#and you know i think Fusataro and Rage would understand that

[west-tokyo-incidents]

Paresse watched with only a touch more than passive observation, as Mizho trained.

The rapid thump-thud of her shins against the dummies and the crack-snap of her cane, too.

He shifted his weight. She was a little off-beat. Rusty. Muscle memory that still needs to be fine tuned.

She pushes herself too hard. She nearly falls over when her adrenaline fades. He has to carry her back to her bedroom and bandage the places where sharp shinbone broke through fragile, young skin.

She regards the gentle and intimate actions with impassive boredom, but he sees the way her shoulders relax just a bit.

Paresse smiles to himself where she can't see it. He's so glad to have found her again. And he thinks she's happy to see him again, too.

She's different. Younger, a bit more filled out, more fragile. But it's her. She says she doesn't care what he calls her. And sometimes 'lieutenant' slips out without thinking. But he thinks 'she' fits her quite nicely.

It's not something he would have thought of if asked nearly a hundred years ago. He would have said survival suited Michel's face best. He wouldn't have tolerated the thought of his master carefully sliding eyeliner onto her eyes, even after remembering who she was. It wasn't a matter of keeping up a mask or trying to be someone she wasn't. Michel... Mizho... she wouldn't bother putting in that kind of effort for any reason other than her own satisfaction. She genuinely seemed pleased with herself when she got it right.

Though she has a terrible limp for a few days, and eventually has to get crutches, she keeps going. The crutches become her new rifle, and eventually her scythe. After a year, she brandishes them as lethally as a sword.

She still goes too hard training, but she always did.

After Vice's return, after their first full meeting, she sits in silence with him in her bedroom. Her on her bed, him on his usual place on the floor. She asks him if he still thinks she's the same person.

He never even considered she would be uncertain about that. Of course she is. Life's just easier now.

Even if she wears skirts and paints her nails? Even if she writes with a pink pen and dots her kanji with little skulls and hearts? Things that she never could have known she would have liked before.

He just nods. She's his master, she's still the same brutal and deadly person she was. She just gets to kick-box with a skirt that twirls pretty when she breaks a man's nose.

She gnaws on the lollipop in her mouth and sits up. She's looking at his lap. And she makes a brief comment about it being cold. It's a lie. He knows it's a lie. He leans back and moves his arms out of the way for her to come sit there, like she used to.

He marvels to himself, internally, at how small she is now. But he dares not say anything, wrapping his arms around her and setting his chin on her head. It's a little tighter of a curl than he would admit out loud. But he knew she'd also never admit to pressing into it.

They are sloth. Apathy. They do nothing that doesn't benefit them, they care for no one but themselves, they do only what they please. Perhaps it makes them weaker as an evil douji-master pair to care for one another. Perhaps it's foolish to run his fingers through her hair and whisper how much he missed her.

But he doesn't care.

That's what makes him what he is.

[west-tokyo-incidents]

Service huffed as the door shut behind Paresse, who'd vaguely muttered a half assed promise not to hurt Fusataro. They both knew neither he nor Vice actually would, but...

She put her hands on her hips and sighed heavily.

"Bad dogs..."

She turned back to look at Rage. She knew that tone of voice. He was overwhelmed. She immediately clicked into caretaker mode and walked over to where he was sitting. His arms folded over his chest and legs crossed. He looked up at her as she sat down.

"Yes, they are, but it's okay. No one's gonna get hurt. Are you okay?"

He shrugged. He was easily overwhelmed by too many things happening at once and this was absolutely beyond his threshold. It was a... Kind-of regression. His sub-mode had become the way he dealt with things like this.

At least he wasn't angry like the other two. Rage, as unfortunate as it was, might actually hurt someone.

She gently urged him to lay in her lap, starting to pet his head, "What's on your mind, pup?"

"I don't know, I guess... I'm confused? I don't know why Kia..."

Service hums, showing that she's listening and understanding, "She's a smart girl," Fusataro definitely had a history with... Well, the slimy things music producers do, but, "and Fussa-chan has no reason to take advantage of her. I'm sure she's just as worried about how this'll look."

Rage made a face only she and the boys could read. Taking a moment to process something. Then he slowly nodded.

"If it's anything to worry about, you know Paresse will be the first to let us know. Did you text anyone else?"

"...not yet."

