based on the platonic jester + adopted mc plot i posted a few days ago;
byr: i once again wrote this in my first language before using a translator, though i did try to edit some errors and do some corrections, it might still be a little confusing to read, sorry about that!
It was such a pathetic creature.
Tiny, fragile, with short limbs and poor eyesight. Its cries easily betrayed its location to any being with frivolous intentions. It didn't even have teeth or spines to protect its plump body.
It was such a pitiful creature.
That was the first thought that crossed his mind when he finally convinced himself to pick up the small body wrapped in blankets and hold it in his hands. The situation was laughable, the indecision in his chest, the questions swirling in his mind: why was he surprised? Why did he find it strange that a human would abandon one of its calves?
The years that had become decades of countless proofs of the cruelty of those animals had not been in vain. Of course not. They didn't become vaguely formed memories when he closed his eyes to concentrate. Everything was still there: the screams, the blows, the blood, the laughter, the cold that burned his skin, the heat that made him faint under the sun.
The hunger. The starvation.
He had seen it all, and there was still much more to witness. So why was he so fascinated by a life that could be extinguished in a single bite?
It was a disgusting creature.
Yet, it fit perfectly in his hands; long, sharp claws settled the small thing that continued to squirm as it raised its soft limbs, trying to reach the sky.
A sky polluted by the city's lights and stench. A starless night.
Everything about that situation was laughable.
But he would be lying if he said he wasn't consumed by curiosity.
When he brought it inside, no one intended to question him. They had no reason to, much less a convincing argument that would make them go against the experiment he was proposing. Pets were usually more adorable when they were young, after all. They could do the same thing when they grew up: leave them by the side of the road in the same box they arrived in, abandon them, devour them.
Or perhaps⊠train them.
One starless night, around a table where everyone had eaten their fill, the dreams of a human cub were watched over by monsters.
The days turned into months, and soon years arrived.
The little monster then grew fangs, but they lacked the necessary sharpness to share their favorite food with them.
They grew claws, but they were so short and thin that they never learned how to defend themselves from the strays.
They found their voice, which soon began calling the monsters by name. But when these returned the greeting, they always used a different word, for they were forbidden to give the weakest one a name.
Each voice had its own way to call. Once called bell; then called turtle; next morning, sprout; at dusk, stowaway; and by bedtime, little monster.
But it was alright, since they were taught to never care for labels nor origins. What a useless bunch of questions.
And yet, despite everythingâthe covered faces, the sharp words, and the caring gesturesâthe little beast never lost the habit of babbling incoherently to get attention.
They talked about their dreams, the shapes of the clouds, the smell of food, their favorite color, their fear of thunder, and how high they could reach when they climbed onto the table.
They were such a lifely creature. One that had long since outgrown his hands. Not longer able to sleep within his claws.
Their limbs were longer now, their eyes shone when they spotted him from afar. They were still tiny, still weak, but at least they could follow him everywhere and freely voice their wants and needs.
Of course, that must be it. The only reason for their attachment was that they were a pet, a brilliant little thing that had learned to recognize their food source, a way to ensure sustenance.
How intelligent, just like the rest of them, simply ensuring their own survival and using their pathetic, adorable appearance to do so.
Because no matter how many lies and half-truths he told, it was impossible to completely erase their human nature. It was all a contract he himself had accepted for the sake of entertainment.
Yes, that must be the reason. It was the most logical explanation.
If only they were aware of the great danger such acts posed to appeal to his pity. If only they knew how exposed and vulnerable they were every time he helped them fix their hair in the morning, how easy it would be to make a deep cut in such a thin throat. If only they could imagine the consequences of letting their guard down, leaving all their vital organs exposed every time they laid back over his lap to listen to him read.
They were too naive of a creature. Not designed to survive on their own. But how lucky of them to be found. How grateful should they be.
"This is you, but I didn't have more purple, so I made you orange."
The playful voice beside him brought him back to the present, and a feeling of alertness he thought he'd buried long ago made him briefly close his fingers in a barely noticeable tic. The orange light in the sky was gentle, tickling his skin softly, and the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon until the shadows of the tents and signs at the circus started to lengthen, covering his body and the small figure that was drawing at his feet, belly on the ground. He felt he should reprimand them for getting their clothes dirty, for filling their hair with dirt, and for staining their hands with paint, but he no longer had the energy to give another order.
The little beast then lifted its face from the ground, showing off a smile missing a couple teeth. Blunt fangs, short claws, sadly docile.
based on the platonic jester + adopted mc plot i posted a few days ago;
byr: i once again wrote this in my first language before using a translator, though i did try to edit some errors and do some corrections, it might still be a little confusing to read, sorry about that!
No one knew exactly how long the little beast had developed the habit of climbing any elevated surface within reach of their tiny hands.
The Doctor had referred to it as âa primitive instinct inherent in their species,â once vaguely mentioning the function of the little toes on humans as a vital foothold for climbing and escaping their former predators, as if height somehow provided them with security. It was an absurd concept, really; such a hypothesis ignored the existence of predators just as agile climbers, after all.
But if that were the real reason, it would at least be a more logical explanation than the usual answer the weakest one gave whenever asked, âI like being tall!â
At first, it was the circus decorations, the crates they used to transport props for their shows, the rows of stacked chairs, the exposed beams at the back of the stands. They were small challenges, stimulating enough to keep the little monster occupied without requiring supervision from any of the others.
But sooner rather than later, the boxes became the signs at the main entrance, and their biggest challenge had gone from a simple pile of chairs to the tops of the cargo trucks. This provoked in the clawed ones a kind of terror they hadn't known existed in the first place.
The panic of seeing a child in a dangerous situation.
It didn't take long for him to realize the problem before them: this was a creature so energetic and elusive that they were incapable of keeping their feet on the ground and, in turn, was trying to find a way to adapt to their home designed for giants.
Their guardians corrected them many times.
They reprimanded them countless more.
It was vulgar behavior, two of them argued. It was dangerous, the other two tried to explain. But the last one simply encouraged them to find a place so high that they would make everyone else look like ants from the top.
Climbing on objects was forbidden.
So the little monster began to climb them.
Like an adorable parasite, they carefully chose their host depending on the day's tasks. Some were more cooperative than others, for obvious reasons.
Pierrot preferred to give them a piggyback ride, fearing the possibility of hurting them with his horns if he made a wrong turn of his neck.
The Doctor and Harlequin found it more convenient to let them sit on their shoulders. That way, they had their hands free and could continue with their tasks without any hindrance. They also made use of the extra pair of little hands that helped them carry small objects or trinkets that could easily get lost.
On very few occasions, Jester allowed them to sit on his lap, while he read peacefully, and the noisy, restless beast was mesmerized by something as simple as a coloring book. Very occasionally, he'd exchange words with the weakest one whenever the latter asked his opinion on the pile of meaningless scribbles they drew.
Ticket Taker, on the other hand, was the one who allowed the least amount of contact. Whether it was letting them hold the hem of his coat to walk beside him or taking their tiny hand during their calligraphy lessons, the idea of ââletting such an⊠unpredictable creature get close sounded like a bad joke for him.
Yet, no matter how they were held, the little monster always kept that naive smile on their face, âWhen I grow up, Iâll carry you instead!â
Lately, Iâve been taking a lot of notes about the gameâs backstory it kind of helps me keep the charactersâ behavior consistent, if that makes sense to you. So I thought Iâd share some fun facts!
About the circus travels:
Jester and Ticket Taker always keep an itinerary with the circusâs next stops (though they do take suggestions from the others). Theyâre the ones who handle most of the research. So, how does it work when the circus moves to a new place?
If they donât speak the local language, they learn it. They spend some time just studying and observing the new culture before setting up the show, and each of them has a role in that process.
This is usually when they can stay in hotels/inns (which I mentioned before) to relax and do some field research.
Hereâs what each one does in those first few days:
Jester has an incredible talent for languages. In the first days, he gathers books and newspapers to start learning before he passes it on to the others.
Ticket Taker visits local places in more casual clothes he learns best by observing and interacting.
The Doctor is usually the least seen in public, and if he goes out, itâs only at night. At first, he just wanders around the hotel and nearby areas until heâs familiar with the new environment.
Pierrot goes shopping for supplies, usually dressed casually, often accompanied by Ticket Taker or Harlequin.
Harlequin practically roams through the whole city. He enjoys watching the daily routine of the place and testing out what he can do before returning to the hotel.
Iâm not sure if you guys enjoy these kinds of fun facts, but here they are.
Ok so we all know what the freak circus cast has gone through in the past and they most likely have nightmares about it.
So what if one night they have a nightmare and wake us up? Reader sees how distresst they are and comfort them. Like holding them, saying resuring things and/or kissing thier head. Just trying to calm them down.
Mabey we see the scars and if the boys are ok with it, lightly trace them.
Tags/notes: gn!reader. Heavy angst. Descriptions of nightmares, distress, blood, flesh, major injury, drowning, abuse, cannibalism, guilt, scars. Headcanon format. Mildly edited, as always. It's raining while I write this hehehe.
Pierrot
Pierrot didn't sleep all that much around you. Not out of discomfort, quite the opposite, actually. He much preferred to watch you as you slept soundly in his arms, right where nobody could get you. You were aware of it, and even though you've tried many a time to get him to sleep instead of just watching you, Pierrot assured you that he was happy to do the latter.
So, it comes as a great surprise when you awake in the middle of the night to claws digging into your skin.
You're half-way in a dream when you find yourself nearly unable to breathe against Pierrot chest. He always hugs you tightly when you both turn in for the night, but he's clutching you like you might dissolve if he lets go. He's shaking, his breathing is ragged, and you can feel his heart fluttering against your cheek. When you wince and call his name, he doesn't seem to hear you.
Pierrot can't hear you, not over the echo of the screams from his nightmare. Usually, he can deal with his nightmares well on his own, with only having to go to one of his companions on particularly bad ones. But this nightmare? It's almost too much for him.
The blood still felt so warm in his hands, and the sickeningly tender texture of flesh lingered in his teeth as he ground them. The memories of the whips, the slashes, the beatings, the chains, they were nothing compared to the massacre he was subjected to. The worst part? Not only did he see her, but Pierrot saw you.
He had seen her there, little more than a few scraps of flesh and bloodied bones, but you... you were still alive. The others were gone, he was standing over you, bathed in darkness in a body so different than the one you've come to recognize, while you were gasping for breath. Your blood was pooling beneath you, your throat was nearly ripped out by teeth, your limbs were weakened by bites, and the scent of your sweet flesh was making Pierrot want to vomit.
The sight was so real, so convincing, that it took you reaching a hand up to his face to snap him out of his panic. His eyes, at first all wild with fear, dilated when he looked down to see your sleepy, living, face.
You tell him to breathe with you, that things were okay, that he was safe. After several minutes of shaky breaths and calm words of encouragement, Pierrot's claws, now stained with your blood, retract from your skin.
They leave behind small punctures, but he'll be sure to kiss at them in the morning. For now, he takes deep breaths as you guide him to lay in your chest as his heartbeat slows bit by bit.
"Bad dream?" You ask as you stroke his hair with featherlight pressure. His arms are curled around your middle as he presses his face against your collar. Pierrot nods quietly, breathing you in while his hands tremble. "Do you want to talk about it?" Your fingers brush against the scars torn into the back of his neck. Pierrot flinches at the touch, and you immediately pull back to the top of his head.
"... No. I'd rather not, my love. I don't want to think of it again. You can go back to sleep; I'll be fine right here. So long as you don't go away..."
You nod and hum noncommittedly, though you don't stop your touches. Between pets, you press light kisses to Pierrot's head and temple while murmuring soft praises. As much as he trembles within your hold, you can feel him slowly relax with each tender kiss.
He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, and he can feel his stomach lurch every now and again with lingering stress. That nightmare shook him up greatly, far more than what he was used to. he can only hope it won't come back any time soon.
Harlequin
As much as he says otherwise, Harlequin is not okay after all that happened. He doesn't think about it all that often, but it still affects him whether he, or anyone else, notices or not.
Nightmares were no new thing to him, though he didn't get them all that often. In fact, half the time they were about random things that he hardly remembered when he woke up. When Harlequin slept with you at his side, he dreamed a lot more, but hardly did he nightmare. Of course, "hardly" doesn't mean never.
Whenever Harlequin has a problem or inconvenience, no matter how mild it is, he makes it your problem as well by lamenting. However, when it comes to nightmares, you won't hear a peep from him. Whether he's conscious of it or not, Harlequin doesn't believe that someone as lovely and tender-hearted as you needs to be bothered by someone as insufficient as him. He's a big boy, he can handle it on his own, therefore you shall not wake up when his eyes become glassy after a bad dream.
Harlequin is not worth the effort of comforting, especially when it's from a nightmare of all things. So what if he feels as though he is burning from the inside out? Nothing you can do about it. And if he's torn between moving away from you and pulling you closer, that doesn't need to be your problem to fix.
But the longer he stews in his pain alone, half-covered, laying on his back beside you, the longer the fear creeps into him. The shadowed sights of metal bars surrounding him, the sting of shackles drawing blood from his thinned wrists, the memories of burning, twisting, all-consuming hunger... it was like he was back there again. In the old circus, under the rule of the man who, in the dream, had taken on your form.
Harlequin knows through and through that you'd never hurt him on purpose. You're too sweet for that, too weak, which only brings upon more guilt. How dare his own mind work against him to envision you in such a way; has he gone insane? Yet, as Harlequin's dream carried him away from the cooling pile of leftover flesh, he found himself and the others tearing into you like heathens.
He doesn't realize he's crying until he feels your bed-warmed hand dry his temple. Harlequin flinches hard and grabs your wrist on instinct, though regrets it instantly when he hears your surprised gasp. With a sigh, Harlequin releases you and turns over to face you. The dimmed light of the rising sun just barely allows you to see his tears before he pulls you to his neck and tucks the blanket around you.
"It's still early. Close your eyes, dear one, and go back to sleep."
Your hand mindlessly moves to trace the edges of Harlequin's scars that ladened his back. You feel the skin ripple under your touch, but he doesn't move away from the contact. The faded marks of years-old lashes are deeply carved under his shirt, deep enough to almost feel like grooves. Sleep overtakes you soon enough, and as Harlequin holds you close and watches the sunlight glow through the curtains, he doesn't move your hand away. His heart beats above yours, steady, though a little slower than before.
Ticket Taker
Mr. Spreadsheet's here is almost always the last to go to bed. He's the one who goes around, checking locks, turning off lights, and writing up the last of his daily notes before heading back to his tent. Ticket Taker doesn't mind it; if anything, he prefers it this way. Compared to the others, he doesn't do many/any physical acts that he needs ample rest for, and therefore, in his eyes, doesn't need as much sleep. Plus, he gets some alone, quiet time, to unwind and walk about while doing smaller tasks before often finding you in his tent already.
Most times you're fast asleep in his bed, and others you're half awake, waiting up for him. If you're in his bed before him, awake or not, Ticket Taker can feel his shoulders loosen at the mere sight of you. How dare you look all cute and soft in his bed. Despicable.
If you're awake, he'll coax you to sleep before moving about his room to get ready for bed while you drift off. When Ticket Taker does get into bed and lays beside you, he expects two things. One, your sleepy self to curl around his side, and two, minimal trouble falling asleep. Dreams don't visit him often; in fact, it's become a rarity. So, you can imagine how distressing it was for Ticket Taker to find himself back in that hellhole.
Like a disease Bil thought he was rid of, that feeling of helplessness from years ago has crawled back at the sight of those cold bars around him. He can still remember the days he was used like a chew toy in front of those crowds, like mouse before a cat. Besides her, Bil was the smallest and weakest, and not a day went by where the man did not remind him of that. Bil tried to fight back in his dream, he really did, but the strikes did not stop, the hunger did not yield, and the blood on his tongue tasted no less sweet.
Ticket Taker could see his scarred hands trying to push away the crushing weight of a boot on his chest, before it flipped to his claws tearing into the delicate neck of his screaming companion. His own pleading was tearing his throat raw, the ringing in his ears was pounding in his head, all while your voice called for him from somewhere he couldn't follow. Not until he woke up.
