,” he says, resting his head on her shoulder. She takes his hat and tosses it across the room, using one hand to run her hands through his hair.

“I much prefer hearing your voice,” she replies. “Maybe next time I’ll join you.”

He lifts his head, a sparkle in his eyes. “Next time?”

“I told you I’d be staying for a few days, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he agrees, a giddiness at the idea of it. “I can give you a tour of hell. Not much to see, no where near as beautiful as Heaven, but that’s really just the Pride Ring because all the sinners are stuck here. We can go anywhere. Gluttony’s Ring is especially nice. So is Envy, but I’d much rather deal with Bee than Lev.”

“Slow down there,” Esther says, interrupting him. “I’m here to help Charlie, remember?”

“Right, yeah, that too,” he replies quickly. Esther chuckles and moves them to sit on the couch in front of her bed, facing the fireplace. He makes a motion towards it and it lights with a warm flame.

“How about we sit for a while and you can tell me about the others,” she asks.

He nods and they sit close, hands held together over her lap as he tells her about the other rings and the Sins that rule them.

He tells stories of each one, the good and more annoying ones, anything to keep her entertained. In response she tells him about her time in Primum Mobile. She hasn’t been back to their Sphere since his fall, something she seems to regret now, but she tells him about the other Archangels and Seraphs, and the new stories about them. She tells him more about Emily, the Seraphim of Joy that Charlie has befriended.

Time passes without either of them noticing. He isn’t sure which one of them falls asleep first, pressed together on the couch. Her head rests on his shoulder and his over hers as they sit there, exhausted but content.

The position is awkward and his body feels stiff when he wakes, but he hadn’t slept that well since before his fall.

—————————————————

Hurray! Another chapter! As always, I apologize if there’s any spelling or grammar errors.

Fun fact! While reading up on facts about the Archangels for this, Azrael was definitely the most interesting, and I think that’s why I like writing him the most, though I’m loving Uriel too. I’m headcanoning Azrael as the oldest of Lucifer’s siblings, because when I was reading about him, it said that not only is he from the third Heaven, but it’s believe he had about four thousand wings. And with life always comes death, which is why I see him as being the oldest of the siblings, though not the oldest angel.

I’ve also seen a lot of back and forth about whether or not Michael and Lucifer are twins, and most things said no, they aren’t even brothers. But, I like to think that even though they aren’t twins, as I’ve made Lucifer here the youngest of his siblings (and as the youngest of my siblings, I feel like this is accurate) I feel like when Lucifer was created, he was created in Michael’s image, which is why I think they’d look the most alike. Though their hair colors are different, I think Lucifer styles his hair the way he does because it’s similar to Michael’s. And as I mentioned I believe Lucifer’s eyes and wings would’ve been gold before his fall, I think Michael’s are the same. Technically all the siblings are royalty, but I like to think Michael and Lucifer were the favorites, Lucifer in particular as he’s the only one of his siblings who is a Seraphim, the highest rank of angels. So as always, I’ve included a little doodle of what I think a few of his siblings would look like! I also drew a more detailed picture of Esther but I’ll save that for next chapter.

Let me know if you guys like the inclusion of music! If not, I’m okay with removing it. I can make the story work both ways, but I wanted to try something new (and I’ve already collected a playlist of potential songs).

Thanks again for reading! Please let me know what you think! See you next chapter! ❤️

Taglist: @dreamcatcher62 @art3misa635 @cimadreamer

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