"Hm. I'm sure Paresse has probably already told Mizho..." She picks up her phone to text the blonde, still petting Rage's head, "Do you want anything, pup?"

Rage just rolled over and pressed his face into Service's stomach. She laughed softly, "Okay, okay. But don't forget to say something if you want something." She leaned back on the couch.

Eventually she would have her pup curled up in her lap, head in the crook of her neck and arms around her. The boys would return with Vice still looking upset, but Paresse calmed down significantly enough to have gotten him under control.

Vice huffed and went over to shove himself into the cuddling while Paresse sighed at him.

Service raised an eyebrow at Paresse.

"Kia just about threw him on his ass. Again." He shook his head and sat in a nearby chair, "...She better know what she's doing."

"We gotta trust her." Service nods.

"I do." Paresse huffed, "And I trust Fusataro, too, after seeing them. It's just... Odd. I mean, I can see it? But--"

"No one expected it." She ran her fingers through Vice's hair as he checked in with Rage, pretending like he wasn't listening in.

Paresse just sighed and nodded. Then he sat up, "You want me to make food or something?"

Service could see how he was fidgeting, he needed something to do with his hands. Rage perked up in her arms at the mention of food.

"A little early for dinner, but I think we could handle having a late night snack later." She nodded.

As Paresse got up, Rage jumped up to follow, still in pup-mode and eager to help, and Vice trailed after. She sighed. She loved her pups, but she was glad she had Paresse around to split their attention. She got up and went to watch, too, over the kitchen island.

[west-tokyo-incidents]

Somnophilia cw//

Since I've vaguely decided that douji don't really sleep, they just hibernate or go unconscious in battle, I feel like Paresse, being the douji of Sloth, would have a really kind of strange and fucked up relationship with the concept of sleep.

And it starts with Michel. It starts with him complaining about a bad dream or an annoying one or something and Paresse asking what it's like. And it's hard to explain sleep to someone who's never actually slept. He learns pretty quickly that Michel doesn't like it when he's caught staring at him while he sleeps, at least at first. But Paresse gets good at figuring out when Michel fully loses awareness and when he gets it back. It becomes part of how Paresse falls for him. He's so beautiful when he sleeps. It gets easier when he and Michel get closer, when Michel sleeps in his arms, to run his fingers along his skin and watch the little ways he reacts.

He becomes something of a terror as he makes his way towards Japan, tales of a strange, tall monster who watches you while you sleep.

Once he's in the present day and reunited with Mizho, he doesn't get quite as weird about it with her as he did Michel. He doesn't quite understand why (it's cause u like dick, dummy), but does still end up watching her often. It doesn't tend to crop up much, except when a certain other douji is knocked unconcious.

And Rage hates it like nothing else. Waking up abruptly to Paresse standing over him or, worse, with his hands on him. Fusataro can tell its because he's infatuated with Rage and won't do any harm, but Rage thinks it's hands down the weirdest thing about him. What he hates most of all is how it makes him think particularly unholy thoughts about what Paresse could do while he's down and out--even if it doesn't actually ever happen.

When they actually end up together--secretly, of course, can't have Vice knowing--Paresse tries to not bring it up to the point where Rage has to be the one to say something. To ask, probably through a hastily sent text so he doesn't have to say it out loud, for him to actually do something.

Kink fucking unlocked for Paresse because he'd never actually considered it as a very sexual thing but now he absolutely is.

And ofc when they become human it continues because uh, yeah.

[west-tokyo-incidents]

"...he's gone?"

CWs; blood, death, actually fairly light on the warnings this time.

---

Rage stares. Not at his sire, but past her.

She nods, "Michel and I didn't expect him to just suddenly leave. He's been nothing but obediant since being turned..." She chews on the end of her pipe, clearly frustrated, "But yes. He's gone. Out of my sphere of influence before I had time to react and recall him."

Rage whimpers. It's not a sound she likes hearing from him. And she reaches gently for him.

She'd been expecting this, in some way. She knew Paresse had been using her youngling to get back at his master. As he hesitantly accepts her offer and lets her embrace him, she softly pets his hair.

He'd been so, so in love. He'd risked everything for the hunter's apprentice. He was a youngling who thought he'd gotten so lucky as to find his bride and even get him turned. Had promised him eternity. He had stolen from his own sire's flock to feed him when thralls weren't enough and even made up the whole plan to push the blame off of the coven. If Paresse had asked, Rage probably would have even run with him.