The bed creaked as TT bolted upright in bed, gasping like he had been holding his breath for hours. He could just barely register the feeling of your hand on his shoulder until he turned to you, looking startled and... holding your shoulder?
"You were thrashing in your sleep. Are you alright? Do you need some water?"
Your voice was still heavy with sleep while Ticket Taker took deep breaths before falling silent. A long minute passed before he shook his head and sighed, and you both ignore how shaky it was.
"No. I am alright. I'm sorry that I..."
Bil trails off and you shake your head lightly, saying he had nothing to be sorry for. Part of him, maybe a bit of his prideful side, is embarrassed of what just happened. Him, a monster much stronger and in a much higher standing than you, reduced to a shaking, nearly wordless mess over a damn dream. Of course, he knows you're trying to help out of love and therefore allows you to pull him back down to hold him.
Neither of you say anything more as Ticket Taker slowly finds his regular breathing again, though your hand does find his exposed arm. The scars are light and faint, yet numerus. Some are flush with the rest of his skin, but a lot of the scars swell slightly above. Bil does not stop you from touching them as he's rather indifferent to them, but part of him is almost ashamed of them, of himself.
He won't go back to sleep, and if you manage to fall asleep instead, Ticket Taker will carefully untangle himself from you and walk out of the tent. He didn't need a lot of sleep, anyway.
Jester
Jester isn't one to sleep much either. Ever the night owl, you will knock out before he does, for a few reasons. You need more sleep than he does as a human, and he prefers to sleep when you've already drifted off. He'll sit in bed and read quietly, often while petting your head as you lay across his chest. Jester enjoys the quiet, enjoys the weight of you on him, and above all enjoys the peace. Sometimes, during the nights he's especially tired, he dares to imagine this peace as his life. Where he can live with his family and little human without having to keep one eye open at all times. How foolish a dream.
However foolish it might be, it's something he surprisingly allows himself to indulge in. In his eyes, a life like that is completely unachievable, as eventually the circus must continue to travel and leave you behind. For as much as Jester pushes away his fondness for you, a tiny voice in his mind knows that he'd love nothing more than to make you an exception.
It's within these fantasies that Jester finds that the words on the page are slowly sliding away from him. The pull on his eyes is soon unbearable to keep away, and before he can stop himself, his head falls back onto the pillows as the book narrowly dodges your head.
He dreams often yet they usually have little to remember, but this one proves to be different. It's pleasant, warm and bright, and familiar. He can see the trees and skies of his old home, his own little corner of the world where he first felt safety. The grass was cool beneath him, the air was warm, the sun baked into his unhidden skin as he saw the others enjoying the weather and beach. You were present as well, as Jester could see you sitting in front of him, cutting fruit.
Everything was perfect, everyone was safe, no other humans were around, and yet Jester's pleasure was swiftly killed as the world seemed to contort and shift.
The sky, once a bright and deep blue, had grown heavy with thick clouds. Harsh gusts of wind threatened to crack the branches of the trees around him, all while the spray of the ocean nearly blinded him. You were suddenly nowhere to be found, with your spot in the grass being marked by the knife still stained with fruit juice. The others had started yelling around Jester, and when he dared to look up at them by the beach, a terrible shock ran through him. Small, grinning shadows were terrorizing his family, chasing them, tearing at them.
Doctor was swarmed and held down, his powerful frame having to be dealt with first by crude ropes and barbed wire. A small group of shadows were chasing Ticket Taker down before tackling and stomping his chest and head in, while Harlequin had been chased into the water and held below the surface. Pierrot, in an effort to help the others get away, was promptly crippled with blunt weapons and stabbed in the throat, left to gag on his own blood.
Jester couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't hardly breathe as he watched his world be torn apart again. He could see the swarm approaching him to rip his skin from his flesh, but his body was numb. He could only see the monster he cared about so dearly be killed before his eyes for simply existing. They weren't even hurting anybody, they didn't do anything wrong, they did nothing to hurt anyoneâ
Jester didn't realize he was awake until he heard a sudden thud from below him. With several blinks and a sharp breath, the burning world he was just in melted back into reality. He was in his bed, he was safe despite his burning lungs, and... you were on the floor beside him.
The hands he felt tearing him apart in his nightmare were your hands trying to wake him up. All the times he had tried to move in his nightmare was him moving in bed until he had shoved you away, resulting in you losing balance and falling off. For a long moment, Jester watched you as you pushed yourself up to sit. You were staring up at him, startled and confused, but not injured. Jester, just like in the dream, couldn't force himself to move for what felt like hours and was left only to stare until you spoke up.
"Are you alright?"
In all honest? No. He was far from alright. Jester was just given a reminder as to why the circus must move, why they must hide and run like roaches from light. He has been reminded about why he does the things he does, and that as much as he hates it, you can't linger. But still, as his lungs remind him to breathe, Jester can't deny you and your presence.
"... I will be."
He helps you up and rubs your arm where it had hit the floor; a silent apology. Soon, wordlessly, he coaxes you back to lay in bed again. When asked to, he'll refuse to speak about his nightmare and instead ushers you to sleep. Of course, after a scare like that, all you want is to stay up with him. So, he tells you to read to him while the scars on his ribs remain hidden beneath the blankets and away from your touch.
You must go, he must leave, but that can be put to another day. He'll plan to leave on a sunny day, just for you.
Doctor
Doctor, like the others, slept far less than you did as a human. Though he somehow got more sleep than the others most nights. He'll stay up late into the night, researching, reading, writing down his findings, all while his radio switched between his usual playlist and softer music for his plants. Most nights he âand at times youâ managed to drag himself to bed while he was too tired to keep his eyes open, and others he simply collapsed into his notes.
Of course, you'd always come around and massage away the cricks in his neck and back while Doctor chattered about his potential breakthroughs.
He dreamed often and vividly, though most of them were weird amalgamations that he didn't bother committing to memory. Like that one where Harlequin and Pierrot turned into marshmallows... That one was weird.
The ones he did commit to memory were the ones with his companions and you in them. The pleasant or funny ones were shared with the others, where the ones where you were inside were kept between the two of you if they were particularly private, but silly ones were also shared. So, when Doctor once again fell asleep at his desk while you dozed in the chair next to him, he wasn't surprised to see you in the dream. What he was surprised about was the fact that you were on his operation table.
Dashed lines and labels were drawn onto your skin while you laid there, staring at him. You were breathing, unbound, awake, possibly sober, yet unmoving. The only light in the room besides his eyes was the light above the table that was nearly choked out by the darkness around him. Choked to the point that the light flickered, plunging Doctor into complete darkness before being restored. The light flipped between a lovely shade of cyan and dangerous red at every flicker, which changed how you looked before him. One moment you were staring at Doctor normally, the next it was dark, and the next you were writhing in agony, your chest pulled open to reveal your still-beating heart. One moment you were screaming, your face mutilated while a knife carved away the flesh from your ribs, the next it was dark, and the next you were whole again, just looking at him.
Doctor didn't move, didn't say anything, didn't cry. All he could do was stare at your bloodied skin before it was wiped clean once more. Each flicker grew worse, the darkness, once comforting, turned suffocating. He could barely blink, it felt as if someone was forcing his eyes together. His hands twitched for a scalpel, a syringe, a piece of gauze, something, anything. Anything that would silence the screams that were making his head pound and his heart feel like it was going to tear itself apart piece by bloody piece.
Until the darkness finally turned to the solid light of his desk lamp, and the screams morphed into the alarm on his radio.
You stirred beside Doctor before reaching out to silence the alarm. After rubbing your eyes, you see Doctor sitting upright with the lenses of his mask illuminated. You don't notice how the pen in his hand had snapped, nor do you notice how dim the cyan is in his eyes.
"Morning, Doc. Did you sleep well?"
Doctor doesn't respond right away, though he turns to look at you. His mouth is dry, his eyes are stinging with tears, yet he manages to take a small breath to calm himself. You are safe, you are alive, and you aren't staring at him with that lifeless expression anymore.
"... Well enough to dream."
You mistake the trembling of his voice to be early morning roughness. "Oh yeah? Was I in there?"
You were, dear Lord were you, but Doctor wouldn't tell you. He couldn't tell you, for his sake and yours. Yet, even for his sake, despite how horrifying of a dream it was for him to endure, Doctor knows it could haunt him for months to come. He always remembers the dreams where you're in them.
"No... No, you weren't. I don't remember it all that well, anymore."
who takes in an abandoned baby one day and then discovers the struggles of human parenting;
byr: this was put in the translator after writing it in my first language, so Iâm sorry if some pronouns and grammar are all over the place:(
So⊠I've been toying with this idea for a one-shot that focuses mostly on Jester, based on a comic that popped up on my timeline a few days ago (I'll add the link at the end dw).
In short, a baby is abandoned outside one of the tents (for story purposes, it would be Jester's tent or maybe near the circus warehouse). In the comic, Jester comes up with the idea of ââfeeding the little creature and making it gain weight so they can eat it later, but if you ask me, I seriously doubt they (J and TT) would be willing to spend resources on just one food source. In my eyes, it's an investment with very little return, and what are these guys if not efficient? (I just think is a lot cheaper to eat adults).
So, how could Jester be willing to take in and feed one of the animals he despises so much? Simple, an experiment!
Let's put it this way: he's 100% certain that all humans are cruel by nature, that they're terrified of everything they don't understand, and that their response to everything will always be violence or flight. So, what would happen to a human if they weren't raised by their own kind? Could the unlearned violence then be avoided? At first, it was just curiosity; in any case, they could always devour the little monster. Eight, sixteen, twenty years pass in the blink of an eye for them. It would be fun, at the very least, to be the one playing with the fate of one of those humans for a change.
But something went wrong. The experiment became a pet, and the pet soon became another person sitting at the table with them (metaphorically speaking, though I'm still not sure if they'd let that little human see them without their masks or if it would become something mundane among them).
And so it begins: a person who was never told they were human in the first place, always lies to, always deceived. They too were monsters, only⊠of a different kind, that is. Small, not very strong, without fangs, without claws; after all, it wouldn't be the first time a member of their family had been so weak.
But we all know what happens when someone is denied their true nature (playing a bit with a possible body dysmorphia and identity crisis) (my biggest reference is Ichirohiko from The Boy and the Beast iykyk). Illness, questions, self-destruction, self-loathing. If they were a monster, where were their horns? Why couldn't they eat the flesh of those foolish humans like everyone else? Why were them the only one who couldn't leave the confines of the circus?
Until one day it happened. While Jester, the little monster's main guardian (now in their late teens), was calmly sipping his morning coffee before the others awoke, the figure of the youngest member of his family cautiously approached. It was the same way they hunched over when they were about to confess a mischief, but this time there was something else in their big eyes that had eaten away all the sparkle in them.
The lies had finally caught up with our Jester.
But how dare the little beast even hint that they were something as vile and inferior as a human? So what if they didn't have horns, claws, or fangs? So what if their whole world was the fence surrounding the circus? They had their family, they had a purpose, something to hate, something to love.
So what if Jester never told them something as insignificant as their true race? Hadn't humans abandoned them in the first place? Hadn't they, the monsters, been the ones who had given them a home? Where had this need to wear a label like some kind of trinket for sale come from? Who had poisoned the mind of such a poor, pitiful creature?
(Weâre reaching Mother Gothelâs gaslighting levels here, but he means no evil) (I think so) (I hope so)
Something, something, conflictâI don't know how to end thissâbut as a big fan of adoption stories / found family and drama, of course I loved daydreaming about this idea.
Idea I sincerely hope to write someday, all because Jester is my least favorite character and I wanted to give him a different perspective so I'm not so harsh on him.
Anywayyy, thank you for reading my rambling~
If you have any idea you would like to share please do !! Iâd love to read it <3
Synopsis: Your tenure as an exchange student is coming to an end. The brothers don't want to see you leave.
The academic year is coming to an end now.
Along with it, the tenure of the exchange students.Â
The brothers could never forget about it, since the day the calendar in the house was turned to the start of march, everyone was reminded that only two more months were left for the end semester exams to commence, followed by the summer vacations. But you wonât be here to spend it with them, you will be in the human world.Â
Back in your natural habitat, away from the gloom and the darkness of this realm.
The days go by cheerfully, of course, but your eventual departure hangs heavy in the air following every joyous moment. You seem sad too, the brothers note, but the way you are gathering keychains and trinkets for your kin in the human world also belies your gloom. Itâs only nature, but they canât help but feel betrayed.
But, but, but family.
They do understand, even if some of them toss that fact aside carelessly. Maybe pretending that reality is different might change the inevitable.Â
âBefore I leave, we should really go somewhere.â You say, sprawled out on the carpet in your room, painting your nails. Mammonâs head perks up, along with Asmoâs, who is doing his own nails. âMaybe somewhere like Siren Beach or the mountains where ciderwood grows. I heard campingâs fun there.â
Watch you one last time. One last night. Remember your scent because it won't be there again.
âIâve been to Siren beach! Theyâre so beautiful, but not like me, of course!â Lust replies, but when his eyes meet Mammonâs they turn to something incomprehensible.Â
âIf ya really wanna go, we should talk to Lucifer about it. Get a vehicle arranged for all of us.â
âIâm not sitting next to you then, Mammon.â Asmodeus bleghs, scooting closer to you. âI want a seat next to MC.â You scoff and let him rub himself on you, shaking your head at the chaos already.
âWe could make it an overnight stay, after the papers end, of course. Iâm pretty sure Diavolo wonât mind me postponing my departure.â
Asmo flicks your forehead gently. âRemember to put Lord before his name or Lucifer wonât let you hear the end of it.â
Youâre mouthing off plans already, putting up camp next to the Inferno river you were taught about in Devildom Geography, picking berries and hunting deer, roasting marshmallows by the fire and being all cozy in the bed. And what after that? They both want to ask you. Youâll leave after that and it would be so cruel.
They donât interject, only add to your plans with specifications about the activities and sleeping arrangements. Awfully possessive and specific demons, they are.
You drag Lucifer and Satan to the Devildom night market to get some more trinkets and snacks. You ignore the glances they throw at each other, knowing that theyâve grown tolerable of each otherâs presence, able to cooperate and work beautifully, albeit not without some disagreements.
And so, what better way than to drag them both with you outside?
âI want two Iguana plushies.â You demand, pointing at one which hangs in a stall amidst countless others, a prize for winning. Shoot all the moving targets and you win one! The board reads, and the duo sighs.
âItâs ugly.â Satan says.Â
âIt looksâŠ..wrong.â Lucifer adds.
You pull at Lucifer and Satanâs arms, dragging them towards the stall. More like, they let you drag them. âPlease?â Your best pleading gaze is on.
You are human, and no match for the games the Devildom has, which have prerequisites of inhumane speed and strength, and targets which move in nanoseconds. But you have two Avatars with you. And you have two pacts with them.Â
All right, all right, demanding human.Â
They work together in sync, handing you the two plushies as you had desired like a war prize, two giant Iguanas which are so soft to the touch. Your face gets nearly covered by them as you smile and thank them.
Satan clicks a picture without you noticing, too caught up in admiring the prize. The sound of the shutter is lost amidst the cacophony of the market. When he puts his D.D.D. back in his pocket it vibrates with the flurry of texts his brothers have sent at the picture they received.
Even Luciferâs oddly silent, having made no smart-ass comment to the blonde demon which never fails to irk him. His scarlet eyes only look at you, imperceptive.Â
Heâs not at peace with the inevitable departure of the exchange student either, and when he looks away he locks eyes with his brother.
Nods, after.
Donât you know, superordinate goals bring people together?
âThank you so much, Satan and Lucifer,â you begin, putting the coveted plushies in a bag, which Lucifer takes from you without letting you adjust it on your shoulder. Carries it himself. âIâm so happy you came here with me.â
You drag them to get matching keychains after, lacquered ones with color matching their sins. You get some extras too, of hellfire peacocks and unicorns, sirens and dunes.
âWhom are you getting them for?â Satan canât help but attempt to satisfy his curiosity.Â
âI have people apart from you, you know?â You say, light-hearted in your tone as you tuck those very keychains into your handbag. The blondeâs silence is strange. âOhâI didnât mean it in that way, Satan. I have friends who like to collect keychains, yâknow, hobbies, and theyâre just something all of us can use everyday and think of each other.â
âI donât mind.â He smiles.