But he left Rage behind.

She softly comforted him as he wept. Turned and pressed her face against his shoulder. And paused.

There was something acrid clinging to him. Like wet swamp earth soiled by a dead body.

Teeth against her neck as if she were mortal again.

... oh, what has her poor youngling been getting into...?

Gently, as his tears dried up, she pulled him away... and put her hands on his shoulder.

"Rage... my beloved little bitten..." There's a cautionary tone to her voice, and she speaks in Japanese. Any thralls in earshot unable to understand her, "Do not go dealing with lords of our kind."

He sniffles softly, "What do you mean...?"

"I can smell that demon on your clothing. Golden eyes and a voice like blood in a furnace."

Realization seems to dawn on him.

"Do not go where I cannot protect you. You are not a fledgling and you are on the cusp of maturity but... promise me."

He opens his mouth... and then closes it again. A long pause stretches out, and then, "I can't promise that, because I can't lie to you."

Her throat tightens. After a beat, she nods, "Then promise me this instead; never think you will not be welcomed back here. I answer to no lord, my coven is my own and no other. I sired you for a reason. I wanted you by my side until you could create a coven of your own. I mean that for all of my coven."

He gives her just the smallest possible smile and nods, "I can promise that."

"Good."

---

Michel sat. In his room in the church. Alone. No partner, even turned, lackadaisically lounging on his bed to poke fun at him. No one sitting next to him as he slowly cleans his weapons, asking him stupid questions about why he doesn't verbally pray over the holy tools.

It was worse than when he had just vanished.

When he'd vanished, he had left everything behind. His horse, his weapons. It was easy to say he had been taken or planned to return.

Paresse had taken full advantage of him and Fusataro being wrapped up in one another, made another kill, took his horse, and ran.

Fusataro had tried to track him, flew after him for a whole night... but Michel had trained him well. Hunters know how to mask their scent from a vampire. How to hide and make false leads.

And Fusataro had lost all traces of him within just a few hours of flight, but still tried. Chittered deep into the night, hoping to hear the mere days-turned fledgling call back.

There was no doubt. Paresse had fled, with no intent of return. Took his weapons, his mare, and all.

Slowly, Michel lowers the barrel of his rifle and examines the etchings. A prayer for a swift death for the damned sits there. A prayer that a bullet flies fast and true.

Paresse is going to get himself killed. He doesn't doubt that in the coming weeks he will receive word that his partner, his old lover, has been killed by a hunter.

... he has to tell his superiors. He has to tell Kia. He can't say he knows Paresse is turned, or he will be condemned for not killing him on the spot. He puts the rifle back together, refusing to acknowledge that his hands are shaking. He drops a few small parts.

Eventually, it's a simple letter. Paresse had threatened to desert his post as hunter, blasphemed and been punished for it, and then made good on his threat.

Kia will recognize it as a warning that a fledgling is on the loose. A fledgling with knowledge and use of a hunter's arsenal.

To the church, it's a letter they've been anticipating getting for years.

He wonders if they'll send him a new student.

It hurts him to remember that he'd wanted Paresse as his permanent partner and to stop accepting apprentices.

Still, he seals the letters and sends them on their way.

---

There's a chill over Notre-Dame. In the uppermost floors, one can see their own breath. In the late months of summer, it was very, very strange. In the dark of the night, something gold shines softly, even with the moon new and dark. A pelt of fur reflecting, faintly, what little light is to be had. A single blue eye watches torches below light and douse as humans hurry through the pitch black night.

The thing seems to fall forward, seamlessly and soundlessly gliding downwards.

A human feels a cold breeze and looks around with his torch lifted. Nothing.

Talons suddenly collide with his body. No sound but the ringing crack of his skull on the cobble stones. The torch clattering to the ground. And he's gone, as if a mouse in the clutches of an owl.

His body drops onto a spire of the great cathedral. Impaleing him face down. The silence drops next to him and becomes a small woman. She balances across the sharp peak of the roof, following it to the spire. Her hands clasp around his head and she watches his unconscious body weakly gargling blood out from his nose and mouth.

He will not be found for most of the day. Not until a priest, looking for God, looks out the window and up towards the sky, and sees ravens picking at what's left of him.