All of us include the people from your realm too. All of us for his brethren in this realm includes you too. And they donât want to put them in jeopardy.
The conversationâs left at that, with the walk back home including cotton candy dyed in the color of the rainbow purchased by Lucifer. He and Satan hold around four in each hand, two for Beelzebub because the first will be consumed without actually tasting it. You only hold your handbag and your cotton candy, offering to hold some of the others, but their refusals are stout. Your keychains clink together, and triumph is evident on your face. Your tongue is a plethora of colors now.Â
All of his brothers take their cotton candy from him as soon as you three arrive home, the creaking of the gates preceding your arrival.Â
âWhatcha got for me?â They all ask Lucifer, and you make a reminder to change his name to Mommy in your contacts. Mother hen alert, youâll put in the description. Maybe share the contact card with Diavolo.Â
Heâd appreciate it. Greatly.
While the corners of their mouths have cotton candy stuck to them, you pull out the keychains and watch as their heads dart towards the sound of them in tandem.Â
âI,uh, got you all keychains.â You say, suddenly feelish sheepish as you hold them in your outstretched hands for them to take. Their eyes dilate at the glinting trinkets.Â
Faced with no response, you continue further. âBefore I leave, I wanted to give you all something.â
Uh-oh, nail hit on the head.
âThatâsâthatâs very sweet of you!â Asmoâs the first to break the silence, rushing forward to grab his. All are distinguishable by color and sin. âThe scorpion is so pretty!â He picks it up and immediately puts it in his pocket. Beelzebub quietly comes forward, both the cotton candies and sticks devoured; picks up his.Â
â....Cute.â He murmurs, and the tip of his ears turn pink. âItâs really cute. Thank you, MC.â
You look towards the others, waiting for them to come and pick up their gifts.
Mammon strides forward then, picks up the shiniest of the bunch with golden highlights; then rubs his thumb over it. âHehe, human knows my tastes!â Though it comes out less prideful and more flustered, and if youâd look later you would find it dangling from his backpack. Leviathan comes forward to take his, along with Belpeghor. When his fingers make contact with your palms as he grabs it, the warmth of your skin nearly has him purring.
âWoaahhh! This is so cool!â The third-born exclaims, holding his close to his face. Itâs a Devilcraft keychain. âOtaku approved!âÂ
Belpheghorâs eyes are half-lidded as he inspects his; stick still in his mouth. His finger runs along the edges, and then he looks up at you, eyes no longer droopy. âThank you.â He says, and two dimples appear on his cheeks when he smiles. Youâre reminded of how rare such an occurrence is.
You have already given Satan and Lucifer their respective keychains, who now hold it in their hands like a trophy. âSo, now that everyoneâs gotten their stuff, Iâm going to go and take a shower.â You cough, suddenly feeling awkward. You stride past the stunned demons, and look behind from the kitchen to wave at the eldest. âThanks for the cotton candy, Lu!â
At the nickname, he winces.Â
Shakes his head and softly smiles.
Thereâs a gaming console in his room which will soon be put away.
Raids and events will now be long distance, and sometimes, not at all. Youâll have friends, flesh and blood friends to meet and hang out with, instead of avatars and calls. He has to bite back at the envy clawing in his chest, he canât help it. Your presence is something virtual avatars and video calls can only replicate so much. This time, 3D is better than 2D.Â
But at least he can indulge in some more events with you.
Youâre sitting by his side, fingers flexing quickly on the buttons, and he has to keysmash his own to keep up. Beelzebub and Belpheghor are here too, the latter napping on his pillow while the chews on some chips and watches. Belphie makes a smart-ass comment here and there, and you laugh at one.
What a terrible thing it is.
Stretch out your legs from their criss-crossed position, right onto Beelâs lap. His free hand not dusted with crisps moves to massage your feet, pressing lightly on the joints and along the delicate arches. And theyâre such small feet in his hands, gluttony observes. Shoves some more chips into his mouth and watches as the light from the aquarium reveals the map of veins underneath. It would be so easy to grab you and never let go (he might just crush you if heâs not careful) but he never would. Itâs not right.
Not right.
But it isnât right to see you leave either. Buutttt, people leave eventually, donât they? Offsprings and kin spread out their wings and jump, test the waters and calculate how far they can fly.
Belpheghorâs half-awake too, and when Beel steals a glance at his twin heâs met with his own conundrum. Heâd encourage, always would. Belpheghorâs been like that always. Grab what you want and donât hesitate. Speak out when you believe you are correct and donât let anyone prevent you from doing something you want to, if you firmly believe in your convictions. But itâs not something like a snack or a decision. Itâs you.
Their treasured human.
So Beelzebub shakes his head. The game over sound pops up, and you hiss. Belpheghor closes his eyes and lets his head fall on the cow-print pillow.
The ideaâs left abandoned for now.
You get up some time later, when your feet have stopped throbbing from standing all day and retire to your room for a nap, after having thanked Beelzebub, of course. Your belongings are half-packed already, even when thereâs still two weeks left for your departure. You came here with nothing, but you leave with so much. Canât be packed in one day, because you want to spend the last moments here with your demons.
Mammon wakes you up for tea, drags the blankets from your form and pulls you up by the arm with a loud ahem! You grumble and haphazardly find your slippers and walk towards the living room.Â
He watches you stumble towards the room, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Looks around your room only to see half-packed suitcases. Ah, thatâs why you had those Akuzon boxes by your door. But all they do is declare your eventual departure.
He really, really wants to sabotage it all.
âMammon, where are you?âÂ
Your voice echoes in the hallway, and he has to detach. âComing, jeez!â
Tea and banter provides for a good distraction, better than casinos and clubs. For the time being, anyways. Cookies and tea he can digest better. He sneaks one from your hands when youâre busy poking at Belpheghor, and giggles when you make a face at him. You havenât bothered fixing your bedhead, hairs ruffled in every direction, and Satan threads his fingers through your hair to tame it as you sip your tea.
âEnd semester exams are coming soon, I expect you all to average in the eighties.â
Lucifer speaks, perched on his favourite chair. The nineties was too idealistic of a goal, he had to tone it down to the eighty. âWe need to put forward a good example, and yes, that includes you too, MC.â
You sigh, angling into Satanâs touch. âIâm going to be leaving anyways, whom do I maintain the impression for?â Everyone stiffens in the room at the mention, youâre busy staring into your cup of liquid honey. Itâs not like you can boast your grades in the human world. A plus in potions and hexes, B negative in Devildom Geography, and what not.Â
âThat the exchange programme was successful.â He stares at you then, and you immediately straighten your posture. You look so cute, he thinks, hair ruffled and an embarrassed look on your face, lips almost in a pout. He feels benevolent, so he opens his mouth further. âIf the results are as expected, a trip to the mountains may be planned.â
The cacophony of noises greets his ears after; Mammon nearly makes him lose his hearing given how loud he exclaims next to him. âYouâre not joking, are ya?!â
Lucifer raises a finger to shush everyone, though itâs not completely successful. âIf good grades come in.â
âYou wanted a trip to the mountains right, you got it!â Asmo speaks across you, his cup now empty. âWe should go before the summer dries up everything.â
You smile. âYeah. Iâll take my camera along too, plenty of pictures to keep later. Can tell my family and friends I was on a trip instead of being teleported between realms.â
Satan is the one to speak up next. âHow who cross out who are you friends in that realm?âÂ
You shake your head. âTheyâre doing good. Though Iâll be contacting them after a year.â A pause. âI wonder how they will react.â
âLord Diavolo had ensured to send a message to your family that you were doing alright, along with the date you would be coming back. Thereâs no need to wonder, I suppose.â The eldest adds, putting down his cup.
You make a noise of understanding. Look up at him with a shrug. âI know, plus since many of them are married and busy in their work life we donât get much time to interact.â
â...Is marriage at your age common?â Leviathan asks, and his tone belies his hesitance.
âHuman world customs, yes. Adulthood, especially your mid twenties is the age where societal norms expect people to get together. Though it differs, and many are changing the status quo.â
You take the last sip of your now lukewarm tea. âAre you going to get married?â Beelzebub asks suddenly, and you nearly sent the liquid down the wrong way.
âUhâno, not now!â You place the ceramic with a soft clang on the wood. âI donât have any plans to get married anytime soon. Not right now.â All the seven heads in the room have their eyes fixed on you. You think you hear someone exhaling.
Eager to forget your skittish response, you add without thinking. âHave you guys ever thought of marriage?â
âTo whom?â Lucifer says, more than asking.
Mammon sputters while Levi looks like he just inhaled something down the wrong pipe, Satan hides his face while trying to appear unaffected and Asmodeus just smiles at you. Beelzebub has pink dusting his cheeks while Belpheghor snorts.
You feel like youâve asked the wrong beings.
Do demons even marry?
âWe can get married.â Beel says. âWe simply choose not too.â
âYeah. Why to go and tie ourselves to others we arenât even that close with?â Belphie says.
Someone snickers. âLucifer and Diavolo shouldââ
âHooligans, all of you. Rascals!âÂ
And the tension has been pushed back down again.
Thereâs a week left for your departure.
And one more pact left to be made.
It should emerge on one of your shoulders, Lucifer thinks. Evident and bold, ready to flare to life when needed. And he canât help the way a shiver runs through his body at the thought of you with his mark. The leash tied to both of you, command only switching.
But would his and his brothers' pacts guarantee your return? Fix it with a seal and a sign that you will come back, without having settled down. Be a staple in their lives.
They all do want you to be happy.
But they canât stand the idea of you being with someone else.
Nausea rises in his gut at the thought, and he swallows it down. Youâll go back and find someone, someone mortal and then forever be away from him and his brothers. Youâll learn and grow but he wonât be there to see it. Wonât be there to puff out his chest with pride and have you be not with him.
Luckily, morality is a fickle thing in this realm.
He could make a pact with you, tie you down to this realm. Lucifer feels his cock twitch in his pants at the thought. Ensure with his mark on you, youâd never leave, too tainted to go back. But again, you could always order him to let you go.
But would you even do that?
Little lamb, content on following the shepherd with its flock. Even if the shepherd is a corrupted one. You just need guidance.
And heâs more than eager to lead.
His decisions have never been filled with regret. Only regret for not revolting sooner. Heâs traded loyalty for rebirth and paying for it has never been better. And if you hate him for it, well, he can live with that. Heâs handled his brother's hatred, he can handle yours.Â
He only wants what is the best for you.
And he knows better. Lucifer always knows better.
May arrives steadily.
The moon shines a bit brighter, illuminating the streets better. Nightlamps are deemed unnecessary. Everyone wears a piece of clothing less: some abandoned their overcoat, others their scarves and shawls. Siren beach has greater footfall and greater prey. Colossal squids and hellfire fish are in trend on your Devilgram.Â
But for you it means departure and a Sun which makes the warmth on your skin feel like a blessing.
Your belongings are packed; Beel has carried them all the way despite your protests. Theyâre heavy, you had said, and to just use the handle and wheels (heâd picked it up like it was an empty cardboard box) and you had shut your mouth. Sometimes you forget you live with inhumane beings. Neatly settled in the Council Room, Solomon sits besides you. Simeon and Luke across, Barbatos stands behind Diavolo, who sits on the throne.
âYou look excited.â Simeon smiles as he looks in your direction, and Luke perks up at the sound. Only the top of his head is visible, given the table is too tall for him. Barbatos had offered pillows for a boost but the cherub had pouted.
âI canât wait to do more baking lessons with you whenever we meet!â Luke chimes in, and you have to hold back laughter because you can only see his head bobbing.Â
âMe too!â You breathe out, leaning forward to pet his head, sitting back down with a grunt.Â
Diavolo clears his throat, and the chatter in the room pauses. âWith this being our last day of the exchange programme and this semester, we conclude that it was a great success. Contact has greatly facilitated understanding and cooperation, and I hope we can meet again.â
Everyone is presented with their certificates; and when Barbatos hands you yours the faint scent of cedarwood comes to your mind.Â
âItâs valid in the human world,â Diavolo adds, and you perk your head up to look at his hulking form. âYou can explain your year spent here as a study leave.â His eyes are kind.
âThank you, Diavolo.â You smile, and unfurl the certificateâs blood-red ribbon to read it over. Stamped with the royal seal and his signature, you think about uploading this on Linkedin. While youâre looking it over, Solomon merely takes his and puts it in his bag, leather and very expensive-looking. Simeon holds Lukeâs too.
Final formalities are carried out.
You keep fiddling with the ribbon on your certificate, twirling it around your finger and shaking your legs under the table. Accidentally kicking Simeon in the knees too, who takes it with grace.
And if they look closely, theyâll see the faint purple scattered across the junction of your neck, covered by concealer. The first-bornâs pact mark on your shoulder, hidden by your clothing. Everyone knows better than to point it out (although Solomonâs itching to ask you as to what was your modus operandi, heâs been trying for centuries for one with Lucifer.) And how you keep avoiding Luciferâs gaze whenever you meet it.
Then Diavolo stands, and with him, the rest of the table does too.
He mutters an incantation, and you blink and the front of the council room has a giant hole in the middle of it, rotating with sparks of gold and red.Â
Your door to your realm of earth and sun and moon.
âI hope we do meet again.â Simeon and Luke say, and you hug them both. The former always smells so sweet, and the latter like vanilla. Probably had dabbled with it last night while baking cookies that he had given you in a container for you to take back to your home.
 âIâll miss you both,â you whisper into their ear as you both pull apart.
Then they both bow a little at Diavolo, who does the same. Asmodeus mutters about the House of Lords throwing a fuss if they saw their future sovereign doing that action. Belpheghor snorts at that.
And they look behind at you, and then the black-purple mist swallows them whole.
Thatâs it. No fanfare.
Solomon steps forward before you can with your suitcases. Hugs you tightly and pats your back.
âTake care. Iâll keep visiting.â
You bid him goodbye, and when he's left you turn behind to look at your demons.
âSoâŠthis is it, huh?â You begin, clutching your suitcases and shoulder bag. âIâm so happy that I met you. I hope we do meet again.â
They all smile at that, eyes crinkling.Â
Turning to Diavolo and Barbatos, you continue. âThank you for the exchange programme. We wouldnât have met otherwise.â
Then without waiting for a response, you move towards Mammon, and he opens his arms out, already knowing what you will do. âI wanted a farewell hug, you know?â You tease, enjoying how he tenses and splutters. âMy first man, and yet you act so unaffected."
He then finally relaxes into your touch, holding you tighter. âSays the human who was nonchalant from the start.â
You pat his back, standing straight to look at them all again.
âI guess Iâll be going now. Farewell!â
You blink back the tears and turn around towards the portal.
Itâs gone.
Only the council room remains.
âWhat the fuck.â You look at the brothers, then at Diavolo and Barbatos. âI think your magic has fizzled out.â
The prince says nothing.
âAll the intended students have left.â Satan declares. âNo use of the portal now.â
âIs my semester not over or something? Did I fail an exam?â
âNone of that!â Asmodeus chirps. âWe just donât want to see you go.â
You groan. âYou do realize I have to leave, right? Canât keep me here forever no matter how much we wish for it.â
No one moves.
The portal doesnât remanifest.
âI do not like such jokesâopen the portal!âÂ
Leviathan shakes his head at that in refusal, looking down. âWe wonât. We donât want you to leave. Call us whatever names you wantâwe canâtâcanât let you leave.â Beelzebub refuses to look you in the eye, and Mammon's face has hardened into a thin line. The others meet you gaze, none of them ashamed or even guilty.
âThis better be some sick fucking joke,â you blurt, swallowing the lump in your throat. It doesnât relent. âDiavolo, why did you close the portal?â Your hands grip the suitcase tighter, and you turn to him.
âYou have all of our marks on you, sweetie.â Asmodeus croons, attempting to placate by placing a hand on your shoulder, manicured nails glinting in the light. âAll of our pact marks, youâre tied to us now.â You shove his hand away and step back, pushing the suitcase away as it rolls on the floor.
âSo is Solomon!â
âDo you think we care for you like Solomon?â Belpheghor pipes in.Â
âWhat kind of âcareâ is this exactly? Enlighten me!â
You flail, anger burning hot in your body when he doesnât reply. Your vision blurs, and then you remember.
â.........Avatar of Pride, I call upon you, Lucââ
The avatar in question moves in the fraction of a second. Covers your mouth with his gloved palm, effectively silencing your command halfway.
âGo on, MC.â He mutters. âIâll remove my hand, and then you may command me to let you leave. Command my brothers too, if I protest.âÂ
You inhale sharply, staring at him through tear-stricked vision.
âBut then what kind of human would you be if you were to use our pacts against us?â A cruel human, that is. âYouâd promised. And we only want you here with us, nothing more.â
Your trembling subsides.Â
You blink back the tears, effectively silenced into keeping your mouth shut.
Lucifer removes his palm.
And then you speak.
âTo let me leaveââ
And then Diavolo laughs.
âYou were right, Lucifer. Our little lamb is more demonic than we had assumed.â He chuckles, and even Barbatos is doing that too. Amber eyes burn holes into you. Your voice dies in your throat along with your hope. âSo feisty too!â
Satanâs the next to speak. âYou were ready to order us to let you go, use our pacts against us. Youâve made it clear youâd turn on us if given the chance, so we figured weâd test and try harder.â You find your own sobs reaching your ears. âAnd it seems weâve succeeded.â
Tears run down your face, salty on your tongue.
"You're just like us, actually, better!"
The sunlight on your face, the warmth of it on your skin, the chirping of birds and the earth underneath your feetâ
âMetamorphosis should begin in a couple months from now.â Heâs saying, though it rings in your ears. You can only cry harder and fall to your knees. He keeps speaking above you like a cruel jailor. âI wonder whether itâll be wings or a tail.â
Thatâs why Solomon said what he did.
He knew.
Someone angles your chin up, and you meet crimson eyes. So full of love.
âDonât fret. Weâll be here for you. As you have been for us.â
It takes an unique approach to horror. While there isnt much horror objects like in junji ito's works, its more psychological! There are still some body horror and fear factors, but again, it leans more psychological side of the horror
Besides it got an interesting concept that takes purifying souls to another level!!
(Some visuals from the series)
It takes inspiration from yokai and japanese myths!! So if you like them, go check it out!!!
The fandom is small, but theres room for growth! It also means if you do fanwork, it will get attention quicker with how little fanwork out there!!
And besides a series, mononoke has two movies and one more movie coming out this year!!
fontaine, the nation of justice â ft. wriothesley
your soulmate has spent his whole life in constant pain, and youâve spent your whole life feeling itâfleeting for you, unending for him. after years of hoping, you finally find himâŠright as he dumps piping-hot tea onto his leg and burns you both at the same time
word count. â€ïž 11.2k words â i promise its not too bad pls give it a chance
before you read. â€ïž female reader + female gendered terms like âmissâ and âpretty ladyâ ; canon compliant + soulmates au ; feeling your soulmate's pain trope ; heavy references to wrio's backstory, which alludes to child exploitation and trafficking ; mild implications of sexual trauma (wrio) ; reader sits on his lap + gets carried by him ; reader has an unspecified job at the palais/court ; protected vaginal sex ; slight handjobs ; very vanilla sex ; a series of events of you and wrio navigating how to fall in love and enjoying every second of it ; alternating povs
commentary. â€ïž happy birthday to my bewtiful boy
Your soulmate is always in pain. Itâs all youâve ever known about him.Â
âHis back is killing him again,â you sigh in concern, rubbing your lower back for a moment.
Clorinde looks at you, raising a brow. The fortress isâŠwell, itâs not the cleanest or brightest of places, but there is at least enough light to still make out the look she gives you. âYou mean, your back is killing you, yes? You can feel it, too.â
âFor just a moment,â you huff, âitâs gone very quickly. Itâs not as though it troubles me for long. He, on the other handâŠwell, I wonder what that fool could have gotten himself into this time.â
The first time you feel what he does, youâre ten. It feels like thereâs a sharp kick to your ribs, and then your back feels like itâs slammed hard against a surface just a moment later. You remember it vividlyâhow you cried out and hunched over. How your mother had rushed over to you and whispered words you couldnât even hear, wiping your tears. All you knew then was that he was in pain, too. Agony. For a blinding second, you felt it with him, before it dissipated like it was nothing.Â
At age ten, you learn what it means to worry for someone youâve never met. To fear for anotherâs safety more fiercely than a child should be capable of. To wonder about his well-being. His survival. Whatever your soulmate is going through, it canât be safe. Canât be the life of a normal child with a normal upbringing or a normal home. You know itâs worse for him, even if you feel it too. Where your aches vanish in seconds, his must lingerâthrobbing, bruising, weighing down small limbs that have no business carrying so much hurt.
At ten, you learn that not all children are created equal. Some are born to live their lives as children. And othersâŠwell, others it seems, are only there to prove how blessed those children truly are.
That is the reality of Fontaine, the nation of justice.Â
By the time youâre thirteen, thereâs a constant ache in your muscles and your bones that comes and goes. A phantom pain that haunts you in bursts, disappearing as quickly as it comes. You can feel itâthe burdens he carries. The constant soreness in his back and the tightness of his shoulder blades. Like he has nowhere proper to rest. No surface that curves along his spine and nurtures his developing body the way it should.Â
It isnât until youâre fourteen that it gets bad. Youâve known for a long time now that he has a habit of getting into fightsâthe soreness on your knuckles only implies that he can throw a punch or two back at least now and then. But this time, itâsâŠfrightening. Something dark. Something heavy. Itâs a long fight. You can tell that much. Thereâs a hard tug on your hair, then a bruising grip around your throat, then a swift kick to your stomach. Finally, you feel that familiar sting in your fists. And then it stops. For two days after that, you feel nothing. Itâs almost as though heâs no longer conscious, as though someone has eased the pain and left no trace of itâand then, suddenly, it returns all at once. Like heâs been thrown back into reality after two days of being blissfully removed. This time, when the pain returns, a rawness to the skin around your wrist joins the list of things that hurt.Â
Since the age of ten, you know that he has always been hurting. Always.Â
There is always some part of his body that is bruised and battered and tender from cruelty. Even as he gets older, even as the sharp injuries stop along with the fights, the sore muscles never do. The throbbing in your arms and legs, and lower back, never goes away. Like heâs been fighting, even if no one has been there to fight him back. Like heâs been keeping his strength, so no one could knock him off his feet again.Â
âHow far is this wardenâs office, exactly?â you huff, âand how do you even find anything down here? All these halls and tunnels look the same! Iâm starting to wonder if agreeing to work down here was a mistake.â
âAll you have to do is come down here for official Palais matters twice a week,â Clorinde hums, âand youâll learn the tunnels just fine.â
âAh, Miss Clorinde! You say that like you didnât get lost for three weeks straight,â an unfamiliar voice calls ahead as she twists the door handle to enter a room.Â
Clorinde exhales through her nose, unimpressed. âI wasnât lost. I was exploring alternate routes.â
âYou walked into the same dead-end storeroom six times,â a manâyou assume to be Wriothesleyâsays as he comes into view, leaning against the doorway to his office.Â
You pause. HeâsâŠhandsome. Thatâs the first thing you can think of. Second, you realize he canât be much older than you. A lot younger than what you were anticipating for a Duke who runs a prisonâa prison that he reformed all on his own, no less, from what youâve heard. You meet his icy, blue-grey eyes, and it puts a shiver down your spine. Thereâs somethingâŠwell, you arenât quite sure. But thereâs something about him.Â
And you wonder if he senses it, too, because his brows furrow for a second as he takes you in.Â
âI had to be sure you werenât storing corpses in there,â she replies dryly. You blink out of your trance and look between themâapparently, this is normal. âAnyway,â Clorinde says, gesturing you forward, âthis is the wardenâs office, and this is Wriothesley. Heâs supposed to brief you without embarrassing himself, but I make no promises.â
Wriothesley scoffs. âIâll have you know I am an excellent host. I even made tea.â
âFor your own interest, I presume,â Clorinde shoots back smoothly.
âOkay, so I made some tea for myself,â he huffs, âbut Iâm more than happy to share.â
He gestures for you both to come in. Clorinde gently nudges you forward once more. âIâll leave you to it,â she saysâand then she throws him a pointed look. âTry not to scare her off, Wriothesley.â
âYouâre the scary one,â he calls after her, but sheâs already halfway down the hall.
He shakes his head after her before he clears his throat and lets you in, gesturing for you to sit across from him as he settles into his own chair. âRight,â he says. âFormal introductions are probably overdue. Iâm Wriothesleyâwarden of the Fortress, glorified administrator, part-time peacekeeper, full-time babysitter, whatever you would like to call it.âÂ
Your laugh slips out before you can swallow it, and he grins, pleased. âRest assured, you wonât have to babysit me,â you hum as you introduce yourself.Â
âThatâs quite the relief, missâbut not to worry, nothing youâll do down here is too complicated. Monsieur Neuvillette has given me the rundown of your responsibilities, and Iâll walk you through protocols, safety procedures, all the boring stuffâreally, itâs easier than it sounds. Would you like some tea?â
âNo, thank you,â you say politely.
âWell, if you donât want any,â he sighs dramatically, âguess Iâll drink some all alone.â He reaches for his mug mid-sentence, still flipping through a folder with his other hand.
Except his grip on the handle slips. Then the glass tilts. Thenâ
âAh, fuck,â he hisses, the scalding liquid burning through his pants and leaving the skin of his thigh raw.
A moment later, you feel a ripple of pain burst throughâŠyour thigh? You gasp, letting out a low hiss of, âShit!â as you grip your upper leg.
His head jerks up, glancing at you with narrowed eyes for a moment at your gasp, seeing you clutching your own leg. He leans over the desk, concerned. âAre you okay?â
âYeah,â you mumble, âjust felt like I got burnedâŠ.âÂ
It hits you then.Â
It hits you as you notice him watching your expression, still feeling the remnants of the same burn as you on his own thigh. His eyes widen as the realization hits him at the same time as you.
âYou felt that?â he gapes.
You blink as your eyes hold his gaze. Could this meanâŠcould he beâŠ? No, you think, perhaps itâs just a freak coincidence andâŠ
âHang on a second,â Wriothesley murmurs, and then he pinches the skin of his forearm hard. He grimaces at the sting, and not even a moment later, you hiss and clutch your arm as a wave of pain radiates along the perimeter of your own skin.
âWhat the fuck?â You glare.
He blinks again. Then he whispers, almost shaky, âWell, what do you knowâŠyou do exist.â
âWas that really necessary?â you huff.
âSorry,â he says, rubbing his neck awkwardly. âJustâŠjust testing a theory there.â
âYou could have tested your theory without pinching so hard,â you pout, rubbing over your arm as if the pain hadnât already faded away. The phantom linger of pain is always the worst partâthe part where you canât forget how it felt to be hurt, even if it didnât last long. The ghost of the injustice of it all. The unfairness that torments you without so much as a bruise as proof. The reality that somewhere, the person you are meant to find is hurt, and there is proof taunting you without making itself known properly.
But nowâŠnow he isnât just somewhere. Noâheâs right here.Â
It dawns on you just what theory heâs tested and proven. Your head snaps up, getting a good, long look at his face before you stand and walk over, gripping the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer like youâre inspecting him more properly now.
He stares at you in bewilderment. âUmâŠwhaââ
âOh my god,â you gasp at the mark under his eye, âthis scarâI remember this! That one felt awfulâoh my god! Wait! I remember this, too,â you point to the one peeking through his collar at his neck. Without thinking, you quickly unbutton his vest and the shirt underneath, making him squawk in protest. But you pay him no mindâyour hand delicately, gently, slowly tracing over the years and years and years of evidence of pain.
Pain you felt. Pain you shared. Pain you carried with him, even if only for a moment.
Your hand trembles as you take in the awful, cruel marks scattered across his skinâthe raised, discolored grafts melding into the healthier patches. You ignore the way his eyes bore into your face, watching you carefully as every emotion twists across your expression.
âHow could anyoneâŠI donâtâŠI donât understand,â you whisper, tracing a particularly thick scar across his left pec. You wonder if it narrowly missed his heart. Your eyes well up with tears against your will, much to your disdain.
His own eyes widen with alarm. âItâs not a big deal,â he says quickly. âTheyâre nothing, really! Iâm strong, see?â Wriothesley flexes his arm, showing the bulging muscle of his bicep before he triesâpoorlyâto lighten the mood with, âNothingâs beatinâ me down, miss.â
âAre you joking? These hurt,â you hiss. âDonât pretend they didnât! I felt them all too, in case youâve forgotten!â
His face drops at thatâguilt sprawling across every feature. (Itâs a beautiful, handsome face. Heâs gorgeous, and you wonder if heâs ever been made to feel that way. Even if only for a moment.)
âIâm sorry,â he whispers, âI neverâŠif it were up to me, you wouldâve never feltââ
âNever mind me,â you sniffle. âWhat in the Archonsâ names have you been dealing with all your life?â
Your hands gently pull off his vest and the shirt underneath fully, giving you a proper look at the full map of suffering carved into him. It should be a bit unprofessional, really, to undress your new colleague the moment you meetâbut, well, the circumstances are a bit unique here. And he just sort of lets you without protesting, this time.Â
Your breath hitches as soon as you see his bare upper body. His torso is a constellation of old woundsâsome thin and faded with age, others thicker, more jagged, warped in ways that make your stomach twist. Every scar is proof that this nation does not serve justice the way its divine nature intends. No one, especially not a child of his age when these injuries had marked him, should have endured such cruelty under the Hydro Archonâs watch.
You lift trembling fingers to his arm, tracing a long, uneven scar that snakes along the front. âThis one,â you whisper, voice cracking, âI remember waking up in the middle of the night because of this. I thoughtâArchons, I thought someone had sliced me open.â
Wriothesley wincesânot from your touch, but from the look on your face. His hands hover like he wants to steady you, but he doesnât have the courage to fully reach.
âAh, that,â he mumbles. âItâŠit wasnât that deep. JustâŠcaught a knife the wrong way, thatâs all.â
You give him a watery, withering look. âDonât you dare lie to me.â
âThat was years ago,â he insists. âItâs over now! IâmâŠweâre okay.â
âI was always okay,â you bury your face in your hands. âAll this time, I was okay, and you werenât. If weâdâŠfound each other soonerâŠor ifâif maybe weâd tried to communicate somehowâŠperhaps if weâd even tried toââ
His hands gently wrap around your wrists, tugging them away from your face before pulling your hunched figure forward so youâre no longer bending awkwardly over him. InsteadâŠyouâre on his lap.
His lap.
Sure, heâs your soulmate, and of course, youâve always felt a great deal of care for this stranger youâve been bound to for years, but never really known, but you only met him not too long ago. And now youâre sitting on his lap.
You gasp, flustered as you stammer, âW-what are y-youââ
âHey,â he hums softly, tilting your face to look at him. His hand cradles your jawâgentle, delicate, impossibly careful from someone whoâs known nothing but hardship at the hands of others. Your eyes lock with his as he murmurs, âIâm okay, sweetheart. See? Iâm sitting here in the flesh right in front of youâŠif thatâs proof.â
âGuessâŠguess it is,â you swallow thickly.Â
âYâknow? Itâs strange,â he admits, voice low.Â
âWhat is?â
âFinally having you here. And not just some weird temporary feeling every now and then.â
You hum, studying his face. He really is young for a Duke. Handsome, sure, but too young to carry the burdens that he does. Then again, you think that might have been true all his life. âStrange as in good?â
He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. âYes. Very good.â
Your fingers have begun tracing along a scar on his shoulder slowly, without even realizing it. He glances down at your hand, then back to you, lips curling into a loose, amused grin. You quickly stop the movement, clearing your throat as you mumble, âThis is not professional work behavior, you know.â
âYou took my shirt off,â he points out.Â
âAnd you pulled me onto your lap!â
He tactfully ignores that part and hums, âYou knowâŠI think you should come by outside of official business. That way weâre not interrupted by duties and all.â
Your heart thumps hard enough that youâre sure he feels it. âIs this your way of asking me on a date? Because then itâs a little lackluster.â
He shrugs, giving you a boyishly charming smile. âAre you gonna turn me down? After I waited this long to find you?â
âGuess not,â you sigh dramatically, âperhaps I can spare some time here and there. In theseâŠdark, dingy halls.â
âYour kindness moves me, miss soulmate,â he beams.Â
You stare for a moment. (You should be embarrassed that you do, but he stares right back, and he doesnât seem to be complaining about the circumstances. You canât help but get lost in himâitâs almost a force thatâs beyond your control. Perhaps beyond his, too.)
Finally, you blink and force yourself out of whatever trance he has you in. âI should get upâŠâ you say, mildly embarrassed. You try to moveâbut he has one arm around your waist, keeping you in place as he gives you an unhappy frown.Â
âWhatâs the rush? Not like either of us has to be anywhere.â
âThis is unprofessional! And entirely not the sort of position anyone should see the warden of this place in if they walkââÂ
âWell, thatâs the fun part,â he gives you a confident, wolfish little grin, âno one walks into a wardenâs office without knocking.â
âIâm gonna write that in my report,â you warn, âthat you use unlawful tactics for intimidation and control.â
âThe fortress is an autonomous region,â he shoots back.Â
âItâs still a partnership!â
âYes,â he grins, eyeing you softly, âI suppose it is.â
Wriothesley knows heâs not very lucky in most departments. The soulmate one, however? He likes to think he got pretty damn lucky.Â
Youâre pretty and funny, and you have a good head on your shoulders. That much is evident, and most people would be thrilled just by that. But you have other endearing things about youâthings he tallies up over the weeks as he gets to know you and keeps locked away in his memories.Â
You canât drink liquids if theyâre piping hot, but somehow, food is not a problem. You like flowers even if youâre allergic to half of them. Youâre passionate about how much you dislike Fontaineâs silly, unnecessary laws. You work at the Palais because it makes you feel useful. You insist you canât decide what your favorite color is, but you unknowingly always seem to favor a certain one. You always insist you donât want anything when he offers to pay, but youâre very bad at hiding your excitement when he buys you a pastry anyway.Â
He could keep a list. He doesnât need to write them down because his mind could not forget these little things even if he wanted, but he could keep a list. A list of everything he learns day by day, week by week, month by month.Â
âI thought you hated bananas,â he raises an amused brow. You sit across from him in the bakery, happily slicing through the banana bread he bought on his mora.Â
âI do,â you argue, âbut banana bread doesnât count. It makes the banana workâand there are chocolate chips, see?â
He doesnât say anythingâjust stares and takes in the sight of you. All of you. You.Â
âWant another slice?â
âOh no, thank you,â you shake your head, âIâm good, really.â
(In the end, he gets you another. You pretend like heâs gone out of his way for nothing, but you eat it with no complaints, a happy gleam in your eye. He wonders if heâll be blessed by the Gods enough to buy you sweets until all of his hair turns grey.)
It takes a few months before Wriothesley talks about his past. You work at the Palais and sift through legal documents often enough that coming across his trialâs records is not difficult business. But you wait for him to tell you on his own terms.Â
The first time he brings it up is also the first time you fuck him. Itâs been a long time comingâyou want him so badly, it almost hurts. You think about him all the time, and youâve seen him in enough instances without a shirt that your imagination has begun to run a little wild. You want Wriothesley, and if you can just find out if he wants you too, you can have him, youâre sure.Â
So you set out to find out.Â
âYou wanna make out?â you ask from the couch in his office as he does paperwork.Â
He pauses, doing a double-take. âSorry?â
âYou and me,â you gesture between the two of you with a finger, âdo you wanna make out? Like kiss and stuff with our tongues andââ
âI know what making out is, thank you!â he interjects, neck flushing a little, faint trace of red, âWeâve done it before, Iâm not clueless. Iâm just astounded by your forthcomingness, is all.â
You pout. âWell, Iâm bored. And you look very handsome right now. So? Making outâyes or no?â
He drops his pen as he stares at you. It rolls off the desk. He makes no move to retrieve it. âSweetheart,â he says slowly, like heâs talking to a toddler, âyou canât just look at a guy while heâs trying to finish disciplinary reports and ask if he wants to swap spit.â
âWhy not? If you donât want to, you can just say so.â
âIââ He blinks. Once. Twice. His ears are also red now. âI didnât say I didn't want to.â
You grin excitedly, walking over to him with a little bounce in your step as you lean your hip against his desk, arms crossed in victory. âSo you do want to.â
âI didnât say that either.â He rubs a hand down his face. âWeâre in my office.â
âSo?â You shrug. âWeâve made out here beforeâyou didnât care then. Why start now?â
He glares, but itâs the useless kindâmore fluster than defiance. âW-well, that wasâŠafter everyone was in their bunks for curfew!â
âMhm.â You take a slow step closer. âSo what about that time we made out behind some pipes in the middle of the day? Curfew only matters selectively, huh?â His breath stutters. Very slightly. But you notice. You push a finger under his chin, tilting his head up so he has to look at you. His pupils are blownâjust a little, but itâs enough to knock a spark of heat straight into your spine. âYou can tell me no,â you murmur. âJust say the word.â
âMânot ever going to say no to kissing you,â he mumbles, pulling you onto his lap, âyou know that good and well, you little troublemaker.â
âTroublemaker?â you gasp, âIâve no criminal history, your grace!â
âFor now,â he snorts, âmay have to take you into court myself for the damages you do down here.â
Before you can protest, he leans in and closes the gap, kissing you soft and sweet with a little edge of desperation. You gasp, and his lips move against yours againâharder this time, as if the first kiss has cracked open some dam to his self-control, and everything heâs been holding back is now spilling over at once. His hands slide to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch. He pulls you flush against him, swallowing the small sound you make as he kisses you deeper, fuller, like heâs been starved for thisâstarved for you.
You fist the front of his shirt, dragging him closer, and he groans into your mouth, low and rough. The sound shoots straight through you and goes straight to your core. He tilts your head back, cradling it as his mouth slots against yours impatiently. When his tongue grazes yours, you answer him with a low moan, wrapping your arms around his neck and tugging at his hair.
He makes a sharp, pleased noise at that. You feel his smile against your lipsâbrief and crooked, making something between your legs ache. âLike that, huh?â
âBe quiet,â you huff. He only laughs before deepening the kiss again, his mouth claiming yours with an amused smile.Â
Suddenly, an arm wraps tightly around your waist and hoists you closerâyou canât focus on it too much with the way heâs nipping at your bottom lip. Itâs not until your back hits the wall that you even realize that heâs been moving you, walking to the short distance to the wall behind his desk with his arm curled around you, holding your weight like itâs nothing. One of his hands fiddles with something behind youâa click later, and you realize itâs a doorknob.
The door opens, and he quickly strides in with you in his grip. You pull away, panting, glancing around as you take in this new room. A bedroom, you realizeâhis bedroom. His gauntlets are there, in a corner, tools sprawled around them from the last time he spent tinkering away at them. You take in the simplicity of it, how there isnât anything in here apart from his essentials. The bare necessities.Â
âIs this your room?â you whisper.Â
âDidnât think I slept in the bunks with the inmates, did you?â he murmurs, gently setting you down on his bed as he hovers over you. âWhatâs the point of being a duke if I donât get at least a few perks?â
âYou should decorate the place more,â you murmur, âIâll help.â
âYeah?â he pecks your lips, âawfully nice of you, sweetheart.â
You tug him down by the collar, chasing his mouth when he breaks away to speak. He huffs a laugh, breath warm against your lips, and then heâs kissing you againâmessy, hungry, more unrestrained now, like heâs finally given himself permission to want this as badly as you do.
His teeth catch your lower lip.
Your answering gasp is all the invitation he needs to bring his hand to your thigh, rubbing up and down the side of it as he groans into your mouth roughly when you tug at his hair some more. âWas this your plan all along?â he rasps, âget me in your bed?â
âThis is your bed,â you point out, âand you brought me here.â
âYou have a smart little mouth,â he grunts, angling your jaw up as he fixes you with a playfully stern look, âthatâs insubordination, miss.â
âI think I need to be disciplined, your grace,â you say, giving him a cheeky little wink.Â
He huffs out a disbelieving laugh, looking at you in awe and wonder before he shakes his head and brings your arms up, pinning them over your head as he presses kisses along your jaw. âYou,â he murmurs between kisses, âare a handful.â
The moment he pulls back enough actually to look at you, though, something shifts. His breath hitches, barely perceptible, but there. His eyes glaze over with something as they take in the sight of you under himâyou canât quite make out what it is, but you know it makes you feel important. Special. Some sort of feeling that no one has quite made you feel before. Then his hands, firm a moment ago, loosen just slightly around your wrists, as if the reality of holding you like this suddenly hits him all at once.
You watch him swallow. His gaze flickers from your eyes to your mouth, then lower, before he willfully forces him to look up and direct his gaze to your forehead so heâs not looking into your eyes or downwards along your body.Â
âWhat?â you whisper, a small smile curling at your lips.
âNothing.â He clears his throat, though it comes out rougher than he means it to. âJust⊠youâreââ he cuts himself off abruptly, the unfinished thought hanging between you. He releases your wrists, carefully, like youâre something fragile that heâs only just realized heâs strong enough to break. His palms settle instead at your waist, hesitant in a way they werenât before.
You tilt your head, watching him with growing curiosity. âYou okay?â
âCourse I am,â he huffs. âJust noticed youâreâŠvery pretty. Thatâs all.â
âOnly now?â you poutâbut your lips are already curled into a cocky little grin.Â
âStop that,â he grumbles.
âStop what?â
âYou know what,â he huffs.Â
You giggle, tugging him down by his stupidly loose tie and bringing his forehead against yours. His eyes are always icy blue, but theyâre the brightest pools of warmth youâve ever swam in, all the same. âYouâre getting shy on me, you know.â
âAm not,â he argues.
âAre too,â you grin.
âNope,â he all but pouts. His breath hitches as you untie his tie and fling it somewhere, slowly working at the buttons of his vest while he lets out a shaky breath over you. âYouâreâŠsure about this?â
âIâm always sure about you,â you smile softly. He closes his eyes, breath stuttering for a moment as you pull off his shirt and vest, admiring the hard planes of muscle and the broadness of his physique. âYouâre pretty, too, by the way.â
âYouâre killing me,â he rasps.Â
Undressing is an awkward ordeal. But endearing. Wriothesley struggles to kick off his boots, and unclasping your bra takes him a moment before he can tug it offâbut finally, in between kisses and soft, amused giggles and breathy, embarrassed chuckles, youâre both bare and tangled in his sheets.Â
Heâs hardâhis cock is thick and curved, and the tip leaks with the evidence of his arousal in the form of pre cum. You bring a hand between your bodies, gently smearing it with your thumb like a lubricant while he shivers and lets out a soft groan.Â
âFuck,â he hisses out, breathing harder as you wrap your hand around his girth. He stares down at where your touch meets himâand heâs more than a little dizzy by the way your hand can barely wrap around the full width of his thickness.Â
âItâsâŠso big,â you murmur, staring in awe and disbelief.Â
âYou canât just say that,â he groans.Â
âSorry,â you giggle, biting your lip as you give him an innocent smile.
âYouâre not sorry even a little,â he huffs. Then his eyes flutter closed and his lips part in a low, shaky moan as you slowly move your hand and drag your palm along his length, stroking languidly while he buries his head into your neck.Â
âI am,â you insist, kissing the side of his head sweetly, âhere, Iâll even make it up to you.â
âNghâfuck,â he curses as your pace quickens, the friction of your hand gliding over the sensitive skin of his erection making his breaths come out unevenly. Heâs pretty when he feels goodâand Wriothesley is pretty and easy on the eye any time, of course, but when heâs bare and vulnerable and trusts you to witness him at his rawest, he is particularly beautiful.Â
Your eyes canât help but keep themselves glued on himâand he canât help but notice and get more flustered.Â
âStop staring,â he grunts.
âWhat am I meant to look at then?â you huff, âthe wall?â
âClose your eyes.â
âYouâre unbelievable,â you shake your head with a snort.Â
Thereâs a building ache between your bare legs, a wetness leaking and spreading down your inner thighs as you watch pleasure sprawl over his features and hear the sweet, delicate sounds of approval he makes when you touch him particularly right.Â
Finally, his hand gently grasps onto your wrist as he stops you, panting and gritting his jaw as he murmurs, âO-okayâthinkâŠthink we should get toâŠyou know.â
âWhat?â you tease.
âThe main part,â he glares weaklyâand then, he spreads your legs and takes a closer look at your wet, needy cunt. âYou want this just as badlyâI can literally see it. Donât be so smug, sweetheart.â
âOf course I want you,â you hum, âwhy wouldnât I?â He shivers at that. Gives you a dazed look before he leans in and kisses youâalmost like itâs more to distract himself than it is to distract you.Â
(Wriothesley is endearing when heâs flustered. This is the conclusion that sex with him draws you to. When he fumbles through his side drawer to pull out a condom, and when he struggles to open the package, you are hopelessly endeared. And when he gives you a half-hearted glare as you giggle, you realize how endearing he also is when he is grumpy.)
âReady?â he whispers, eyeing you good and hard once he finally lines up with your entrance. You nod, and he mumbles, âI need words, please, sweetness.â
âReady,â you sigh fondly, âI want you. Mânot backing out.â He takes a moment to look at you properly. Like he has to be sure youâre here and want this. With him. Wriothesley has brought you pain beforeâagainst his will, heâs made you ache and throb with soreness and harsh stings. He makes you ache againâthis time, though, itâs a little different. Itâs not because you carry his pain with him. Itâs because that look he gives you makes your chest tighten and your heart ache all on its own accord. âI want you, Wrio,â you breathe, cupping his cheeks, âswear I do.â
Only then does he close his eyes, smiling softly as he nods and murmurs, âLucky me. Got you all to myselfâthe universe said so. Youâre all mine.â
âAll yours,â you breathe.Â
He presses the thick tip of his cock along your entrance, rubbing along your folds and collecting your wetness as you shiver. You gasp, and he chuckles softly at the fragile sound, pecking your lips as he murmurs, âBarely even done anything yet, sweetheart.â
âThen do something,â you click your teeth, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him closer, pressing his pelvis closer.Â
He swallows, whispering, âYouâll tell me if I hurt you, yeah?â
âYouâll feel it anyway,â you murmur, âquit your worry-warting and move.â
âSo demanding, miss soulmate,â he chuckles.Â
And thenâfinallyâhe pushes past your folds, pressing into you slowly, carefully, delicately. Wriothesley has a reputation. Itâs a bit out of his controlâpeople tend to see a prison warden as rough and strict, and people often mistake him for a brute with just a glance. You know better. You know him to be soft and sensitive and so caring, itâs almost unfair that he spends his time under waves of the ocean instead of up in the real world, where he can share his warmth. You know him as the kind man who feeds squirrels in Fontaine and pets stray cats in the alleyways. You know him as the gentle guy who holds doors open for children and lets them cut in line at the ice cream shop. You know him as the delicate boy who never wants to hurt you with his strength when he already feels waves of guilt for having brought you so much hurt all these years without meaning to.Â
When he sinks into your tight, welcoming cunt, and stretches you open, you wonder how you went this long without him. How you survived without knowing him. How you lived this long without being tangled in his arms and being connected to him deep and close.Â
He feels so rightâso good. He curves into you so perfectly, stretches you apart, opens you up with his thickness, and presses the blunt head of his against a delicate, sensitive spot in your walls that makes your head spin.Â
âW-wrioâŠâ your breath hitches, âf-fuckâso deep,â you whine.Â
âAnd youâreâŠso tight,â he groans, âshit, sweetheartânever felt so good before.â
You never dwelled on the reality of soulmates. Your mother and father were lucky enough to meet each otherâyou know that soulmates are real before Wriothesleyâs pain is ever yours because you watch them love. You watch them nurture you, the byproduct of that love, with so much care and diligence. You donât need the proof of your own soulmate to know that they are real and they exist.Â
For the longest time, you know nothing about Wriothesley apart from the fact that he exists. Youâve only ever known that he was yours. That one day, if you were lucky, youâd find him. It never occurred to you that once you did find him, youâd realize how incomplete youâve always been. How everything was there, but there was no one to share it with. Now that heâs here, pressed into you deep into you, you wonder how youâll ever disconnect. How youâll ever part from feeling so whole and complete.Â
His hips moveâhe pulls almost all the way out before slamming back into you, hard and rough but still careful enough that it doesnât hurt you. It blinds you with a pleasure that burns through your spine and finds every nerve. It makes a soft, pleasant ache start to form at the pit of your stomach, building up stronger and stronger with every roll of his hips and every drag of his cock along your walls.Â
The friction makes you sob, curling your nails into his shoulders as you whimper, âSâgood, WrioâsoâŠso good, please donât stop.â
âNow why would I do that?â he grunts, moaning when your walls flutter around him and squeeze tight. âWhy would I stop feeling my precious girl?â
Your head spins more at thatâprecious girl. Wriothesley is smooth about calling you things like that. He calls you something affectionate so casually that sometimes you almost mistake your own name for a sweet, loving pet name. Sweetheart. Sweetness. Precious girl. Sometimes, when heâs feeling particularly sentimental, he calls you honey. When heâs in a playful mood, he likes to say miss soulmate. (You ask him why he says it once, and he tells you, itâs because I like reminding you youâre my soulmate. And I like saying it out loud, too. Makes it more real.)
You like it when he calls you things that remind you that youâre his. You like being his. Itâs your favorite thing to beâthe thing that takes burdens off your shoulder and lets you simply exist without having something to prove. Something to offer. You like being so easy for someone to care about you, it feels like it happens for no other reason than just because itâs natural to do so.Â
âFaster,â you plead.Â
âAnything you want, precious,â he breathes. âYouâhahâyou are so beautiful. You know that?â
A hand moves up your thigh and travels to that delicate spot between your legsâand then you throw your head back and mewl as he finds your clit and rubs circles with that rough, calloused pad of his thumb. Youâre sensitiveâevery brush against the bundle of nerves sends a jolt of pleasure that has you hurdling towards your end.Â
âClose,â you rasp, âWrioâŠmâso c-close.â
âYeah, sweetheart? Is that right?â he asks, his own voice shaky enough that you gather it must be the case for him, too. His pace has become sloppy enough that he must be near the edge himself, as well.
âMhm,â you nod, biting your lip and letting out a soft, drawn-out moan as he sinks deeper into you and presses right against your sweet spot.Â
âMeâŠme tooâcome with me, okay? WantâŠwant you to finish with me,â he pleads. His thumb is merciless against your clitâit rubs smooth, unpausing circles and builds you up to your release with one, then two, and then a third thrust of his hips.Â
Your vision all but goes white as you fall apart. Your back arches, and he curls an arm around you and brings you flush against him, kissing you rough and hard and needy. You swallow each otherâs sounds as your walls flutter around him and his cock twitches inside of you, letting warm rope after rope of thick seed spill into the plastic that separates you.Â
âFuck,â you both hiss.Â
âSweetheart,â he breathes, âyouâŠyouâre so perfect. Know that? Huh?â He kisses along your jaw. Theyâre wet, messy kisses, pressed into your skin with a drunken, hazy sense of control as you milk his cock for every last drop of his release.Â
âCâmere,â you beg, âcloser.â
âMâright here,â he murmurs, âfuck, mânot going anywhere. Ever.â
And then he collapses beside you once heâs fucked you both through the last few waves of your orgasms. He pulls you against him, wrapping two strong, muscled arms around you and tangling your body with his.Â
âThat was nice,â you whisper.Â
âThat was your plan all along,â he accuses, âyou never wanted to just make out.â
You giggle, beaming up at him. âGuilty. Will I serve a sentence, your grace?â
âLife in prison,â he gives you a faux stern look, âdirectly under my supervision.â
âDoesnât sound so bad,â you hum, âserving down here with you. I think Iâd live.âÂ
For a while, itâs quiet. You bask in the afterglow of him and you and the skin that melts you both together. And then, his voice carries through the space that hardly exists between you both.Â
âI served down here,â he mumbles. âBet you already knew thatâyou probably have better access to legal documents than me.â
âIâve seen a paper or two,â you admit.Â
âYouâre rather calm regarding my history,â he says carefully.
âI guess I justâŠalways had a feeling things played out the way they did. I remember it,â you whisper, tracing the skin of his chest, feeling the scars from memory. âThe night you killed your parents. I felt it, yâknow?â
His breath stills. Youâre sure heâs not surprisedâit was nothing short of vicious, the fight heâd put up. Youâre sure he remembers better than you how it felt in every nerve ending. You donât think anyone could ever forget.Â
The truth is that youâd known about his court case long before you pieced together he was your soulmate. Itâs a case most people in your line of work know about. A popular case that opened up a popular investigation into chains of corrupted institutions for children. Places led and controlled by people who have intentions to do anything but keep the less fortunate children of Fontaine safe. Most people in your field consider him a hero of sortsâa boy who sacrificed his freedom to make a change the justice system wouldnât.Â
You think Wriothesley is troubled. He was as a child, and in some ways, he is now. You wish he could have been like other boys and girls, that he could be like other men and women. You wish life was kinder to him so that his circumstances never had to feel like the extremes were the only way out.Â
You wish Wriothesley could have had a good life. You wish Fontaine and those who uphold its justice hadnât failed him every chance he had to get one.Â
He doesnât look at you for a while. His gaze stays focused on the ceiling as he swallows. âThe night I killed my foster parents maybe wasnât my proudest moment.â
âMaybe not,â you agree, moving your hand to grab his, lacing your fingers together. âBut I think youâve had a proud moment or two since then.â
He stays silent. For a long time, Wriothesley is silent. You donât think heâll say anything else, so you close your eyes, slowly drifting off to sleep against his chest when his voice rumbles in your ear. Low. Hesitant.Â
âI donât regret it,â is all he says.Â
You crack an eye open, tilting your head up. âKilling them?â
âSetting the kids free,â he corrects. âNo one else would have done it. That was the only way I could think of. I felt like they deserved it.â
âHow about now?â
âWell. Still think they deserve it,â he mumbles. âButâŠI would do it differently now.â
âThatâs because you can,â you point out, âyou have the connections and the resources to do things the ârightâ way.â
âThink so?â he cracks a grinâsmall, but there.Â
âI do believe you hold some authority, you grace,â you chuckle. He doesnât say anything elseâjust laughs softly and kisses your forehead. You fall asleep lulled by his fingers along your back and the smell of his faint cologne.Â
Wriothesley has a habit of throwing himself into the ring when things get hard. It was the only outlet he had down here in the fortress for the most part when he servedâthe only way for him to break a sweat and get his energy poured into something. And maybe get in a few good hits to anyone whoâd been giving him a hard time. But, wellâŠsome habits just stick. Theyâre hard to grow out of.Â
Nowadays, being in the ring is more or less a matter of keeping in shape. At least, thatâs what he tells himself, anywayâhe knows itâs no coincidence that when his mind is particularly heavy, he spends more time hitting a punching bag with taped fists. Heâs always had a high pain tolerance. The sore muscles in his arms and the sting of his knuckles ground him half the time more than they do hurt him.Â
He wonders if heâs grown accustomed to pain because itâs been the only constant in his life, or if itâs because he simply deserves it.Â
âWrio,â he hears a soft voice call, pausing him from throwing his next punch. He drops his form, straightening his back as he looks over his shoulder. Itâs you, of course. It had to be even before heâd registered your voiceâonly one person is allowed at the pankration ring at this hour (him) and only one person gets away with breaking his rules (you).Â
âWhatâre you doinâ here, sweetheart?â he tilts his head a few times to crack his neck, âyouâre supposed to be in bed.â
âSo are you.â
âGot a little restless, is all,â he says vaguely.Â
âYouâre tired,â you raise an unimpressed brow, âand that poor bag has had enoughâit never did anything to you.â
âIâm not tired yet,â he denies. (He is. Even for his standards, his arms and shoulders are rather tense and sore. Heâs pushed himself further than usual. He bets you would know because you can feel it.)
âYou canât lie to me when I can feel the same things as you,â you huff, rubbing sleep from your eyes. âYouâre too young to have stiff shoulders, yâknow.â
His eyes soften with guilt before he lets out a heavy sigh and lets his shoulders drop. You walk over, standing behind him as your arms wrap around his midsection and your nose buries into the bare skin of his back.Â
âWhatâs wrong?â
âNothing,â he lies.Â
âWriothesley,â you say flatly.Â
âJust a busy week,â he says half-heartedly. âSeriously, Iâm fine. SoâŠjust drop it.â
âOkay,â you sigh, too tired from your sleep being interrupted to put up a proper fight. You kiss his back, and he melts a little at the gesture, limbs loosening up even more. âYouâll talk to me if you need to?â
âYeah,â he whispers, âIâll come find you if I need it.â
Wriothesley is aware that you know he wonât. Not of his own free will. He doesnât talk about his feelings or share his burdens because then heâs no longer in control of his image. The less strong of an image he has, the more innocent and frail he seems. The more innocent and frail he seems, the more likely it is that heâll be taken advantage of.Â
Itâs not that Wriothesley doesnât trust you, or that he thinks youâll take advantage of him. You wonât. He trusts that much. Youâre the only good thing thatâs his. But muscle memory is muscle memory.Â
Some habits just stick. And theyâre hard to grow out of.Â
You gently shuffle to stand in front of him, wrapping your arms to rest around his neck now. His hands find your hips. âLetâs go to bed,â you whisper, pulling him down so his forehead rests against yours. âIf youâre really that energetic, Iâll tire you out some other way.â
âYeah?â he cracks a grin.Â
âMmh,â you hum.Â
âThen lead the way, sweetness,â he chuckles.Â
(In the end, heâs out like a light as soon as his head finds that comfortable place against your chest. Heâs sure youâll tease him for it as soon as he feels himself start to drift off, but he thinks itâs worth it when he feels your fingers card through his hair.)
Sometimes, you forget Wriothesley can feel your pain just as much as you feel his. Your whole life has been spent so focused on how often he endures suffering compared to you, that you forget to focus on your own.Â
He doesnât forget to focus on you, though. He never does. Heâs one deep scowl and a hand on his hips away from making that known.Â
âWith a headache like that, Iâm surprised youâre still conscious, let alone finishing paperwork,â he clicks his teeth.
You glance up and give him a tired look when you register his words.Â
âI just need to finish these up and get them out of the way so they donât haunt meââ
âNo, you need sleep. And maybe a proper meal,â he interrupts.Â
âButââ
âNo buts. Letâs go.â Before you can protest any further, he has you lifted and settled in his arms as he drags you to your bed from your desk.Â
You learn quickly on that Wriothesley doesnât like spending nights apart. Heâs grown too used to your presence. On nights you canât come down to the Fortress, his simple solution is just to come spend the night up at the surface. You canât pretend like you arenât relieved by his presence yourselfâone night without him makes for a terrible night of sleep. And maybe a worse headache the next day.Â
He shuffles through your apartment with a sense of familiarity that makes your heart full, even if your head is pounding. You nuzzle into the crook of his neck as he walks with you carefully tucked against him.Â
âYou give me headaches,â he mumbles, âliterally.â
âSâonly fair,â you yawn, âyouâve put me through worse.â Your words have no bite to them. Nothing more than a good-natured quip. Youâd go through worse in a heartbeat for him.
He smiles fondly, sighing as he kisses the side of your head. âYeah,â he whispers, âguess thatâs true.â
Itâs a topic heâs been thinking about more lately. The more that sex happens between the two of you, the more heâs starting to realize that itâs a complicated topic for him. Â
Although if heâs being honest, what he engages with you can hardly be considered just sex. Itâs intimacy. Wriothesley has never partaken in intimacy before you. Sex, though? Plenty of times. Sometimes, it was more for survival than his own desires, and sometimes it was simply because he was a growing, curious boy with needs and wants. Sometimes, a quick fuck got him what he needed for survival much quicker when he was still a prisoner. Sometimes, a quick fuck got him through his pent-up emotions better than sitting and processing them.
Whatever the case may be, Wriothesley has always had just sex because it was just that. Sex that has a purposeâsome purposes less sanitized than others, but a purpose all the same.Â
But being intimate is something different from having just sex. When Wriothesley is having just sex, he can put on an air of cockiness. He can play into what people want, slip into whatever role they carved out for himâinnocently sweet and naive, or dangerously charming and experienced, sometimes even a little rough and a little wicked. He can wear confidence like a mask, sharpen his smile into something rakish, tilt his chin just right, and say the things he knows people want to hear.Â
He can disconnect. He can keep his heart out of it. He can survive it.
Intimacy, though? Intimacy is different. It demands that he stay honest, not perform. That he be soft. That he be seen.
With you, thereâs no room for the cocky smirk or the confident swagger. And he triesâhe really, really triesâbut the moment your hands are on him with care instead of expectation, the moment you kiss him like heâs precious instead of convenient, the moment your eyes are fond instead of just lustful, his whole front crumbles.Â
The mask doesnât fit. The persona slips. The smooth, practiced words get stuck in his throat.
Heâs clumsy with intimacy in a way he never was with just sex. His touches hesitate. His breath stutters when your fingers thread through his hair. He keeps searching your face like heâs waiting for the moment you change your mind, like heâs terrified youâll see too much of him and walk away. Vulnerability of this kind turns him quiet, nervous, almost boyish in a way he hates himself for, and yet canât seem to stop.
With you, heâs not performing. With you, he canât.
Youâre not just hoping he touches you for your own pleasureâand you donât want to touch him back just to indulge your own wicked fantasies. You care about how he feels, how it is for him more than it is for you. You care about his experience with affection and gentleness.Â
The more that you and Wriothesley are intimate, the more he opens himself up to gentleness. And Wriothesley has never known what to do with gentleness.Â
He doesnât know how to accept it. Not ever since the day he realized it came with a heavy price that he could never afford. (And how could he afford you? You are so patient and happy to have him, so willing despite knowing his past and the horrors of his crimes, despite enduring the agony he put you through physically. Your affection, of all things, should come with the highest of prices.)
âDid it bother you growing up?â he whispers, tracing your hip bone with his thumb as you lie against his bare chest. You like cuddling after intimacy. He likes it, too. You curl against him in his dark bedroom, bare and sleepy and satisfied, and for a moment, he feels normal. Like youâre not with him under the literal ocean. Like heâs not an ex-convict who now sees over other convicts. Like heâs not the guy who made you feel sharp kicks and deep bruises all your life.Â
âWhat?â you hum.Â
âYou know what,â he huffs. You give him an earnestly confused shake of your head, and he sighs. He decides that perhaps you are being honest and not purposely dense just to make him properly communicate his feelings. âThe pain,â he mutters. âIt didnât bother you that I was always bringing you pain?â
âIt did,â you say bluntly. He tenses under you. You gently press a kiss to his chest as if to soothe him, like youâve already read his mind. âNot for the reasons you might think, though.â
âOh?â he arches a brow, âthen do enlighten me, miss soulmate. How exactly did it bother you that Iâm not gathering here?â
You roll your eyes. Itâs affectionate.Â
Wriothesley misses that. He misses affection in the simple forms he once knewâMotherâs fond eye-roll, the way sheâd sigh and grab a handkerchief to clean the chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth after Father brought home treats. The way sheâd bend down and wipe the smudges away as sheâd gently scold, Youâve got to be more careful, ââ! Heavens know what other people would think if they saw you so filthy. Whatever would you do without me? The way sheâd sigh and pull him into a hug, kissing his cheeks when heâd pouted at being lectured.Â
Mother was always so softâhe still wonders, sometimes, how anyone could possibly fake so much gentleness. Some of it had to have been real, right? Just a fraction? A small morsel? It had to be, hadnât it? Even if he wasnât worth loving long enough to keep, he must have at least been worth loving for that temporary time she showed him that affection.
If only he were worth more than a pretty sum of mora. If only he could have made Mother fond enough of him that keeping him was worth more than selling him off like some animal on the market, a piece of meat to butcher and cut open and devour with filthy, disgusting hands.Â
Affection has always cost him something. Some price that is not worth paying. His innocence, his freedom, his life. You are the only person who affords him affection without any price. And how funny, he thinksâthat the one person capable of it is the one person meant for him, decided by fate. He wonders then, that if there was no such thing as fate and divinity, if heâd be worthy of any affection at all. If you are the one person the world has granted him because it is their begrudging duty to assign him another half. If you alone are a miracle that he was lucky enough to be allowed by Celestia, as they smiled down on him out of a single, twisted instance of mercy.Â
He canât dwell on it too long before youâre cupping his cheek and pulling him out of his thoughts, pressing a kiss to his lips. His breath hitches for a momentâhe forgets sometimes that can do this whenever he wants. He can kiss you. Claim your affection. Feel the proof of it for himself. He presses into you harder, desperately trying to swallow down as much of it for free as he can in case one day, this too has a price that is out of his means.Â
âIt never bothered me to carry your pain,â you whisper against his mouth, âthough I wonât lieâit did hurt,â you chuckle. You peck his lips before he can say anything in response. âIt bothered me that it was your reality. I couldnât understand why it was like thatâhow different we were.â
âYou shouldnât have had to try to understand it,â he mumbles, âif you werenât stuck to me, youâd haveââ
âMwah,â you cut him off, pressing a loud kiss to his mouth. âDonât say that, silly. Iâm not stuck with you.â
He blinks before he huffs out a soft snort, shaking his head in disbelief. âSilencing me with a kiss isnât going toââ
âMwah!â You kiss him again, theatrically louder this time as you giggle.Â
âIf you keep kissing me when I say self-deprecating things, itâll only condition me to say them more,â he warns.Â
âThen Iâll kiss you after you say anything,â you hum. âThen youâll only bother saying the nice things since you might as well.âÂ
âI donât know if thatâs how it worksââ
âMwah!â You kiss again.Â
He laughs, pulling you impossibly closer before he tilts your face up, cupping your cheek with a large hand that practically swallows your face entirely as he kisses you. Hard. You hum against his lips, eyes fluttering shut as you kiss him back. As if kissing him is enjoyable. As if someone like him was worthy of your time and affection and touch. As if someone of his status is worth tangling your life with, despite being who he is and where he is from.Â
âWrio,â you murmur, trying to pull away from his needy lips.Â
âMmh,â he mumbles, bridging the gap every time you try to create it. You giggle, gently stroking through his hair before delicately tugging at the strands to pry him away. He caves, sighing before he pulls away, grumpy as he stares at you, dazed. âWhat?â he frowns.
âI would have taken your pain for myself if I could,â you whisper, âif it meant you didnât have to live like that. Feeling it was never the issue. You should know that.â
âYouâre insane,â he breathes, ânow câmere.â
He moves to kiss you againâbut instead, you cup both of his cheeks and force him to look you in the eyes. âYou didnât deserve to feel it all either.â
âI know that,â he mutters, frowning. (He is grouchy when heâs vulnerable. Heâs known that from a young age. Feeling weak fills him with a sense of anger and disgust that makes him lash out. Maybe heâs angry with himself for being so weak. Or perhaps at the world for making him that way. He doesnât know. All he knows is that it makes him want to become bigger. Stronger. More untouchable. Whether itâs through bloodied gauntlets in his childhood living room or some bulked-up muscle in the pankration ring, he is always trying to seem stronger.)
âAnd you deserve someone to carry everything with you,â you continue. âYou know that too, right?â
âCourse I do,â he grunts, not meeting your eyes, âwhatâs the point of saying all this?â
âThe point,â you say firmly, âis that you start believing you can have nice things.â
âI have nice things,â he says petulantly. âGot a decently good income andâŠand my title is literally Duke, and I got youâI have a pretty lady thatâs all for me, donât I? You wound me, sweetheart. Are you trying to say I donât have anything nice because I live under the sea or somethingââ
âWrio,â you say softly. âPlease.â
He deflates.Â
Wriothesley has always kept a respectful distance away from people. His colleagues and this prison are all his home. His family. But he keeps a respectful distance. Itâs the smartest option. Because distance is what keeps him most safe. What keeps people close enough that heâs never truly alone, but not close enough that they are people he can lose and suffer the loss of. But distance is difficult to maintain in an intimate relationship, thoughâdistance is impossible to keep for longer than a small period of time.
Wriothesley is realizing that, slowly but surelyâthat no distance means having all the hard conversations. The ones that make him feel so raw and vulnerable, itâs like heâs peeling his skin straight off and exposing his bones and tissue.Â
He takes a moment, focuses real hard on tracing the skin of your arm rather than meeting your eyes before he mumbles, âYeah. Fine.â
âI donât want you to feel guilty,â you say softly.Â
âSânot a feeling I can just turn off,â he shrugs.Â
âYes,â you agree, âitâs not. But we can talk about it when your mind goes there.â
âI donât like talking.â
âBut you like me,â you smile, âand I like you, too. And if we want to like each other and make it work, we have to do that thing you donât like where we talk about our feelings. Communicate. Do that couple-y sort of stuff. Yeah?â
Youâre right about one thingâWriothesley likes you. He likes everything about you. He likes hearing you talk and listening to your voice. He likes learning about you and the things you like. He likes looking at you and the way you smile or laugh. He likes everything. He even likes the way you add too much sugar to the tea he brews up for you (even if you donât properly enjoy its flavor that way). He likes having you. Likes being able to say youâre hisânot because he doesnât want to share you with the world, but because he wants to have something he can keep. Something that isnât here one second and gone the next. Something that was meant for him, so he can have it and never have to exchange it for something else because the universe only lets him have one good thing at a time.Â
But Wriothesley also knows that things are just a set way for a guy like him. Not all people are created equal. Some people are blessed and lucky and can have a good life. Others are simply there to serve as a reminder that those people should count their blessings unless they want to end up like the others.Â
Heâs one of the others. And youâre one of the blessed. And sometimesâŠwell, sometimes he wonders if itâs better that you stay in your blessed little bubble of a world instead of getting caught up in the whirlwind that is him. And his life. And his terrible, awful luck.Â
Heâd love it if he could save you the trouble of mingling with someone like him and realizing you were made for something better. And maybe, a little selfishly, heâd love it if he could save himself some heartache in the process and lose you before it would wreck him completely. He feels like he deserves that muchâfeels like heâs helped enough people and atoned enough for some of his darker sins that he should be able to just hold onto the stability heâs built himself. Sure, heâs not exactly fulfilled or happy, but heâs not exactly miserable or suffering.Â
Heâll take that minimal win happily.Â
YouâŠyou are everything heâs dreamed of. Maybe more. Maybe even more than more. You could very easily leave him miserable and sufferingânot because youâre bad and you want to hurt him, but because heâs one of the others. And youâre one of the blessed. And things just work out a certain way for people like him versus people like you.Â
You kiss his thoughts away again. Kiss his lips all soft and sweet and filled with a certain amount of adoration he doesnât know heâs earned. (But heâll take it. Heâs not above something soft and sweet and just for him.)
âYour head is not a very nice place,â you murmur, tapping his forehead. âI can tell. Itâs being mean to you.â
He laughs at that, raising an amused brow. âYeah? Think so?â
âYeah,â you hum. âIn my head,â you move your finger to now trace his chest, running your fingers through the hair that litters his skin, âyouâre just a good boy who did some bad things. And youâre trying to be good now, see? You reformed a whole prison! Very good. I think that we can work with that.â
âGood boy,â he repeats in disbelief, âyouâre talking to me like Iâm a dog?â
You pet his head teasingly. âSuch a good boy.â
His face lights up as he suddenly gets an ideaâyou watch it in real time, the scheming look in his eyes. In an instant, heâs grabbing your wrist as he pulls it against his lips and murmurs, âCareful,â before gently nibbling at your inner wrist, âI might bite.â
âNo!â you shriek, letting out a series of giggles, âno, donât bite, please! I have treats! Spare me!â
He shakes his head, fighting back a lopsided grin. âUnbelievable,â he huffs, âyouâre unbelievable.âÂ
âIâm not,â you brush back his hair. âIf you just believe me, youâll feel a lot better.â
âYeah? What should I believe then, miss soulmate?â
âThat weâre good together,â you murmur, âand that weâll be fine. And that we deserve each otherâas in you deserve this, too. Just trust me on that.â
He lets out a soft, heavy breath. Not all people are created the same in Fontaine. In fact, they arenât in any nation. But all soulmates love each other the sameâand this time, the way you look at him is not the same picture-perfect, falsified look from Mother. Or the same deceivingly kind, careful words from Father.Â
These are real. He can work with that.Â
âOkay,â he pretends to cave, shoving his face into your neck. You let him hide away in there. Let him keep that fragile look in his eyes hidden from view. âMâtrusting you on that. Deceiving the Duke is punishable by ten years in prison, miss.â
âYes, sir,â you smile, stroking his hair. âI am no rule breaker, you see. Iâm a law-abiding citizen.â
âGood. Iâll hold you to that.â
âWanna talk about whatâs on your mind?â you offer softly.Â
He hesitates. And then he decides that maybe he can afford nice thingsâthe Fortress has granted him a pretty amount of mora these days, anyway. âYeah,â he murmurs, âmaybe not this second, though. But weâll talk about it.â
He can practically see your smile even if he canât look. âOkay,â you murmur, âfine by me. We have plenty of time, baby.â
Your arms wrap tighter around him. Perhaps this is Fontaine. Perhaps this is the nation of justice. Perhaps he has found his justice in your arms, feeling your warm skin against his as you erase every memory of pain from his body where you and he touch.
This is not a very linear format in terms of plot and story telling it. It jumps along many months and weeks and doesnât have a specific timeline. It is just the journey of wrio falling in love despite his flaws. Hope you enjoyed that
Moon Waltz - Berial x F!Reader, Chapter Two (of all the strangers, you're the strangest that I've seen)
Fandom: AFK Journey
Pairing: Berial/F!Reader
Status: Incomplete (2/?)
Content Warnings for this chapter: mentions of the prior chapter's attempted SA, Berial being spooky, minor flirtation under false pretenses
Summary:
"Your hopes that your encounter with Berial was just a one-off experience are quickly dashed as he decides to interfere with your daily life."
There is a mirror on AO3 which has the same author name as my tumblr. Tumblr hates links in posts, so this is my indirect way of saying it.
After accepting your tea (and drinking all of it straight from the still-whistling kettle, much to your horror), Berial declared he had âimportant businessâ to take care of and promptly slunk into the shadows with much fanfare after promising heâd be back âsoonâ.
You didnât believe him for a second. Heâd probably found somewhere to hide in your house to then pop up and scare you. So as you went about your daily routine, you did it with your guard fully raised, yanking open every cupboard and drawer with purpose as if to startle Berial before he could startle you.
And yet, every single one came up empty. Had he truly left, or was he waiting for you to relax before he struck? You were (fairly) sure he wasnât in it to kill you (yet) but you were still at the mercy of a demented elder Hypogean. His senses of morality were on a whole different plane of existence than yours. To him, scaring someone to death was all fun and games.
Every corner you turned, every door you opened, you expected the jester to spring out at you with a haughty âBOO!â. When it almost became time to leave for work and he hadnât shown his terrifying face, you were tense.
What if heâd left you alone for now? Hypogeans were long-lived, after all; perhaps âsoonâ for him could be years for you. Maybe youâd be lucky enough to be dead and gone by the time you crossed his mind once more.
As you made for the door, you reached for the coat and scarf you always wore outside only for your hands to come up empty. Your heart sunk as you recalled what had happened to them. With how much snow had fallen between last night and now, they were probably buried forever. They had been very nice, a touch above what you could usually afford as theyâd been a gift from someone important to you. Replacing them would take a while of you saving up.
With a resigned sigh, you left your house, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself and shivering. Today, the sun was out and the skies were clear. Some of the worst snow had even begun to melt, though you were certain it would be back before long. At least today you could see down the road, so there was no way youâd get lost.
You inhaled deeply, taking in the cool, crisp air. It truly felt wonderful to be alive, you thought. After two scares in less than a day, you were almost happy to go to work and face a mundane day and ordinary customers. After coming to terms with the reality that you would be playing host to Berial for the near future, you felt like you could tackle any sort of problem patron.
(But you were in this whole mess because of a problem patron, werenât you?)
The walk to your work felt twice as long thanks to your lack of coat and scarf, but you made it, fumbling with the door with numb fingers.
You werenât due to open for another half-hour or so, so you had time to warm up and putter about before dealing with customers.
The jingle of the bell caused your boss, a taciturn man in his forties who didnât say much, to look up from wiping down the counter. âSomethinâ here for you,â he grunted, looking back down just as quick as heâd looked up..
âHuh?â
Your boss put down the rag and reached under the bar to pull out⊠your coat! And your scarf! âSome guy left them here not long before you got here, said they were yours and you dropped âem.â
Bewildered, you crossed the room and took the aforementioned garments from your boss with hands that had started to tingle with the discomfort of returning warmth. Taking them to a table, you looked them over and sure enough, they were yours. The coat was a bit scuffed but fine otherwise and the scarf had been clumsily mended down the middle with black thread. It was a bit of a sight but it worked.
Where could these have come from? Youâd already resigned yourself to them being lost forever, and the only person who would know where they were wasâŠ
âDid, uh, did âsome guyâ give you his name?â you asked, poking your head out through the doorway at your boss as you put your things in the back and started with your opening duties.
Your boss shook his head. âNope. I figured youâd know him or something.â
âWell⊠what did he look like?â The chances of a Hypogean just being able to waltz up to a tavern and not cause panic were zero, after all.
âI dunno, wasnât really payinâ attention. Short? Dark hair? Just some guy. Friend of yours?â
You really didnât know what to say to that. â... yeah, something like that.â If your boss didnât believe you, he either respected your privacy or didnât care enough to ask. Knowing him, it was probably the latter.
With more questions than answers, you started work. All in all, everyone was overwhelmingly normal. You relished in it after your sojourn with the supernatural the night prior. But you were still on edge. Every corner you turned, every time you went to take the trash out back, you were expecting a certain someone to come popping out at you.
But then again, there were too many people around for that, right? As much as Berial said he loved an audience, he also probably knew that popping up in front of a group of people was likely to be dangerous for a Hypogean like him. He could take out a decent amount of people by himself⊠but if an entire crowd rushed him he was likely done for.Â
(Or whatever passed for âdone forâ for him.)
As usual, your boss went home an hour before closing, leaving you to lock up for the night. The last of the customers shuffled out about two minutes prior to the official closing time, and you leaned against the bar, sighing heavily as you wiped sweat off your brow. As good a workout as it was, being one of the only waitresses in a popular tavern was tiring.
You turned around to start bringing dishes to the sink when the bell jingled behind you.
âWeâre closed!â you called without looking. Well, you werenât technically for another minute, butâŠ
âIâll only be a moment, I promise,â a soft voice answered. You turned to see a man about your age with a shy smile and mop of dark wavy hair that contrasted his pale face. He sported a dark coat and overall seemed harmless.
You felt your heart thrum a little because he was the most handsome man youâd seen in quite a while. Maybe you could bend the rules, just a little. After all, a paying customer was a paying customer, right?
âAlright, but be quick,â you said, coming behind the bar. âTo-go only, please.â
âAs you wish,â the man said politely as he sat down and opened up a menu.
You decided to strike up a conversation with this stranger to see where it went. âIâve never seen you before,â you said. âAre you new in Cedartown?â You leaned on the counter, trying to look engaged but casual. It had been a while since youâd made a true connection, and if he was open to itâŠ
The stranger considered his words. âYou could say that. Iâve heard this place was delightful, and I just had to come see what it was all about. And I see they were right, everything here is lovely.â
He gave you a soft smile, and your cheeks heated up. âY-yes, the decor is nice here.â Flustered, you turned around to grab a glass for the stranger. âWhatâll it be, sir?â
You turned around to find that somehow, the stranger had silently come behind the bar and was right up in your face, grinning wildly. Heâd not made a sound; one moment he was sitting and the next he was right in your face as if heâd just teleported there. You screamed and dropped the glass you had in hand, barely registering the noise it made as it shattered on the ground. The strangerâs grin grew impossibly wider. âDo you have Magister Merlin in a can? If so, youâd better let them out!â he exclaimed, doubling over in laughter at his own joke. His voice had gone from soft to raspy, and-
Wait, you definitely recognized that maniacal laughter. âB-Berial?â You squeaked as you leaned against the counter and tried your hardest to get your heart to calm down after that scare.
The stranger vanished in a puff of smoke and in his place stood the nuisance himself as he alighted himself backwards with an ostentatious backflip and stood proudly on top of the table youâd just wiped down. âThe one and only!â He bowed, tipping both his hat and his head to uproarious applause from nowhere. âAhaha, you should have seen the look on your face . Oh, that was priceless!â
âGet out!â you yelled, no longer caring if you were sassing a man who could rip you into shreds if he wanted. Now that you were no longer scared, you were angry. Frightening you was one thing, but the fake flirtation was just mean, you thought.
The one time someone seems interested and itâs all a big jokeâŠ
âMake me,â he said, sticking out that damnable tongue at you. âYou canât.â
You scowled at him and went to get a broom and dustpan to clean up the mess. âYouâre right, I canât. Iâm not dumb enough to try.â He just watched as you swept up the shards of the glass heâd caused you to break. Lazy bastardâŠ
âSo dedicated to your workâŠâ he quipped mockingly as you went about trying to clean and close as fast as you could so you could go home and not have to deal with this menace staring you down. âSo adorable, how you mortals commit to such mundane thingsâŠâ He floated down into a chair and leaned back languidly, hands behind his head like he owned the place.
âWhat do you want, Berial?â you huffed, throwing down the rag you were using to wipe up the table heâd gotten dirt all over with with frustration.
Berial smirked. âThatâs a dangerous question to ask a Hypogean, my dear. It implies you have a willingness to give. And you saw how well that ended for our friend last nightâŠâ He stood and hovered in the air, lights dimming as he grew closer to you. You took steps back until your back hit the bar. Was this the end? Had he gotten bored of you already? âWhat do I want? I wantâŠâ He leaned in close, like he was about to pounce. â... coffee.â He pulled back, the lights returning. âOne of those really fancy ones!â
As your brain processed the fact that you werenât actually in mortal danger and he was just, once again, messing with you, you couldnât help but laugh. This was your life now, babysitting this creepy clown until he decided to snap your neck on a whim. Youâd lost your mind. Maybe you were already dead and this was eternal punishment for you. You ran a hand through your hair as you continued to laugh with sheer relief.
Berial pouted. âI hardly see whatâs funny.â He crossed his arms with a huff. âWhat, you donât serve Hypogeans? Thatâs discrimination! Iâll report you to your boss!â
When he did that, he looked sort of⊠cute, you thought.
Wait, what? You shook the strange thought away. âNo, what I mean is⊠you definitely donât need any coffee. Youâll be bouncing off the walls all night.â
Berial shrugged. âIâm nocturnal anyhow. What does it matter? Look, Iâm a paying customer.â He took some gold coins out of a pocket on his outfit and tossed them casually on the table. Some of them were spattered with a substance that looked suspiciously like blood.
You blinked. âWhere did you get those?â
âDonât ask questions you donât want the answers to. Now shut up and take my money!â
Rolling your eyes, you scooped up the money and placed it in the till. He was right, a customer was a customer.
(And your boss hardly cared where money came from as long as it wasnât fake.)
So you made him his damned coffee, loading it up with every sugar and syrup you could think of until it was a sickly-sweet mess.
âHere you go,â you said with a similar sickly-sweet tone as you placed what could barely be called coffee anymore in front of him. Just looking at it made you a bit queasy. You couldnât wait to see the look on his face when he tried the horrid concoction; it was time for payback.
But of course, he knew just how to surprise and irritate you. As he took a sip, a pleased smile spread across his face. âAh, just how I like it! However did you know?â With a few sickening slurps, he downed the so-called drink in record time, messily licking the dregs from around his face. Ugh, tongues should not be able to reach that far. âAh, now thatâs customer service! I think Iâll come back soon!â
You rubbed your temples, fighting off a headache that threatened to plague you. Well, a different headache than the one currently sitting in front of you with a contented smirk, that was. That one, youâd just have to endure. âIf you come in looking like that, youâll scare everyone off and then Iâll be out of a job. And you wonât get coffee.â
Berial rolled his eyes. âYes, I know you fragile little humans scare easily. My word, they canât even stand the sight of one single HypogeanâŠâ He stood and snapped his fingers. With a poof, the handsome young man from before stood in front of you. You averted your eyes.
I canât believe I was flirting with him. This is so embarrassing.
âWell, yes, you can come in like that. But Iâll always know who you are.â
He smirked. âWill you?â he asked, normal voice remaining this time even with his changed appearance. âI can be anyone, you know. I could be your boss!â He changed into the aforementioned man. âI could be the shopkeep down the way!â And then he was. âI could even be⊠you!â
Suddenly it was like you were standing in front of a living mirror. Somehow, Berial had indeed turned into a perfect replica of you, down to every imperfection on your skin.
You shivered, stepping away. âDonât do that, itâs creepy.â This was too uncanny.
âWhat, canât stand the sight of yourself?â he quipped, adopting a smirk that definitely did not match your face. âIn case you forgot, creepy is what I do.â With a poof, he was the handsome man again. âAh, but I remember you much preferred this form, yes?â
You cleared the table with a glare. âYou chose a form that led someone to let their guard down. Donât read into it.â Angrily, you washed the cup and placed it where it needed to go. Stupid Berial and his stupid shapeshiftingâŠ
âAnd you fell for it flawlessly. I figured youâd at least be a little suspicious. After all, youâve been jumping at shadows all day.â
Of course heâd been watching you. Ignoring his quip, you went to the back and returned with your things, donning your coat.
Berial, still in disguise, smiled. âI see you received my gift.â
âSo it was you. I had a hunch, but I wasnât sure how you could have dropped these off with my boss without raising suspicion. Now that I know you can do⊠that,â you waved in the vague direction of his form, âit makes a lot more sense.â
âWell, of course it was me. Who else could it have been?â
He had a point. For a moment, you just looked at him, studying his features for any hint of subterfuge.
(It didnât hurt that this particular disguise was still nice to look at even with his identity revealed.)
âWhy?â you asked finally.
âI canât very well have you freezing to death out there before Iâm done with you!â he said with a mocking giggle.
Rolling your eyes, you walked past him and reached for the door. When your hand was on the handle, you looked back at him. He was still there, watching you. â... thank you,â you said, opening the door to step out into the night.
âBut of course!â he replied, somehow on the other side of the door as you opened it.
You swore loudly and looked behind you to see he was indeed gone from where heâd been. âDammit, Berial!â
He laughed as you flashed him quite the rude gesture. âThat was a good one and you know it.â He manifested his top hat and tipped it at you before putting it back on his head.
You studied him. âHmm⊠Iâm pretty sure Iâd have recognized you if youâd come in with the hat,â you mused as you locked the door behind you.
âThatâs why I didnât. Too on the nose, donât you think?â he asked, tapping yours in time with the word. You tamped down the urge to bite his hand. That, you figured, would be the quickest way to die.
You frowned, pulling your coat closer as you stepped into the road. âJust donât⊠do that again,â you said. Of course it had been a joke when heâd said I was lovely, you thought. Everything was a joke to him. It wasnât the fact that he was the one whoâd said it that bothered you. No, it was the principle of the matter as a whole.
âWhat, scare you? Iâm afraid Iâll have to decline your request.â He fell into step beside you, and to any onlookers it would appear as if you were two normal humans out on a night walk. Only you knew the truth about the dangerous man who stood beside you.
âNo, donât⊠do whatever it was you were doing when you came in. That weird pretense. If you want to scare me, just scare me, okay?â
He raised an eyebrow. âYou humans and your human baggage. Very well, no made-up identities for me⊠at least when weâre alone. I canât very well be myself when weâre out and about, hmm?â
âWho said anything about me going anywhere with you?â
Berial smirked, and it was so like his normal appearance for a moment that you truly had no idea how you hadnât seen through his disguise at the beginning. âDo you really have a choice?â
â... no,â you relented. At least heâd had the good sense to leave you alone for a few hours at work. âIâve realized thereâs no getting rid of you.â
âYou wound me,â he said, pressing a hand to his chest in mock hurt. âArenât I wonderful company?â
You didnât dignify that with an answer, instead shoving your hands in your pockets and looking up at the sky. It was a clear night, and the stars twinkled above you. All in all, it was a far cry from the whiteout conditions youâd first met Berial in.
âDid you know you walked past that post three times last night?â Berial said, pointing at a nearby lamppost and snickering. âYou were scrambling around, all panicked!â
âI wonder why,â you deadpanned at him.
He took it in stride. âThat was one of my better scares. A shame it had to end so abruptly.â
âIâm so sorry you didnât get to kill and eat me like you wanted,â you said sarcastically as you trudged right past him. Maybe if he stayed there gloating long enough youâd get a head start on him.
Berial scoffed, matching pace with you in a mere second with grace unbefitting his human guise. âWho said anything about killing you? I donât always kill my victims, you know. That little bit of âwill he or wonât heâ heightens the suspense, you see. It makes the fear all the sweeter. If someone knows theyâre walking into certain death, it blunts their terror with despondency." He leaned back with a dramatic hand on his forehead, as if the mere thought of such was a tragedy he couldnât bear.
You considered his words, stopping dead in your tracks and turning back to face him. Thankfully, this time looking at him came with no apparent consequences. âWhat would you have done, then?â In a way, it made sense; if he killed everyone he caught, who would be left to tell the story of why you should never look behind you at night?
âHm, depends on my mood. Sometimes I take them into a shadow dimension and let monsters chase after them. Sometimes I do magic tricks. And yes, sometimes I do kill them. But usually only the really rude ones. Honestly, some peopleâŠâ He pouted again, and you looked away because oh no it was even cuter in this form. ââOh no, please donât kill me!ââ he said in a mock voice. ââHow dare you kidnap me, filthy Hypogean!â Hmph⊠Hypogeans have feelings too, you know.â
This was something you were now all too aware of, having been the unwitting companion of this vexatious man for almost a day now. â... I suppose I never thought about it like that before,â you said quietly. âYouâreâŠâ Different than other Hypogeans? No, that just sounded insulting. A menace? Yes, but he already knew that. Annoying? You were pretty sure thatâs what he was trying for. â... interesting too.â
âAm I?â he asked, intrigued. âI mean, of course I am! Iâm powerful beyond how any mortal could dream. Why, I was so feared, they sealed me away for thousands of years!â
Well, that explained why the rumors of sightings had only started a few years ago, you realized. When you were a child, there were no such tall tales about this particular Hypogean snatching people in the night, so you figured it had been something that people had made up recently with all the strange happenstances going on everywhere.
âWhat happened?â you inquired, genuinely curious.
He frowned, truly frowned , and it was a look that was foreign on the normally jovial manâs face. âItâs a long story,â was all he said, and you had a feeling he didnât really want to talk about it.
âAlright.â So you kept going, silence between you now devoid of the heart clenching fear it had been filled with when you first met. Now⊠it was almost comfortable.
Berial gestured around him, this time thankfully without any phantom fanfare. âThe world is a lot different now,â he said. âLots of new things. Back then, they could never have come up with something like that coffee you served me.â
âDo you miss it? Back then, I mean.â
He appeared to really think about that for a moment. âNot really. People today are far more interesting. And thereâs far more of them, too! Plenty of potential people for an audience.â
âHow old are you, anyhow?â
He chuckled. âOlder than the hills, my dear. I rival the Celestials, even.â
âYou must have seen a lot of things, met a lot of people.â
âI have! And itâs allowed me to learn a lot of things. Like how best to scare mortals! You all are afraid of such strange things. Bugs, rats, even the dark! Now, why would people be afraid of such a silly little thing like the dark? The dark is wonderful!â
You hummed in thought. âItâs⊠itâs not really the dark that people fear, though. Itâs whatâs in it.â
âLike me,â he said, grinning with too many teeth. âIâm in the dark.â It looked creepier in his human disguise than it did in his default form, probably due to the fact that humans did not smile like that.
âYeah, but so wasâŠâ You looked away from him pointedly and realized you were passing by the alley where all of this had begun. â... so was he.â
Berial nodded. âThat he was. And lest you worry, I came back and took care of all the âevidenceâ when I retrieved your things. As far as anyone is concerned, heâs a missing person no one seems to miss at all.â
Somewhere deep down you realized you were far less perturbed about that manâs brutal murder than a prudent person should have been.
âHe was horrid, always making trouble for everyone. Canât remember a night where he didnât if he was there. I canât say Iâm sad heâs gone.â
âHmm, guess Iâll consider that my good deed for the century. See, even Hypogeans can be noble.â
You chuckled softly. âI guess so,â you said as you reached your house.
As you fished your keys out of your pocket, you felt something cold thump against your back.
Confused, you turned around just in time to get nailed in the face with a snowball. Berial stood there with another one in his hand. âGotcha!â he said, laughing.
And standing there in the dark with a monster, you laughed too. Dropping your things next to the door, you quickly scooped up some snow and fired back at him, knocking his hat clean off his head.
âOh, you shouldnât have done thatâŠâ he said ominously, sinking into the shadows.
For a moment, you were worried youâd crossed some line, that youâd offended him to the point where he considered your death a viable outcome. Your heart pounded in your chest as you looked all around you to try and find some hint of where heâd gone.
âGuess where I am!â he bellowed jovially, popping out of the wall behind you and getting you with a snowball that went down the back of your coat, dripping cold all the way down your back. You whirled around as an incredibly undignified squeal left your mouth of the discomfort. You swiped at where he'd just been only to find empty air and a dissipating cloud of shadow. Already his laughter sounded from behind him.
And so for the next few moments, you had one of the strangest experiences of your life: a snowball fight with a Hypogean.
Well, it wasnât so much a snowball fight as it was a snowball pummeling. Berial fought dirty, using all his dark magic to his advantage. Your clean shot on his hat had merely been the product of the element of surprise, and he made sure you knew that.
When youâd finally had enough, you ducked inside the next time he took to the shadows to get the jump on you. As you locked the door behind you, you heard the now-familiar whoosh of Berialâs shadow magic.
âHey, thatâs cheating!â Berial protested, having bypassed your locked door entirely to scowl at you. Heâd shed his disguise once more, hovering about a foot off the ground with his tail lashing behind him in irritation.
âSo was just about everything you were doing!â you shot back, taking off your coat and finally getting the cold remnants of the snowball heâd gotten down your back off of you.
Berial snorted. âShadow magic is part of playing a game with a Hypogean. If you donât like it, donât play.â He turned away from you, crossing his arms with an exaggerated pout.
âGladly,â you quipped, but you couldnât help but admit that that had actually been⊠sort of fun? You finished shucking your snow gear and went for the tea kettle to warm yourself up. Berial took to perching in your rafters like some sort of bat; it must have been some magic keeping his hat on his head while he looked at you upside down.
âNo fun,â he grumbled.
You chuckled as you went to light a lantern to see in the dark. Berial giggled to himself all the while and you wondered what he was plotting.
Well, you didnât have to wonder long as when you were finally able to see further, you realized that while you were at work, heâd somehow painted all of your walls a garish purple.
âBerial!â
He disappeared with a cackle, leaving you to sort out your new decor all by your lonesome.
Hiii I just saw your tags on my fic, thank you for reading! <3
I am pleased to let you know I am up to 9 chapters on it on my ao3 (same username as here)!
!!!!!?!?!?
Hii !! I just finished the second chapter:) I loved the whole conversation Berial and reader had, really fun really sweet. And alsooo I enjoyed sm your own creativity to come with Berialâs antics.
I dropped the game long ago but I recall him going from something silly as mess with tableware so the cups wouldnât match the plates to ?? maybe apocalypse ?? Heâs just being silly your honor. Anyway, thatâs what I like so far about your writing !! Berial going from 0 to 100 is *chefâs kiss*
Iâll definitely keep reading it in AO3, thank u for letting me know !! I was thinking the worse when I checked the last update date on tumblr :')
(srry about the misspelling, english isnât my first language,,)
A Belt Made Of Watches? Thatâs A Waist Of Time! @dailytatsu - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
